mea culpa

I know.

I'm a horrible blogger. A disgrace to the blogging community. A waste of bandwidth. A two-dollar hooker. (Okay, maybe not that last bit, but it's one of my favourite terms EVER, along with "tart" and other such wonderful words and turns of phrase. I shall explore their definitions, context and application in another post. Maybe. If I get around to it.)

It's not that I haven't wanted to post, but it seems that lately my creative juices have all but run dry, with nary a drip to be had. Hopefully, with spring just around the corner, it will bring with it some new inspiration for me, fodder for my blog and not just the aroma of dead worms and dog poo.

I make no promises, but I shall *try* to eek out at least one blog a week, okay? Go easy on me- I bruise like a peach.

sigh

I just realized that I'm wearing my underwear inside out.

la belle province

Tradeshow season is in full bloom and I’m on the second of a string of shows I’ll be attending over the next few months. This time I’m in lovely Charlevoix, Quebec (or Malbaie, depending on who you talk to). This is the last of the “exotic” locations I get to go to, as I think the next show is in Oshawa, the armpit of Ontario. Now that my old boss/drinking buddy is gone, I’m third fiddle for tradeshow picks, so I have to make the most of the ones I get. And with a new addition in our department (my nemesis – we even share the same name), I have to work extra hard to jockey for position and stay in the good graces of the Tradeshow Scheduler.

I must say that I really scored this time: I’m staying at the decadent Fairmont Manoir Richelieu, which is nestled into the bay of the St. Laurence? Atlantic? I don’t know – my Grade 5 geography teachings are failing me at the moment. Anyways, it’s absolutely gorgeous here. I’d add a photo if I hadn’t left my camera at home, but after the last ordeal, I was wary about bringing my brand spanking new camera along with me- checked or on my person (I’m still fairly skeptical about those security x-ray machines). I did take a couple of shots with my phone, so if I figure out how to upload them to my PC, I’ll post them. For now, here’s a generic shot I googled (see above because I can't get the freaking formatting to do as it's told). A worthy post is never without one, you know.

I flew into Quebec City on a Dash-8. For anyone who hasn’t had the “pleasure”: it’s usually the smallest commercial aircraft in an airline’s fleet and is predominantly used for short haul, light load flights. Boarding a Dash-8 is very retro, or "Ghetto Glam", as I prefer to call it. Because the plane is short by comparison to others, there aren't any walkways designed to fit up to the door, so passengers have to board by walking outside and climbing a rickety set of stairs. I wish I could say it's as glamourous as this, but it's really not. Some paparazzi might help.

I would say the Dash-8 is the commercial aviation industry’s version of the clown car. For a passenger to fly comfortably on a Dash-8, he or she should measure no more than 4 feet in height and should ideally have neither legs nor luggage, as there’s no room for either. If you are not fortunate enough in any of these respects, I would highly recommend seats 1E and 1F, as they are the only two on the plane with enough room that you don’t have to curl up into the fetal position to fit into them. Conversely, I was seated in row 1A/C: the bank of seats with the least amount of space in the joint. So, while I sat in Locust pose, the flight attendant basked in the chaise lounge across from me, reading a book. (A former flight attendant myself, I could’ve gotten her ass fired for such a blatant breach of flight safety regulations, but that’s another rant all together and, frankly, this post is long enough.)

Another highlight of the Dash-8 is that it’s a propeller plane. Being the lucky soul that I am, my seat was conveniently located parallel to the left propeller and given that this particular aircraft has the insulation of a tin can, I might as well have been sitting IN the propeller's turbine. That flight attendant would've done better to pass out construction-grade protective headphones than Bits n' Bites. I'm sure that trip alone will be responsible for my having to get a Whisper 2000 in order to hear worth a damn come my 40's.

Once I got to Quebec City, I had to rent a car for the two hour trip to the resort. I reserved a compact car, expecting some sort of generic sedan, but I what I got was a sexy black Ford Focus station wagon. Oh well, at least I got some valuable soccer mom practice time in. The weather was great for a drive and the scenery was nothing short of spectacular. I ended up missing my exit and drove another 30 kms before I realised my error, but I was enjoying the drive so much that I didn't mind.

In true Fairmont form, the Manoir Richelieu is decadent in every way, including the prices! I do get a per diem while I'm away, but it's a drop in the bucket at a place like this. I ended up going to McD's for lunch on the first day, just to save some cash. You see, if you're smart, you can actually MAKE money on business trips, or at least save up the $$ alotted for breakfast and lunch and then go buck wild at dinner. For me, I'm happy as long as I don't come out at a loss.

