Last night, while ranting about the worst DJ in history, I forgot to mention that what was really upsetting me was the fact that last night I was the closest I've ever been to catching the bouquet at a wedding, but I didn't. I'd decided that I was not messing around this time, because I've recently accepted that I just plain like to win things. It's a little cruel I know, since I'm not with anyone right now and not the type who would jump into marriage quickly, but I was pretty much okay with dooming all those other single women to spinsterhood for my two seconds of glory, you know, due to the selfishness.
The memory is a little blurry, and, as far as I know, I could have leaped across the whole room for it, taking out everyone in my path, but, as I said, it's a little blurry, so I'm not really sure. Regardless, in the end, it brushed my fingers on the way down, before it landed right beside me. All I needed to do was reach down and pick it up. But I didn't. Because I'm introspective, I'd decided that this was probably a metaphor for something deep and troubling deep inside me, and that is the way I have been telling the story (I tell a good, if disturbing and self-centered, story). But, I'm telling you now, that's a lie.
The truth is, I just really like to follow rules. As soon as that bouquet hit the ground, I was trying to figure out if it was still in play, or if there was going to be a timeout so that we could replay the whole thing. My recent experience with ultimate frisbee may have played into it, where I quickly learned to run away as soon as the frisbee hits the ground, so that someone who can actually throw a frisbee can pick it up. Then I run around praying that they won't throw it to me, since my catching is worse than my throwing. But a bouquet is different from a frisbee in many ways, so this probably has nothing to do with it. I might also have been searching my brain for wedding superstitions, like, "If you pick up a bouquet that fell on the floor, yes, you will be the next one to get married, but your husband will be eaten by piranhas on the honeymoon. Oh, and don't try to just go to Antarctica, or some other place where there are no piranhas, because you will just find them where you least expect it and the surprise will make it all the more horrid. ("Surprise, piranhas for dinner, oh my god, they're still alive! But how...? Oh wait, it doesn't matter because they just ate my eyes.")" By the time I realized that that particular superstition and a few others did not exist until I created them, the bouquet was long gone.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, except that I wanted to come clean about the fact that I'm so obsessed with following rules that I let my one bouquet chance slip away. But, I think I'm okay with it in the end, because rules are what separate us from the bears. Rules like: "Don't eat garbage, because, ew," or "Don't maul people at random with your giant bear claws."
Speaking of the importance of rules, I realized today that I'd broken a big one, which was, "When groupies blog about the band they...ummm...group, they should probably give info that might allow one of their five readers to to come to see the band so that they can become famous and desert their first tame groupie in a bizarre and dramatic 'Behind the Music' style series of events." The only excuse I have is that I was so distracted by their insane dancing monkey promises that I didn't give any info that might increase their fan base. On the dancing monkey front, word is that it is going well. I'm hoping they don't get rabies trying to get them, because I'd feel really guilty for pressuring them so much. Also, I've heard hydrophobia doesn't help with singing.
To make up for my bad groupie-ing, I'm going to choose one of their songs for happy song of the day. Unfortunately, I've only seen them live and don't know titles, so my choice is ________ by I Only Date Astronauts. I know the one though, it's the one where I feel like I'm on an epic journey...with a unicorn. Then it goes kind of crazy, so it's more like I'm on a journey with a dragon, but the dragon is still friendly and such, but it also will set my enemies on fire. Then it keeps going crazy and I imagine there are hobbits everywhere, because a really good song should always inspire images of hobbits. Okay, so maybe it's clear that I'm not good at describing the song, but it's good and I like it, so it's happy. Okay? Good.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Worst DJ ever.
The wedding was wonderful, and I am tired, but before sleeping, I need to comment on the worst DJ in history. Why is he the worst DJ in history? Well, I feel that when one requests the song Don't Stop Believing it's implied that they want to hear the lyric "Don't Stop Believing" at least once, not to have all the build up and then end it just as everyone knows it's coming. He was a song tease. I just can't understand why he felt there was time for the entirety of Mambo Number 5 but that I couldn't have a little "Don't stop believing..." I would have even taken it without the "Hold on to that feeling," although the perfect DJ would play the entire song, and then probably repeat it later on for good measure. He also played Chim chim cher-ee from Mary Poppins during dinner. Don't get me wrong, I love Mary Poppins, but really? A song about dirty chimney sweeps while I'm trying to enjoy delicious naan bread?
Now that he has been blogged, that will show him. Hopefully, the next DJ I encounter will think twice before messing with my Journey.
Now that he has been blogged, that will show him. Hopefully, the next DJ I encounter will think twice before messing with my Journey.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Yashtastico!
Today is the wedding of Katarina Yashtatisco! So I am posting this now to ensure there is something, and if I squeeze in time, I will post something longer, but if I don't, no one can fault me because I posted this. Booyah.
The day began with the realization that I might not have a ride, followed by the realization that because my invitation to this wedding occurred on g-mail chat (because that's how we roll), I had no idea where or when it was. One might think you would work find out this information before the day of the wedding, but one is not me (well, sometimes it is, but this one isn't). I spent awhile frantically trying to figure things out before I realized that I had a ride all along and that I was simply confused. It was fitting, because once Katarina posted one of those Facebook pictures where you tag all your friends with labels like "the naughty one", "the evil genius", or "the narcoleptic one", and I was "the confused one". It's always nice to prove someone right on their wedding day. I am often confused. The only problem today was that Yashtastico is my favorite person to go to when confused, but she is also the most likely to destroy me today if I get in her way, because she is highly efficient and would not hesitate to smite me if my confusion slows things down. And since it is her wedding day, her smiting would be completely backed up by law. Or so I've heard. Mostly from her (okay, she never said that, but I imagine if I asked her, she would have, but I didn't ask her, because she already thinks/knows I'm the confused one).
Katarina and I have a wonderful history. Once, we starred in the school play as Reindeer 1 and Reindeer 2. We were pretty fantastic, mainly because our antlers had little bells on them that jingled as we walked/pranced. You might imagine that we've known each other a lifetime from this story, but this was just last Christmas. Unfortunately, we grew up in different countries, although our state/province name started with the same letter, so it's almost like we were from the same place except that we very much weren't. We met a few years ago when we started mutually stalking each other. Everywhere I went, she was there, and everywhere she went, I was there. This continued until it stopped, but our accusations of the other one stalking have never quite stopped. I like to think that it was our souls stalking each other, because they knew we were supposed to be friends, or at the very least acquaintances who accidentally stalk each other.
I wanted to choose a happy song that relates to Katarina, but the best one was Don't Stop Believing so, like a genuine stalker, I decided to search my g-mail for "Yashtastico" and "music" to see if she ever mentioned a happy song. I found a drawn out conversation about the importance of good montage music, but no actual montage music. But then, thinking of montages, I thought of Arrested Development, and how for awhile Katarina and I used to greet each other (or maybe I just greeted her...I can't remember) with "Hey Hermano", because of our mutual love of the show. And eventually, Arrested Development always gets me to The Final Countdown, one of the best montage songs in history. If there is a montage of today, I think it will be to that song.
Also, on a side note, I'm really hoping she went with hobo chic. And I probably won't post anymore today, because this managed to grow pretty fast. However, I might edit. Then again, maeby not.
The day began with the realization that I might not have a ride, followed by the realization that because my invitation to this wedding occurred on g-mail chat (because that's how we roll), I had no idea where or when it was. One might think you would work find out this information before the day of the wedding, but one is not me (well, sometimes it is, but this one isn't). I spent awhile frantically trying to figure things out before I realized that I had a ride all along and that I was simply confused. It was fitting, because once Katarina posted one of those Facebook pictures where you tag all your friends with labels like "the naughty one", "the evil genius", or "the narcoleptic one", and I was "the confused one". It's always nice to prove someone right on their wedding day. I am often confused. The only problem today was that Yashtastico is my favorite person to go to when confused, but she is also the most likely to destroy me today if I get in her way, because she is highly efficient and would not hesitate to smite me if my confusion slows things down. And since it is her wedding day, her smiting would be completely backed up by law. Or so I've heard. Mostly from her (okay, she never said that, but I imagine if I asked her, she would have, but I didn't ask her, because she already thinks/knows I'm the confused one).
Katarina and I have a wonderful history. Once, we starred in the school play as Reindeer 1 and Reindeer 2. We were pretty fantastic, mainly because our antlers had little bells on them that jingled as we walked/pranced. You might imagine that we've known each other a lifetime from this story, but this was just last Christmas. Unfortunately, we grew up in different countries, although our state/province name started with the same letter, so it's almost like we were from the same place except that we very much weren't. We met a few years ago when we started mutually stalking each other. Everywhere I went, she was there, and everywhere she went, I was there. This continued until it stopped, but our accusations of the other one stalking have never quite stopped. I like to think that it was our souls stalking each other, because they knew we were supposed to be friends, or at the very least acquaintances who accidentally stalk each other.
I wanted to choose a happy song that relates to Katarina, but the best one was Don't Stop Believing so, like a genuine stalker, I decided to search my g-mail for "Yashtastico" and "music" to see if she ever mentioned a happy song. I found a drawn out conversation about the importance of good montage music, but no actual montage music. But then, thinking of montages, I thought of Arrested Development, and how for awhile Katarina and I used to greet each other (or maybe I just greeted her...I can't remember) with "Hey Hermano", because of our mutual love of the show. And eventually, Arrested Development always gets me to The Final Countdown, one of the best montage songs in history. If there is a montage of today, I think it will be to that song.
Also, on a side note, I'm really hoping she went with hobo chic. And I probably won't post anymore today, because this managed to grow pretty fast. However, I might edit. Then again, maeby not.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Things that are scarier than bears
So, I've graduated. Somehow, I feel the same though, only a little more embarrassed, because after graduating, I had a Marilyn Monroe moment on a subway grate downtown. Well, a Marilyn Monroe moment minus the holding it down part. Classy. And I was only afraid I'd fall on stage. Apparently in 22 years of education, I was never taught how to not make a fool of myself. Or I missed that class. Or I was there, but daydreaming about monkey butlers. Actually, that's probably it, because those with monkey butlers need not worry about things like subway grate drafts. Monkey butlers are good that way.
Speaking of monkey butlers, in addition to being a recent graduate, I also became a groupie about a month ago. I wasn't sure that I could actually be a groupie, because I'm pretty tame, but I was told that all types of groupies are needed (all the colours of the rainbow, from skanky to tame). So, I'm a groupie, for a band. A real band. Not in my head at all. The reason I bring this up now, is that they are having a show in June where they have promised dancing monkeys. Although I had already agreed to be a groupie, and thus was obliged to attend, I was also pulled in by the dancing monkeys. However, I'm also concerned about this promise, because, seriously, dancing monkeys? In downtown Toronto? Is that even legal? I'm going to say no.
I'm told that they're working on the dancing monkeys though, which is good, because that's not the kind of promise you should just throw around. People take dancing animals very seriously, and monkeys even moreso. Maybe they have access to a research lab I'm not aware of, and they're going to sneak the monkeys out under a giant lab coat. I hope they've thought this plan through though, because monkeys do not respond well to being shoved in an over sized sleeve, especially if that sleeve contains an arm. It's all the worse if that arm is that of a band drummer, bulked up from excessive drum banging, because lab monkeys like their angry revenge-for-being-shoved-in-a-sleeve meat as lean as possible. Because they've heard about heart health. Overall, animatronic monkeys might be a safer bet. They should try to stick to songs you can dance the robot to.
Today I gained a new fear, one unrelated to terrible bears. Apparently, there were fish going missing in an aquarium and the owners weren't sure what was happening, so they watched nighttime security footage and found out that the octopus in the tank across from it was climbing out of his cage, walking (wait, do they walk, or just sort of shuffle) across the catwalks and eating fish. This is friggin' terrifying, because if an octopus can climb across a catwalk to steal fish, it can climb across a catwalk to drop on my head and suck out my brains (I think that's what they do.) Then, for good measure, a bear will probably jump out to maul me.
In the same conversation where I learned that octopi are evil geniuses, we were discussing the zoo and the degree of awesome that it has. One person mentioned they'd grown up walking distance from a zoo. I thought it was cool, unless a tiger escaped (I believe I may have mentioned this theory in the past). Then, another person said to their mother, "Was it a polar bear that escaped from our zoo?" And I thought, "Holy crap." I don't think I need to add any more to that story at this point, because holy crap.
So that brings me to a happy song. This task seems easier some days than others. To comfort myself about the idea of polar bear escapes, I'm going to go with At the Zoo by Simon and Garfunkel. I don't think it needs anymore explanation than zoos are automatically happy (assuming all the cages are intact) and the zoo keeper is apparently drunk.
I was about to publish this post, when I realized that bear and octopus in the same sentence seemed strangely familiar. Then, I remembered that a few months ago a friend introduced me to the existence of the bear-shark-octopus, but I blacked it out (for obvious, terrifying reasons), until this unfortunate post. Now it's all flooding back, and I'm never sleeping again, which is probably good, because I'll have time to get a lot more done. Of course, most of that time will be spent trying to figure out how to escape a bear shark octopus mauling/biting my arm off/brain sucking. I know that you're supposed to make noise for bears, and hit sharks in the nose, but I haven't heard about octopi. Maybe you just have to somehow confuse them so they tie knots in their many tentacles. It would work in the cartoons, so it would probably work in real life.
Speaking of monkey butlers, in addition to being a recent graduate, I also became a groupie about a month ago. I wasn't sure that I could actually be a groupie, because I'm pretty tame, but I was told that all types of groupies are needed (all the colours of the rainbow, from skanky to tame). So, I'm a groupie, for a band. A real band. Not in my head at all. The reason I bring this up now, is that they are having a show in June where they have promised dancing monkeys. Although I had already agreed to be a groupie, and thus was obliged to attend, I was also pulled in by the dancing monkeys. However, I'm also concerned about this promise, because, seriously, dancing monkeys? In downtown Toronto? Is that even legal? I'm going to say no.
I'm told that they're working on the dancing monkeys though, which is good, because that's not the kind of promise you should just throw around. People take dancing animals very seriously, and monkeys even moreso. Maybe they have access to a research lab I'm not aware of, and they're going to sneak the monkeys out under a giant lab coat. I hope they've thought this plan through though, because monkeys do not respond well to being shoved in an over sized sleeve, especially if that sleeve contains an arm. It's all the worse if that arm is that of a band drummer, bulked up from excessive drum banging, because lab monkeys like their angry revenge-for-being-shoved-in-a-sleeve meat as lean as possible. Because they've heard about heart health. Overall, animatronic monkeys might be a safer bet. They should try to stick to songs you can dance the robot to.
Today I gained a new fear, one unrelated to terrible bears. Apparently, there were fish going missing in an aquarium and the owners weren't sure what was happening, so they watched nighttime security footage and found out that the octopus in the tank across from it was climbing out of his cage, walking (wait, do they walk, or just sort of shuffle) across the catwalks and eating fish. This is friggin' terrifying, because if an octopus can climb across a catwalk to steal fish, it can climb across a catwalk to drop on my head and suck out my brains (I think that's what they do.) Then, for good measure, a bear will probably jump out to maul me.
In the same conversation where I learned that octopi are evil geniuses, we were discussing the zoo and the degree of awesome that it has. One person mentioned they'd grown up walking distance from a zoo. I thought it was cool, unless a tiger escaped (I believe I may have mentioned this theory in the past). Then, another person said to their mother, "Was it a polar bear that escaped from our zoo?" And I thought, "Holy crap." I don't think I need to add any more to that story at this point, because holy crap.
