~diana~

Mini Meltdown Number One

2011-03-02T16:59:00.006Z

Moving home to Canada. A few months ago the thought was bliss. It still is bliss, but now my inner-head is overcrowded by mini meltdowns involving tears, cooking and cleaning frantically, feeling super low, random laughing fits at inappropriate times, racing thoughts and crying for no reason. Some could argue this is normal behavior for a woman, or me in particular (minus the cleaning). But, laughing uncontrollably when your husband spills boiler water over the television while trying to fix it and stifling a laugh when he hits his head during the fiasco is highly abnormal. Well, I thought my behavior was okay until Tommy gave me a dirty look and asked what I was laughing at.

Now that the shoe is on the other foot, meaning that Tommy is doing the moving, and I am doing the whole get-to-be-with-my-loved-ones bit, I feel that moving and leaving all behind was much easier for me to handle. It meant I had the license to be as emotional as I wanted, as irrational as possible, and make any excuse to binge on ice cream, wine and crisps. At the same time.

Now, I have to act all grown up. I have to swallow all the guilt I feel because Tommy has to leave his family and just deal with it. There is so much pressure to ensure the transition is as smooth as possible. You have zero control over the other person's happiness. A million thoughts! All things he had to feel when I came here. I had no idea. Being able to wear your emotions on your sleeve was soooo much easier.

Anyway, the other day I had a reality check that came in the form of my brother. I don't think he meant to give me that reality check, it was simply an epiphany for me. What it was, I'm not to sure. Only thing I know is that after having said conversation, I was cooking frantically (see above for list of erratic behaviors) and then when it was over, I cried.

In my mind, I have a vision of how this move will go. In this vision, I have incorporated everything required to physically move ourselves and belongings, settling in, emotional turmoil, keeping in touch with the other side of the pond, anything you can think of. But, trying to remember what it was like when I left, no amount of 'visioning' can prepare you for what it's like to leave. I haven't really put a lot of 'visioning' into coming back though. Maybe I should go and do that now. That's where mini meltdown number two will most likely enter. Watch this space.

News

2010-07-13T16:27:00.006+01:00

So, it's been eons since I packed my clothes in compression bags, stuffing them into my suitcases on the eve of my departure to London. It would be greatly disputed to say my life hasn't changed. I've been hardened by the challenges of living in a major city, but softened by being exposed to tireless love. Barf, I know. Whatever.

Anyway, this is actually my rant of why London sucks, or collaboratively, the whole of the UK. I am making huge generalizations, but I have to. It makes me feel better.

First, people in London don't smile at you. I used to love when you passed a stranger, and inadvertently smiled at them, they smiled back, vice versa, and it really would make your day. That was Canada. In London, people look at you like you're having a seizure, and run the other way. Or, if you smiled at someone, they might think it's because you want to have sex with them, leading them to approach you. Trust me, that is not what you want in London, because most are weirdos. I guess all big cities are isolating. But London can be a very, very lonely place.

People in England have terrible grammar. It's rubbed off on me too. But not only that, the English accent that Canadians have come to love watching movies, in fact, do not exist, unless the Queen herself is addressing you. Although it can be a beautiful accent, a lot people sound as if they have walnuts in their cheeks, shouting. These are usually 'chavs.' I'm sure I've discussed chav's before, if you Google it, the definition doesn't do it justice. They are much more annoying and a waste to mankind.

Media gone mad. People are media obsessed. Or Z-lister obsessed. The media covers everything from the nobody's of Hollywood, to the sex lives of our politicians. Teenagers in this country strive to be:
1) A page three 'glamour' model
2) A WAG (wives and girlfriends of footballers)

On a more serious note, I have found it difficult being a couple of full-time incomes, making more than the national average (which is a pittance), and not being able to buy a house. The economy is effed here. England have a made a shambles of their social system, leaving the working class to pay for the debts of the health service, and any tax you can think of, the people out of work, the people's homes that are out of work, and countless other things. Where the rich just get richer. There is no incentive to make yourself a hardworking person here. Because if you are on benefits (a.k.a welfare), you are better off not working, because you will get a supplement and home, and which most likely is more than what you would earn working the minimum wage.

This country is so diverse it is almost separatist. People aren't living together in harmony. Everyone has a chip on their shoulder. But I can't go into this rant without sound racist, which I'm not, so I won't. And this is also the political-correctness which is England, that has rubbed itself all over me. A few years ago I called a broken printer 'gay.' Us Canadians use this word very freely. Stop being gay (if someone is acting stupid), oh, that's gay (something bad's happened), you're gay (if you're cheesy/corny/insert anything here). So one day, I slammed the printer because it was broken and said 'this printers gay.' I got in trouble. This country is so damn PC it makes me want to vomit. I'm probably not even allowed to call myself a chink.

English people reading this may well tell me to piss off and go back to my own country. So I am. January 2012. Approximately.

Well, now that's off my chest, really, England isn't all bad. There are the 7 weeks holiday that I get (which I will miss...TREMENDOUSLY), with great access to other countries at a cheap price (nothing to do with England, but still). And I've always loved Europe, although England aren't specifically or particularly European, it still has the quaintness, which I love. (Side note: they really could do more to maintain their old buildings here.) I mean there are probably tiles at my favourite train station (Waterloo) that are nearly as old as Canada. There is a uniqueness equated with the 'oldness' that I love. But lets face it, I don't live in Waterloo station, although if I did because it would mean I was a bum (excuse me, 'homeless'), I would probably be better off with the perks I received from the city.

After family and friends, and my 7 weeks holiday, British Satire is what I will miss the most. This 'environment' has really allowed my sarcasm to thrive. Tommy says he has created a monster. Taking the 'piss' out of people is a full time hobby for me. No exceptions, my Boss included. (Please don't get me to define taking the piss, it would be like trying to define good 'Craic'). English people, if nothing, are extremely witty. You can have a laugh with anybody. (I know, I said they were weirdos, but really, it's part of the charm). You can have a laugh with someone you just met at the bus stop, having a small crack about the buses. But the wit of British humour really makes up for the amount of moaning the English do (which inadvertently I do a lot of myself these days, because if you can't beat them, join them).

Anyway, I wasn't going to write this blog until I submitted my papers to get Tommy to Canada, but people had too many questions. So if we change our minds, don't hold it against me. But as of now, everything we are doing is set motion for 'home.'

p.s. don't tell my mom, she doesn't know.

The Age Complex

2010-01-25T13:41:00.004Z

So, it's official. If you haven't noticed, in the last few years, I have become obsessed with getting old. Well, growing old, not necessarily getting. It all began when Tommy and I swore to spend the rest of our days together, when I felt that marriage was for the old folk. Since passing our two year anniversary of wedded bliss, I realised that it wasn't for old people, and that we were still having fun, going out partying, romantic meals, and using our annual leave for some fun in the Sun. So, why do I have a complex about age? Because I simply don't feel my age, but my body is still moving on.

How is my body moving on you might ask? A lot of people argue that I have been given the best genes for ageing, that I don't own a wrinkle to my face, and that I still look in my teens. The teen look wasn't what I was going for, I was hoping for a sexy twenty something, but hey, if I have to wait til my 30's to enjoy the sexy twenty something look, then that's fine.

However, this stupid growing body of mine is making me feel that I won't be able to enjoy the sexy twenty something look, because every woman has an internal clock, and it seems more and more people around me are popping babies out and the pressure is on!

I can't remember the exact moment this happened, but I used to be scared shitless that I would get pregnant and that my mother would shout at me in Cantonese and tell me how I was a disgrace to the Man family and then ultimately disown me, and possibly force me to abort before I ruined my life because I'm too young and irresponsible to be a mother, versus, now, where my mother is asking me the exact date on when I plan to give birth and how many grandchildren I will give her. And here I am wanting to give in because I think the little sprogs of mine and Tommy's will be wonderful, a fiery girl and sweet little boy.

But I'm not ready.

There is still so much I want to do. I can't argue that I haven't had a fun life, but it hasn't been enough. Whoever created woman was a cruel one, as saying the best years for producing is between 20-30 is hardly enough time to squeeze in all the fun, is it? Plus, let's not forget to mention the late blooming maturity of our counterparts, who haven't fully developed until 35, which makes our chances of finding our dream partner even more rare, and if younger women start finding older men, then what will older women do? Resort to younger men! And then everything just gets all mixed up. And these are things that only OLD people think about.

Then there is the whole thing about increasing inflexibility despite heaps of stretching, sore knees after running or when going downstairs and achy bones in the morning which I never experienced a few years back, and the other day I bought my first anti-ageing product, because I swear after I work nights a small insy teensy wrinkle below my eye gets longer. And it's there. Everyone can swear blind, Tommy says I'm crazy, friends say I'm paranoid, but that bloody wrinkle is there.

I know we can't have it all, but I still want to explore the world, move up in my career, and be full of vitality with freedom poured to the brim. I have a husband that supports this and won't tell me what to do. And when you have choices, it's not a good thing sometimes. Well, for the mean time, I think I'll still continue to enjoy myself, and will plough on with the night cream and anti-ageing day cream with SPF 15, because I swear the freckles on my face ARE NOT sun spots. They're age spots.

Thankful

2009-12-27T16:54:00.004Z

I have never been a fan of Christmas, until the last few years. Before, Christmas was a time to earn some overtime, and quietly hope that the day will go by quickly until all returns to normalcy once more. This year, like every other year, I worked, but it was different. I like Christmas now. And being at work on Christmas reminds me of how thankful I should be.

I was walking out of my patients room, and I asked him if there was anything else I could do for him, and he said "Can you pull this cracker with me?"

The worst thing about working on Christmas is realizing how much the patients have changed over their treatment. You watch their personalities diminish, their smiles fade, and energy wane into nothingness. They are a shred of hope, and not much more. And they too, were like how I was before, wishing that Christmas would be over. And convincing themselves that this so-called significant day really is just another day, and in a few hours, it will be over. And the worst feeling at Christmas, coupled with Valentines day, must be the feeling of loneliness.

So when my patient asked me to pull the cracker, I was thankful for the family I have, my family and friends that have been kept healthy, and don't have to spend this occasion, so overly built for up for months, in a hospital. I was thankful for my security. And that fact that I could be there for them, even if just for a few hours.

And although opening another gift bag filled with toiletries we'll never use may not be exciting, I am grateful for the gesture.

So when you're down in the dumps, and think you have problems, just remember that there is someone out there, not that much farther from you, that is having an even shittier time.

Happy Christmas!

haha

Good Faith of Scammers

2009-06-25T15:21:00.005+01:00

Some would say that I am skeptic. And some would argue that I'm a realist. I would like to say that I am bastard at being pessimistic and question a lot of things, but overall, what I am at crime for is still believing in the good of all people and giving even criminals benefit of a doubt.

We are in the midst of trying to move out and get our own place in London. And after some dead end research for the property market, government schemes, and schemes to help out 'keyworkers' like myself, we've realised that this city is so expensive, that our best bet for our freedom is to rent. So, here I was looking at flats online, and where do my fingertips lead me to? Gumtree.com. Wonderful website, love the thing.

I was all excited about the prospect of having an apartment for 600-700£ all inclusive of bills, and maybe even council tax (aka property tax). I got three responses out of the four people I contacted. A reverend in South Africa with a wife in DC, someone who works in the hospital in Italy, and a studio manager of a recording company living in Manchester all email me back. I get what I deemed good responses with positive information.

Then, the person who claims he lives in Italy emails me and tells me that it's difficult for him to get back to London, and he won't do it for willy nilly. And what I need to do is send Tommy a money gram through Western Union of first and last months rent (1240£), and scan the receipt and send it to him. When he knows that I have the funds, he will fly back to London to show me the flat.

What kind of a dumbass does this wanker take me for?

Google is my bestfriend. I type in 'gumtree scams,' and what do I get? A group on Facebook (love Facebook too) that describes the textbook method of how this scam is performed! Basically the person can use that receipt to claim the money! I am disgusted! With no way of tracking the money back, or anything! And more so I am pissed off with myself for letting jackass strangers get me excited about nothing!

So, I send the guy an email and say, "is there no way that you can arrange for an agent to show me the flat, as I would feel really bad if you flew back and I didn't want the flat. Plus, I am weary of money grams?" and he sends me this loaded response about how he isn't a crook and that he's 50 with a wife of 28 years and two successful sons, and he would never risk his good Christian soul and will not risk career, freedom and future for anything in the world and that he's not out to swindle me.

Right. And I'm the First Lady of Mauritius and I have a pair of balls.

So I write back: "I did not ask you for the address, I asked if you could arrange for an agent to show us the flat. Those are the normal customs in the UK, you obviously have never lived here before and are a scammer. I've reported you."

And then he has the audacity to write back that I have to send the money order to my partner and blahblahblah everything he said before about the money gram before he can show me the flat.

My response?

"Are you copy and pasting this stuff without reading what I've just written to you? You're a CROOK! Look it up in the dictionary. You can cash the money with the scanned receipt! "I will not risk my career, my freedom and my future for anything in the world! " Good luck with that."

GRRRRR! I am vexed at the prospect that I even bought into this bullshit for half a day! It just goes to show how many crooks there are in this world, and naive and gullible people like me who just want to get a product out of a honest days hard work and make a worth transaction have to worry about everything. Friggin' Ebay, credit card scams, hackers who can get your bank account password by typing patterns!? And ordering things online and never getting the product! It's amazing how anyone does business these days!

I can't wait til Reverend's wife emails me back! That bitch sent me some nice photo's of a flat and a picture of her and her "daughter." Call me Ms. Marple, but I googled the postcode and building name that so-called Reverend's missus gave, and it's an apartment they rent to people long-term but NO ONE can own them. It's for tourists.

I want to laugh and cry at my indictment. What irony! I feel like I am still a tourist.

Moral of the year as quoted by Tommy the great? "If it looks too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true." Or some other famous phrase he used. Hit him.

Twenty-Seven

2009-03-25T20:54:00.005Z

Someone (Tommy), once said to me that the ages of 24-27 were wonderful ages. I have had no qualms about turning 27, with spending my last day of being 26 in Cairo checking off one the biggest things on my "To-Do Before I Die" list, marvelling at the Pyramids and the Sphyinx. I still don't feel old, I don't think I look 27, with the big three-zero looming at large, I'm not fretting. Why? Someone even wiser said that the best years are 25-25. Yay!

Let's recap birthdays of the last decade.

17,18, 19, 20...probably all school days, weekends spent inebriated as result of going to some dive downtown Hamilton, Border or Fever.

21, big birthday, finally can drink everywhere, but no recollection.

22, just before going to Dublin for 5 months over summer, spent in London (Canada) getting drunk with my best highschool friends, going back to their place at 3am to birthday cake baking in the oven. Best birthday so far.

23, due to my loyalty to an asshole boyfriend, not many came out for my birthday. Friendless, unhappy, intoxcated at some shit bar.

17-23, raining, snowing, hailing, always. Never failed.

24, sunny day and finished university with career kicking off nicely, i celebrated for one week with 6 days off work, seeing friends, getting drunk, eating like a rich man, day spent at the spa by self, and went to The Keg with Michelle & Steph. Perfect.

25, sunny (in England!) Steph visits me in London and we get so drunk on the eve of my turning a quarter century old, I had to send my beloved boyfriend to do touristy things with Steph. Day spent in bed recovering for dinner with good friends at Poncy steak restaurant. Perfect.

26, Easter Weekend spent with friends, eating, drinking, seeing little nephews. Day spent spending bday money. Sunny. Perfect.

27, no snow, no rain, no hail. 26 degrees celcius spent in Sharm El-Sheikh Egypt, having rum and cokes before noon. Tanning, and falling asleep on sun lounger. Dinner at Naama Bay, got pissed drunk with Tommy, bowling crossed eyed at 2am. Husband has to undress me to get me into PJ's. He gets accussed of sexually assaulting me. Perfect.

I'm not dissing my "younger" birthdays, but the purpose of this exercise is to prove the saying "growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional." Birthdays and becoming more "seasoned" are more care-free. The age we are at is more significant. We're no longer forced to do anything to fit social norms set by our elders. We're not wishing our days away til we finally achieve what we're supposed to achieve like finishing school, graduating or being able to buy booze legally. These days are about living life. Getting engaged, getting married, buying a house, giving birth, watching little ones grow, going on wicked holidays, seeing the world, no one to answer to except yourself (and husband occassionally). Life is just beginning.

Things That Scare Me

2009-02-23T20:47:00.003Z

Many things in the recent months have lead me to review things that are important to me, and priorities in life. This is one of the things that scare me. I wonder if, to some extent, I am very immature and childish inside that getting older every year scares me. I'm not afraid of laugh lines or wrinkles, sagging eyes or breasts; anything superficial? Not afraid. I have deep faith in genes, and pray to the greater good that I will turn beautiful like my mom at 40 and continue to go the gym and have an amazing sex life with the help of kegal exercises. (hahaha).

I've delved into the health thing before, and it's becoming more prominent day by day working in Haematology and convincing myself that lymphoma and leukemia suck and that I don't have it, especially now that I've caught a cold three times since fall and don't ward off infections like I used to. And to boot, I go and catch gooey-eye-pink-eye in the midst of it. What's crazy about haematology is that I've even discussed the possibility of storing umbillical-cord blood in case (IF I EVER DO) have babies that that they might get leukemia and require cord blood to save their lives.

Little things that scare me are things I enjoy like while I'm typing this, SkySport News is running in the background as noise on the tele even though Tommy is no longer in the room and I find it soothing. Same with Sky Sports Radio, whatever it's called. Sometimes when it's on, it almost feels like Tommy is sitting next to me, although, clearly snoring in bed or at work.

Other little things that scare me is my attempts at my "quit swearing" resolution and never sticking to it, on top of that, the more upset I am, the more I say Fuck, it's like my grey matter is at a loss for words. I realise the F word no longer has the same emphasis as it used to when women swore, and it definately has zero effect to express how angry I am, because I can say Fuck even when I'm happy, telling a joke, and possibly even during sleep talking.

Domesticated-ness has grown and grown over the last few years since my episode of buying curtain "hold-backs," cleaning and cooking. I now look up recipes in my spare time to keep things fresh in the kitchen rather than going out to tantilise my taste-buds at a wonderful restaurant night after night, splurging and dipping into the savings and using credit cards. Don't get me wrong, we probably eat out at least once or twice a week, but the ability of being responsible is getting frightening. What's more frightening is being in the full knowledge of my dance with debt in the past, that I've been named the "bank manager" in my relationship. What a silly man. I must say that I have used spreadsheets, countless of calculators to ensure that we have reasonable spending money, travel money, drink money and saving money.

I am embracing the age of 26 and turning 27 and have no qualms about growing older, just growing up I guess. Never in my teenage years or early twenties did I ever mention the word having and children in the same sentence. (No, this is NOT happening anytime soon). I do believe I have the stamina and can deal with the lack of sleep that comes with babies. I've changed diapers in my line of work, and the way I see it as little diaper better than big diaper. What I am afraid of is being a failure of a parent and inflicting my bad traits on the little'uns, such as my bad language, my fieriness (which my family made no effort of hiding in their wedding speeches and tea ceremony), my strictness, countless of things that I am aware of and also are the mirror image of one absent parent.

Although just acknowledging these traits alone aren't good enough, I'm sure there are heaps that I can bring to the table, and all wrinkles will iron themselves out eventually. Fingers crossed.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2009-02-02T15:00:00.009Z

Snow, is beautiful. I love snow. I have loved snow since the day I moved into the 14th floor of my Bold Street apartments 7 years ago, and had underground parking and dumped the shovel at the house we moved away from. Gone were the days of getting trapped in mountains of snow from the inconsiderate ploughers that only cared about the road. My favourite is the crunching noises it makes as you step in it and make fresh footprints, and how piles of snow can sit softly on equally light tree leaves and branches. All about snow is sheer brilliance. Since I've moved to London I have been annoyed at how snow falls and melts in a few minutes, or if there is snow, it only sticks over night and quickly turns into grey dirt by morning.

So, I guess I should have been careful for what I wished for, as today we got a whole whopping 15cm and there were: no trains. no buses. might as well have no tube. no gritters putting dirt on the road to melt the snow. no shovels. Just thick layers of ice from people stepping over the snow that made it so slippery to walk, that had I been 20 years older I would have broke my hip when I fell as I was trekking home from a night shift.

London has never been busier in the morning as everyone was walking to get everywhere. I caught a tube to my nearest tube station and waiting around for a never arriving train to get even closer to my house, and after 30 minutes decided to make a 40 minute trek home. Not the first on my list of to-do's after a 12 hour night shift.

People in London are so funny when it snows. There were people taking pictures of the white stuff everywhere. Pictures of trees (pretty)...pictures of people's wet boots, garbage bags on streets that had snow on them, anything with snow on it pretty much. People were having snowball fights at 8am and some guy walloped a ball that went right past my head as I was in a horendous mood after wiping out in the snow and for the first time, I gave a random stranger in London a piece of my mind without worrying about being stabbed.

The neighborhood drunk was all kitted in her winter clothes at 10am and she was staring at the snow as I walked past her. One can of cider in the snow, and in her hand, she was pouring cider into the snow and watching it go yellow. Seriously.

Our mayor is a twit who should probably spend more time managing his overly bleached hair rather than a big city like London. It's been known for days that it's going to snow, and the city is doing nothing to help the streets or the roads. No gritters are out. If Britons only used what they douce their food in to salt the road we wouldn't be in this predicament. Like, no buses? Blasphamous! It's 15cm of snow! We don't even own a shovel!

Headlines today: London Crippled By Snow. Britain Battered By Snow From Russia. No Transport.

And now another 15cm of snow is "pelting down." Honestly. It's not even that much snow.

Do The English Have Bad Teeth?

2008-10-21T22:37:00.008+01:00

One of the most common questions I get since I've moved to England is: "Do English people really have bad teeth?"

The answer is this: The English can't be blamed for the poor teeth because the dentists do this to them! You see shows like Eastenders, where people have yellow teeth from having too many fags and drinking tea. In real life, this holds true as well.

The other day in all my eagerness of finally getting a break at work, I was chowing down on my dinner when I bit into my fork and chipped my front tooth. It was hardly visible, but it was cutting my tongue, and when I looked in a mirror I felt like a knacker who couldn't afford dental care. Which is true, who bloody can afford dental care in England.

I was doing some research and found that veneers start at £600. Who receives public healthcare and can afford £600 for chompers? I know I wasn't going to spend that. Tommy suggested to wait til Cuba and get dental care there. Haha. Very funny. Just to get a check up is approximately £35 and that was with my staff discount in the hospital I work at.

I had a friend that needed a filling desperately because he actually had a hole in his tooth. He came to me one day and screamed with mouth open: "Tell me the colour of my filling." "24 carat gold" I replied. He shrieked in horror, as he thought it was white, and I rubbed my eyes as I thought I was seeing things, I didn't realise gold fillings still existed.

I went around asking randomly if anyone knew of a good dentist. No one did, and Tommy said his was a glorified mechanic. I believe they all are. Much to my luck, I was recommended to a walk-in clinic that was prompt, and only charged me £16.20 to check up and file down my chipped tooth. Although I do feel that it looks slightly crooked and uneven, and the non symmetrical-ness of my tooth is annoying me, I am trying to convince myself that it gives my smile character.

Who can blame me for being posh, I'm from Canada where many people get yearly check-ups (although I am guilty of the once in a 1/2 a decade check-up), and parent's work insurance cover teeth cleaning, fillings, root canals etc. Everyone who once had crooked teeth got braces before they were out of puberty, and if your parents couldnt afford it, you got them anyway.

So I wait for a clean bill of teeth and am told I have tooth decay next to my previous cavity. Gr. Lovely dentist tells me I "qualify" for a silver filling under NHS (public sector), and pay £43.00 and it's 90£ for a white filling. Of course I can get that too. Hello! I am not walking around with all that bling in my mouth! White filling all the way please!

But it will have to wait til after Christmas. I can see how I might prolong this process until I begin to feel pain and my tooth will possibly rot. And then all my other teeth will rot by the time I move home to Canada from drinking tea, and indulging even more into the acidic drinking culture. Plus, bad teeth I'm convinced now, are indeed contagious, because I have never had so many problems with having my teeth done. Naturally, now that I live in the land of bad teeth, I get tooth decay, chip my teeth that have never been chipped, and part of my wisdom tooth is starting to poke out.

Ah, if anything living in London has taught me, that is the value of a dollar...or a pound.

Read For Some Misery

2008-09-29T22:30:00.003+01:00

It has been ages since I've had anything to write. Life at the moment is interesting but stagnant all the same. Nothing overly exciting to type about, with the exception of a fun trip to Ibiza. I usually wait until I have a moment (typically on a bus) where I have a massive urge to write about something/anything, and here I am.

A little over a month ago, I started a full time job on Haematology, at one of London's biggest hopsitals. But because London's so big, I'm not sure how really big, big is. Make sense? Haematology has been great to me, my first month was lovely, young people with cancer all on the verge of getting better and going home. Come back from Ibiza, and everything is downhill. Last week was a draul, (not sure if that's even a word, if it is, it means drag) and I thought maybe it was because I had spongy brain from drinking and too much Sun.

Remember the movie, The Truman Show, where a cloud of rain follows Jim Carrey around, I'm sure i've used this analogy before, but currently, Haematology feels like this. Not because I'm hating it and on the fine line of quitting, because I intend to keep this job for a very long time (very satisfied for a change), but because its feeling very depressing. The ward looks and feels grey. The people are grey. Everything feels as if it's in black and white.

