Tempted. (26)

Temptation sits beside me.
Resistance argues back.
I can't help but glance.
Gleaming in the moonlight.
Desire is unwise.
Attraction is obvious.
A violent opposition.

Damn this bowl of peanut butter m&m's.

Extract the happy. (25)

Couldn't have said it better myself.
Power to you.

The Drive. (24)

It's somewhere I wish I wouldn't remember tomorrow
If the better half is the journey itself
I would've never thought to beg or borrow
It's a Smiths album handily on the shelf

It's the thunderstorm I told myself to forget

A flowerless field I wouldn't want to walk

Like rolling down a hill in a white shirt you regret
Or a hand steadily stuck in the heart of the clock

A sticky situation. (23)

I cannot seem to wrap my head around the fact that Christmas (and my birthday) are in 5 days.
I did just however wrap a few presents which kinda put things into perspective.
And made me very excited.
What doesn't excite me are the following.
1: Bad scotch tape. THE worst! You can't rip it. The roll always flies off the spooly thing. You lose the end. You rip the tape in half trying to recover the lost end. Then once you've finally got that one little piece you've worked so hard at, it rips off your nail polish, which obviously gets stuck to the tape, and you start again...
2:  Why they make price stickers so damn sticky you can't take em off without leaving that black sticky residue behind (which is also torturous on your nail polish...) No one wants to leave the price tag on whether it's a gift or for yourself! We've nailed down wireless sensor networks, and mobile 3D, but price tags...Not so much.
Get it together friends!!

Big bad wolf steals ma song. (22)

Today was the perfect Sunday complete with lounging, coffee, semi burnt toast, more lounging, sushi, followed by, you guessed it, more lounging on the couch with an oldie but a goodie holiday movie starring the oh so passe JTT. (Man, I had such a crush on him as a kid! Really though, what girl born in the 80's didn't? Common now, don't you lie...)
So, me and the boy are watching I'll Be Home For Christmas, and it pauses for a commercial break.
Much to my surprise, I hear the lovely voice of Gregory Alan Isakov emerging from the TV.
It takes me but seconds to realize it's Big Black Car.
Quite possibly my favorite break up song, ever.
I am instantly intrigued.
Whatever they are selling, I probably need.
As the ad progresses, I find myself shouting "No! Noo! Nooo!" at the box.
I definitely do not want what they're selling.
My favorite Isakov song?
The soundtrack to the newest McDonald's commercial...
Ugh...
How disappointing.
You sold out to the big bad wolf?
Literally, the biggest and baddest.
My heart pines for the days when this song had no association to french fries.
I immediately blast text 3 friends whom I introduced to this charming vocalist alerting them of his sell out ways.
Kristie replies exactly what I need to hear...
"Maybe it's cause CD's and touring don't get ya much anymore."
I tout de suite feel a bit better.
I guess I can live with that...
He may want to change the lyrics to;
"Well you were a dancer, I was a rag,
The french fries in my hand, well was all that I had."

Whole lotta crazy. (21)

I can't seem to get out a single creative thought today.
These antibiotics are doing a number on my conscious clever levels.
(Yes, that is my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.)
And I say conscious clever levels because I have been having THE craziest dreams lately.
How is it that in a conscious state, I've got nothing, but in the suspension of consciousness my brain is an imaginative genius?
(I'll use the term genius lightly, as I'll let you be the judge after hearing this little number.)
My most recent and notably crazy dream involved;
Rushing to the airport and not finding anywhere to park the car so I leave it at the arrivals pick-up.
I fly to Jamaica with Kristie.
We rent a sweet Jeep and drive for what seems like forever.
We're about to arrive at the hotel, but as we're crossing a bridge, a ship rams itself into it causing a massive explosion. (The fact alone that I, me, Alissa, am dreaming of explosions? You know something is wrong...)
Pause...and we're back in Kristie's parents backyard in the hot tub.
Resume...back in Jamaica having dinner.
Suddenly my boy shows up driving a huge red truck, which to my recollection was for no apparent reason other than to include him in the dream. In a flash, he was gone. So was Kristie.
Next thing I know, I'm hiding from the hotel staff (???) and trying to find clean towels.
Finally, my cell phone was stolen by a catty Montreal tourist whilst (yes, I'm using the word whilst) trying to take a picture of the sunset...
How long was I dreaming?
That feels like a whole nights worth of crazy, no?
Lets see what tonight brings.

