31 is the new Son of a....

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be 31. Hard to believe that I've been around for 3 decades now. Seems kind of silly when I think about it - silly in a "you just blew my freaking mind" kind of way. And I gotta tell you - this year's bday is bumming me out. I've been irritable and tense all week in the lead up to this year's joyous event, despite the awesome plans I made with my closest friends. I should be bouncing off the walls, foaming at the mouth and chomping at the bit to get this party started.
But I'm not.
I've been trying to pinpoint where I went wrong and why I feel so, well, fucking empty about the whole thing. I feel unremarkable. There's no wonder and excitement about it anymore. I feel like a kid who has just discovered that Santa doesn't exist, that the tooth fairy is a whore. I used to wake up with a feeling that anything was possible. That those who loved me would make it magical.
My father died on my birthday 4 years ago. I received a call from my father's wife while I was at work. "Hilary, please call me back." Knowing what she was going to tell me, I asked those in charge if I could make a long distance call. "I think my father just died. I have to make a call to confirm it." This was met with "Ohhh - do you have calling card?" The motherfuckers wouldn't even let me call to get the news that my father had died. How can you celebrate your birthday when those are the memories associated with it?
I don't mean to complain or whine because I've got it really, really good. And I am loved deeply and fully by so many. But Goddammit - some memories are too hard to gloss over.
So - what to do? I'll wake up, go to work and then revel in the merriment and good tidings that will be bestowed upon me. I'll eat a fabulous meal with those I love and drink far, far too much. There might be tears. There will, however, definitely be laughter.

Hope?

It's 10 minutes after 5 and the sun is still on the horizon. You have no idea how much this warms my heart. Sunlight after 5 pm is the Canadian Winter equivalent of Obama. Yes we can!

Speaking of optimism, some things to look forward to:

• being this weekend's birthday girl
• an upcoming trip to Tennessee to be loved by those I hold dear
• my other half (eventually) making her way east
• couch shopping with my Munkee
• actually enjoying the gym (who knew?)
• my new neighbour (despite declining property values due to ethnic-ness)
• groundhog day
• groundhog day
• groundhog day

KLM

-You took me to baseball games at the Big O and told me that the race is won by the swift as we ran for the metro
-we took bike rides to the marina to feed the ducks.
-you were born 100 years too late
-you took me for muffins and juice at clement's every saturday morning
-you were the slowest eater
-you danced on tables
-your nose was always red
-your mother damaged you
-your vanity was a problem
-we didn't agree
-you wept openly and without apology
-you were unable to show me how much you loved me
-i could never shake the feeling that i had disappointed you
-you married someone who despised me
-you died on my birthday
-i loved you deeply

It's been 4 years and I am still grappling with forgiveness.

Pathetic

An ill-tempered squirrel has been eating my bbq cover. I saw him perched on top of it the other day, gnawing away at the plastic/cotton tarp. I was about to shoo him away when I realized how pathetic he was. His ears were clipped at the top as if he had been in some squirrel rumble that had cost him his ears. Like he and some other rival gang of squirrels had found a stash of nuts and had fought to the death for sole rights. He lost the nuts. He lost the tops of his ears, and now the only "food" he can find is my barbecue cover. Isn't that pathetic? It's not even real food like a plant or an old chicken bone - it's furniture.
So I let him gnaw - even though I know it's ridiculous to extend a kindness to a rodent. His constant presence is also driving the cats to the brink of insanity. I think they might want to get rid of the last bits of his ears. Those bitches. They're cute, though. I like to think they're not actually hunting but rather huddling together because they're in love. I know I am.

Musical Interlude

I woke up to this song this morning. How could today go wrong?

You're Cut.

I think I might take a break from complaining about how tight my pants are. I've also taken a break from stuffing my face and drinking all the booze in Montreal, so methinks those pants won't be tight for long.
I got a friend request on Facebook yesterday. After being on Facebook for nearly 2 years, I am always excited and curious when I receive a friend request. Oooooh, who could it be?? More often than not it ends in disappointment - some random I met once or twice, a total stranger cruising for new peeps or, as evidenced by yesterday's request, someone you don't want anywhere near your shit. I got a request from my old personal trainer at the Y, Veronica. Some of you may remember a post I made a few months back about my wildly inappropriate trainer and her penchant for regaling me with tales of her sexual hunger. Ouash. During my 23 month tenure on the old FB, I've become selective about those I add as "friends." Because you see, some of them are not really friends. They are acquaintances, people I once took a class with, have a friend in common with, used to live nearby, etc. Some of them I wouldn't be able to pick out of a crowd, wouldn't recognize on the street - some of them I plain don't like. So why should they have access to every photo of me ever taken, my likes and dislikes, the link to my highly readable yet humble blog?
The emergence of Facebook has meant the end of privacy, the end of "I wonder what ever happened to so and so...." I recently bumped into a guy I knew in high school and whom I hadn't seen in 10 years or so. Yet we were Facebook friends and as such I knew he had become a lawyer, gotten married, traveled to Cuba, bought a condo in the old port, etc. And I had seen pictures of everything he had done, who he had done it with. So when I ran into him, it barely registered in my mind that I hadn't seen him in 10 years because I was all caught up on his life. Our facebook friendship had robbed us of what should have been an exciting reunion.
I really do love Facebook - it keeps me in touch with those I love and lets me spy on those I don't know yet am unabashedly curious about. I think, however, that Veronica won't make the cut. As if I need the woman who made me do squats and lunges staring at photos of me drinking, eating, smoking and generally being unhealthy. It's bad enough that I have to look at them.

Ehhhh-tiiiiight

I'm down to one pair of pants. Respectable pants, that is. My pyjama, sweat and yoga pants are all hospitable items of clothing that don't bind or judge. Jeans are out of the question.
After yesterday's post on eating lettuce and going to the gym, I had a memorable meal at Liverpool house. It's a shame, really, that I can go on and on about how tight my pants are and then gorge myself on home made pate, ricotta gnocchi carbonara and braised short ribs with barley. This morning my pants were tighter than usual. I even tried a new pair, staggered around for a few minutes before defaulting to the old ones.
My brain can't seem to process that all the things I love putting in my mouth somehow wind up on my ass. And that the short, residual ecstasy that comes from eating doesn't outweigh (ha) the shame and discomfort that comes from being down to one pair of pants.
So what's a gourmande with tight pants to do?
I'm taking suggestions. Go.

Back to Normal?

I despise this time of year. December's merriment has long gone, replaced by January's monotonous cold, routine and darkness. I am glad, however, that the holidays are over, despite the lack of optimism and "christian" charity. All I seemed to do was eat, drink, cook, clean, eat, drink, cook, clean, clean, clean, etc. And while I am more than happy to entertain and consume my fair share of booze and food, all this excess has taken its toll. Cause and effect, right?
To say my pants are tight would be generous. To say that my jeans are no longer an option is more like it. If only I could wear sweat pants to work...Erika's got the right idea. There's nothing like coming home and taking your pants off after they've been choking you all day and night. The sweet, sweet relief that comes with that first button, ending is a crescendo of ecstasy and freedom once you finally manage to kick them into a corner. You know it's been a particularly rough day when a red band is embedded into your less than taut physique. Even worse is the mark of your buttons branded into your flesh. Yeah. That's good for my self esteem.
So I've gotten myself back to the gym, I've got a fridge full of vegetables and lettuce. No more baked goods, bechamel sauces or wine with every meal. I know. It's lame and boring and smacks of routine and "clean living." But let's be honest - I'll still be "that girl" at least once a week and regardless of my efforts, my effing pants will always hurt me.