I went home sick today... Some peoples suggest that I have heat stroke. I have a different theory. See, I ate at the hospital cafeteria yesterday, but I neglected to use the rinseless alcohol foaming cleanser on the way from the cash register to the table. And I had fries, so I ate with my fingers. Obviously, this is the equivalent of going up to the sickest person in the room and licking them all over. Which, really, would have been a lot more fun than eating hospital cafeteria fries. 'Specially since there have been some devastatingly attractive sick people in the hospital lately. Rrowwr.
Anyway, mon frere was particularly sweet, when he got home. He took one look at me, lying on the couch, looking all oogy and gross, and offered to get me my "cuddle peas". All together now... Bwaaahhhhhhhhhhh........

So I didn't get the job. The one I talked about before... I got an e-mail saying how impressed they were with me. And they were keeping my CV should any future job postings come up. At first, I was like, "Oh, how nice of them to let me know. I am appreciative." But after about the fifth e-mail like this, it's more like, "What the *&#$&%ing hell, people?!? If you're so damned impressed with me, give me the job, for the love of syphilitic monkeys!!!!" (Hey. They need love too. It may just chafe more.) To be honest, I'm not really that bummed out, because it would have been yet another thankless lab monkey position, they were actually offering less salary than posted, and it was only a 6 month contract. But maybe, just maybe, I could have bought a boat with that money. Or paid down my student loans, something practical like that. But I really think I'd prefer the boat. It's okay, though, because I have another position I have been informed about that would be totally, amazingly awesome and would be a perfect fit for me. So I can't discuss it any further, as per the standard Murphy's Law clause. But should anything happen, I will keep people informed.
So! I also saw M. Night Shyamalan's new movie, "Lady In The Water", this weekend. Loved it. My theory as to why various critics have panned this and several of his past movies, is that it would seem that a certain level of intelligence is required to enjoy these movies. I'm certainly not tooting my own horn here, (because the only horn I have access to is in the Stroniach Bland Slam, or "Alby", as I affectionately refer to it; I'm fairly certain that activation of said horn mechanism would almost definitely result in some potentially fatal dysfunction in another part of this oh-so-crappity mobile of mine), but both my mother and my brother, the two most intelligent people I know and have the pleasure of being related to, (which means they have to pretend to like me and tolerate me no matter what!) enjoyed the movie as well. So.... EVERYBODY, GO SEE THIS MOVIE OR I WILL SHAVE YOUR CATS. OR DOGS. OR BOYFRIENDS (and believe me... some of them need it!).
In other news, I had several benign run-ins with my brother this weekend. S'all good, we are friends again. I think a lot of the disagreements stemmed from a few key points:
1) I'm emotionally unstable, or "nuttier than a s**t-house rat", in medical terms.
2) I have a really, really screwed up sense of what is funny and what isn't. For instance, pretending to run over somebody with your car. Not funny, as it turns out. Once I actually let that pink gelatinous mass in my cranium mull it over for a few minutes, turns out that it is indeed, not funny. Which brings me to point number 3.
3) Most of the time, I'm a flaming idiot.
4) Thank the lord god above he's the forgiving type. Cause you do NOT want him mad at you.
To expound upon the last point, I feel it is pertinent to mention that we are of Irish descent. Which means that we are either idiotic fighters who act first and think it over later (me), or we are the quiet, intelligent, intellectual type, who, when they are mad at you, will do nothing but stare at you with a piercing glare of disdain and disgust (him). This seriously reduces me to a snivelling, pathetic pile of goo in about 2 seconds. Damn. I hope he doesn't read this, because then he'll know his super power.
Anyway, the point of all this was that we were talking it over earlier tonight, and I was like, "It's just my sense of humour, man. We're like two ships, passing in the night." And he's like, "Yeah, it's just that your ship is like the one crowded with idiots on spring break." To which my reply was, "Yeah? Oh... Oh yeah? Well, um... Your ship is like... um... it's like the senior cruise where everyone is breaking their hip and playing shuffleboard and stuff." Oooohhhhh, yeaahhhhh..... Still got it. I bet he's still reeling from that little burn. I really need to work on my trash talk.