So that brings me to a happy song. This task seems easier some days than others. To comfort myself about the idea of polar bear escapes, I'm going to go with At the Zoo by Simon and Garfunkel. I don't think it needs anymore explanation than zoos are automatically happy (assuming all the cages are intact) and the zoo keeper is apparently drunk.
I was about to publish this post, when I realized that bear and octopus in the same sentence seemed strangely familiar. Then, I remembered that a few months ago a friend introduced me to the existence of the bear-shark-octopus, but I blacked it out (for obvious, terrifying reasons), until this unfortunate post. Now it's all flooding back, and I'm never sleeping again, which is probably good, because I'll have time to get a lot more done. Of course, most of that time will be spent trying to figure out how to escape a bear shark octopus mauling/biting my arm off/brain sucking. I know that you're supposed to make noise for bears, and hit sharks in the nose, but I haven't heard about octopi. Maybe you just have to somehow confuse them so they tie knots in their many tentacles. It would work in the cartoons, so it would probably work in real life.
Friday, May 28, 2010
I nearly ran out of tape, but I made it
I'm graduating today, so I don't have time to write much. Although I'm looking forward to seeing all the people that have been my family the last 4 years, I'm not looking forward to walking across the stage, because I don't have any shoes with treads good enough to ensure I won't become, "that girl who fell." I've spent 4 years cultivating the "that red head girl who wears a lot of green...and sometimes blue" image. Not that distinctive, I know, but dependable, like the colour green...or blue.
Graduation makes me nostalgic. Only 4 years ago, I had freshly graduated from my undergraduate program and was looking forward to exciting new adventures. If I have a fault, it's that I tend to be overly optimistic. I imagined that this new school would be like a hidden utopia nestled in North York. On nostalgic days like this I could almost imagine I was right. But I wasn't right. I was very wrong. Even if the heating system in the building hadn't been menopausal, the school still would have had some work to do to get to utopia. But that's okay, because now that I'm leaving, like my undergrad, it will slowly morph itself into the wonderful experience I wanted it to be. That is the magic of memory.
During the last 4 years, I've learned many things. Number one among them is the importance of crying. I had considered trying to drink enough at formal to replace the tears I shed over the last 4 years, but thought that dying of alcohol poisoning might not be the best way to celebrate graduation. I think it's a way though, and will consider it the next time I graduate from somewhere that seems to relish in repeatedly crushing my soul. That was another key lesson. For 4 years the school would intermittently smash my soul, and I would pick up all the little soul pieces and try to figure out how to put them back together. It was problem based learning. Eventually, I was able to eliminate the less essential parts of my soul, replacing them with shards of awesome. Yes, it's mainly held together by bits of string and scotch tape, but my soul is now 19% more awesome than it was 4 years ago. So now is the opportunity for me to thank my school for so thoroughly destroying my spirit, because, coming in, it was a mediocre spirit, at best, but now it is awesome enhanced.
So, what have I learned, other than what it feels like to have your soul repeatedly pulverized, and how to most efficiently repair it with odds and ends you find around the house? That's a good question. Well, I learned that anytime something goes wrong, saying things like, "there's nowhere I can be that isn't where I'm supposed to be," or, "this is part of my path," or, "this happened so I can learn," will comfort me more than I imagined possible. For example, if something goes wrong and I miss the subway, I'll think, "chances are if I'd caught that train, it would have been the train where a bear would have eaten me." Or if someone rejects me, I'll think "chances are they were a bear who would have eaten me." The point is, there are bears around every corner, and the only thing preventing you from becoming their delicious dessert is a string of seemingly unfortunate events.
Today's happy song is Ramble on by Led Zeppelin, which has, for a long time, been my favorite end of the school year song. I also like it because I'm a fan of all kinds of rambling, both the verbal kind and the kind that makes your feet hurt. The Lord of the Rings references are also a little bit awesome, because, even though I haven't actually gotten through the books, I respect those that are so open in their devotion to fiction. If I wrote a song, I would reference Fraggle Rock a lot. It wouldn't be as cool as Ramble on, and would probably contain more instances of the word "radish" than any other song in history. Actually, I don't need to write a song, because it already exists. It's called the Fraggle Rock theme song. Crap, I think I just wasted two happy songs in one day. Oh well, I guess it's a special day. I'll just have to turn a horribly depressing song into a happy song later on to make up for the loss. I'll try to find one with a high casualty count, just because I like the challenge.
Graduation makes me nostalgic. Only 4 years ago, I had freshly graduated from my undergraduate program and was looking forward to exciting new adventures. If I have a fault, it's that I tend to be overly optimistic. I imagined that this new school would be like a hidden utopia nestled in North York. On nostalgic days like this I could almost imagine I was right. But I wasn't right. I was very wrong. Even if the heating system in the building hadn't been menopausal, the school still would have had some work to do to get to utopia. But that's okay, because now that I'm leaving, like my undergrad, it will slowly morph itself into the wonderful experience I wanted it to be. That is the magic of memory.
During the last 4 years, I've learned many things. Number one among them is the importance of crying. I had considered trying to drink enough at formal to replace the tears I shed over the last 4 years, but thought that dying of alcohol poisoning might not be the best way to celebrate graduation. I think it's a way though, and will consider it the next time I graduate from somewhere that seems to relish in repeatedly crushing my soul. That was another key lesson. For 4 years the school would intermittently smash my soul, and I would pick up all the little soul pieces and try to figure out how to put them back together. It was problem based learning. Eventually, I was able to eliminate the less essential parts of my soul, replacing them with shards of awesome. Yes, it's mainly held together by bits of string and scotch tape, but my soul is now 19% more awesome than it was 4 years ago. So now is the opportunity for me to thank my school for so thoroughly destroying my spirit, because, coming in, it was a mediocre spirit, at best, but now it is awesome enhanced.
So, what have I learned, other than what it feels like to have your soul repeatedly pulverized, and how to most efficiently repair it with odds and ends you find around the house? That's a good question. Well, I learned that anytime something goes wrong, saying things like, "there's nowhere I can be that isn't where I'm supposed to be," or, "this is part of my path," or, "this happened so I can learn," will comfort me more than I imagined possible. For example, if something goes wrong and I miss the subway, I'll think, "chances are if I'd caught that train, it would have been the train where a bear would have eaten me." Or if someone rejects me, I'll think "chances are they were a bear who would have eaten me." The point is, there are bears around every corner, and the only thing preventing you from becoming their delicious dessert is a string of seemingly unfortunate events.
Today's happy song is Ramble on by Led Zeppelin, which has, for a long time, been my favorite end of the school year song. I also like it because I'm a fan of all kinds of rambling, both the verbal kind and the kind that makes your feet hurt. The Lord of the Rings references are also a little bit awesome, because, even though I haven't actually gotten through the books, I respect those that are so open in their devotion to fiction. If I wrote a song, I would reference Fraggle Rock a lot. It wouldn't be as cool as Ramble on, and would probably contain more instances of the word "radish" than any other song in history. Actually, I don't need to write a song, because it already exists. It's called the Fraggle Rock theme song. Crap, I think I just wasted two happy songs in one day. Oh well, I guess it's a special day. I'll just have to turn a horribly depressing song into a happy song later on to make up for the loss. I'll try to find one with a high casualty count, just because I like the challenge.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
I'm not feeling very "inciteful"
Grad formal last night was fantastic. My hair actually managed to curl in a way that wasn't reminiscent of an old, neglected Barbie doll, and the company, as always, was wonderful. There were about a thousand good blog ideas that I said I probably wouldn't remember, and then I didn't. They might come back to me, but I sort of doubt it. Since I had a pretty full day today, I'm crashing a bit now. The next few days blogs could get interesting, since time to write is not obviously available, but that's part of the fun of blog.
Although I forgot most ideas for blogging, I did come home to a Facebook message from my friend Vincenzo O'Lun in which he suggested I blog about not making plans to stalk people, because it probably won't work out then you'll be stressed and it won't be very attractive. Or so is my understanding. I'm going to clarify next time we have coffee, then I'll probably blog about that. Actually, his opposition to stalking is good to know about, since our friendship basically began when we kept encountering each other 2-5 times a day for no apparent reason. I'd assumed stalking was involved, but knowing his feelings on it now, it was probably coincidence or demon related. He also messaged last night to let me know he was going to leave a wall post for Yelsel to remind her that he helped pay for formal (something with a camelback ridiculously full of water...I didn't read too closely, but it probably made some sort of sense.) If I'd known he felt that way about it beforehand, I would have shoved my leftover chicken and steak in my purse to bring to him today. But I didn't. Which is probably good for that purse, which I do enjoy.
I always look forward to my coffee dates with Vincenzo, because he is generally full of intrigue, and yet a complete open book. He lives in his own world, with his own set of clearly defined rules that I'm not familiar with (well, maybe other people live there too, but I haven't met them. The point is, I'm not from there). So, being friends with him is like doing a very large jigsaw puzzle. You start talking and you don't quite know what's happening, but you ask a few questions and then you realize, what you were putting together wasn't the dogs ear, it was his hind leg, then it all makes sense. Until you try to put attach that leg to anything. Figuring that out is going to take another coffee.
Once, Vincenzo told me the story of the Jehova's witness that used to visit him. One day he came to the door and Vincenzo told him he was already Christian, then the witness asked if they could read scripture together. So, Vincenzo thought, "Well, I'm not really planning to do anything for a few hours, why not?"
At this point in the story, I asked, "So, you just invited him in to read scripture?"
"No," Vincenzo responded, "I held him at the threshold." Apparently this occurred every 2 weeks for over a year. Vincenzo, standing at the door with his Jehova's witness friend, reading scripture, because he didn't really have other plans. I asked him if he ever felt like a tease, because I would, letting that poor guy come every week, thinking he's going to convert me when I know the whole time there's no chance. He didn't.
Once his Jehova's witness brought his wife over. Vincenzo wasn't expecting him that day, and when he answered the door, they seemed a little shocked because he was wearing a shirt with a machine gun on it (sorry Vincenzo if I put the wrong type of gun, I easily forget such details...I'm sure you'll correct me). So, they silently handed him a brochure on how guns are the number one evil of our times and slowly backed away (or so I imagined, during the telling of the story). "Guns? The number one evil?" Vincenzo said to me at this point in the story, "What about machetes?!" This was said as if I was supposed to already know the answer to that question. I think it's something like, "Of course, machetes, terrifying." I'm not really sure, I haven't quite completed that part of the puzzle yet.
This morning, I was talking to my friend Chutney Paradise, who I had not informed of the existence of blog yet. She's about a thousand times better at whatever it is that I'm doing than I am, but she said that she'd tried blogging but didn't have anything "inciteful" to write. At first I though this might be the greatest spelling error I'd ever encountered, until I realized there was every chance that she actually meant that she wanted to write something that would incite general chaos. I have many terrifying friends.
So, happy song time. I've realized that I keep on wanting to post songs that aren't happy at all, but I imagine they might be for god knows what reason (please don't start suggesting reasons), so this whole thing is going to get very interesting very soon. However, today has to be What I Got by Sublime, because the one thing I've learned over my 4 years in a ridiculously painful program is that the love of friends and family is can get me through anything, and this is the song I listen to when I need a reminder of this fact.
Although I forgot most ideas for blogging, I did come home to a Facebook message from my friend Vincenzo O'Lun in which he suggested I blog about not making plans to stalk people, because it probably won't work out then you'll be stressed and it won't be very attractive. Or so is my understanding. I'm going to clarify next time we have coffee, then I'll probably blog about that. Actually, his opposition to stalking is good to know about, since our friendship basically began when we kept encountering each other 2-5 times a day for no apparent reason. I'd assumed stalking was involved, but knowing his feelings on it now, it was probably coincidence or demon related. He also messaged last night to let me know he was going to leave a wall post for Yelsel to remind her that he helped pay for formal (something with a camelback ridiculously full of water...I didn't read too closely, but it probably made some sort of sense.) If I'd known he felt that way about it beforehand, I would have shoved my leftover chicken and steak in my purse to bring to him today. But I didn't. Which is probably good for that purse, which I do enjoy.
I always look forward to my coffee dates with Vincenzo, because he is generally full of intrigue, and yet a complete open book. He lives in his own world, with his own set of clearly defined rules that I'm not familiar with (well, maybe other people live there too, but I haven't met them. The point is, I'm not from there). So, being friends with him is like doing a very large jigsaw puzzle. You start talking and you don't quite know what's happening, but you ask a few questions and then you realize, what you were putting together wasn't the dogs ear, it was his hind leg, then it all makes sense. Until you try to put attach that leg to anything. Figuring that out is going to take another coffee.
Once, Vincenzo told me the story of the Jehova's witness that used to visit him. One day he came to the door and Vincenzo told him he was already Christian, then the witness asked if they could read scripture together. So, Vincenzo thought, "Well, I'm not really planning to do anything for a few hours, why not?"
At this point in the story, I asked, "So, you just invited him in to read scripture?"
"No," Vincenzo responded, "I held him at the threshold." Apparently this occurred every 2 weeks for over a year. Vincenzo, standing at the door with his Jehova's witness friend, reading scripture, because he didn't really have other plans. I asked him if he ever felt like a tease, because I would, letting that poor guy come every week, thinking he's going to convert me when I know the whole time there's no chance. He didn't.
Once his Jehova's witness brought his wife over. Vincenzo wasn't expecting him that day, and when he answered the door, they seemed a little shocked because he was wearing a shirt with a machine gun on it (sorry Vincenzo if I put the wrong type of gun, I easily forget such details...I'm sure you'll correct me). So, they silently handed him a brochure on how guns are the number one evil of our times and slowly backed away (or so I imagined, during the telling of the story). "Guns? The number one evil?" Vincenzo said to me at this point in the story, "What about machetes?!" This was said as if I was supposed to already know the answer to that question. I think it's something like, "Of course, machetes, terrifying." I'm not really sure, I haven't quite completed that part of the puzzle yet.
This morning, I was talking to my friend Chutney Paradise, who I had not informed of the existence of blog yet. She's about a thousand times better at whatever it is that I'm doing than I am, but she said that she'd tried blogging but didn't have anything "inciteful" to write. At first I though this might be the greatest spelling error I'd ever encountered, until I realized there was every chance that she actually meant that she wanted to write something that would incite general chaos. I have many terrifying friends.
So, happy song time. I've realized that I keep on wanting to post songs that aren't happy at all, but I imagine they might be for god knows what reason (please don't start suggesting reasons), so this whole thing is going to get very interesting very soon. However, today has to be What I Got by Sublime, because the one thing I've learned over my 4 years in a ridiculously painful program is that the love of friends and family is can get me through anything, and this is the song I listen to when I need a reminder of this fact.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
C-c-c-curly! (hopefully)
Tonight is graduation formal. This means that after publishing last night's post, I spent an hour trying to put hair curlers in, despite holding a deep-seeded belief that they were doomed to fail and that I would probably have to just straighten it at the last minute. There's nothing like feeling like your sleeping on pillow made of large pebbles and yet knowing that it's unlikely to have any benefit whatsoever. So I ended up dreaming that each of my dreams cost 5 cents each and the ones I had were just previews, so I'd wake up 5 seconds after they started, since I wasn't willing to fork over 5 cents for something I usually get for free. The point is, I'm a little sleepy, which is definitely going to add to my looks at formal. The best part is, I knew that's exactly how this whole curl thing would go down, but did it anyways, because the idea of actual curls is so mystical to me that I have to try even futile efforts that will keep me up all night. I just really want to boing them.
