The pumpkins are ready to be cut and disemboweled, plastic witches and vampires are being hung in windows, and the stores are full of over-priced bags of tiny candy that we buy early, eat ourselves, and buy again. Yes, it's that time of year again. The time when you spend most of your days talking your child out of choosing elaborate, expensive, hard-to-make, and just plain inappropriate costumes.
My son is 8. For a long time he didn't like Halloween, and I was oddly proud of this. While other parents were buying costumes, or swearing in the middle of the night in front of their sewing machines covered in glue, felt and sparkles I was blissfully unaware of the torture of costume shopping. Matthew detested costumes. He despised dress-up parties, and he had no time for makeup or masks. It was cheap as hell.
Two years ago, Matthew finally figured out that the payout for Halloween far outweighed the indignity of wearing a costume for a few hours. He still didn't grasp the true childhood spirit of Halloween, though, and when asked what he wanted to be he brightly said "I don't know. A sparkly, blue butterfly?"
Something stirred in me. I didn't know what it was at the time, but now I recognise it in a heartbeat. It's that feeling that parents have when faced with the idiotic conundrum parents regularly, and willingly, put themselves into. It's when you ask a child what they want, and then have to spend the next few minutes telling the child that even though you asked him for his opinion you have to say no. It happens at Christmas ("I want a robot the same size as me!"). It happens at restaurants ("I want an ice cream sandwich in the shape of a puppy!"). And it happens at Halloween.
Hopefully next year I'll remember to read this post, and constructively cut him off by bringing home a costume and telling him it's the last one left in the entire city.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Johnny divided by Molly = Cockatiel.
It's been too long.
Let's see, what has happened in the past while. Well, I returned from camping relatively unscathed except for a nasty sunburn that took a few weeks to heal. I was not eaten by bears. Apparently they don't find blond women with second degree sunburns full of blood containing a high alcohol content attractive. Quite honestly, I don't either. Not since the 90s anyway. I was eaten by the sun. Four hours in the middle of the lake on an inflatable party island (with drink holders enabling no contact between the shore and I) had left me with a second-degree sunburn from hell. I would have blogged about it, but I was feeling too damned sorry for myself.
The sunburn did eventually heal, and I returned to society. Life continued on as normal for a bit, I had gotten a baby budgie to immediately replace my other budgie that had passed away from old age. The new one was named Johnny, and he was only about 10 weeks old before he figured out how to push out his seed dish, lift a flap, and escape into the eager mouth of my west highland terrier named Molly. Of course he learned this new trick while we were all at work and school, and no one was around to stop the re-enactment of Wild Kingdom that went on in my living room. Johnny was reduced to a pile of feathers and a bit of blood on my terrier's face. Molly looked sheepish for one entire evening, and then promptly forgot by the next morning. There are no graphic and gory details, what remained of Johnny was similar to spontaneous combustion videos seen on television and youtube - a spot on the floor with feathers around it in a circular pattern with no trace of body, feet or face. She ate him entirely, which both horrifies me and I'm ashamed to say makes me feel a bit relieved that we didn't have Johnny bits left everywhere to clean up.
It became obvious to me that owning a budgie was no longer the responsible thing to do with a predator like Molly walking around. This was quite sad for me - I've had budgies for a long time, and quite like their chatter and friendly little natures. However having one in close proximity to a dog that doesn't see them as fellow pets is dangerous and really unfair to a little bird.
I was very sad. I didn't know what to do - never have a bird again? I love birds. I love their inquisitive little faces, their noises, their cheap and cheerful lifestyles.
SO, I got a BIGGER bird! A big cockatiel named Lola that didn't have the best life when I came across her. Feeling more than a little guilty about Johnny's life being cut tragically short, I overcompensated by rescuing a cockatiel and buying her a ginormous cage. I didn't do this alone, I totally consulted my 8 year old for advice. He agreed that a cockatiel was a fantastic idea. We kept quiet, drove my husband to work and dropped him off, and immediately set out to get a bird big enough for my dog to recognize her as a fellow pet and not prey. We picked up Lola (she didn't have a name yet) and brought her home. She was kept in a tiny cage, so we left her at home and went out and bought a new cage, toys, perches and food. I was well on my way to redemption.
There was only one thing left to do now that Lola was all set up in our house - explain her presence to my husband. I wasn't aware that he disliked large birds, the subject had never come up before I had gotten Lola. I kept her old cage so he could see what she was contained in when I got her, and appeal to him on an emotional level why I couldn't have just left her there, and how we could offer her a much better life. I nearly had him on my side as well, and then an ambulance went by - how was I supposed to know that Lola would scream when ambulances went by? And firetrucks? And police cars?
And ambulances, firetrucks, and police cars on television as well? And on the radio?
It has been a few weeks now and Lola has settled in nicely with our family. She still screams when various rescue vehicles go by, and we live next door to an ambulance hall, but other than that she is a perfect fit for our family.
Word of the day: Diaphanous
Used in a Sentence: "You couldn't have used a more diaphanous excuse for getting that bird" the husband told his wife angrily. "Perhaps," said the wife. "But if the dog eats this one I'm getting a goddamned turkey vulture."
Let's see, what has happened in the past while. Well, I returned from camping relatively unscathed except for a nasty sunburn that took a few weeks to heal. I was not eaten by bears. Apparently they don't find blond women with second degree sunburns full of blood containing a high alcohol content attractive. Quite honestly, I don't either. Not since the 90s anyway. I was eaten by the sun. Four hours in the middle of the lake on an inflatable party island (with drink holders enabling no contact between the shore and I) had left me with a second-degree sunburn from hell. I would have blogged about it, but I was feeling too damned sorry for myself.
The sunburn did eventually heal, and I returned to society. Life continued on as normal for a bit, I had gotten a baby budgie to immediately replace my other budgie that had passed away from old age. The new one was named Johnny, and he was only about 10 weeks old before he figured out how to push out his seed dish, lift a flap, and escape into the eager mouth of my west highland terrier named Molly. Of course he learned this new trick while we were all at work and school, and no one was around to stop the re-enactment of Wild Kingdom that went on in my living room. Johnny was reduced to a pile of feathers and a bit of blood on my terrier's face. Molly looked sheepish for one entire evening, and then promptly forgot by the next morning. There are no graphic and gory details, what remained of Johnny was similar to spontaneous combustion videos seen on television and youtube - a spot on the floor with feathers around it in a circular pattern with no trace of body, feet or face. She ate him entirely, which both horrifies me and I'm ashamed to say makes me feel a bit relieved that we didn't have Johnny bits left everywhere to clean up.
It became obvious to me that owning a budgie was no longer the responsible thing to do with a predator like Molly walking around. This was quite sad for me - I've had budgies for a long time, and quite like their chatter and friendly little natures. However having one in close proximity to a dog that doesn't see them as fellow pets is dangerous and really unfair to a little bird.
I was very sad. I didn't know what to do - never have a bird again? I love birds. I love their inquisitive little faces, their noises, their cheap and cheerful lifestyles.
