Road Rage - Part 1

I fucking had the RIGHT.OF.WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just got home and even though I calmly told everyone that this sort of thing doesn't bother me anymore, I was really fuming the whole way back, thinking more about how I wish I'd had a gun so I could have shot the fucker's face off.

So, I'm making a left turn --- I drive straight out into the intersection (as per driving rules, keeping my wheel straight lest some asshole bumps into me, so that I'd get pushed forward instead of turning into oncoming traffic if my wheel had been turned) and I wait, 'cause there's this stupid woman leisurely strolling and um, last time I checked, the pedestrians had the right of way.

When she finally makes it to the other side, still sauntering and lost in la-la land, I start to turn when I notice the fucking truck behind me has started to turn, too --- like what the fuck???? YOU'RE BEHIND ME. I GO FIRST, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.

Oh, but it gets better --- the yahoo in the passenger seat sticks his neanderthal-like, cave man face out of the window and he screams, "FUCK YOU!!!"

I swear to God, if I had a gun, I would have blown his face off. Only, I would have needed a machine gun to pump a whole round of bullets into that ugly ass face of his. Or stabbed him. Repeatedly. In the eyes.

Okay. Yeah. So maybe it seems like I'm blowing things out of proportion, but WHAT THE HELL???

I fucking hate people with no class like that. I mean, true, I'm not being all that classy right now, but the point is, I don't go around saying shit like this in public. There's such a thing as manners and class and being diplomatic.

But you know what? Sometimes, I get so sick of myself and how I'm so fucking nice and polite and diplomatic all the time.

Caveman screamed "Fuck you!" twice at me. I was so incensed that all I could think about was how I wanted to STAB HIM. I wanted to rip his balls off and forced him to eat them. No-class idiots like that shouldn't be allowed to procreate.

Though, I guess it's a good thing I have some sense of restraint...I just had an image of myself getting out of the car, screaming like a lunatic --- not really saying anything so much as making noise --- banging my fists on the hood of the guy's truck.

Yeah. I have loads of rage issues.

The Black Holes Of The Workday

In yet another example of how I reign supreme as the Queen of Passive-Aggressiva, I found this article in the NY Times about how utterly pointless meetings are...so, I printed off a copy and left it at the printer, lying face up so that everybody could see...but more importantly, my supervisor.

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June 18, 2006

The Count

Endless Meetings: The Black Holes of the Workday
By HUBERT B. HERRING

Like so many things that go terribly wrong, it started as a reasonable idea. "Let's sit down and talk about it," someone said innocently long ago in a candlelit workplace, and the meeting was born. From that humble beginning came today's multi-PowerPoint monster, the workday's black hole, sucking precious time and energy into its ravenous jaws.

Well, perhaps that's overstating it, but American workers do indeed question the value of all the time they spend in meetings, according to an Excel survey for the tech company PolyVision.

Of workers who attend meetings each week, fully 75 percent say that those gatherings could be more effective, the survey showed. That means a lot of unproductive time, because 91 million workers spend time in meetings each week. For most, it's one to eight hours, but a hardy 11 percent of men (men are far more meeting-prone than women) somehow survive 13 or more hours of meetings a week.

Are the meetings worth it? Better have a meeting to discuss that.

-----------------------------------I'm listening to "Have You Forgotten?" by Red House Painters --- thanks to Music Girl for the suggestion! And if you're reading this, I have a massive email heading your way because I've been writing it in bits and pieces.

This is the kind of song that kind of captures today...the kind of grey, wet, listless day. I guess it's more of the guy's tone when he sings, 'cause the kind of exhaustion I feel today feels like the sort that no amount of sleep could ever cure.

That's pretty much it.

Sometimes, it's like, you get sick of hearing yourself (or in this case, reading yourself) circle the block in terms of the things you go on and on about, you know? So, it's sort of like --- in a way --- you're really just sick of yourself.

Ah. The track has now skipped to Gary Jules' cover of "Mad World". Another sad-sounding song.

The Art Of Seeing

So, I got this gift certificate and I bought this book called "The Art of Seeing" with it, which turned out to be a total waste of money. I mean, even though it wasn't really "my" money that got wasted, it was still a gift certificate that was wasted, you know?

What kind of pissed me off was heading to the book store later in the week and noticing all these cool books that I'd bought which were now selling in the discount bin. And here I thought that books didn't really go on sale. But I guess I'm wrong. Everything goes on sale eventually. It's really about having the wherewithall to just wait it out.

Turning over a new leaf and trying to spend less has been...interesting.

I'd read "The Automatic Millionaire" by David Bach awhile back and a lot of the stuff made sense...though, I'd already been doing that stuff, anyway --- i.e. automating your savings, by having the bank move everything for you once a month. You can't spend what you don't see, yadda yadda yadda.

