a worry sampler

So I saw someone today I hadn't seen in years. I was blathering on about my worries about my car's squeaky brakes (which a shall-be-unnamed car mechanic franchise - it rhymes with "Lidas" couldn't find the problem for and sent me on my way with still squeaky brakes and a suggestion of getting a completely unrelated problem fixed at a crazily high cost) and she said "you haven't changed!"
"Hey," I said, "I have too, I have furrowed brow wrinkles now," (refer to the "wrinkle factor" blog of earlier).
Anyway, she meant I am still a rather obsessive worrier. For some reason, this made her laugh loudly and for a long time. Oddly, this made me worry.
"What can you possibly be worrying about all of the time?" ask various people. Others don't ask, they just back quietly away and then run, run, run.
So I am providing a worry sampler. Here are a random list, in no particular order of some things that I worry about:
- Why hasn't that person called me back? I've called them two times and I know they are in town. Why are they not calling me back? I must have done something to offend them. But what did I do? When did I do it?
- In less than 60 years I'll be dead. My body will be eaten up by worms. Is there life after death? Is there only total oblivion?
- Why are my car brakes squeaking?
- Why can't I find a man? Will I ever find a man? Will I be single for life?
- Why do so many of my worries contain the word "I"? Is that extremely selfish? Am I more self-absorbed than the average person?
- Why can't I figure out how do use the rice cooker properly? (see earlier blog about rice cookers)
- Why are people hungry all over the world? Why are children dying? Why am I not doing anything about it? Why do I feel guilty all of the time?
- Why am I so judgmental?
- What if I accidentally fall into the skytrain tracks? Do you die instantly or do you feel your head being blown off?
- Is Jennifer Aniston okay? Is Brad Pitt really sleeping with Angelina Jolie?
- How did Jon Voight get so ugly? He was so handsome in Deliverance and Midnight Cowboy and now - yikes.
- Are people having fun without me?
So there you go. I worry that you won't like this blog.

celebrityism

I have weird love/dislike feelings about celebrities. On the one hand, I am appalled (that word seems snobby, don't know why but I'll use it anyway) that Hollywood celebrities make so much money doing what they do. They make so much money and they get into restaurants for free. Their wealth seems incomprensible and unconscionable to me. Yeah, yeah, money does not buy happiness, blather blather. But it buys - stuff. Lots of stuff. Mansions.
Rosie O'Donnell. I've signed up on her website in hopes that she'll send me free stuff (she sometimes does, she says). She seems like a really cool person to me and according to a friend who has met her, she's really smart too. I liked her talk show and she does seem to give a lot to charity. She mentions in her blog (which I read daily) that she gave $100 to a kid once who lost his wallet. And I know she's paid people's mortgages before. Very kind.
And yet - Rosie also mentions that she just got a cheque which, after taxes, totalled about $14 million US. One cheque, one time. So I start thinking that maybe Rosie could sell a couple of her mansions (Miami? New York?) and afford to feed all of those people in her country her work five jobs or whatever.
Yeah, yeah, I know I am simplifying complex economic systems or something - that Rosie O'Donnell and her buddy Tom Cruise cannot stop world poverty.
And after all, I did sign up for her website and I do read People magazine every week (well, I get it free at work, but still, where are my principles?)
Blather

their turtle is missing

This afternoon on the skytrain was an adorable little family. Usually, to be honest, I am far too bitter not having my own family that I don't pay any attention to adorable little families. But sometimes they get in the back door.
There was (in no particular order): a mother, a father, a wee boy, about 3 I'd say and a little girl, about 2. They were sitting in this order: wee boy, father, little girl and mother. The father had his arm lovingly around his son and the mother was talking to her little girl (the little girl had cute blonde ponytails, a chubby little face and arms) about her favourite colour. The wee boy was tired and kept putting his head on his father's lap.
Suddenly, the little boy said "where's my turtle?" A check was made of the little girl's backpack and the general seating area. I said a silent prayer for them to find it because apparently, without it, "he'll flip out," said the mother. The turtle was not found and my general rage against an all-loving god was confirmed (I just had to get that in there).
"We'll have to go back," the mother said to the father. "Yes, back downtown," said the little girl, "downtown, downtown, downtown."
"Just Daddy will go and we'll wait for him at home," said the mother.
"No, no, I want to go with Daddy," said the wee boy, "I'll hold on tight."
They then got off of the skytrain (well, they waited until the next stop) and I assume went back.
I hope they find their turtle .I worry.

