au canada!

This is my favourite Canadian. Well, next to Ryan Reynolds, that is. Hey, Brandy? I added the "u" in "favourite" just for you.

I'm a big fat liar. In my previous post today, I said there wasn't much to report. Lies, dirty lies! Actually, let's chalk it up to what I've been referring to lately a Mono Brain. Seriously, people. This here Mono has made me a space cadet. Dumb? I haz it.

Anyway.

What I want to tell you is that I love Canada. And by "Canada", I mean "Brandy." Do you know Brandy? If not, you should. Seriously. She will change your life. I mean, just look at her up there. SHE'S WEARING A HEAD LAMP, PEOPLE.  Need I say more?

Brandy writes this amazing blog, which I read ALL OF THE TIMES and find myself either laughing hysterically, feeling my eyes well up with some sort of liquidy substance, or just wanting to rip through the Interwebz as fast as possible to get to her so that I can hug the living daylights out of her.

{Hmmm. Better re-think that. 'Cause, you know, then she'd be dead. And that's no good.}

Oh, and she also teaches third grade. One of my most favorite-est posts EVER regarding said topic? Right here, people. Grab some Depends. You're not gonna be able to hold your bladder from laughing so hard.

You get my point.

Recently, the darling girl had a giveaway contest on her blog. The topic? Books. {HELLO THAT IS MY MIDDLE NAME} I entered. I won.

I know! I know!

And what did I win?

This book, which arrived in the mail yesterday, courtesy of the Canadian Postal Service {which, it appears, has finally gotten its act together after, ahem, that one time they didn't}:

Thank you, my sweet Miss Brandy. Oh, and the card you included? The weeping. Everywhere. I love you, too. Please get your cuteness here to Pittsburgh stat. Or, you know, invite me to Canada.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'll just invite myself.

There. I just did.  See how I did that?

oh, the truth. the truth!

Not much to report today. Saw this image on Shareable and thought HOLY BANANAS THAT'S SO TRUE. Even for people with graduate degrees. It breaks my heart that our society doesn't value the Humanities like it used to. Big business and money money money are all that seems to be valued these days. Terribly sad.

Le sigh.

Happy Friday anyway, my loves.

sleepwalking.

You guys. I am tired. Like, super exhausted why do my limbs feel like they weigh 200lbs each tired.

Mono. What a little bitch.

I just want to sleep...stop my body from moving, recline horizontally on a soft surface, and shut my eyes. I've been doing just that, as a matter of fact, as soon as I get home from work. And my poor little body literally feels like it's sinking through the mattress. 

Yesterday, I arrived at the parking garage at work at 8:20 a.m. But here's the thing: I was literally too fatigued to actually get out of the car. I couldn't lift my legs. I mean, I really couldn't. So I just slept in my car until 9 a.m., my body a tiny bit stronger after that little bit of rest. And then I was able to walk to my office across the street.

So, who wants to come over and take care of me?

Bring tea, please and thank you. Oh, and also puppies. This kind.  Mmkay, thanks.

why i shouldn't have children.

Let's take a break from Shit Storm 2011 and focus our attention on something else: my control and anxiety issues. I know what you're thinking: How are those two separate from Shit Storm 2011, Laura? Well, they just are. Because I say they are.

Can we just talk about why I shouldn't have children? It's not because I'd, like, engage in immature or dangerous behavior, or that, you know, I'd eat them or anything. It's because I have major anxiety issues. Which make me need to control everything. Including the uncontrollables.

Let's examine.

I'm currently helping out a friend who asked that I drive her 16-year-old daughter to an intensive dance class each morning, at which she needs to arrive by 8 a.m. and be picked up at 10 p.m. {A long day, I know!} Now, I am logically aware that a 16-year-old isn't exactly a 3-year-old, but somewhere in my mind's Crazy Department, I think that a 16-year-old is helpless and can't be left to go to the bathroom/make a sandwich/open a drawer on her own.

Because, you know, she just might fall in/cut off a finger/get crushed.  And then we'd be in a heap of trouble. And we all know that Laura does not like trouble.

