The Rapture Shall Not Take Us

This was the name of my trivia team for the annual art gallery fundraiser late last year. We did not win, but it was funny to see normally nice people (including myself) visibly itch with impatience over their teammates' stupidity and rash judgment, and make excuses for their own.

Why I am concluding that indeed the Rapture shall not take me is that I'm becoming less nice, even notnice, and I have to admit it is both delicious and startling. I am The Baked Alaska--holy shit, there's frosty ice cream in this hot cake!

Exhibit A: I have chilled my heart to the pets. They are so adoring, but so messy (dog A) or demanding (dog B and cat 1.0). After staging my house for a real estate showing last weekend, I came home and admired my beautiful bed. Yes, scratch the surface and it's a nasty futon base topped with a Canadian Tire inflatable mattress, but I'd covered it with new sheets and blankets and fluffy white pillows and even two stupid shiny little cushions. It looked glorious.

The thought of stripping it down and sharing it again with shedding beasts with earthy paws was too much to bear. So I didn't. Also, I've decided that if I want to ever share a bed with a human again, I need to kick out the animals. There's logic there somewhere. The dogs now stay downstairs on the nasty futon couch with the cover a la "Southwest" design (we were issued them in the early '90's, along with Celtic tattoos and at least two Sarah McLachlan cds). They give me the gooey eyes but so far I've been implacable. Plus that fucking cat was waking me up pre-dawn, so now he goes out and stays out all night. So far he survives.

Possesion of all animals is on the table in Gretchen's big year of Movin' and Shakin' and Doin' What it Takes. The cat may go to mum's; the dogs to the ex. I will get a cactus if I get lonely, or go to the movies, or get off with or without company. Apparently, animals won't get taken in the Rapture either, so we can catch up then.

Exhibit ii: I am not nice to men I am not interested in That Way, but who inexplicably are drawn to me out of self-destructive tendencies. They may chuckle to themselves and think "Oho, she's a challenge." or "Super, whatta firecracker!" Yes, if you're not careful I will scream over your neighbourhood, wake up your parents, cause an aneurysm in your pet budgie and take a few of your fingers with me. Mostly though, I get bored to the point I actually find it interesting to have reached a new plane of boredom...and then beyond. It's a marvel, and you can't blame me for being notnice to the point of sarcasm if you demand that I feign interest.

Truthfully, you dopes ruffle my feathers as I myself am on the receiving end of some indifference these days from one I desire. Truthfully, this is the notnice part: that I am flippant and a trifle cruel as a petty way to pass on my own pain, even in small doses. Sigh. No Rapture for me.

Exhibit 3.0: True proof of a nasty streak. The words "community service" reliably makes my gorge rise these days. Listening to chunky men and birdy women with pinched faces solemnly intone about the Need in the Community and how they are Getting Involved..."and it feels really good, even though I'm ever so busy with work and kids and family, you know, it's all so crazy but it's all what keeps me going." Big sigh as they give themselves the mental reacharound for being such champions. Good for you. Really.

Myself, I'm going home to drink expensive bourbon out of miniature brandy snifters (where the hell did I ever get these from, anyway?) and crank Florence + the Machine (definitely notnice and damn that girl is GOOD) while typing out my dementia before my hands curl into stiff witchy talons only good for boiling eye of newt.

And obsess over why I still have cellulite and book a Brazilian wax and put off doing income tax and lust over what I cannot have.

And feel spasms of hatred for men wearing baseball caps (why oh why) and boomer couples who cannot order lunch from a counter without having a goddamn discussion first about the implications of ordering soba noodles over chow mein, and don't forget there's rice...and computer geeks who find it an interesting puzzle that the computer I have brought back four times in five weeks still fails to work properly, and who have attained the adequate social retardation to ask me to confirm that the computer left the store working, right? So I have to reply that I don't know, it may be the case but as it does not work when I get home it is not pertinent, and by the way I am not paying for this and by the way Part II, if I have to pick up this computer again to take back to the mysterious computer-destroying forcefield surrounding my house, if I do this and this computer fails to work 100% I am returning it to the store through their front window. And then I smile and leave with a chirpy "Call me!"

Yes, I am becoming a bitch and the truth is I like it. I have more sympathy with Cruella de Ville these days than I do with Snow White (ooh, I'm mixing Disney, I AM bad! Plus I'm two days late in updating this blog--evil!).

Anyway, if you snap at your child today or roll your eyes at a coworker or don't pick up the phone because you have call display, I hope you remember me. Visualize me flipping the bird to a surprised senior as the poor dear cuts me off in traffic, and forgive yourself instantly.

Cheers,
GRrrrrrrrrr