The convention itself has been a bust, but I've managed to enjoy my stay in other ways. Last night I ordered room service, surfed the web and watched TV all in my hotel bathrobe. Of course, my trip wouldn't be complete without a couple of mishaps: the exhibit frame arriving in several pieces (thank God for duct tape!) and the bathtub water tap falling off the wall and injuring my foot (that f*cker was heavy!).

Tonight, I plan to fully enjoy the convention's dinner and show, but I'm going to skip out on the "After Party" (tee hee) for a dip in the outdoor saltwater hot tub and some time in the sauna. Tomorrow, I've got an early morning packing up the exhibit and hightailing it back to Quebec City to catch my flight home. Then, I get to pick up *T* and spend my weekend doing some long-overdue best friend bonding!

snow day

One of the few highlights of winter: The Snow Day. All the better if it falls on a Friday! Even more so if you actually take advantage of it instead of slogging your way through a blizzard of snow, ice and bad drivers to get to work (on time, even) like I did. I'm a model employee, what can I say?

Since I've been robbed of my Snow Day, I've decided to stage a peaceful, one-person protest from my desk in the form of a stoppage of work. Today, I'm going to buck my usual slave-like work ethic and do absolutely nothing that is work-related. OK, so it's not much different from what I do most days.

So, in the middle of my "doing nothing work-related", I came across one of those "getting to know you" quizzes. I don't normally do these because the questions are usually lame and they ellicit equally lame responses that give the subject's readers absolutely no new insight into their life or personality. This one, however, is a little different and has many possibilities for fun, and we all know I'm all about the fun. The directions are simple:

1. Choose a band/artist.

2. Answer ONLY using titles of their songs.

I chose the Dave Matthews Band for the simple reason that they are, in my books, they best artists of ALL TIME.

Here goes:

Are you male or female: Dream Girl

Describe yourself: So Much To Say

How do some people feel about you: Crazy

How do you feel about yourself: Busted Stuff

Describe your ex boyfriend / girlfriend: Fool To Think

Describe current boyfriend / girlfriend: Too Much

Describe where you want to be: Bartender

Describe how you live: You Never Know

Describe how you love: Crash Into Me

What would you ask for if you had just one wish: If I Had It All

Share a few words of Wisdom: Everybody Wake Up

Now say goodbye: Say Goodbye

That was a bit more challenging than I thought. Good times. Good times. So, what to do with the rest of the day's afternoon, hey?

Update:

Turns out that my protest was not in vain: the Powers That Be, in their infinite graciousness, have allowed us minions to leave work 1.5 hours early due to the deteriorating weather conditions. Of course, it'll take me at least that much time to dig my car out.

i love phlegm

One blissful week of respite after getting over my last cold, I decided to go all out this time and contract the flu. Go big, or go home, I say.

It all started when I woke up last Saturday morning with a painful chest cough. I didn't think much of it at the time because aside from the cough, I was feeling OK and I was determined to make good on my Chinese New Year resolution to get back into the gym, since I missed out on that other one a while back.

I slogged my way through the class, all the while feeling like my feet were encased in cement blocks, but I just chalked that up my currently high level of unfitness. It was only when I got home that it hit me like a truck. A ten tonne, tricked out, Hemi-toting, fully-loaded Mack truck. With flames airbrushed on the cab. I had every symptom a girl with a flu could ask for: fever, chills, sweats, sore joints, sensitive skin, sore throat, burning eyes and a cough that felt like razor blades carving up my lungs. I wanted to die.

It's hard to imagine that something so inocuous-looking could cause so much harm. Granted, Salmonella looks a little suspect, but E. coli is as adorable as they come. Aww, he's even smiling! Had I known that Bed Bugs were so cute, I would've stopped feverishly vacuuming my mattress and changing my sheet ages go! And someone's definitely getting Syphilis for their birthday.

I languished on the couch or in my bed for a total of four days, only rising to make some tea or to use the facilities (and even THAT hurt). In my delerium, I made my way into work on Monday to parade myself around the office, if only to silence the office chatter that would inevitably arise, given that this would prove to be my SECOND *gasp* sick day in as many months. I was promptly shooed home. Hee. I did start back at work on Wednesday, not so much because I was feeling better, but more for my own mental health. Being cooped up at home does a number on one's emotions and I needed a diversion to keep me from jumping off the first bridge I came across.

