Due to privacy concerns, I have created a new journal.

If you're not on my friends list, and can't see the locked post with the new link, please email me and I will send you the new URL.

happyshmee @ hotmail.com

Since losing internet at home, I haven't even turned on my computer in three days. I keep coming up with things I'd like to write here, but obviously that's not possible, unless I come into work extremely early (like today) and have time to kill (like today: I have to go to the bank to deal with the fact that I accidentally deposited my pay stub instead of my paycheque on Friday, and have to wait until the branch here opens at 9:30 so I can go in, confess, and feel like the idiot I am).

The Dennis cat has been sick for a few days. At first it seemed to be a stomach issue, and I had to chase him around my half-empty apartment, pin him down, and shove gooey cat laxative in his mouth. Now he'll eat, but he won't crunch any food, so I think it's actually a toothache, as he seems to have a bad cavity. I'm very fortunate to have a father who's a vet, but when he lives over 300km away, there's only so much he can do. Poor kitty: he'll probably have to be spirited away to the cold northern climes to have a tooth yanked out.

I move on Wednesday. Yeeeeeeee. I packed a lot last night, and although I definitely own a lot of crap, I don't actually own quite as much crap as I thought I did. This is very, very good.

I was social twice this weekend. First time I'd been social . . . since the previous weekend. That may seem normal, but as someone who tends never to say no to plans, I find that very strange.

And now to the bank to face personal humiliation. Sigh.

I just wanted to alert the world (or like the 3 people who actually read this thing ;) ) that I will be without internet at home, as of this afternoon, for at least a week, or possibly up to two weeks.

I'm moving next Wednesday and Thursday. So. Huzzah!

I just finished the part-time job thing I was doing on top of my fulltime work, so after the move is all over, I should start having some semblance of a social life again.

That's right -- my anti-social hermit-like days are soon to be done. Unless I discover that I've developed a phobia of social interaction. That would be sad.

But yeah -- if you need to reach me, world, you're pretty well going to have to use . . . THE TELEMAPHONE. YE GODS!

Pure Nerd

THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST}}) -->

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 90% on nerdiness You scored higher than 69% on geekosity You scored higher than 49% on dork points

Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

I had totally bizarre dreams last night. I remember one particularly . . . poignant one. It actually disturbed me so much I was lying in bed sweating and genuinely creeped out for a bit. So very, very sad. But comically sad . . .

I was watching some kind of strange and terrible stage play. There were these creatures who were putting on the show; they were these strange sprite-like people, dressed similarly to court jesters. They were displaying and then proceeding to torture a succession of giant living creatures made out of plasticene.

One of the creatures was a giant green triangle with a big round red spot on its belly-area. (It was a triangle -- so not very anthropomorphic.) It had no facial features -- it just kind of wobbled slowly around like a big stubby tentacle. Well, the sprites started making these rounded indentations into the red tummy area. And I thought, oh no, they're hurting it! Then they actually took out a couple of little rings of the red plasticene. The made these two stalks, from the green plasticene, above the red area that were level with each other and spaced apart a bit. Then they stuck the red circles on the ends of these stalks. The big green triangle now appeared to have eyes similar to a slug or a snail.

Suddenly the green triangle gasped with wonder. It had this deep, slow voice, very childlike. "Huhhhh! I can see the sun! I can see all you guys!!" It was full of such intense, innocent joy, it sounded like it was going to burst into happy tears, with its new eyes. "I can see my friends! I can . . . I can see the sun!" Its eyes were waving around in an exploratory way, and blinking.

Just as it said its last "I can see the sun!", two sprites each reached out with what looked like long pruning shears, and they cut off the eyes from the ends of the stalks.

"I can see . . . I can . . . Whaaaaat? Nooooo." The plasticene creature sighed. It slumped despairingly. "I guess I'm back to just seeing me myself."

And I woke up wanting to be sick.

theshaggy says:

"I'll pump into you eventually."

+ hangover =

Eden is ridiculously stoned at work.

My boss told me today, when I left for lunch, not to wander off somewhere and get lost or anything. Which pretty much says it all . . .