Insomnia

I suffer a lot from insomnia, unless I'm sleeping. Last night I woke up at 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4:30 a.m. and 6 a.m., when I gave up and took a shower.
Lots of people seem to have ideas about insomnia cures - warm milk, meditation, soothing music, ramming your head against the wall until unconscious, 5 or 6 Valiums. I've tried them all and the first three didn't work at all, the second last caused a wee in-house earthquake and the last, while pleasant, made getting up the next morning difficult. The Emergency Room doctors were lovely though.
The less I sleep, the harder it is to sleep the next night. I'm exhausted but more wired up. I also lie there and think "I'm going to have insomnia and this will result in exhaustion and I won't be able to cope tomorrow and I'll do something inappropriate at work and people will wonder about my mental health, but will be too shy to say so to my face so will merely gossip behind my back and in the washroom." That was a huge run-on sentence, which I only make when I am tired.
People have been leaving comments and giving me some interesting advice. Strangers even, which is great but I do wonder how they managed to find my blog amongst the millions. Any new insomnia cures out there?

the wrinkle factor

"How hold was she?" I asked my friend about someone she was describing who did a strange thing at a strange time for strange reasons.
"Well, seeing as she had about the same wrinkles as you and me, I'd say about our age," she told me.
Can you tell someone's age by their wrinkles? On my recent driving expeditions I've noticed, while looking in the rearview mirror, that I've developed 2 permanent brow-furrowing wrinkles. I've tried a few times to rub them out and if I raise my eyebrows in surprise they are less obvious. But then I have to walk around looking surprised.
Wrinkles.

The receptionist is leaving

The receptionist at the E.S.L. school where I work is leaving. And I'm sad. She's only worked for us for about 7 months but then again, I've only worked at this school for about a year.
I've tried to be a receptionist a few times in my life, only to find myself fired because apparently you are not supposed to answer the phone, "Good morning, ABC Company, What?" Not cool. My handwriting was also so incomprehensible that someone once thought I wrote "Fwod" instead of "Earl." So he called the company (my numbers are slightly more legible) and asked for "Fwod." When he told me the story I bent in half laughing so hard. That did not go over well. Another time, the Pain Management Group, which met at the organization where I worked, telephoned. They had to cancel the meeting that month because the guest speaker had pneumonia. "Wow," I responded, "That must be painful." That also did not go over well. Go figure.
So Susan is leaving. She got the whole receptionist thing - always very polite, always very in control. Most important, she fit right in. E.S.L. teachers on the whole, with a few exceptions, are an odd bunch. (and I of course include myself in this). Heck, some are borderline mentally ill (and I of course include myself in this).
Susan always lets me be my weird self and even greets me with "Karen!", kind of like "Norm!" on Cheers. She's young and happy (and wonderfully tall) but handles my um - rather - um - biting sarcasm with grace, even when she doesn't quite like it.
E.S.L. teachers, on the whole, with a few exceptions, are a cheap bunch. We get the newspapers everyday at work and on Fridays, when there is a TV Guide insert, I always rush to get my free copy. (Hey, now $1.50 x 52 is a whole lot of Czech Crowns) One Friday I wasn't there. On Monday, Susan gave me the TV Times that she had saved for me. A small thing? Sure. But I was touched.
Susan's off to travel the world. I wish her luck and fun and peace and adventure. I'll miss her.