The most exciting thing about formal is that I'm in charge of the buses. I jumped on that task, because, who doesn't want the power of bus? Also, anything that involves me checking people off a list while wearing a fancy dress amuses me. I don't know why. But it really, really does. It might just be that I'm looking forward to the first person who tries to mess with me, so that I can shut them down (in a fancy dress). I've been practicing the line, "Get off the bus, motha trucker!" all week. I've nearly perfected it, but for the optimal furrow to my brow. You see, when dressed all fancy-like, a perfect brow furrow is imperative to intimidation.
Speaking of fancy dressing, I'm not sure how well I've planned it out today. I mean, I bought a dress, and I put the curlers in, but as far as I know right now, I might be wearing paper bags on my feet and earrings made from the bones of small animals. Actually, that second one is unlikely, because I live across from the mall, so animal bones would be much harder to acquire than any random pair of earrings, but you probably get my point. I'm comforting myself by reminding myself that you don't really want to look too good for this, because you don't want peoples final memories of you to be "Damn, why does she have to look so good. I'm so jealous." I'd prefer them to get together years from now and say, "Hey, remember that ginger that only wore one shoe to formal, because she realized she'd lost the pair as she left the house?" It kind of has a Cinderella flare to it, minus the prince since 87% of my class is female. Also, glass shoes are horribly impractical, and an excellent way to end up with a severed tibial nerve.
Happy song of the day. Well, formals always make me think of high school prom, and just before my prom was when I discovered exactly how much I love Joni Mitchell, a love that has only grown since then. I wish I could say Song for Sharon, since it's the only Sharon song that I have, but it's very long and not even I can stretch it enough to classify it as happy (introspective, maybe?). So, for today, I'm going to go for Judgment of the Moon and Stars, the Travelogue version, because the orchestra helps. Again, not exactly happy, but, I like imagining shaking my fist at lightening and being a forest fire, because of the futility and the destructiveness, respectively.
So, while finishing this post, I noticed I had a new e-mail, which always excites me, then usually disappoints me. This time it was notification of a new comment on my blog though, which is always exciting, or so I thought. I started reading it and was confused. "Excellent topics, I really like this topics. Can you publish more articles?" This seemed odd. First, what topics, friends that are robots? Grass-eggs? Novel forms of messing with your childrens lives? I don't get it. Also, how many more articles do you want? I'm writing everyday? Then I did get it, because they followed with an ad for a chiropractic clinic (I've since deleted it, for fear of viruses). I was so very sad. So, I decided to do some online stalking, and figured out through my excellent online stalking skills that they came across my blog through the search term "carpal tunnel syndrome". Having had carpal tunnel syndrome, albeit briefly and guitar hero induced, I don't like my people (yes, my people) being preyed on in blog form. To my mysterious poster, if you ever read this, I suggest that you scan for the following words in a blog before you attempt to advertise: kill, robot, evil, crack bottle. This is not an extensive list, but simply a few that might have clued you into the fact that my readers are unlikely to be searching for your clinic anytime soon, and that if they were, you'd likely not want them to find it.
Now I'm afraid that since I mentioned severed nerves, tomorrow there's going to be a comment from a bargain basement neurosurgeon.
The most exciting thing about formal is that I'm in charge of the buses. I jumped on that task, because, who doesn't want the power of bus? Also, anything that involves me checking people off a list while wearing a fancy dress amuses me. I don't know why. But it really, really does. It might just be that I'm looking forward to the first person who tries to mess with me, so that I can shut them down (in a fancy dress). I've been practicing the line, "Get off the bus, motha trucker!" all week. I've nearly perfected it, but for the optimal furrow to my brow. You see, when dressed all fancy-like, a perfect brow furrow is imperative to intimidation.
Speaking of fancy dressing, I'm not sure how well I've planned it out today. I mean, I bought a dress, and I put the curlers in, but as far as I know right now, I might be wearing paper bags on my feet and earrings made from the bones of small animals. Actually, that second one is unlikely, because I live across from the mall, so animal bones would be much harder to acquire than any random pair of earrings, but you probably get my point. I'm comforting myself by reminding myself that you don't really want to look too good for this, because you don't want peoples final memories of you to be "Damn, why does she have to look so good. I'm so jealous." I'd prefer them to get together years from now and say, "Hey, remember that ginger that only wore one shoe to formal, because she realized she'd lost the pair as she left the house?" It kind of has a Cinderella flare to it, minus the prince since 87% of my class is female. Also, glass shoes are horribly impractical, and an excellent way to end up with a severed tibial nerve.
Happy song of the day. Well, formals always make me think of high school prom, and just before my prom was when I discovered exactly how much I love Joni Mitchell, a love that has only grown since then. I wish I could say Song for Sharon, since it's the only Sharon song that I have, but it's very long and not even I can stretch it enough to classify it as happy (introspective, maybe?). So, for today, I'm going to go for Judgment of the Moon and Stars, the Travelogue version, because the orchestra helps. Again, not exactly happy, but, I like imagining shaking my fist at lightening and being a forest fire, because of the futility and the destructiveness, respectively.
So, while finishing this post, I noticed I had a new e-mail, which always excites me, then usually disappoints me. This time it was notification of a new comment on my blog though, which is always exciting, or so I thought. I started reading it and was confused. "Excellent topics, I really like this topics. Can you publish more articles?" This seemed odd. First, what topics, friends that are robots? Grass-eggs? Novel forms of messing with your childrens lives? I don't get it. Also, how many more articles do you want? I'm writing everyday? Then I did get it, because they followed with an ad for a chiropractic clinic (I've since deleted it, for fear of viruses). I was so very sad. So, I decided to do some online stalking, and figured out through my excellent online stalking skills that they came across my blog through the search term "carpal tunnel syndrome". Having had carpal tunnel syndrome, albeit briefly and guitar hero induced, I don't like my people (yes, my people) being preyed on in blog form. To my mysterious poster, if you ever read this, I suggest that you scan for the following words in a blog before you attempt to advertise: kill, robot, evil, crack bottle. This is not an extensive list, but simply a few that might have clued you into the fact that my readers are unlikely to be searching for your clinic anytime soon, and that if they were, you'd likely not want them to find it.
Now I'm afraid that since I mentioned severed nerves, tomorrow there's going to be a comment from a bargain basement neurosurgeon.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
(Don't) Kill Humans
Today was too hot for me. When it gets too hot, my brain shuts down. Unfortunately, my mouth doesn't. What results is a variety of ridiculous (more ridiculous than average, I should say) musings, most of which I can't remember. I know that my friend Mickey Bobicky was trying to decide whether to be concerned that someone would steal her bike seat after she locked it up, and I said, "You know what would be a good idea to deter someone from stealing a bike seat? Fake skid marks." This seemed reasonable and not gross at all at the time, because of my poor heat addled brain. There was actually a whole conversation that followed that I won't go into now. It was pretty riveting.
We also had a debate about whether walking on the grass might be cooler than the sidewalk, because you only hear about it being so hot that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk/road, not the grass. But, I also realized if you try to fry an egg on grass, it's going to be full of grass, which might be the main deterrent, not the heat factor. Mickey thought that she would prefer a grass egg. She was right, I realized, because of the added fiber. This is what happens to my conversations when it's too hot. It's not pretty.
Before the heat broke my brain today, I was scheming a scheme, as I am apt to do. I realized that my life has been relatively dreamless lately. Well, I've had dreams, I always have dreams, but most of them are either unrealistic or actually take work. As soon as I have to do work, it takes all the fun out of the dream. Okay, that's probably untrue, but I think what I'm trying to say is that I like levels to my dreams. There's my A number one dream, for example, graduating school and not living in a box, that my day to day life is devoted to. I don't give it much thought on a daily basis, because I'm just doing it, it's natural, like breathing and such. Breathing, although important and missed when gone, is not something I find particularly fun. That's what A dreams are, the breathing of dreams. Then there might be some B dreams, which are usually somewhat more flighty and not likely to happen anytime soon, like, I hope someone gives me a bag of money just for being me, or I'd like to go swimming in a giant pool of lime jello. My C dreams though, those are the ones I've been lacking lately. They're the ones that are short lived, and potentially achievable, but still have the risk of failure. For awhile, I filled my C dream void with guitar hero, until I got carpal tunnel syndrome (since healed, but do I really want to risk it?). Today, I filled it with the dream of forcing Bark Montes to read this very blog.
I know, in my original introduction of my robotic friend Bark Montes, I indicated that I would rather he not read it so that he didn't know that we were all planning on chasing him out of town with pitchforks. This was true at the time. Since then, I've realized that people are less inclined to form unruly mobs as I had previously hoped, one of the many reasons you should teach your children early on that humans will only disappoint them. As a parent, I'm going to plant the dream of becoming dolphins in their heads early on, in hopes of steering them into an educational direction where they will perfect technology to turn people into dolphins, at which point I will use my motherly guilt to force them to make me the first dolphin human. Then, as the first human brain introduced to dolphin society, I will be able to manipulate their minds, which though intelligent are not quite evil enough to understand human tricks of logic. Among the dolphins, I will rule as their Queen.
Back to Bark Montes. Since realizing that I will not be able to rid the city of his creepy robot ways (the layers, the horrible horrible layers), I am concocting a new plan. That plan is to convince him to read this blog. Why? Well, I'm not completely sure of how his robot mind works, but I think that it might have issues comprehending my many tangents. Then, while it searches for the proper algorithm to understand grass-eggs, I'll hog-tie him. Then I'll put him on some sort of cart, and to the cart, I will tie a bunch of chihuahuas. Then I'll leave for a bit while I find a gardening store that sells pitchforks. When I return with my pitchfork, I will chase the chihuahuas with it, which will lead to Bark Montes being wheeled out of town forever. It's ingenious in its simplicity.
He knows something's up though, because every day I tell him to read it, sometimes multiple times, and he always says he will, but he hasn't. I'll know once he does, because he'll probably say, "Bark Montes?!", then furrow his robot brow and shake his robot fist. I'll know that I'm in no danger from his threats though, because it's well known that most well constructed robots are programmed so that they can't hurt their human masters.
Back to my scheme. I've begun to ensure that every time my dear friend Bark Montes wanders into my vicinity, either in reality or in the world of the interweb, I will remind him to read my blog. "Read my blog, Bark Montes!" I will say, except I will use his real name instead of Bark Montes because if he knows his name is Bark Montes already, I will lose my ability to tell if he's read my blog. I had thought that Facebook chat messages would be enough to scramble his programming into believing that reading my blog is his paramount quest in robot life. So far, I have been wrong. But, today I realized, I'm just one person. But what if everyone who knew Bark Montes was sending him messages. I know, I know, you already said no when I asked you about the pitchfork thing. But seriously, this way you don't need to purchase a brand new pitchfork you'll probably only use once, but you can still be protected from the chaos that will ensue when he starts breaking down and his "don't kill humans" programming somehow loses the "don't". Think about it. Yeah, I already knew I was right, but it's nice to hear you say it anyways.
So, what do you do now? Well, whenever you encounter Bark Montes, say or type this "Have you read Sharon's blog yet? downtothefilter.blogspot.com" How simple was that? It just saved your life in the future.
Happy song of the day: I was in the store and heard the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, which is not really happy, but I've realized I've been encountering it a lot lately, so on this hot day it's the only one I can think of. It can be uplifting though, with a few small lyric additions on your part. Whenever it asks a question, the answer is "yes". And the part where it says a landslide brought me down, just imagine that it did, but that what it means is that a landslide was coming and you rode it like a water slide of snow and it was friggin' awesome until it delivered you right onto a heated patio where they had a delicious hot chocolate waiting for you. Actually, I've heard that song is about drugs, but I've heard that about most songs. I don't know much about drugs, but when I was 9, some cops came into school and taught us how to recognize a crack bottle. It was useful, because I found 2 or 3 on my street after that, and otherwise I probably would have been inclined to play with the creepy burnt garbage, which would have lead to a lifetime of drug addiction and crime. Thank you public education. The point is, I can spot a crack bottle from a pretty fair distance, and that song doesn't have anything resembling a crack bottle in it. That is what I know.
Wow, I really shouldn't blog on hot days.
We also had a debate about whether walking on the grass might be cooler than the sidewalk, because you only hear about it being so hot that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk/road, not the grass. But, I also realized if you try to fry an egg on grass, it's going to be full of grass, which might be the main deterrent, not the heat factor. Mickey thought that she would prefer a grass egg. She was right, I realized, because of the added fiber. This is what happens to my conversations when it's too hot. It's not pretty.
Before the heat broke my brain today, I was scheming a scheme, as I am apt to do. I realized that my life has been relatively dreamless lately. Well, I've had dreams, I always have dreams, but most of them are either unrealistic or actually take work. As soon as I have to do work, it takes all the fun out of the dream. Okay, that's probably untrue, but I think what I'm trying to say is that I like levels to my dreams. There's my A number one dream, for example, graduating school and not living in a box, that my day to day life is devoted to. I don't give it much thought on a daily basis, because I'm just doing it, it's natural, like breathing and such. Breathing, although important and missed when gone, is not something I find particularly fun. That's what A dreams are, the breathing of dreams. Then there might be some B dreams, which are usually somewhat more flighty and not likely to happen anytime soon, like, I hope someone gives me a bag of money just for being me, or I'd like to go swimming in a giant pool of lime jello. My C dreams though, those are the ones I've been lacking lately. They're the ones that are short lived, and potentially achievable, but still have the risk of failure. For awhile, I filled my C dream void with guitar hero, until I got carpal tunnel syndrome (since healed, but do I really want to risk it?). Today, I filled it with the dream of forcing Bark Montes to read this very blog.
I know, in my original introduction of my robotic friend Bark Montes, I indicated that I would rather he not read it so that he didn't know that we were all planning on chasing him out of town with pitchforks. This was true at the time. Since then, I've realized that people are less inclined to form unruly mobs as I had previously hoped, one of the many reasons you should teach your children early on that humans will only disappoint them. As a parent, I'm going to plant the dream of becoming dolphins in their heads early on, in hopes of steering them into an educational direction where they will perfect technology to turn people into dolphins, at which point I will use my motherly guilt to force them to make me the first dolphin human. Then, as the first human brain introduced to dolphin society, I will be able to manipulate their minds, which though intelligent are not quite evil enough to understand human tricks of logic. Among the dolphins, I will rule as their Queen.
Back to Bark Montes. Since realizing that I will not be able to rid the city of his creepy robot ways (the layers, the horrible horrible layers), I am concocting a new plan. That plan is to convince him to read this blog. Why? Well, I'm not completely sure of how his robot mind works, but I think that it might have issues comprehending my many tangents. Then, while it searches for the proper algorithm to understand grass-eggs, I'll hog-tie him. Then I'll put him on some sort of cart, and to the cart, I will tie a bunch of chihuahuas. Then I'll leave for a bit while I find a gardening store that sells pitchforks. When I return with my pitchfork, I will chase the chihuahuas with it, which will lead to Bark Montes being wheeled out of town forever. It's ingenious in its simplicity.
He knows something's up though, because every day I tell him to read it, sometimes multiple times, and he always says he will, but he hasn't. I'll know once he does, because he'll probably say, "Bark Montes?!", then furrow his robot brow and shake his robot fist. I'll know that I'm in no danger from his threats though, because it's well known that most well constructed robots are programmed so that they can't hurt their human masters.