It has been a long time that I have cried over work. It's sad to say, but based on my experience, it really is easier when an older person dies. At least a friend or family member can say that person had a great life. A wonderful, prosperous, abundant life. When you die at early 30 and you spent the last decade fighting cancer, you were simply, or not so simply dealt a bad fucking hand of cards.

I always try to remind myself that there are patients who are well that I never see, and that people do survive. But how do you comfort the wife that found out her only chances for conceiving were maximised and axed the same day her husband died? How do you explain to them that you understand how bizarre it is that only yesterday you were laughing and having dinner at home? I never experience the same dread as I do whenever I'm minding my own business and a family member comes up to me, speechless, an evident look on their face, but manages to direct me to the room. I know what they want me to do. I know they think their loved one has died. Their loved one's had that weird gaspy last breath thing. You can feel the grey become more grey.

Everyone hangs on to each other as I, the so called professional, looms over their loved one and places a stethescope to their chest. I can only imagine the hope they must have, because even I have hope at this time, I press the stethescope on, harder and listen more intently as I look at the clock and count for one minute. Thirty seconds pass and no breath, 6 pair of eyes are staring at me waiting for a nod or a shake, I pray for a breath, a thump in my ears, but I hear nothing. A minute passes, I can no longer tolerate the spot light, I shake my head lightly and apologise, and say I will get another opinion. I know this is cruel, because I should know what I'm doing and give them a definitive answer, but I can't take the responsibility of being the bearer of bad news. I apologise as if I am the cause of death. Another nurse comes in, agrees with my assessment, and as we leave the room, she tells me she is the grim reaper, and that people die when she's working all the time.

Perfect. I get to work with her tomorrow again.

Miracles

2008-07-28T22:01:00.003+01:00

Miracles. A fantasy which seems to occur often, but in my 26 years I have never witnessed in my personal or working life. Some might say that being a nurse, we should be exposed to them all the time. An old man caught me with I.D badge hanging in limbo out of my bag said we must see miracles all the time and what a beautiful profession to be in. I didn't have the heart to break it to him that I have only ever heard of miracles, but have never witnessed them myself.

The closest I have been to touching a miracle is an ex-boyfriend who's life was at a point of being put through to organ donation and ending life. Even then I wasn't part of his life yet, so this miracle was no direct experience of mine.

Since returing to bedside nursing, I have never been more at the forefront of care with cancer patients. I recover a patient, six years my junior, who's had a new Hickman Line put in for Chemotherapy. His sister says a prayer to him in Arabic. She whispers, smiles, cries, and moves her fingers across his forehead from side to side as she mumbles wishes upon him. I found it moving. Paralyzing. Beautiful. It made me wish I was religious so that I believed in things like another greater power. A greater good. A stronger control. Instead, I believe in things like Karma and Fate instead. Which you can't pray to either.

And when your Fate is to die, it's hardly something to be hoping about. Moreover, wondering if death is your Karma is hardly comforting.

My daily doses of miracles come in the form of an educated newspaper that keeps me updated on cancer research, Alzheimer's breakthrough medication etc. Magnets injected to attach to cancer cells whereby disolving them, without experiencing hair loss, or being able to do a live liver transplant. That, to me, is a miracle that it was finally discovered after so much hard work. I guess everyone's definition of a miracle is different. Some could argue my miracle is simply to be alive, healthy and in love including all the significant people surrounding me. I am very thankful. However, normally I find myself defining miracles by my patients getting better, or making it to the next day. If I won the lottery, that could be a miracle too.

My perfect vision of a miracle is a bright white light shining on someone and "miracously" curing them. Like in the Bible when Jesus gives a man strength to walk again. Judged by this vision of mine, we already know I am hardly being realistic. A miracle to me is without suffering. Without pain. Without grief or waiting.

That is what I wish for my patients. Although it would mean I probably wouldn't have a job.

Rambling....

2008-06-03T21:08:00.006+01:00

I'm feeling quite nostalgic lately of the things which are attached to being responsible and growing up. I knew I was becoming "older" the day I asked a friend to be my power of attorney and said I would compile a directive of what I wanted to be done, should anything unfortunate happen to me (knock on wood). I went out, bought a book on advanced directives, but then I never touched it. Ok, maybe not so responsible.

With a funeral in eye sight, you begin to think about what you'd like in case of the event...some people don't want their guests to wear black. I think I'd want everyone who attends to bring a picture they had with me, and paste it onto a big collage. God knows I have taken enough pictures in this life time for everyone to have at least one picture.

My final straw this week of feeling "responsible" was when I decided to have three days off to treat myself after working like a mad-woman non stop for almost 3 weeks. Guilt ridden, I accepted three shifts over the three days I had planned off, as I knew I was going to be off for a few weeks, despite already meeting the funds I anticipated on making.

Instead of only feeling excitement about coming home, along with that excitement follows my fear of being homesick yet again. I think of how my unwavering feelings of stability in the last few months are going to crumble down like the twin towers into a pile of rubble on my return. Or, on the contrary, I might feel like London is finally my home, and that I never want to move back. Which in that case, I'm sure my guilt of leaving my mother empty-nested will multiply to the popluation size of China.

People tell me when they return "home" they realise everything is still the same, yet the person you have become, is something entirely different, poles apart from what your lifestyle was. Although I find that hard to believe in many ways, I do remember briefly being away from Canada for six months, and not a single changed upon my return, except my apartment had been turned into a greenhouse, compliments of mother. Although, I'm sure sometime in the forseeable future, I will feel a pinch in how things have changed, as friends move on to get married, buy houses, move away, and grow up themselves.

It seems as time ages, it becomes more difficult to let things be. And it's definately more difficult to make carefree decisions. Like, skydiving for instance. Something that would have never occurred to me as dangerous, or thoughtless of others. To the contrary, now, I think about my other-half, how I haven't drafted a living will, and haven't sorted my insurance/monies into mom's name etc. That is only the begining of it! Nevermind the thoughts that come with my first shopping spree here in the heart of expensive London (and hardly a shopping spree by definition), saving, spending, luxurious holidays...all laced with important thoughts, and responsible rational. Seriously, is there such a huge difference within three years of being 23 and carefree and 26 and boring?

Nevertheless, I am excited to come home...it has been a few days since I started this entry, and after a little bit of retail therapy, I am feeling much more positive after creating a lot of luggage space for all the things I will bring home on retail therapy expendition part II in Canada.

See you soon!

Back To Work

2008-05-20T15:45:00.002+01:00

My office life was officially over on Friday, as I picked up a pair of ugly but very comfortable shoes from Clarkes to prepare myself for a very much dreaded first hospital shift in the UK. With jitters about an interview and lack of sleep over the weekend, I was nervous about my first shift in almost a year and a half on an actual hospital ward. With sick people.

As predicted, I was greeted by a grouchy charge nurse who looked like she should have been in a movie about zombies, and mumbled a handover of 16 patients to me. I swear she was talking in another language, and reassured myself that I would have patient charts to fall back on for information.

Next, I was greeted by a lovely nurse, who was my partner, and really, we only had 8 patients to care for. The patients were ill indeed, receiving medications unknown to me, and treatments I wasn't allowed to administer as an agency nurse. I decided to take 6 patients under my wings and strolled through the floor like I had been there 3 dozen times.

The feeling of doing something I didn't realise I enjoyed this much was exhilarating, and actually having to use my brain to do something meaningful was a welcomed change. And, as I continuously mentioned in my previous entries my desire to change a poopy diaper, it really was no different than the last, and I was happy to do it just as I wished so desperately before. Despite the lack of sleep, and growling belly, I told Tommy that I had such a great day and couldn't stop talking about it. Tommy said, " that's the first time since you've moved here that you said you had a great day at work."

Yay! Diana's back in business!

Habla Ingles?

2008-05-14T22:43:00.005+01:00

A conversation began about internet dating over dinner the other day amongst myself, Tommy and a friend, and I realised how much the stigma towards this topic has changed from the time I learned about it, til today. Internet dating no longers holds this taboo reputation in my mind as it once did, but whenever people tell me about, they still seem a little embarassed, rather than being delighted at the fact that something as abstract as internet dating has found them a long-term relationship from cyberhood.

Times are definately changing, because classroom learning is no longer the method to pick up a new language. Instead you go onto gumtree or some other website and type in "language exchange" and find yourself a friend. At first, you probably start pointing at things to tell the other what that object is called in each person's respective languages, and it might be months before you can spark a conversation. But let's face it, a lot of people know English, i'll just be the ignorant Canadian-Chinese mutt who can only ask for a beer and call someone a bastard in Spanish.

The other day, I gumtree'd "language exchange" and found myself two matches for people wanting to polish up their English in exchange for teaching Espanol. Yay!! In all my excitement, I emailed them both quickly, not realising one was a guy, and I'd much prefer to kill two birds with one stone and make a female friend and learn to speak the lingo. Then, I started to feel even more weird about it.

Next day, I receive an email, and now I am even more stuped, because the person that has emailed me, their name is Angel.

I must say, I hate dual gendered names, especially in times like these. So no idea if this cyber language exchange person is a lass or a bloke.

So, we have been emailing each other back and forth to figure out geographical conveniences, and where we're from, and all the small talk via English, and today, I felt as if I was cyber cheating on Tommy!

"My name is Diana, I'm 26, from Canada, and live in North London."

Oh goodness....

Maybe I'm not as open about cyber internet dating and all that jazz, since I can hardly tolerate an email with an introduction like that. Ha! I shall continue my quest to find out whether Angel is male or female! I'm determined to delete my phrase "Abla Ingles?" in a Spanish speaking country and learn a new language and speak it fluently while intoxicated on Rum and Sangria.

Quick Update

2008-05-05T11:19:00.003+01:00

After my rant on Friday morning, I thought I would give an update, as my manager and I did have a sit-down chat where I had the opportunity to air out all my grievances mentioned in the previous blog. Of course, in the most diplomatic way possible.

We came to a compromise, which includes me doing a few extra hours with the company, and I will be "rewarded" with an extra 1.5 annual leave days in monies for my suggested resolution of coming in straight after my gig in the mornings and lack of bonus.

Better than nothing.

Horoscope

2008-05-02T11:48:00.003+01:00

Horoscope today: The approaching bank holiday weekend hasn’t come a moment too soon – your patience with work colleagues is rapidly sinking beneath an impenetrable bog of frustration. Hang on in there. Things will seem better soon. Honest.

How fitting. Except it’s not a colleague. It’s my bloody manager.

My day began today with my manager hovering over my desk telling me her woes of how the department is going to be compromised due to my request of taking annual leave during the mornings of my last week of work (which had already been approved earlier on this week), because there is also another member of the recruitment team on holiday. So what! Then she began to say how we couldn’t only have three people in the department, even though I am working in the afternoons. I proceeded to point out that I wasn’t being replaced, what bloody difference does it make?

Then she tried to mumble under her breathe how some people are unfit to work for us, that she needed me here, and that if I was not there to provide the support, that the recruitment team would be compromised (reiterated yet again). Either she believes she has to repeat herself because she thinks I’m thick, or she’s laying down the guilt trip. Hard. I don’t care about the shortcomings and idiocies of my co-worker who is un-fit. Not my problem! I’ve complained before but nothing was done about it, so in the nicest way possible, tough shit.

Of course, being the cool cat that I am, I did not back down. I have an assignment starting May 11th to wash some lady everyday until I leave for Canada, who is not sick by any means, but only “overweight” and very rich, for two hours each day totalling to almost the same amount I make per week with 40 hours of work at this shit hole.For five minutes further, in front of my co-workers, she said how she wasn’t happy about this. She wasn’t happy about this. She wasn’t happy about this. She’s very unhappy about this and I should have known someone else was on holiday.

I don’t care! I AM NOT THE MANAGER! And if I weren’t reliant for a reference for future prospects, I would leave right now. At this very second. I would leave right now for the lack of professionalism discussing this in front of the world (ok, a big exaggeration), and for completely ignoring me since the day I’ve handed in my resignation. Such as, the company is getting a bonus for the last quarter (which I have been here for) but I’m not eligible because I’ve handed in my notice. What the effff? But I was here! I’ve done the work! Someone who’s been here for two weeks of the last quarter is making 100£. And I haven’t even been giving a small meeting to say, “as you know, the company is getting a bonus, however, because of your resignation, you will not be eligible for xyz reasons as stipulated on your contract.” Two five-minute conversations to air out grievances, yet myself and another colleague who are both leaving this realm of hell have been given the shaft.

I think there is something in her brain that lacks the ability to provide confidentiality. Like the time I was sick with diarrhea and vomiting the day I returned everyone knew I had the shits and whenever someone after me was sick with it, she’d say at the staff meeting “oh yeah, so and so is off sick, Diana, they have what you had.”

My patience is more than quickly sinking beneath an impenetrable bog of frustration. It is seething with annoyance and disappointment due to the lack of brains. End of. But, as I so clearly lay out a count down of 6.5 days in Post-It’s on my computer screen and back wall, the horoscope must be true. Things will seem better soon. I can almost feel it.

Big Hope Does Not Equal Big Disappointment

2008-04-27T17:15:00.005+01:00

Someone once told me that if I had small hope, that the outcome of my disappointment would be smaller. I don't remember when that was said to me, but I can definately say I have said this to many people, especially when speaking about break ups, and that we should expect the worst. As there are exception to every rule, this theory is not always policy.

During my time living in London, I notice that I find myself in situations that I consider to be obstacles, mostly with work/career choices. But this policy of having small hope to avoid big disappointment does not apply, because if I did, I would fall into an eternal trap of pessimism. After much job hopping in the past year and a half, and some let downs, I can't say that I haven't felt sorry for myself. I've wallowed in self pity and made excuses to jusitify my feelings, but much to my avail, I've had many-a-trick up my sleeve that I have been open to trying out. I criticise myself for not being to stick through a job despite it's financial gains, but I give credit to myself for never being out of work, and always willing to try something different.

It's 2008. I have a hard time believing that my generation will follow the footsteps of those before us, where we stick to a 'job' because it puts food on the table, and keeps the family going. My generation, even if this generation only means me, is about job satisfaction and quality of life. If something doesn't work out, we try something else. I can't justify being miserable year after year because it's comfortable. There's job and there's career, and whoever said that deserves a medal. There are few experiences in my life thus far that I consider to be painstaking, and having nightmares about the boredom and lack of challenge with work is definately one of them.

Tommy is the biggest criminal when it comes to giving me sympathy and telling me that things are unfair for me. This is usually my point my picking myself up and saying to myself that it's not over yet. My friend once told me that if I put write my problems onto a piece of paper and put it in a basket with everyone else's woes, I'd probably pick my problems any day, and I agree. I've tried to consider the mistakes I've made since I've moved here, and my biggest fault was that I've only chased opportunities that have come right to my door rather than pursuing something more challenging. But, who can blame when opportunity in Nursing is little unless you have a degree, a post graduate certificate/diploma, a Masters and 20 years experience. The only way to return to school as a Graduate is if you are already working in a related field, which I think is utter rubbish. (I'm in the midst of writing a letter to our Obudsman to discuss the lack of nurse retention in this country).

Friendship is the next thing, nobody I've met on my own merit has 'stuck.' The two combined is enough to make any normal person wonder.

I'm thinking about joining some dance lessons to polish up my groove for Cuba, maybe learn a little bit of Spanish, with some hope that I will meet people that I can socialise with for the meantime. As for my next job hop, I'm doing agency work, testing out the hospitals, and keeping my eyes peeled on different jobs available. As much as I begrudge spending endless hours applying for job after job, I figure if I annoy someone enough with my persistency, I will at the very least score an interview. I have applied to a neonatal ICU post who will support my degree pathway in NICU. (Yay! Certificate!)

I keep my fingers crossed for something that will help me gain some leverage in the England world of Nursing, and in the meantime, I am looking forward to some vacations this year to Dublin, Cuba, a lastminute holiday, and home. What's not to be hopeful about?

Love and Marriage..Go Together Like Horse and Carriage

2008-04-07T20:29:00.002+01:00

The funny thing about marriage, is that not longer after, people start to ask you nonchalantly... "kids?" Although love and marriage go together like horse and carriage as good old Frank preached, but!!!! there is no mentioning of kids in that song!

I turn towards that person with my eyes closed, forehead raised, as if I barely heard them, and politely say " pardon?" or when I'm really caught off guard, "what kids?!"

What is it with societal norms that causes people to think that boy meets girl, boy loves girl, girl loves boy too, boy and girl marry and have babies? I would like girl meets boy, girl loves boy, boy loves girl back, girl has baby with boy, girl and boy move in together with baby, and think about marriage. What's wrong with that? Yet somehow, even the ones that know me well ask, "when are you two having kids?" And when I reply that I'm not sure that we want children, it's a shocker! (I'M TWENTY SIX! HARDLY WORRYING ABOUT MY DYING EGGS JUST YET!) "Does Tommy not want kids?" is the most frequent question that follows. Well, why is it that HE doesn't want kids? Maybe I don't want kids? Has that thought occurred? I've hardly ever shown a mother-bone in me. I can't remember ever feeling broody. Most of the time I enjoy playing with Tommy's nephews, but after a few hours I'm ready for bed. Bless them, they're lovely, cute and Kian is extremely witty now at the ripe age of 3 1/2, but really, after a little bit of fun, it's time to return them to Mummy and Dad. So I am not sure what gives people the impression that I want kids.

Oh! My favourite one is when people say it would be a waste because Tommy is white (most definately) and I'm...well...yellow, and we would make beautiful babies. My answer to this is usually beautiful parents make ugly babies. Sigh.

Or people gasp and ask, "NEVER???"

It seems with all the pressure from media, friends, societal norms, and the works, somehow I was possessed to have the following conversation with Tommy.

"Do you want kids?" I asked fingers crossed he feels the same.
"I want a dog."

:)

I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief, because, I would rather a dog too.

I'm just in my prime of working out, eating right, liking how I feel about myself and how I look. I am nowhere near ready to experience the proplapse of a uterus, strange men starring up my vagina and not being able to see my feet.

What people should be asking me is: Where you travelling to next? Anything planned? Me and this English boy of mine have barely got our feet off the ground in terms of REALLY settling down. Yes, we're married, but we're still fresh, new and blooming. Hopping between country to country, and me from job to job, and emotion to emotion is hardly considered settling down. We both still want adventures! And nevermind kids, even a dog will tie us down. So for the meantime, no, we're not having kids. It doesn't mean NEVER, it just means not now.

So, the next time someone asks me if i'm having kids. I'll say, "I want a dog."

In the Loo

2008-04-04T20:57:00.003+01:00

Just as I was about to plop onto the loo, I had an epiphany today. I was thinking how much I hated the toilets throughout the UK, because the water was so far below, that whenever I have a “number two,” it always splatters. I always end up using a whole load of toilet paper so that “things” will just drop nice and plush. Then I thought, from now on, when I think of the things I hate in London, I will match it with something I love.

I love when the rain drizzles lightly, and it feels like mist on my face.

Then, it got me thinking again to my friend situation. (Still in the loo). I have some friends, but remain quite friendless in London. Like, the friends I have attempted to make on my own either through work, or just meeting people at my own accord have failed miserably. But then I thought, maybe this is just what happens with growing up. Or maybe standards fall significantly because all the hours spent at work have made you so tired you can’t be arsed to do anything else except go home, eat, check your email, and sleep.

Life in general becomes more about you and your extremely significant other, and work, and the lifestyle that surrounds it, and your clique...the friends you have together, with the odd girls night and boys night out once a month or so. It’s no longer about “girls night” out 5 times a week in different variations such as dinner parties, t.v. show parties, drinking parties, massive drinking parties, and hang over days together dreaming of getting out of our pyjama’s for some McDonalds, or a big hungry man’s breakfast. At some point between very single and very committed, I started to accept it without realising. Just like how I've accepted I now spell words such as realise and socialise with an 's' instead of a 'z' for the sake of being corrected by someone English.

Your acquaintance + friend list goes from 220 on Facebook to a massive delete fest of all the acquaintances you don’t really care about socialising with anymore. (Although, I’m still working on that and secretly wishing that no one notices, but if you’re reading this chances are you aren’t one of the ‘targets.’) The people that matter are usually the ones you can count on two hands. Friends that you only called to go out and get pissed drunk with only exist somewhere in this wide space we call Earth, but not physically in your life.

Friends you used to call on at 12pm, or 12am, to go out, hang out, play on the swing set at school, meet up at the corner store, etc. are no longer this available. When we're young, we take advantage of the presence of our friends. It seems that in those days, (you know, when we had to walk 10 miles to school in our bare feet) no one was ever busy. Now, we are forever busy to even make a phone call, that somehow sending an email is more convenient, despite that it takes longer to do. We're all friends, but still living our individual lives to whatever degree we may see fit with our dreams, or the dreams that don't exist. At times thinking relentlessly of what happens from here on end, or if we should really just be content and grateful of what here is.

So, I believe for the sake of my sanity, I am going to be grateful and content of what here is. I started to read this book called "Holy Cow" about a woman who moves to Delhi for her boyfriend. When I bought this book, I was still in Canada, and I hated it, because her feelings were so depressing that I couldn't fathom the idea of being that homesick by page 20. But now, I realise it's not depressing. It's real, relatable, and hopeful. If a girl who had her dream job can give up everything to move to India from (so I hear) beautiful Australia, no job, top notch air pollution and social issues to the high heavens, then I'm pretty sure surviving in London can't be that bad considering I only wiped shit for a living (despite desperately still wanting to do that now).

Optimism cranked up. Pessimism out the window temporarily. I should think in the loo more often. This is what I do at work yes. PS. Resigning Monday for May 16.

Out Of The Quarter Century Club

2008-03-09T19:56:00.001Z

And I quote: "Being picky about career choices."

That was number 18 on my list of great things about being 25 from last year shortly after I joined the quarter century party. And I continue to be picky and hunting for my wonderful dream job that most likely doesn't exist, not because I want too, not because I enjoy doing it, and not because I've pursued job hopping as a professional career, but because I have too, need too, and bloody can. No one said work was going to be easy. So if I can take control of something, than I might as well. Afterall, I'm no longer a tot being shown the ropes by my parents. And letting time pass continuously while doing the same thing day in and day out, plus moaning about it won't change a damn thing. So here I am, still 25, sassy, and fiesty as ever being picky about career choices, and doing what I can to make ends meet, and planning my next trip home.

Life has been full of a ray of emotional rides this past year, and for the first time for as far back as I can remember, it doesn't feel like the time to my birthday is nigh. It doesn't feel like March. It doesn't feel like it's going to be the 21st. It doesn't feel like i'm turning 26. It doesn't feel like anything. Just another day in the grind, trying to get through the routine, continuously looking at the picture on my desk of a beautiful beach for a little bit of motivation to keep going.

I must say I have stopped feeling invincible. I can't say when this feeling escaped me, but it has officially left me entirely. I think about the worth of life and health, and all the other stuff really grown up people do. Sometimes I scare myself. Sometimes I wonder if i've just turned into an old fart.

Although, the other day I was marked 'good' as opposed to 'excellent' on my appearance at work, I recapped the last three months of my beauty efforts at work, and I went from doing my hair and make-up pretty everyday, with high heels, and skirts, to not doing my hair at all, sticking with flats and trousers, to not even doing my make-up last week. When I said out loud to Tommy, I think I needed to start wearing make-up at work again to feel more 'mature' against the more seasoned nurses. Tommy burst into laughter and said, "you're going to be 26 in two weeks, and you're still trying to make yourself look 'older.'" I guess it's not that bad yet.

P.S. I am chuffed to say that I have not had the opportunity to tick a 25-30 box yet this past year. :)

Tricks

2008-02-21T21:42:00.002Z

It’s a possibility that I may have spoke to soon when I uttered the dangerous words that I was ‘semi-settling’ into London at the end of last year. I have a life here, but besides my weekends, my life is at work. And when you don’t like your work, it slowly begins to feel like someone is playing a big trick on you.

When I unpacked my suitcase, all I wanted was a stable job, where I could earn 8£ an hour to start in an office as an admin worker till I got my nursing license. The nursing license came, I got a job that paid the minimum I was willing to settle for in nursing, but I worked with nutters. An opportunity came to me, which I took, I left the nutters and now I’m stuck in a drab routine where I barely get a minute to scratch my ass.

Big Cosmopolitan cities aren’t for a girl like me from the ghetto of Hamilton. I enjoy luxuries like unpacked Hamilton buses, and having a customer service person actually be helpful on a consistent basis. The grind of this routine has me devoid of life, and communication with friends. I barely have time to check my Facebook. And when I am at home, I’m still in work mode, thinking that what I Google is going to be tracked by work firewall, and that I'm not allowed on Facebook.

When my weekend comes, I want to lie on the couch and do nothing so that time can move in slow motion, while I enjoy the silence, the peace, the serenity of not having to deal with the asshole nurses that I recruit.

So, whilst I’m pushing paper around for a living, I’m trying to think of what my next move is going to be, because I cannot possibly fathom the idea of being in this job for longer than I contracted myself to do in my New Years Resolution. I’m starting to become afraid, very afraid, that I will never find a job I like in this bustling city. One day I wished for a stable job, and then shortly after, I craved being woken up at 5am by a guilty sounding nurse asking me to work a day shift. Oh, how we must be careful what we wish for.