You know what else helps? Realizing that one day, you're going to die and all of this stuff? You can't take it with you. They're just...things.

Of course, some people like having tons of things 'cause it fills up their lives and makes it feel less empty somehow.

Spending less (and I'm not taking into account the stuff you have to pay for i.e. rent, utilities, transportation, etc.) means becoming a little more creative with finding things to do. Of course, it helps when you decide you're not going to have much of a social life anymore. Some people just don't get why I'm choosing this.

See, the thing is...on the last episode of "Desperate Housewives" this past season, where Lynette thinks her husband's cheating on her and then, when he explains himself, she goes, "You don't understand, I'd already written you off", I really understood that.

It gets easier to write people off when you realize your true friends can be counted up on one hand. Sometimes, it means you've only got one person you can really count on. And no, I'm not talking about your spouse. Making your spouse your "best friend" is cheating. A friend is someone who's not related to you and not bound to you by any vow. A friend is someone you've chosen to be in your life and there's really nothing tying the two of you together besides choice. But I've been over that all before.

Yeah, so there've been quite a few people that I've sort of written off because I realized that sometimes, we hang out with certain people to escape our own loneliness. It's hard being alone, but it's probably the only time I've really started finding out more about me.

Yeah...maybe it's a bad quality in me. I write people off. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, you know? But I think it's something I'd want to teach my kids...don't depend on anybody else. You don't need anybody to complete you. You have to be self-sufficient. You have to be able to stand on your own two feet.

Blah blah blah, you know?

Digressing seems to be a big thing with me.

I mentioned "The Art of Seeing" because I was out with my camera on Wednesday --- the start of summer and it was smoggy as hell.


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Photos of the Every Day

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I absolutely love this picture. I like how soft the light is and how, something I take for granted and which I think of as this tedious chore, can actually look...well, beautiful, I suppose.


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Up close and personal with fruit:

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It's The Thought That Counts...Right?

What I hate about rush hour is when you get a seat and you're reading or on the verge of falling face first onto the floor --- but the point being that you've got yourself a seat --- and then some old person or some cirppled person or some woman with a baby gets onto the train and they wind up standing right in front of you. And it's like, you're sitting there, trying to work up the nerve to say, "Would you like to sit down?" 'cause you really never know...I mean, sometimes, if it's a person who looks old but isn't really all that old, you get a bit of that, "Who the hell do you think you are?" outrage. Like, the time mom offered to help this blind guy and he totally went ape shit on her.

That'll teach her for being a good Samaritan.

So, this old guy gets on and he's got a cane --- and at first, he ambles over to the other side and I'm relieved. I won't have to get up after all. Not that I'm a lazy asshole, you understand. I mean, I can stand, if need be. Sure, I don't like having to touch anything on the train 'cause everything seems like it's teeming with germs, but hey, I've got Purrel in my bag, so I'm a-okay.

But then, he walks over so he's leaning against the door right next to me! And I'm not even really reading anymore, 'cause all I can really think about is how I should offer him my seat. The thing is, I'm thinking about it too much and it's actually starting to stress me out --- I don't even know why I'm afraid to speak up. Like, the words refuse to come out. And I'm also thinking about how mom and I once noticed this guy with a crutch get onto the train and this Indian guy just looks up, stares and then looks back down at his paper again.

So, that's why I asked the old guy if he wanted to sit down. But he waved his hand and told me no. So, fine. At least I asked. But now, all I can think about is how everybody who gets on the train afterwards wouldn't know that I asked the guy if he wanted to sit and he'd rejected my offer. I asked, goddamnit! But nobody knows that. They just think I'm the able-bodied bitch who didn't offer the old guy with the crutch a seat.

And you know what pissed me off? When I got to Yonge and got up, the old guy sits down in my seat and has this look of relief on his face --- like he was dying to sit down this whole time, but the selfish Chinese bitch sitting in front of him just flat out ignored the obvious pain he was in and just continued reading her paper, gawping at that picture of the woman in China who's pregnant with quintuplets and who looks like a complete freak show...I mean, her stomach was so fucking HUGE!

But I digress...all I could think was, "WTF? I ASKED HIM IF HE WANTED TO FUCKING SIT DOWN!!!!!"

You Fucking Idiot

The closer I get to 30, the less patience I have for teenagers --- especially the scrawny kinds who try to act all gangsta cool with their too-big baggy pants and that arrogant, cocky, bad ass sneer on their fucking faces.

