Capris and Toilet Bolts.

I would like to take the time to thank the Operations Manager of my Chamber of Commerce for increasing my wardrobe to at least triple of what it was. She was able to become tired of more clothing than I could imagine owning. I am now the nervous, yet proud owner of pants - and lots of them. For those who know me, you know Femmies just don't do pants. I see pants as a casing to my sausage like figure and can't say I like it one bit. It's not that I am fat - I see the number on my clothing - size six is not fat. But... I'm "Hour Glassy" ... Which is a polite way of saying you have a great waistline, but your extremities look like sausages. I've got a booty - not one to rest a beer on, but one there none the less. That, paired along with the fact that I am a toe walker, always makes my behind more pronounced (Oh Lucky me!) as I walk half leaning forward with a super giant back arch...

Back to my new clothing. Jeans! Pants! Capris! Ooh la la! I've made a promise to myself that I can wear these out. I put them on, I spun in the mirror - I was okay with what I saw... The First Time. Fifteen minutes later I had to use the commode and I passed the mirror - looked at my limbs (which I swear gained weight since the original try on just moments ago) and cried. My reasoning for my comfort in skirts is simple - it does not show my legs as individuals - instead - creates a nice flowing A-line past my hips and outwards - and in my mind - I give off the illusion of slenderness... Clever, eh? I know. I play up what I am comfortable with. I've got a tiny waist, and my chest - well it's certainly there. I use what I gots - lets mees tells yous. Hard on myself? Perhaps - but it's just one of the idiosyncrasies that make me me!

On another note - WHO STEALS the BOLTS off a toilet seat? I mean weird things have been stolen but that is just not right. So there I was - sitting all lady like on the toilet, reaching in a fashionable manner to get some toilet paper... Because God has a humour, the dispenser was broken and my toilet paper roll goes flying downwards and onto the floor. In a panic, I quickly scoot myself to the front of the seat to catch my toilet paper before it flew into the abyss of the bathroom... However, instead of me scooting the entire toilet seat came ahead with me landing me head first into the door and bouncing me right back to a seatless toilet. Once I check for blood (which there was none but I do have a bump on my head) ... I start to laugh. Confused about the whole incident, I stand up, fix my nylons, skirt, etc... and look behind me. The BOLTS are missing from the Toilet seat. Each one of them. This particular seat had three empty holes where bolts once lied... These should fasten and secure the seat to the base - however, kinda hard to do when they aren't there. Unfricken real. Anyway, I went to the church staff and let them know of this... Issue. I swear one was wondering if I took the bolts. Clearly, as one could see with the giant red welt on my forehead, *I* did not steal the bolts. I guess better me than a poor cute little older lady who's hips may not have made it through the ordeal - forget the head.

Such is life. At least I was done peeing. Now THAT would have been embarrassing.

Today was a fantastic day, by the way. Tomorrow - also looking immensely promising... This week will fly by! Oh I love the sunshine - I love being busy - but yes, as most ask - I do miss the Florist... *laugh*

I caught the Toilet paper, BTW.

It's Monday Morning.

I love when you first start a blog again - because there are about eighteen billion entries the first week - several in a day sometimes... And then it dwindles down.
... and down.

...and down.

It's Monday Morning. Another week has arrived! I've eaten my granola and yogurt... (More than the suggested serving may I add - I guess this week will be a rebellious one). I tell you, searching for the perfect granola was more work that I expected. I wanted something low in fat, yet tasty! (and let's not forget high in fibre) ... I found it. It's the Our Compliments Original. Femmy gives it two thumbs up!