Vday

2008-02-13T18:30:00.003Z

It was 2006, February 13th, Paris. Tommy and I had blown all our money on a yummy meal, and that is how we wound up at McDonalds, lost in the city of frogs legs and beautiful architecture, hungry and ready to eat, on February 14th, which in turn became the tradition how we celebrate the overated Hallmark holiday. The holiday that makes both singletons and the committed cringe, even at the best of times. People tilt their head and they don't know how to reply when I say I'm going to McDonalds as my romantic plan on Vday. They must think my hubby is a cheap so and so, but it's stressfree, and believe me, I can have a three-course meal at McDonalds.

Gym=Fitness Centre=Torture Room

2008-01-21T21:20:00.000Z

After one year of being teetotal of going to the gym, the ‘leisure centre’ finally opened around the corner from my house, and I officially belong to a club where I attend regularly to inflict pain to my body. Although I must say efficiency at this ‘club’ is next to nil, and I am thoroughly annoyed with it on most days because I always have to wait in line to get a wrist band to show that I’m a paying member, and now that I’m a Monday to Friday-er, I can only go during peak times. They also don’t understand what I want to do there when I say, “the gym,” they only acknowledge my response when I say fitness centre, health centre, or torture room.

The other day I was reading The London Paper, and there was a blog from a man who was annoyed at people who walk on treadmills. For 30 minutes! He said that these people wouldn’t last past March with their New Years Resolutions; I thought, let alone past the fourth week in January. I must say that I laughed out loud on a tube, but since then, I have begun to feel fire at my ears when I’m waiting in line to use a treadmill, and EVERYONE is walking. Whenever I am on my way there, I secretly wish that all the people have slowly dropped out of going to the gym religiously when I am there, and that all 9 treadmills will be free for my convenience, but so far, no dice.

I understand it’s not safe to walk outside, especially in Hackney where I live. Who can blame you for walking on the treadmill for 45 minutes? But at least walk faster than a speed of 3.0, and higher than an incline of Zero. If they just wanted to up their ticker by a notch, then they should go home and do some ironing, I think they’d lose more calories doing that.

Today, at 1915 I rolled my eyes impatiently at the girl who was doing ALL of her stretches on the treadmill, while I was waiting to use it, and the treadmill was NOT moving. First, she walked. She stopped it. She played with her hair to get it into the most imperfect pony-tail for 3 minutes.
Then she did neck rolls.
Shoulder rolls.
Stretched her sides.
Hamstrings.
Quads.
Calves.
ANKLES!
GET OFF IT ALREADY!
Then she took her sweater off, folded it, and placed it neatly in the tiny space between her and the next torture-mill.
Then she proceeded to start running.

Being a catty woman, I secretly wished that she would only last for 10 minutes. But then the bitch out ran me.

Oh, How I Miss My Mother's Car

2008-01-08T23:47:00.002Z

I remember those days when I drove around my mum’s car like it was a race car, not giving a care, because it wasn’t really mine. I’d try to shift it from reverse to drive without completely pressing down fully on the break or before the car had stopped moving. I remember putting a big hole into the front bumper, with no knowledge to me until I returned from Fortino’s to find a big gigantic flaw on the front and thought, “efffffff.” And also, scrapping the front bumper shortly a week later, along with the side of the car. And then something else after. It was definitely a month’s worth of the case of the “all shitty things happen in three’s.”

I forgot what it felt like to commute to work within Central London since I did it only a year ago. But this time, it’s ten times worse. My first week as a nurse recruiter in Victoria, apparently the busiest tube and train station in all of London, was deceiving. Not many people were back to work, and all was nice and calm and packed as it usually should be. Yesterday came along (Monday) when it was officially the day that EVERYONE went back to work, after having extended holidays due to hangovers etc., I thought, this journey to and from work is a walk in the park. I can definitely do this.

Today comes, 40 minutes to work, which is really good. I got a seat on the tube, and the bus which is all a big bonus. On my return home, I walked into Victoria tube station with ease, and then almost walked passed the gate I was supposed to enter through because1) I couldn't see it. 2) 300 people were waiting around the gates to get through. And all I could see on the screen above was a camera on a bunch of little tiny people squished on a platform waiting for a tube to pick them up and suck them away into a tunnel of darkness. I decided I couldn’t handle going through it, because I was dying to get to the gym, and didn’t need an extra work out. I try to catch the bus. Only to find there is a line up to get out of the station.

It is pathedically mad! Listening to Foo Fighters scream through my headphones doesn’t help during a time like that because it makes you want to fight everyone and anyone.

At least with a car, you can have your own space, even if you’re stuck in traffic. You can make your own mess, eat an apple and throw it on the floor if you’re a pig, talk on your ‘cellphone,’ pick your nose, fart, scratch your armpits….the list is endless. But in a tube you can’t do ANY of those things. It’s not your own room, nevermind your own space. Someone is always in your space, or you in theirs, and pushing and shoving, and dirty looks, and pangs of guilt as you hurriedly score a seat and an elderly is standing in front of you with a cane, and you DO NOT get up to give them the seat because your feet are soo soo tired and you're frowning of them with a look of empathy pointing to your own feet. And to be quite frank there is no room to move even if One wanted to stand.

However, I have started to slap on my running shoes along with my pencil skirt or whatever office attire I’m donning. Apparently it represents a campaign of women that are against wearing stilettos and uncomfortable shoes to work because a woman got raped and died and couldn’t run because of her heels. Personally I would have taken off my shoes and dug ‘em into his nether region. (Knock on wood). Bonus. My feet are comfortable AND I can run. But if I had a car, I could put my shoes in there as too.

One Year

2007-12-31T18:27:00.000Z

It has been one year since I moved into this lovely country of sunshine, and well mannered people with perfect teeth. Feels like so long ago since I first walked into the ‘our’ new room that I thought would be light brown, which turned out to be a touch of pink, and thought, this is my ‘new’ room. Despite efforts made to create space for my never ending number of boxes and suitcases filled with clothes and shoes, I just couldn’t fit it all in. It was within 4 months of buying a new dresser that one of the bottoms already started to sink down the middle due to ‘over stuffing’ it.

I hung my clothes up on brand new wooden hangers that we had to sand down because my delicates were getting wood splints in them, and stacked my shoes in the corner of one closet and thought: I will never get used to this. I remember walking into the room, and it felt so new, like I had never been there before. One year later, I am reminiscing the newness of coming to a brand new country, and what it felt like to find my ground to settle in quickly.

The days of homesick seem so long ago. And you always do get used to it.

Just like how the scent of a certain perfume, or a catch of a song can bring back a memory, sometimes I get a “de ja vu” moment of the day I arrived, long enough to make me remember the feeling, but it only grazes my mind so I can’t hang onto it.

I’ll never forget fretting over the construction site where an old gas station used to be. It was my cue to get off the bus to my brand new home, and I kept thinking to myself, ‘what happens when that construction is finished?! I’ll never find my way home!’

It has been a fun, disastrous, dramatic, exciting, patience-testing year. It has been combined with many feelings of sadness when I think of what I left, but a surge of proud when I think of what I have done.

I went from being a nurse with no license in England, working from office to office and random restaurant work (blech) to working with the crazies at the drug and alcohol detox. As the year comes to a close, a brand new opportunity came to my door and I will be taking up a new job January 2nd, 2008 as a Nurse Recruiter. Not sure that is my exact title, but it’s close enough to the job description. I went from long-distance relationship, to married. Friendless, and broke to feeling quite content in both departments. Absolutely broke to going on my first shopping spree, and I must say that retail therapy really DOES work.

The work up to Christmas this year has been filled with holiday spirit, hot chocolate with Baileys, pubs filled with people, Christmas fairs, lots of decorations, good times with friends and London, I think, just feels ‘Christmasy.’ Plus, as Tommy pointed out, it does help when all your presents have been bought over a month ago and you don’t feel like bawling your eyes out when Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” plays on the t.v. or radio.

As the year draws to close, it has dragged initially but ended wonderfully. And now we can only wait for a fresh beginning, semi-settled in the city of London. Happy New Year.

The Day

2007-11-29T02:19:00.000Z

A brief encounter in Cuba, a year of long-distance romancing, co-habitation, to signing papers signifying a life attachment to the person I had a brief encounter with in Cuba. It was all too surreal.

After 2 weeks of non-stop rain, I was sure that my suede wedding shoes were in danger on the big day. I forced myself to wake up after having nightmares of missing my hair appointment and missing my wedding, threw the curtains open in my hungover-stupor from the previous night and all I saw was blue and sun. Eyes half opened, I smiled from ear-to-ear (despite waking up with a bladder infection) knowing the next time I would see Tommy, we would be getting married.

I finally got the wedding jitters as the hairdresser was giving me an up-do, I was doing my lamaze class deep breathing techniques in the chair, and wished I was nervous before instead of right here, right now, that day. My lovely maid of honour kept asking me why I was nervous. It's true. I wasn't performing open heart surgery, I wasn't worried that the groom wasn't going to show, and I didn't have to memorise anything. The thought of having everyone staring was just intimidating. But, when I saw Tommy, the nervous feeling in my belly left me because it was then I realised that he was so much more nervous than I was.

The ceremony was just how I wanted it. Poor Tommy was made to repeat the first line of our vows like four times because he was saying it backwards or something. Everyone laughed, and the ice was broken. Every now and then it would seem like no one else was in the room, except a little voice telling us to repeat after her. Although, I did snap back into reality when she said, " I now present to you Mr. and Mrs. Comerford!" and I was like, "WHO?"

We did previously practice our wedding kiss a few days before as a joke:
"How are we going to kiss at the wedding?"
"I want you to stick ur tongue down my throat," and I laugh.
"What? Infront of the old goat and me dad? No way!"
"Well, that's what they did and they had you!"
"Do you want to practice?" Tommy says.
"I don't want a grandma peck."
He comes near my face and we burst out in laughter. It took 10 minutes before I could tolerate his lips being an inch near mine, but we managed a kiss like the one in Wedding Singer and Drew Barrymore kisses Adam Sandler and it was the moment that changed her life. I didn't get a grandma kiss but it was nothing like the Wedding Singer Kiss. I think Tommy was so nervous his lips were probably quiverring, and I was thinking, 'these people are watching us kiss, ok, abort! mission abort!'

Our mini reception was intimate and romantic in my mind. I had the pretty tables with dramatic candles and rose pedals. The ambience was perfect. My guests were perfect. The food was perfect, as was my steak! The speeches were perfect. It was all just how I wanted it without really planning for it. It was stress free, no one to impress, no one at my wedding that I didn't want there. It was the most satisfying feeling I have felt. And finally getting that moment alone at the end of the day with your new very very significant other after yearning for some time to embrace the feeling of being married together, is another perfect feeling.

On top of that, it poured down during the dinner, and as the rain drops bounced off the glass protecting us overhead, the owner of the restaurant came over to remind me that rain on your wedding day is good luck, and she can attest to that by 30 years of marriage and going strong.

Perfect.

P.S. Thank you for all the wedding wishes.

Hello....I'm Diana, and I'm An Anti-Bride

2007-11-07T10:51:00.000Z

What I didn't have fun doing....
Now this is better!

Fiancée. I'm waiting for my Fiancée to return from the shop. This is my Fiancée. My Fiancée this and my Fiancée that. I cringe everytime that word is said. Who the hell came up with it? Really, the Fiancée MUST have a name. I'm sorry if I offend anyone, but really, the word Fiancée is over-rated, and it's clearly not that i'm anti-marriage, or an anti-romantic, but there is nothing romantic, sweet, or charming about the word, because clearly it is used so people can rub it in your face that you have one of them things called Fiancée. And if no one has clocked it already, the word is so closely similar to finance.

It was sometime in September that the postman rang my annoying doorbell at 08:45 on a Saturday morning, and a package was presented to me from Amazon. I thought to myself, "shit, what did I order by accident????" I opened it, and saw an 'anti-bride guide,' and inside was a message from the sender saying that hopefully this book will help me feel more like Monica from Friends. In a previous phone conversation I told my friend that I refuse to be a bridezilla, and do not have dream wedding planned in a binder with option a, b, or c, alphabetized, colour coded, cross referenced, in the order of least expensive to most expensive. I don't even think I've ever thought about a dream wedding before.

So, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to my friend when she went to try on my first wedding dress with me that I had zero excitement, butterflies, nerves, or whatever other feelings your supposed to experience with wedding planning. Clearly, this isn't your mainstream 'normal' wedding. But, apparently trying on wedding dresses is supposed to give you goosebumps. I booked a slot to go to a bridal gown sale, as my first time of trying on a dress. That was mistake number one, going to a sale. They made me go starkers in front of the mirror around 20 other frantic women trying on gowns, and all I could think was, this strange woman is going to see my untanned butt cheeks.

How bloody brilliant.

The second problem was that she was 'helping' me put on the dress. She knelt down in front of me so I could step in the dress, and I was thinking to myself, why is there so much fuss? This women had a high-pitched voice that was overly enthused by practice, and I could tell that this wasn't her first sale speech. She asked me to put my hands on my waist as she zipped on the back, and stood in front of me with a face-lift smile and said: "And???? Well????!!!! Does this give you a woooow?!?!?!?!?!?!" I thought silently in my head, 'are you fucking kidding me?' looked over at my friend who had a tear in the corner of her eyes. Seriously. After that, my excitement dwindled, because although it was a beautiful dress, for 1000 £ it was not justified. Plus, it was too puffy! I looked like I had a big ball surrounding me to protect my aura.

We spent the rest of the day shopping for a dress for me to wear for my civil ceremony this year, and my friend spent the day telling people how unenthused I was. Not to say that I'm not enthusiastic about marrying the love of my life. But I think weddings were specifically invented because they predicted hundreds of years ago, that chumps like us would spend thousands on one day just to commit yourself to one person FOREVER! Ok, no, my outlook isn't as grim as I'm making it sound.

But people just need to accept me for this fact. I'm calm, cool and collected in all my planning and on the day of, I will shit my dress and be begging for ativan asap to calm my nerves, topped with a half a bottle of shampers/shampoo/champagne. Yes.

On top of that, Tommy+Diana=Complete Wedding Cluelessness. I am completely devoid of all wedding etiquette, what I am supposed to do (like, plan a wedding and involve the family) or what I am not supposed to do (like, get completely hammered before saying my vows). We have been getting engagement cards, and even got our first wedding card today. Do you think that I, the bride-to-be have opened any of them? No. Tommy see's them in the post, opens them, puts them on the kitchen counter where I may not see it, and mentions it three days later. So, I have no excitement about receiving this wonderful congratulatory mail. But, not only do I not notice that this has gone on, I let it go on for a few weeks before I actually dawned on me when I was staring at the cards.

It wasn't until I did the most non anti-bride move when I bought a book called "Your wedding vows, readings and music," that I realised that people might potentially want one of the newly-weds to say a speech despite how non-wedding this years wedding will be. Oh. Great, now I have to write a speech.

Ok. I don't hate weddings I promise. I am excited for it for one reason and that is the meaning behind it. In fact, if I only devoted as much time on wedding planning as I have on organising the vows, we might have had a little more than just family and friends witnessing us say gushy words to each other. But, that is the state of affairs, if you want more, it'll have to wait til Cuba, and i'll be in my white dress with bells on.

The Perfect Proposal

2007-10-19T08:32:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting on the bus, looking at my soon to be man-I-will-be-attached-to-ball-and-chain with, and thinking to myself, he's going to "officially" pop the question tonight. I have a hunch, but I can't be sure. I know the ring is bought, and was ready for pick up sometime earlier this week, but from all the "lies" he's told me, my witty judgement was obviously clouded, and I didn't have a clue when he actually had time to pick up the ring.

Earlier on in the week, Tommy suggested we go out Thursday evening, have a meal before we start working our night shifts. I said ok, not really thinking. It was on Wednesday evening, I asked him if he really wanted to go out, as it's unusual for him to want to go out on a "school" night. He re-stated that we should spend sometime together before we started working nights. I looked at him from across the room, and muttered, "hm?" and gave him my most dubious look. And I later found out it was at this point I made his ticker tock, and shit his pants, because he knew, that I knew exactly what he was up to. While I sat in my cozy chair and prayed to the higher power that he would remember my biggest fear is getting proposed to in a restaurant where everyone could watch one of the most intimate and memorable moments of my life.

Back to the bus, Tommy blurts out, "I'm going to meet up with Pete tomorrow when I'm up that way to pick up the ring." Now, there is no possible way that Tommy could come up with a lie like that. So never mind, we were just going out for a meal afterall!

I'm standing on the road in Canary Wharf about to check out the venue we have booked for dinner on November 21st, and he's standing in the park saying, come on, let's take a short cut through the park. I said, no, let's walk around the block, we're going to get lost. He said come on, I said, let's take streets, thinking to myself, I don't want to get mugged and what is this man like, neither of us have any sense of direction! For some reason I give in, walk through the park.

I don't think Tommy knew what he was doing at this point anymore, but I knew it was coming because he started acting all funny, and asking me "isn't this romantic?" We hugged and he began telling me that he's loved me the day he met me, and I knew that wasn't true, so I questioned him, because how can you love a girl you meet in a bar called 'The Cave' when all we did was do the grind. He had a speech prepared, along with "our song" saved to his phone that he wanted to play, but forgot everything. He kept kissing my forehead, mumbled something, and then got down on one knee and said "so, will you marry me?" I think he was so nervous he almost fell over which is why he got up before I had a chance to say 'yes.'

So, let's have a recap.

Monday, Simon the jeweller calls to say that the diamond is still in Antwerp and the ring won't be ready til Tuesday. Tommy says, I'm glad this has happened now because I don't want you to know when I pick up the ring. Tuesday Tommy "has to work" and damn the trainer is such a bitch, he didn't get out of work until 5pm, and the jeweller closes at 1630. Wednesday Tommy gives me an update on the ring, and said that Simon hasn't called him back yet to say if the ring was ready or something loopy like that, and I say, "I thought you weren't going to give me anymore updates, why do you keep telling me about the ring?" Tommy the little liar. He had the ring all along.

Of course I said yes, and this entry is nowhere near describing how humorous last night was as Tommy and I spent 2 1/2 hours recollecting our past week as I tried to suss him out, and he was trying to hide his plan of the proposal from me, while I shot down all his suggestions of where to go for the evening.

The advice he got from many friends on how to propose was do it in a place that we enjoy most, which is USUALLY restaurants. Someone told him to rent a helicopter, that it was cheap, you know, only £1000. The entire time we were eating, Tommy began to realise the flaws of his proposal due to his multiple brain farts he began to have the moment he saw me come home from work, that he:

1) Told me how much money he still had in his bank account, which was minus the total of the chunk that came out for the ring

2) Told me to take my time getting ready, which was usually "hurry up and get ready, i'm hungry"

3) Forgot to lock the door when we went out

4) Forgot his speech

5) Forgot to play "our song" along with his speech, in which he predicted that I would either roll my eyes, or start to laugh if I heard the song, as we all know I can't tolerate the cheesiness!

6) Put the ring in his inner coat pocket, which he was sure I felt as I threw my arms around him under his blazer on the Tube, which apparently is something I never do

7) Doesn't even remember how he proposed or what he said because he was so nervous that he couldn't wait until after dinner, if he had his choice he would have done it on the bus ride there

And that people, is the power I have.

*This blog does not protect the confidentiality of significant others, however consent to publish has been granted.

Call Me Drug Dealer

2007-10-10T21:15:00.000+01:00

My official three days as an underpaid/glorified/licensed-legal drug dealer, also known as drug and alcohol detox mental health nurse are over. Three long days. 34.5 hours done. Going back to work is weird, can I please go back to my choosing curtain holdback days when people were calling me domesticated?

I think I need to purchase an outdated dictaphone to verbalise my thoughts, as I always have so much I want to hash onto this blog, but the words leave me as soon as I kick up my feet to vent into the blog. Memory the size of a gold fish, and people's lives are in my hand.

I think I am officially back to being able to tell stories of crazy things that happen to me, perhaps stories of people to gross friends out, and some gossip of people that drive me mad. But I don't think I am able to dish out on blogger due to confidentiality, I'm no angel, but I don't want to lose my first 'real' job in a while, just yet. However, here are some things that I can share that I've found the ability to laugh about.

The general clientele is crack, heroin, speed and alcohol users. Liver failure, walking zombies, parents of children, bad teeth, bad skin, bad hair, but so far so good, as they are all pleasant.

Just when I thought I had a mental agreement with myself to turn the filter in my brain on, it failed me the day I was supervising the clients having their "tea" aka lunch. I was craving 'fizzy drink' when I glance over and one of them is drinking Coca-Cola. I call out to him and say " where did you get your Coke?" Now I would pay my one month's wages to see a slow motion replay of his facial expression as I said the word Coke, and alledgedly accused him of being in possession of 'coke' at the dinner table. Poor guy. He said "huh?" so I indulged in the opportunity to correct myself and said "where did you get your Coca-Cola?" which just doesn't sound right at all.

I haven't been this manipulated to the point where I am at the mercy of total strangers since memory serves me correctly. Although, there have been times where I have been able to drag out my 'nursing' explanations of "why I do not want to give you anymore medications to replace your current addictions+no i do not think you are withdrawing" for 12 hours, and I go home feeling empowered and persuasive and wondering why I didn't become a lawyer. These people have the ability to sell drugs back to their drug dealers, 'sell snow to eskimos', hey! better yet, turn me into a vegan. The other day it was agreed that we would start a client on a 5 mg diazepam detox, when they were finished with the doctor, the doc actually tried to convince me to start them on 30mg. Now that, is good.

I'm not the only one with a memory the size of a goldfish, in the midst of a random drug test, I had to collect urine samples for all! Excitement. I carefully gave instructions to for them to pee into the little container, and I repeated "into it" twice, so that no urine would be scooped out of the toilet (who knows what these people can be like). Next thing I hear is a timid voice around the corner saying "Di-anne, I forgot to piddle into the cup."

Hm.

Mind, I can have as many jokes about this job to keep my spirits high, but things like clients checking themselves out early because they can't fathom the idea of completing a six week detox is heartbreaking no matter how much you try to detach yourself. We shall see how this pans out, my eyes are peeled on the Guardian paper still for anything new, because they have not offered me a 'full-time' position of "qualified drug dealer" just yet.

Mother's...You Can't Live Without Them

2007-09-29T10:52:00.000+01:00

Having spent an entire month with my 'mum' almost 24/7 this September, I'd like to revise that old sarcastic saying that "Mother's...you can't live with them, and you can't live without them." It simply is, you can't live without them.

On the contrary of the last entry I wrote about a goodbye with my 'mum,' I wasn't filled with guilt for all of the arguments we had endured over many months due to stress of my moving and built up tension. Not to say that we didn't even have a single bicker, because that would be classified as abnormal for us, and initially, I think we needed some time to get used to having the other person around again. Plus, we had some factors that instigated our impatience with each other. However, after arriving back into London, I took the advice of a traditional woman and miracously gained the patience I've been asking for years, as long as I've had the ability to have tantrums at my mother, and something, gave that much needed strength and patience in me. I think somehow, she gained much needed patience to deal with me as well.

For the first time in ages, it made me see my relationship with my mother in a different light. I wanted time to hang on for a long minute, and am silently angry at how time rolls on especially when you don't want it to. Tommy's presence probably did our relationship wonders because he offered comic relief when it was needed, and constantly reminded me how much my mum was looking after us (yum, cooking). Over the course of a month, she has become almost the single reason why I want to move back to Canada when the time is right.

Although my 'mum's' life is as social as a butterfly's, I remain feeling guilty because I know I'm wasting time with her not in my life; the wrinkles in her face have grown deeper, some grey's just can't be hidden, and most of all, I think the part where she loses some height with her age has started to happen. She talks about things like retirement, and getting old. And that scares me.

I recently read a book that described crying as having "your bladder at your eye" and I've been like that for a few days in my own privacy. I tried to think of things that have made me laugh over the past two weeks as she walked towards security at Gatwick Airport because I could once again feel the lump in my throat, and I know once I feel that it's the point of no return.

It seems when you're saying your goodbyes, the words you want to say never come out, because when you begin to speak the waterworks are more likely to come pouring out. And which it did. I guess this is life, we can't always have everything we want. But this seems to be one of the most unfair situations, even though it has been my choice.

On the train ride home, I couldn't help but think that she needs me with her, but I know she will survive just fine, this savy and independent mother of mine.

I went home and cried my eyes out, my mother probably went home, dragged her suitcase down the stairs, looked at her basement apartment and said to herself, "these plants need some dusting."

Excuse Me...Nurse?

2007-09-26T17:12:00.000+01:00

Seventeen months since I started the process of trying to become a Nurse in the U.K. and after much aggrivation and waiting around that I did not ask for, a piece of paper with a flimsy plastic card attached to it like when you get a credit card, came in the mail today. It was my nursing license.

I'm neither excited about receiving it, or disappointed that my days of relaxation are officially over, because I have to start working with people going through alcohol and drug detox on Monday. Gone are the days where my friends can call me their 'little house wife' and ask me 'how the domesticated life is going.' A new month, a new job, and finally, financial stability once again. What I feel is worry for the 10 months that I haven't heard someone say to me "Excuse me...nurse?" and that now I have forgotten all of the knowledge I managed to absorb into my non sponge-like brain.