And you know what I hate even more? It's how the fine denizens of Toronto who rely on the TTC to get to and from work, are a silent breed who'll watch as these hormonally jacked-up num-nuts "hang" around the station or jump in front of lines to scramble onto the bus so they can get a seat or will run through trains and talk all loud like everybody fucking cares what they've got to say.

You know why nobody says anything?

It's 'cause they're afraid of getting shot or something.

So, today, on the way home, this little band of kids, fresh out of school for the day, gets on at Warden station and the guys --- trying to impress the giggly girls, of course --- start daring each other to open the train doors and run from one train car to the next.

The cockiest one of the bunch goes, "Why try to open the end doors? I'm gonna open the side door instead."

I was so fucking PISSED!

What if the fucking train stalled? I wanted to get home.

And, because I'm not much of a thinker when it comes to shit like this, I hissed --- with a hatred that surprised even me --- "You fucking idiot!"

And I was staring at him, thinking, "Go ahead. Open those doors, 'cause once they're opened, I'm going to plant my foot on your fucking ass and I'm going to shove you out those doors so that your worthless, pathetic excuse for a life will end."

The kid backed away from the door.

I wanted to say more --- like how he was a waste of space on this planet or that I felt sorry for his parents for having given birth to such a pathetic excuse for a human being...but then I thought, "Now, that's just being mean."

Erase and Rewind

Someone once told me that one of the most therapeutic things she'd ever done was burning all of her old diaries.

I don't know if I can bring myself to do that just yet.

For now, I'm okay with just getting rid of the posts that were a little more revealing --- because, really, what the fuck was I thinking? I mean, I'm under no delusions that hundreds and hundreds of people read this journal (my best guess is that there's five of you out there), but it's like I started looking over some of the things that had happened and it was like, "Holy shit. Why was I so upset about that?" and then, it got easier to delete it altogether and sort of get closure that way.

I guess I've never really bought into the concept of needing closure for things 'cause it's, like, shit happens and you've just got to move on. What's the point of harping on something that you can't change? Just fucking move on.

You know, if it was possible, I'd bitch slap myself hard across the face.

"That's what you get for being weak and pathetic!" I'd tell myself.

'Cause, you know, so what if someone really, really hurt you? You've got to reach a point where you think, "May he die a long, cold death in Hell" and just move on. Though, when I really think about it, I don't think I could really pull off that whole "Scorned Woman" act. I'm not sure if it's either just yellow-bellied cowardice, laziness, or if I'm too nice --- if it's the latter, it's an ongoing problem. That's why I consistently get disappointed by people --- 'cause, you think, just because you go out a limb for other people and you're always putting them in front of you...well, that doesn't mean jackshit at all, does it?

You know how some people will say, "Aw, it was nothing. You would have done the same for me?" Well...95% of the time, that's not true. Just because you'd do something nice, doesn't mean the other person would do the same.

So you know what that makes me?

It makes me a sucker.

That being said, I still don't think I have it in me to be a bitch to anyone --- nah. My thing is to fume inwardly and hold all of my disappointment and anger until it manifests itself in some form of depression. (Maybe I watch too much TV, 'cause I seem to be the only one who remembers that line from an episode of "Futurama"...but of course I watch too much TV. Now that I've gone on the whole "I'm-Never-Going-To-Date/Fall-In-Love Again" strike, I spend more time at home when I'm not with my friends...God, can you imagine if I had no friends? I would have probably killed myself by now.)

Yeah, so, I saw him yesterday, except he didn't see me --- which I guess is a good thing. I mean, not that it would have mattered. Being the stupid idiot that I am, I would have pretended to be fine and smiled at him and said hi and made some bullshit smalltalk. And then, I would have gone back to the office and in true, melodramatic Joan Jett fashion, clenched my fist and hissed, "I hate myself for loving you!"

You know what would be totally great? If we had a switch for our emotions --- I'd be in robot mode for the remainder of my life, 'cause it's like lately, it feels like the universe loves nothing more than to screw me over...which is really the most delusional thing for anybody to think. I mean, if God existed, I doubt He'd spend all of his time thinking, "Hmmm...how to make her life more miserable? Let me think..."

Nah. He's overseeing a world where little kids in Africa are born with HIV and their parents die of AIDS. He's watching as lunatics blow up buildings and kill others and themselves in His name. He's watching as little girls are abandonned in China, 'cause apparently, girls aren't worth as much as boys over there.

So, yeah, I'm seriously operating under delusions of grandeur if I think that some divine force in the universe is setting out to deliberately screw me over. In the grand scheme of things, there's so much misery going on out there, that it's more likely that we're all just fumbling around wondering what the fuck we're doing.

In other notes...has anybody seen pics of Angelina's baby? (Didn't even have to use her last name. You knew who I was talking about, didn't you?)