Then while on my lunch break, I filled out a label for an express-post envelope. I almost wrote my birth year in the date section. Awesome! This package was mailed in 1981 . . . Riiiiight.

I need sleep. So. Bad.

Meanwhile, the world continues spinning, and I go wheeeeeeeeeeeeee.

I'm totally itching to dye my hair (and no, not a literal itch -- no lice or poor hygiene happening here). Not entirely sure what direction to go with it, however.

I'd love to take a vote . . . because I'm sure this pressing issue has you all lying awake at night.

What colour should I go?

Auburn -- I've tried it before on a very temporary basis and loved it.

Very dark brown -- It's already brown, so why not take it all the way?

Something else -- Suggest away!

or

Leave it alone, you narcissistic freak -- Very low maintenance!

I lose at St. Patrick's Day.

Day started at 9am. Left for work. Worked until 2. Had lunch with my mother, then went to a couple of overpriced furniture shops. Bought nothing.

Went for dinner with my mother, my sister, her friend Erica, and incessant .  Then, off to Phantom of the Opera (A Mystery Never Fully Explained!).  Good show, good cast . . . although one of the principals (Raoul) was replaced with an understudy after intermission, as he apparently "fell ill."  (incessant 's utterly unfounded theory: he's too HIGH to perform anymore!  Yeah!)  The understudy wore the same wig as the main actor, though, so it wasn't too distracting.  He was a little shorter . . . but maybe the stress of dealing with the Phantom was causing him to slouch?

Thought about going out after . . . thought about it for about 30 seconds.  Went home instead.  Watched BSG.  Fell asleep.

Drank not even a DROP of alcohol.

But I wore a green coat . . .  That's something, right?

And . . . hey, wait a minute.  How is it a celebration of Irishness to wear green and get drunk?  Isn't that . . . stereotyping rather badly?  Or are the Irish just soooo cool that they dig people pretending to be terrible parodies of them?  Because that's pretty feckin' chill.  If so, good on 'em.

Curse you, filthy hotmail! Why aren't you working AT ALL today?

Is it just me? Is it just this fool computer?

MUST CHECK MAIL.

(internal, silent scream)


EDIT: It must have heard me complaining, because now, hours later, it's WORKING! Yaaaay!

Went to Robin's party on Friday. Fun times. Drank a modest amount of alcohol. Socialized muchly. Ate some truly . . . fascinating cake. I believe my piece was one of the testicles.



No really. The alcohol? It was a modest amount.

Hey. So people have been requesting a post-Cuba update, which I will post . . . hopefully soon, with some pictures or something.

I know I've fallen behind in correspondence with a number of people, for which I apologize! My time since I've gotten back has been packed pretty full between work, homework, and other obligations.

Yes, I am still alive. Yes, I am still your friend. Yes, someday soon we shall hang out, and yes, I will answer your email.

To give this entry some actual content, I shall announce some happy news. On Saturday, I found a new apartment! Yay!!! It's a small one-bedroom around St. Clair and Oakwood, and it has a DECK. A deck of my very own. A tiny deck, but a deck all the same. Sweeeeeeeet. I'll be moving there in late April. Which means that yes, I am staying in Toronto. I'd rather give myself a short break here than a long break in North Bay, so I've decided to stick around.

People will have to come over for a drink. We can sit on my DECK and have it there.



(I've been using the word DECK so much since Saturday that it's actually losing its meaning.)

Facebook is so bizarre and, I say this tentatively, pretty wonderful.

I just joined a group there called -- I kid you not -- Taking over the world, one Bachelder at a time. It's for people with my obscure last name to band together for the sake of world domination!

There is, predictably, a forum discussion regarding proper pronunciation of the name. Which, for the record, is batch-elder. Emphasis on the first syllable. That simple, folks.

And here, finally, is that fox painting I posted photos of while it was still a work-in-progress.

It was this piece, incidentally, that I produced specifically for the show I was recently booted out of.

So instead, I guess I'll just show it here. Hope you enjoy! Any feedback/criticism welcomed and encouraged.