Last night, during a particularly violent coughing fit, I felt something in my head come loose. Seriously. Or at least that's what it felt like. So, now when I cough, I get this sharp pain behind my left eye and my brain rattles a bit in my head. Must just be a strain, right? How, pray tell, does one strain their brain?! I swear, this kind of stuff only happens to me.

I'm at the point now where my flu has all but subsided, leaving in its' place its' less-debilitating, yet infinitely more annoying inbred cousin, the cold. Aside from the congestion-induced state of euphoria, sniffling, sporadic coughing spells (don't forget the brain rattling), I actually don't feel that bad. In fact, I'm feeling so not-bad that I may even hit the gym tomorrow morning for a Body Combat class. I can already see myself sniffling and hacking away through the class, making a beeline to the communal kleenex box between pauses in choreography. On second thought, maybe I'll just stick a couple of tissues up my nose instead. It's much more efficient and will allow me to get the most out of my workout. So dedicated. An envy for all to behold.

damn you, murphy!

Today's my birthday. My "Champagne" birthday, to be exact. Yep, I'm 31 on the 31st.

I've been looking forward to this birthday (or at least the novelty of it) for a while. I'm not exactly sure why, as the only thing that that sets this birthday apart from all the others is that one is supposed to drink champagne to mark this once-in-a-lifetime event. I'll even admit to smugly bragging about how lucky I am to be celebrating my champagne birthday so late in the month, since I'm now at an age where I can actually enjoy the implications of the day. Really, don't you kinda feel sorry for anyone born between the 1st and, say, the 15th of the month? I bet not too many were indulging in some birthday bubbly at the ripe old age of four. I digress...

I did indeed get to ring in my 31st birthday with some champagne (Thanks, *W*!), albeit a day early because I would be spending my actual birthday travelling on business. Boo. Add to the mix a lovely birthday cold and you've got the makings of a disaster.

I arrive at the airport this morning with plenty of time to spare. Call me neurotic, but I need to be at the airport and all checked in ridiculously early for fear of missing my flight. That, and I like to poke around the airport stores with a high-priced fancy coffee while I wait to board.

Thanks to all the new-fangled technology, I'd actually checked in online the day before, so I needed only to drop off my luggage. At the counter, the agent informs me that there is a direct flight to Vancouver departing an hour and a half after my scheduled flight and would I like to switch? Mildly annoyed at not having had this option when I initially booked, mourning the loss of a couple extra hours of sleep and not wanting to sit around in the airport lounge any longer than necessary, I decline the offer and keep my original booking.

The first leg of my trip is uneventful. The flight gets in late (surprise, surprise), but still allows me just enough time to catch my connection in Toronto. The flight to Vancouver was long and cramped, but predictable as far as flights go. I de-plane and make my way to the baggage carousel to pick up my bag. My bag that never came. The baggage agent said that the quick connection in Toronto did not allow for my bag to be loaded, but assured me that my luggage would arrive on one of the half-dozen incoming flights and they would arrange to have my bag delivered to the hotel. I'm provided with a tracking reference number to check the status of my bag online and a toll free number to call if I want to check the status old skool. Surprisingly, I managed to take it all in stride. I figure that as long as it shows up some time this afternoon, all is not lost. Besides, the baggage tracking form the airline gave me states that 95% of all lost luggage is returned to its owner within 24 hours. Comforting.

I get to the hotel, check in and set up for the next day's trade show, which takes all of about half an hour. I've got the rest of the day to myself, so I try to beat the jetlag and have a nap, but after lying around unable to sleep I decide that a birthday beer in the hotel bar is a better idea. Now I know why they say you should never drink alone. So. Depressing. Here I was, sitting by myself in a practically empty hotel bar on a Wednesday afternoon drinking a beer on my birthday all the way across the country in the most un-fun part of Vancouver (Richmond, for all you Vancouver-savvy people). Turns out, unbeknownst to me, there was a huge mall spitting distance away that I could've been exploring instead of sitting here. Boo-urns. Think of all of the wonderful items that went un-perused and un-bought!

