n which tiny, not champagne, bubbles make their way through the morass...
that is my brain today. Climbing. Scaling new heights. Write fiction. Why not, they don't like my non-fiction anyway. Smug bastards.
Coffee Achievers This weekend past could have been better, but given all that happened it was passable. The back recovered well enough given that I didn't do anything overly active to stress it out. Did manage to get the ironing done and threw out all the stale flour that had accumulated over the years. Coffee with Dr. J - the first place had an execrable brew so we eschewed a second cup and went to the Wildest Snail for a good strong cup. There the coffee maker guy thought we wanted the brew in 16 oz cups and when he placed them on the counter, Dr. J took a deep breath and started to say something, at which point the cmg looked up and said with a gasp of horror, "You wanted them in 8 oz cups didn't you?!". He refused to let us take the 16 oz cups and made fresh brews in 8 oz cups and passed them over to us saying approvingly, that this was the way coffee should be drunk, and that we were not only intelligentsia but cognoscenti.
Today, we shall repair to Josephine's and drink to the memory of Sasha, he who was a darker and more muscular version of Lucky with the deepest brown eyes you could drown in without looking like a demented chipmunk with sociopathic tendencies. Such eyes are hard to come by, and now they've gone.
Just call us coffee achievers. Yesh.
This morning I declare it Mental Health Day (or Portion Thereof): The horrors continued from the weekend, to the point when there was ping from my mailbox, or knock on my door, I'd channel Dorothy Parker, tremble and say, "What Fresh Hell is this?"
There were death blows aplenty on Monday for all of us except one and I can't bring myself to speak of that one because as Dr. Shark put it, "How is it that the absent get rewarded, and the present are shat upon?". Then she went to terrorize goldfish and I went to kick pink Hello Kittys.
Then there was compulsory attendance at one of those most Canadian of things - "The Meeting to SOLVE Problems" where no problems are actually solved, and the various speakers speak ingratiatingly of each other's issues and spout platitudes along the lines of "if you've not walked a mile in my/your shoes..." and "Cast not the first stone..." and "Let's all agree to disagree...".
I sent a message to BS and Dr. Shark: KMN which stands for Kill. Me. Now.
Then Dr. HS got up to spoke and she behaved like the Queen of Sheba, Cleopatra and the asp, mostly the asp, rolled into one. Inflammatory language was used and inconsistencies littered the ground like cigarette butts at a convention for ex- and relapsed- smokers still trying to quit. Dr. HS put on a performance that was cringe-inducing, self-satisfied, highly unprofessional, wholly disgusting and beyond the pale. The only thing good that came out of this was another very Canadian solution: A meeting to be held later where Dr. HS's behaviour will be considered, discussed ("if you've not walked a mile in my/your shoes..." and "Cast not the first stone..." and "Let's all agree to disagree... etc)
I shall be away that day. I know I shall.
Then worst of all, I looked down and saw that after three days of not running, I had an incipient pot-belly.
Stuffed PeppersI put it all down to the back and dinner at ML and DWE's where DWE forced copious amounts of alcohol down my throat despite the naproxen I'd taken. My poor liver. I shall likely become alcoholic beyond redemption and there'll be a day when the only sounds in my life will be the clinking of empty bourbon bottles (choice of alcohol chosen completely at random - truly) tossed into the recycling bin.
In any case, there have been changes - and for the better - in the palatial abode at H & B. The colour of the hangars match the closet now. There are unctuous unguents stored in the cabinet under the secondary sink - and these unguents are in a shelf that rolls out silently. The blemishes on the tub have been removed by a Romanian with magic toners, although he doesn't quite have an eye for colour. Compromised windows have been identified with a discreet red dot and the cave again well-stocked after being emptied before the trip to Italy in September ("I don't want to come back to oldwine!").
During dinner, there was advice - much needed and generous advice. I was told what to look out for, how to mesh my interests and likes with what was available, and how to recognize GOOD BONES. Not high cheekbones necessarily, but GOOD BONES in general. The point being that with you can have all the Ted Baker you want, but it'll only go so far to hide bad bones. With good bones, you can have tatters and still be like Ted Baker. After all what is one man's favoured sink, is another man's cesspit. Or something like that. Or maybe not.
Then they noticed the leather vest I had on, and raised dubious eyebrows. I explained that I was wearing it for medical, not lascivious, reasons - that it helped me keep my back straight and so put less stress on the muscles which had gone berserk on Friday. DWE said, "Oh what luck! A vest that's functional and fetching at the same time! How often do you not have to suffer for fashion!", and ML whispered to me that the reason he only decorated in white and only dressed in black was because if he ever fell down foaming at the mouth, then he'd be easily found (black against white) but that nobody would notice the foam (white against white you see).
Such clever people.
Then we watched Jean Marc Vallee's C.R.A.Z.Y. and by the end, we were all excusing ourselves while rubbing at our eyes, saying, "Do excuse me, something must be in my eye".
Lor, it was good done much in the same style as CdF.
And today, things are looking up because the first photograph of Mr. Craig, he of the highest of high cheekbones, as Bond was released, looking grizzly against a neonish and futurish background. November 9th 2012 is when it'll be released. My life is complete.