Back to my scheme. I've begun to ensure that every time my dear friend Bark Montes wanders into my vicinity, either in reality or in the world of the interweb, I will remind him to read my blog. "Read my blog, Bark Montes!" I will say, except I will use his real name instead of Bark Montes because if he knows his name is Bark Montes already, I will lose my ability to tell if he's read my blog. I had thought that Facebook chat messages would be enough to scramble his programming into believing that reading my blog is his paramount quest in robot life. So far, I have been wrong. But, today I realized, I'm just one person. But what if everyone who knew Bark Montes was sending him messages. I know, I know, you already said no when I asked you about the pitchfork thing. But seriously, this way you don't need to purchase a brand new pitchfork you'll probably only use once, but you can still be protected from the chaos that will ensue when he starts breaking down and his "don't kill humans" programming somehow loses the "don't". Think about it. Yeah, I already knew I was right, but it's nice to hear you say it anyways.
So, what do you do now? Well, whenever you encounter Bark Montes, say or type this "Have you read Sharon's blog yet? downtothefilter.blogspot.com" How simple was that? It just saved your life in the future.
Happy song of the day: I was in the store and heard the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, which is not really happy, but I've realized I've been encountering it a lot lately, so on this hot day it's the only one I can think of. It can be uplifting though, with a few small lyric additions on your part. Whenever it asks a question, the answer is "yes". And the part where it says a landslide brought me down, just imagine that it did, but that what it means is that a landslide was coming and you rode it like a water slide of snow and it was friggin' awesome until it delivered you right onto a heated patio where they had a delicious hot chocolate waiting for you. Actually, I've heard that song is about drugs, but I've heard that about most songs. I don't know much about drugs, but when I was 9, some cops came into school and taught us how to recognize a crack bottle. It was useful, because I found 2 or 3 on my street after that, and otherwise I probably would have been inclined to play with the creepy burnt garbage, which would have lead to a lifetime of drug addiction and crime. Thank you public education. The point is, I can spot a crack bottle from a pretty fair distance, and that song doesn't have anything resembling a crack bottle in it. That is what I know.
Wow, I really shouldn't blog on hot days.
Monday, May 24, 2010
2 irritating people baking cake and cleaning windows
I signed into Facebook this morning and found a Telus ad written completely in French. I hear a lot about Facebook privacy concerns lately; I mean, I myself have expressed fears that Mark Zuckerberg is vying for world domination. But, with all the information they must have on me, if they were such evil geniuses, don't you think they would have figured out by now that I speak English?
The following is a copy of the ad: "Trouvez l’hippo et vous pourriez gagner: un voyage, 15 000$ et des HTC Hero. Aucun achat requis, des conditions s’appliquent." I figured out hippo, trip and $15000. The hippo part I knew partially because there was a picture of a hippo beside it, which clued me in. Despite them not getting my native language right, I was still a little frightened by the hippo part, since it is well known that a search for "hippo bus crash" on Google will bring up this blog as the number one hit (well, it's well known to me, and apparently to Facebook). So, I wasn't sure if Facebook was trying to send me a message, like, "Hey, we know that you write conspiracy theories about us on your blog and we will crush you with the power of a Telus trip...in French," or, "Hey, look, nothing sketchy going on here, we can't even figure out what language you speak, lol ;)" (then they would give the shifty eyes, the creepy dead Facebook shifty eyes).
When I reloaded the page just now, suddenly the same ad was in English. It's like they're reading my blog as I write it. Damn you Facebook and your terrifying hold on me.
Today, I was reminded of my most horrific of horrifying blind dates, which was mainly documented in my one and only attempt at stand-up. I had the opportunity today to remember some of the more awkward moments that I needed to cut from my routine due to time constraints, but, with the advent of blog, I now have the opportunity to share them with the world.
Before the date, we'd had a few online conversations that should have given me a clue as to what I was dealing with, but I have a horrible tendency to add an "ironic" or "sarcastic" tone where I should be hearing "literal" or "terrifyingly awkward" tone. Soon after meeting, he admitted that he was confusing me with another girl he'd been talking with simultaneously. "Were you the one who said she didn't like playing games?" he asked. I wasn't. In general though, I think it's best to assume that people don't enjoy dating games, and that, if they're one of the few that actually do, part of the game is probably making you think that they don't like playing games. Because of this fact, I have never once encountered a male or female who said, "You know what I really like in a relationship: games." My point is, in the future, if you're trying to figure out which of the two girls you've been wooing online you're talking to in person, try to use something more specific than "Do you hate playing games?" Unless you mean Parcheesi, because that could be distinguishing if that's one of the only things they choose to reveal in initial conversations. If that was what he meant, I do like playing games, especially the Game of Life, because I like the part where I get to imagine I have little peg children (all the fun of children without the lack of sleep and need to feed them...ooh ooh, or the painful delivery). Actually, it's surprising that all the people in that game are so thin, considering that they drive everywhere. That is one of the many ways that I feel the game of life is different from actual life.
At another point, he asked if my shoes were comfortable, because they were "very noisy". When I said, "Umm, no, but I guess they're a little noisy," he replied, "No, not noisy, that's insulting, I mean..umm..." It wasn't actually so much insulting as weird and off-putting. If he'd been doing better in general, it might have phased me more. He also told me I was shorter than he'd expected. Considering I'd stated I was 6 inches shorter than he'd told me he was, and with 1.5 inch heels I was pretty much eye to eye, I couldn't quite figure out why he would think commenting on my height was a wise move (maybe your thinking, "Eye to eye? Maybe he had a freakishly large forehead?" But he didn't).
Today, I got the greatest idea ever. I learned that window cleaners on high-rises get paid a lot because of the dangers involved in the job. Apparently, peregrine falcons will sometimes attack them on the job. Naturally, I thought that it would make a great reality TV show. I think people would be especially amused if you cast 2 really irritating people who are bound to feud, but who can't actually get away from each other without plummeting to their deaths. I'd probably watch it, unless something with delicious cakes shaped like things you shouldn't be able to shape cakes into is on. Maybe if my irritating window washers also happened to be designer cake decorators...hmm...I really think I might be onto something, especially since the cake would probably attract more dangerous birds. I just don't know how you would get so much fondant up there. Maybe there could be a third annoying guy that drops whatever ingredients they need from the roof. Yes, that would work well. Delicious and terrifying, that's what I look for in my TV.
I nearly forgot a happy song today. Hmmm...since there are a lot of fireworks outside my window, I'm going to throw out Fireworks by the Tragically Hip. It's not one of my first choices, but when I think about it, I've never not felt awesome listening to it. Also, fireworks are pretty because they are made of light...and fire. Loud fire.
The following is a copy of the ad: "Trouvez l’hippo et vous pourriez gagner: un voyage, 15 000$ et des HTC Hero. Aucun achat requis, des conditions s’appliquent." I figured out hippo, trip and $15000. The hippo part I knew partially because there was a picture of a hippo beside it, which clued me in. Despite them not getting my native language right, I was still a little frightened by the hippo part, since it is well known that a search for "hippo bus crash" on Google will bring up this blog as the number one hit (well, it's well known to me, and apparently to Facebook). So, I wasn't sure if Facebook was trying to send me a message, like, "Hey, we know that you write conspiracy theories about us on your blog and we will crush you with the power of a Telus trip...in French," or, "Hey, look, nothing sketchy going on here, we can't even figure out what language you speak, lol ;)" (then they would give the shifty eyes, the creepy dead Facebook shifty eyes).
When I reloaded the page just now, suddenly the same ad was in English. It's like they're reading my blog as I write it. Damn you Facebook and your terrifying hold on me.
Today, I was reminded of my most horrific of horrifying blind dates, which was mainly documented in my one and only attempt at stand-up. I had the opportunity today to remember some of the more awkward moments that I needed to cut from my routine due to time constraints, but, with the advent of blog, I now have the opportunity to share them with the world.
Before the date, we'd had a few online conversations that should have given me a clue as to what I was dealing with, but I have a horrible tendency to add an "ironic" or "sarcastic" tone where I should be hearing "literal" or "terrifyingly awkward" tone. Soon after meeting, he admitted that he was confusing me with another girl he'd been talking with simultaneously. "Were you the one who said she didn't like playing games?" he asked. I wasn't. In general though, I think it's best to assume that people don't enjoy dating games, and that, if they're one of the few that actually do, part of the game is probably making you think that they don't like playing games. Because of this fact, I have never once encountered a male or female who said, "You know what I really like in a relationship: games." My point is, in the future, if you're trying to figure out which of the two girls you've been wooing online you're talking to in person, try to use something more specific than "Do you hate playing games?" Unless you mean Parcheesi, because that could be distinguishing if that's one of the only things they choose to reveal in initial conversations. If that was what he meant, I do like playing games, especially the Game of Life, because I like the part where I get to imagine I have little peg children (all the fun of children without the lack of sleep and need to feed them...ooh ooh, or the painful delivery). Actually, it's surprising that all the people in that game are so thin, considering that they drive everywhere. That is one of the many ways that I feel the game of life is different from actual life.
At another point, he asked if my shoes were comfortable, because they were "very noisy". When I said, "Umm, no, but I guess they're a little noisy," he replied, "No, not noisy, that's insulting, I mean..umm..." It wasn't actually so much insulting as weird and off-putting. If he'd been doing better in general, it might have phased me more. He also told me I was shorter than he'd expected. Considering I'd stated I was 6 inches shorter than he'd told me he was, and with 1.5 inch heels I was pretty much eye to eye, I couldn't quite figure out why he would think commenting on my height was a wise move (maybe your thinking, "Eye to eye? Maybe he had a freakishly large forehead?" But he didn't).
Today, I got the greatest idea ever. I learned that window cleaners on high-rises get paid a lot because of the dangers involved in the job. Apparently, peregrine falcons will sometimes attack them on the job. Naturally, I thought that it would make a great reality TV show. I think people would be especially amused if you cast 2 really irritating people who are bound to feud, but who can't actually get away from each other without plummeting to their deaths. I'd probably watch it, unless something with delicious cakes shaped like things you shouldn't be able to shape cakes into is on. Maybe if my irritating window washers also happened to be designer cake decorators...hmm...I really think I might be onto something, especially since the cake would probably attract more dangerous birds. I just don't know how you would get so much fondant up there. Maybe there could be a third annoying guy that drops whatever ingredients they need from the roof. Yes, that would work well. Delicious and terrifying, that's what I look for in my TV.
I nearly forgot a happy song today. Hmmm...since there are a lot of fireworks outside my window, I'm going to throw out Fireworks by the Tragically Hip. It's not one of my first choices, but when I think about it, I've never not felt awesome listening to it. Also, fireworks are pretty because they are made of light...and fire. Loud fire.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
All gone!
This might be my most pathetic post so far. I could suddenly turn it around and surprise myself, but I'm distracted by the Lost finale. To be honest, I haven't loved the show the same way that I used to before this season. It's sort of like an old friend who used to be fun, but at some point they broke their personality somehow, but you still keep hanging out with them because you remember how they used to be fun. Then, at the end of every visit you think, "Why was this fun again?" But you've invested so much time into them that you just can't give up on it. That is Lost to me.
I've already put in so much time that I feel like I should probably finish it up, hence watching the finale as I write this. I'm amused, but not enthralled, as I was in the past. Since so many of my friends and family seem to have given up on watching it live, I'm not going to reveal anything here so that they don't destroy me, even though at this point in the episode, I feel like the world (well, the Lost watching world) is going to sigh a collective "Oh, really? huh," tomorrow, so I'm not worried about spoiling too much. It might turn it around, I don't know. Unfortunately, so far, it seems like this post won't.
Since I feel don't feel particularly amusing tonight, I figured I should probably steal other peoples amusing qualities. The following are pictures of the ice cream bowl that my grandfather made for me a few years ago (or many, time is a mystery to me).
You probably noted that it's the most fabulous bowl you've ever seen. Good assessment. Please don't steal it from me, because I love it very much. The reason that my grandfather made such a bowl for me is that I love sugar, as you might have noted if you've read one or more of my previous posts. When I was younger, I used to speed skate. I liked it because I got to go fast and play with sharp things, but I hated it because I wasn't very good at winning. My grandfather noted this fact and traced it back to my weak start. I'm not sure why it was so weak, maybe I just wasn't as afraid as gunshots as most preteens are. So, to encourage me to improve my start, he promised me chocolate if I received a penalty for false starting. Once, I was in a race with a false start, I don't think it was me, but I can still remember him beckoning me over to him later. As I got close up, he opened his jacket to reveal a chocolate bar. He was like a 70 year old drug dealer, but instead of drugs, he had chocolate. He was good at it, because I'm still hooked.
Wow, this show has an impressive number of commercial breaks. So, I think it's time for a happy song of the day before Lost completely shuts my head down. Light and Day by the Polyphonic Spree. I swear I've listened to it every morning I feel like I just can't get started for the past 5 or 6 years. Even though it's ridiculous for a ginger to seek out the sun, due to the burning and subsequent death due to burning, it's still happy.
I've already put in so much time that I feel like I should probably finish it up, hence watching the finale as I write this. I'm amused, but not enthralled, as I was in the past. Since so many of my friends and family seem to have given up on watching it live, I'm not going to reveal anything here so that they don't destroy me, even though at this point in the episode, I feel like the world (well, the Lost watching world) is going to sigh a collective "Oh, really? huh," tomorrow, so I'm not worried about spoiling too much. It might turn it around, I don't know. Unfortunately, so far, it seems like this post won't.
Since I feel don't feel particularly amusing tonight, I figured I should probably steal other peoples amusing qualities. The following are pictures of the ice cream bowl that my grandfather made for me a few years ago (or many, time is a mystery to me).
You probably noted that it's the most fabulous bowl you've ever seen. Good assessment. Please don't steal it from me, because I love it very much. The reason that my grandfather made such a bowl for me is that I love sugar, as you might have noted if you've read one or more of my previous posts. When I was younger, I used to speed skate. I liked it because I got to go fast and play with sharp things, but I hated it because I wasn't very good at winning. My grandfather noted this fact and traced it back to my weak start. I'm not sure why it was so weak, maybe I just wasn't as afraid as gunshots as most preteens are. So, to encourage me to improve my start, he promised me chocolate if I received a penalty for false starting. Once, I was in a race with a false start, I don't think it was me, but I can still remember him beckoning me over to him later. As I got close up, he opened his jacket to reveal a chocolate bar. He was like a 70 year old drug dealer, but instead of drugs, he had chocolate. He was good at it, because I'm still hooked.
Wow, this show has an impressive number of commercial breaks. So, I think it's time for a happy song of the day before Lost completely shuts my head down. Light and Day by the Polyphonic Spree. I swear I've listened to it every morning I feel like I just can't get started for the past 5 or 6 years. Even though it's ridiculous for a ginger to seek out the sun, due to the burning and subsequent death due to burning, it's still happy.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Concentrated Awesome
Yesterday, I spent a lot of time blogging about my attempts to overcome my blah mood. I failed. A lot. Today, I was pulled out of my blah mood early in the day when I was reminded of my friend Katydid Howhow. Basically, thinking of her made me realize that I'm a whiny little bitch who deserves some undefinable horror to happen to me for even entertaining the idea of a bad mood when I've been so incredibly blessed in my life.