After complaining about not wanting to spend the rest of my life doing bedside nursing, the last 10 months, I have actually missed the adrenaline rush during a code blue (morbid yes, I know), being woken up at 530am to please please please come into work, and mostly the socialising and having pot luck parties at the nursing station til you're so stuffed you can't reach over to press the silence button on the call bells.

What I haven't missed is cleaning dirty bums and the dirty diapers that go along with that, plus, I do not miss enjoying my last hour of silence during nights at 4am whilst doing final rounds and I get interrupted with, "Excccuuuse me, nurse...can you make me a cup 'o' tea?"..." and perhaps some toast if you got time?" Well, that's one guilt trip that I hate to swallow, because god knows its 4am and if I'm roaming the halls making sure everyone is breathing then of course I have time to make you toast and a cup 'o' tea. Gr.

For the longest time I pondered why someone in the higher power, the almighty, has tortured me with this long wait. I tried to stay positive and kept saying that all things happened for a reason. I guess if I had my nursing license from the get-go and started working sooner, I would never had the opportunity to enjoy so many visitors and had all this time off. Moreover, I wouldn't have been able to spend a wonderful month with my 'mummy,' going away with her, and showing her around London, god knows she would have been bored off her tits as she already pointed that out to me "Thank goodness you haven't had to work."

My training to work with drug and alcohol addicts commences on Monday shortly after mum leaves. I've reminisced lately of all the good times I've had as a nurse, mostly involving inappropriate jokes with colleagues, laughs around the nursing station that have been too loud to be professional. However, I've switched on the filter in my brain to watch what I say until I can suss out the prude factor with the people I work with, the last thing I want to blurt out after a hard days work is, "fuck, I need a drink."

Gobble Gobble and Prosi's

2007-09-19T11:18:00.000+01:00

My Lamachun

After dealing with the fact that I had no luggage, the smile was pretty much recovered to my face when I found a bikini, a pair of flip flops that I wanted to buy for a while, shorts and some toiletries to tie me over, along with sharing some with my 'Mum' and some of her clothes that ONCE belonged to me that she conveniently had in her suitcase.

If you are Canadian, be prepared to pay a €45 for an entry visa, equivalent to 65 canadian dollars, to get into Turkey. I stayed in a hotel called Pegasos World that was mostly populated with visitors from The Netherlands and Germany and too many children for my liking, but I did find my corner of the massive pool where I could find my peace next to columns resembling 'ruins' and soaked up my tan.

The most 'culture' thing I did was receive a Turkish bath. I was told that after receiving this, my tan would last longer and look more beautiful, which the latter is true, but my back is peeling like never before into white spots and I am unimpressed. If you are a male, I'd recommend a Turkish bath if you enjoy being caressed by a male, because female workers are hard to come by. First you go into a sauna which is the last thing you want to do when it was 38 degrees celcius outside. Then proceed to go lie on hot marble stone on musty smelling rags they provide that wrap around your body. Next, your Turkish Bath worker takes a rough cloth thats like a mitt, exfoliates everywhere and it's not relaxing in the least bit, especially when it's an old fat perverted looking Turkish man smiling at you with his crooked teeth like he's the one getting the benefit. Blech. Next come the bubbles which I think gave me a rash and he massages the bubbles on my skin with a sponge to rid the dead skin, and he was getting too near my boobs for comfort, constantly rubbing the sponge, whatever the hell it was he was holding, near my "sides", and I could not relax. Not only that, out of me and my mom's friends, I was the only one who's 'Turkish Bath Person' helped wipe the wet off the face. Ew. I felt less violated when my bikini top flew off once on a beach and a man whistled, the dirty pervert practically had sex with me with his eyes, and kept telling me his name was Ali.

Barf.

Next, was my Lamachun. It is minced lamb, red and green peppers, onions, garlic, parsley, and lemon, all practically grounded and put into a special oven on a flat dough kind of like pizza but alot thinner and better and they roll it up and it is divine! So divine that eventhough I believe with all my heart it's what gave me diarrhea because the man that gave me my food was the most unhygenic person my mom described, I would still eat it 100 times over.

The most uncomfortable thing for me in Turkey was I knew the lack of dominance in relation to power women have, and when a man got angry at my mom for bartering for a lamp I wanted, and I didn't want to pay the price that was negotiated because it was a rip-off, he told me "if you go home with me, and 'you know,' I will give you present." To boot, he gave me the nastiest look with his tongue sticking out to prove the cheek of him, and if I wasn't in my right mind I'd have told him to fuck off and grabbed his tongue and dragged it to his ass. However, when you're not in your own country, the eff word doesn't flow as easily and you have to watch what you say and do.

Overall, the trip was as good as it could have been with my mother, my aunt and a very very traditional friend of my mom's that drove me insane with her theories on how daughters shouldn't ask questions, obey and the only good people to have walked this Earth were yellow in skin colour. Seriously. But the best part of my trip was my free-pour help yourself wine, the gorgeous Sun, and the delicious food that was presented to me every night at the all-inclusive buffet, and that is one thing the Turkish men do well, and that is cook, and if they weren't so perverted in my experience I would asked one to come home with me to London to help me cook!

The resort was beautiful and I can't complain there except everytime I walked to my room, the key wouldn't work so I'd have to trek back to ask for yet another key. When I checked out I handed over 5 room keys. I survived without luggage, and like I always try to convince myself, all things happen for a reason and work out for the better. If my luggage hadn't been lost, my mom would have never pitied me and bought me some new clothes, and now I can't say I haven't shopped since I've moved to London because I did it all in The Netherlands in a little town called Naarden where everything I got was 5€ from a price of 50. Woot woot! It's true what they say that all you need is a passport, bikini and some cash and your set, because that is basically what I lived off of, the bare minimum and I was happy as 'pig in shit.'

Amsterdam was probably not the ideal situation walking around Red Light with your mother, and older relatives. Not that I wanted to smoke pot, but it would have been interesting to see their 'menu.' However, I did have a ball in the Heineken factory, as it is my favourite beer and I was buzzed by noon and told my mom how I was going to be drunk for the next two days in order to be able to suffer her friend that annoyed me so much in Turkey that we were visiting the next day. I saw a lot of the nethers and found out that the dutch do in fact call it 'Holland' but that only refers to two provinces. The smoking there is ridiculous, and I'm not referring to the tiny leafy product, it is difficult to breathe anywhere and everywhere, worse than London by far.

The prostitutes were nasty, ranging in all ages and sizes, and they were not afraid to 'advertise their body. The most disturbing part was their ability to stand in the windows of their 'room' so non-chalantly filing their nails, talking to their other prosi friends, like it was just another day at the shop, while men slobbered over them whilst 'window shopping.' There was nothing particulary beautiful or attractive about them, period. Full stop. Point blank. Although, I think I would have laughed if I heard a prosi ask someone if they wanted some 'sexy time.'

I was happy to return 'home' with my mom, with another two weeks left until the time she leaves, which is plenty of time to learn to cook the dishes that she makes which I miss so much. I will hopefully have my nursing license shortly after her departure and will have some exciting stories of my working life that I miss so much.

Knock On Wood

2007-09-19T11:09:00.000+01:00

Dated: September 2nd, 2007.

I've had a few people tell me that it is my calling to write a book. So, IF I ever write a book, this entry will definately be an excerpt in the introduction, titled, foot in mouth. So, a few days ago, someone emailed me to tell me in a complimentary way, that I always had a Diana way of doing things. It really was meant to be a compliment. Today, I redefined that definition as being "clumsy" in a Diana way, not to the point where I'm tripping over my feet, but simply pure stupidity.

I said I'd be at the airport at 830am to meet my mom, and had to leave for 7. For some reason, in forgetting to set my alarm clock until the wee hours in the morning, I set it for 7. Tommy rolls over in the morning, casually lets me know its 645, not remembering too, that I wanted to leave for 7. I get to the train station in a hurry and there are no trains leaving. There are no trains. Zero. Zilch. This is why I hate London. They except you to check travel reports like the weather, to ensure that everything is running smoothly. At which point, I am about to freak out.

Option 2, is to head to Victoria train station, but ALL the tube stations heading to that bloody place were out of service, because it's SUNDAY and they are doing "engineering works." Seriously! Ok, so hold this thought.

I was on the train heading to the airport, when writing the book popped in my mind, and my random ideas. I thought about this email I received the other day about a woman on Oprah saying that she can tell a lot about someone in how they handle a rainy day and lost luggage etc. I laughed to myself, because I thought about what I was like in a rainy day whether or not I had a brolly, in London I would be soaked to my knees anyhow. And lost luggage? Been there done that. And I thought to myself, "Everyone has to lose their luggage at least once in their life. It has happened once to me already, if it happened again, I would count it as bad luck, look up and say, 'this again???' and know that in the secure knowledge, that most luggage turns about within a week, if not, it would be an excellent excuse for going shopping ASAP."

So, I hop back on the bus, another 40 minute ride, and finally arrive there to meet my mom at some point after wandering around for ages. Everything is fine, we kill 7 hours in the airport (yes, magic number of the day), and we land in Amsterdam. And much to my dismay, my luggage doesn't fucking turn up. Yep. Me and my foot in mouth, similar to the disease, yes, devastating.

And not only that, it feels soooo great when your mother says to you "well, I have some clothes you can wear." Seriously? Really? You think so? God damnit, why didn't I knock on wood religiously like I always did, it didn't even cross my clumsy mind. Diana way of doing things, bad luck, drama queen, enjoys enduring unexpected life's events, whatever you want to call it. Just effin' knock on wood next time.

The So-Called Secret News

2007-08-23T16:22:00.000+01:00

After much contemplation, I thought about how I would do this, and although via a blog probably isn't the most 'tactful,' or how any of you, or most of you would like to find out, however, writing is my way of releasing the 'inner thought' and this thought has been around for quite sometime now.

Some of you may already know, for some it will clarify a rumour, but for most of you, it will be a surprise. No, I'm not pregnant.

This has been in planning for over 5 months now. I've kept it a secret, but every now and then someone would catch me on a good day, and I would let my secret out. Did we get "engaged"? No. Will I get a diamond ring? I don't care anymore. Will Tommy propose? I think he's been doing it since the day we met. And in my head, I have been saying yes over and over to him.

I didn't think that a townhall marriage was romantic, and nor did I find having to get permission from this lousy goverment to get married in this country romantic either. I decided not to plan a reception. We are going there, saying our vows, and signing our papers infront of his family, and a few friends that live here on in the vicinity. I got myself all wrapped up in "ring" drama, when all of my friends dropped out of relationsihp-dom into engagement-hood one by one with beautiful rings and stories of how they were proposed to, and I said to myself, hey, I want that too. I wanted the romantic proposal, and happy with the thought that at some point, I made my man shit-bricks over a proposal.

But let's face it, we are both smashed broke. I have been here, and Tommy has supported every stupid and smart decision I've made.

A few weeks ago, someone I knew, to many of her friends dismay, had a secret wedding in her backyard. She didn't care what anyone thought, but she just went with her heart and married the man she loved with their family as their witnesses. And I thought to myself, that is just perfect.

Then a few days ago, sitting infront of a couple friends at a Korean BBQ, my friend asked Tommy and I when we would go to Canada again. Tommy's response was this: "Oh, probably after we get married." So casually, like he didn't know I've been keeping it a secret because I wanted to yell out "I'M ENGAGED" to all my friends at one point! I pinched his thigh under the table. Her excitement made me smile inside, because engagement or no engagment, we were getting married. I had an 'epiphany"' (Did I spell that right J.D.? haha)

I thought about all the conversations I've had with friends, and trying to understand my frustrations of how redtape had unromanticised my dream wedding. Then I realised how foolish I have been. I didn't know why I was keeping it a secret anymore. We are getting married because we want to be together, and never to do that stupid long-distance heart break stuff ever again, and if I ever want to move back to Canada, we can do so very easily with an extra title infront of my new last name.

Today, Tommy and I went to the Townhall to register our big-day to take place on November 21st, of this year. That's right, me and my man are getting married. I came to terms with the idea that the government will never be able to unromanticise my big day no matter how hard they tried. I couldn't contain myself when I received a piece of paper stating that on that date, I was going to marry Tommy, then I came home and decided, I was going to let the cat out of the bag.

One year from November 21st, 2007, we are planning on doing a ceremony for family and friends in Mexico. The sappy charm has caught up with me as it's going to be a quadruple anniversary. The day we met, the day we call our anniversary now, the day we officially got married, and the day we will get married the way we want in Mexico. Call it a vow renewal, getting married to the same person twice, whatever, I'm having it my way, the way I want it with the person I love. And that is that. I'm not explaining anymore redtape policies, because anyone that knows me and who has met Tommy knows...that this, is it.

So for all of you who have asked me to come home for your weddings, and I've given you a vague answer. And for all of you who have vented to me the famous words " everyone's getting married!" And for all the times I was a little speechless, or couldn't promise that I would be home for it, this is why.

Yay!!!

On Second Thought, When Life Gives You Lemons, Grab the Tequilla and Salt

2007-08-17T17:46:00.000+01:00

So much for keeping this blog up-to-date. But there is only so much that you can moan about the blasted weather, and being unemployed.

I am officially back to doing temporary work, and once again, I am a fully entertained data-entrist. I am not 100% sure that is even a word. During work I ponder on things like whether entrist is a word, and a lot of random day-dreams, useless thoughts like how I believe the middle letter of the alphabet is "L" and not "M" because "M & N" should not be separated, because they are like siblings. Yes. It is amazing how the human brain works and how you can concentrate on something so boring that makes you want to gnaw your arm off, and simultaneously day dream about wonderful things like getting extremely in debt once more to explore the world that I love, or ponder about the next best book to pick up and read.

The past two months have been uneventful in terms of excitement and on a sickening level, have lacked "envious" material. Such as me booking a last minute accomodation and flight deal to the Maldives and you dying of envy. On the extreme contrary, it's been friends jumping in and out of my life on their way to see the gorgeous cities of Europe that I'm dying to go to, and wishing that I hadn't sworn off my plastic cards that used to be such good friends (and foes as some might say and, I am proud to say I have no credit card debt.) Moving to a new country can only be exciting for x amount of time before the adventure wears off and slowly becomes a reality, and 'real' life begins where finances, stability, and significant others have to considered at all times.

Sometime between the start of June and the middle of July, I hit rock bottom. I was homesick, depressed, bored off my tits, and decided that I wasn't going to hide the fact that I wanted to move home ASAP. Of course, I had dragged my Sweet Tommy on my emotional rollercoaster ride, which consisted of me venting my rage and having random outbursts that did not make any sense to anyone including myself. Ultimately, bringing him into my ultimate low. What I saw reflected in the mirror was confusion, when I tested out the theory that if you smiled in the mirror, that it sends out hormones in your body to trick it into making you think you are happy, proved to be untrue in my situation.

As most things have happened since I've moved here, unexpectedly, I started to feel better after a dreadful two months of crying every 48 hours to the point where my eye-lids puffed out and my lungs were urging me to breathe into a paper bag. I hated when people reminded me that I was with Tommy and that was all that mattered, because I believe it is is foolish to think that one single person is supposed to satisfy your every.single.need. It's a lot to demand of someone, a near impossiblity, and outrageously unfair.

Despite what I believe though, Tommy's devotion to me reminds of Andy Garcia in 'When a Man Loves a Woman,' and the turmoil he endures to support his troubled wife. Love does make you do stupid things like drop your entire life and move to a city that you have no love for (what I have done), and accepting a person as flawful as they are and seeing them as wondrous, beautiful and incapable of doing any wrong (what Tommy has done).

So, I am inclined to think that the 100% support I have received from the man I have fallen asleep next to and woke up with for the last 8 months has something to do with why I have forced myself to give London another chance, at least until I get my license and settle into a stable job, before I reconsider giving up my alcoholism of picking up Tequila and Salt.

An entry I wrote previously, titled 'when life gives you lemons, make lemonade'...I learned the hard way, that a positive attitude is great to have but difficult to keep, and fucking lemonade in England is just Sprite or 7Up so really not that simple for someone without a 'soda' factory to make. But I guess picking up the salt and tequila is quite easy to do if life is giving me the lemons. I guess it was only a matter of time before I had an ephinany and found a compromise of some sort.

For Harry Potter Lovers

2007-07-15T20:03:00.000+01:00

Things that happen on this side of the pond are getting less and less interesting. Leave it to an English woman to marry the son of Osama Bin Laden and wish to give him visa entry into this country. Like I always say, these are the type of people you are dealing with. My favourite is betting/gambling offices here, that gamble on everything including on how long Paris Hilton will stay in jail for, and also, bet on the tragic ending of the Harry Potter series. I'm thinking about placing my bet on suicide. Here is my theory.

Please only read the following if you have read all of the Harry Potter books up to this point.

Voldemort has become immortal by using 7 horcruxes, with one remaining in himself. If Harry Potter does suceed in destroying all the Horcruxes, perhaps if Harry killed himself, Lord Voldemort will die because he used Harry's blood to resurrect. And therefore, the end of the series, no Harry, no Voldy. The end.

However, I do feel that it would be cruel to kill off the hero in a semi-children's book. And also feel that no one would bother going to watch the movies or even bother buying the books if Harry dies. But then again, why would J.K. Rowling care, she's already a billion dollar author.

Yes, I need a life. But, I love it!

Kuwait, Jordan, Guatamala, England...Same Difference

2007-07-03T10:46:00.000+01:00

So...weather forecasters predicting that our only day of a rain-free summer will be July 15th isn't the only piece of information that is disheartening. Britain is stated to be, in terms of "danger levels," on par with places like Jordan and Kuwait. Lovely. And as you all know that our new Prime Minister (Brown), who so carelessly sat in the hot seat last week had problems up to 'here' as two potential car-bombs unravelled, stated that "an attack is imminent." Ok. Now can I come home?

The city does not seem to be in panic. But it is comforting to know that there are a pair of police-people standing at almost every other corner...many of police cars driving around, police helicopters. I think I saw about 3 cars being searched on a 30 minute journey home. Oh, and not only do they have MI5 and MI6 on the forefront making sure that all things suspect are given some attention. However, when they start to close London Underground stations here and there, that is a bit of a cause for alarm.

We are taught not to be racist, not to hold prejudice and to be kind to others as you would like others to be kind to you. Well, I say "screw that!" because the foreign man selling me Fanta soda can't even contain himself from being rude as I ask for a can of fizzy drink instead of a bottle. Clearly being innocent at this point gets you nowhere. The best mode of safety at this point is to trust no one, trust no object, and see danger in all; walk, talk and act with precaution. That is what this sad world is has come to.

People are pointing to Muslims, especially white-male Muslims for being responsible for loving heroic suicidal attempts whilst jepordizing the rest of the population. There is no such thing as innocent until proven guilty anymore. And can we be blamed? Everything is a guessing game, is it Al-Qaeda, or is it not? Perhaps some amateurs with good scientific backgrounds trying to blow up cars and airport windows, or a lucky-for-us flawed attempt?

Am I frightened? Maybe a little. I must admit I was relieved as I left Central London and went out of my way to take a bus where I could rather than take the Tube. I was searched as I went into two different museums,soon they will be searching you before you walk into a restaurant or going to a public loo. So I sit here patiently waiting for some kind of chaos to unravel.

The weather is the least of London's worries. An attack is imminent.

England Joins Modernization

2007-06-29T16:23:00.000+01:00

Six months its been, and yet I still have no love for London. I tried to get away from blogging to avoid ranting about my relationship with this city. Just when I thought the weather was looking gorgeous back in April when I got a tan with temperatures of 26 and no rain, all it has been doing is pelt raindrops with the odd ray of sunshine that comes through smog. It's hitting July and we are sitting at temperatures of 15 degrees celcius. I guess one thing to be thankful for at the moment is that in low temperatures like this, the stench of people who don't understand the concept of a shower isn't quite as gruesome on the tube. But for commuters who still pay 4£ a day to uncomfortably sit like sardines in a can, the fact that there is no air conditioning is repulsive.

After nearly a decade of Canada being smokefree, England is finally joining revolution and introducing the smoking ban in all offices, bars, restaurants, etc. etc. However, there is already a pub owner that has successfully made his restaurant a part of an embassy in some country next to Aruba (something drastic like that), so that people can legally smoke whilst on the premises. Also, there are protesters "Freedom2Choose," that are challenging the high courts stating that it is an infringement on rights to privacy and the freedom to choose to introduce a smoking ban. These are the people you have to deal with in this country. I don't remember any other country doing this.

Of course you still have the freedom to choose. You can choose where you are going to smoke. Whereas, me the non smoker sits in a puff of cancer-stick whilst drinking merlot in a bar. For me, I choose to relive the moments where clubs smelled of barf and ecoli-draught beer. Bring it on bad stenches of B.O, vomit, old beer, over-bearing perfume! Smoke free anyday.

Mallorca

2007-06-10T17:07:00.000+01:00

When I first moved to England, there were 8 people going away in June, included in this equation was Tommy and I. We were going to do Zakynthos, Greece, I was happy as pie. Soon, Tommy and I dropped out, the rest decided not to go. Two weeks ago, the weather had dropped from 28 degrees celcius to 8 degrees celcius during Tommy's two weeks off. I was miserable, he was too, and before he could say 'this weather blows,' he found himself agreeing to a last minute vacation where I had solely twisted his arm and convinced him. By this time, only one more person had the money to go away, and that lovely person is Matt. We were all dubious to three people going away, especially a couple and one other. Before we knew it, we were sitting in Thomas Cook, booking a last minute holiday at 130£ each (less than 300 dollars) for Mallorca, Spain, leaving in 4 days for one week.

Three wasn't really a crowd, mostly, I felt like the third wheel, because when you get Tommy and Matt together they are like a dual comedy act, and I was their audience of laughter. Besides having to wipe the toilet seat twice over in our studio apartment because boys have germs and have aiming issues, I have no other complaints.

With a flight time of 3am, I was ready for a kip (sleep). I thought I was hearing things when the trolley dolly (gay flight attendant) told us that our journey would be 1 hour and 37 minutes. I buzzed him over, to have him repeat that statement, and I laughed to myself, because it has, on more than 100 occassions, taken me more than that to travel within London on a single one way journey.

It wasn't long before I plopped down into the bed of my cheap accomodation which was clean, spacious, and pretty. After a few hours, I was ready to go, and I laid eyes on my first beach of the Balearic Islands. I stayed in Palma Nova where there were technically three beaches, and a five minute walk away was Magaluf, which compares to a smaller version of Cancun. Lots of men, lots of bars, and many of them staying open til 6am.

I have to say I learned more about the English culture in Spain than I have in England. In Palma Nova were many Northern English people, who were catered to at probably 99% of the restaurants, with items such as the following on the menu:

-bangers and mash

-fish and chips

-chips with gravy

-beans on toast

-COME IN, BRITISH MENU

Not only do I think that the North of England is a completely different breed to the south, they were loud, annoying, set in their ways, and made inappropriate comments. Therefore, also known as 'riff raffs'...a nicer term for scum. They also dragged their kids out til 2am, feeding them coke to stay awake, poor things. They beared their football jerseys (which you can buy on the island) like it was a new fashion statement. They walked around in clans like they were advertising for their team. But, if you can ignore them, which I easily did with my company of the iPod, Harry Potter, and many a smart ass comments from the dual act, Mallorca is beautiful.

We spent most of our days putting on sun block, diving into the sea, trying to keep sand off our towels, falling asleep on the beach, eating and drinking. It was relaxing, and a much needed break from reality. On the last day, we rented a car, and dove off into a crazy road map, that took us to Cala D'or, and Platja de Muro, which you can all see in the pictures on Facebook or Kodakgallery. (Talk about advertising on this thing). What beautiful sites they are, and clearly my writing skills cannot describe in what a picture can give a million words. It took around an hour to drive from north to south of the island (less because I was putting my lead foot on the pedal). Driving was quite easy in Mallorca until we got lost on the way home, with a round-a-bout every thirty seconds and not a single word in English on the signs.

The bars in Magaluf was where it was happening. A lot of singles on the market if anyone is ever interested. Lots of girls prancing around in school girl outfits, and guys in dozy outfits, like me and my Super Hero's at the Down Under bar. You can get into BCM for 16euro and then drink for free from 12am til 6am. We never did that, because the night be we were going too, I drank Labumba's (brandy and chocolate...ohhh yum), and if you ever have insomnia, this is the stuff that will put you on your ass til 12 hours later.

Coming back to London didn't feel like coming home, or anything for that matter. A big feeling of indifference. A dose back to reality that isn't really my reality. But, it was nice to come home to a credit of 6£ on my phone bill and a post card from Havana (thanks Moosh), and a cute card and long letter (thanks Gem), and no other bills! So can't complain. It's 25 degrees out today, I'm sure by tomorrow it will be 8 yet again.

For now, I am looking forward to the visits, and maybe another last minute deal. Woo!

What Would You Do For Love?

2007-05-28T14:06:00.000+01:00

'Back in the day' when the Romeo and Juliet movie came out, I thought Claire Danes was such a moron for drinking poison for the man she loved (as cute as Dicaprio was). Like what did they think would happen? That they would meet in heaven and the man standing at the gates would let them in because they committed suicide? Come on! But, I guess that wasn't really the moral of the story.

What would you be willing to do for love?

Moving to another country has been a true test of my relationship with Tommy. It has confirmed all my reasons for moving here, and even more. Considering the amount of stress we have both been under, it has gone more than well.