SO, I got a BIGGER bird! A big cockatiel named Lola that didn't have the best life when I came across her. Feeling more than a little guilty about Johnny's life being cut tragically short, I overcompensated by rescuing a cockatiel and buying her a ginormous cage. I didn't do this alone, I totally consulted my 8 year old for advice. He agreed that a cockatiel was a fantastic idea. We kept quiet, drove my husband to work and dropped him off, and immediately set out to get a bird big enough for my dog to recognize her as a fellow pet and not prey. We picked up Lola (she didn't have a name yet) and brought her home. She was kept in a tiny cage, so we left her at home and went out and bought a new cage, toys, perches and food. I was well on my way to redemption.
There was only one thing left to do now that Lola was all set up in our house - explain her presence to my husband. I wasn't aware that he disliked large birds, the subject had never come up before I had gotten Lola. I kept her old cage so he could see what she was contained in when I got her, and appeal to him on an emotional level why I couldn't have just left her there, and how we could offer her a much better life. I nearly had him on my side as well, and then an ambulance went by - how was I supposed to know that Lola would scream when ambulances went by? And firetrucks? And police cars?
And ambulances, firetrucks, and police cars on television as well? And on the radio?
It has been a few weeks now and Lola has settled in nicely with our family. She still screams when various rescue vehicles go by, and we live next door to an ambulance hall, but other than that she is a perfect fit for our family.
Word of the day: Diaphanous
Used in a Sentence: "You couldn't have used a more diaphanous excuse for getting that bird" the husband told his wife angrily. "Perhaps," said the wife. "But if the dog eats this one I'm getting a goddamned turkey vulture."
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Lions and tigers and bears…ok, maybe just bears.
I’m going camping this weekend! For anyone reading who is regularly in the woods, and has just pfft’d at me in exasperation and hiking boots, go fuck yourselves. This is for anyone, like myself, who doesn’t do camping without toilets, showers, walls and a ceiling, and preferably a fridge to keep my beer cold. I’m actually going camping in the woods with no toilet and no electricity for -
Two.Whole.Nights.
I’ve got my sleeping bag, my mat, my pillow and bug dope. I’ve got my alcohol…I’m sure there was more, but can’t remember at the moment. A roll of toilet paper should probably be packed at some time between now and then. Food is a definite. Maybe some Curious George band aids, too. I decided to do a Google search for camping necessities. After all, why carry around Curious George band aids if I don’t need them?
Mistress Google quickly turned it towards bears, which hadn’t actually crossed my mind. I thought 7 girls out in a bush would most likely meet their deaths at the hands of an axe murderer. But, it seemed prudent to learn about bears, so I followed a few links -
As long as I don’t run in a zigzag, play dead, fight back, climb a tree, make loud noises, make quiet noises, bury my garbage, don’t bury my garbage, hang my food from a tree, place it in an airtight cooler, sleep with food on my clothes, dick around with some cubs, wear the colour red, or stare a bear in the eyes I should be absolutely fine. Apparently it is NOT recommended to use a cub as a hostage to get a mother bear to back off. My favourite bit of conflicting advice is being told on one link to play dead and protect vital organs http://dsc.discovery.com/survival/plants-animals/how-to-fight-a-bear.html, and on another to never play dead and fight back http://www.canadascapital.gc.ca/data/2/rec_docs/231_blackbear_e.pdf.
Dropping things to distract the bear is also recommended, so I might just keep bacon in my pockets and hope the bear has a thing for bacon. Most living creatures do, so it seems like the best bet. Of course I’ll have to take off my pants and throw them at the bear as well, otherwise he’ll just catch me and maul me, and I’ll die not of bear wounds but of confusion over what I’m supposed to be doing in my final moments – protecting my kidneys, or using them to poke the bear’s eyes out.
Word of the Day: Festoon
Used in a sentence: “Well, you see here” drawled the forest ranger, “this here is where the bear decided to festoon the victim with her own intestines.”
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Telefrancais! What am I going on about?
Canadian programming is something to be admired. From Kids In The Hall to You Can't Say That On Television (oh yeah, we're going old school) Canadians have managed to create some of the most hilarious, timeless, catch-phrase inducing (I'm pinching your face!) crap ever to float through a cable. We've also managed to create some cringe-worthy shows which always seemed to be inflicted upon our weakest and most vulnerable. Elementary school children.
I remember a fair amount of television being watched in elementary school. I don't know if it was growing up in a semi-secluded North Western Ontario town with a limited budget, or if it was a provincial school requirement enjoyed by all Canadian children rich or poor. Harriet's Magic Hats was a show that is purported to have given us a "diverse view of the working world". During the show a young girl would steal a hat from a trunk in her Aunt Harriet's attic and be suddenly whisked away to another place where she would follow a stranger (who seemed absolutely fine with a child just showing up out of thin air unaccompanied by an adult) about their workplace and learn of their profession. Harriet had quite the collection of hats, and also quite the collection of seemingly orphaned nieces as there were around 4 of them in the 52 15-minute episodes. This show seemed geared towards idiot workshy children who had no concept what chefs or plumbers do, hell-bent on giving them some sort of work ethic and direction in the world.
These shows were shown on 1980's style televisions and all of the lights needed to be turned off and the blinds closed in order for all of us to be able to see the screen properly without glare. Sometimes the equipment would fail midway through a show, and we'd all sit patiently watching the teacher smack the VCR and twiddle various buttons. Other times the movie would suddenly kick into fast-forward, and we'd sit and watch it speed through until the teacher (who had taken the opportunity to sneak away by herself/himself while we were transfixed to a screen in a darkened room) popped back in and noticed there was a problem.
In a last-ditch effort to get us enthused about learning French, we were subjected to a show called Telefrancais. I must admit, the creators knew children love television so much they'll even watch it in a language they do not understand. I wasn't thrilled about the show, partly because I couldn't understand it (my level of french at the time was nowhere near what the show required) and partly because it scared the holy hell out of me. In the show were several characters - two real-life children named Sophie and Jacques, a pineapple named Ananas that lived in a junkyard, and various other characters that came in depending on what that particular plot required. Alongside this, as if a scary french pineapple who lived in a junkyard (were they going for a lovable Oscar the Grouch rip-off?) wasn't enough, the show was interrupted by musical interludes provided by Les Squelettes which were supposed to be comical -
But were in actuality dancing skeletons.
Ananas:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhKBp-jFdS8&feature=related
I can't tell what the low point of this show is - when the Pilotte throws the children out of the plane, or when the pineapple screams while being chased by a crow.
You decide.
Word of the day: Mephitic
Used in a Sentence: "Holy crap, what is that mephitic and nauseating odour?" gagged Jacques, getting out of bed and putting his underwear back on. "Ananas died last night, so we put him in the compost out back," replied Sophie, finishing the last of her rum mixed with pineapple juice.