You see, Katydid has been going through a generally rough time, which you can read about on her blog Bathroombound. The fact that she's going through a lot should already be enough to convince a me that I don't really have the right to be in a bad mood, but, usually bad mood days are also particularly selfish days, so it's usually not. But, what makes it impossible to indulge in a state of utter misery when thinking about her is the fact that she contains more awesome per pound than any person in the history of awesome. Even with her recent weight loss, it seems that rather than losing awesome it's just concentrating into some sort of super dense awesome goo. Apart from hoping that she doesn't lose more weight because of her health, I'm also concerned because I don't know if the awesome can concentrate any further without catastrophic complications for all (like a nuclear bomb times a trillion). Read her blog, you'll see what I mean (not about the catastrophe, but about the awesomeness). Anyways, the point is, you can't be exposed to that much raw awesome without any specs of blah mood being completely obliterated.
I'm not sure exactly when my friendship with Katydid began. I was aware of her existence for a long while before we actually spoke, because she's one of those people you just know. Since I'm one of those people who likes to hide behind things and let people imagine I'm mute, I don't know if she was aware of my existence. Somehow, this year, we went from potentially aware of each others existence to joking every time we met that we hadn't seen each other in so long, when usually it had been maybe a day. That was our thing. When suddenly I actually wasn't seeing her in December, I assumed that she had become bored of our standard joke and was ducking into doorways and hiding behind plants when she saw me coming. It's one of those problems with being ginger, people can avoid you without difficulty since your translucent skin and fiery hair are easily spotted from a distance.
Eventually, I learned that she was not hiding from me, but I wish she had been, because stories of avoiding gingers probably would make-up an equally good blog and involve less overall pain for her. However, the amount of concern that I have about her is less than I would for any other person, due to the aforementioned superhuman levels of awesome, which make me believe she can survive 10000x what the average person could. I have seen nothing in happen in the last few months that could negate this theory. I haven't excessively theorized about where she might have come from, but I have a few ideas: one of those random Zeus affairs with human that pop up in Greek mythology so often and produce Hercules and the like, some sort of secret government experiment created by combining the DNA of John Lennon, Albert Einstein and Jim Henson, or, the most likely, she is a figment of my imagination. The third one would have been exciting, because she could have been my Fight Club alter-ego and we could have lived together in a creepy old house raising an army and making soap. Sigh. But, others seem aware of her, so it doesn't seem so likely. Another dream shattered. I'm hoping that when she's doing better, she might still consider doing it anyways (making soap I mean, not becoming my alter-ego, due to the impossibility), because it would be fun.
Apart from needing to write about the fact that her mere existence pulled me out of my funk, I'm blogging today because she's going in for surgery soon. I would give an exact date, but it would reveal my ultimate weakness, which is my inability to figure out Facebook countdowns. 5 days from a status posted on Thursday is....Christmas? Sometimes I think all countdowns lead to Christmas. I'm wrong. The point is, if you have some extra positive energy lying around, please send it to her, because, when she comes out the other end of this, she is going to be a terrifying force to reckon with, since from what I hear, what doesn't kill you will only make you stronger, and she was already pretty damn strong. So, let us send her some positive energy so that she's a happy terrifying force to reckon with, instead of the type that will opt for world domination and enslavement of the human race. As well as me requesting positive thoughts, I believe she has requested blood donations, but I don't think you're supposed to actually send it directly to her. I think I might try anyways, I do know where to find it.
Happy song of the day: Better Things by The Kinks. I actually discovered it listening to a Kinks cover album, so I also love the Fountains of Wayne version, since it's the first I heard. It actually manages to perfectly walk the line between happy and saccharine, or so I believe. It's best listened to while dancing like a crazy person. I myself opt for a lot of jumping and spinning, with some wild arm actions. It might just be the general increase in blood flow to the brain, but I can't get through this one without feeling like a thousand kinds of amazing.
You see, Katydid has been going through a generally rough time, which you can read about on her blog Bathroombound. The fact that she's going through a lot should already be enough to convince a me that I don't really have the right to be in a bad mood, but, usually bad mood days are also particularly selfish days, so it's usually not. But, what makes it impossible to indulge in a state of utter misery when thinking about her is the fact that she contains more awesome per pound than any person in the history of awesome. Even with her recent weight loss, it seems that rather than losing awesome it's just concentrating into some sort of super dense awesome goo. Apart from hoping that she doesn't lose more weight because of her health, I'm also concerned because I don't know if the awesome can concentrate any further without catastrophic complications for all (like a nuclear bomb times a trillion). Read her blog, you'll see what I mean (not about the catastrophe, but about the awesomeness). Anyways, the point is, you can't be exposed to that much raw awesome without any specs of blah mood being completely obliterated.
I'm not sure exactly when my friendship with Katydid began. I was aware of her existence for a long while before we actually spoke, because she's one of those people you just know. Since I'm one of those people who likes to hide behind things and let people imagine I'm mute, I don't know if she was aware of my existence. Somehow, this year, we went from potentially aware of each others existence to joking every time we met that we hadn't seen each other in so long, when usually it had been maybe a day. That was our thing. When suddenly I actually wasn't seeing her in December, I assumed that she had become bored of our standard joke and was ducking into doorways and hiding behind plants when she saw me coming. It's one of those problems with being ginger, people can avoid you without difficulty since your translucent skin and fiery hair are easily spotted from a distance.
Eventually, I learned that she was not hiding from me, but I wish she had been, because stories of avoiding gingers probably would make-up an equally good blog and involve less overall pain for her. However, the amount of concern that I have about her is less than I would for any other person, due to the aforementioned superhuman levels of awesome, which make me believe she can survive 10000x what the average person could. I have seen nothing in happen in the last few months that could negate this theory. I haven't excessively theorized about where she might have come from, but I have a few ideas: one of those random Zeus affairs with human that pop up in Greek mythology so often and produce Hercules and the like, some sort of secret government experiment created by combining the DNA of John Lennon, Albert Einstein and Jim Henson, or, the most likely, she is a figment of my imagination. The third one would have been exciting, because she could have been my Fight Club alter-ego and we could have lived together in a creepy old house raising an army and making soap. Sigh. But, others seem aware of her, so it doesn't seem so likely. Another dream shattered. I'm hoping that when she's doing better, she might still consider doing it anyways (making soap I mean, not becoming my alter-ego, due to the impossibility), because it would be fun.
Apart from needing to write about the fact that her mere existence pulled me out of my funk, I'm blogging today because she's going in for surgery soon. I would give an exact date, but it would reveal my ultimate weakness, which is my inability to figure out Facebook countdowns. 5 days from a status posted on Thursday is....Christmas? Sometimes I think all countdowns lead to Christmas. I'm wrong. The point is, if you have some extra positive energy lying around, please send it to her, because, when she comes out the other end of this, she is going to be a terrifying force to reckon with, since from what I hear, what doesn't kill you will only make you stronger, and she was already pretty damn strong. So, let us send her some positive energy so that she's a happy terrifying force to reckon with, instead of the type that will opt for world domination and enslavement of the human race. As well as me requesting positive thoughts, I believe she has requested blood donations, but I don't think you're supposed to actually send it directly to her. I think I might try anyways, I do know where to find it.
Happy song of the day: Better Things by The Kinks. I actually discovered it listening to a Kinks cover album, so I also love the Fountains of Wayne version, since it's the first I heard. It actually manages to perfectly walk the line between happy and saccharine, or so I believe. It's best listened to while dancing like a crazy person. I myself opt for a lot of jumping and spinning, with some wild arm actions. It might just be the general increase in blood flow to the brain, but I can't get through this one without feeling like a thousand kinds of amazing.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Blah
Today I woke up in an awful mood. This wasn't completely bad, because it gave me a chance to note that I couldn't remember the last time I was in such a bad mood, which says something good about my mood lately. However, having mainly been in a neutral to good mood for most days in recent memory, I've forgotten how to cope with such a global sense of blah. This was not improved when I went to take my road test for my drivers license, the sole reason for me rushing home to Cambridge last night, and found out somehow that my booking had been lost in the internet. This is probably Facebooks fault. This further entrenched me in my bad mood.
When I returned home from my not road test, I decided that my quest for the day was to not give into my bad mood. It's just a state of mind, and since I am my mind, I should control that shit. So, I put on some excessively happy music and started dancing like a crazy person. Which helped briefly, until I decided I also needed water and tried to combine the two. Take note, nearly choking to death doesn't beat bad moods.
Later, I decided that I should go for a walk by the river (this is a river in my home town, so not as elusive as the BC rivers), because water always cheers me up. Then my iPod ran out of batteries, which always spells tragedy for me. But, despite that, I did feel a little better at the water. I thought of things that make me happy, like delicious treats and friends that dance a lot. Feeling good, I decided to walk back home. Then, all my mood reparations were stripped away by an old man arguing with another old man about the speed of his scooter. As I passed, they said something inaudible, then I heard the one say, "Like you could have a woman like that, you old cripple. She does have nice hair though." At which point I went back to my bad mood after vomiting in my mouth a little bit. This is one of the many reasons that I never intend on moving back to this city.
This was the point where it was clear to me that the bad mood was not the result of my state of mind, but of an evil demon that was trying to kill me. This is not the first time this particular situation has occurred to me, so I wasn't too surprised.
Okay, maybe it wasn't actually an evil demon, but that does seem like a much more interesting explanation than "stress", which is the most likely culprit. This stress is coming from a number of sources, but the number one source that is only going to get worse, is the approach of licensing exams at the end of the summer. I suspect that I'm not alone in this, as many of my colleagues will endure it with me.
But, fear not, I have a plan. From today until the end of licensing exams, I'm going to think of one song that is guaranteed to make me smile, and post it, so that, hopefully, it can make others smile too. I'm not certain how many happy songs I have right now, but there is a chance this will force me to seek out new ones (by which I mean, feel free to send your favorites).
First song that is guaranteed to make me smile: Don't Stop Believing by Journey. Although in the past I complained about its lack of specificity, I've realized that might actually be another positive of the song. It allows the song to be used in many variable circumstances. You could be believing that you're in love, I mean, it's a little cliche, but acceptable. But you could also believe exciting things, like you're actually royalty, secretly stolen at birth and that some day they will find you and give you many many jewels. Or that someday, with the power of only your mind, you can learn to turn various household objects into spoons. Also, I often find my shadow is searching in the night. What it's looking for, I'm not sure. Maybe another shadow, or many many jewels.
When I returned home from my not road test, I decided that my quest for the day was to not give into my bad mood. It's just a state of mind, and since I am my mind, I should control that shit. So, I put on some excessively happy music and started dancing like a crazy person. Which helped briefly, until I decided I also needed water and tried to combine the two. Take note, nearly choking to death doesn't beat bad moods.
Later, I decided that I should go for a walk by the river (this is a river in my home town, so not as elusive as the BC rivers), because water always cheers me up. Then my iPod ran out of batteries, which always spells tragedy for me. But, despite that, I did feel a little better at the water. I thought of things that make me happy, like delicious treats and friends that dance a lot. Feeling good, I decided to walk back home. Then, all my mood reparations were stripped away by an old man arguing with another old man about the speed of his scooter. As I passed, they said something inaudible, then I heard the one say, "Like you could have a woman like that, you old cripple. She does have nice hair though." At which point I went back to my bad mood after vomiting in my mouth a little bit. This is one of the many reasons that I never intend on moving back to this city.
This was the point where it was clear to me that the bad mood was not the result of my state of mind, but of an evil demon that was trying to kill me. This is not the first time this particular situation has occurred to me, so I wasn't too surprised.
Okay, maybe it wasn't actually an evil demon, but that does seem like a much more interesting explanation than "stress", which is the most likely culprit. This stress is coming from a number of sources, but the number one source that is only going to get worse, is the approach of licensing exams at the end of the summer. I suspect that I'm not alone in this, as many of my colleagues will endure it with me.
But, fear not, I have a plan. From today until the end of licensing exams, I'm going to think of one song that is guaranteed to make me smile, and post it, so that, hopefully, it can make others smile too. I'm not certain how many happy songs I have right now, but there is a chance this will force me to seek out new ones (by which I mean, feel free to send your favorites).
First song that is guaranteed to make me smile: Don't Stop Believing by Journey. Although in the past I complained about its lack of specificity, I've realized that might actually be another positive of the song. It allows the song to be used in many variable circumstances. You could be believing that you're in love, I mean, it's a little cliche, but acceptable. But you could also believe exciting things, like you're actually royalty, secretly stolen at birth and that some day they will find you and give you many many jewels. Or that someday, with the power of only your mind, you can learn to turn various household objects into spoons. Also, I often find my shadow is searching in the night. What it's looking for, I'm not sure. Maybe another shadow, or many many jewels.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
I added this title a month late because I never realized I didn't have one
Last night, I had dinner with my old roommate Clarclar McBoldsey and her husband Benji. It's always wonderful to catch up with old friends, especially ones that will feed you delicious foods and cakes. Benji helped me to add a "like" button to my posts. That's good, I assume, except that I'm not sure that linking directly to Facebook is smart when I'm so close to uncovering their evil plot to turn us all into cybernetic farmers. I should probably be trying to hide from them, like the Jedi should have hid from the Empire in Star Wars. But, had they hidden, we probably wouldn't have had the Ewoks. I'm not sure what exactly I mean by that analogy, or even if it bears any resemblance to the movies, because it's been a few years, but I'm going to stick by it because I like fuzzy things that are not bears and puppets, and Ewoks conveniently combine both into one. The point is, I have a like button and I'm pretty sure if you click on it something will happen, but I'm not completely sure what because it scares me so I haven't tried it.
Benji knew about the like button because he's an internet guru, or at least I suspect he is. He also knows how to program things to predict the future, which I appreciate because the future is scary and I like having inside info about its plans so I can attempt to ambush it. One of the things I like about the word ambush is that it contains the word bush, which, I feel, are crucial to any well planned ambush. At some point, someone is going to make an advertising campaign for bushes based on that fact, ("You can't spell ambush without bush, so come to Fran's Shrubberies for the best bushes in town!") and I will probably get angry. But, they probably won't realize that I already have a plan to get back at them. Every time they sell a bush, I'm going to hide behind it and ambush the unsuspecting bush owner. Then we'll see who's laughing their way to the bank.
Back to the topic of the future. Divination is an interesting subject, or so I was told by a complete stranger in a used book store. Byla and I were browsing the New Age section and had glanced at a book on tarot, because I'd recently been shuffling my friend's tarot deck and dropped two cards, one of which was the death card. I figured I might as well look up the meaning of the other card, because when you see the death card, it kind of gets your attention. About a minute after I put the book back, I heard a voice behind me say "What sort of deck do you use?" and when I turned around, there was a man who looked like the comic book guy from the Simpsons, holding a giant camera with a telescopic lens. Since I could count the number of times I'd encountered tarot cards on one hand and had never used the same deck, I wasn't sure how to answer that question. It was okay though, because he then moved onto a monologue about the various types of divination. He prefers runes. I don't know what runes are. Did you know that there are not just 1 but 4 types of pyromancy? Actually, I didn't know there was one type of pyromancy, or what pyromancy was. However, I was able to use my vast knowledge of both pyromania and necromancy to hazard a guess (it's divination by fire...to be honest, my guess was going to be something with setting dead people on fire, so I was kind of wrong). Later, we discovered that the store had an extensive pornography section at the back. I'm not really into porn, so much of it is a mystery to me, but I definitely found myself questioning exactly how desperate one would need to be to want to buy used porn magazines. And that's the story of the day that we renewed our vow never to go into any place that I think looks like a good idea, because I have horrible, horrible, judgment.
