Footloose and

nylon free, finally it is Friday again. Five days of insurance telephone hell and a girl needs a beer.

I'm relaxing in front of a stack of newspapers that I stole from the recycling bin behind the office. Please, don't expect me to read all that nonsense about Palestine or Iraq or whoever is mowing down who, I am so OVER politics. But I like how newspapers look all stacked up together. Kind of fluffy and weighty at the same time. Black, white and read all over...ha ha ha.... I always HATED that joke.

I wonder, if I cut up the words and randomly pasted them back together without looking, would any logical sentences occur? This requires more than a beer. Excuse me, I´ll be back in a flash

Wow, the Green Goddess strikes again, so Woody Harrelson...

Anyhoo, I'm back, more relaxed, and I'm chopping away with my favorite purple scissors. Every word looks so SIGNIFICANT. For example, the word "THE". How do I begin to describe the virtues of this little language workhorse. It pops up everywhere and seems so frivolous, but just try writing something without it and see what happens. "GO" is another favorite, all round and pudgy. You look at it and expect it to lay on the couch eating vanilla pudding, but say the word, "GO" it flies out of your mouth in a burst of action. So efficient. Only two letters.

I'm gluing the words to my electrical panel. All the "THEs" in the top upper corner and all the "GOs" in the bottom left. After I find my lighter and open another beer, I will design the perfect center design to ground the piece and mesh the dialogue between "THE" and "GO". I am so brilliant.

Monday morning

and I'm shuffling some papers around, drinking coffee and actively ignoring the jerks in automotive. They came third in the Old Timers' hockey tournament. They beat Harry's Meat Market 3-2 in overtime for the bargain store bronze plaque and you'd think it was the Stanley Cup.

I'm creatively shuffling my papers with great concentration to block out their back slapping. If I have to rot away here, wearing nylons no less, at least I'll use the time to develop my creativity. Multi-tasking as they say. Very Donald Trump. So I am filing the customer satisfaction surveys by the numbers of syllables in the last name. That gave me three give piles of 1, 2 and 3 syllable names, and a few odd balls like Wyzokoski, who I chucked together in the pile of unpronouncables. Within each pile, I organized them by handwriting. Left slants together, bubble dots over the letter "I" in another pile, etc. The system came to be last night in a dream. Very Shirley McLean.

I thought people would be commenting on my blog by now. This getting famous thing is a lot of work.

Sunday evening stress is not a lie -

I heard it on the CBC. "As It Happens" is the last bastion of truth in this society gone amok if you ask me. Unfortunately, I can only indulge in daytime radio when I call in sick with a hangover or PMS.

Back to work anxiety afflicts millions of people who have nothing better to do on a Sunday night than panic over what pitfalls await them on Monday morning. What a shame. The weekend is only two days long and we waste a quarter of it worrying about when it will end.

Using my sweet telephone voice to say "Ishabrook Insurance, how can I help you" every three minutes doesn't give me loose bowels. I couldn't give a rats ass about customer satisfaction or my bosses opinion of my work ethic. But at seven pm on Sunday, chores done, house presentable, hangover sufficiently nursed, with nothing to do but listen to the tick tock of the wall clock and consider my future, the thought of getting out of bed again tomorrow is enough to drive anyone to the 7-11 for a Slurpee.

The sugar keeps me occupied, not to mention the trip itself and invariably I run into some other poor sloth on a Mars bar mission. What to wear, pending presentations, interpersonal conflicts: choose your Sunday night poison. So says the CBC.

But that is not what afflicts me. The hours pass at work and I get paid the same. I have mastered minimalism in the work place. What creeps into my stomach and weighs down my bones is knowing that another two days of freedom have passed; 48 hours to create my most fabulous self, wear feather boas and flit from gallery opening to underground club; and I have spent most of it reading magazines that I stole from the laundry mat.

But I tell myself, Monday is a new day.

Beer cans and butts -

- Yuck. Cleaning last night's residue left me bitter and unmotivated. I put the half finished collage behind the couch with the remnants of many similar Friday nights. Fridays I drink, smoke and collage. Saturdays I clean, eat and repent.

While I was making concentric circles out of the women's wear pages I was convinced that my latest work would be brilliant. So much mystery hidden in the relationship between content and form. Expensive leather moccasins treading on trendy kitchenware, while matching hall stands stood sentry by the flatware. It totally made sense after a six pack and some of my great new green goddess. I admit, it was a bit of a journey to catch the significance of the whole piece, but isn't great art always a bit obtuse?

Last night's task of interweaving subtle sand on sandalwood textures has becomes today's vacuuming. Small scraps of glossy paper peak out everywhere and taunt me. These are the moments that I wish I had a TV.

I didn't sell out -

- when I took the receptionist job. I want to make that clear.

But this art fame thing is taking a lot longer than the self-help books said. The novelty of milk carton furniture and poverty wears off after a few years. But Kraft Dinner aside, I am COMMITTED to my art. Not to mention that the glassy fear in the eyes of the under-insured says it all. Home ownership is overrated.

I have my own amusing lingo for the insurance sale people in my office.

"Homies", especially the ones with tack boards to plot their monthly sales, are a boring bunch. Lots of school photos on their desks. They enjoy debating what exactly constitutes an act of god.

I avoid the "lifers". Too many spreadsheets detailing the price of each finger and all the "plegics". They have the body divided up and priced like Tupperware packages. Insure all four limbs, Mr Jones and we'll throw in a non-life threatening eye injury for free. You can't even make decapitation jokes with them. I prefer the jerks in automotive. I just call them the jerks in automotive. They charge for their barstools at 5:00 sharp.

It's Saturday morning and my living room looks like a Republican convention hangover. Confetti, ashtrays, and BIG WORDS glued all over the wall. The Barbie idea wasn't panning out so I got all freaky stalker with the newspaper headlines. Wrote myself a ransom letter.

Now, I need an aspirin and a Big Mac. And then, I will definately write something profound.

page 423. Throw cushions on shit brown sofa, matching throw rug, where is the throw coffee table.... textured beige on beige, more of the same from clothing, (elastic waist with embroidered tunic), and shoes, leather plush hush puppies, fake leather mocassions, plastic children's winter boots, black patent accents beside the writing tools, engraved pen and pencil sets, nice linear arrangements, black bars from the curtain section, pleats of polyester glide past the cruise boat in the corner, plucked from the last page add, travel deals for seniors. (I believe my mother is a member.)

Cardboard mount and low gloss finish.

Not sure how to begin with the Barbie electrical panel.

Happily chopping up a vintage Sears Catelogue -

- and I realized that your average bloggers would take two general views of said document. One camp idolizes graphic reminders of a simpler consumerism and gabs on about Skittles, Blockbuster Video and Coco Puffs with only enough irony to be trendy. The other blabs about buying local and how colored ink isn't appropriate for ass wiping. I suppose most of these people don't know much about outhouses. The outhouse is definitely a underexploited blog niche.

Really, I'm over skittles. Red yellow and blue like round Lego. Lego doesn't trigger memories of fresh bread wafting out of brass kettle wallpapered kitchen. Lego to me means scraps of primary colored paper. But I'm feeling feminine. The Sears Christmas addition is especially rich in Barbie Pink and I'm cutting my way through the toy section, planning my next masterpiece.

The electrical panel falls victim to my glue gun on a Friday night. Pink plastic motor homes, the Barbie pool and lunchboxes. Those retro trendy freaks got nothing on me.