Last night I ran out of shampoo and used some of J's.  The label said it was intended to "maintain blond highlights and tone down brassiness".  I don't have any blond highlights, but my hair is decidedly red, so I thought reducing my brassiness seemed like a fine idea.  To my surprise the shampoo was bright brilliant blue.  This should have stopped me, but whatever.  I was already committed to the experience by this point.  What I have learned is that when you use blue toner on red hair, you get purple hair.  And I have to give a workshop this morning.  Sigh.



*

something about today

And waiting for the world to come along

Monday is a professional day with a focus on team building.  I loathe team building, which is sort of funny because when I took my hiatus from the world of education I used to get a lot of contract work going into corporations and leading team building activities.  The idea of team building appeals to me in theory -- I just find it exhausting to spend a whole day rah-rahing about things that do not really interest me.  Monday the staff is going to some kind of obstacle course.  It's like I can break myself in half, mentally, and see both versions of myself at once:  me at 26 rocking the obstacle course and being the best damn cheerleader in the whole wide world because I am so so so excited about life.  And me now, hiding the yawn behind my hand and peeking at my watch, counting how long until I can go home.

I was wondering how I could get out of this when I was phoned by the district and asked to put on a workshop for elementary school teachers who want to "infuse Drama into curricular teaching".  Perfect.

I'm not exactly excited about this either, giving a workshop.  I do not like posing as an expert, and I definitely do not like being the centre of attention in a roomful of people who expect me to say something intelligent or useful.  (I used to act in a theatre company that once performed in a stadium in front of 2500 people and was less anxious about that than I am about giving workshops to groups of 30 people.  It's weird, I know, but it's completely different.)

So I don't really like it...  but here is the math:

Staff team building goes from 8:00am-3:00pm = 7 hours.

The workshop is from 10:00am-12 noon = 2 hours.

I can be bored for 7 hours or I can be in a state of high anxiety for 20 minutes followed by an hour and 40 minutes of habituation.  This wasn't an impulsive decision.  It's less painful to give the workshop.


*

Last night I dreamed I was sitting on the couch eating a box of crackers.

The excitement contained in real life is sometimes difficult to contend with, let alone the wild things my imagination is capable of when I sleep.


*

we never did too much talking anyway

I like watching B drink.  Like many Asian men, he gets the glow.  The flush starts below the line of his collar and spreads upward into his hairline.  The vessels in his eyes dilate and the irises turn black and shiny, no differentiation between pupil and iris.  His eyes look like Smarties.  I think about licking them.  Another asahi and I start making visual threats.  Because he was a friend I can threaten to lick his eyes without being misunderstood.  Because we slept together - just once - he can say something about my boobs, and it makes me laugh.

T, on the other hand, is complicated.  Or maybe it is me who is complicating things.  He orders a girly drink and offers me a taste.  I tell him it is too sweet.  Too sweet, I am flippant, do you not remember me at all?  I don't like sweet drinks or sweet boys.  Haha.  And he is hurt, morose.  I apologize; I should not make this kind of joke.  Because we once were in love.  And it is not funny.  He has questions about things I do not remember.  I promise him, lightly, I would have fucked it up anyway if he hadn't, but I do not think he believes me.


*

she acts like we never have met

The seals poked their little heads up out of the water to see who was there, and then floated effortlessly alongside the kayak watching us.  I was fascinated by their whiskery faces.  Every time I reached for my camera they disappeared below the waterline.  Camera shy.

We spent two hours on the water; today my arms and back are sore.  The good kind of sore, deep muscle ache that means you really moved.  I wondered what it would be like to live on the tiny island with the herons and the seals.

*

In the evening I met T and B for drinks, too many drinks, and today I find myself a little wobbly on the pins as a result.  But what other way is there to get through such a thing?  I haven't seen B since about '97; he is in town just for a week and staying at T's place.  I watched the arc of my emotional reactions to them both as the wine made its way through my blood.

Shawn sent me text messages throughout the evening to ensure I was okay, a sweet but completely unnecessary precaution.  It might be emotionally risky to do this kind of thing, but they intend no harm.

*

Well hullo there, lovely.  Beautiful out tonight, isn't it?  I have a blanket; pull your chair closer and share with me.  You seem like a girl who might not mind a little dog hair.

