Mr. Stinky's Shanghai

Mr. Stinky drew this portrait of me a little while ago and I've been meaning to put it up. Everytime I look at it it makes me giggle a little, which is why he did it in the first place.

This is what he thinks the love of his life, his darling princess and the hottest female ever, looks like. Notice the very stereotypical Asian features, I especially dig the modified bowl cut. Who doesn't want a little Shanghai? You'd be crazy not to be turned on now that you know what I look like.

Soul For One

I was on the bus recently and noticed one of the ads. Actually, it wasn't an advertisement but a theological question to provoke self reflection. It asked the reader to think about the value of the "real" rewards of life as opposed to the physical possessions we seem to be obsessed with. The question it asked at the end was "What would you trade your soul for?" With nothing else to do on the bus, this got me thinking about the semantics of spirituality and life in general.

I couldn't tell you when exactly when my trade-in occurred but it probably wasn't for much more than a lemon lollipop, haircut and reaching second base. Suffice to say after many attempts at soul searching as a teenager and not "feeling" anything I decided to be blasphemous and leave the church. If I wasn't getting results then either I was doing something wrong or had already landed in some higher power's reject pile. One thing was for sure, I wasn't going to hang around and keep faking it, like so many others around me who were too chicken to reveal their true beliefs to themselves and their parents. If there was one thing I could do even if it broke my parents' hearts was to be honest and live on my own terms. Besides, I'm much too angry a person to be happy living the church life. Too many edges, too many sharp ones.

Anyway, back to the bus. So I was thinking who deals in souls should one want to make a trade for a car, career, toy, plastic boobies, etc.? Would it be God or the Devil with whom you pawn off yourself? And how would you ever get it back in the event that you repent and want to follow the path of the straight and narrow again? I'm also not sure if trading and selling are the same. If you could buy back/reclaim your soul would it really be yours or just a random one in stock? I was imagining a library-type system where the soul gets stored in a cubbyhole until its rightful owner comes back to get it. No? And how many souls do a person get anyway? I always assumed that they were one per being and making more than that would trivialize their importance in the otherworldly plane.

It's now clear to me that I should've asked these kinds of questions before I left the church if only for a greater understanding of the soul trading business. They should invent a soul detector you walk through to see if you've got one and how clean or dirty it is. But then if you didn't have one, what good would that do you? I don't know where mine is but still being an accepted member of society I'll just assume that whatever I've got is OK.

When the bus reached my stop I looked at that question one more time and got off. All I could think about was dinner.

Overtime

It's why I haven't written much lately, deadlines are approaching and shit is so close to hitting the fan that we're way beyond catching the occasional waft. Huge amounts of work needs to be done and I am only one of a large team who needs to roll up her sleeves and get the bird stuffed. Wow, I really like the metaphors there for some reason. Sometimes I'm impressed with how smart I can make myself sound, even if only for a few seconds.. or no one else seems to think so. Was that even a metaphor? I can't even trust my own language skills anymore... I guess the moment just died. That was fast.

So honestly, if I don't get this work done it's not my ass on the line because technically, we're not working on the shortcomings of our section but rather wiping the poop up from another section's fatally flawed system. But in a workplace where there is almost a complete integration of data and reliance on each other's information to run the machine effectively, it becomes a situation where you either put in the hours now or suffer exponentially later on and look the fool. We all know that to be proactive is almost always better in the long run than being reactive so why not, right? By the way, my sister used that well known "acne system" and says it's complete crap. I looked it up and the only medicinal ingredient in it is hydrogen peroxide... drugstore stuff, so... don't fall for it. And they chose me to become part of their team. Me because I am able, me because I am trusted to be somewhat reliable (at least some of the time) and me because somewhere along the line I became the "Database Person". I prefer the term "Drone" only because living the keyboardist's life, my mission is to stare at the monitor and manipulate data all the live long day.

Since Mr. Stinky's away training or in class three nights of the work week (weekends are another story) I am amenable to staying late those same nights. Funny thing, as Eli, my manager who shall henceforth be known as The Hawk and I had the conversation several weeks ago about me putting in the extra time I still remember verbatim the punchline my friends and I now joke about vividly.

Eli: Are you giving Stinky T authorization to put in overtime so that she can get this work done?

The Hawk: If Stinky T wants to do overtime, then I will authorize it.

Eli: So you're OK with it.

The Hawk: If Stinky T wants to do the overtime, then I am giving the authorization for it.

Stinky T: Sure, I can do Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.

The Hawk (in total seriousness): What about Tuesdays?

Stinky T (staring back, wondering if she's joking... no she's not): Yah... no. I can't do Tuesdays and Fridays.
Stinky T's inside voice: Dood, I have a life! I'd like to see Mr. Stinky once in awhile!

So since then I've been staying late several nights a week so that we can make the deadline. I can't even complain about the paltry hours I'm putting in since articling students and medical interns run on 43,000 hours of no sleep each week or something nuts. And I know it doesn't compare with people working multiple jobs either or the real integral part of the team who put in double shifts as needed, but it still leaves me with little time to sit and think, much less write, watch TV, pick my nose competently or make a decent dinner when I get home. I'm also friggin' tired a lot and not sleeping well so that's my excuse for being so AWOL lately although today you're lucky. I had an appointment in the afternoon and left work while the sun was still out *gasp*. Mr. Stinky's in class now and this is what I'm doing to fill the time as well as self-prescribe some much needed diary therapy but exhaustion is cumulative and I would rather be passed out in bed. I don't even remember what a metaphor is and I started typing two hours ago.