Hmm. I may make that one leg a little shorter, but I'm of two minds about that. Anyhow, that's my piece!


(Edit: The colours look kind of like shit here. Imagine them, um . . . better.)

There's a wee blizzard outside. The gallery has been quite dead all day. I'm working all by myself.

Five minutes ago:

I had the urge to listen to the Magnolia soundtrack. I stood in the middle of the empty gallery, loudly singing "One is the loneliest number." I only clued in about 3/4 of the way through the song how incredibly sad and funny the moment was.

In words of Evil Willow: bored now.

Here's some kind of weird bird I drew in my sketchbook the other day while killing time during my critique. I got a touch bored, I guess, once I hit the tail area -- that and I ran out of paper.

I'd like to start posting sketches as close to daily as possible. Yeah, I know -- I never seem to come through on this stuff. But . . . I can try . . .

I want to scan and post some drawings; however, my computer at home is mad at me, and wants me to reinstall about 5 programs before I can do that.

Now, I am at work. I am sleepy and bored. And I want a cookie.

That is all.

For the last year and a half, I've been at work putting together a group show with my former coworkers from Loomis art store. I was there for the initial meeting and attended every one thereafter. I met all my deadlines, produced a piece specifically for this show, and, basically, did everything expected of me. There were others who dropped the ball, sure, but I was with this thing from the beginning.

I was told in December that, finally, now that all our pieces were ready, we had a space to show them in. One of the girls there had a friend who had opened her own jewellery studio, and who was happy to let us use the space to show our pieces for a weekend in late January. Sure, it was only for a few days, but it was something, and I was looking forward to having an accessible show to which I could invite my friends. Finally, a proper space, with a proper opening event (wine, snacks, schmoozing), as a reward for the time and work I'd put in.

So fast forward to Saturday, when I stopped by the store to pick up some supplies. "Oh," says one of the girls. "A few of us are having a little group show. Take one of the flyers there."

The flyers states: "four artists." And then lists four of their names. Where is this show? The jewellery studio. When? The end of January.

"Oh," I say.

"Yeah. Oh by the way, the 18 by 36 show is no more."

"WHAT? When was THIS decided?"

"I don't know. A few weeks ago I guess."

Today I went in and picked up my paintings. I was too mad to even voice my rage over this . . . development.

Essentially the four of them decided to use the space -- that was supposed to be for OUR show, and which was the last thing we needed to actually HAVE the show -- to have their own show and turf everyone else. Without, apparently, even consulting anyone. I don't think I even have the words to properly express the kind of self-centred bitchy evil required to do something like this to people who had worked so hard on this for so long and been looking forward to finally seeing it pay off.

What's worse is that they were so patronizing and falsely apologetic when I came in to get my paintings. I couldn't even say anything. I had planned on at least saying "I THOUGHT this space WAS for the show -- what the hell happened?" but instead just glared a lot and refused to say "it's okay" to their half-hearted apologies.

Why did they do this? What the hell? Did they feel their work was so much better than everyone else's that they were justified in kicking everyone else out of the show? What am I supposed to feel? Is this their way of telling me my work is crap and they don't want to be associated with it? Because I really don't see how else I'm supposed to interpret this.

I'd really like to fire off all of the above in a collective email to them to let them know just how . . . terrible . . . this whole thing is. I feel totally betrayed by what they've done, but I feel like, if I express it, I may just be playing the part of the sore loser. I don't know . . . Do I grow a pair of (metaphorical) testicles and tell them what I think, or is the "grown-up" thing to do here just to keep my mouth shut? Because honestly, I'm pretty sick of playing the door-mat in these kinds of situations, and it's already been made pretty clear that these people have no respect for me or the work that I do. I thought I had produced good pieces, but apparently not good enough for their ilk.

This is exactly the kind of exclusionary elitism (redundant?) that puts people off of trying to make a go of anything in the art world. I thought it was just a stereotype, and a convenient excuse for people not to even try, but apparently it's no myth -- some of those people really are shits like that.

Edit: To add injury to insult, the top of one of the paintings is scratched to hell. Thanks guys.