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.”

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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."