Insomniacs of the World, Unite!

So, it's 2:09, at last count, and I've spent the last 2.5 hours tossing and turning. Until, that is, I decided to get up and have a bath. Now I've moved my wicked stained glass lamp to the other end of my desk, where I'll be able to reach up and turn it off from bed. I never did move the lamp after moving my bed late last year.

It was a sex-noise thing; I didn't want the neighbours to hear when I was getting laid, but the rest of my room's logistics have been left the same. Pity. I never read in bed anyhow, but that's more because I just haven't been much of a reader these past few years. I think it's time I awaken the giant and get back to books. I was reading one of the Guy's favourite novels ever, until I misplaced it, If On a Winter's Night a Traveller. I was enjoying it, but not loving it. I have difficulty with excessive cleverness sometimes, but I finally had moved past that and was getting quite into the book when it was mislaid. Since then, it's been found, but I've been too distracted and wouldn't do the book the justice I feel it deserves. It sits here, now, to my right, awaiting the moment when I'm ready to return like any prodigal reader would.

In the meantime, it's Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour. He who made me most feel like a culinary wimp, that is.

I won tickets. Yep, two of 'em. I get to go see Bourdain talk on Sunday night and have decided it's only fitting that The Guy should join me, as he's a Bourdain fanatic, having bought some of Bourdain's books multiple times to foist upon the unsuspecting culinary needy.

I'm just in the middle of a passage about oysters, and the weirdest thing has occurred. I'm craving seafood. I wonder if seafood would help me feel better, too? It's got so much good in it. I think my body could be doing like a French revolt. All my little French, Irish, and Scottish, as well as Prince Edwardian, cells rising up in defiance at the 30+ year moratorium on seafood I've cruelly placed upon it. My family has lived for centuries on the ocean -- surely I'm the first ignoramus to scoff at seafood. From PEI mussels to whatever the fuck they eat on the shores of Normandy, my DNA's been bred for centuries, if not millenia, to pursue swimmy-fishy things from the deep.

And what do I favour? Land-lubbers. Fucking pedestrians is what I'm after. I feel like such a child sometimes, revolting against seafood. I said that to a non-seafood-eating friend of mine and she balked, as if I was calling her a child. (I was.)

Eating sushi was a good surprise. Didn't hate it, didn't want to jump up and order some for myself (and since we were on my couch, that's good) but a strange thing happened... I sort of convinced myself to NOT have another piece. Why? How silly.

Last Christmas, I went with GayBoy to my annual staff dinner, which was held this year at the widely critcally acclaimed Rodney's Oyster House. I nearly wept when I heard of the location for the party. (My company likes the thrill of surprising us, but gives us the opportunity to investigate and learn of the settings well in advance, should we desire to, and I did, since GayBoy and I love yammering on about all the goodies to be unveiled at the fine establishments my office always chooses, like Umberto's Al Porto, Raincity Grill, Pastiche, Rodney's, et al, to the tune of about $7K+ for about 25 people.)

As the weeks went by, I began to steal myself against my fear. I finally said to GayBoy, the night before the big to-do, that I would try everything that was set before me. Try, I said. Not eat the whole of, but try.

As the night unfolded, I tried oysters on the half-shell, oysters rockfeller, fried clams, whole lobster, and a couple other little things. All in all? Enjoyed it. I felt all right, too, as if my body got some much-needed drug it'd never been exposed to. What is this, I wondered. Contentment?

I'm ready to try more, too. The sushi experiment surpised me. GayBoy was mighty pleased with himself. The Guy's impressed, since it wasn't "wimpy" sushi but "real" sushi, too. But fuck them. Nice to have the approval, but somewhere out in the great yonder sits my seafaring, seafood-loving dead mother who's probably muttering, "About fucking time you became my daughter anyhow."

Reading Bourdain makes me recall Kitchen Confidential (which I'll kick GayBoy's fucking ass if I don't get back soon!) and his telling of his first foodgasm with the first oyster to slither its way down his throat. I have no such radically freeing culinary first experience that stands out in my mind, save for the experiences at the Sultan's Tent in Calgary, when I tried my first Moroccan Chicken Pie.

It's strange to hit 32 and realize how sheltered you've been and how much the fault lies with you. My mother would eat anything, almost, as she worked in Chinatown the last few years of her life. She'd eat anything they put before her, and had no problems doing so.

I'm still at that phase where I'm getting up my nerve. But something's finally happening: the nerve's getting itself up. I mean, sushi? I'm pleased with myself. It's high time that occurred. It's fucking well time I tried sushi living here, in Vancouver, one of the sushi capitals of the world. When it comes to Asian, no city in North America does it better than Vancouver, so what am I so scared of?

Correction: What have I been so scared of?

Anyhow, I have worries on my mind, of the job-finding kind. One half of my body is terrified, and the other half says, "It's the right timing, and it's magically going to work itself out." Well, magically because I know the cards to play, is all. Lucky, that. I don't try hard enough professionally. I should beat down the doors, believe in myself more. I talk a good game, but I need to begin playing one. I did something brassy tonight and sent a certain someone a resume, someone who's doing me a solid by way of helping me into the world of podcasting. I figure, what the hell. He's starting to move his company up here, or that was the grand plan, and it's taking longer than he expected. I'm thinking I'd be a brilliant personal assistant. I was subtle, except for the rather obvious resume attachment, but that's how these things go.

So, four resumes will go out by Friday morning. One tomorrow to an employer I have always, always wanted to work for. Something I figure I have maybe 15-20% chance of getting. What I have that few other people have, though, is a truly original resume.

I won't tell you how it's original, but suffice to say, it really is. It's different. I was shown how to do skills-based resumes last year, and this idea clicked in my mind for what I could do that would either NAIL jobs for me, or lose them. It's just that different. Well, the Guy helped me with a jam tonight and fixed a stupid problem I was having, and told me it was an awesome resume. He's not typically given to puffery, so that made me feel nice -- which is good, considering the scared-shitless feeling I'd been mired in for the six hours preceeding that.

I'll be getting that off around lunch tomorrow. Fingers bloody crossed. If you know how to throw good juju my way to fire the old mojo, then begin transmission, my friends. Begin now! Oh, but lemme sleep, first!

[Strange sleep-inducer: Shaving legs. One less thing to be conscious of feeling when in bed. Nothing like clean legs, right? Strange, but works. I's smooth like silk now, I is.)

(In a nutshell: I've been on employment insurance, trying to get my writing career started. I'd gotten some conflicting info way back at the start of the EI and despite the conflict, was sure I was covered until the end of August, at the least. I was visiting my old employer today, trying to see if I could start working for them in August, so I'd get back to being able to focus on the writing. It was a cover-my-ass card I thought was well-timed to play. Right before leaving, I decided to confirm the expiration of my EI, and surprise, surprise -- it ends instead on June 17th. Turns out some sick time I'd used last fall is deducated from this, all 13 weeks, hence my massive miss-judging of reality. This is completely unlike me, one of those major fuck-ups that so seldom finds its way into my life, but there it is; major and inarguable. I feel like a fucking ninny. I talked to the old job, and at this point, 75% likely I'll get the minimum amount of hours I require to pay the rent from now until August, but at the cost of confusion with sceduling, for sure. Still... it's very likely I've fixed a very major mistake. I'll be so relieved when I speak to my old boss tomorrow, but I'd rather that dream job, of course, or the job of being a personal assistant to this very colourful, kind, and business-brilliant man. Still, I worked this job for six years and won't have stress ON the job. It just won't be fulfilling, but that's what's writing's for... right?)