So I was getting ready for work this morning, and I'm fixing my hair in the mirror, and then, I sighed. Not one of those, "Oh crap, it's Monday," sighs, but one of those long, drawn-out, "Oh God I need a vacation so bad if I go to work today I'm going to kill everybody" sighs. So I called in a mental health day. I love my job for this, because really, the pay is so low that I think my boss is impressed that I come in at all. Ever.
I had all these plans for organizing my life today... I was going to do laundry, clean up the apartment, get rid of the mountain of paperwork littering every horizontal surface in this accursed place, and finally organize the cesspool of insecurity that is my life. Yup, that was the plan. So I brought danish over to my mum's place, we trash-talked certain relatives for a while ("Papa, can you hear me?" "Can you hear me now?" "Good!"), and then we went to "Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest", which really should have been entitled, "Pirates of the Carribean: Orlando's Shirt Gets Torn Off". I'm telling you now, it's a good thing there were no children at the 12:00 showing, because some of the comments I may or may not have made may or may not have scarred some young minds, had they been heard. "Mommy, why is that lady screaming, "Do me now, you elven stud!"? Ahem. Anyway, two thumbs up. Great family fun. For me.

I have a job interview in 1/2 an hour... I'm totally unprepared. So I've been chugging coke, and I just ate one of the more disgusting hospital cafeteria "specials" (spinach and cheese cannelloni... Yeah right. Placenta and brain matter is more like it.) In retrospect, this may have not been the best move, because between the distinct queasiness, and the occasional loud belch, I don't think I'm putting forward my "best image". Unless my best image is going to involve me vomiting profusely all over my prospective employer's desk. I can see it now...

Me: "...and then in the fall, I worked on some gene quantification experiments for...urp... blearrghh.... BLARRGYHGHGHTYYGH...... pllbbbttt.... sppoot..."

Prospective employer: "OH GOD! OH!!! OH GOD!!! Is that... Placenta?"

Me: "....blurgle... Spinach... [sound of me slumping to the floor]"

Prospective employer: "...Okayyyyy...... Well, we have your contact information... and.... um... just leave, okay? Please."

Me: "Glumph. Thank you for ... urgh... meeting with me today."

Prospective employer: "Just go."

God, I hate job interviews. Well, off I go. Wish me luck.

Siiiiiigggggghhhh........
Back at work. It's 9 at night... Stupid @$#%$ing time-sensitive experiments. The latte didn't help, apparently. I guess maybe it needed those little vanilla sprinkles or something.

Sooooooo...... how's it goin', eh? Floobiness no longer reigns my every waking movement (Ed. note: for definition of "floobiness" see earlier entry). No, I think this is ennui, with a tiny hint of despair. Woe is me. I think I'll go have a latte.

Okay, try not to be too disgusted with me... I burp. I know this is usually unheard of in well-bred young ladies such as myself, (so is screaming incoherently at a busload of German tourist nuns on 16th Avenue, but God damn it! Learn to drive, ladies! Schnell!!! Schnell!!) but yes. It has been known to happen. Tonight, after a lovely, 30 degree day, followed by golf-ball sized hail, and tornados, and now sunny and warm again (who loves Calgary? Put up your hands! Careful... Lightning!), I am being plagued with the most brutal belching I have experienced since the trampoline bouncing kegger. It's my fault, really. I made an out-of-this-world greek salad with fresh (FRESH!) oregano, and basil. Yum. Since then I have consumed about 4 litres of diet coke. When the first burp announced itself, I actually tried to claw my face off. Onion, feta, and coke do not combine well on the return journey. I just wanted to share with you all, my lovely, lovely people. Oh yeah, there was also proscuitto sammiges... (sandwiches for all you non-floobinese speaking individuals). So yes. Good combination, delicious taste sensation, burp of the devil and all his unholy minions. Ation. (it seemed like it should rhyme).