Benji knew about the like button because he's an internet guru, or at least I suspect he is. He also knows how to program things to predict the future, which I appreciate because the future is scary and I like having inside info about its plans so I can attempt to ambush it. One of the things I like about the word ambush is that it contains the word bush, which, I feel, are crucial to any well planned ambush. At some point, someone is going to make an advertising campaign for bushes based on that fact, ("You can't spell ambush without bush, so come to Fran's Shrubberies for the best bushes in town!") and I will probably get angry. But, they probably won't realize that I already have a plan to get back at them. Every time they sell a bush, I'm going to hide behind it and ambush the unsuspecting bush owner. Then we'll see who's laughing their way to the bank.
Back to the topic of the future. Divination is an interesting subject, or so I was told by a complete stranger in a used book store. Byla and I were browsing the New Age section and had glanced at a book on tarot, because I'd recently been shuffling my friend's tarot deck and dropped two cards, one of which was the death card. I figured I might as well look up the meaning of the other card, because when you see the death card, it kind of gets your attention. About a minute after I put the book back, I heard a voice behind me say "What sort of deck do you use?" and when I turned around, there was a man who looked like the comic book guy from the Simpsons, holding a giant camera with a telescopic lens. Since I could count the number of times I'd encountered tarot cards on one hand and had never used the same deck, I wasn't sure how to answer that question. It was okay though, because he then moved onto a monologue about the various types of divination. He prefers runes. I don't know what runes are. Did you know that there are not just 1 but 4 types of pyromancy? Actually, I didn't know there was one type of pyromancy, or what pyromancy was. However, I was able to use my vast knowledge of both pyromania and necromancy to hazard a guess (it's divination by fire...to be honest, my guess was going to be something with setting dead people on fire, so I was kind of wrong). Later, we discovered that the store had an extensive pornography section at the back. I'm not really into porn, so much of it is a mystery to me, but I definitely found myself questioning exactly how desperate one would need to be to want to buy used porn magazines. And that's the story of the day that we renewed our vow never to go into any place that I think looks like a good idea, because I have horrible, horrible, judgment.
Clarclar, Benji and I also went out for delicious desserts. I decided to try a chocolate tart for the edible gold on the top. I wonder what the toxic dose for edible gold is. Someday, I think I might just buy a bunch and see. Then I'll write about it as I test it. So, to figure out the toxic dose, you'll just need to add a bit to whatever my last post says, then you'll be safe.
Clarclar and Benji are planning to do a long-distance swim for charity in the summer. At this point, I would like to express my solid belief that if there were an Olympic event for swimming really really far for as long as possible, without having to swim fast or well, just pure endurance, I would win it hands down. The only concern I have is that if I actually swam long enough, I would lose enough weight that my buoyancy would change, making it much more difficult. I discussed this with Clarclar, and she thought that most long distance swimmers eat along the way, which would solve my buoyancy issue. I think they probably have a lot of smoothies, or other things that are easy to ingest. I'd probably have a pretty bad craving for a burger, which I don't think would be very good while swimming, because burgers wouldn't be as delicious when waterlogged. Clarclar thought cheese would be a good option, but it would need to be hard cheeses, like Swiss, except that would be trouble because of the holes, which would just fill with water. Then she thought maybe we could fill the holes with cream cheese. But then we had the soft cheese problem again. But, I bet edible gold would hold up pretty if we tried that.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Finally, the deal with the bears
Today someone asked me what my deal is with bears, and since it was not the first time I've been asked this question, I thought it was time for an in-depth exploration of that relationship.
But first, I promised a heart person picture yesterday, and heart person picture I shall deliver.
Note that the hearts are all intact. If you were to introduce a bear to this picture, it would be very different. This is one of my many issues with bears.
I was looking for a "Blood Red" crayon, but apparently that colour doesn't exist in either my 96 crayon set, or my various novelty crayon packets (personally, I think a sparkly blood coloured crayon would be pretty damn popular if they ever created it), so I had to use "Razzmatazz".
To get back to bears, I was not born with a dislike of bears. As a child, I once asked my parents if I could keep a baby bear as a pet. They said no. I said, "Why not? I could keep it in a cage in the back yard." We had a fair-sized yard, so I didn't see why we couldn't sacrifice a small chunk to my bear. My parents said, "But a little bear will grow into a big bear, and then it will need more space." And, of course, I replied, "Don't worry about that, I just won't feed it." This seemed like a perfect plan, given that I'd been taught you eat to grow, so if you don't want to grow, you just don't eat. I wasn't yet aware of the option of Fluoroquinolones . I kind of wish someone had taught me about them, instead of wasting time on useless information, like rhymes about piggies going to market. I just started thinking about that rhyme and realized I always imagined the first piggy was going to market to buy a pumpkin or something, but thinking about it now, I'm wondering if he was there to be sold and subsequently slaughtered for delicious bacon. Also, what kind of pig eats roast beef? Actually, I guess a smart pig that knows how to avoid being eaten.
Actually, the story of my dream of owning a pet bear contains a good lesson about talking to children. When you say "If you don't eat your broccoli you won't grow big and tall," always remember that the child also hears, "If I want to stay tiny and cute so that I can continue to manipulate these silly large humans, I should stop eating broccoli." A better way to phrase it is: "If you don't want to die a horrible death of scurvy then you should probably eat your fruits and vegetables. What? You don't know what scurvy is? Well, basically, your skin won't be able to hold itself together and then you'll bleed to death. It won't be pretty. So, eat your damn vegetables." This way there's no confusion about what the worst consequences of not eating are. It's also a good way to familiarize them with the various vitamin deficiencies and how they can kill you, which, like the adverse effects of Fluoroquinolone use in adolescents, would have been nice information to have ingrained early on to save me some study time this summer (I should probably note, there's a big licensing exam in August that's planning on taking my life and my brain...but don't worry, that M.F. doesn't know who it's up against).
Wow, I left bears rather quickly. Back to it. So, I did not get a pet baby bear in the end, which is good, because my ingenious not feeding him plan would have almost certainly led to death. By which I mean my death, because at some point I would have tried to hug my fuzzy baby bear and he would have hugged me back with his very sharp teeth.
The point of that story is that at one point I did not fear bears. In fact, I had a potentially lethal love of them. What changed? Well, my best guess is that it somehow relates to my brothers (Shamus and Mysterious Brother X), who both have had close encounters with bears trying to kill them. Bears are tricky though, from reading this blog and other sources, you might get the impression that they just wander around mauling people randomly, but, sometimes, bears also commit premeditated murder. Luckily, both Shamus and Mysterious Brother X both escaped mainly unscathed. To the best of my recollection (forgive me if there are errors, I have trouble remembering stories without me in them, you know, because of the boredom), Shamus was run off the road by a bear. I don't believe that the bear was also in a car at the time, but it might have been, because I just know he saw a bear on the road, and while one would assume that means it was running across, he very well could have meant it was waving at him from a red hatchback. My younger brother, Mysterious Brother X, had a bear walk right past another tent full of cookies to break into his tent and eat his bug spray. Clearly the bear didn't actually want to eat bug spray as much as he wanted my brother to be defenseless against the mosquitoes and blackflies so that they could kill him and no one would trace it back to him. How do I know this was his intention? Because I was that bear. Dun dun dun.
Actually, no, I'm not a bear. That I know of.
We still haven't reached the root of my bear fear, because if I feared everything that ever thought it might not want one of my brothers to exist, then I wouldn't be able to leave the house...or stay inside the house...or live inside my own body. No, I think it's more due to the fact that as long as I was around them, I knew that they would be eaten first, which was comforting. So, maybe my fear of bears is actually just that I miss having my brothers around.
Or it's because I had a nightmare in which a bear (or tiger...or bear-tiger hybrid, "teariger"...dreams can be confusing) ate the leg off one of our school's deans while we all watched in horror. Oh, and then another one where a family of bears chased me and a group of unfamiliar people up to an isolated cabin, and the dream ended with us hiding in the ceiling as the bears waited beneath. Periodically people would fall and then the bears would maul them to death, until I woke up. Then they stopped mauling/existing. Actually, that last one is probably the reason for the bear fear. And thus another mystery solved.
But first, I promised a heart person picture yesterday, and heart person picture I shall deliver.
Note that the hearts are all intact. If you were to introduce a bear to this picture, it would be very different. This is one of my many issues with bears.
I was looking for a "Blood Red" crayon, but apparently that colour doesn't exist in either my 96 crayon set, or my various novelty crayon packets (personally, I think a sparkly blood coloured crayon would be pretty damn popular if they ever created it), so I had to use "Razzmatazz".To get back to bears, I was not born with a dislike of bears. As a child, I once asked my parents if I could keep a baby bear as a pet. They said no. I said, "Why not? I could keep it in a cage in the back yard." We had a fair-sized yard, so I didn't see why we couldn't sacrifice a small chunk to my bear. My parents said, "But a little bear will grow into a big bear, and then it will need more space." And, of course, I replied, "Don't worry about that, I just won't feed it." This seemed like a perfect plan, given that I'd been taught you eat to grow, so if you don't want to grow, you just don't eat. I wasn't yet aware of the option of Fluoroquinolones . I kind of wish someone had taught me about them, instead of wasting time on useless information, like rhymes about piggies going to market. I just started thinking about that rhyme and realized I always imagined the first piggy was going to market to buy a pumpkin or something, but thinking about it now, I'm wondering if he was there to be sold and subsequently slaughtered for delicious bacon. Also, what kind of pig eats roast beef? Actually, I guess a smart pig that knows how to avoid being eaten.
Actually, the story of my dream of owning a pet bear contains a good lesson about talking to children. When you say "If you don't eat your broccoli you won't grow big and tall," always remember that the child also hears, "If I want to stay tiny and cute so that I can continue to manipulate these silly large humans, I should stop eating broccoli." A better way to phrase it is: "If you don't want to die a horrible death of scurvy then you should probably eat your fruits and vegetables. What? You don't know what scurvy is? Well, basically, your skin won't be able to hold itself together and then you'll bleed to death. It won't be pretty. So, eat your damn vegetables." This way there's no confusion about what the worst consequences of not eating are. It's also a good way to familiarize them with the various vitamin deficiencies and how they can kill you, which, like the adverse effects of Fluoroquinolone use in adolescents, would have been nice information to have ingrained early on to save me some study time this summer (I should probably note, there's a big licensing exam in August that's planning on taking my life and my brain...but don't worry, that M.F. doesn't know who it's up against).
Wow, I left bears rather quickly. Back to it. So, I did not get a pet baby bear in the end, which is good, because my ingenious not feeding him plan would have almost certainly led to death. By which I mean my death, because at some point I would have tried to hug my fuzzy baby bear and he would have hugged me back with his very sharp teeth.
The point of that story is that at one point I did not fear bears. In fact, I had a potentially lethal love of them. What changed? Well, my best guess is that it somehow relates to my brothers (Shamus and Mysterious Brother X), who both have had close encounters with bears trying to kill them. Bears are tricky though, from reading this blog and other sources, you might get the impression that they just wander around mauling people randomly, but, sometimes, bears also commit premeditated murder. Luckily, both Shamus and Mysterious Brother X both escaped mainly unscathed. To the best of my recollection (forgive me if there are errors, I have trouble remembering stories without me in them, you know, because of the boredom), Shamus was run off the road by a bear. I don't believe that the bear was also in a car at the time, but it might have been, because I just know he saw a bear on the road, and while one would assume that means it was running across, he very well could have meant it was waving at him from a red hatchback. My younger brother, Mysterious Brother X, had a bear walk right past another tent full of cookies to break into his tent and eat his bug spray. Clearly the bear didn't actually want to eat bug spray as much as he wanted my brother to be defenseless against the mosquitoes and blackflies so that they could kill him and no one would trace it back to him. How do I know this was his intention? Because I was that bear. Dun dun dun.
Actually, no, I'm not a bear. That I know of.
We still haven't reached the root of my bear fear, because if I feared everything that ever thought it might not want one of my brothers to exist, then I wouldn't be able to leave the house...or stay inside the house...or live inside my own body. No, I think it's more due to the fact that as long as I was around them, I knew that they would be eaten first, which was comforting. So, maybe my fear of bears is actually just that I miss having my brothers around.
Or it's because I had a nightmare in which a bear (or tiger...or bear-tiger hybrid, "teariger"...dreams can be confusing) ate the leg off one of our school's deans while we all watched in horror. Oh, and then another one where a family of bears chased me and a group of unfamiliar people up to an isolated cabin, and the dream ended with us hiding in the ceiling as the bears waited beneath. Periodically people would fall and then the bears would maul them to death, until I woke up. Then they stopped mauling/existing. Actually, that last one is probably the reason for the bear fear. And thus another mystery solved.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
You think I'm going to zig...and then I zig
Some days I imagine I'll have more time that is temporally possible. Today was one of those days, by which I mean I frittered away my morning and over scheduled my afternoon, so I'm literally writing this as I walk to my friend Andi (to the) Maximum's apartment. I'm assuming I won't accidentally wander into oncoming traffic, but if I do, I'm hoping my iPod will survive so there is evidence of my attempt to blog.
As I listen to my completely randomized music I'm struck by the proportion of country I have (usually I wouldn't notice things like this because I skip a lot). This country-music-liking thing started pretty subtly, if you'd asked me if I liked country 4 years ago, I probably would have laughed at the idea. To be honest, I'm pretty sure it's Shamus and Lilliput's doing. Who started them on it? I don't know. Probably some sort of a leprechaun (or so Occam's Razor would indicate).
My favorite thing about country (or at least my random assortment of country songs chosen mainly for nostalgia purposes) is that it often contains a story and usually zigs for awhile before it zags, just to mess with you. Like there's one song about a poker game where they're all talking about who they would be if thy could be anything, and they all want to be famous and rich and generally awesome...until you get to the guy singing it. He's pretty much like "I want to be a good husband and a father, because my life's pretty damn good." If I had written that song, I also would have added "Now don't you all feel unappreciative. Booyah M.F.s!"
I also have a song about a horrible highway accident where the whole song you think it was the preacher that survived. Until, BOOM, you find out it was the hooker all along. I also like the added touch of a blood soaked bible immediately after that revelation. I don't get to spend enough time imagining blood soaked bibles, so I always appreciate when that one comes on, even though I already know the answer to the mystery (in case you didn't catch it, it was the hooker).
So, I didn't die from my iPod writing, although it was close. But it turned out it was unnecessary because our movie doesn't start until 10:30, so I have a chunk of time to write now. Oh well, now I know that I can do it if I have to, although I suspect people are driving by thinking "Stupid kids, attached to their electronic doohickeys." Actually, this chunk of time is less "blogging time" and more "publishing and then stuffing my face with food time", so I'm going to sign off now. Tomorrow, I promise more crayon drawings, even if both my hands are chopped off in a horrible lathe accident and I have to draw by gripping the crayons between my painful stumps. I guess I could do in my mouth too, but the taste of wax too easily brings me back to kindergarten, which would result in mainly heart people pictures, because for a few years, I would not draw anything that wasn't completely composed of hearts. Tomorrow, I will draw an example. But for now, I'm going to fend off starvation.
As I listen to my completely randomized music I'm struck by the proportion of country I have (usually I wouldn't notice things like this because I skip a lot). This country-music-liking thing started pretty subtly, if you'd asked me if I liked country 4 years ago, I probably would have laughed at the idea. To be honest, I'm pretty sure it's Shamus and Lilliput's doing. Who started them on it? I don't know. Probably some sort of a leprechaun (or so Occam's Razor would indicate).