Gathered from my previous blog entries, London has not been kind to me. I have always considered myself a lucky person. I used to always think to myself, shit, that could have happened to me. Shit, that could have been my patient. But none of the situations I saw my friends in, have been me. I would have been a part of it, like, I would get suckered into helping them change a very dirty diaper. But, I've plunged head first into a realm of bad luck. I know it could be worse, I have a roof over my head, food on the table, can't really complain.

I've come to London, where my first major financial dump was paying for that nursing course. That was 'supposed' to give me my nursing license. I sat through 15 weeks of boring material, where I'd rather watch paint dry. I made no friends, and have to wait for my license to come through, they predict at least another 4 month wait. I finally got a job offer at a detox home where I could finally use my nursing skills, but it is all pending on this stupid license, which will probably make me lose the job offer.

Making friends here has been ridiculous. Tommy's friends are great, but after a while, some estrogen would be nice to have around. I miss my girls nights. Thursdays where we sit in silence (me not so silent because I always yell at the t.v.) and watch Grey's, CSI, and ER...going out for drinks, meeting up for shopping. Life's simple pleasures. I've simply just encountered people that are not my type of people. I've reflected and re-evaluated myself, and asked, "Is it me?" That kind of doubt is the last thing you need.

Red tape. I am disgusted with all of the paperwork the government uses to try and control this country. Our relationship is doomed to at least another ten years of paperwork, trying to stay here, or moving to Canada, will be endless amounts of filling out boring papers, with black pen only, and a photograph that resembles you and has to have the 'correct' expression on your face. You can't smile, you can't wear glasses, oh, and you have to take your jacket off, incase it's someone elses body? Then it has to be signed by someone recognised in the community that has known you for two years...oh, but it can't be your doctor. The cost of these 'papers' dont' come cheap either at 400 £ a pop. And usually after the first process is completed, you have to pay for part two. The thing is, Dick that lives next door, and Harry across the street, neither of them work, they sure as hell don't pay rent, and they get a free house, a free car, and probably also get to keep their families that are refugees in there as well. Yet, I want to contribute, and they make me pay. Bullocks.

At this rate, I want to move back to Canada eventually. I don't like the people, the weather, the pace of the city...none of those will be changing anytime soon. I can't find a job that I enjoy, let alone, feel satisfied about. Will that change, yes, but soon? Only time will tell. I was asked, IF I was already paying mortgage on a house here in London, and financially ok, would I be happy? I couldn't answer.

When people ask me if I like London, I say, "Yeah, it's good!" The reply is usually, "You don't sound convincing."

Prior to moving here, every English person I encountered, I would ask them if they 1)Liked Canada, and 2) Would they ever move back to England. The answer was always "Yes, it's wonderful here" and "Never in a million years," respectively.

It is coming to a point where Tommy is starting to feel responsible for my ongoing feelings of missing Canada, and despising London. I don't hate London. But I could take it or leave it. Someone once told me that Madonna hated London when she first came here to live, and in an interview she stated, that one day she decided to go out and make friends, and now she wouldn't live anywhere else in the world. Let's face it, i'm not the material girl, with endless money for all of lifes guilty pleasures like travelling and shopping (oh how i miss you much).

The conclusion is that after living together in this little nest of ours, we love each other's quirks. I laugh when he runs his toothbrush under hot water to soften the bristles, and gets everything ready the night before for work, and he thinks its funny that I grind my teeth and make noises like I'm eating candy right before I dose off to sleep. Long distance relationship with Tommy never again. What would I do for love? I would stay in this shit hole forever. What would Tommy do? He would move to Canada forever. We will forever be doomed with paperwork, adjusting to new lifestyles, new people, new environments, new jobs, new, new new, new, new. But, at least, we would be together.

Romeo and Juliet? Eat your hearts out. You can't say we took the easy way out.

Absolutely Nothing to Write About

2007-05-22T22:15:00.000+01:00

Not very much to write at this moment in time. Just writing to check in, let you know that I am indeed still alive. I have finally finished my paper and a dear friend is editing as I type out these words.

Most of you know by now through word of mouth starting from Facebook that I couldn't hack it anymore and quit Hard Rock without any notice. It was a chilly Friday morning when the news came that my files for my paper couldn't be retrieved. I decided that I couldn't be 'arsed,' called into HRC, and with the help of my morning voice that makes it sound like I'm crying, I told a 'white' lie, and quit.

Nothing is currently new with living in London, except the Sun. It is not rainy London, thank you to global warming. But I read in a newspaper the other day (my once every biweekly newspaper now), that there are going to a second generation of BLACK WIDOWS in every SOUTH ENGLANDERS (yes, that's London) gardens within five years! Good reason to move back to Canada!?!!! Blech! There was a spider in my room approximately the size of an eraser shaving, and because I was too afraid to grab a broom and kill it, I suffocated it with my imported (haha) Alberto aerosol hairspray! I think I suffocated myself more than the spider. When I returned, I was expecting it to be shrivelled up, and possibly gone, but it was still doing its own thing, making its home, still sitting in the corner of my wall above the t.v. Gr.

Life is pretty dull at the moment, the most interesting thing that will happen in the next few weeks is the Circle Line Pub Crawl. The Circle Line is part of the London Underground tube system, and it, funny enough, runs in a circle. We go to all 26 stops and have a drink. I think I will last maybe 15 if I stick with Vodka and Orange. Every time I take the Circle Line, or the other 2 or 3 tubes that run along side it, I always hop on the wrong one, get lost, and have to get off, and fix my mistake in the commute. I bet I can do it properly with a few drinks on board.

Speaking of booze, I got a job offer as a nurse for a place called Equinox, a drug and alcohol detox home. It's only a temporary contract due to my inexperience, but they still wanted to hire me on after for relief work. This post isn't until the end of August, which hopefully by then i WILL have my nursing license. I am doubtful but hopeful! So, now I have all the time in the world to enjoy my summer, alongside my other gig I have. No, I am not a professional street corner lady.

Good Old Days

2007-05-16T20:14:00.000+01:00

What happened to the good old days? You know...good old days when there were hard copies for everything? People mailed you letters, there were things called penpals, you could find any record in the deep dark dungeon in cabinets of an institutions basement. Now-a-days, we have computers. Unreliable, finicky, power sucking, crashing devices. And you'd think after two times of having a computer fry on me like a breakfast egg made over easy, that I would somehow learn my lesson to back my files up. Oh no. Living and learning from your mistakes would just be too easy. Not only was I excited with glee that my 15 weeks of torture with incompetent people in nursing class were finally over. Icing on the top of the cake: I finished my final essay and it crashed along with my useless PC that belonged to my beloved boyfriend. But I guess you could say the PC was mine also, since I spent as much time on it as he does worshipping the game 'football.'

The good ol' days. This is the type of thing that makes me feel old. I remember when I first started getting used to the concept of money. I ate VICKS for sore throats like it was going out of style tomorrow. They cost 85cents plus tax. The next year, it went up to 90 cents, and I was in shock, because I did not know what inflation was, and for the whole year, I knew exactly what 85cents plus tax was, and that is what the cashier received in perfect change.

We are the generation of change. We went from big honking computers that took up the whole
room, to normal looking ones to kinds we can carry around. Vinyl records, tapes, c.d's, dvd's, dual layered dvd's....what's the new thing now? Walkmens (what are those?), c.d. players, MD players, mp3 players, and now mp4?? Is this all really necessary? The only reason why all this is necessary, is because we have conformed to the norm. If I were to show up with a floppy disk tomorrow, I wouldn't be able to retrieve any information because you find a floppy disk in a history museum...along with A: drives, and 40GB hard drives.

So, if you can win 'em, join 'em. I got a laptop. It still feels funny using the laptop mouse cursor thingy. And I sitll have my skeptism about having a laptop. My next purchase is an external hard drive. You know, for all the other times my non reliant massive storage device decides to fail me and crash.

Other Things and then Grey's Anatomy at the Bottom

2007-05-10T09:52:00.000+01:00

I know it's been a while. I've been trapped in a twilight zone of my own little world. I've been adjusting to life as a "waitress" and grasping menu items...and finishing my boring reflective piece on what I have learned from the nursing course. Do I sound excited?

Hard Rock Cafe (HRC) is definately not serving it's original purposes, in fact, it's been quite the opposite. It's like London welcomed all the weird people at customs and said, "You! Go work at Hard Rock Cafe." If Canada got 100 new foreigners, and England got 100 foreigners, all the nice ones would end up in Canada, and all the mean, nasty ones would land in England. That, or they become like that due to culture. Whatever the culture that is. Things like Tea Time, Fish and Chips and proper English etiquette are definately all a dying breed if not dead already.

I can't remember the last time I have felt this stressed out or angry, when I think of stresses I went through as a nurse, they were only temporary while I was at work. When I came home, I'd make fun of my patients and share my nursing nightmares to have a laugh. When I come home from HRC, I want to vent, and yell.

I know I have a potty mouth, but even I am finding it difficult to have to equip myself with ample industrial language for work, and be prepared to use it at the kitchen staff because they are all rude jerks. I've worked with cooks before, but these are the winners for assholes of the millenia.They are crazy foreigners who need to learn how to speak English, rather than talk like animals grunting at us servers with the frequent eff word that comes out. I go to work and have a confrontation with at least one cook a day, because I refuse to smile and nodd my head at them and think that they can get away with animal behaviour! There are chimps that can do their job better and at least they'd be cute to look at.

I know. I'm not only sarcastic and harsh since coming to this country...now I have a serious hit of 'mean' in me that is ever-growing. I'm thinking about quitting as it's not worth my mental health...or my safety when I twaddle home at 4am. Servers there are seriously weird, and either bitch about work WAAAY to much, even more so than in this blog...or they are "Go Hard Rock, Give me an H!"-smile and slant your head attitude. Get real. This is serving. The only excitement serving brings, is it allows you to be a complete slag (whorebag) and have fun with it, and then brag about it, which is what the girls there do. Snort coke, and then come to work and brag about their 10th one night stand in the last 7 nights. Not really my cup of tea, considering the reasons I moved here.

I generally find the work demeaning, as people talk to you like this is the first time you've ever held a job. And Europeans, especially English people, are the cheapest people you will ever meet, because if there wasn't a service charge in certain circumstances, I'd be working for 2.50 an hour, without tip.

After a long cry and having a breathing fit from crying so hard, I had to face it. This isn't the friggin' CIA. I shouldn't be this stressed. This was supposed to be a light-hearted job, with fun involved. Now I just need to forget the guilt of quitting, get my mean in me, and hand in my ugly white uniform. For now, I have a potential something else lined up...write about that next time.

For Grey's Anatomy Lovers, and then Other Things At the Top

2007-05-10T09:29:00.000+01:00

Despite being caught in a twilight, I've still manage to catch up on my Grey's Anatomy...well, I think I am one episode behind now. And as much as I love Grey's, I'm just starting to get a little annoyed with some of the antics they pull on the show. Such as, why is there such a need to always have an O.C. Marissa character that is attention seeking, and full of drama. We are talking about Meredith Grey here. You would think a surgeon is a little more clued up on reality, but she is quite the contrary. If I died and came back to life, I would grasp life, and definately quit my work, which consumes all my life, take my lover with me (Ooooh Sheppard, rar!), and fly away to somewhere hot and exotic and live off his money (this is assuming he is McDreamy of course). Second, if you were dead for two hours, you probably wouldn't be alive, and yes they speak of miracles and all...but no brain damage? "Seriously?"

Scrubs are never that body forming. No matter how small you buy them, or how tight they maybe. No one looks that good in scrubs.

I always want to throw my remote at the television whenever someone starts to do CPR. First of all, CPR never happens in surgeries because it just doesn't happen. If there were someone to die on the table, no one would hear about it, they'd be sent up to the floor, and then claimed as a tragic death on the unit. O.R. deaths=bad reputation for the hospital....come on Chief, you should know better than that. Let's talk CPR techniques...how hard is it to let the famous of Hollywood know, CRP isn't effin' hard, hover over the patient, and pump as fast as you can while you sing row-row-row-your boat, and give two breathes whenver you can. These people look like they are dancing to the Macarena with serious faces when they give CPR. It's embarassing. No wonder everyone dies.

Here's another head shaker....put your stethescope on the RIGHT way! And maybe you'd be able to do a proper assessment if your patient wasn't talking!

The other night I went all the way back to Season One...while doing using cautery to cut someone open, I saw all this smoke. Yes, there is some smoke, but it looked like three people were chain smoking on the table!

As a nurse, we are the slave drivers. If there are no porters, we do everything for our patients. Wipe their asses, wipe up their puke, transfer them to another unit, to another room, and sometimes even accompany them down to "CT." The doctors never do it. The interns never do it. The medical students that aren't doctors yet don't even do it. No, no. If someone is a 'hard poke' and they can't start an I.V...i've NEVER met one doc that can start an I.V. For crying out loud, they can't even operate the machines that are running the I.V.'s. When it starts to beep they get all nervous and run for help. Doctors don't do 'maintenance' work. The slave drivers do. And doctors definately don't give you advice on life.

Behind every good doctor is an excellent nurse. And yes, I'd probably have a multiple orgasm right now if someone told me I could have my old job back and to please change the patient in 451.

Chance or Reason?

2007-04-27T13:39:00.000+01:00

I was reading this book, and it said that everything happens for a reason and not by chance. So, I'm left wondering why all these people are wasting my time, and there possibly cannot be a reason. Red tape. Paperwork. This stupid nursing course that will be over in four weeks! Then starting the job at the Hard Rock, and they send me home twice without pay for no good reason. And definately, it's not by chance.

When I lived in Hamilton, people used to always say, "I need to get out of this shit hole." People who didn't live in Hamilton would always raise an eyebrow when you told them you lived in Hamilton, and they'd be shocked and say, "You do????!!!!" People who lived in Hamilton and moved onto better places like Toronto, would always say they only ever came back to Hamilton to see family, and even that was a rarity. Or they'd go to Hamilton on Christmas Eve, and be in complete awe because there was absolutely not one thing opened past 430pm.

But is Hamilton really a shit hole? The answer is no.

My definition of a shithole is merely a state of mind. Kind of like poor is a state of mind. And being old is a state of mind. It's like the saying goes, "Mind over matter, if you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

I was walking home and wondering if I would ever live in Hamilton again, and realised that I had spent a majority of my life (the part where I was allowed to make my own decisions) trying to get out of Hamilton and complaining that there was nothing to do. Ever!! Would I feel that way again if I went back? The best places to go to before Hess opened up all the 'poncy' places with doormen and cover charge, was: Fever. Ballroom (omg). And if you were willing to travel further there was Kingdom. And, as we grew up a bit more, we delved into the 'poncy' places like Sizzle and Koi and soon became sick of them because of all the so-called beautiful pretentious people.

There was always shock when Hamilton was involved in the news, and something happened at a bar like Fever, and it got shut down because of a shooting, or they lost their bar license. And you think to yourself, "Shit, I could have been there!" That happened once in a blue moon. In London, that happens everyday. There is no more shock factor. Having shootings in clubs and bars is juvenile. These people hit the places where you have no way out, like underground transport. I shrug my shoulders when I see that my daily Underground station had three random shootings recently.

Anyone who's lived in London long enough to know London, wants to move somewhere else. Anyone who's lived in Hamilton, wants to get out of the 'shit hole.' People I've met from Africa were dying to get out of there, moved to London, and are now asking me why in the world I'd want to live in England, and ask me one million questions as to how they would go abouts immigrating to Canada. Eventhough they have a better life here. Anywhere but 'here' is always better.

At the end of the day, moving to another country is no laughing matter. It could be the best decision you've ever made, or it could set you back 5 years. We all know that familiarity breeds contempt, and sometimes no matter how comfortable you are in a place, at one point, you will be dying to get out. My move here is an obvious reason. But all these obstacles? Once you're out of the comfort zone, you start to miss things you were used to. Today, I miss my career. And when I get back into nursing, I will probably say that I want out. Are we too indecisive to be content?

"When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade"

2007-04-19T11:36:00.000+01:00

So, yes. Somehow, I did muster up some courage and get 'some' of my motivation back into my system. Someone called me an A-Type Personality the other day, and said I must be bored out of my mind doing nothing. Indeed. I went back to my old stomping ground, Hard Rock Cafe, London, and waited for a manager for an hour. After a small conversation, the kitchen manager told another manager that he liked me and to hire me. Wonderful. And now, I have two white 'HRC' dresses to wear for the Hard Rock, with an apron to match. I guess this is a good reason to go shopping because I'll need new white 'trainers' and also, new under clothes because who knows how see-through those things are.

I've been jobless for five weeks. My motivation slowly shrivelled to nothing, where I don't even feel like waking up. It didn't help when the Hard Rock manager's kept questioning why I wanted to go back to serving after becoming a nurse. Honesty would not have been the best policy in this case, as something like this might have come out of my mouth, "Because your goddamn country considers nursing as a 'vocational' occupation and can't appreciate qualified oversea's nurses, and I make more money sitting infront of a computer surfing the net...due to all of these reason's, i've been jobless, bored, and am coming to Hard Rock, because I need to socialise."

Yes. I'm working at Hard Rock, not for the money. But to kill time, and because I need to make some friends to go shopping and party with. And who better than young people, working in the restaurant and 'drink' industry, at a place right around the corner from SoHo London?

So, this is my making the best out of my non-desirable career situation. The other day after the shootings in Virginia, and me sending out an email of a ball full of 'great news' of a death of a friend of a friend who was only twenty...they wrote me an email and told me that "if you were to put your biggest complaint on a scrap of paper and throw it in a basket full of other people's complaints, you'd probably prefer your own trouble over someone elses if you were to pick." How true.

I love the "moral of the blog."

Moral of the blog: "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." Someone is always in a shittier situation than you.

I Love Procrastination

2007-04-13T21:31:00.000+01:00

I think by now, it's evident, I love lists. I'd love to own one of those books that have lists of everything, like 1982's chart toppers...in a list. Or 25 places to see before you die, also, in a list. And, also, I love making lists that are as long in numbers as my age. As most of you are aware, the state of my affairs is: I am jobless. The interview presented me with 15 brain stumping questions, such as, "what is the difference between boundaries and control?" Furthermore, I did not get the job. So, as qualified, educated, blahblahblah as anyone can be in this country, nothing is good enough. So. I traded in my motivation for job searching and being cheerful with dreaming of ways to procrastinate to prevent any more belittling of my self-esteem. I have no motivation to fill out boring and tedious job apps. Since I can't do Nursing in this country, which was my 'major,' I do believe I received a minor in Procrastination from MAC. (And yes, how does MAC come from McMaster?)

Here goes! semi-fun ways to kill time and be anything but productive....(but there will not be 25, or I will procrastinate writing in my blog):

1) No brainer: Facebook - Time Wasted: As long as you want
2) Spend endless hours organising your music by going through each song one by one, deleting the ones you don't want. Upload all your c.d's onto iTunes. Download all the music you want and that you missed out on. Create new playlists - Time Wasted: 10 hours and counting
3) Write in Blog - Time Wasted: Approximately 45-60 minutes
4) Make French Onion Soup - Time Wasted: 2 1/2 hours including eating time
5) MSN - Time Wasted: Until bed time
6) Look for flights for holidays you really want to go on...you can't afford it, but you're only looking - Time Wasted: 1 1/2 hours
7) Learn guitar chords, and inadvertently forget them so you can do them again tomorrow - Time Wasted: 2 hours
8) Sudoku - Time Wasted: 30 minutes (the easy one of course)
9) Look up your horoscope to see what the future holds, the msn one gives you the daily, weekly and monthly horoscope, plus your love life outlook, plus...god, so much i can't even remember - Time Wasted: 10 minutes
10) Slowly step out of procrastination by logging onto the job search, save searches, but never apply - Time Wasted: 1 hour
11) Pluck your eyebrows - Time Wasted: 5 minutes
12) Search eBay and Ticketmaster for Summer Concerts that you know are already sold out - Time Wasted: 1 1/2 hours
13) Upload music onto your 'mobile' eventhough you never use your phone for music - Time Wasted: 30 minutes
14) Call your friends, or get them to call you - Time Wasted: 2 hours
15) Day dream about your million dollar idea - Time Wasted: Anytime, anyday.

I've heard it all. "Just keep on going...keep smiling...keep this, and keep that, and something will come." But Procrastination deserves a little merit at the moment, because it's keeping me temporarily happy...and providing me with a false sense of the 'busy.' If I keep procrastinating, I also know the motivation will come out to play at some point. And when that happens, I'll have my next blog.

"50 Jobs Worse Than Yours"

2007-04-07T13:32:00.000+01:00

A few New Year Eve's ago, my friend and I were shopping in Montreal, when I came across a book in Urban Outfitters titled: 50 Jobs Worse Than Yours. I flipped through it, and the first picture I landed on, was a man who looked 'Thai'...was standing in the mouth of a Croc infront of an audience. When I left, I saw a man playing the spoons on his knee. Ok. I pick Nursing any day.

Just when I thought that doing Data Entry had killed off the creativity in me, I was 'blessed' with working at a music licensing company for three hours (3 hours thank god), as a person who gets to sit there, and put address labels onto forms. Woo. Hoo. I felt even better about myself (sarcasm) when the girl sitting across from me, who had been there since 9am (bless her soul), told me that she was only 18, going on 19 next month. This was even more motivation to hurry and climb the career ladder, as this, was NOT my life.

I sat there for three hours, mindlessly peeling stickers off the waxy sheets to place them neatly on the line of the form, and I thought to myself, this was indeed, NOT the worst job i've done. How sad.

This tracked me back to 10 years ago, maybe even more, when I decided I would clean tables no more! at a restaurant I had been at for far too long, but was in dire need of some incoming cash flow. (My cash spending habits and retail therapy started at an early age.) My mom seems to have amazing ideas and I took her suggestion. The next day, I joined one of her friends in Strawberry Picking. It turns out, this was the most gruelling and boring job I have ever done.

I woke up at 4am, to sit in some dodgy van with some other Strawberry Pickers, and I felt like an illegal immigrant in my clothes that I wouldn't get caught seen in even for a million dollars! The drive seemed to take forever on bumpy roads. I dreamed of my bed. When I came out of the van, I saw daylight, and we were in the fields. I felt like a rice picker, people had straw hats, and capri pants, as some people like to call 'rice-picking' pants.

The worst part about this job was that we got paid according to pounds of strawberries picked. These people were fast. They probably had like 10 years experience of hurriedly picking those juicy fruits before someone else got their grubby hands on them, throwing them into their baskets. I sweated. I hurt. The next day my muscles were yelling at me at the tip of their tendons, cursing, and I challenged the theory that: Mothers, are always right.

I think I only made something like a measly 15 dollars that day. So I can't complain when I got paid £8 an hour to peel address labels off and slap them onto a sheet of paper irrelevant to me. My back ached and I smiled when the clock struck 5, I was out of there, and never to return.

Happily, the girl sitting across from me, told me that she never went to join post-secondary education, thought she would finish highschool, and hopefully land a job through temping. Although I've always believed that post-secondary education is so over-rated, and a form of torture to make you do things you would never apply in real life (Calculus), I was happy to wave my degree in my own brain, as it has landed me an interview at the National Autistic Society. How I even got an interview, I'll never know, I'm so underqualified, I think they might be desperate? I'm just happy that I finally got a response. This interview is serious grown up business, they want me to do a 10 minute presentation in how I would manage a day centre for Autistic people. I can't even spell autistic without using spell-check, but we won't tell them that. And what I definately will NOT be telling them, is my experience as a foster care home worker, when the cute little Autistic boy bit my shoulder in the grocery store from behind me, after 10 seconds, the only way to loosen his grip, was I had to dig my thumb into his eye (by accident).

Moral of the blog: There is ALWAYS a job worse than yours.

It Shines

2007-03-29T18:54:00.000+01:00

I have to admit that the first two months I was here, I felt miserable, and in despair. Figuratively...and yes, literally, there was a small cloud that hung over my head. Once in a while a gust of wind would blow me in the wrong direction, and very often it rained on me. My umbrella never did much help, I walked on forward pushing my umbrella against the wind so that it would not turn inside to reveal its skeletons and blow me the other way.

The last month has been great. Minus one week when a Canadian friend brought with her Canadian weather, it has been 15+ degrees celcius, and it's been shining! I must say that in the light of the Sun, that Londoners are friendlier, better looking, and sometimes even smile back. (God forbid). Having time off work, officially two weeks and unemployed, I'm beginning to appreciate life in the bustling city a weee more. Coming here on holiday never felt like this, I never liked it before too much. When visitors slag off London, I actually start to get a little defensive. I'm starting to see the personality of London, where the quaint shines through. Old red telephone booths with dirty window's, isolated on most street corners. I would bring in some Purell to clean the receiver. Double deckers in the middle of the afternoon, enjoying the view, with very little people to disrupt my time off. Black cabs add character to the city, just like New York yellow cabs that you can apparently whistle down. So much power, historic bulidings, and a million stories it tells.

My mind is void of the chaos in the city, young criminals killing family members, and the captivity of British sailors etc. etc. I've let go the standards to job finding for a few days. No work, no commute, no rat race equals no stress. I sat down in Covent Garden on the cement against a white large pillar looking into the square. Surrounded by fancy stores like Nine West, french names I can't pronounce, I was on level with the cobble stones, and the Sun was beaming on me. I rolled up my sleeves to soak up my first real dose of Vitamin D, as I know the weather man on BBC1 promised three days of rain. I people watched for 30 minutes as I waited for my other half. Passerby's looked at me, I look at them, some are well dressed, and some endulged in the new 'metallic' look that I so don't enjoy. I could feel my pupils contracting as it adjusted to the brightness, and felt my cheeks get rosy.