In retrospect, perhaps the term "chillin'" was inappropriate. I just couldn't think of a one word term describing a general slothiness and malaise so intense, I can't muster up the energy to unstick myself from my furniture. So... hot...
Oh yeah, and Chopin's Grand Polonaise brillante kicks.

Just chillin', in my disgustingly warm apartment. Listening to some Chopin. Praying for sleep. I was actually considering making a bag of frozen peas my new teddy bear until this "heat wave" is over, but then I thought, "Ewwwww.... Peas." I actually don't know many people who keep frozen peas because they eat them. I think that half of the frozen pea market actually is made up of people such as myself, who keep it around for when they inevitably hurt themselves. Makes a great icepack, they does. Personally, I can't stand them, unless, (and don't judge me, people... My mum is British, and they eat weird stuff. It's genetic) they are mushy peas. I freakin' love mushy peas. With fish and chips. MMMMMmmmmmm...... Pea mush. Ahem. I think I've made my point. Moving on...
The Stampede kicked off today. I wouldn't have noticed, except that they apparently had the Snowbirds performing their amazing flying antics to coincide with the parade... Scared the s--t out of me. I was sleeping soundly, (at 9 am, but keep in mind, I work in research, so a day that I get in before 11 is, like, huge, okay? Don't judge me.) and these 9 CT-114 Tutor jets (in perfect formation! Nice!) go screaming past my bedroom window. Being the rational person I always am (particularly first thing in the morning) I managed to simultaneously slam my face into the wall, yank up the blinds, and leap out of bed. Yeah, it hurt. But at the time, I was convinced we were under attack, and the only thing saving the free world was if I could give myself a nosebleed, apparently. Thank god we had frozen peas.

We're having a Canadian heat wave here... (temperatures above 20 degrees!) It's glorious. I've been eating nothing but fruit. And ice cream. And Dairy Queen blizzards. I actually almost got into an accident driving home, because the damn thing was melting all over the place, and I was trying to lick it all up. Before anybody accuses me of being an unsafe driver, I feel it is important to point out that that stuff was sticky! STICKY, DAMN IT! It could have got on my crappy car seats! Oh! Oh! Another good rant. My car, which for legal purposes, shall be identified by the time honoured tradition of words that sound like the name of the car... Let's call it... Hmmm.... A Stroniach Bland Slam. Okay, so this car, that may or may not be American (I'm not saying), this "Stroniach Bland Slam" sucks dead monkey butt. For lack of a better term. I hate this car so much, I have renamed it "The Albatross". Because the bloody thing hangs about my neck, constantly mocking me, whispering "My brakes.... They're feeling... mushy.... Oh, and the fuel gauge? Mwahahahahaha..... Not gonna work anymore...."
The worst part of this is that the car is not even as old as me in DOG YEARS!!!! It's 3 years old. I have had to completely replace the brakes. Last week, I'm going 80 (in a 60 zone, but that's completely beside the point, plus it was downhill), on a busy main road, and the power brakes and steering stopped working. Good times. Turns out, thankfully, that it was not the fuel pump. (Did you hear that cash register noise?) No, it was the fuel gauge. Although my car said it had 1/8 of a tank left, I was in fact driving it dry. Which causes it to stall. When it's going 80. Downhill. Which may have damaged the fuel pump, ironically. I can actually hear the car snicker at me when I go down to it in the morning. It wasn't a complete loss, though. I got the joy of discovering that my father is giddy with joy at trying to fix cars, something he knows absolutely nothing about. He drove over with a gleam in his eye, muttering about vapour lock, which apparently is a phenomenon affecting cars built in the 1950s... Then he poured a bunch of unidentified liquids into my gas tank. Then he spent 30 minutes trying to start the engine. Then we went for coffee. Then he tried to start it for another 15 minutes. Somewhere during this, I had curled up in the fetal position beside the car and was moaning softly to myself. I still don't know what the hell he put into my car, but I'm sure I'll find out at the most inopportune time.