People are seriously fucked up and have nothing better to do with their fucking time, debating whether the kid's cute or not and still harping on the whole "Brad left Jen" issue.

Like, fucking get a life already.

This is best described as an exercise in not thinking --- which isn't exactly something I'd normally readily cop up to. I mean, c'mon --- I always have to be right. (Granted, what that has to do with thinking is kinda questionable.)

High and Mighty Woman seriously looked like she wanted to stab me, when I told her that we might have missed the opportunity to meet Wentworth Miller.

Anyways, Global was doing its fall programming launch and he was there. And you know what the big tip-off was? The gigantic tent they'd set up at Dundas Square with his face on it.

Granted, there probably would have been very tight security and I would have been lucky to catch a glimpse of his elbow, but...actually, on second thought, I don't think I would have gone even if I'd remembered to swing by and check out what was happening --- I think standing around, screaming and begging for an autograph is so...unbecoming.

When High and Mighty Woman swept into the office, I told her in a mock serious voice, "I have something to tell you, which will be highly upsetting --- I forgot to mention that Wentworth Miller might possibly be at Dundas Square yesterday."

She looked like she wanted to rip my tonsils right out of my throat.

"This is a daytime shot," she hissed, pointing at the picture on the front page.

"You don't know that. It was still light out around 6:00 p.m."

I know.

Excuses, excuses.

I can almost hear Stewie say, "Whatever helps you sleep, bitch."

Just reading over some of the past few entries and...is it just me or does it sound like I've got a stick up my ass?

I swear to God (why the fuck do I always use that expression when the whole God subject's so damn iffy with me?), when I read that sort of thing in other people's blogs, it takes all of two seconds for my eyes to glaze over and for me to hit, "Next."

Not that I read very many blogs. Not like Sister 2, who has a whole list of blogs she checks on regularly. She once made fun of me 'cause I'm always writing --- in notepads, scraps of paper, and online --- 'cause, really, what the fuck do I have to write about?

Sometimes, I think it's documentation, just in case I wind up like Gran and lose my memory one day, but there are some days where you'd give anything not to remember certain things --- like that reel of embarrassing moments that zip right through your head. And it's at moments like that where you wonder how the hell someone so incredibly moronic managed to stay alive.

You know what's weird? It's when your friends and family think you're a lot smarter than you really are. (Though, the other day, a co-worker joked that I needed to get a life --- a fulfilling one, at that --- and I had this split second where I hated her with my entire being. But, you know, it passed. The older I'm getting, the more exhausting it gets to hate someone. Hatred can be a very consuming, passionate emotion. It's just easier to say, "Fuck you. You're dead to me" and then never speak of the person again.)

Lately, Harlequin Reader's taken to calling me up at work for the dumbest things --- like, would I know why the subway station near her office is closed? She checked the news online and the TTC site, but you know, maybe I know something that the news outlets don't. And today, she wanted to know if the terrorist suspects arrested on Saturday were all Muslim.

WTF???

She reads the newspapers. Why would you need me to confirm something that's been in the fucking news?

In some ways, I regret giving her my work number --- I mean, really, I've got nobody to blame but myself. It's just...she seemed to be struggling lately and there was all this stuff going on in her life and it was like, she needed someone to hear her out --- and in the end, isn't that what we all need to feel somewhat connected and like we're not totally alone?

Now, she's just driving me ape shit.

I don't have the heart to say anything, though, which probably makes me a doormat --- despite the fact that people have always told me I'm extremely diplomatic. And I like that. Diplomacy --- it's nothing more than being able to tell someone to go to hell in such a way that they actually look forward to the journey.

Loaned some money to a friend --- a big no-no. But seriously, when your friend needs money, what are you going to do? Pretend you don't see they're in a bad place? It's like that episode of Sex and the City where Carrie's flat broke and Samantha and Miranda offer to lend her the money and while she thanks them, she glances at Charlotte, who's too busy concentrating on slurping up the last of her drink.

See, the thing is, deep down inside, I'd rather do what Charlotte did. But instead, I'm all like, "How much do you need? Oh, it's okay! What are friends for?"

And then, when you don't get your money back, it's like, "Fuck."

One thing you need to understand about me? I don't like talking about money. I find it vulgar. And even though it's my money that I loaned, I find it vulgar to have to ask for it back...which, when I think about it, is really fucked up.

I'm going to stop carrying cash in my wallet so I can honestly, truthfully say I don't have anything to lend. But then, that'd mean using my friggin' credit card to buy a cup of coffee, which is kind of embarrassing.

Okay. New policy: no more coffee. I'll drink the free stuff they serve in our lunch room instead. Or water.

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