I don't get nervous taking the bus to an unknown place anymore, and I've replaced the words 'Excuse me,' with 'Watch where you're going!' It seems the past half year are a bit of a blur, because I'm finally starting to place bits and pieces of my memory of how I got here together, and I can hardly remember anything. Somedays, I never see myself going back to Canada. I think to myself, that I wish to explore Europe, go to places, see more, where the world is cheaper from here. But when I think of the last year I spent in Canada, I wish that everything will remain the same as when I left, and when I come home to live, it will be the same wonderful place with wonderful people that I remember it as.

Canada is truly the land of 'milk and honey.' Although I'm starting to enjoy London's way of life a bit more, I do worry at times that I might never want to leave despite the expensive price tag that it holds. I think I enjoy the challenge of keeping up with the Queen Elizabeth's and working my way up the ladder. It seems I'm always torn. I guess it's still early days and hard to tell. The situation I'm in, I guess someone will always be missing something. Kind of depressing, and at the same time exciting.

Well, I can't write about London without slagging it off at least once! I'm really not looking forward to the summer when the buses and tubes get even hotter. I'd hate to imagine what it's like as I'm already stripping off layers and sweating in 17 degree celcius weather! You'd think with the amount of money people pay (£4) they'd think to air condition the damn things??!!!! Geez.

Here Are The Days

2007-03-24T11:32:00.000Z

The other day I received a phone call from a friend. She, too, turned 25 and asked me how I was accepting it. I felt as if someone had kicked the bucket and we were talking at a funeral. Acceptance of the big two. five. I think I'm okay. I still have left my pimply hormonic (if that's even a word) stage that's infesting my chin at the moment to remind me of puberty. That takes me back 10 years younger. My boobs haven't started to sag yet (thank god for push-ups). And on top of that, when I hit play back on voicemails to listen to the retarded mistakes I make on people's answering machines, I still sound like the pimply faced thirteen year old.

There are a lot of pluses to turning 25. My friend sent me a book for my birthday called, "No One Cares What You Had For Lunch." It's a book about blogging and hopefully by the time I'm finished I will have learned a thing or two, and that you will all end up caring as to what the hell I had for lunch, because what I eat is important to me. Attached came a card, and she wrote: "Couldn't you say that you're wiser and happier now then when you were say, 20?"

That got me thinking. And this is what I have to say.

I am happy that gone are the days where I order a 'cooler' to get me hammered. Mikes Hard. Smirnoff Ice. Rev. What was I thinking? Here are the days where I'll order Chardonnay or Merlot to share amongst two or three, can drink a few more bottles, and get up and walk straight (most of the time). Martini's anyone? Holding a Martini glass just looked awkward when I was 18-19 like a warped hand that didn't know how to stabilize the glass while walking around the bar and looking as sassy as possible...instead, I tripped. I can order a double Havana and Coke and only request that it be the dark label. Here are the days where I can appreciate a juicy 8 ounce fillet, a.k.a. tenderloin, and enjoy it being medium rare and fatless, as opposed to a medium well steak 15 ounces please. 'Age' has taught me that less is more.

Gone are the days where walking in 1/2 inch heels hurt my feet shortly after walking out the door. I can proudly say I endured walking in 2 inch heels (maybe they were more), I didn't feel a thing!! Well, maybe I wouldn't go that far.

For my birthday, I went to an Argentinian Steakhouse called the Gaucho. The reviews were giving it large, and saying that it was, as Tommy calls it, 'the business.' I guess I have high standards, as the place was so poncy that even the servers thought they were better than their top notch customers. My server, he clearly couldn't tell the difference between his ass and his brain. As my party of 9 and myself finished up our desserts, they hurriedly sent over the £530 pound bill, stood there while we counted our cash, and asked us to "Finish your drinks at the bar, we need this table A.S.A.P." Twice. Not impressive in the least bit. If I was 20, I would have probably lashed out at her, asked her what her problem was, something embarassing and ridiculous. Instead, I replied with "We are aware that you need the table, someone else has already informed us of that, now if you'll give a few minutes to wrap up our bill."

Someone told me the Christmas tree theory once, and I almost choked on the olive in my Martini.

The Christmas Tree Theory:

Corelating the dates of December to the age of women, when 'girls' are 16-18, men are out looking for them, or out looking for the Christmas tree. At 19-20, even a little more. 21,22,23,24, everyone wants you (the tree, of course). And at 25, you are the centre of attention. After that, no one looks at you. I disagree. But I do like that I'm at the centre of attention.

Men seem to hide their age better. It figures. As men get older, they get riper, sexier and more wanted. And who's to blame? Women.

But here are the days to enjoy:

1) The sassy

2) The ability and knowledge to embrace the experiences of life

3) Travel, travel, travel

4) The history of the Past, and newness of Present loves

5) Great friends, lots of memories

6) Being able to buy a meaningful gift complimented with a sentimental card

7) Limitless sex positions you've learned over the years (sorry family)

8) Reckless drinking with class in stilettos

9) Telling someone off with a smile on your face, as diplomatically as possible

10) Mistakes you've made and never making them again

11) Ordering a bottle of wine and sending it back (just for fun)

12) Flying worldwide to visit friends and family in all four corners of the world

13) Limitless sex positions you've accumulated over the years (it deserves two in the list)

14) Watching your friend's get engaged and seeing just how wrong your marriage pool turned out

15) Putting on make-up flawlessly

16) Womanly curves, and Manly stubble (for you boys)

17) The finer things in life, such as the celebration of someone's retirement, 25th wedding anniversary and not think they're boring...or better yet, the celebration of a friends' freeeedom!

18) Watching 10 years worth of 'Friends' and having already seen every single episode.

19) Being picky about career choices

20) The ability to admit that you are too hungover to complete a list of 25 things to enjoy.

A friend told me that there are still some 18-25 boxes out there. I'll believe it when I see it. For the meantime, welcome, to the 25-30 box. I'd rather be the first age in the box, as opposed to the last. Welcome.

People Watching

2007-03-17T10:14:00.000Z

On Thursday, my friend that I haven't seen since she left for Oz, came to England to visit me. We've done some of the touristy things, and in the midst of walking through Leicester Square, I said, "Let's go see a musical." After very short contemplation, we decided to see Chicago. I loved it. I love musicals, and it reminds of the days when I used to be in them, the fun, the agony, the dedication. The first part of Chicago, I must say, was a bit more exciting than the first. Intermission comes, and what I see is the posted picture above. Yes. 12 Japanese people sitting behind me, two of them passed out, one was having micro-naps, and the one I got the snap off was full-fledged off to 'La La Land.' I couldn't believe it. It was then I decided to use my skills in photography and take a snap of her. Next to Steph sat the same sad case, girl in her twenties passed out. Seriously.

In the row infront of us, which I couldn't stop staring, was a couple, probably new couple, making out. This wasn't only during intermission, this was throughout the entire show. I don't mean a kiss on the cheek every so often, but all tongue, wrapped up in eachother making out. Blech! I'm all for love, I really am, but that is just disgusting, because even I get a little embarassed with personal displays of affection in public. If you want to make-out, please reserve the last row. Hand holding in a theatre is good. That is positive, well accepted affection. A kiss at intermission, that's wonderful! Put your arm around the girl, yes, definately. If you really want to jump their bones so badly that you can't wait to take their clothes off in the washroom at intermission, and the girls are in the middle of singing their rendition of Cell Block Tango, then tell your 'lover,' sexily (and please whisper), "Let's leave." But really, this was one of those situations if I had had a bit of a 'buzz' on me, I would have tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, "Get a room....please."

I love to people watch. It's so fun. I could sit on a patio and watch people all day. People do retarded things, and they deserve to be given some attention for their entertainment. After I took that picture (above), I couldn't stop laughing. I love to people watch! I can't stress it enough! I swear, there were so many couples in there that were making out a little too much in public for my liking. The people sleeping, you deserve to get your picture snapped. We're at the 'theatre' for Allah's sake! Have a little decency, and maybe I won't people watch. Or take your picture.

The Brain, A Powerful Thing

2007-03-09T16:50:00.000Z

The brain, the most important vital organ, the thing we rely on most without realization, seriously loves to play tricks. I especially hate when it's working properly, and connecting all the right synapses in order to cause me a banging headache during a hangover. More than that, I hate the reactions I have, when my mind plays tricks on me.

Take for instance, after work, I enjoy reading The London Paper, because it's easy to read, and has some entertaining bits in it, like personal pieces, such as What to Wear on a First Date? All interesting topics. The one that I can't seem to stop reading is the section where people send in their opinions of other people's opinions, life's woes, and the news. Usually, it's a bunch of people writing in to moan about bank charges, blahblahblahboring. However, this is what gets me.

"London has one of the world's best menus. To the annonymous texter from Canada: London has one of the most diverse and quality menus in the world. Either you're not experiementing or looking hard enough, or you are devoid of culture or taste...Incidentally, what rapturous culinary adventure has Canada blessed our sacred Earth with?"

What the hell? His brain obviously has no power to control the section what I call thinking before expressing. I hate reading these sections, because I'm on the bus, trying to relax in the daily commute, nice music in my ears, and all I see are daggers flying off the newspapers, as my grip tightens on the edges of my read. I stop myself from yelling at the paper, because he clearly will not hear me. Obviously, my brain doesn't know how to control my fiery personality.

Sometimes, I really think the filter is turned off completely, and my mouth doesn't have the time to catch up with my brain before saying something that I shouldn't say. Last night, I found out my friend is coming to visit me from Canada. So, I decided to find out when my last day of temp work was with my 'current' employer. Needless to say, she was her flustered, incapable, her usual annoying self, and hadn't a clue, but thought she had me til the 23rd. Well, that's not convenient at all! I need next week off! But however diplomatic I was sounding, it was all just just pooling out through her brainless head.

After work, I decided to contact the recruiting agency I work for, and no lie, these words actually came out of my mouth having reminded myself to not say it under all circumstances: "It's not that I mind coming into work, but I can seriously finish a weeks work in a day."

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Everything was going good up until that point. Stupid.

This feeling really irks me, because I feel like I've said or done something wrong, and now it's hanging above my head. But then, I thought, what happened to those days when I used to remind myself, 'this won't matter in the bigger picture.' Like when I gave two weeks notice because I couldn't get the day off to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and then proceeded to give them one days notice within my two weeks notice that I'm leaving the next day for Greece?

'Minds' are quite peculiar. Initially when dropped off in London, I felt this great despair of everything I had left behind. I was willing to work for 1/3 of my salary, while paying double on everything, and was about to give up taking the nursing course. Eight weeks later, I'm not even entertaining the thought of working for a company that won't pay me more than £27K a year, plus benefits, plus at least 24 days vacation time plus 8 day stat holidays...(come on now, Tommy gets 10 weeks off!)and eventhough I still hate the nursing course I'm doing it. I'm starting to feel indifferent about London in a positive way. I really think all those newspapers were playing tricks on me. It's also helping a great deal that the Sun is out to play more often than usual on this side of the pond. Although, I'm sure i'll feel less happy after all my visitors leave, jobless, with nothing to do, I will be back to square one.

I do love when the weekend comes and lover boy is off work. There are endless of restaurants to go too, all with at least two dozen reviews, lots of bars, clubs, everything, it's happening tonight. My pick for tonight, French at Pierre Victoire. I'm Still craving French Onion soup. Tomorrow, the synapses will be clicking away during my hangover after sharing 2-3 bottles of wine, and I'll be saying, I'm never drinking again...but we all know, that's just another lie that the mind tells to the brain. Or, whatever.

Mind Your Manners

2007-03-06T14:28:00.000Z

What happened to common courtesy's such as knocking? Don't people of higher authority, or people we're supposed to look up to realize that if only they had waited for a response, they might not see what they shouldn't see. Like, walking in on your 13 year old son masturbating into a sock. Or me writing my blog while I'm at work. Or say something when you come in, like "I've come in to look for (insert product here), have you seen it? But don't walk in and peer over my shoulder to see what I'm doing, I can feel and smell you breathing down my neck. It only gets me annoyed, because I wouldn't walk into her office and peer over her shoulder. Even a slight tap on the door would be appreciated, and enough time for me to close my unnecessary windows. Manners anyone?

We, as Canadians, have a few misconceptions of the English I've learned in the recent weeks. Alot are not as 'polite,' 'traditional' and as 'reserved' as we think they are, or as media perceives them to be. Maybe the Queen's generation still has those manners, but the younger generation definately do not possess those qualities. Apparently the women/girls/birds/lady's are not as reserved as we think they are, quite the contrary in fact, being labelled as loose, and easy. Well, that's what the boys I've met have said about a lot of them. But it's just my luck that I'm meeting all the prudes...maybe it's because I'm the competition? It seems that alot of girls I've come across will pounce on anyone, without knowing anything about their male counterparts, and i've heard about it and seen it first hand. Under 15 seconds, that's all it takes before the act of trying to pry out information from the opposite sex take: marital status, salary, where you're going on vacation, can i come? etc. No shame...at all.

If polite is when someone barges past you while everything you were holding is falling down the escalator without an 'excuse me' or 'I'm sorry is polite,' then I must be extremely polite. I need to learn to stop saying 'sorry' to everyone I slightly graze. Really? Hollywood is to blame for this one too. Because the chivalry you see portraited by Hugh Grant, and mmmmm--->Jude Law, rarely exists in our wonderful polite, traditional and reserved England. Women are seen pushing the buggy, carrying grocery bags off their wrists, with baby number 2 on their back while the 'man' talks loudly and rudely into his 'mobile. 'Traditional? Hardly.

Of course not everyone has lost their manners. I've some extremely classy people. And I've met some very nice people, and people here are great conversationalists, once you get them talking. Sometimes you can't stop them from the natter, you wonder what made you want to spark that conversation in the first place on the way to the 'loo.' And mind you, during rush hour it is nice to see everyone in their nicely ironed suits, and women with their nicely done make-up hair, and expensive pretty shoes. It all gives the false impression of how polite everyone is. That is, untill Mr. T walks onto the tube, plops down and takes up three seats, and starts shoving his finger up his nose. Then, as he's getting off, (still picking his nose), he trips (which only shoves his fat finger further into his nose) and pulls out a honking disgusting piece of treasure. Blechhh.

The thing is, the lack of all manners must be very well accepted here, because I'm the only one who seems to want to bring up my breakfast after that walking mishap. People just glance at him non-chalantly, and then back to their newspapers/split ends/books/homework/thin air.

No, none of this entry has anything to do with my relationship as many of you enjoy asking me. My man is the epitome of male chivalry and I enjoy every second of it. However, this brings me back to 'Comfort Zones,' because he thinks he has me figured out. Yesterday, over dinner, he says:
"I have you all figured out. I know what you do. You fart when I do." (Yes Tom, you have me all figured out). "Or, you just fart, and then tell me it was me and I believe you." Haha. Seriously. I'm not dainty, but really, maybe some of the 'ladies' in your country, definately not me. I go the washroom and pray that it doesn't echo.

Growing, Pains

2007-03-01T11:02:00.000Z

Not growing pains like that television show. Not the pains that used to shoot up my leg that I thought were the result of my growing, hence, growing pains. No. Seriously. Growing, it pains. In 20 days, plus today, I will turn a quarter century old. Somehow, I have moved from the 20-24 age box, to the 25-30, and that feels and sounds less exciting.

What happened to the days when we couldn't wait to get older? Like turning 16 so you could buy BINGO tickets, 18 so you could serve beer, turning 19 so you could buy booze for yourself AND go to the Casino but be young and beautiful enough to get ID'd. Turn 21 and you can party in the States, not that fake ID's didn't serve their purpose well. So what happened to wanting to get older? And now I just want to stay at the age that I am. 24 is comfortable. Not too old. Not too young. Beautiful and full of energy. Independence. People are starting to take me seriously (sometimes). I'm young enough to hold down a bottle and a half of wine on a good day, but not too old to go out and party til 4am. Why am I feeling old?

For those of you that are older, seriously, no sympathy today. This isn't about you. This is about the transfer from the young box, to the not so young, 25-30 box.

I always felt I was invincible. I could survive anything, feel no pain, and never die. I thought I had all the time the world, days were endless, until I started to feel the days and the months pass by quicker and quicker each year. I THINK I started to feel old when I started to worry about cancer, and eating healthy foods that were anti-oxidants. Always careful to never leave teabags in for too long cause it released toxins and wash my veggies and fruit. Before my move to England, I had thought about who my power of attorney was going to be, what I wanted in my living will incase the WORST happened to me, and what and who was to be included in my will (not that i'm loaded with estates, 'bling,' etc. etc.) How about, when I could no longer survive on less than 4 hours of sleep, and felt 'stiff' after sitting down for too long. God. What an appalling thought. It hurts to stretch sometimes.

The the growing pains really start when you begin to take note of your responsibilities. That's such mean word. Responsibilities. For instance! It was 2am, my other half crawls into bed after work, I'm a little groggy from being woken from my beauty slumber, and he says to me, "If I get this new job, our trip to Greece might have to be cancelled." I was completely o.k. with it, and even remained supportive and agreed with the idea (i'm definately sick, i'm sure of it). ME! I hardly flinched. The vacation freak! Or as my friend said to me: " you have vacationing problems." I was being responsible because of money. Now that is definately a NEW thing. It's called growing pains! It hurts to think about NOT going on vacation.

Maybe living in a place where everything is so expensive has made me realize the value of a £ or $, more-so now that I have to watch my money. The rich only get richer and richer, and the poor stay poor or get poorer here. Up until this morning, I had coped with the fact that I haven't had a 'retail therapy' session in over 8 weeks. But now that I came across the idea of responsibilities and how growing, pains...I seriously think this lack of retail therapy is bad for my health! I've had a cold for weeks that I can't shake! It must be related to my lack of new shoes.

I have sat here for quite sometime now wondering where I am going with my entry. I don't want it to end. Because for as long as I keep typing, I am still 24. That doesn't make any sense at all, as I started this entry two days ago, and now I am two days older, and two days closer to being 25. Maybe this year my birthday can be like Valentine's day for singles, or Christmas day for Jews, and Chinese New Years for people who don't celebrate. Just another day. And July will come around, and when people ask, I'll respond, "I'm 24."

Comfort Zones

2007-02-26T08:38:00.000Z

After being in a relationship for a while, comfort zones have always seemed to be my biggest fear. Perhaps it's the thought of being taken for granted that makes my stomach cringe, but it's inevitable, and it doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing I guess. Living with a boy can be a nightmare I've heard, disagreements about who needs to leave the toilet seat up or down, dishes that aren't done, the list is ongoing, and living together can destroy relationships. However, luckily for me, I haven't experienced that, and am actually enjoying being pampered, coming home to a clean house, dishes done, love notes, and the t.v. guide flipped to the day applicable.

So you would imagine it was to my surprise when Tommy said to me:
"Have you ever farted around me?"
"Sorry??" I replied.
"Well, I've just never heard you fart, and I've never smelled it," he says with his cute/sauve English accent that let's him get away with murder.
"NO! I haven't," I say a little embarassed, not quite sure if i have or haven't, and if I have it would have been in my sleep.
"Well, I just want you to know it's o.k. if you ever have to fart infront of me, I don't mind. The last thing I want you to do is to hold it."
...

Now that I'm thinking about it, I can't stop laughing. Here is my boyfriend trying hard to get into the comfort zones where burping, farting, picking your nose around eachother and bad morning breath, ungroomed hair is perfectly ok, and I am trying hard to remain my lady-like exterior to prevent us from getting into the zone of no return.

But the longer I contemplate, the more I'm starting to contradict myself, because I've realized that this man has already seen me at my personal best, and worst. Such as sitting beside me while I'm passed out on a double decker bus from a 8 hour drink session. I wake and throw up in my poncho (yes, still public). He helps me off the bus, takes me to a cab station, as I look over, I see a speckle of puke on his jeans, but he's still stroking my hair. He helps me undress to get my clothes in the wash PRONTO!, and helps me stand while i'm in shower with mascara running down my face. God. My sleep talking, the need to always be right or not giving in, irrational behaviour related to stress of moving (my own nursing diagnosis), my pimply times of the month...or, when I arrived after my move here, and I was sick with who-knows-what, I sounded like Yoda and was horking up things that I wasn't aware of producing with every cough. He loved me nonetheless, so who gives a 'toss' about comfort zones? Maybe tomorrow I'll let out a fart, just to let him know that I've finally realized that 'comfort zones' are ok.

Paranoia

2007-02-16T09:36:00.000Z

I've been here for almost 2 months now. I am quite jealous of the snow in Canada. And also of the concept that Canadians don't lock their doors when they go out. I can say that coming originally from Barton street in Hamilton (i am a diamond in the rough, i know..ha!), that I definately did not do that. But generally, if I can say I've felt safe anywhere, it would be Canada. Anywhere in Canada...at 7am, 2am, sober or drunk, it hasn't made a difference.

I decided to stop giving you newspaper headlines before the Paranoia rubs off on you as well. But one thing I will say for sure is, 4 teenage boys being killed within two weeks, in the area not far from where I work, is surely a good enough reason to feel some insecurity walking in any street in London.

I've recently started leaving work later to avoid working on the weekend. Last night it was pitch dark when I left, and the Indian guy who says 'How are you?' in Mandarin to me as he hands me my evening newspaper, knowing fully that I speak Cantonese, wasn't there. I turned the corner and felt like someone was about to come up to me and ask me for my things. But I dodged him and hightailed it onto the main street.

This scenario has played in my head many times. I knew it was Sod's Law (Murphy's Law) that the day I was comfortable enough to bring my iPod out into public, some jerk was going to ask me to hand it over. This never happened, but I always think I would ask to see his weapon of choice, and if there was none, I'd tell him to go bugger off.

I always carry three things in my right pocket. My free travel pass, my 'mobile', and my iPod. I stick my hand in it, and I walk. I constantly check to make sure that all three are in there. When I'm standing at the bus stop, I look at everyone standing there to look for potential crazies that might feel like blowing up a bus today. When I get off the bus, I look at my surroundings to see what suspect person might approach me and ask me to handover my bag. I usually run down (and also up) the escalator...it's very very very long you see...since I'm not going to the gym...when I get on the Tube, I am sizing each and every person up and down to see if they had might look like they're suicidal and have some sort of blow-up device in their napsacks.

It surely isn't the man playing Sudoku I usually think to myself, or the guy sitting next to me reading the newspaper. I might get paranoid if someone was reading a book called "Don't Jump" like in the "Wedding Crashers," or someone who also looks like he has a case of the Paranoia and sweating, and that will be enough to make me get off that tube. It hasn't happened yet. But the corruption and walking racism amongst one of the worlds most diverse cities is disturbing.

Looking over my shoulder is part of my routine. I don't necessarily feel scared per se, I don't know what I feel. Since I've come here, I've just felt indifferent about this city. Just adapting to the overwhelming issues of living in such a massive city, and trying to survive really. Point blank.

There have been people of all races that have lived in England, born and raised. I won't pretend to be an expert of the religions etc. of the middle-east, and a lot of cultures I have never even heard about. I didn't know that Indians could be from Africa. Really, I know nothing. It hasn't been until the day I started reading three newspapers in one day that I realized how close we are to the African and Middle Eastern borders. It's just around the corner. But from Canada, they seem like a galaxy away. And their problems also seemed a universe away. It's different living in a country so economically powerful, and involved in the World and the war.

What I have seen is a multicultural society, diverse in all aspects, race, gender, sexual preference, religion, ethnic background. You name it, they live here. But what I have also noticed is the lack of appreciation of what England has offered them. You seriously can't trust anyone over the age of 10. You may have seen the news feed a while back, that Muslim-British soldiers were being threatened and targeted by their own Muslim counterparts (who didn't consider themselves to be British, although they were born here, lived here, and had a stronger English accent then the Queen) because the Mus-Brit soldiers were being labelled as traitors. The plan was that they would be hung- Iraqi style, video taped, and aired. Killing their own. If you ask me, the American melting-pot is looking pretty good right about now.

Then I have met Muslim people who seem to be completely oblivious of the fact that any of this is going on. Well, I wouldn't say oblivious. But they don't seem to be bothered that their culture is being targeted by the government. They just carry on, as if this is what happens everyday. And by next week this time, another culture will be on the front headlines of the 20+ newspapers available. You have your Africans that are involved in the killings of the teenagers, and more killings of two teenage boys at the ice-rink. Then you have the Chinese that are feeding into the Chinese Mafia via selling pirate copies of DVD's, supporting drugs and sex slaves. Most of the paedophilia news that I've read about are generally 'British' people.

However racist, or multicultural it is here, whichever category you may choose, there is a desperate action taking place that wants to make sure that the minorities don't get discriminated. A person who is gay, a minority ethnic, or female is most likely to get a job. Yet they don't see that that in itself is discrimination against your white, heterosexual male. So, I should say with confidence, that since I applied to become a Drugs and Alcohol Addiction Counsellor (haha i know! me!), that I should land this job quite easily because I'm a cultural mutt. I should get hired immediately because I'm female and Chinese.

All I can do for the meantime is keep my fingers crossed, and hope that my Paranoia's never come true. Because that, would really suck.

A Good Shag, or More?