Like an old mirror. (20)

With the toughest confrontations
We are a little more unbreakable than before
Like an old mirror who has seen the likes of many faces
A gleaming frame of hope
A resilient reflector of daydreams
Like an old mirror
We are a little more armored
A little more shatterproof

Karma, you evil temptress. (19)

I studied Marketing.
I have a well rounded understanding of supply and demand.
I have an ample grasp on the cycles of cause and effect.

So, on an slightly unrelated, but very related note,  I should  establish that I also recognize that karma is a total and utter bitch.

Assuming of course, like me, you define karma as the cause and effect of your actions, or lack-thereof.

I actually have a formidable fondness of the idea that what goes around comes around.
It just seems fair.
And I like fair.

After recently learning that it would be unrealistic to never have had my heart broken, my eyes were opened more than ever to the ideas of karma.

That feeling of absolute certainty you're about to get a spoonful of your own medicine and finally realize how awful it actually tastes, is pretty enlightening. It's made me think twice before taking 1 single step in a direction where I can somewhat see that big ol' spoonful, lurking, burrowed in a corner, because I know damn well I don't want to dish that out again. Or have it dished back on me.

But with all my cautious walking, the less cynical and more appreciative me can't help shake the feeling that there's some rude and tormenting karma out there that refuses to let me go.

Sakyong Mipham (a Buddhist leader) hit the nail on the head when he said: "Like gravity, karma is so basic we often don't even notice it. "

True...but if it goes unnoticed, then how can you possibly reverse the universe's scheme and make things right?

How often do you need to be hit over the head before you're given the chance to make things right?

Going unnoticed doesn't seem fair. Certainly not as fair as my wonderful idea that what goes around comes around!

Because if you can't see what's coming around, doesn't that mean you probably don't deserve it?

And therein lies the question...how do you distinguish between karma, and just plain ol' bad luck?

Ok.

I'm done with the questions.

I'm off to make a pie full of rainbows and smiles.

Not really.

But I'll settle for a cookie!

Say some words. (18)

With about 10 minutes to say something, I feel like Ross when he couldn't think of a single clever thing  to say after having hit on his cousin...
His internal conversation, very similar to mine right now, was something along the lines of;
Say something clever.
Ok, doesn't have to be clever.
Just has to be words.
Just say some words.
Any words will do.
Oh my god, this is the longest that anyone has not talked.
Ever.
There is nothing you could say to make this worse, so just say something...

Well, in Ross's case, he really shouldn't have said anything, but I will leave you with this one question that has been stuck in my head for some time now...

Why are the complexities of a simple truth so...well, complex?

Too much. (17)

I was gunning for love

I was moving west

Too amorous to be foolish

Too foolish for the beating in my chest

I was holding onto nothing

I was running scared

Too hopeless to be hopeful

Too hopeful for things I never dared

Lost. (16)

A modern tale

Of a charming face.

At the right time.

In a novel place.

On a rocky hill

Where you fall hard.

A lost heart.

A dropped guard. 

On a Sunday. (15)

To understand my Mother, is to simply imagine me in 30 years.

We are two peas in a loony pod.

We pick up the phone to call each other at the same time.

We say the same things at the same time.

We get the same random songs like 'cama cama cama cama cameleon' stuck in our heads at the same time.

And then we have moments like this.

So, today, we go Christmas shopping.

After all our running around, she suggests coffee and a muffin.

(She forgets I can't eat muffins. I call her out on trying to rub it in. She feels bad. When I opt for a rice crispy square, she immediately feels better about the Second Cup decision. One of the many reasons I love her. She just wants every one to be happy. Always.) 

