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.

The new shit -

-is the bomb.

I'm going to leave it to dry a bit longer, but my green thumb never disappoints. Now, I can relax and concentrate on this blog thing.

Thank goodness I grow my own, because when I'm a famous blogger (or famous collage artist, whichever comes first) I can't risk buying off the mall rats. Everyone tries to cash in on someone else's success. And I'm going to get a good haircut. The ponytail is a little young for interviews.

Wow. The texture of my walls is very cool. Linear. Elegant. Sophisticated even. It's the old 70's wood panelling painted butter cream, but the way the groove pattern shows through is very Debby Travis. Draws the eye up, as Martha would say. And the color is so warm and creamy, like butter dripping off a cob of corn, minus the salt crystal reflections.

Munchy time! I need popcorn. Less fattening than chips and corn doesn't arrive until August. After my primary senses are sated, I can focus on the subtle patterns and messages embedded in the collage.

That last sentence was good.

My scissors await.

Have you ever clicked on "Next Blog" ?

It is like a portal into peoples lives. And those lives are SMALL, capital letter small.

I read once, how most blogs are about other blogs. I thought that was a really dumb thing to blog about. But I have to say, in my blog, "Why are all those other blogs so stupid?"

Do they really believe that people want to read about cute kitties or brown rice sushi? Cheesy photos of smiley people with fat white legs beside monuments? Self referential musings about the decline of civilization?

OK. More pressure to make this blog cool.

I'm not egotistical -

- just because I only write about myself.

This isn't public wanking. I just haven't got to the good stuff yet. Trust me. Remember Amy Winehouse? Before she hit the crack pipe she was just another tattooed blues singer with a fabulous voice. But now with the law suits, sleaze bag husband and whole Rehab irony thing she has it made in the shade. It takes time to develop a famous on-line persona. Maybe I'll have time this weekend.

I'm actually very open and loving. It is just that I hate being around people.

I smoke a little weed -

- just to relax after dinner.

Dealing with the public all day scratches at my sensitive composure. All those people that need choking and I smile and point to the brochure rack. You'd have a little stash in your closet too if you had to wrap your tongue around, "Good Morning, Ishabrook Insurance" two hundred times per day. I've got a nine to five lisp.

So now that I've admitted my recreational drug use on-line, I suppose I can't invite my mother to read this blog. How the hell do you get people to read these things anyways? Perez gets millions everyday and he draws cum stains on people. Wonder if his mother is scandalized? Margaret (that's my Mom) lives in a U-brewed white wine fog and prefers television.

Kill your television. I will not be bought.

back to the weed.... Can't wait to get home tonight and relax with a little puff of my newest closet-harvest. It has been drying above the fridge for two weeks and smells like green-goddess heaven. And I have a new IKEA catalogue to salivate over. !!! (not to buy stuff, remember the collage art)

Shit. I promised myself this blog would be really cool. Post modern. Or maybe contemporary. But definitely brilliant. OK, I just got started on this blogger thing. Maybe my next post, with the help of the green goddess and some Swiss designed, yet affordable inspiration. I might need a hat. Or a golden retriever puppy.

I hate my life -

- but that is about to change!!!

I have a blog, just like Perez Hilton and the Spice Girls, and well, Jason's grandma, so I guess it isn´t all that cutting edge. But I need something to do at work that looks vaguely like I'm working.

OK, I have to play with the fonts fonts fonts (I'm so Douglas Coupland) and the colors colors colors and maybe a little BOLD to dress up the page. Because this is a REAL blog, a creative blog, not just some public wanking, like most of the ones I read last night. Competitive research. Most of the crap out there mumbles on about politics, or the fucking environment (please.. I'm so over global warming) or recipes. They all copy their recipes from the same source.

My blog is going to be really cool. When people catch on they will be hooked. I'm going to say witty things about my unique experience in the world. That is what is missing in cyberspace, the bittersweet reality of what people do all day. Keeping it real. Not a celebrity, not a politician, not a reality tv slut, not a born again overweight twat preaching about BBQ and Cristian rock.

Some background, for those of you who are reading along with me.

MY name is Kelly and at the moment I work in an insurance office. Being an ass kissing receptionist sucks, but I gotta pay the bills. I'm 32, single and haven't yet found a minority status to exploit. What I really am is an artist! It´s difficult to say, but its true. I am going to practice saying it.

An Artist. My medium is collage. It is a very creative medium. I love the color and the shapes. No I didn´t go to art school. I didn´t want my talent fucked up by some corporate sell out imitation oil painters. And I never got around to putting the application portfolio together. I want to be original, and to be that you have to avoid the establishment. I read Jack Kerouac.

OK, that's enough for my first blog experience. Now I have to data entry the customer satisfaction surveys. More about that later.