My favorite thing about country (or at least my random assortment of country songs chosen mainly for nostalgia purposes) is that it often contains a story and usually zigs for awhile before it zags, just to mess with you. Like there's one song about a poker game where they're all talking about who they would be if thy could be anything, and they all want to be famous and rich and generally awesome...until you get to the guy singing it. He's pretty much like "I want to be a good husband and a father, because my life's pretty damn good." If I had written that song, I also would have added "Now don't you all feel unappreciative. Booyah M.F.s!"
I also have a song about a horrible highway accident where the whole song you think it was the preacher that survived. Until, BOOM, you find out it was the hooker all along. I also like the added touch of a blood soaked bible immediately after that revelation. I don't get to spend enough time imagining blood soaked bibles, so I always appreciate when that one comes on, even though I already know the answer to the mystery (in case you didn't catch it, it was the hooker).
So, I didn't die from my iPod writing, although it was close. But it turned out it was unnecessary because our movie doesn't start until 10:30, so I have a chunk of time to write now. Oh well, now I know that I can do it if I have to, although I suspect people are driving by thinking "Stupid kids, attached to their electronic doohickeys." Actually, this chunk of time is less "blogging time" and more "publishing and then stuffing my face with food time", so I'm going to sign off now. Tomorrow, I promise more crayon drawings, even if both my hands are chopped off in a horrible lathe accident and I have to draw by gripping the crayons between my painful stumps. I guess I could do in my mouth too, but the taste of wax too easily brings me back to kindergarten, which would result in mainly heart people pictures, because for a few years, I would not draw anything that wasn't completely composed of hearts. Tomorrow, I will draw an example. But for now, I'm going to fend off starvation.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Blogirthday!
Today, I have officially been "blogging" every day for 1 month. It's my blog birthday, or blogirthday! So much can happen in a month. I got taller, but then I shrank, and then I grew again. That might have been shoe related though, like most people I have trouble telling. I nearly went on a hippo bus, but then I didn't. Other stuff happened.
Unfortunately, some things that I wanted to did not happen. For example: I really wanted the name Bark Montes to spread like wildfire, but not so much...yet. I was also hoping that someone would come to me on the street and say "I read your blog, here's a bag of money. Oh, wait, no, actually, here's two." Then I'm hoping that no police officers randomly shoot me because that person is actually a bank robber just looking to frame me. And then I look again, and it's not a person, but a bear wearing pants. Damn, they tricked me again.
Speaking of pants, today I saw the greatest pants ever. I could have taken a picture, but it would have been much too awkward, since it was a close encounter in an empty and ugly hall, so I couldn't even pretend to be taking a picture of anything else. I will draw a picture though.
The colours might not be exactly the same, and the buttocks are a little too large, but this captures the basic impression the pants made on me. They were like a reverse mullet: Party in the front, business in the back. I wonder if they're for people with mullets that feel a bit unbalanced. Like, if they work at a bar then they'd have the back of their head trying to move them to the party, but the front is saying "No, business." It probably causes more neck issues than we hear about. But not with these pants! Now your posterior and anterior can be equally party and business. Mullets everywhere are rejoicing, delicately, because they don't want to re-injure their cervical spine.
At this point I'd like to mention one of the many ways that blogging has improved my quality of life. I was scanning my pant diagram, when I thought, "Why does my pant picture look so much like my drivers license?" Then I though, "Wait, that is my drivers license!" And thus, were it not for the magic of blog, I probably would have left my license in my printer/scanner/copier until the next time that I suddenly found myself without vital photo ID. Which would probably end up being somewhere important, like a court date for robbing a bank that was actually done by a bipedal bear wearing zubaz pants (see how I just improved your ability to imagine me being framed by the bear. I bet that's called something exciting, but I never payed enough attention in English. Let's just call it "onomatopoeia" because I find the real definition rarely lets me use that word in an everyday sentence. "You just onamatopeoeiaed the crap out of that balloon when you put that 'bang' caption beside it then popped it!" See how it just doesn't work.) (I just realized that maybe you don't need photo ID at a court date. I kind of figured you would, because most serious things you would, but maybe they'd just be like, "We trust you, because we all saw the news report and subsequent YouTube video of you resisting arrest, screaming 'It was the bears, the bears I tell you, you have the wrong species, and I'm not even wearing zubaz pants.'") (I bet it's fun to decipher back to back parentheses.)
After encountering the greatest pants in the history of pants (which is a long and sordid one), I met my friend Saylinds Selfish who was doing inventory in the strangest storage room in history. She showed me how she'd found a bottle of Vodka (keep in mind, this is a school storage room), right above a tube of lubricant (which actually makes sense at our school, but it's more amusing to me if I don't really explain why and let imaginations run wild). Earlier, she'd found a vial of blood. If I found a vial of blood, I would probably try to clone it. I'm not sure why I'd only do it if I found one (as opposed to took one), maybe because I like things like kindersurprises, because even though the toys are cheap, Surprise! My random vial of blood clone baby would be like that. Either I eat through the chocolaty outside and inside is an awesome toy car, or I get through and find some sort of random figurine of an angry dolphin (or something equally inane). Now that I'm really thinking this plan through, most of my life's kindersurprises have either ended up in the garbage, or I've stepped on them and carefully removed them from my foot to place in the garbage. I think society might frown on me if I do that with my kinderclone. Which I guess means you win, random vial of blood....this time.
Unfortunately, some things that I wanted to did not happen. For example: I really wanted the name Bark Montes to spread like wildfire, but not so much...yet. I was also hoping that someone would come to me on the street and say "I read your blog, here's a bag of money. Oh, wait, no, actually, here's two." Then I'm hoping that no police officers randomly shoot me because that person is actually a bank robber just looking to frame me. And then I look again, and it's not a person, but a bear wearing pants. Damn, they tricked me again.
Speaking of pants, today I saw the greatest pants ever. I could have taken a picture, but it would have been much too awkward, since it was a close encounter in an empty and ugly hall, so I couldn't even pretend to be taking a picture of anything else. I will draw a picture though.
The colours might not be exactly the same, and the buttocks are a little too large, but this captures the basic impression the pants made on me. They were like a reverse mullet: Party in the front, business in the back. I wonder if they're for people with mullets that feel a bit unbalanced. Like, if they work at a bar then they'd have the back of their head trying to move them to the party, but the front is saying "No, business." It probably causes more neck issues than we hear about. But not with these pants! Now your posterior and anterior can be equally party and business. Mullets everywhere are rejoicing, delicately, because they don't want to re-injure their cervical spine.
At this point I'd like to mention one of the many ways that blogging has improved my quality of life. I was scanning my pant diagram, when I thought, "Why does my pant picture look so much like my drivers license?" Then I though, "Wait, that is my drivers license!" And thus, were it not for the magic of blog, I probably would have left my license in my printer/scanner/copier until the next time that I suddenly found myself without vital photo ID. Which would probably end up being somewhere important, like a court date for robbing a bank that was actually done by a bipedal bear wearing zubaz pants (see how I just improved your ability to imagine me being framed by the bear. I bet that's called something exciting, but I never payed enough attention in English. Let's just call it "onomatopoeia" because I find the real definition rarely lets me use that word in an everyday sentence. "You just onamatopeoeiaed the crap out of that balloon when you put that 'bang' caption beside it then popped it!" See how it just doesn't work.) (I just realized that maybe you don't need photo ID at a court date. I kind of figured you would, because most serious things you would, but maybe they'd just be like, "We trust you, because we all saw the news report and subsequent YouTube video of you resisting arrest, screaming 'It was the bears, the bears I tell you, you have the wrong species, and I'm not even wearing zubaz pants.'") (I bet it's fun to decipher back to back parentheses.)
After encountering the greatest pants in the history of pants (which is a long and sordid one), I met my friend Saylinds Selfish who was doing inventory in the strangest storage room in history. She showed me how she'd found a bottle of Vodka (keep in mind, this is a school storage room), right above a tube of lubricant (which actually makes sense at our school, but it's more amusing to me if I don't really explain why and let imaginations run wild). Earlier, she'd found a vial of blood. If I found a vial of blood, I would probably try to clone it. I'm not sure why I'd only do it if I found one (as opposed to took one), maybe because I like things like kindersurprises, because even though the toys are cheap, Surprise! My random vial of blood clone baby would be like that. Either I eat through the chocolaty outside and inside is an awesome toy car, or I get through and find some sort of random figurine of an angry dolphin (or something equally inane). Now that I'm really thinking this plan through, most of my life's kindersurprises have either ended up in the garbage, or I've stepped on them and carefully removed them from my foot to place in the garbage. I think society might frown on me if I do that with my kinderclone. Which I guess means you win, random vial of blood....this time.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Baby Geese + Fluoroquinolones = Unemployed Optometrists
Today, I'm in class again. You know what I love to do more than anything on a Sunday morning? Learn about anti-fungals. Am I alone in this? No, I'm not. I'm fairly certain that only those who are a demon or of the demon variety would disagree.
I went for lunch with Yelsel D'Stupid, Neyney Charmin, and Lysha McSomji. We took the subway and as we were getting off, we saw EMS putting someone on a stretcher. There was a busker playing "Que Sera Sera" on the saxophone, which made me think exactly how awful it would be, after a horrible subway emergency, to have to stare up at the ceiling worrying about dying and listening to a song about the unpredictability of life. I also might start believing that I've actually passed on and this is God's idea of a funny joke. By the way, God, if you're reading this, it's not. It's just not. I got Neyney to promise me that if it ever occurred she'd run over and request another song. I think "I'm Alright" could be a good one, although I've never heard it on the sax, so it's hard to say for sure.
Normally, in emergency medicine (which we also covered today) you start every scenario with a scene survey, meaning you look for fire, wire, gas, glass and blood before approaching the victim to help. This is to avoid dying (or, alternatively, losing various appendages). I suggest that list be revised to also include "ironic music". Wait, is that irony? I don't know, I guess all my English teachers were right to be angry at Alanis Morissette for confusing an entire generation about the definition of "ironic" The point is, I want people to listen for music that would suck to die or near-die to and include eliminating said music in their initial emergency procedures.
Walking back to school, we were hoping to see the baby geese that have been hanging out around the tennis courts lately. Neyney kept calling them ducks. She said it was because she doesn't like geese, but I think she was just never good at "Duck, duck, goose". She was probably that kid who just kept going around the circle saying duck until the teacher felt so sorry for her that she would just start snack-time. Yum, cheesestrings!
Anyways, she said she loves baby geese but doesn't like the big ones. I mentioned that the little ones do grow into the big ones. She said, not if we give them Fluoroquinolones (we'd just learned that they will arrest bone growth if given to children, and we're nerds). The image of tiny, but adult looking geese disturbs me, but also kind of intrigues me. It would actually be pretty dangerous because you would see the goose, but think it must be very far away. You probably wouldn't realize the error in that assumption until it has already pecked your eyes out, preventing you from making the same mistake twice. So, unless you are an evil mad man/woman looking to take over the world by blinding people with optical illusion geese, please think twice before making a tiny novelty goose. Although, if all the geese were tiny, it would probably decrease the total amount of goose poo I could stumble upon, which would be positive. I think what I'm saying is I need to do a more in-depth risk/benefit assessment of mini-geese, before I make a final recommendation on the creation of them.
The other day, Shamus messaged me to say that I haven't been blogging about him enough lately, and that he's pretty sure that's all people want to read about, so I should increase my average Shamus percentage in my posts. I wasn't so sure, but then I remembered that I could add a poll. Actually, I've been looking for something to poll about, because polls are super fun and I don't get to do enough in everyday life. Please answer my poll question and I will reward you by either listening to or ignoring the responses.
To end off, I'd like to say that every emergency medicine course I've taken has been totally useless, because they never include what to do in the event of a bear mauling. Yes, it is helpful to know how to deliver a baby, but what is the ideal method for delivering a baby while a bear is eating your left arm? And how do I do CPR when a bear is clawing my face off? They just never give the important information, that's all I'm saying.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Chicken fingers of the sea
Today, I was in an exam prep course all day. There is nothing quite like relearning 4 years worth of material to really make your brain melt into a puddle on the floor. So, when we finally finished, I was happy to go out with some friends to wind down. We went out for delicious pub food. I couldn't decide whether it would be a good idea to order the chicken fingers, because I usually try to eat things that are close to natural. I mean, I know that most pub food is pretty processed, but do chickens even have fingers? My friend had fish and chips, which I called "chicken fingers of the sea", and we laughed and laughed, because, as I mentioned, our brains were in a giant puddle far from us. We proceeded to have many similar laughs that they thought I should blog, but I thought I wouldn't remember. I'm often right. Once my friend assumed something, and I said, "You know what you do when you assume, right? You make an ass out of you and me. Actually, I don't really feel like an ass. You assued." Then we laughed and laughed.
This laughter was probably a combination of our missing brains, the pint we had, and the fact we'd just inhaled a bunch of ice cream. Two of us got the same Blizzard, but mine was made by someone who appeared a bit stoned (he seemed really confused when I tried to pay him), so it had way more Crispy Crunch. The moral: Always choose the stoned fast food server. (Unless meat is involved, then the rules all change.)
This made me think of the time I was at Marble Slab and the child in front of us was begging her mother to get her a cone. It was quite the ordeal and when she finally got it, she excitedly ran up to order. I thought, "Good job, little one" and was happy for her. Until she ordered. "What do you want in it?" the server asked. "Sprinkles!" she said. And I just felt sad. She did all that work convincing her mother to spend money on Marble Slab ice cream, where the entire gimmick is that you get to choose anything you want to mix in with your ice cream, and she chooses a fake ingredient. It was obvious that girl was not getting it again for a really long time, and she had no idea that she'd pretty much just added sugar. And dye. And maybe some sort of shellac. Okay, so I'm not really sure what the exact recipe for sprinkles is, but what I do know is that they add nothing but aesthetic value to anything. Well, except for vanilla dip donuts, but ice cream is not a vanilla dip donut. In fact, maybe if she had asked for a vanilla dip donut to be mashed into her ice cream, it would have been worth it. By the way, I had Belgian chocolate ice cream with Reese peanut butter cups and raspberries. It tasted like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but with the bread replaced by awesome.
I'd like to write more in this post, but I realize that it will likely just result in me repeating various bad jokes about chicken fingers. Tomorrow, I'll try to scoop my brain off the floor and use it to write something that will really blow your mind. Or, I'll just bitch about how much it sucks to be mauled by a bear. Either way, I'll enjoy it.
This laughter was probably a combination of our missing brains, the pint we had, and the fact we'd just inhaled a bunch of ice cream. Two of us got the same Blizzard, but mine was made by someone who appeared a bit stoned (he seemed really confused when I tried to pay him), so it had way more Crispy Crunch. The moral: Always choose the stoned fast food server. (Unless meat is involved, then the rules all change.)
This made me think of the time I was at Marble Slab and the child in front of us was begging her mother to get her a cone. It was quite the ordeal and when she finally got it, she excitedly ran up to order. I thought, "Good job, little one" and was happy for her. Until she ordered. "What do you want in it?" the server asked. "Sprinkles!" she said. And I just felt sad. She did all that work convincing her mother to spend money on Marble Slab ice cream, where the entire gimmick is that you get to choose anything you want to mix in with your ice cream, and she chooses a fake ingredient. It was obvious that girl was not getting it again for a really long time, and she had no idea that she'd pretty much just added sugar. And dye. And maybe some sort of shellac. Okay, so I'm not really sure what the exact recipe for sprinkles is, but what I do know is that they add nothing but aesthetic value to anything. Well, except for vanilla dip donuts, but ice cream is not a vanilla dip donut. In fact, maybe if she had asked for a vanilla dip donut to be mashed into her ice cream, it would have been worth it. By the way, I had Belgian chocolate ice cream with Reese peanut butter cups and raspberries. It tasted like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but with the bread replaced by awesome.