We sit down at a table with a stranger and his laptop because the coffee shop is so packed.

She turns to me, and begins this conversation...

Mom: I read your blog post from yesterday!

Me: Oh, yeah. What did you think?

Mom: It was good!

(long pause...)

Me: Yeah... it's hard for me to post stuff like that.

Mom: Why?

Me: Cause it's personal and I don't usually let people read stuff like that.

Mom: YOU WROTE THAT?

Me: Yaaaa, you think I'd post someone else's poem and not give them credit?

Mom: I thought it was just a poem you really liked! You really wrote that?

Me: Yes!!

Mom: It was sooo beautiful! When did you write that?

Me: Yesterday, in between cleaning. 

Mom: Ohhh myy gawwwd! You're fabulous!

And then we break out in laughter...

I guess it goes to show how rarely I let people read anything. 

My own mother who quite possibly knows everything about me, had no idea I wrote poetry?

Or at least attempt to.

But her affinity towards it was just what I needed to feel less toffee-nosed about sharing words. 

Mission once again accomplished Mom!

A rice crispy square and a writing compliment from an English teacher? (Even if her opinion might be a little biased for obvious reasons, because before she knew it was me who wrote it, it was "good".) 

But gawsh! Tanx anyways if you're reading this! (Which you better be...!) 

Disenchanted. (14)

A textbook taught you young dear friend
Each day would turn to night
That with each darkening window pane
Heavy hearts turn feather light

A moment came and gone too soon
Like more than you could bear
A spirit lingering in a moonlit corner
With a calm impetuous stare

A staggeringly tall moon
Hovering long beside his star
Hopelessly tangled in a heavy light
You wandered just one step too far

The disenchanted idealist
The irony wouldn't let you go
Now the sky makes a mockery of you
And the night owl is laughing low

Too excited to write. (13)

Probably not a great sign for those who are superstitious...
Skipping out on my 13th post would be the equivalent of opening an umbrella in doors.
Or worse.
Cheersing with water.
But ya know what?
I usually do cheers with water.
So, to heck with the #13.
I'm off to see The National!!

(watch the show be cancelled with me and my big unlucky # 13 not caring mouth....)

The little things. (12)

10 little things that made me smile this week.

Holding on to a surprise and keeping my mouth shut about it for 24 whole hours. 

Seeing my favorite's reaction when I told him the surprise.
Hot chocolate, roasted marshmallows, fire pits and hand holding in the city.
Acoustic sets in front of a wooden framed window, draped with red velvet curtains, and snow falling down outside.
Hymn 101 by Joe Pug.
Buying my first Christmas present this year. 

Getting an appointment with a Naturopath.

Finding out that gluten free pasta isn't as terrible as I imagined.

Ginger Ale labeled as 'outrageous'. 
Waking up with surprisingly nice hair for once.

Red light encounters. (11)

I like to think there will be a day, that I won’t be harassed at a red light by a creepy man in a creepy old beat up Saab, but rather that a Westfalia of good looking, well dressed, longhairs will pull up beside me.
Perhaps they’d even be singing Tiny Dancer!
Perhaps one of them would look like Jason Lee.
Maybe he’d even invite me on the bus and encourage my singing along, not because he was desperate, but because I stared longingly and piercingly enough through the semi tinted windows of the burnt orange bus long enough to catch his eye. 

Maybe my suggestive hand gestures would intrigue him? 

Maybe I could further peak his interest if I yelled profanities? 

Maybe I could back up, flash my high beams to momentarily blind him and his friends, then proceed to advance and wave both my hands at him like I was trying to put out a fire on my window sill or trying to bring back the windshield washer dance move. 

If the windows of the bus were rolled down, I could try making that gross clicking sound with the back of my throat. 

Honking would probably work too.

He’d totally ask me to hop in…

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!

Why? 

Why is it that men in this day and age seem to think these tactics are a great way of getting a girl’s attention?   

Unless she is a clearly identified hooker, NO GIRL AT A RED LIGHT IS LOOKING FOR A RED LIGHT ENCOUNTER!