I don't mind the smoke.  In fact I'm always looking for a justifiable reason to take it up.  Being companionable is a good one, I think.  It would be rude for me to watch you smoke alone.  The first time I tried smoking I was thirteen and I did it because I was trying to impress a boy I liked.  He asked me why I wasn't inhaling, which tells you exactly how impressed he was.  When did you start?

After that I tried again in high school, when I was seventeen.  I thought it would make me more edgy.  I even learned how to inhale.  This proved useful later in theatre school where believable smoking was prerequisite to being cast in modern plays.  I developed a mad love for smoking, mostly because it gave me something to do, something to focus on when I was feeling socially awkward.  Somewhere to put my eyes and my hands.  I stopped because there came a time when I no longer had anyone that wanted to smoke with me.  Probably a good thing, really, but I still miss it.  

Does it feel good when you've done with the organizing and sorting?  Or do you just notice the empty spaces?  I feel so much better when my things are tidy and sparse.  Helps me think better.  But I hate the process of sorting and organizing.  I just want it done.

October is traditionally difficult but I think it could be better if I focused more on things like pumpkins and cinnamon and nutmeg.  There's a spice I like called Allspice, which reminds me of a mixture of all three of those.  I do not know how to cook or bake, but sometimes I carry the spice canister in my pocket so I can sniff it when no one is looking.  That's a little peculiar, isn't it. 

We see different stars this time of year where I live.  There's a constellation with the same name as someone I loved so much.  I always think of him in winter when the earth turns that direction.  He died very very young.  I like watching the stars but sometimes when I think too much about the vastness of it all it makes me feel a little more lost than I want to.  Lost enough that it becomes difficult to find my way back.

What kind of wine are we having?  I like red, very dry.  Do you?  It makes me laugh when it turns my lips purple.  Look, it matches your toenail polish.  It is a bit cool tonight.  Watching the seasons change is always beautiful and sad, but it feels less overwhelming when you have someone to feel it with you.

Your hair is pretty.  Goodnight, lovely.  Goodnight pup.

*

didn't mean to hit her but she kept laughing

Crazy Sue yelled at me today, the second day of work, first day of classes.  Crazy Sue is an art teacher.  Not your stereotypical mellow art teacher, sipping on a bong and going with the flow.  How can she be this stressed out already?  She apologized (via email) at the end of the day, but it was one of those apologies that reads like I'm sorry that you are so fucking annoying that I was forced to explode a head vein, but you're just so fucking annoying that I can't help it.  In all the time I have been working in the "professional" world, I have only experienced being yelled at twice.  And both times it was Crazy Sue doing the yelling.

I do not respond well to being yelled at.  It makes me feel like a child - in a powerless and unsafe sense -  and so my reaction is childish.  I want to yell back.  I get irrational and angry.

But I can swallow that now.  I don't yell anymore, not since I really was a child.  After I left that world I promised myself that yelling was over, and it is.  No one in my world yells anymore.  And neither do I, not ever.

Having arranged my personal world so selectively to exclude yelling, it is especially difficult to tolerate being yelled at, at work.  Crazy Sue just yells at everyone so I know I am nothing special to her, but she has no idea what goes on in my head when she yells at me.  How I struggle not to come back hissing and spitting like a cat.

What I do instead, what I have done both times, is turn my back on her and walk away.

I am not exactly proud of this reaction either, but it is the only one I can muster that is defensible later.



*

An insipid television doctor announced the other day that it was in our best interest to achieve orgasm at least 200 times per year for optimum health.  A short while ago this same man suggested it was good to drink 1-2 glasses of red wine per day.  (I figure if I drink nothing Sunday through Thursday I can have 12-14 drinks on Friday or Saturday.  Will this same plan work for orgasms, I wonder?)  Normally television-doctor health advice goes in the same pile with the flyers from the Jovies, but I think I could get on board with this doctor if he keeps recommending wine and orgasms.

*

Reasons I hate driving Shawn's car

4.  He loves it outrageously which makes me frightened I will do something to damage it.

3.  He pulls the park brake up so hard that I need to use two hands to get it down.

2.  The clutch is so much more sensitive than mine that I accidentally rev the engine at every stop light, giving the false impression to people around me that I might like to race. 

1.  His car has been lowered so much that when I go over bumps I feel like I'm on a hayride.

*