cats and redemption

A friend's childhood cat just died. The cat, a female I think, was 18 years old and my friend got her when she was 11. There was crying when she found out. I feel bad because I don't think I was sympathetic enough.
Another friend has six cats.
My landlords, who live above me, have a cat named Bob. I'm not a big cat person, in fact, I have found them all to be arrogant and standoffish. I figure I spend enough time chasing after people who are like that, so never mind the cats.
Anyway, Bob. I like Bob because he is needy and yet ultimately embarrassed by that neediness. When I come home he is often outside, and will wander over to me, meowing until I pay attention.
"Hi, Bob," I say enthusiastically, "How are you?" I pet him once, maybe twice and then he is off again. I go inside my humble basement suite and a few minutes later I will hear him meowing outside of my door. If I'm not busy laying face down on my futon, pondering the ultimate meaninglessness of my life, I will open the door. Bob will rush in. He lets me pet him once or twice and then scoots away to sit in the middle of the room. If I try to pet him again, he scurries away.
I like that about Bob, he tries to be a tough cookie but his need for interaction is stronger.

Bob. I knew a chronic sex offender named Bob once. Long story made shorter by my not telling it but suffice it to say that I lived in a house with him and five other women at one time. The owner of the house and "head" roommate, was a gentle and lovely women who thought it was her mission in life to save stray men. Bob was handsome, charming and gregarious. His parole officer, who I called once in desperation, assured me that Bob was no threat to me, that I wasn't in his age group of those he um, well sex-offended. A few months later, after he moved out of the house I was living in, a peace bond was put on him. Now he couldn't live with a bunch of women.
But I digress. I took to calling him "sex offender Bob" and of course, S.O.B. for short. Bob the Cat is redeeming the name for me and helping me to like cats. Thanks, Bob.

Single Transferable Vote and the pope

This STV idea is confusing - B.C. may change its way of voting to this. Single Transferable Vote. It is apparently very important that we all understand this and yet, it seems very few people do. (according to CBC radio). I don't really understand it either and find that I don't really care. And yet, I want to care. Do you care that I want to care? Who cares! Hee hee. It's early morning, bear with me.
Can anyone explain the STV in four steps or less? I would be most grateful.
I have to nearmiddleagerant about the pope for a minute. He is, according to all reports, anti-woman, anti-birth control, anti-same-sex marriage, anti-divorce. And he wants to redeem Germany. Why are millions of people following him? I don't understand. Did they use the STV process to elect him? Please explain the pope to me, in four steps or less. I'd be most grateful.

- Karen

A friend recently gave me a rice cooker for my birthday. I was excited because the rice I make is always sticky or dry or too wet or some rice dysfunction.
I opened up the box, read the instructions, did the necessary washing and put in the amount of rice and water I was told to in the booklet. The booklet said it would take 15-25 minutes to cook.
Five minutes after it started cooking, the "cook" light popped off, meaning, apparently, that all of the water was gone. I left it on "warm" for another 15 minutes like the instructions said. I took off the lid and the rice was completely stuck to the pot. What wasn't stuck, was dry. Who can mess up in a rice cooker? I thought.The next time, a week later because I wanted to be completely over the trauma, I tried again.
More water, less rice. "Cook"
5 minutes later - water boiling over the lid onto the table. Lid off, rice stuck, water everywhere.Why can't I do this?
Does Rosie O'Donnell have this problem? Actually, in her blog, she mentioned that she just got 14 million dollars, after taxes. I'm thinking she has her own rice cooker person. i'm trying not to be weirdly jealous of Rosie O'Donnell's millions and her own personal rice cooker. She seems down-to-earth and her spelling is even terrible. But, still, 14 million in one shot, who needs that much.
I need a rice cooker person.
Bear with me, my posts will get more interesting.Or not.
- Karen

Trying it out

After years of hearing about blogs, I'm breaking down and creating one. Heck, Rosie O'Donnell has one and she just does some stream of consciousness stuff. Blather. I'll just see how it goes.

Karen