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."

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.

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.

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.