Quote of the Day

From Waiter Rant. Sinfully delicious. Makes me want to go out and do something naughty!

"But seduction, to me, isn’t making someone do what they don’t want to do. Seduction is enticing someone into doing what they secretly want to do already."

Mmmmm..... have a good weekend.

Beyond the Pee Pee Dance

You know you really really gotta go when your pants are undone before you get to the washroom. At the risk of indecent exposure or squooshing around in soaking wet pants for the rest of the day I'd take flashing co-workers my underwear everytime.

Why wait until it becomes an almost accident?

Stupidity, your honour. I like to play chicken with my bladder sometimes.

Skinny Girls Suck

This is something I've learned throughout the years, nothing mind blowing but I felt that it's time to discuss. I'm not angry, as this issue has numbed itself into being just another blip in my existence so this is not an attack. I'm also definitely not thinking of any particular person as we delve so if you read this and become upset or offended maybe it has more to do with your conscience than my forked tongue. As one who experiences the luck or curse of being skinny I can give you a full account in first person how something in which I have no control over can be such a big. fat. deal.

Skinny girls are not fat. Skinny girls cannot be fat. Skinny girls do not know what fat is.

You'd think those three sentences speak the truth if not for the fact that they are also loaded with complete bullshit. My whole life I've been skinny, all knobby and angles. Nobody wanted me sitting on their laps because my butt would carve gashes in their thighs. Being skinny isn't something I can control, it's all genetics. Sure I get off my ass to do stuff but I'm not what you call super fit. I don't need to apologize for the way my body turned out and I don't need to hide the junk food I occasionally binge on which usually is exactly when people witness it and think it's all I eat. Or eat nothing at all.

When skinny girls feel fat or bloated it's a state of mind, not a state of occurrence. We're not allowed to feel insecurities about our bodies lest we incur the wrath of anyone around larger than us. When we do put on weight it's not an achievement or lament, merely another sarcastic remark waiting to be made. Complaining about feeling restricted in our clothes earns us brays of contempt to eat another sandwich or to just shut the hell up because, what do we know about being fat anyway? The breeding ground for eating disorders and jealousy people look at those with low body fat forms and see perfection to achieve, a nirvana of dieting and luck.

We wonder why there's an epidemic of girls and women wasting away before us, taking handfuls of pills and exercising like horses turning the windmill, when the lens is only and always focussed on the beautiful bodies bound tight in cling wrap and touted as the finish line. Being slim is seen as a cure-all for all things physical. We can't turn away from the notion that we're meant to be different; that we can't all be blonde and tall, nor modelesque and exotic. I will never be taller than this and I will never be something other than what I already am. If it's not acceptable to tell someone that they're so fat that he/she needs to put down that greasy cheeseburger, then therefore by that same logic it is also unacceptable to tell me or any other skinny person that there's something wrong with our eating habits.

Pound for pound I probably eat more than a lot of people around me. I don’t gorge on large amounts in one sitting so I’m pretty much an all-day grazer, plus I usually stick to healthier foods so that probably helps a lot. I don't live the lifestyle of fast foods and being a couch potato. I don't feel I need to eat everything and more in front of me. I don't buy all kinds of unnecessary things to ingest just because something was on sale. Even the most famous, richest and fabulous people we all look up to and adore have insecurities about their bodies. Stop critiquing and deriding everyone else and take a look at yourself, perhaps there's a reason why you feel so much venom towards those around you. But that's your problem, don't make it mine.

Souffle Belly

I have nothing new to say but I sooo need to whine. It's about that time again anyway.

I feel fat. I feel so fat and bloated it's gross. My pants are tight and giving me a tummyache and I've got the muffin bulge going on above them, which I abhor, especially when I must bear witness to girls everywhere who think that look is fashionable. Of course I'm also wearing a snug top today which would accentuate the souffle effect and everytime I look down it's quite the bloody train wreck and rubberneckers are perched everywhere waiting for me to exhale.

I'm vain, I can admit that. I'm friggin' proud of my tight, washboard stomach. It's one my best features that most people don't see but I don't care coz I get to see it a lot. Whenever I want. Wherever I choose. I'm shallow like that. Bite me.

Right now there's a load of laundry sitting on top of my gut and I want to take off these damn pants and let loose. If I could I'd sit here in my underwear for the rest of the day but I don't want to be unceremoniously escorted out and asked to never return. I want to be like the unfashionable women who show up to work everyday dressed in their sloppy trackpants with the comfy elastic waistbands or drawstrings. Oh heavens!

Wonder if they'll let me wear my jammies here? I would very much like that. I shall spend the rest of my workday brainstorming just how to make it work. That'll require drafts, proposals, rewrites and a snappy presentation in both Powerpoint and professionally bound folders. I bet if I get a laser pointer that'll just knock 'em right out of their chairs so they'll enact with immediate effect "jammie days" or "undies only days" with the stipulation that they be clean, attractive and un-holey. I might've just had a mini orgasm thinking about the comfort...