At 0830hrs, I'll arrive in Thorold. Thorold is a sketchy place. I've met several nice people from Thorold - yet I've never seen them in the actual City OF Thorold. They have all been wise and have escaped. The building I am in is located in the heart of sketchiness. The classiest thing around the area is the funeral home down the street - which is beautiful, nicely manicured and very clean looking. After that, your eyes search, hoping for something equally as nice in the area... Search ... Search. Search ... Oh! There! Right there... The next nicest thing in Thorold. It's a lovely couch from about 1976 that has been left outside our building for about 11 months. It's a lovely - wait... I don't even know the colour I try not to make eyecontact with it. Anyway, it's just awful. Imagine the filth. It's nicely located right next to the dumpster. Classy, I tell you. So I've joked about the couch numerous times. Even street people don't touch that couch and good for them! ... Then, on Wednesday last week - I pull in to the parking lot - look around me several times to ensure no one is around to mug me - and ... GASP! There are two, not one, TWO people SITTING on that couch. What makes it worse is that they are sitting with their coffee and their Ziploc bag full of handmade smokes at their side (not drugs, folks - smokes - if they had drugs it would be slightly more understandable)... You know, folks. I've seen a lot of things that would make the average person throw up through verbal description - and I am generally okay. THIS made me gag. Their hand would go down and touch said couch, and they would bring the same hand up to hold an object going close to their mouth... *shudder* ... Just Wretched. The only thing that made this event worth while for the sheer terror it gave me - was the reaction of Fund Girl (my counterpart at the contract job) to this news. She's known the couch longer than I have and her face was just ... Fricken' hilarious. *laugh*

I work until 1600ish... Then come home - finish the laundry I decided to leave to wrinkle in the dryer yesterday - clean the kitchen - AGAIN - because dinner didn't clean up itself for some reason. There goes that idea! ... Then after that, wait for Mr. Bob to call me to go back to the funeral home and go over some photos that I have done up for a slide show for one of his service groups. I want his nod of approval first. Then, perhaps a walk... Then, ideally, by 2100 at the latest - I will be fast asleep.

Work sweet, guys. I may return today during lunch if I have something new to say ;)

Welcome back, Femicas.

No more hiding behind private blogs where I could get feedback from readers across the continent who knew nothing about me. For the record – for all of you who spent much time wondering what my blogging name used to be – it was Brushups . I’m going to go at this again – I’m not sure with how much force – but I enjoyed it. I like to write… I like to blend into the rest of the world – and both of those lead to the logical decision of making another blog!

So I have a had day to myself. Something that is very rare. Something that I thought that I would enjoy. Instead, I found myself antsy and pacing and wondering what to do with myself. I promised myself that I would not be productive in any sense – unless it had to do with me and me alone. So I was allowed to clean my car, do laundry, putter in the kitchen… Etc etc. No courses, No organizing volunteer stuff, No “nothing” of the sort.

I started off the day at the funeral home. A family arrangement, followed by the graveside. Family was really nice. Really down to earth. Lost their boy… I was detached somehow. Detached of my job. I think, what makes me a good funeral director – is that usually, in my own little world. I am part of their family. They need me, and I need to help them. I want them to like me and understand that I will do all in my power to make things better for them. Make things run smoothly. Usually I can remain Funeralesque through the most heartfelt arrangements, heart breaking services, deafening sobs of loved ones, and sometimes even screams. Today, for some odd reason, I’m standing by the niche listening to a distant Anglican service watching the father cry and I was thinking… “What am I thinking? I can’t help him. He just lost his boy! Who the hell am I?” … and I just stood there… Waiting for my cue of “Earth to earth… Ashes to Ashes… Dust to dust”… I drew a perfect cross on the urn and skulked back to my side of the niche. I felt useless. The committal ends… The father cries, the wife hands him a Kleenex and a pat on the elbow – and I could just stand there. They walk over and give me a giant hug. Saying how I made things so much easier, and how talking to me gave them comfort and understanding, and they appreciated all that I had done for them. They thanked me again, and turned to walk away.

I heard this from them yet today it was not sinking in.

Maybe I am detached because I’ve been submersed into other things lately? Maybe I doubt myself because of the lack of work out there? I know this was just a passing thing. I am too passionate about my work. I’d breathe it if I could. I think I just miss it. I think that’s it.