The afternoon wears on and I check on the status of my lost bag online periodically. Still nothing. I become a little more frantic around 6pm, so I call the baggage claims hotline in hopes that a real live person might be privy to some more details, but alas, no help there, either. In fact, the baggage claims reps I spoke to on two separate occasions made me even more nervous because they seemed to be generally clueless and as it turns out, the call centre is located somewhere in India, which makes me question their abilities altogether. Really, how can you track baggage effectively from the other side of the planet? Damn outsourcing! Well, at least I've got the $50 (USD, no less) that the airline has given me to spend on incidentals: I should have no problem buying enough toiletries and clothing to see me though the trip! Sigh.

It's 10 pm and I'm in full-on panic mode. Still no news about my bag and I'm fully convinced I'm one of the unlucky 5% of poor souls never to be reunited with their precious belongings again. Ever the planner, I start researching my options if my bag is not recovered. There is a claim form that needs to be completed and submitted, along with the receipts for every item claimed on the form. No problem, I have every receipt for every item I've ever purchased neatly filed away specifically for this kind of situation. Come on! Seriously, who does this?! I'm lucky if I have the receipt for something I bought last week, nevermind three years ago, as in the case of my favourite boots currently in luggage limbo along with all of my other favourite, irreplaceable things. Inconsolable and cranky, I went to bed without (birthday) dinner, wondering how I was going to get through the rest of the trip.

The next morning, I wake up in yesterday's clothes to find a message on my phone from the front desk - my luggage had been delivered and was waiting for me! My eternal gratitude to the powers that be for returning to me my meagre, yet prized belongings.

Epilogue

Despite the lost luggage drama, the rest of my trip went surprisingly well: I did not die of boredom at the trade show, I had a wonderfully decadent birthday facial at an Aveda concept spa (compliments of *K* and *S*) and I went for a lovely meal at Steamworks Brewing Company in historic Gastown. The trip home was not so pleasant: an almost missed connection in Calgary, more incompetency on the part of airline and airport staff and an unbearably loud and annoying passenger sitting behind me who rambled incessantly for 4 hours to anyone who'd listen were all highlights of the journey back.

Although my trip somewhat marred my expectations for my champagne birthday, I shall try to let it all go and keep the good stuff (because there was a lot of that, too).

I'll end my epic post with the always-hilarious annual birthday poem my girlfriend *D* composes and sends me every year:

A Birthday Poem for the Beautiful *L*

Another year has passed and you find yourself at 31,
You look in the mirror and notice your face has been wrinkled by the sun.

You remember when skinny jeans were in the first time,
And you realize squeezing into them now would surely be a fashion crime.

You scoff at teenagers and mock their fun,
Then you realize you're old enough that one could be your son.

Happy Birthday sweet *L*, I hope you have a great day,
31 isn't so bad, if you believe what I say!

Thanks, *D*. I love you - you made my day!

maiden voyage

I've been sitting on the fence about the blogging phenomenon for some time. I know a lot of people who blog and I'm a fan of quite a few of them. It's how I keep track of my friends and the goings-on in their lives and, most importantly, how I get my daily infusion of celebrity gossip. Hah.

As enticing as the concept of blogging is, it's also quite intimidating, as it leaves one vulnerable and open to scrutiny by friends, family and strangers alike. Generally speaking, I'm a pretty self-conscious person (although I'm good at keeping that fact on the down low), so the thought of exposing myself in this way petrifies me to no end. What if my blog is not remotely interesting, funny or entertaining enough to be read and enjoyed by anyone other than my parents? (And they don't really count because, as parents, they *have* to like their kids' stuff, just as they liked the matching macaroni necklaces I brought home from Kindergarten.)

Then there's the task of coming up with material for one's blog. This can be a perilous venture, especially if the subject of a particular entry happens to be a member of your readership. All of a sudden, you're faced with a dilemma: "to post, or not to post?" If you go ahead with it, you either have to play nice to keep the peace, or tell it like it is and wait anxiously for the fallout. Gee, sounds like fun. Not that I plan on coming out guns a'blazing or anything, but if I've gotta rant, I'm not going to hold back. Much. (OK. Maybe, I'll tone it down a little, but that's it! It's called writer's integrity, people, and I'm not about to compromise mine for the sake of saving someone from a case of bunched panties.) The key here is just not to give me any fodder, OK?

At the end of the day, I guess blogging is something you do for yourself. A guilty pleasure. A place to chronicle your experiences, interests, random thoughts and pretty much everything else that people are tired of you going on about.

So, I'm not too sure how this blog will evolve, but I hope I manage to entertain you at least some of the time. Or not. Because, really, isn't it all about me?


Here goes nothing...