So, as I function this week as temporary guardian and chauffeur, I am, I will confess, freaking out. 

I am such a worry-wort. The night before, I lay in bed, thinking out the next day's activities. Are her clothes laid out? Did she pack her lunch? What if her alarm doesn't go off? What if my alarm doesn't go off? Is traffic going to be awful? What if she's late? Will her dance teacher make her do a hundred extra pliés? All because I'm a horrible guardian/chauffeur? And that's before I even turn out the lamp on the nightstand.

Yesterday I dropped her off for the first time. I was looking over at her, like, forty times to make sure her seat belt was on. She must have thought I had a tick or something. Then, when we were pulling up to the building where her dance class is, everything was blocked off because--oh, that's right--they're filming the Dark Knight movie. {Yes, Pittsburgh is the Hollywood of the East.} My first thoughts were What if she gets kidnapped by a grip? What if she stops to eat a bagel at the craft services table and gets food poisoning? What if the make-up artist mistakes her for an extra and swoops her away to the make-up trailer, never to be seen again? What if she trips on one of the bazillion lighting and sound cables that are strewn all over the place, breaks her leg, AND CAN NEVER DANCE AGAIN? OH MY GOD THIS IS A DISASTER.

When she was finally ready to get out of the car--we'd found a safe place to pull over, not too far from the building she needed to go to--I was like Okay, why don't you text me when you get in to let me know you're at the right place? And, maybe, you know, you could also send up a smoke signal. How about a carrier pigeon? Do you think Western Union still sends telegrams?  

Arrived at correct building STOP Am putting on leg warmers STOP 

Bless her heart, she agreed and somehow managed not to make her eye-rolling too dramatic. And then, because I am completely neurotic, I circled around the area until I got that text message. Which didn't come quickly enough for me. And so I started to worry. 

OH MY GOD SHE'S BEEN TAKEN ALIVE. OH MY GOD THE MAKE-UP ARTIST SNATCHED HER.  She's probably in one of these movie trailers parked around here, tied up in a barber-style chair, having animal-tested make-up caked on her skin, Diet Coke {oh, the aspartame! The aspartame!} being given to her through a straw, which is putting unnecessary air in her tummy, causing excruciating gas cramps, AND SHE'LL NEVER DANCE AGAIN.

And so I sent her a text message. And didn't get a reply. And so I kept circling, like a vulture, one that preys on people who may have taken the poor girl {I'm looking at you, Make-up Artist.} And then I called. No answer.

Commence Operation Freak Out.

FINALLY, she text messaged and said she was at the right place and was filling out paperwork.

I un-hunched my shoulders. Phew! I thought. I was so not interested in taking down that make-up artist! She probably would have stabbed me in the eye with a mascara wand!

And that, my friends, is why I shouldn't have children.

quite.

Mmmmkay. First things first: several of you took the time and effort to email to me {and leave comments} some words of love, encouragement, commiseration, and care as a result of my previous post, and for that, I thank you most sincerely and deeply. There is nothing like opening up your email and seeing messages from complete strangers {well, we're not THAT complete of strangers, right?} telling you that they just want you to be happy, okay, and to feel loved and strong.

I mean, who does that?

You do.

So, I thank you. I have read your emails multiple times, have digested the words, let them sink into my skin and bones and tenderest of places. I am hoping that I can start to live them out soon. But in the meantime, know that your words are not just sitting in cyberspace. They are, in fact, within me, germinating, getting themselves ready to burst out into a whole new me. Or, at least, a little bit better me.

And, you know, if you want to write to me again, I wouldn't be against it. {hint, hint}

I don't have to much to report this morning. I am tired--this mono is kicking my butt. I do have some extra responsibilities this week as a result of a request made by a dear friend who needed some help, which I am happy to do, but I am so very tired and hoping that I can keep my promises and make her proud. Any positive energy {and energy in general} that you might be able to send my way is greatly appreciated. Sugar on top. Promise.

I definitely need a shift towards better luck these days. I am just so tired. So very tired.

Happy Monday, my darlings. Send me some extra hugs if you would, pleaseandthanks.

well, at least it's not ebola.