I remember a fair amount of television being watched in elementary school. I don't know if it was growing up in a semi-secluded North Western Ontario town with a limited budget, or if it was a provincial school requirement enjoyed by all Canadian children rich or poor. Harriet's Magic Hats was a show that is purported to have given us a "diverse view of the working world". During the show a young girl would steal a hat from a trunk in her Aunt Harriet's attic and be suddenly whisked away to another place where she would follow a stranger (who seemed absolutely fine with a child just showing up out of thin air unaccompanied by an adult) about their workplace and learn of their profession. Harriet had quite the collection of hats, and also quite the collection of seemingly orphaned nieces as there were around 4 of them in the 52 15-minute episodes. This show seemed geared towards idiot workshy children who had no concept what chefs or plumbers do, hell-bent on giving them some sort of work ethic and direction in the world.
These shows were shown on 1980's style televisions and all of the lights needed to be turned off and the blinds closed in order for all of us to be able to see the screen properly without glare. Sometimes the equipment would fail midway through a show, and we'd all sit patiently watching the teacher smack the VCR and twiddle various buttons. Other times the movie would suddenly kick into fast-forward, and we'd sit and watch it speed through until the teacher (who had taken the opportunity to sneak away by herself/himself while we were transfixed to a screen in a darkened room) popped back in and noticed there was a problem.
In a last-ditch effort to get us enthused about learning French, we were subjected to a show called Telefrancais. I must admit, the creators knew children love television so much they'll even watch it in a language they do not understand. I wasn't thrilled about the show, partly because I couldn't understand it (my level of french at the time was nowhere near what the show required) and partly because it scared the holy hell out of me. In the show were several characters - two real-life children named Sophie and Jacques, a pineapple named Ananas that lived in a junkyard, and various other characters that came in depending on what that particular plot required. Alongside this, as if a scary french pineapple who lived in a junkyard (were they going for a lovable Oscar the Grouch rip-off?) wasn't enough, the show was interrupted by musical interludes provided by Les Squelettes which were supposed to be comical -
But were in actuality dancing skeletons.
Ananas:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhKBp-jFdS8&feature=related
I can't tell what the low point of this show is - when the Pilotte throws the children out of the plane, or when the pineapple screams while being chased by a crow.
You decide.
Word of the day: Mephitic
Used in a Sentence: "Holy crap, what is that mephitic and nauseating odour?" gagged Jacques, getting out of bed and putting his underwear back on. "Ananas died last night, so we put him in the compost out back," replied Sophie, finishing the last of her rum mixed with pineapple juice.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Aging of the Shrew, OR The Ageing of the Shrew (if you're British or Australian)
This week I will be turning 30. Up until now I haven't given it that much thought - no one seems to really *be* where they were supposed to be at the age of 30, so I don't feel like I've failed in anyway. The goalposts seem to be continually changing as we plug along in time. A few centuries ago at this age I could have been celebrating the birth of my third grandchild while sucking on a piece of chicken I couldn't chew with my one tooth. Here in 2010 I can still chew chicken quite well. Perhaps not the most amazing accomplishment, but something a person can be a little proud of.
Yes, that's a straw. And yes, I'm grasping the crap out of it.
There hasn't been a big change between leaving my 20's and teetering on the edge of my 30's. There's a freckle under my eyebrow that I swear is closer to my eye than it used to be, and other subtle hints of gravity's slow but persistent work on my body. I'm not overly concerned about that, at least not yet. Most worrying would be the melodramatic mental state I spent a good couple of days in earlier this week - I had actually managed to convince myself that my life was half over. I laid awake one night pondering my mortality. What happens next? Where do we all go? Is it just lights out? Are there parallel universes? Will there be some transfer of energy? Do I have a soul, and is it shiny enough to get to heaven or did I really fuck myself over?
There were some tears, a bit of anguish, self-pitying sighs, and an evening where I was an inconsolable douche to my poor husband. I won't lie, his effortless and seamless transition from 29 to 30 was lovely when it happened a couple of years ago, but now has left me in a state of hormonal piss-off. Why is it so easy for him? Why is his mind uncluttered and carefree, while mine is a looming clock screaming tick-tock-your-life-is-over in a booming, cackling voice? I decided to stop being irrationally angry, and just ask my husband. Perhaps he had some fantastic advice, an amazing outlook on life he could share. Maybe he IS bothered by age, and my recent warbling and histrionics have left him little room to share these feelings with me? I decided to ask.
Me: Darling, why am I being so ridiculous about a stupid birthday when you passed it without even noticing?
Husband: Because I'm awesome, and you're a girl.
Word of the day: Thespian.
Used in a sentence: "What do you think I am, some kind of thespian?" asked the woman indignantly. "I don't think that matters, ma'am, I'm a married man" said the officer "but right now I need you to stop putting on a show and tell me where you were at 11 o'clock this evening."
Yes, that's a straw. And yes, I'm grasping the crap out of it.
There hasn't been a big change between leaving my 20's and teetering on the edge of my 30's. There's a freckle under my eyebrow that I swear is closer to my eye than it used to be, and other subtle hints of gravity's slow but persistent work on my body. I'm not overly concerned about that, at least not yet. Most worrying would be the melodramatic mental state I spent a good couple of days in earlier this week - I had actually managed to convince myself that my life was half over. I laid awake one night pondering my mortality. What happens next? Where do we all go? Is it just lights out? Are there parallel universes? Will there be some transfer of energy? Do I have a soul, and is it shiny enough to get to heaven or did I really fuck myself over?
There were some tears, a bit of anguish, self-pitying sighs, and an evening where I was an inconsolable douche to my poor husband. I won't lie, his effortless and seamless transition from 29 to 30 was lovely when it happened a couple of years ago, but now has left me in a state of hormonal piss-off. Why is it so easy for him? Why is his mind uncluttered and carefree, while mine is a looming clock screaming tick-tock-your-life-is-over in a booming, cackling voice? I decided to stop being irrationally angry, and just ask my husband. Perhaps he had some fantastic advice, an amazing outlook on life he could share. Maybe he IS bothered by age, and my recent warbling and histrionics have left him little room to share these feelings with me? I decided to ask.
Me: Darling, why am I being so ridiculous about a stupid birthday when you passed it without even noticing?
Husband: Because I'm awesome, and you're a girl.
Word of the day: Thespian.
Used in a sentence: "What do you think I am, some kind of thespian?" asked the woman indignantly. "I don't think that matters, ma'am, I'm a married man" said the officer "but right now I need you to stop putting on a show and tell me where you were at 11 o'clock this evening."
Monday, June 14, 2010
Lego My Lotto!
Anyone following Canadian Lotto Max (I know, titillating shit) will know that last week was Canada's largest Lotto Max lottery in history - a 50 million dollar prize, along with whatever number of 1 million dollar prizes, not sure/wasn't paying attention. Anyway, I decided to buy my first lottery ticket.
I don't buy lottery tickets because I am a nut job. I become so convinced I will win I tell everyone excitedly what I'm going to buy them. I make plans. I mentally take an afternoon off of work (why does it matter? I won't be there the next week when I'm a MULTI-MILLIONAIRE) to sort out what needs to be done first. It just makes sense that I'll win. For whatever reason, I truly believe I am more likely to win the lottery than anyone else.
So, I bought a ticket. It was fun, I picked my numbers, scratched my little boxes, and brought my ticket up to the merchant. I then panicked, realizing I never discussed what numbers I picked with my husband, which means we could have picked the same numbers and lowered our chances of winning - but as fate would have it (FATE! See?!) we magically picked different numbers. What are the chances of that, I ask you stupid naysayers?