2007-02-12T17:04:00.000Z

This entry is a personal request. Does this make me a freelancer (free, b/c i don't get paid?) I've been told to ask the peanut galllery for their opinion (that would be you people). I've also been requested for this to remain confidential, and to explore this topic 'hypothetically,' but let's face it, this question clearly isn't about me, and my writing sucks even more when I write in third person. But, here goes my attempt. Please leave a comment at the end, and do not remain annonymous, because that really annoys me, unless you really absolutely have to.

The question is, when is it considered just sex, and when is it considered more?

Two people have met randomly, and the distance between them is approximately a one hour flight. An attraction obviously exists, the conversation is good, the sexual chemistry is there, and within a 6 week period that they've known eachother, they've met up twice. However, during the time apart, the method of communication has been via texting and m.s.n-ing. Come the time of the goodbye, the male doesn't bring up the fact that a good-bye is soon to be said, and is quite blase, and the girl is forced to mention, 'what's next?'

Neither of them want to leave their 'relationship' at what it is (almost nothing), but the boy has clearly stated he does not want to be in a relationship. And I think the girl is going along with thinking that sex and no commitment is what she wants too, and says, " i don't want a long distance- relationship."

I tried to condone the relationship, as a one hour distance is hardly anything, especially when you're still in the same time zone. But my efforts went to waste, because it seemed that nothing can actually come of it due to all the emotional 'obstacles.'

My blog wouldn't be my blog without my questions, and my opinions. And all my friends who read this are far too clever to let my opinion skew what will be posted in 'comments.' I was initially asking myself, at what lengths will a man go to just for a good shag? Seriously. A one hour flight? Paying for a hotel etc. for the weekend? Skipping his 'mates' birthday just to hang out with the girl and her friends? Exactly, how are we supposed to know when a guy just wants to have sex, or if there is more involved?

I wished to remain thinking that fairy tale endings can exist as I reallly thought this guy was genuine and sweet. But when my male counterpart blatantly said to me, "well, he's set himself up pretty nicely, he has told her he doesn't want a relationship, so what he really wants is sex. And in the end, she can't say anything or complain about the lack of commitment, because he's already told her: no relationship." How calculating.

But better to know now than later.
Does she:
a) Go along with his wishes of no relationship and becoming the occasional 'sex-buddy'
b) Ask for more,
c) Say goodbye and leave it?

If men really are such simple creatures, and all that's involved is just sex, how are we supposed to know when there is actually more involved, and that they're not thinking with the brains between their two legs? This is seriously an episode from Sex in the City isn't it? And if it isn't, I'm positive I'm citing this topic from "He's Just Not That Into You."

Anyway.

A good shag, or more?

Let It Snow

2007-02-08T10:50:00.000Z

It's a beautiful day in London. It's snowing. Almost properly. But I am aware that by afternoon the snowing will turn into raining, and my beautiful snow will turn into massive black slush.

I woke up to two inches of snow on the ground. And it wasn't the type of snow that could be kicked and it would separate like powder. This was the 'It' snow. The type of snow you pick up, crunch in ur hands, and wack it at someone to seriously knock them out. Packing snow. Love it.

Tomorrow, as the newspapers will justify my predictions, there will be 10 pages dedicated to the chaos this lovely snow created. I stood crammed on the platform at Angel Tube station due to 'severe delays' on the Northern Line, because of a broken down train (i'm sure it was a lie) and also because of the weather (the real truth).

I stood in the back carriage of the tube, squished like sardines in a can, with a mixture of people who put on too much l'eau de toilette, and ones who didn't put on any(ew)...and there were also the ones that didn't bother to brush their teeth. Blech! I was breathing in someone's carbon dioxide, and I thought I was claustrophobic for a minute. The warm air made me feel nauseated. I turned around to get some "fresh air" only to look at the blackheads of a man who was dressed nicely, but clearly could have used some Vichy exfoliation. It was unnecessary to hang on to the bars for support because the people around me were squishing me to stand tall in this smelly crowd.

Delays, diversions, and cancellations are being experienced at the London airports, due to the two inches of snow. Traffic, train problems, you name it. The snow is predicted to cost the economy something like £30million in losses. I wonder if I provided input to the government on the strategies Canada uses during snow storms, if I would make a killing for all my "creative" and "original" ideas? Some schools even had snow days! And all the evening newspapers featured people who sent in pictures of the wonderful snowmen they made.

I love snow. I love snow, I hate rain, so I'm thankful for my slush I'm about to get when I leave work. In our last "snow storm" I was on my way into the office, and there was a Man dressed in a business suit, and expensive trenchcoat. His son no older than 8 nudged him. The Man picked up a big glob of snow and chucked it at his son, and they were in a full fledged snow fight. It had me laughing. Rain does not do that. So let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! :)

Silly things

2007-02-03T14:36:00.000Z

Saturday morning. The Sun was shining, and I was breathing in cold crisp air, since the traffic hadn’t started, and I wasn’t polluting my lungs half as much as I would be at 5pm. I had a great kip (sleep) for the first time in 5 nights, and it was a gorgeous-gorgeous day. I was going into work.

I was walking to the bus stop, I once again watched a bus pass me, when I saw three cars with frost on the windows. I smiled, because I could see my breathe in the cold air and realized that this is the perfect winter day. I walked past the first two cars, the third one, had its owner pour water over the windshield to defrost the ice. He was frustrated. I didn’t realize I did this, but I stopped in my tracks and looked directly at him, and thought, you silly bastard. And he got more and more agitated as the water turned into more frost. I chuckled to myself, kept walking, and continued to stare at this ‘obstacle’ from my bus stop. He ran back into his house, and came back with an ice scrapper, and at this point, I laughed out loud, because this was the type of frost, if you were to put your hand on it, it would melt, and you would still be able to take your hand off with ease. I guess he’s never heard of the defrost function. Or just driving with the frost.

This is my problem. I think I’m going to turn into the winter weaklings that these beings here are. It was 5 degrees Celcius, and I actually felt a chill. I’ve been climatized to damp and rain and no longer -20 Canadian weather. I am missing my ability to suck up the cold. Mind you I’m not as bundled as usual. But this makes me sad.

What else makes me sad, is that I went to Boots (Shoppers) after work to pick up Mach 3’s and Gillette gel for ‘sensitive skin’ (haha) like the good girlfriend I am. Next, I searched for my Herbal Essence's Shampoo and Conditioner, to find that they only had three types to choose from! What happened to the 10 different kinds? I grabbed the ones most applicable to me, and went over to the deodorant section. They didn’t have SECRET antiperspirant. You know what they had? Spray on! And the watery roll on kind. And of course Dove, and only two scents to choose from. Do the people here not smell or sweat? These were all DEODORANTS. Not the combination of both. So at the of the day, you'd smell nice but have pit stains. Appealing.

The next thing I'm about to say is despicable and disappointing. They don't have ketchup chips. NO KETCHUP CHIPS I said. (Or Dill Pickle for that matter). The nation where they put ketchup on fish and chips, bangers and mash, steak and kidney/mushroom pie, shepperd's pie, chips, steak, any dish you can possibly name, they put ketchup and/or mayo on, and they don't have 'bloody' effin' ketchup chips (or crisps as they call them here). I miss my Lays. Their BBQ chips here taste funny too. But I do enjoy my Thai Chili Chips by Walkers very much. Howevery, they still don't have those lovely Ketchup chips that always manage to stain my index finger and thumb no matter how many times I try to clean them off between each chip.

The toilets here don't flush in the other direction like everyone says it does in Oz...but I never saw the differences in England before because they were always so new and fresh to me. But now, I'm craving things like REAL choclate milk, and it doesn't exist. The BBQ sauce here at McDonalds is that pungent hickory sauce. They spell words like organization with an S as opposed to a Z, and it's frustrating since "accuracy" is the key in data entry (yawn). And, the thing I'm challenged with everyday, is the way they write their dates. February the 3rd, 2007 isn't 2.3.2007...it's 3.2.2007. I'm constantly crossing out the work I've enterred to re-enter the date, my brain just won't let me adapt, I blame it on wine.

I'm starting to fall into more of a routine here...but it will only be a matter of weeks before I'm out of a job again. I'm doing Londoner things like reading the newspaper, walking, listening to my iPod,and talking on my mobile at the same time. But I still haven't mastered the art of walking in my stilletos without twisting my ankle over a crack as the heel simultaneously falls into a little tight hole...no, I'm still struggling with that. I started to wear my flats to work.

I'll accept care packages any time now for ketchup chips. :) And a stick of Secret Peach ANTIPERSPIRANT.

For now, i'll make due with what they have. But when I come home to Canada, I am coming with an empty suit case to fill it up with my goods!

You People Make Me Laugh

2007-01-30T19:54:00.000Z

For today, no things in London that make me laugh.

First and foremost again, yes, there are two taps. Right side tap is cold freezing water, and left side is burning scalding hot water. S.Z, no you're not missing something. Maybe they did it different in Oz? But here on this little island, 'rainland,' seriously, two unconventional, irrational, and not very good for saving water taps. And M.S, I can't take it up with the Queen (I know 'Annonymous' is you), because she's probably too busy fretting about which next stupid Prime Minister is going to run this country.

This entry is dedicated to someone that I don't know very well. Someone who asked if I was doing O.K. here in cloudy grey London because she had the feeling that maybe I wasn't coping too well with this backwards country, due to the sarcastic nature of my entries. This kind of made me chuckle because I can't even tell when I'm being sarcastic anymore, it's blended in with my personality to the point where I think I'm funny...but usually only I understand the sarcasm (and all the English people with dry humour), other's get offended. That makes me laugh. So, for her, an attempted entry with as little sarcasm as possible, more on a positive note to let her know that I am doing fine. I'll try my best. But just to let you know, sarcasm, is my niche.

Not everyone may appreciate this entry, but maybe a few things might strike your memory.

I've been in London for over a month now, and I have not made one friend. I have a boyfriend, his 'mum,' his dad, his sister, his brother-in-law, their adorable son, and a bunch of Tommy's guy friends who I find quite entertaining. The girls here....they aren't ready for me...yet. I'm far too smiley and sarcastic at the same time, I think it scares them...maybe they don't know what to think. I guess I can't blame them. But I find the prudeness hard to cope with. I have tried. But I have not made one friend. But that's ok. I'm happy with that, because 'you people make me laugh.'

I was sitting on the Tube thinking about this as the Yeah Yeah Yeah's blasted through my iPod, that I didn't have any friends here. But that was ok. I'm perfectly fine with it. The support I get from you is what keeps me going. There isn't a day that goes by where I don't think about you. My lovely friends that gave me so much support when I left 'home.' In a box sit all your cards, your letters, your pictures, the scrap book from my party, c.d's you made me...I go through them all the time...and I'm still waiting on a copy of a Powerpoint presentation that was put together with Oasis 'Don't Look Back In Anger' playing so sadly in the background. I think about all the fun times. My drunken brain will only let me think as far back as Grade 8 most of the time (I think that's good).

All Beatles songs remind me of my crazy last night in the good old Hammer. When I hear the Beatles (which is everywhere in London, I can't imagine why!) I think of my company that night. When I hear don't look back in anger (which is everywhere and everyday on the radio) I think of my friends from Highschool. When I hear MoTown, Robbie William's Angels, House music, crazy Salsa Cuba music. I think of you. Thank God I haven't heard any 'God Is One' songs, but I think about scrabble and bubble tea with you all the time. Stand By Me. Goldigger for Loosey for some reason.

Effin Thermal Mugs for the Canadians. Did you know that Canadians are known for bringing thermal mugs to holidays...like to the Carribean etc. For their BOOZE. And people here make fun of us. Well, I brought mine because of you, and Tommy's mom bought me one because she'd thought i'd like to have something to remind me of home. And I'm trying not to misbehave when people are looking, I'm doing my best to take good care of your Motherland.

In the last four weeks I've enjoyed random phone calls, cute emails, nice updates, and text messages that make me feel like I'm still at home.

So it's o.k. that I haven't made any friends. Because no friend that I could meet here, would be as good as you lot. I'm happy with sitting tight, patiently waiting for my next visitor; until I see another familiar face to bring another smile to my already smiling face to have such supportive and great friends as you, that actually want to come to 'rainland' to see me.

(B.L.K: This was my best. I think I have to be sarcastic or sad. I just watched Grey's Anatomy and bawled my eyes out, so I opted for sad.)

A Gruelling Week at the Office. Ha.

2007-01-26T18:19:00.000Z

Let's start by keeping you up to date on the London news.

The new debate this week in London is the amount of money it costs to hold a prisoner (something like two figure millions £). So, the advice was to only sentence someone if they were repeat offenders of something terrible.

The headline of the Metro newspaper reads today:
Pervert Freed by Reid's New Rule.
A Paedophile who downloaded child porn walked free from court yesterday because the Home Secretary told judges to stop sending people to jail. D.W. 46 was spared up to a year behind bars partly because of John Reid's advice to judges and magistrates to jail only the most dangerous and persistent offenders to ease prison overcrowding.

They have run out of space in prisons, and this is the type of news that keeps me busy on my lovely journeys to and from work. And also the type of news that makes me feel extremely safe here. Sense the sarcasm please.

I must say that Data Entry is seriously mindless, and boring work. It makes me miss the call bell and wiping poo. It makes MRSA and gooey diarrhea look like a blessing. At least with nursing I had disgusting stories to tell people and watch their faces as I grossed them out. I attempted to do that now. And I have to say it's getting weak.

I hate routines, and working Monday to Friday is probably the worse life sentence that anyone can give me. I no longer have an excuse to not brush my hair in the morning and slap it up in a pony tail because I have to look presentable, eventhough I don't see anyone all day. I HAVE to shower the night before, so that I can sleep in for an extra 30 minutes, and even lay out my clothes the night before. I struggle to stand straight at the sink as I curse silently in my head "why is ther one tap for hot water, and one tap for cold water?" I delicately wash my face without putting too much hot water in my hand. I've done that many a times, and haven't had a quick enough of a reaction to save my face from all the hot water.

Putting on mascara to make my eyes look awake is a challenge at 630 in the morning. It's pointless because I'm just the girl who sits there all day typing in meaningless numbers and letters from surveys. I apparently work too quick and run out of work early in my afternoon, and everyone in Canada I can talk to on MSN is just starting their day. Its just all a process. I don't know how you Monday to Fridayers do it. All of you who provided me with the much needed reality check will be happy to know I am taking the course to get my Nursing license here afterall, and my Monday to Friday week will officially be Monday to Saturday. I will suck it up for 15 weeks, and if nothing ever comes of it, I get to say, I told you. And if something does, then I thank you all for the wonderful support and the advice.

I actually miss the days where I get woken up by work with a phone call at 0530 to come in, and find my last pair of scrubs neatly hanging in my closet ready for my eighth shift. I'm lacking the excitement, and dirty nursing humour. I guess there really is no type of work that substitutes the type of adrenaline you get from jumping on a red board to give someone CPR.

This is a boring entry for a boring job. Now I know why they say Thank God It's Friday! I never felt so excited in my life...when that clock hit 4, and I had done my boring 8 hour day, I was so happy. And so proud of myself. Only 8 more weeks to go on this job. Until then, expect some boring entries. I'm out of material for now. I'm falling asleep as I'm reading my own blog. Snore.

Things in London That Make Me Laugh~1

2007-01-25T21:06:00.000Z

1) Newspaper Headlines on Wednesday, 24th of January, 2007

It Could Be Even Worse Tonight

Commuters were warned they face a nightmare journey home tonight as the wintry weather's grip tightened on London and the South-East.

Roads, rail networks and Tubes were crippled this morning (CRIPPLED!), after nearly an inch of snow fell in the early hour. (AN INCH!)

Morning commuters arrived to a picture-postcard London (haha), with streets and landmarks dusted in snow. But its beauty was lost on those sturggling in to work (moi!). Only an inch of snow was enough to slow traffic on virtually every road into london.

(The newspaper dedicated four pages to that one inch of snow)

2) 90% of the London Underground is actually overground.

3) More of my favourite headlines for newspapers include:
- Jade (from big brother) Gets Treated for Depression!
- Big Brother Looking to be BANNED due to Racism
(these are headlines)
- What's his face in football, got traded for what's his face, for £100million (some ridiculous amount and we still have poverty)

4) Last week during HEAVY winds (and it was windy), I tried to take the train the NEXT day and the tracks were closed

The End.

"Love Is All We Need" ~ The Beatles

2007-01-22T17:14:00.000Z

The Beatles sang, "all you need is love." I don't know why i'm attempting an entry such as this one, because I know just how many people who are as sarcastic, skeptic, and cynical just like me.

The skeptic is still in me, as whenever I hear a Love story, I always think about the what, if's and but's...maybe it's the impowerment in me, but I really think it's the skeptic. I always have to remind myself that: stranger things have happened.

It's easy for someone who has been on holiday to say that they've met someone, and ask me for "inspiration." Inspiration about keeping a small flame burning, long distance relationships, and anything in general. Sometimes I want to chuckle, because since when did I adopt all this wisdom? I don't have wisdom. This is Diana! Once I was a little negative on a topic like this after a friend asked me for "inspiration", and the person thought I was a cynical cheek for having the attitude that I had and not being more supportive, considering the position that I was in.

As far as i'm concerned, 'nothing lasts forever' like Guns n Roses sings in November Rain. I've learned in the past that there are no gaurantees, or no promises that are never broken.

This past week I had my first visitor. My friend that I enjoy calling 'Alfart,' whom I've known since Grade 10 when he left me stranded at The Kingdom. It wasn't my idea to invite him down to stay with us so soon. But without a bit of hesitation when I said that my friend Albert was in Birmingham for school, Tommy responded, "why don't you invite him down?" It was then that I knew how nice it felt to be with someone that would go at all lengths to see me crack a smile. Someone who constantly makes small and grand gestures to prove to you that any sacrifice you've made is worth it. Someone who supports you no matter how much it affects them. Someone that provides you with piece of mind, without any doubt, or second thought. Someone who can make you laugh even though the whole world has rained on you in one day, literally and figuratively.

As skeptical, hurt, cynical, broken, or deflated as you may feel...I won't feed the line: "T'is better to have love and lost"...blahblahblah...but sometimes when it feels that good, wouldn't it just be easier to just throw your hands up, and surrender? Sigh~

Cosmopolitan

2007-01-17T16:02:00.000Z

Cosmopolitan. I don't mean the drink. I'm talking about London. When I think cosmopolitan cities, I think New York City, Paris, fashion, beautiful people, big and busy. London is that alright. And many other things.

I began my journey as what I like to call "job whore" when I signed up to two recruiting agencies for temporary work. I've decided to postphone my nursing course (all for not, all my hard work), and see what the rat race is about. Now I finally have the chance to test the waters, see what office work is like, or anything else for that matter, without losing too much. Although burning some bridges (like my nursing license in the U.K.) has crossed my mind, what I'm doing now (job whore) seems to be a lot more fun.

Gone are the days where I wake up at 0630 for a 0700 start. I had to wake up at 0600 for a 0900 start, and it literally took me three hours to wake up and get to work with no space to breathe in between. I have friends that will vouch for me when I say that I get ready fast. I woke up, did my hair, washed my face, put in my eyes, my make up, etc. etc., had breakfast, did the dishes, and out I went.

Two 73 buses passed me as I was walking to my stop, two minutes later the other one arrived. Six different "mobiles" go off on the bus at separate times, two people were sleeping, one was reading a book, a couple was making out, a lady texting, the rest staring blankly into space, and I was thinking, this is my new blog entry as i stared at the tube map wondering what the next best move was.

Many people here are ruthless. We're all packed like sardines in the "tube" a.k.a subway, and the man turns over and says "You don't have to push me do you, love" in the most sarcastic and blunt manner. I learned my lesson to never be intimidated by a smug English person next time, as I said in my most timid voice "I'm sorry, i'm not." And as the words were coming, i'm thinking, why am i apologizing. Prick. Next time, he'll see the Diana reaction. The tubes had a few delays and we got held in the middle of the track. An hour later, I was standing outside of Westminster station starting at the Parliament (Big Ben), the London Eye, and Westminster Abbey. It was bustling. And minus the rain, it was beautiful.

I got "lost" three times before finding my destination. I always thought Bono was singing about Dublin when he sang "Where the Streets Have No Name"...but I'm beginning to think he HAS to mean London! It's impossible to get lost in London...IMPOSSIBLE...but no one knows the major roads, or any side ones. It takes at least an hour to get from one end of the city to the other by the METRO. There are no street names to be found. People know their own address, their work address, and know tourist points. That's it. Carry an A-Z map that is 2inches thick, or muddle your way through.

People look like they are floating when they're walking. So much confidence. Purses are constantly crutched right under your arm and your hand, as leaving your handbag trailing behind is not an option, unless you're trying to attract some burgular action. But, still look confident. Confident that you're not going to get mugged. Umbrellas are turned inside out, and flailing right side up, but the person carrying it doesn't seemed to be phased.

By 11am, walking through any part of Central London is like trying to butt in front of the line at Canada's Wonderland. Every building is tall, and filled with history. Museums are free entry in London. People listening to their mp3's, reading the paper, talking on their phone...all three at once while walking. London is the "Big Brother" nation. They estimate that every person in London gets caught on camera approximately 34 times in one day. No wonder they caught the bombers of the 7/7 within three days and traced it back to the leader. So much for having sex in the park.

It's funny walking through Kings Cross, as I am trying to look for the damage of any type of terrorism. I see none, but a headline catches my eye, and they've arrested six people who tried to rehash the July 7 bombing, and all the bombs detonated, but nothing happened. I've never read so much bad news in my life, and have always been against reading the paper. But I can't seem to take my eyes off. This city is so massive that you don't come across the same headline, because there are at least 20 different newspapers.

The other day, two young men in their 20's got killed by a tube train because they were too busy doing graffiti on the track. Sometimes people jump. And some get pushed by random strangers onto the track. It's like constantly living in fear that some moron is going to push you for a good laugh. Whenever I'm walking around, I feel my arms start to get tired from clutching onto my bag, but then I remember I have: my passport, my iPod, my camera, my address book, my credit card, keys and my unlimited travel pass in my purse. The grip tightens.

As chaotic as this nation is, where they think they're right on driving on the wrong side of the road, and most of the arrows telling you to look a certain way before crossing are faded, where the rat race is ruthless and the rip-off is endless...London is a great city.

London never sleeps. The buses never sleep. The bars never close. You want to eat, there is a place. If you can think of it, you can do it here. If you can bear the crime rate....the exchange rate...and forget about 'home' every now and then, it's millions of fun. The shopping here is ENDLESS. I found a very fashionable pair of boots in 18 different styles that I liked. Window shopping is the only shopping i've done since i've been here, you will all be proud. Any type of ethnic food you want from Afghan, Indian, to Greek, Chinese,Turkish, and even sitting in complete darkness as you heard about my wonderful experience being served by the blind back in May.

Some things really make me laugh. Besides the weird pronuncations...Tommy calls pedophiles, peedophiles. But the other day I was taking a nap, someone texted me from the main floor to tell me that I had a visitor if I wanted to come down. It's a 'texting' country, where talking on the phone is only for losers.

This is my long update. I've put my nursing course on hold. I did one temping job but got the sack for not understanding what the weird Indian woman was saying, and am starting another job as an adminstrator for South Bank University on Monday for six weeks. After six weeks, who knows? But I guess that's the excitement of being cosmopolitan. Ha. I'm a cosmo girl!

"Not Without My Daughter"

2007-01-10T14:00:00.001Z

Mother's, what lovely creatures. Now if only i believed that two months ago I might not have been saying my sorry's at my goodbye. There are two things that always stick out in my mind when it came to mother-daughter relationship advice or movies of inspiration. Never was it the long lectures I got from my traditional strict Chinese father who tried to teach me a thing or two about respect. But a girl, 15 years my senior when I was just a little wee thing told me that I should treat my mother well, because if I didn't, and I lost that chance, that I could end up regretting it forever. Despite her advice, I carried out as I usually did, from banter to snappy arguments, we were more like sisters than mother and daughter. At the point where my luggage was in the back trunk and I stood infront of my mom, I broke down and apologized with a massive lump in my throat as a final "see you later."

Not without my daughter was a movie I watched in Grade 9 geography. It was about a woman who married a Muslim man in America without realizing that after marrying him, she would take on his religion and citizen. They visited Iran, and he decided he wanted to live there after being in the U.S. for decades, and took on all the traditions, including making his American wife adhere to them as well. Eventually he became abusive to the daughter and wife, and threatened to kill her. At some point in the movie, he said he would give her the freedom she wanted, but she had to leave her daughter behind. And as boring as I thought the movie was, she smuggled her daughter out of Iran to American soil and risked her life.

Last night, I taught Tommy's mom how to open an email account, how to use it, how to hold a mouse. Everything that a first time PC user needs to know. And I thought, I never taught my mom, because I knew I would never have the patience. And now that I wish I could email her and see her on webcam, I am filled with regrets.

How is it that mother's have the mentality of "Not Without My Daughter," carry us in their womb for 9 months while we kick them, give them swollen ankles, lop-sided boobs, prolapsed uterus', unearthly food cravings....the works, and we barely have the patience to teach them how to push the ON button a computer?

I Live Here

2007-01-08T16:24:00.001Z

-tube map-

It's a rainy day in London. It's almost gauranteed to have a layer of mist on the ground even on a sunny day. I always come home with a rim of some rain on the bottom of my jeans or get the heel of my stilettos stuck in muddy cracks on the streets. I enjoy calling England 'Rainland.' Orginal. I know. So, first things first, to clarify, 'holdbacks' from my previous entry are those hook like things that hold curtains back. Not some of the definations that my imaginative friend up with, like the song 'hold back' or something related to domestication.