I'd like to write more in this post, but I realize that it will likely just result in me repeating various bad jokes about chicken fingers. Tomorrow, I'll try to scoop my brain off the floor and use it to write something that will really blow your mind. Or, I'll just bitch about how much it sucks to be mauled by a bear. Either way, I'll enjoy it.
Friday, May 14, 2010
If you read this, it's not you, it's someone else
I signed onto Facebook today, and saw that another friend had joined a group with a name like "1 million people before 9th july 2010 and Facebook will stay free". I'm not sure why this frustrates me so much, but it does. Periodically, I've considered just deleting anyone who does fall for such obvious hoaxes, but I haven't taken the plunge yet. I probably shouldn't be judging Facebook friend worthiness by intellect, but it's hard not to.
Seriously, if Facebook was dumb enough to start charging, it would be a blessing, because I'd finally just leave instead of going through the daily, "Should I stay on Facebook and risk having them steal my soul through my keyboard? Oh, but if I don't stay I won't be able to receive pixilated Farmville gifts or know who's suddenly single and probably didn't want it to be broadcast to all their random childhood friends and people they met at parties but somehow hasn't figured out the importance of checking their profile and privacy settings. No soul, but Farmville; soul, but no Farmville. Why must life face me with such horrible decisions?" The whole internal dialogue isn't so bad, but the part where I curl up on the floor in the fetal position for 20 minutes wailing has been seriously cutting into my day.
But, it's irrelevant, Facebook is not giving me that gift any time soon, because charging for Facebook would immediately eliminate the major draw of Facebook: That everyone is there. They charge, people leave, then they have to rename it, "Face-of-people-who-are-stupid-enough-to-pay-for-facebook-while-everyone-else-goes-to-one-of-the-million-free-imitation-sites-that-appeared-the-minute-facebook-started-charging-book". That would be hard to turn into an easily recognizable logo.
There's also no chance that Facebook is giving up on its dream to merge us into a giant cyborg to destroy the world. It begins with pages, it ends with the giant cyborg attacking all the world leaders, except that since they all got on the Facebook bandwagon already, it's really just punching itself in the gut. Why? Because cyborgs always seem like a good idea when you live in a dorm room, and it's hard to let such dreams go when you leave the dorm room with the capability to produce one. And a giant cyborg made up of everyone in the world doing the Macarena would probably be pretty hilarious. Anyways, why would Facebook start charging and risk that Twitter will beat them to it with their giant, noisy bird cyborg? That's right, they wouldn't, because that bird would be pretty annoying.
Speaking of Twitter, I was bored today and thought that maybe I should start trying to tweet again. I'd set up an account the day I started this very blog, but realized that character limits make me actually need to consider what's relevant to my reader, which is a lot of work. I'd rather just rant, limitless and let you carefully dig through it to find glimpses of sanity. So, my only tweet, until today, was, "I can't tweet. Read my blog."
But, I've learned recently that most of my friends are likely illiterate (except for you, whoever you are...you are one of my smart friends. Congratulations!). Well, illiterate or polite, because they keep on telling me that they want to read my blog, they just don't have the time. So, I thought, maybe I'll tweet as well, for all my slow friends (Again, that's not you, because you made it here. You probably shouldn't mention this to the slower ones though. No, I won't give you money to hide it. What kind of person do you think I am? Okay, you're right, you probably know what kind of person I am, because you actually read this blog, and I've dangerously forthright. Please, just let it go so I can end this horribly long fictional conversation. Thank you. Finally.)
The point is, today I returned to Twitter to tweet this "I'm going to try tweeting again, because apparently most people I know don't have the attention span to go past 140 characters." You probably noted that I didn't use the word illiterate, because that might offend them. It's okay here though, because, as I mentioned, they'll never make it this far. And even if they do, they'll probably just furrow their caveman brows in confusion as they try to figure out the long word starting in "i". Then they'll probably go all Space Odyssey 2001 on their computer. Then the baby in space will freak me out and I'll know what it feels like to be them, and I'll feel bad about calling them illiterate, because the confusion sucks.
Seriously, if Facebook was dumb enough to start charging, it would be a blessing, because I'd finally just leave instead of going through the daily, "Should I stay on Facebook and risk having them steal my soul through my keyboard? Oh, but if I don't stay I won't be able to receive pixilated Farmville gifts or know who's suddenly single and probably didn't want it to be broadcast to all their random childhood friends and people they met at parties but somehow hasn't figured out the importance of checking their profile and privacy settings. No soul, but Farmville; soul, but no Farmville. Why must life face me with such horrible decisions?" The whole internal dialogue isn't so bad, but the part where I curl up on the floor in the fetal position for 20 minutes wailing has been seriously cutting into my day.
But, it's irrelevant, Facebook is not giving me that gift any time soon, because charging for Facebook would immediately eliminate the major draw of Facebook: That everyone is there. They charge, people leave, then they have to rename it, "Face-of-people-who-are-stupid-enough-to-pay-for-facebook-while-everyone-else-goes-to-one-of-the-million-free-imitation-sites-that-appeared-the-minute-facebook-started-charging-book". That would be hard to turn into an easily recognizable logo.
There's also no chance that Facebook is giving up on its dream to merge us into a giant cyborg to destroy the world. It begins with pages, it ends with the giant cyborg attacking all the world leaders, except that since they all got on the Facebook bandwagon already, it's really just punching itself in the gut. Why? Because cyborgs always seem like a good idea when you live in a dorm room, and it's hard to let such dreams go when you leave the dorm room with the capability to produce one. And a giant cyborg made up of everyone in the world doing the Macarena would probably be pretty hilarious. Anyways, why would Facebook start charging and risk that Twitter will beat them to it with their giant, noisy bird cyborg? That's right, they wouldn't, because that bird would be pretty annoying.
Speaking of Twitter, I was bored today and thought that maybe I should start trying to tweet again. I'd set up an account the day I started this very blog, but realized that character limits make me actually need to consider what's relevant to my reader, which is a lot of work. I'd rather just rant, limitless and let you carefully dig through it to find glimpses of sanity. So, my only tweet, until today, was, "I can't tweet. Read my blog."
But, I've learned recently that most of my friends are likely illiterate (except for you, whoever you are...you are one of my smart friends. Congratulations!). Well, illiterate or polite, because they keep on telling me that they want to read my blog, they just don't have the time. So, I thought, maybe I'll tweet as well, for all my slow friends (Again, that's not you, because you made it here. You probably shouldn't mention this to the slower ones though. No, I won't give you money to hide it. What kind of person do you think I am? Okay, you're right, you probably know what kind of person I am, because you actually read this blog, and I've dangerously forthright. Please, just let it go so I can end this horribly long fictional conversation. Thank you. Finally.)
The point is, today I returned to Twitter to tweet this "I'm going to try tweeting again, because apparently most people I know don't have the attention span to go past 140 characters." You probably noted that I didn't use the word illiterate, because that might offend them. It's okay here though, because, as I mentioned, they'll never make it this far. And even if they do, they'll probably just furrow their caveman brows in confusion as they try to figure out the long word starting in "i". Then they'll probably go all Space Odyssey 2001 on their computer. Then the baby in space will freak me out and I'll know what it feels like to be them, and I'll feel bad about calling them illiterate, because the confusion sucks.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Don't make me crush you.
Today I had the pleasure of spending 5 minutes believing that the former contents of my office had fallen into some sort of mystical black hole in my school. There's nothing quite like realizing that every overpriced textbook that you've purchased in the last 4 years knowing that they would somehow benefit you in the future (and by the future, I mean, today) is gone, and that there's little you could have done to prevent it, except for to not trust anyone. Ever. But I had trusted people, and as far as I knew, those people had chosen to drag my stuff through an area with known mystical black holes, allowed it to fall into one said hole and then decided to pretend that nothing happened. "What thousands of dollars worth of texts?" (That's not an actual quote, it's more an imagined quote, but I don't know how to use imaginary quotation marks).
Luckily, my books somehow managed to reappear as rapidly as they were lost, and I learned to appreciate their existence again, which may or may not have been their plan all along. My poor lonely textbooks just wanted attention. Actually, that's probably a good plot for a Pixar movie. An incredibly boring Pixar movie, that's a lot like Toy Story 3, but for people that had a really depressing childhood.
During the time spent believing that other's incompetence had somehow lost me so much in such a short time, I was reacquainted with a side of myself that I don't frequently get to meet: The part of me that believes that if I'm angry enough I can bring down whole corporations just with my mind. She's often come out when dealing with cell phone companies. I like to think the only reason that Telus is still around is because I managed calm down before anything really bad happened to them. I like to think I'm like the Hulk, but prettier, and less with the smashing.
Once in high school, I decided that I would write a birthday story for my friend Izy Kigs, because I liked to write and I'm bad at thinking of gifts people would actually want. I can't remember what the story was about, but I think it involved mathemagic and it was the most fantastically awesome bit of awesomeness that anyone has ever created. Or so I assume. Either way, no one will ever be able to challenge that assertion because it has been lost to the ages. You see, I saved it on a floppy disc, because that was what you did at the time, and, when I tried to open it to print it, I realized that the disc had done one of those annoying things that discs do and erased itself. I went through all the stages of grief.
Denial: "It's still there, it has to still be there. It's just hiding, that's all. These things don't just disappear."
Anger: "How could you do this to me? Why? You did this, you horrible disc. Why do you suck so much? I will destroy you." (This is the point where I crushed it with my bear hands...oh wait, not bear hands, bare hands. Although, it was a little like I had bear hands, with the destruction and such, but it also wasn't much like bear hands because I didn't have claws.)
Bargaining: "I'll tape you back together if you just give me back my story."
Depression: "I'm not sure I even want to live in a world without my story of awesome awesomeness."
Acceptance: "It's okay. The story is gone, but I can rebuild." (At which point I taped the mangled disc to a picture of Harry Potter and wrote the story of how I'd written a story that would have been a wonderful present if this disc hadn't thwarted my efforts, because it's evil, but she shouldn't worry, because I have destroyed it. I know the whole battle of good and evil is a little cliche, but it's what I had at that point.)
The moral of this post: When life gives you evil discs from hell, crush them and give them to your friend for their birthday. Chances are they'll be much too terrified to ever indicate anything but pleasure at the present, which, as far as you're concerned, means it's a good present.
Luckily, my books somehow managed to reappear as rapidly as they were lost, and I learned to appreciate their existence again, which may or may not have been their plan all along. My poor lonely textbooks just wanted attention. Actually, that's probably a good plot for a Pixar movie. An incredibly boring Pixar movie, that's a lot like Toy Story 3, but for people that had a really depressing childhood.
During the time spent believing that other's incompetence had somehow lost me so much in such a short time, I was reacquainted with a side of myself that I don't frequently get to meet: The part of me that believes that if I'm angry enough I can bring down whole corporations just with my mind. She's often come out when dealing with cell phone companies. I like to think the only reason that Telus is still around is because I managed calm down before anything really bad happened to them. I like to think I'm like the Hulk, but prettier, and less with the smashing.
Once in high school, I decided that I would write a birthday story for my friend Izy Kigs, because I liked to write and I'm bad at thinking of gifts people would actually want. I can't remember what the story was about, but I think it involved mathemagic and it was the most fantastically awesome bit of awesomeness that anyone has ever created. Or so I assume. Either way, no one will ever be able to challenge that assertion because it has been lost to the ages. You see, I saved it on a floppy disc, because that was what you did at the time, and, when I tried to open it to print it, I realized that the disc had done one of those annoying things that discs do and erased itself. I went through all the stages of grief.
Denial: "It's still there, it has to still be there. It's just hiding, that's all. These things don't just disappear."
Anger: "How could you do this to me? Why? You did this, you horrible disc. Why do you suck so much? I will destroy you." (This is the point where I crushed it with my bear hands...oh wait, not bear hands, bare hands. Although, it was a little like I had bear hands, with the destruction and such, but it also wasn't much like bear hands because I didn't have claws.)
Bargaining: "I'll tape you back together if you just give me back my story."
Depression: "I'm not sure I even want to live in a world without my story of awesome awesomeness."
Acceptance: "It's okay. The story is gone, but I can rebuild." (At which point I taped the mangled disc to a picture of Harry Potter and wrote the story of how I'd written a story that would have been a wonderful present if this disc hadn't thwarted my efforts, because it's evil, but she shouldn't worry, because I have destroyed it. I know the whole battle of good and evil is a little cliche, but it's what I had at that point.)
The moral of this post: When life gives you evil discs from hell, crush them and give them to your friend for their birthday. Chances are they'll be much too terrified to ever indicate anything but pleasure at the present, which, as far as you're concerned, means it's a good present.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Clean!
...or at least clean looking from the angle I originally took the picture from, which is good, because it means most of the floor is clear for dancing. I'm sure the rest of my room will follow suit when it sees the attention that corner is getting.Having arrived home late last night from the airport, and knowing that the next few days are busy, I took today to finish all the random things I've been avoiding for the last, well, forever. I tried to clean for awhile before I decided I should probably head into school to get some paperwork done. There I ran into my friend Tamari Ferrari, who was nervous because she had a job interview this afternoon. I like to think I'm good at giving unsolicited advice, especially the type that's completely unfounded in reality, so I was eager to help her out. And now, I'm eager to help you out as well, by repeating some of the advice I gave her today.
When approaching any sort of social situation where you feel nervous, it's important to remember that the other person is likely to be just as insecure as you are, but they might be better at hiding it. If you are the kick-ass employee you think you are, then they're going to want to impress you enough to take their job. The key to a good interview is to play into that insecurity, and make sure that everything you do is aimed at keeping them off-kilter. The number one thing that will achieve this is rapid, erratic movements. If they think you're going to zig, but then you zag, it will throw them off completely. As well as totally freaking them out, it sends a clear message that you are probably a gazelle, or maybe a rabbit. But it also sends a message saying, "This person will most likely survive if a bear ever enters our place of business." Unexpected bear attack survival is an admirable trait in an employee, even in a downtown setting.
Another thing to play into your potential employers insecurities is to vary the volume of your voice in a way that does not correspond to anything that you're saying. This is especially effective if your potential employer is old enough to worry about losing their hearing. If you want to take this to the next level, try adding in different accents or periodic singing. They'll be so confused by what's going on that they probably won't notice much else, making this a particularly good tool if you have no idea what you're doing.
The last, and most important way to throw them off is prolonged eye contact. This is how primates signal dominance, or something. Be aware that if they turn out to be dominant to you, they will most likely claw your face off. But, chances are they will crumble under your uninterrupted gaze, and then find you a delicious banana. There might be some moments while utilizing this skill where it feels so awkward that you want to look away. Don't. It's not creepy at all. Really.
Now that you've got the job, think of the person that got you there (by which I mean, me). Then send them money. Remember the ideal way to store such money is in a big bag with a dollar sign on the side. If I get enough, then I'll change it all into pennies and try to swim in it like Scrooge McDuck. Then, the next time you have to interview for a job, maybe it will be cleaning my giant penny pool. It's win-win, or something.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
