Oh time, you fickle mistress. We can never get enough of you, fleeting as you are. This weekend was paved in the gold of good intentions- After all, I had plans for keeping up my blog but alas, all those intentions lead me straight to Hell.
Friday
French Vanilla, the writer of Bobbi Bag [check it out] and I took a pilgrimage to find a little culture. Where we live is more John Mellancamp than we'd like so finding greener pastures stops us from going too stir crazy. This particular outing was to see the Tim Burton exhibit presented by MOMA. [Oh MOMA! Terms like that make me feel so deliciously pretentious. I faint! I swoon!] The exhibit was set up chronologically to showcase his works and basically my childhood.
I'll admit I'm enamoured with the macabre nature of Burton's work. The mixing of candy sweet visuals with a dash of dastardly arsenic plot. Although his former works are more to my liking, I grew up on steady viewing of Beetlejuice, Nightmare and his version of Batman. Later on, I fell in love again with Sleepy Hollow and the Corpse Bride. His short film Vincent was a masculine parallel to my own childhood. Where other girls wanted to be Malibu Barbie, I longed to be Wednesday Addams. [Really, I'm not being facetious. I even took to carrying around a headless doll before my Mom stepped in.]
The show was full of props and Tim's own notes. His penmanship was atrocious! I guess genius doesn't need to be neat. [Take that every teacher who ever told me I had sloppy cursive!] There was also a showing of his version of Hansel and Gretel, an odd, Japanese influenced film which was only aired once.
French Vanilla was disappointed in the lack of Willey Wonka paraphernalia- All I can say is thank you to the Artistic Director and Roald Dahl rest in peace. That particular cinematic pill was a little too hard for me to swallow. Personally, I was happier with the space being used to house the Tragic Toys for Girls and Boys viewing lounge and the showcasing of his early work and sculpture.
Overall, I thought MOMA and the Lighthouse Gallery did an excellent job. The white walls became a homage to mainstream freakishness; a playful glimpse into the darkness. The show runs until April 11 so if you have time to go to Toronto, I highly recommend it!
Saturday
Saturdays suck. Really, they do. I work them in case you're wondering... And although they're the shortest of my shifts, I much rather lay in bed watching MTV. This Call Girl fully embraces the Sin of Sloth.
Even writing this, I feel every shred and speck of eloquence melting away. Annoyance rules. I am a woman of varying patience. At times I've been told [and highly disbelieve] the amount of patience I have is saintly. I see myself much more as Magdalene, Mary opposed to Teresa, Saint. I am faulty by nature. I have much work to do.
Work happened. So it goes.
After work, I was supposed to go out with a friend from work, Birdie, and her best friend, Shutter. The night turned into a comedy of errors. As usual, Birdie, was running late. She knows it's an issue, bless her, but it remains the same nevertheless. Since the downfall of my friendship empire, Birdie has been there for me. Really, our late night chats in her beat up car, full nicotine and tea infused rhetoric, those heart to hearts keep me going some days. When everyone else is gone, Birdie still tries to be there. This being said, the friendship is relatively new and has kinks needed to be ironed out. Still, Birdie if you read this: <3.
So back to the story: I forgot my id [as I am rarely id'ed anymore], we drove Shutter's fiancee to a friend's then back to her house to switch cars. Finally, we got to the bar about an hour after we were supposed to... And stayed for 20 minutes. After Birdie and Shutter wanted to go clubbing and I decided to go home. Which segueways into...
Sunday
I had breakfast with the Twin. We went to a local British eatery. On Sunday, it's always packed with expats and cravers of English Breakfast. After a 15 minute wait, we got a booth. After all, the Sunday Catholics tend to crowd breakfast joints after Church like the fat induced plague said breakfast gives our arteries. Usually, I'm not so keen to wait but the breakfast there is really good.
The Twin and I caught up over eggs benedict and tea. Our talk, as per, ranged from serious to joking. I guess that's what having a pseudo sister from another mister is all about. Right now, she and I are dealing with similar issues. I've found with my adopted sisterhood [as I rarely adopt family of the less fair sex] that we all seem to be living the same life cycle; just at different points. Bear, Birdie and the Twin all share the same sort of experiences as I or I as them. And its not just the events but the round of emotions themselves: fear, hopelessness, anger, desperation; joy, love, compassion.
Sunday night I took a break from philosophizing and joined the lads for a Wrestlemania party. [The white trash antidote to previously stated snobbishness.] Sometimes it takes watching half naked men beat the shit out of each other to put things into perspective. [wink, wink.]
Work again. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repetitively and expecting a different outcome. Welcome to my life.
Even though I only work four days a week, they are overwhelming when I feel like this. They loom Goliath like over the meek Thursdays, Fridays and Sundays. Because I am drowning four days a week, on my days off I can't always hold my head above water.
I won't preach about health and wellness [as I am not the master of either] but I've started going to the gym and it actually helps. I run, bike and sweat out my feelings. I watch stick thin girls with Birdie and Shutter and gloat that I eat carbs Venus of Willendorf style. Sweat is cleansing. I rid myself of poison: emotionally and I'm sure physically as I get in a steady pace. My steps become a staccato mantra: It. Will. Be. Okay. I. Will. Be. Okay.
Now, it is time for bed. Sleep is also something to be much desired and tonight I am determined to beat my insomnia, to calm my restless mind.
Signing off cathartic and detoxed, the Call Girl xx
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