I can laugh off a childish 16 year old fooling around with his friends on his first Friday night out with a shiny new license, but this man that I encountered last night was so not 16.

Take 16 and multiply it by 3.

Maybe even by 4.
Have you learned nothing about women in your 64 years on earth you nutjob?
It wasn't even remotely chuckle-able.
It was up-chuck-able...
I would like to ask you sir, who was old enough to be my father, what exactly did you think would happen? 

That I would fall madly in love with your filthy gestures which I regretfully saw with my peripherals? 

That after you backed up far enough to shine your high beams in my rear view and proceeded to advance closer to me, that I’d jump out of my car?

Leave it right there in the middle of the street,  say “screw you Betty!”, and hop in with you? 

That sounds just the way I always imagined my happily ever after would begin...

Had his sanity been a little less questionable, I would’ve loved to show him some hand gestures of my own. Instead, I sat there singing along to Santa Clara by The National, pretending to be oblivious to ignoramus twit beside me.

So to any guys out there reading this, heed my advice and lay off the red light hootin and hollerin’. 

You think chicks are crazy for “wanting to talk about their feelings” but this….no, this is totally cool. 

Lord. 

Another song that no one knows. (10)

I distinctly remember intention.  

My hands firm and ready to applaud.

Now the blithely driven chorus,

Is a blitzed and trying fraud.

A little pleasure seeking,

To match lyrics with a beat.

That had been shaken to the limit,

Like a child and snow globe meet.

To sacrifice the speculation,

Like a bag of worn out clothes.

Till it rushes over like a river,

Where the water never flows.

A song that no one even knows.

Tell me where harmony goes.

Intangible. (9)

I promised myself I wouldn't make this blog too much about music.
I could easily post a 'song of the day', every day, for the entire year.
But when I said I wanted a challenge, I did mean it.
It's just that now it's 11:33 and I've got nothin.
Don't feel cheated.
This isn't just any song.
This song has stood by me through the good, the bad, and the oh so very ugly.
And for those who know me, you'll often hear me say "Oh, this is my favorite song!", and as hard as it is for me to say this, this may very well be my all time favorite.
It's not complicated.
There's no crazy riff (that I'm usually a sucker for.)
The lyrics are simple (also, a sucker for.)
His voice may even be debatable.
But it has an intangible quality that evokes hope, and leaves me feeling like I'm wearing rose colored glasses for the first time.
And ok, ok, I like to imagine that I'm the girl wearing faded jeans and soft black leather with eyes so blue they looked like weather.
What girl doesn't want to have a song written about them?
Really though.

Great-ful. (8)

It's Sunday night.
Still at home.
Feeling better.
Listening to Foreign Born. Vacationing People to be exact.
The christmas tree is plugged in.
My boyfriend is making dinner.
Is there anything wrong with this scenario?
I can't think of anything, aside from the fact the I'm slavin away at this blog post, not helping with dinner while he suzy homemaker's it up in the kitchen.
So not complaining.
And the nice guy that he is, neither is he.
In between checkin in on the status of our dinner, I ask him to help me come with a topic for tonight's post.
So far he's come up with "umm, my boyfriend is so hot"....
And while he's accurate with his suggestion, and quite cute I might add, I was thinking of something just a little bit deeper for this Sunday evening's post. Especially given that I majorly slacked yesterday.
Rather than speak aesthetics, lets speak gratitude.
We spent the majority of today doin nothing.
Ok, we may have watched the cooking network for a while, which I guess constitutes as 'something'.
And that 'something' may have resulted in the cooking extravaganza happening in my kitchen as I write this.
I haven't had a great lazy Sunday is the longest time, and for that, I am grateful.
Why?
It felt great to sleep in.
It felt great to sip coffee quietly and cozily under a blanket on the couch.
It felt great to shower and not have to rush out the door exactly 30 minutes later.
It felt great to put on my Dashboard Confessional t-shirt circa 2004.
It felt great to feel 80 watching the cooking channel.
It felt great to have a home cooked meal.
And it felt great to spend my Sunday with him.
And for all this greatness...
You guessed it.
I am grateful.