I brought my tickets to work with me the next day, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I kept taking them out of my purse to clutch and pat while I daydreamed the afternoon away. I greeted everyone with an irritatingly cheerful "Got your lottery tickets yet?" just to open the conversation so I could talk about my beloved tickets some more. I signed my name on them, not allowing for any chances that someone might covet them. I even took a picture of them to share with a friend abroad so she could delight in them as well (and she should have, they would have paid for her schooling).
Waiting for the numbers to be drawn was agony, and at 9pm sharp I was there at the website, sure my numbers would appear. I had been practising my speech for a day and a half - "Baby, we won. I fucking told you." It was to the point, funny, representative of our wonderful relationship, poignant...classy. The website said because of the size of the lotto, there would be a delay in posting the numbers. So, I stabbed it.
I didn't actually stab it. I was so frustrated after clicking refresh for 10 minutes (possibly 25) that I took a nap, and awoke at 11pm. Hurrah! Surely the winning numbers must have been posted by then and it wasn't too late to call my parents to give them the happy news and start planning holidays. Alas, to my extreme shock and disappointment, I didn't win. I was stunned. It only made sense that we would win.
I could barely look at the newspaper the next day. The last thing I needed to see was some smug bastard weebling about his new millions and all the charities he'd be donating it to. Finally curiosity got the better of me, and I looked to see who squeaked me out for the millions - and it was no one! Really, the only thing better than losing the lottery is everyone else losing at it as well.
This Friday the Lotto Max stays at 50 million, now with 45 1 million dollar prize giveaways (or something, wasn't paying attention). Tomorrow I'm going to go buy my winning tickets!
Word of the Day: Profligate
Used in a Sentence: What is a profligate, you say? A profligate is a person who spends money prodigiously, extravagantly, wastefully and unabashedly. And I want to be that person.
I don't buy lottery tickets because I am a nut job. I become so convinced I will win I tell everyone excitedly what I'm going to buy them. I make plans. I mentally take an afternoon off of work (why does it matter? I won't be there the next week when I'm a MULTI-MILLIONAIRE) to sort out what needs to be done first. It just makes sense that I'll win. For whatever reason, I truly believe I am more likely to win the lottery than anyone else.
So, I bought a ticket. It was fun, I picked my numbers, scratched my little boxes, and brought my ticket up to the merchant. I then panicked, realizing I never discussed what numbers I picked with my husband, which means we could have picked the same numbers and lowered our chances of winning - but as fate would have it (FATE! See?!) we magically picked different numbers. What are the chances of that, I ask you stupid naysayers?
I brought my tickets to work with me the next day, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I kept taking them out of my purse to clutch and pat while I daydreamed the afternoon away. I greeted everyone with an irritatingly cheerful "Got your lottery tickets yet?" just to open the conversation so I could talk about my beloved tickets some more. I signed my name on them, not allowing for any chances that someone might covet them. I even took a picture of them to share with a friend abroad so she could delight in them as well (and she should have, they would have paid for her schooling).
Waiting for the numbers to be drawn was agony, and at 9pm sharp I was there at the website, sure my numbers would appear. I had been practising my speech for a day and a half - "Baby, we won. I fucking told you." It was to the point, funny, representative of our wonderful relationship, poignant...classy. The website said because of the size of the lotto, there would be a delay in posting the numbers. So, I stabbed it.
I didn't actually stab it. I was so frustrated after clicking refresh for 10 minutes (possibly 25) that I took a nap, and awoke at 11pm. Hurrah! Surely the winning numbers must have been posted by then and it wasn't too late to call my parents to give them the happy news and start planning holidays. Alas, to my extreme shock and disappointment, I didn't win. I was stunned. It only made sense that we would win.
I could barely look at the newspaper the next day. The last thing I needed to see was some smug bastard weebling about his new millions and all the charities he'd be donating it to. Finally curiosity got the better of me, and I looked to see who squeaked me out for the millions - and it was no one! Really, the only thing better than losing the lottery is everyone else losing at it as well.
This Friday the Lotto Max stays at 50 million, now with 45 1 million dollar prize giveaways (or something, wasn't paying attention). Tomorrow I'm going to go buy my winning tickets!
Word of the Day: Profligate
Used in a Sentence: What is a profligate, you say? A profligate is a person who spends money prodigiously, extravagantly, wastefully and unabashedly. And I want to be that person.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Minneapolis and the Merge
I have to hand it to Minneapolis - they have perfected the traffic manoeuvre known as the merge. People merge seamlessly from exits and on-ramps, a flowing traffic lane of politeness, courtesy, finesse and timing. Commuters happily move over and share their lane to newcomers, keeping everyone happy in a steady and cooperative rush.
It was like traffic heaven. Like some sort of automotive utopia. It was surreal, and beautiful. It was a ballet.
I drive in Winnipeg, where merging is something out of storybooks. We have three strong contenders against the merge - the frightened and intimidated motorists who inch up to the motorway and stop suddenly, the motorists already existing on the motorway who claim homesteading rights on their lane and refuse to let merging traffic in, and city planners who created merging lanes shorter than a pubic hair. Merging in Winnipeg has become an impossible quest, the unicorn of your morning commute. When written about by bloggers and journalists for the Winnipeg Free Press, the comment section quickly fills up with posts by two camps - people who have driven in cities that have mastered the merge and agree that Winnipeg needs some help, and people who tell everyone to go fuck themselves and move if they don't like it.
I won't be fucking off and moving anytime soon. I also am not under the illusion that Winnipeggers can be taught how to drive anytime soon. I have to admit, there is an odd sort of pride I have in exactly how far Winnipeg will stretch traffic laws. If there isn't a sign saying you can't do it, it's assumed you probably can. There is a roundabout in the south-end of the city that has tire-tracks going right up and over the centre of it. Go into any parking lot and you're guaranteed to find several cars with no apparent regard/concept of what the lines are for. Turning at certain intersections becomes a game of chicken between yourself and the other driver - do they know the rules of the road? You'll just have to wait and see.
Minneapolis will forever stay one of my favourite cities to drive in, but I do have to thank Winnipeg for that.
Word of the day: Mecca
Used in a sentence: Minneapolis was my mecca, my inspiration to be a better driver, the place I aspire to drive in when I pass from this world to the next...probably under the grill of a McNaught Chevy Blazer with a lift-kit and a Calvin pissing on a Ford in the back window, near an I Heart Winnipeg bumper sticker.
It was like traffic heaven. Like some sort of automotive utopia. It was surreal, and beautiful. It was a ballet.
I drive in Winnipeg, where merging is something out of storybooks. We have three strong contenders against the merge - the frightened and intimidated motorists who inch up to the motorway and stop suddenly, the motorists already existing on the motorway who claim homesteading rights on their lane and refuse to let merging traffic in, and city planners who created merging lanes shorter than a pubic hair. Merging in Winnipeg has become an impossible quest, the unicorn of your morning commute. When written about by bloggers and journalists for the Winnipeg Free Press, the comment section quickly fills up with posts by two camps - people who have driven in cities that have mastered the merge and agree that Winnipeg needs some help, and people who tell everyone to go fuck themselves and move if they don't like it.