I have mono. I know what you're thinking: Gee, Laura! I'm so jealous of your life! Your car got broken into, people have been letting you down left and right, and now you have an illness that's going to make you debilitatingly exhausted and maybe even give you a wicked sore throat! You have the best! life! ever! 

While I will spare you the details of how I think I contracted mono {let's just say it involves the person who I was sort of thinking might be someone I could trust and build something new with, only said person recently betrayed me--"recently" meaning "while I was in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago," and "betrayed" meaning "slept with an engaged woman he barely knew in a hotel room in the city"}, I will tell you that it appears this is par for the course lately.

Let's review.

1. Ross. {Need I say more?}

2. Watched a dog jump off a three-story apartment building while in San Francisco.

3. Returned home from San Francisco to a car that wouldn't start. {Battery? Dead as a doorknob.}

4. Car got broken into and laptop stolen.

5. Got diagnosed with mono.

6. Learned that someone I thought was a man of dignity and integrity was actually a man who met women, went to hotels with them, slept with them, all while knowing that these women were engaged.

I'm having the Best! Life! Ever!

Oh, and I had to scrounge up quarters from various purse pockets and couch cushions in order to put gas in my car this week.

Yeah. I'm lovin' life.

Sympathy emails and words of pity may be sent to: withlovefrompittsburgh@gmail.com.

{image from here}

final hours in san francisco.

You know, it's funny. I went on this trip to San Francisco, had an amazing time, went to two different Catholic churches, and returned to Pittsburgh to Shit Storm 2011 {which includes but is not limited to: ex-boyfriends' painful business in your face, my car getting broken into, and finding out today--yes, just today!--that someone ELSE I was getting close to and beginning to trust TOTALLY BETRAYED ME}. 

Quite frankly, I have no interest in church or God right now. In fact, I'm beginning to think He's a total fabrication.  Or just a jerk who likes to see--and lets--good people suffer.

But. I digress.  

FINAL DAY. Sunday, July 3.

It was a beautiful church, don't get me wrong. I'm definitely old-school when it comes to churches. Don't give me any of that modern spaceship bullshit. I want beautiful architecture, columns, spires, marble, gold, candles galore, stained glass, the works.

We got to the church really early {typical of my darling papa}, so we were able to walk around the area a bit, relax, take some pictures. One of my favorite sights?  A man practicing his sword-fighting. Alone.

You know, in full sword-fighting dress.

Awesome.

And then there was the lovely Tai Chi morning crowd:

And all the hungry San Franciscans {is that what they're called?} lining up at Mama's for some yummy breakfast at the corner of Stockton and Filbert:

When we finally got into the church for Mass, my favorite moment of the day occurred. A man walked in with his pet bird. And the two were oh-so-very-sweet with one another.

After Mass, we went back to the hotel, and during the cab ride, my dad was totally speaking Russian with the cab driver. Because, you know, that's how my dad operates.

Then we packed up the rest of our stuff, and headed toward the airport. IN A MERCEDES. WITH TINTED WINDOWS. And my dad? Yeah. He was totally speaking POLISH with THAT driver.

BUT.

When we finally got to the airport, of COURSE there were issues. Like, United didn't feel it necessary to be able to have me check in with my parents, EVEN THOUGH WE WERE ALL ON THE SAME CONFIRMATION.

Here's my Glare of Death for United:

But luckily, there was a helpful service assistant who took matters into her own hands {while my father, in all 6'4" of himself, was stern yet polite}. And so, I made it through check-in and security.

And then we spotted this at one of the shops on our way to our gate:

Me pointing at the Secret Agent L magnet that Quotable Cards made and now sells all over the world. Amazing!

All in all, it was an amazing trip. I didn't get to my apartment in the city until almost 2 a.m. on Monday, July 4, but that's okay. I fell into bed, slept for the rest of the day AND the following day, and will always have the happy memories of my amazing trip to San Francisco.

Thanks, Dad and Mom.

My next post will return us to the Regularly Scheduled Life of Laura and the Shit Storm of 2011 That Has Ensued. I know! I bet you can't wait!