Boo. (7)

Well, it doesn't look like I'll be leaving my apartment all weekend.
That should be good for a case of the ol' cabin fever.
I'm feeling pretty uninspired and lousy, so I leave you with this...

Oregano Oil is a life saver if you have a cold.

My Mom just stopped by my place with a mini bottle of the good stuff.
Sore throat gone.
Mouth on fire.
Totally worth it.

A conversation with winter. (6)

Me: How can I be sure you're here?
Winter: Don't be fooled. I'm here.

Me: But there's no snow!
Winter: No, but you saw that poor stranger fall down last night. That's a pretty good indication that me and my friend have arrived. 

Me: What friend?
Winter:  Black ice. It's true what they say. She is a real bitch.

Me: I'm surprised you have any friends at all.
Winter: We're a toxic couple. And I like it.

Me: So whattabout the snow? You're kinda slacking this year, no?
Winter: You should be happy I spared you last night. 

Me: Way to change the subject.
Winter: Did you laugh when she fell? 

Me: No, because unlike you I have a soul. I just couldn't believe that I saw someone else fall.
Winter: It's not all about you, you know? 

Me: But I thought I was your favorite?
Winter: Oh, you are. Just thought I'd give you a little preview of what's to come.

Me: How kind of you.
Winter: Oh yeah, I'm saving my best for you. I'm thinking a  major wipeout. Similar to the one in the middle of St.Denis when you slipped on that tiny patch of frozen juice, except this time, in front of many more people. 

Me: Bring it on baby.
Winter: It's just a matter of time before you wear those gripless boots.

Me: Ugh. You know me too well.

Grind my gears why dontcha. (5)

I read this quote the other day. 
Boy, did it grind my gears (ironically.) 
It did make me chuckle.
Because boys are stupid. (I'll make several exceptions.)
Just not for Larry Lujack.
"When buying a used car, punch the buttons on the radio.  If all the stations are rock and roll, there's a good chance the transmission is shot." -Larry Lujack

Who are you anyways, Larry Lujack? A top 40 disc jockey who's probably never even heard of The Grateful Dead or The Sex Pistols?

Why? 

Why would rock n roll radio stations imply a "good chance the transmission is shot"? 
Because a rock n roller baby would obviously drive pedal to the metal. Literally? 

And while I understand the implied irony, and yes, partially reasonable assumption, does that also imply that it's impossible to say, a cute girl, who always oil changed on time, who respected that the washer fluid went in the washer fluid thingy and that the anti-freeze fluid went in the anti freeze thingy, who changed her transmission fluid, never overheated, and never incorrectly changed gears, couldn't possibly have her radio station programmed to the rockiest of channels? 

When I think back to the head banging, finger tapping, seat shimmying and Whitesnake sing alongs that went on in my old car, I can only hope that Raymond's new owners live up to his expected rock n roll lifestyle.
He was the prefect highway companion with a heart transmission of gold.  

Nerves. (4)

Tonight is going to be a potentially embarrassing, hectic, and late night, therefore I cram this post in on my not so lunch break, lunch break.

Leave work at 5.

Go home and vegetate on the couch, tv, cell phone and computer free to detach. Maybe meditate a little if I can clear my head fast enough.

Leave at 5:45 to pick up the boy.

Drive to the quatre cinq zero formerly known as the South Shore, and pray the whole way across the Champlain Bridge that it sustains itself long enough till we make it across.

Arrive chez les parentals and prepare for embarrassment…

He’s meeting my parents for the first time. Not only the parents, but my Mom’s best friend and her husband who have known me long enough to say they have seen me bathe in their kitchen sink.  God, I pray they don’t talk about me bathing in the sink…Or, while we’re praying, that they don’t come prepared with the photos of said bathing…

Those two definitely have enough dirt on me to turn this night into a reminiscing landslide of trips down memory lane. Not to mention the stash of DVD’s of my youth neatly hidden in my Mother’s closet that they love to bust out upon the arrival of any new guests. And yes, I was a cute kid, but the 15 minute video of me crossing that 5 foot rope bridge, timidly, quietly, and oh-so precisely, is a little uncomfortable.  I’m not even sure what’s worse... That my mother filmed the entire 15 minute process, or that it took me that long to get across, thinking that with each movement, I would fall through and plummet one whole foot to my death. (Maybe it’s time to admit to my fear of bridges that I’ve subconsciously tolerated and suppressed for so long.)