I won't be fucking off and moving anytime soon. I also am not under the illusion that Winnipeggers can be taught how to drive anytime soon. I have to admit, there is an odd sort of pride I have in exactly how far Winnipeg will stretch traffic laws. If there isn't a sign saying you can't do it, it's assumed you probably can. There is a roundabout in the south-end of the city that has tire-tracks going right up and over the centre of it. Go into any parking lot and you're guaranteed to find several cars with no apparent regard/concept of what the lines are for. Turning at certain intersections becomes a game of chicken between yourself and the other driver - do they know the rules of the road? You'll just have to wait and see.
Minneapolis will forever stay one of my favourite cities to drive in, but I do have to thank Winnipeg for that.
Word of the day: Mecca
Used in a sentence: Minneapolis was my mecca, my inspiration to be a better driver, the place I aspire to drive in when I pass from this world to the next...probably under the grill of a McNaught Chevy Blazer with a lift-kit and a Calvin pissing on a Ford in the back window, near an I Heart Winnipeg bumper sticker.
Friday, May 14, 2010
I'll have the Meatloaf, please.
I ignored a few patients at work today, and quite possibly my ringing phone, literally watching the seconds tick down to 10am when Meatloaf tickets went on sale.
I can hear what you're saying, and yes - this shit just got real.
I've loved Meatloaf since I was a very tiny girl. Paradise by the Dashboard Light was, weirdly, one of the most romantic songs I have ever heard. It has lust, urgency, insatiable appetite, and most importantly it has sex noises. Lots of sex noises. I fell in love with Meatloaf, never having actually seen him as I was too young to watch music videos. Once I did see what he looked like, and decided I wasn't going to marry him when I grew up, I really just focused on his voice. That man can sing. It doesn't matter if you're a fan or not, you have to admit he can belt out a tune. As he's aged he's fallen into a new category - he's now one of my old man crushes.
Do all women have these? I've always had old man crushes on men who are inappropriately aged for me, yet somehow incredibly attractive. I loved Richard Gere when I was 12 and he was approaching middle-age. I had a massive crush on a 50 year old teacher. At certain weddings I have the pleasure of dancing with a man in his mid-50's (a family friend), and he's also joined the ranks of total crush. I also have crushes on priests, but I think that comes from going to catholic school and reading The Thorn Birds way too many times when I was going through puberty.
Word of the day: Octogenarian
Used in a sentence: There was something in the way the octogenarian ate his jello that made her insides stir.
I can hear what you're saying, and yes - this shit just got real.
I've loved Meatloaf since I was a very tiny girl. Paradise by the Dashboard Light was, weirdly, one of the most romantic songs I have ever heard. It has lust, urgency, insatiable appetite, and most importantly it has sex noises. Lots of sex noises. I fell in love with Meatloaf, never having actually seen him as I was too young to watch music videos. Once I did see what he looked like, and decided I wasn't going to marry him when I grew up, I really just focused on his voice. That man can sing. It doesn't matter if you're a fan or not, you have to admit he can belt out a tune. As he's aged he's fallen into a new category - he's now one of my old man crushes.
Do all women have these? I've always had old man crushes on men who are inappropriately aged for me, yet somehow incredibly attractive. I loved Richard Gere when I was 12 and he was approaching middle-age. I had a massive crush on a 50 year old teacher. At certain weddings I have the pleasure of dancing with a man in his mid-50's (a family friend), and he's also joined the ranks of total crush. I also have crushes on priests, but I think that comes from going to catholic school and reading The Thorn Birds way too many times when I was going through puberty.
Word of the day: Octogenarian
Used in a sentence: There was something in the way the octogenarian ate his jello that made her insides stir.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Holy fuck, cabbits aren't real?
Yeah. I know. Cabbits aren't real? This falls into the fishing-with-tonsils category, I suppose. For a long time I believed that cabbits existed. Cabbits are the result of a cat and a rabbit mating and producing offspring. Big in the 80's and 90's, pictures of cabbits surfaced here and there, usually depicting a creature with the front legs and head of a cat and the back legs and tail of a rabbit.
I thought these genuinely exist. Not to the point where I believed people were breeding cabbits. I thought cabbits bred from cats and rabbits would be sterile offspring, much like mules. I can't quite recall where I first heard of these things, but up until a few minutes ago I believed they were real. The screeches and howls of laughter coming out of my husband made me angry, and desperate to prove him wrong I turned to our virtual marriage counsellor, the one who always saves us from marital spats and disagreements -
Her name is Google, and she's amazing.
However, Google is a finicky lady and has let me down on numerous occasions, preferring to side with my husband on many issues, leaving me looking stupid and irrational. Tonight was another one of those times.
The cabbit does not exist. I won't go into it too much, I dislike being wrong...but I will use the words "mythological", "legend" and the phrase "biological impossibility". The last one I take a bit of issue with - we have no idea what could be biologically possible in the future, why insist that not only am I wrong now but I'll also be wrong 100 years from now as well? That's just being twatty.
I was desperate to arrive at some sort of justification for my belief. Perhaps I was just mislead by the fact that rabbits and cats have sex, they just can't breed? Google was unwilling to budge on her position, and patronized me with youtube clips of rabbits and cats that are clearly uninterested in having sex with each other. Only one cat was semi-willing to entertain an amorous bunny, but had very little patience and put on her clothes and left midway through without even exchanging numbers.
That's another thing - cats and rabbits do not have sex with each other.
I guess I'm not too disappointed. It's not like I wanted one for a pet. I just wanted to see some pictures of cabbits frolicking in their natural habitat, maybe laying out in the sun, just doing what other scientific mysteries do.
Word of the day: Pellucid.
Used in a sentence: "Mr. Rabbit," said Miss Cat "Your intentions are well-known and pellucid. But Google says it cannot be done, and Google is always right."
I thought these genuinely exist. Not to the point where I believed people were breeding cabbits. I thought cabbits bred from cats and rabbits would be sterile offspring, much like mules. I can't quite recall where I first heard of these things, but up until a few minutes ago I believed they were real. The screeches and howls of laughter coming out of my husband made me angry, and desperate to prove him wrong I turned to our virtual marriage counsellor, the one who always saves us from marital spats and disagreements -
Her name is Google, and she's amazing.
However, Google is a finicky lady and has let me down on numerous occasions, preferring to side with my husband on many issues, leaving me looking stupid and irrational. Tonight was another one of those times.
The cabbit does not exist. I won't go into it too much, I dislike being wrong...but I will use the words "mythological", "legend" and the phrase "biological impossibility". The last one I take a bit of issue with - we have no idea what could be biologically possible in the future, why insist that not only am I wrong now but I'll also be wrong 100 years from now as well? That's just being twatty.
