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.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
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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