If I’m newly single tomorrow, at least I'll know why.

Glutard. (3)

Glutard: a term most recently brought to my attention.

Defined as; that annoying girl in the restaurant who asks  a million and one nit-picky ingredient based questions before ordering her meal. She has a toastless breakfast, therefore forcing her to order scrambled eggs with nothing to absorb a sunny side. She has salad for lunch not because she's dieting but because her frenemy is that delicious looking sandwich conveniently place beside that moist banana chocolate chip muffin. She brings rice when she goes to her parents house, and rinses the gravy off of her mothers stew. She has a father who thinks it's all whooey and a mother who wants to take her grocery shopping all the time to make she's eating well. For dessert, she passes on the red velvet cheesecake, and discontentedly opts for a Glutino wafery cookie. If she's feeling sassy, maybe two.

Welcome to my world.

Peaceful drive. (2)

My patience has really been takin' me for a ride, and frankly I’ve had just about enough. I either need to pull over, or attach one of those chains to the back of my pants to prevent motion sickness. Any chance you think they’ll be trending for spring? I could get a head start on innovation. Probably not, huh. Or maybe I’ll just tattoo “Where am I going, and why am I in a hand basket” across my back.

Going to hell in a handbasket? No? Maybe this was a bad idea…

I’ve never been a fan of Route Crazy, but lately I can’t seem to merge onto Peaceful Drive. Everybody’s moving at the speed of light, honking, talking on their phones, texting, texting while backing up, putting on makeup, putting on makeup while backing up, plowing…Don’t even get me started on  the asshole that is the city of Montreal who loves to plow at 12:40 am.

Our world is so fast paced and proves incredibly difficult to keep up with. That’s part of the reason for this blog. And it’s title for that matter. Sigur Ros is like the epitome of relaxed. The entrancing and ethereal sounds of their song Staralfur calms me down instantly each and every time. Hense the title. It reminds me that I need to slow down and breathe every once in a while. In other words I need to ‘simmer down.' (My grade 9 English teacher would be proud. She would always tell my very rowdy class: "Simma down now! I said...simma down.." Back then I thought she was nuts. Now I realize she just may have been a genius undercover.).

I know it's only day 2 of posting, but the hopeful in me thinks this may be one of the most fabulous of ideas. My head is definitely clear as I write this. (Clear aside from the ever present and pending fear of over exposing myself to strangers...But we'll disregard that...)

Then, there is the cynic in me who I know is just waiting to question in a day or so exactly what I've gotten myself into...A post a day for a whole year?

I have but one answer to that cynic.

You'll never get anywhere if you don't try. 

You don't need to go full speed ahead, but you definitely need to accelerate if you wanna get on that highway. 

It's over. (1)

Mr. Moleskin, 

I've been procrastinating for far too long.

I kept telling you that I wanted to get back into blogging and you were never supportive. You played into the fact that I had an old soul. And not only that, but I became a total pen and paper whore as I continued to scribble away during the course of our pretty serious 1 year relationship.

I don't know if I can do this anymore...

You went almost everywhere with me and I told you my darkest secrets. I even weighed the pros and cons of committing to this blog with you. We talked about this. You can't say you didn't see it coming. 

While you were always very good to me, I just don't think it's working. It's not you. It's me.  I need a change. A challenge. It was too easy to write in you whenever I felt like it. I want to commit to something more. Something like a post a day for a year that others will actually hopefully read. It was too much about you, and I need some 'me' space. I want to put myself out there. 

Maybe we can still be friends?

Your ex pen and paper whore,

Alissa

xox