I was desperate to arrive at some sort of justification for my belief. Perhaps I was just mislead by the fact that rabbits and cats have sex, they just can't breed? Google was unwilling to budge on her position, and patronized me with youtube clips of rabbits and cats that are clearly uninterested in having sex with each other. Only one cat was semi-willing to entertain an amorous bunny, but had very little patience and put on her clothes and left midway through without even exchanging numbers.
That's another thing - cats and rabbits do not have sex with each other.
I guess I'm not too disappointed. It's not like I wanted one for a pet. I just wanted to see some pictures of cabbits frolicking in their natural habitat, maybe laying out in the sun, just doing what other scientific mysteries do.
Word of the day: Pellucid.
Used in a sentence: "Mr. Rabbit," said Miss Cat "Your intentions are well-known and pellucid. But Google says it cannot be done, and Google is always right."
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Deathtraps, trains and automobiles.
I am terrified of flying. Terrified isn't actually a strong enough word. I'm petrified of flying, to the point of being ill. I sweat and cry during takeoff. I swear and say "Something's wrong! Oh God, what is that noise?!" over and over to my embarrassed husband. I gasp and grab at him, sob and whine. I vow to never fly unmedicated again. The times I've flown alone I have drunk copious amounts of alcohol in an effort to just get drunk and pass out, rather than subject the poor bastard next to me to my antics and body temperature fluctuations. The time between connecting flights is usually spent in an airport bathroom, vomiting and trying to work myself up to getting back on the plane.
I'm not scared of death, really. I'm scared of that minute before death, that 60 seconds or so while the plane drops out of the sky and everyone realizes their impending doom. The time spent before we're smashed into the ground filled with utter fear and dread. That's the feeling I'm most frightened of.
I tend to have morbid thoughts in general. I'm the person in the back of the theatre who checks the distance between the exits and my seat. In case of what I'm not entirely sure, but just in case. I'm also bad for making survivor lists - sorry strangers, but not everyone makes it in my mental narrations of doom. If you've got anything slowing you down, chances are you're going to be one of my statistics. It's nothing personal, statistics just make me feel better. The more of you that die, the higher my chance of surviving. It's just numbers.
I have this sense of impending doom anytime I'm not directly on the ground. Going up in an elevator, looking off of a balcony, really it translates into an extreme fear of heights. I'm not sure why it's classified as a fear of heights - it's really a phobia of falling. I imagine the concrete balcony ripping away suddenly from the building and me being hurled to the ground. In an elevator I find myself trying to remember that myth that was demonstrated once on television; If you jump at the exact time the elevator you're plummeting 40 floors down in hits the ground, will you survive? I can't remember if it was a legitimate way of outsmarting death, or if the egg that was used to simulate a human being was broken into a billion pieces, the yolk mangled and oozing everywhere.
Wishful thinking likes the former, but I suspect it's actually the latter.
I'm envious of people who enjoy flying. People who get into their seat and grin while strapping themselves in, eager for the sensation of speed and flight. My husband is one of these people. You take one look at his face during takeoff, and it's doing the physical equivalent of "Wheee!". He's blissfully unaware of how close we are to death. It's like flying with a golden retriever.
I do have a favourite part of the flight. I love looking out the window during descent, when we finally reach the point where if something were to go horribly wrong I would probably survive. That moment when life becomes probable, when maybe only one passenger would die of an already known heart condition. That is a beautiful moment in time. I look over at my husband and grin, relief and happiness spreading throughout my body and mind. He usually rolls his eyes, calls me a few choice names, and tells me it's the last time I'm flying unmedicated.
But I don't care. I'm off to shop and vomit.
Word of the day: Sylvan
Used in a sentence: Nothing ruins the beauty and peacefulness of a sylvan setting like the sight of crashed jet with body parts scattered around it, an unnatural and unholy pinata of death.
I'm not scared of death, really. I'm scared of that minute before death, that 60 seconds or so while the plane drops out of the sky and everyone realizes their impending doom. The time spent before we're smashed into the ground filled with utter fear and dread. That's the feeling I'm most frightened of.
I tend to have morbid thoughts in general. I'm the person in the back of the theatre who checks the distance between the exits and my seat. In case of what I'm not entirely sure, but just in case. I'm also bad for making survivor lists - sorry strangers, but not everyone makes it in my mental narrations of doom. If you've got anything slowing you down, chances are you're going to be one of my statistics. It's nothing personal, statistics just make me feel better. The more of you that die, the higher my chance of surviving. It's just numbers.
I have this sense of impending doom anytime I'm not directly on the ground. Going up in an elevator, looking off of a balcony, really it translates into an extreme fear of heights. I'm not sure why it's classified as a fear of heights - it's really a phobia of falling. I imagine the concrete balcony ripping away suddenly from the building and me being hurled to the ground. In an elevator I find myself trying to remember that myth that was demonstrated once on television; If you jump at the exact time the elevator you're plummeting 40 floors down in hits the ground, will you survive? I can't remember if it was a legitimate way of outsmarting death, or if the egg that was used to simulate a human being was broken into a billion pieces, the yolk mangled and oozing everywhere.
Wishful thinking likes the former, but I suspect it's actually the latter.
I'm envious of people who enjoy flying. People who get into their seat and grin while strapping themselves in, eager for the sensation of speed and flight. My husband is one of these people. You take one look at his face during takeoff, and it's doing the physical equivalent of "Wheee!". He's blissfully unaware of how close we are to death. It's like flying with a golden retriever.
I do have a favourite part of the flight. I love looking out the window during descent, when we finally reach the point where if something were to go horribly wrong I would probably survive. That moment when life becomes probable, when maybe only one passenger would die of an already known heart condition. That is a beautiful moment in time. I look over at my husband and grin, relief and happiness spreading throughout my body and mind. He usually rolls his eyes, calls me a few choice names, and tells me it's the last time I'm flying unmedicated.
But I don't care. I'm off to shop and vomit.
Word of the day: Sylvan
Used in a sentence: Nothing ruins the beauty and peacefulness of a sylvan setting like the sight of crashed jet with body parts scattered around it, an unnatural and unholy pinata of death.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Best defriends forever!
I like Facebook, for the most part. You can look into the lives of people you know without having to actually pick up a phone and ask them. A quick glance through photo albums can catch you up on the years you've missed - weddings, babies, trips, pretty much everything they bothered bringing a camera to. This has lead to the break-down of communication in society, sure. But it's still early enough in the game to blame that on texting and the various forms of cringe-worthy textspeak.
There are many, many downsides. Obligatory work friends, for example. People you work with during the week that you are obligated to accept Friend's Requests from for fear of awkwardness in the workplace and the dividing of coworker alliances. If you don't accept a request from Judy, she'll tell Steve (who you did accept) and it'll be blatantly apparent that you don't like Judy, a fact that you've managed to keep hidden in the professional-behaviour shed out back until now. Marnie seems cool towards you for no apparent reason, but it's really because you didn't accept Judy's request. You won't have the slightest clue about this, of course, because Judy's decided to block you from seeing her profile completely and has been writing passive-aggressive comments on Steve's wall directed at you that you can't see. All you know is that Marnie has been agreeing to a lot of things on Steve's wall for no apparent reason.
Steve has decided to stay out of it and has begun to eat lunch at his desk claiming he's snowed under with work.