The job hunt officially started today. I always considered myself a brave little soul. Besides movies like 'The Ring' that scare the crap out of me, being in unknown places never really frightened me. But I can imagine people walking past me and seeing a lost puppy, as everything is feeling a little daunting at the moment. So, I try my best to put on the poker face that I was unable to inherit from my mom, and look as brave, confident and cocky as possible.

Everything here is backwards. I never really noticed it in Ireland. But England...it's all crooked. Not just the streets. For starters, they call tin foil, or aluminum, aluminium. Yes. With an extra I. Weird. I know. Aluminium. People look at me weird when I say it 'properly,' so I just call it tin foil now. There are always your odd ball pronounciations, like Basil...they annunciate: baa-zil. And when you don't say it like they do, they attempt to correct you, like their way is the right way. Haha. It always gives me a chuckle, because it just suits the typical stigmas of the arrogant English.

I took the Tube and the bus all by myself today, and I'm getting my North, South, East and Wests all mixed up, and I forget whether I'm supposed to look left or right first. Some days I get it bang on, and somedays, I almost get run over. The bus drivers won't open the door to let you on if they're waiting at the stop light, and turn their head like they don't see the little chinese girl waving at the door with a smile. I won't be giving them that satisfaction anymore. I learned last night in a Pakistani movie that the peace sign is not the Eff You sign...but if you turn that peace sign backwards so that your backhand is facing the person, and do the motion like you're shoving your two fingers up their nose is quite the rude motion. That replaces the middle finger. One day I might try it, when I'm drunk...and in the company of other male friends so I don't get my ass kicked.

I've watched more football games in this past year combined in my visits than I have hockey games, and my vocabulary for Industrial Language from watching these games have grown to the size of a China telephone book. The C word is a dirty dirty word, and they like to call their football players when they've made a mistake. Loyalty at best. Slags. Wankers. The works. I love it.

People smoke in non-smoking sections. Although, the non-smoking bi-law should be kicking in any minute now. I live in 'Stokey' where the people like to speak 'Cockney' slang. An example Tommy likes to say is 'going for a Johnny Cash'...rhymes with slash, as in going pee. Jack and Jill means the bill, and showers are called Stephanie...as in Stephanie Powers, rhymes with showers...dunno who she is.

English people don't really have bad teeth. Not as scarey as we make it sound anyway. I heard it's because they never used to have fluoride in their water, so i'm always checking the labels.

It's too early to say how I feel about being here. The vacation just ended, and the reality is just starting to settle in slowly. Somedays I'm very happy to be here, and other days I miss home. Today I'm a bit of both, because I live here.

Domesticated?

2007-01-05T12:04:00.001Z

Oh no. This is me. My new life. I walked through the Toronto Pearson Airport security gates and went into the other realm. I had a new life, and the stresses of paperwork and working hard at a long-distance relationship was finally over. Almost like it never happened. Soon before I knew it I was hanging up my clothes for good, and stocking away my beauty products in the bathroom cabinet that Tommy had so nicely cleaned out just for me.

I'm starting to feel a little domesticated. Lastnight I made a Carbonara Tortellini dish with chicken, and a side dish of long beans with yellow and red peppers. I even made Spinach dip with garlic pita as a starter. And all perfectly timed. I had all four burners going on the stove with a grand finale of having my kitchen look like Hell's Kitchen...i just called it MY kitchen. That's problem number one.

The other day we bought a bed and mattress, and now we're picking out side tables, lamps, curtains and rods, holdbacks ( I didn't even know what that was two weeks ago)...a sofa, duvet set, oh my god, I just saw an imaginary apron draped over me.

Thank God It's Friday. I'm going to go out and get pissed. Then I need to start my job hunt so I can undomesticate myself, and re-independent my independent self!

Resolutions

2007-01-01T17:46:00.000Z

So I've been in England for three days now. I'm not homesick yet, but I missed all my friends terribly on New Years Eve, and even the day before when I went out with Tommy's friends.

There is something I miss about everyone, and almost every song I hear at a club reminds me of someone different.

New Years....Happy New Years by the way. Time for resolutions. Most resolutions are about quitting something, or starting something. Quit smoking, quit drinking, quit swearing, start going to the gym, quit going into work late, start being on time, or better yet, don't resolute at all because they are never kept anyway. My resolution this year, is to enjoy my new life here in England the best I can despite the absense of all my great friends I have and miss so dearly. So, to start my resolution on New Years Eve, eventhough I was extremely sick, and my voice sounded like a bad impression of Yoda and Marge post-countdown. I had a wonderful three and a half hour meal at Cafe Rouge, and almost missed the fireworks at the Thames River by the Big Ben and London Eye. I had a good buzz, a sexy English man in my right arm, and a tallboy of Fosters beer in my left hand, it was midnight, and I had freshly opened champagne drenched all over me, my cashmere jacket and pashmina. It was great.

Feel Lucky, You're Drinking Pineapple Juice, Some Countries Don't Even Have Water

2006-12-24T01:03:00.000Z

This is my first attempt at food critiquing. Although I can't say everything I say should be taken word for word as I had a buzz at 3pm in the middle of my food hop with two of my close friends.

M and I don't spend a lot of time together, when we do, we like to cram in all of our missed meals into a food hop. L was in for a treat, and thought we were crazy, but she lasted from 2-6pm, with a few minor complaints of feeling full and making faces.

Stop one was the Martini House in Burlington. A modern, yet contemporary decor with browns to soften the mood. Although the Father Christmas sitting in the corner seemed out of place, I guess he was harmless. First on the list was butternut squash soup, I can't say it's been my favourite as it wasn't creamy enough, nor sweet enough. It could have used more maple, pepper, and cheese. However, on the contrary, their curry mussels are most delicious with the perfect amount of curry, garlic and onions to avoid a bad after taste. The mussels were large and fresh. No matter how full, you can't resist but to dip your 4th piece of bread into the curry sauce.

Asian Nacho's were served to us, eventhough it wasn't on their lunch menu. A mixture of beansprouts, chicken, and what tasted like Monterey Jack Cheese blended onto a big fat tortilla with drizzled wasabi over the big chip, was, the perfect blend.

Ah, who's kidding who. I love to food hop. I'm no critic. I just love to eat and talk about it. But write about it? Hardly. Guess I have to stick with my day job. Damnit.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas...Now...

2006-12-23T07:21:00.000Z

I've never been a fan of Christmas. Most of my friends know that I'm a scrooge for Christmas, and that I'd most likely decorate a plant that my mom had in our living room than have a Christmas tree. The last time I can remember exchanging wrapped presents with mom was...hm...never. But every now and then, we surprise each other with gifts throughout the year, place it in each other's room, and come home to a nice little present.

This year however, despite that fact that it feels more like Spring, than it does Winter, and I lost my beloved grand piano today...I'm looking forward to Christmas. I don't know why. Maybe it's the Pot Luck that will take place at work. Food apparently makes me glow. Having said that, I didn't do Christmas cards this year, but have yourself a merry little Christmas, now....

And a Happy New Year!

Is It Time To Go Or Not To Go?

2006-12-21T20:31:00.000Z

December 21st. Where has the time gone...or not gone?

My excitement continues to arrive in spurts, sometimes it stays, sometimes it hides, and I don't know where to find it. This feeling of indifference is frustrating, because as much as I want time to fly, I want it to stay. How do you feel sadness for what you're going to leave, but feel excitement for what you're chasing after. How can you find optimism with sadness, and lace realism with your dreams.

I've done all my 'final' things I want to do. I've had a lot of company, alot of dinners, a great good-bye party from all the people near and dear to me, a crazy, spur of the moment road trip to NYC, and all I want to ask for now is, no prolonged goodbye's. Over breakfast with a friend, she told me, she has had time to let my move, sink in. We've done all the final things she's wanted us to do. She said she knew when the last time she would see me was, and that would be at work, change of shift.

In response, I said, "that goodbye, will be just like any other change of shift. You're going to say Hi, have a good night, and I will say, have a good shift."

It's been hard people asking "Am I going to see you again before you leave?" I give my best smile, and say "for sure" to avoid a prolonged goodbye. No sappiness. I can't handle it. I need someone to drop me off at the airport, smile at me and say, "now, get lost."

Every now and then, there is a crushing feeling over my chest. I want to sit at the base of my bed that no longer belongs to me, with a box of kleenex and cry because I know it's the only time that that feeling will go away. But, the cry is never great enough. There is always some more to come...unexpectedly.

For the meanwhile, i'll cram packing into my already crammed life. London is just around the corner. And as finish this entry, I just got a spurt of excitment.

All old entries

2006-12-18T07:32:00.000Z

Separate Ways
[09 November, 2006]

Someone suggested that I use MySpace as my avenue to communicate when I leave. I still have 7 weekends, or 50 days. But this is the start. I don't promise to spell correctly, or be gramatically correct.

I promise other entries won't be as somber as this. But when I'm packing my belongings into a box that's not coming with me, it does make me stop in my tracks for a bit.

At some point or another, we all walk our separate ways. Some of us to travel, work, be married, have children, go to school…experience life.

It's been a bittersweet reality for me, as I've realized life takes you in a million directions with a million opportunities. Hardly enough time, and hardly enough notice. People come and go, for most, I am going, but for a few, I am arriving. The hardest part is thinking that every moment you have maybe your last, and I don't know when I'll be back for more.

Although I'll miss Canada as a whole, like how the leaves fall like rain in red and yellow in the 'autumn'…and how it snows lightly at night, and your footsteps are the only imprints in the small layer of snow. How the sun beams on you lightly but strongly sitting on a patio starting happy hour at noon. I said no saps, but mostly I'll miss my friends.

I'm going to miss how 6 of us can sit at the same table, and have individual conversations and be in everyone else's listening and interrupting. How only a select few understand your inappropriate jokes and give you one back ten times as good. How TITZ is a word in scrabble, and watching the NoteBook for the 10th time is as good as the first, and only your friends understand.

But when I think London, England, I think, Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City buying a pair of shoes. Not that I love the weather, or the crass of some of those that live there. But as much sadness I'm feeling now, I have excitement. I've had excitement for almost a year now, everyday. And altho it can be cliche because my move is for a boy. He's not just any boy. He's an English boy, with a sexy accent, an Urban style, and a lot of made for Diana grace. And maybe, one day, i'll bring him back.

to: boss@newjob.ca from:dianaman_21@hotmail.com subject: I Quit!
[07 Sep 2006 10:26pm]

What is my perfect job? Well, the perfect job would be to get paid to sleep.My dream job, well, is to get paid to travel. And since both of these have like a 0.000001% chance of happening, I guess I will be writing a lot of resignation letters in this lifetime, due to a lack of patience, and tolerance for staying in one place for too long...or simply hating it, like my other part time job. Usually people have other part time jobs, and they enjoy them. There's a "serious" job, and then a "fun" job...like bartending, baton twirling, dance instructor, mystery shopper. I chose to find a part time job within my profession and have to deal with more sh*t than i do in an actual active hospital. It's probably because other than eating, drinking and shopping, i have no other talent. So, I never thought i'd have to write a resignation letter in Word, and attach it as a document via email, but it would be so much easier to just write, I QUIT, I QUIT, I QUIT in the subject line! :)

Feel Good Things - for LP
[05 Jun 2006 02:36pm]

My friend wasn't so happy about my previous not so happy entry. She asked me to write about feel good things, and i said, "they have an email circulating out there about feel good things!" But here it is, typical or not...
- Patio drinking at 3pm with the sun at your back
- Crisp, and Bounty fresh bed sheets (or Snuggle in my case)
- Eating Haagen Daz ice cream straight out of the large sized carton
- Winning Scrabble. And scoring 300 because it means ur in the average range now.
- Receiving personalized snail mail
- New c.d's
- Finding something that you thought you lost
- Ice cold beer in a chilled pint glass. yum.
- Butterfly kisses
- New cushy socks
- Running into a long lost elementary school friend
- The adrenaline you get from booking a vacation
- Seeing someone at arrivals

Code. Blue.
[28 May 200607:49pm]

The distinct sound goes off, you know it's a Code Blue. On your unit. You do an environmental scan, see what's around you, infront you, in your way, out of your way, and mostly, searching for the light of the room ringing. You run in, it's them, the favourite patient. Your colleague is in the room, the adrenaline rush kicks in and The Process begins. Everyone else is running in. You move out furniture and the roomate to make space, other nurses run in, the code team runs in, compressions, intubation, defibrillators, heart monitors, drugs, respirators, wires, beeping, pulse, blood pressure, people, talking, shouting, noise, The Process. 30 minutes pass. The room falls quiet. Any more ideas?

Time of death. 1014.

A chill runs up your body. Your throat closes because you want to cry. But maybe you shouldn't. Not yet. Don't cry. Not yet. Everyone takes their equipment, papers, leaves the room, and you're standing there. Like in movies when you're standing still on Fifth Avenue, and every car, and person and object is flying past you in a blur, but you're just standing there...in a trance, caught, stuck. You don't want to, but you begin The Ending Process. Pack up their belongings, stuff them in a bag, carefully place their glasses in the bag eventhough they'll never use them again. Make them look their best even with an intubation device hanging out the side of their mouth. Family comes in. They say their goodbyes. You take one last look at the grey face. And you wished that the world would just stop turning for one moment. Just one moment. But it doesn't. It never does. Tag them. Bag them. Zip it up. And slowly over the face... just like on t.v.

Now I can.

It's so hard to say goodbye?
[13 May 200609:39pm]

I can't think of a cheesier title. Why are goodbyes so prolonged and painful, and hello's so quick and easy? How do you make a goodbye easier without disregarding the actual process of saying goodbye?

The Smallest Distance Between Two People is Laughter
[01 May 200606:54pm]

And the biggest distance is an ocean.

24 Things Every 24 Year Old Woman Should Have
[12 Apr 200608:33pm]

1. 5 Good friends...one to gossip with, one to share secrets with, one to shop with, one to eat and drink with, and one to spoon with.
2. Some customs stamps in your passport.
3. A gym membership that you don't use, and birthday cake.
4. An excellent C.D. collection starting from Grade 8.
5. An ex-boyfriend who taught you what you don't want.
6. So many pictures you don't know where to put them.
7. Someone you trust.
8. A credit card, overdraft, and debt.
9. So many aquaintances that you can't remember their names.
10. Good resources in number 9 that you can use such as friends of friends that are real estate agents or photographers.
11. RRSP's to make you feel ok about number 8.
12. How about a computer that works?
13. A POSTUREPEDIC bed...sigh!
14. Things that you no longer use: golf clubs, yoga mat, yoga ball, pilates DIY, parafinwax machine
15. People that love you and people to love.
16. 5 purses and 5 pairs of shoes you can wear on a regular basis.
17. Emergency outfit for 1) a night out, 2) a wedding, 3) an interview...plus the necessities like accessories to make it up.
18. Oasis- (What's the story) Morning Glory album...(thanx T.C.)
19. Friends from out of the city, province, country and continent.
20. Fond memories of times when you did something you shouldn't have done...and had the best time of your life.
21. Norah Jones music & candles to relax and fall asleep to.
22. The book: Men are from Mars, and Women are from Venus....and He's Just Not That Into You to lend to friends.
23. Fun and happy times plus a few regrets...not necessarily stemming from the fun and happy times.
24. A guilty pleasure. oh yes.

Old Nurses, You Are Still Eating Your Young Alive
[05 Feb 200607:58pm]

See October 11st, 2004 entry. Seriously. There is a reason why people who named a type of shark the "nurse shark." And I would think you were lying to me if you told me they weren't named after an experience with a nurse.When we were in school, we were taught to reflect on our practice, with the acronymn of L.E.A.R.N. I will not Look back, Elaborate on my story, i forget what the hell A stands for, i think R is to REFLECT, and New learning and decisions, etc. It's disappointing that after a year and a half, i still feel that i'm being eaten alive. More today than ever before. Here is what I've LEARNed about being a new grad in the past nine months:
1) Keep to yourself
2) Try not to kill anyone and back rubs are nice
3) Do not befriend the older staff, or any staff for that matter
4) Someone is always talking behind your back
5) Someone always has an ulterior motive
6) Better for you to be in shit, than them
7) Nursing was clearly a mistake
8) Chart like you're going to court
9) If you make a mistake its an incident report, if it's them, you keep quiet
10) You're probably the only one worrying about it
11) Don't stick up for yourself or you'll just create more problems for yourself
12) Did I mention that nursing was clearly a mistake?and last but not least the best advice i received today after ranting and raving about questioning my own practice, being talked down to and whether I make a good nurse, or if i'm a 007 as they would say on Grey's Anatomy (licensed to kill)....
13) Choose your battles [For i'm sure there will be many more]It's disheartning. And all you can do is hope that if you stay in the profession long enough to make that seniority, that you will not eat your young alive.

Karma, Fate and all that other Good Shit
[26 Jan 200610:34pm]

Today i came to the conclusion, that if I never dated this boy i met in Grade 10, I would have never met a good friend i have now, which in turn i probably would have never went to Cuba, in the end to meet a man that is near and dear to my heart. For that, thanks Tony.

Turn of events in life are so peculiar. Half the time you never end up where you thought life was going to lead you to in the first place. "You thought you wanted a career, but realized you just wanted a salary." You thought you were in love, but it was a figment of your imagination. As a child, you thought you would find a cure for AIDS and save the world, when really it was you that needed saving. You thought that your parents were in love, but they were just in love with themselves. You thought you were loved by someone just as much as you loved them, and they show you eyes of betrayal. THE perfect man, was your worst nightmare. You thought you would end up lonely and miserable, but then you run into karma, fate and all that other good shit.I always wondered if there was karma, fate, & soulmates (one, plenty, or none), and hated the saying "if it was meant to be, it will be."

The unknown is a frightening territory in my heart, as well as fire that burns endlessly. The ones you despise, u see day to day, and the ones you love the most are never just a jump, hop, and a skip away. And you cannot help but wonder, "what if?"The end of the story is a mystery. I guess for the meantime, i can only throw my hands into the wondrous power of karma, fate and all that other good shit. And trust that all things happen for a good, currently unknown reason.

T.R.U.S.T.
[18 Nov 200406:16pm]

What is Trust? Does it deserve a capital "T"?

I'm beginning to think that it's a figment of my imagination because maybe I think there is trust because there should be trust. Is trust something so important, that if you lack it, will cause you to create a bunch of escalating unwanted thoughts and have you end up being called psycho by your significant other? Is trust something you lose immediately after a couple breaks up because you believe the reason behind your heart break is due to someone else in the picture, and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that maybe you were completely in the gutter in the first place. According to the dictionary, trust is assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something or one in which confidence is placed.I cut and pasted and that.

But,What is trust? Something that drives you crazy if you don't have it. Something that every relationship should apparently have. Something that makes you fight. Something that makes you psycho. Something that if you have, makes you the greatest thing ever. Something that gives you security when you have it. Something that will make you run to the gym to punch a punching bag with your untrusted other's picture on the bag. Something that if you lack will carry onto your next significant other that will have a lot of issues to deal with. Something that makes you crying to chocolate chip mint ice cream with Sex and the City episodes. Something that makes you run quick like Donovan Bailey to your best-friend for her to tell you that you're not psycho. I have trust. I have all of the above. I just pick and choose who i give it too.

100%
[21 Oct 200409:01pm]

I’ve come to the realization that it’s no longer about meeting your significant other halfway. It’s not about each giving 50/50 each. If you’re both giving 30/30 at one point, you’re missing 40 percent…and within that gap is when you start to have problems. But if you’re constantly giving each other 100% all the time, 100/100, then if one person can give you nothing at one point, the other person is still giving 100%.

Just going with the motions
[12 Oct 200407:25pm]

Is it already October 12th? It seems that it was just yesterday that I came home from Ireland, and I was in a big ball of mess from debt (which i still am), and I was so confused about what was happening in my last year (which i still am that too), and I feel like i haven't accomplished anything. Yet, i only have another month and a half left before this semester is over. So, technically, i only have 4 and half months of going to school before I'm actually done...but April seems so far out of reach. But i'm running out of time...again. How did i fall into procrastination (besides pouring my thoughts here), and just going with the motions all over again. Is there not more meaning to life than just going through with the motions? Everyday drags. But when i take a minute to look back, all the time i thought that i had flew by.

So, what am I doing? The boyfriend described me as a care-free live in the moment, type of girl in Ireland but stressed out...but when I came home, I became this all about the future yet laid back person. So, is that a win lose? What do those combinations have to offer anyway?Care free, live in the moment but stressed?Thinking about the future yet laid back?Aren't those combinations mixed up somewhere?The more I ask questions and look for answers, the more confused I am. But I don't know if i really care because i'm quite comfortable with pondering.

Nurses, you are eating us alive!
[11 Oct 200412:38am]

Why Nursing?! A question that I ask myself everytime i'm slipping into my soft scrubs at 6:45am. Am i dreading it? Or am i just very tired, and think that i should get into the habit of drinking coffee? Everytime that i start on a new ward, i feel like the nurses on the ward are eating me alive. They have all these expectations, and i have no idea where they got them from, because i have no expectations of myself when i'm on the ward, except, don't kill anyone. I am not a bad student nurse just because I forgot to record how much urine output my patient had, or because I can't tell the difference between IV tubing for TPN and fluids just by looking at it. I care about my patients, I take the time to talk with them, and I give them back rubs because being in the hospital freaking sucks! So for all the nurses out there that have a student nurse, be nice. You are eating us alive and that's why there are no nurses left!

"Im looking for love.Real love.Ridiculous,inconvenient,consuming,can't-live-without-each-other love"

I want someone that’ll go and get my jacket from the car if he’s out with my friends and I.
I want him to watch me walk away when we walk our separate ways.
And will call and ask me how my day was, whether or not he’s having a bad day.
I want a guy that will make me chicken soup when I’m sick.
I want him to show up at my door with a bucket of ice cream when I’m mad at him.
Or tell me that he’s ready to talk.
I want someone who will return movies on time.
Or is that asking for too much?
And pick me up from work when I’m too tired to take the bus.
I want a guy that will play with my hair when I’m lying on his lap, but I already have that.
And cry over a bucket of Rocky Road ice cream because he doesn’t know what I want.
I want someone who will tell me when they need time away.
And to call when he’s going to be late.
I want a guy that will hang up my George Meis plaqued picture that’s been sitting there for almost a year. Cement sucks.
I want a man who will read “Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus” and everything that John writes in that book will stick in his head.

Please don't say this man is gay.

Just a start
[04 Oct 200409:07pm]

This is an entry my friend read and said I should go to livejournal.com. So, a year and four months later, here i am.

June 16, 2003…Monday afternoon…a beautiful day. A day where normally people would take for granted, not take a moment to breath, to live, to appreciate all that you have. Wednesday June 11th, my friend Sarann passes away from a blood clot that eventually became an embolism. Today people appreciate life, because one was lost. I could not take my eyes off the crying mother, as I touched Sarann’s cold hands. I couldn’t stop thinking about taking the GO bus home with her, and her head bobbing to house music, smiling at me. A beautiful picture of her stares me in the face. There was a sweet regard during my gaze at Sarann’s mom. I couldn’t take my attention off. It’s a pain I don’t ever want to experience; yet every time I saw or heard her cry, it made me cry.

The funeral was in another language. But at the same time so touching and I felt like I understood all they were saying and feeling. I went up to say a prayer of some sort quietly, to see her for one last time. I touched her hand wondering how it would feel. I was disappointed. I hoped for a warm responsive touch, but i obtained the opposite. I understood one word in the long passage, Goodnight.

A beautiful word with multiple meanings. Something peculiar about the way everyone that was standing there was connected in some way or another. There were so many familiar faces gathered around the doors of the crematorium. Silently awaiting for who knows what? Still a beautiful day, with a cool breeze, you couldn’t decide what it was you were getting goose bumps from. We watched them push the casket inside, I held my breath, I stopped crying…a loud cry sounds through the doors. I realized that she had lost her daughter forever; a father who had to wait to cry, many people lost a good friend. Goodnight to the monk, meant goodbye.

Why does it take a funeral to reunite people or see people you haven’t seen since you walked thru doors of a new or different life? Why are the first and lasts always moments that we appreciate and remember, and the moments that fall in between are soon forgotten or over seen? We simply don’t spend enough time appreciating what we already have. We spend energy on pursuing goals that we haven’t attained, but spend no energy on being content with what we already have. We have forgotten how to take the time to stop. I guess its just human tendency. You can promise to start appreciating, but then just assume when you will get out of that slump, that you can get the opportunity to appreciate at another time…regret. That’s what it leads too. I think my greatest fear. Regret.

In daily living, we can’t imagine what having someone or something we love and care about so much being taken away from us. Simply life, simple companionship, and precious simplicity…we don’t think about how unappreciative we have been until there’s a sign that a loss is possible. Did it just take death for me to realize I need to slow down…I want to, but can’t. I work with sick people in continuing care…people, terminally ill, or autistic children, and disabled children. I still didn’t see the appreciation of being able to take a morning breath easily, and for the rest of the day…to walk, laugh, smile, talk, and be in control of what I want and don’t want to do. Yet, it took a friend that I haven’t seen for a year to be lost. I mourn for her death, and cry for the disappointment of not knowing what appreciation really is.