Another downside is friending people through other friends. This can lead to a whole whack of problems, particularly if you don't like the acquaintance for fundamental reasons. I've learned this past weekend that it's better to not accept that request and let the dislike be known from the start, rather than letting it fester under the surface leading to an inevitable blowout of epic proportions that not only goes extremely poorly, but crucifies your mutual friend in the process in a way that would make even Jesus wince a bit. (Sorry, Jen).
Ex-boyfriends float by with the odd request here and there which are easily ignored - but beware because even a sensible move like that can lead to the loss of a few on-the-fence friends on your list that kind of took his side during the messy break-up but never mentioned it.
I'm a fan of the party-person friend request. You know the one, the messy-drunk that latched onto you and your friends one night at a club that you took pity on and let tag along for the rest of the evening. His/her friends mysteriously ditched them, and instead of taking that as the big yellow flag it is, you decide that the offending friends are douchebags and you take them under your wing and make pledges to never ditch them. That person immediately adds you the second they get in that evening and clutters your wall with "Best nite EVA!" and asks you every week on Tuesday what your plans are for the weekend. You can never, ever write plans on your wall again and from now on have to resort to personal messages. You'd like a side of lies with your profile, please.
I'm still flattered by some Friend's Requests, but only if they have under 200 friends. Anything over that and they are just being greedy or entering a popularity contest in which they are the sole contestant, and there are no prizes.
I think Facebook has become the new high school, really. Except this time we all have our own lunch tables.
Word of the day: Sanctimonious
Used in a sentence: He said I was a sanctimonious cunt, but that's really a phrase used by people with inferiority issues.
There are many, many downsides. Obligatory work friends, for example. People you work with during the week that you are obligated to accept Friend's Requests from for fear of awkwardness in the workplace and the dividing of coworker alliances. If you don't accept a request from Judy, she'll tell Steve (who you did accept) and it'll be blatantly apparent that you don't like Judy, a fact that you've managed to keep hidden in the professional-behaviour shed out back until now. Marnie seems cool towards you for no apparent reason, but it's really because you didn't accept Judy's request. You won't have the slightest clue about this, of course, because Judy's decided to block you from seeing her profile completely and has been writing passive-aggressive comments on Steve's wall directed at you that you can't see. All you know is that Marnie has been agreeing to a lot of things on Steve's wall for no apparent reason.
Steve has decided to stay out of it and has begun to eat lunch at his desk claiming he's snowed under with work.
Another downside is friending people through other friends. This can lead to a whole whack of problems, particularly if you don't like the acquaintance for fundamental reasons. I've learned this past weekend that it's better to not accept that request and let the dislike be known from the start, rather than letting it fester under the surface leading to an inevitable blowout of epic proportions that not only goes extremely poorly, but crucifies your mutual friend in the process in a way that would make even Jesus wince a bit. (Sorry, Jen).
Ex-boyfriends float by with the odd request here and there which are easily ignored - but beware because even a sensible move like that can lead to the loss of a few on-the-fence friends on your list that kind of took his side during the messy break-up but never mentioned it.
I'm a fan of the party-person friend request. You know the one, the messy-drunk that latched onto you and your friends one night at a club that you took pity on and let tag along for the rest of the evening. His/her friends mysteriously ditched them, and instead of taking that as the big yellow flag it is, you decide that the offending friends are douchebags and you take them under your wing and make pledges to never ditch them. That person immediately adds you the second they get in that evening and clutters your wall with "Best nite EVA!" and asks you every week on Tuesday what your plans are for the weekend. You can never, ever write plans on your wall again and from now on have to resort to personal messages. You'd like a side of lies with your profile, please.
I'm still flattered by some Friend's Requests, but only if they have under 200 friends. Anything over that and they are just being greedy or entering a popularity contest in which they are the sole contestant, and there are no prizes.
I think Facebook has become the new high school, really. Except this time we all have our own lunch tables.
Word of the day: Sanctimonious
Used in a sentence: He said I was a sanctimonious cunt, but that's really a phrase used by people with inferiority issues.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Tonsils are not for fishing.
Tonsils are not for fishing. In fact, no one uses tonsils for fishing.
A long time ago, when Boy George was in the news for music and not sexual kidnapping, my father had his tonsils removed. I don't remember the particulars of it, but I do remember seeing his tonsils in a little plastic jar. They looked like the balls of pork inside of wontons. Up on his dresser they sat, floating in some preservation liquid and I was absolutely enthralled with them.
They soon went missing. I asked my father where they were, and he told me he took them fishing. Tonsils make amazing bait, he said. Tonsils are the bait of a lifetime.
For decades I firmly believed that if a fisherman was lucky he could have the chance of baiting up his own tonsils. A delicacy for fish all over the world, and one no fish could refuse. Not everyone would have this incredible chance to fish with their own tonsils, to entice a fish with a precious lure that you only get two of in one lifetime. I imagined fishermen saving their tonsils for years for the most important fishing tournaments, or last-time fishing trips with Grandpa before he completely submits to dementia. Graduations and births could be celebrated with gifts of a tonsil or two. Some avid fishermen could have prized fish cut open before they are stuffed, and the tonsil used to catch them retrieved from their bellies, dipped in plastic and preserved to be mounted on a plaque with the fish in a still-life taxidermy masterpiece. Selfish fishermen, angry at their families, would be buried with them rather than pass them on to a loved one causing much hurt, grief and disappointment.
I don't really fish, and still have my tonsils hanging out in the back of my throat. Aside from this fleeting obsession when I was around 5, I have never spent much time thinking about tonsils and fishing. It never really occurred to me again until yesterday when I was at work and a man was discussing the appendectomy he had the weekend before.
Any sort of removal surgery intrigues me. I've always wanted to see what was removed. On television surgeries my favourite part is when the doctor says "Ok, here it is people" and lifts up the offending and recently discarded body part for everyone to see, or spreads it out with his hands for the camera. Even better is when he/she gives more details, like "As you can see, the tumour was feeding off of this blood vessel...". Wanting to live vicariously through this newly de-appendixed man, I asked him the first question that came to mind - Did you see it?
He said no, and that he would have liked to. He said he also never had a chance to see his tonsils when he had them removed years ago.
Not one to miss an opportunity to look like a fuckwit, I said "You never even got to take them fishing?". He started laughing hysterically and asked me what the hell I was talking about. I said that some people use their tonsils as bait, but my confidence at that point was waning and every other little fib my parents forced me to believe growing up started popping up in my mind like unwanted ex-boyfriends on a Friend's Request page. If you swallow your gum it'll stick to your ribcage. If you make that face too often, it'll stick like that. People use tonsils for fishing.
I did a quick google search, which confirmed my suspicions - I had been had. For 25 years.
Word of the Day: Interlard
Used in a sentence: Rather then removing the infected length of lower intestine as agreed to, the doctor decided that interlarding the kidneys with a Tickle Me Elmo would be funnier.
A long time ago, when Boy George was in the news for music and not sexual kidnapping, my father had his tonsils removed. I don't remember the particulars of it, but I do remember seeing his tonsils in a little plastic jar. They looked like the balls of pork inside of wontons. Up on his dresser they sat, floating in some preservation liquid and I was absolutely enthralled with them.
They soon went missing. I asked my father where they were, and he told me he took them fishing. Tonsils make amazing bait, he said. Tonsils are the bait of a lifetime.
For decades I firmly believed that if a fisherman was lucky he could have the chance of baiting up his own tonsils. A delicacy for fish all over the world, and one no fish could refuse. Not everyone would have this incredible chance to fish with their own tonsils, to entice a fish with a precious lure that you only get two of in one lifetime. I imagined fishermen saving their tonsils for years for the most important fishing tournaments, or last-time fishing trips with Grandpa before he completely submits to dementia. Graduations and births could be celebrated with gifts of a tonsil or two. Some avid fishermen could have prized fish cut open before they are stuffed, and the tonsil used to catch them retrieved from their bellies, dipped in plastic and preserved to be mounted on a plaque with the fish in a still-life taxidermy masterpiece. Selfish fishermen, angry at their families, would be buried with them rather than pass them on to a loved one causing much hurt, grief and disappointment.
I don't really fish, and still have my tonsils hanging out in the back of my throat. Aside from this fleeting obsession when I was around 5, I have never spent much time thinking about tonsils and fishing. It never really occurred to me again until yesterday when I was at work and a man was discussing the appendectomy he had the weekend before.
Any sort of removal surgery intrigues me. I've always wanted to see what was removed. On television surgeries my favourite part is when the doctor says "Ok, here it is people" and lifts up the offending and recently discarded body part for everyone to see, or spreads it out with his hands for the camera. Even better is when he/she gives more details, like "As you can see, the tumour was feeding off of this blood vessel...". Wanting to live vicariously through this newly de-appendixed man, I asked him the first question that came to mind - Did you see it?
He said no, and that he would have liked to. He said he also never had a chance to see his tonsils when he had them removed years ago.
Not one to miss an opportunity to look like a fuckwit, I said "You never even got to take them fishing?". He started laughing hysterically and asked me what the hell I was talking about. I said that some people use their tonsils as bait, but my confidence at that point was waning and every other little fib my parents forced me to believe growing up started popping up in my mind like unwanted ex-boyfriends on a Friend's Request page. If you swallow your gum it'll stick to your ribcage. If you make that face too often, it'll stick like that. People use tonsils for fishing.
I did a quick google search, which confirmed my suspicions - I had been had. For 25 years.
Word of the Day: Interlard
Used in a sentence: Rather then removing the infected length of lower intestine as agreed to, the doctor decided that interlarding the kidneys with a Tickle Me Elmo would be funnier.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Can I swear on this thing?
Me: Hey, buses is spelled B-U-S-E-S, right?
Husband: Yes, why?
Me: Good. I didn't just fuck the whole thing up, then.
So. Blogging. I wasn't going to be a blogperson, but something about the interwebs has convinced me that a blog is necessary - no, a blog is healthy! Yes, that's it! It would be unhealthy for me to keep my random and completely inane thoughts to myself. That's the rumour on the streets now, isn't it? Get that opinion right out of you. Opinions, if kept to yourself, can cause cancer.
That last part isn't actually true. Where are the disclaimers on these things? Do I have to make my own?
I'm starting a blog for several reasons, none of which are particularly great. Mostly I have to justify my new laptop purchase to myself. What better way to celebrate and defend blatant and unnecessary consumerism than starting a blog and looking busy and important for a good few minutes an evening? Yeah, I got the pretty new covering on it and everything but that's ok - I'm a blogger now. Totally worth the extra $80, even if everyone who sees it calls me a hippie. They'll all feel stupid when I'm famous.
That last part isn't actually true, either.
No, being famous isn't a reason for starting this either. Blogging for fame takes work, serious work. There's research, planning topics, looking about for ideas, and you have to be worried enough to use spellcheck...none of that is for this lady. In fact, I've given myself 5 Blogger Commandments I intend to stick to:
1) I shall not blog to save kittens, puppies, or emo kids in suburbia.
2) I shall not be an angry blogger, or a righteous blogger, or a blogger that fights with another blogger, or a blogger that gets enraged on an Internet forum and blogs about it, taking my enemies chat names and bastardizing them in humorous ways like changing Ardra to T'Ardra, or Sophie to Slowfie.
3) I shall not write a post about an article I read in a newspaper about another article that journalist read.
4) I shall not subject readers to my over-powering bad taste in music, choosing to admit it is over-powering bad rather than type out my iPod play list in an effort to seem edgy and cool (Meatloaf forever).
5) I shall never start a blog post by saying my cup of coffee has gone cold, and I'm almost out of cigarettes, and the sun is starting to come up in a bad and unoriginal attempt at imagery.
Word of the day: Lucre
Used in everyday sentence: Lured in by glamorous blogging lucre, she quickly realized she had no way of ending her posts and hoped no one would notice.
Husband: Yes, why?
Me: Good. I didn't just fuck the whole thing up, then.
So. Blogging. I wasn't going to be a blogperson, but something about the interwebs has convinced me that a blog is necessary - no, a blog is healthy! Yes, that's it! It would be unhealthy for me to keep my random and completely inane thoughts to myself. That's the rumour on the streets now, isn't it? Get that opinion right out of you. Opinions, if kept to yourself, can cause cancer.
That last part isn't actually true. Where are the disclaimers on these things? Do I have to make my own?
I'm starting a blog for several reasons, none of which are particularly great. Mostly I have to justify my new laptop purchase to myself. What better way to celebrate and defend blatant and unnecessary consumerism than starting a blog and looking busy and important for a good few minutes an evening? Yeah, I got the pretty new covering on it and everything but that's ok - I'm a blogger now. Totally worth the extra $80, even if everyone who sees it calls me a hippie. They'll all feel stupid when I'm famous.
That last part isn't actually true, either.
No, being famous isn't a reason for starting this either. Blogging for fame takes work, serious work. There's research, planning topics, looking about for ideas, and you have to be worried enough to use spellcheck...none of that is for this lady. In fact, I've given myself 5 Blogger Commandments I intend to stick to:
1) I shall not blog to save kittens, puppies, or emo kids in suburbia.
2) I shall not be an angry blogger, or a righteous blogger, or a blogger that fights with another blogger, or a blogger that gets enraged on an Internet forum and blogs about it, taking my enemies chat names and bastardizing them in humorous ways like changing Ardra to T'Ardra, or Sophie to Slowfie.
3) I shall not write a post about an article I read in a newspaper about another article that journalist read.
4) I shall not subject readers to my over-powering bad taste in music, choosing to admit it is over-powering bad rather than type out my iPod play list in an effort to seem edgy and cool (Meatloaf forever).
5) I shall never start a blog post by saying my cup of coffee has gone cold, and I'm almost out of cigarettes, and the sun is starting to come up in a bad and unoriginal attempt at imagery.
Word of the day: Lucre
Used in everyday sentence: Lured in by glamorous blogging lucre, she quickly realized she had no way of ending her posts and hoped no one would notice.
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