The last few days have been a little bitter sweet. I'm back from my near death experience, which is good. I promised myself if I rested until Sunday night, I could go to my ultimate game on Monday, and rest I did. So, Monday night came and I was incredibly excited to play. I was there early to warm up, since it felt like forever since I'd played. But, apparently one of the remaining effects of my cold was either blindness or poor reaction time, I'm not really sure which, all I know is that I caught a disc right in the eye. It was a beautiful throw, if only I'd seen it on time to catch it, or at least to bob a bit.
Later it turned out that maybe the universe really wanted to connect my head with hard plastic flying objects, because another frisbee ricocheted off the top of my head, right into the hands of my team mate in the N-zone. That was actually pretty sweet. I knew at some point my erratic running in circles would pay off somehow. I got many high fives.
Anyways, I woke up today hoping that I wouldn't have a black eye. I was actually quite worried that the frisbee in the eye was the universes way of teaching me not to be too cocky, since I had commented that morning on the fact that most days it really doesn't make a difference whether I wear makeup or not, cause I'm just that gorgeous. Not only would a black eye force me to wear makeup, it would ensure that the entire process of applying it would be as painful as possible. Touche universe (I know I should accent that touche, but I've never really figured out how to do that...I should probably ask friends with accents in their names, since they probably have figured it out by now). But, to my surprise, I woke up with my eye still tender to the touch, but with no visible signs of bruising.
I suspect that despite being a ginger, I'm somehow immune to bruising. Maybe I just don't have enough blood. Or maybe it is also ginger and thus blends in with my skin. I'm not really sure about the physiology of this condition.
Regardless, I was pretty excited, and thought maybe things were going my way. No bruising, and I was going to finally start biking to work again after a week of walking/subwaying. My excitement must have distracted me from noticing the sky opening up to drench the city, because I ended up completely soaked less than a minute into the trip. Somehow I made it to work on time, changed and dry, with the squelching of my shoes the only sign of exactly how miserable I felt. Then, I learned that I would need to stay late and somehow figure out how to close the store. I clarified a few times that the main thing I needed to do for this whole closing thing was to ensure we weren't robbed blind or set on fire. I like to set small, acheivable goals, which is good, because at some point in my 10 hour shift, I became quite hypoglycemic and my brain shut off. Still, somehow eventually I managed to get the gate to lock and escape into the night.
But Melvina (my bike) was still waiting for me, and my hypoglycemic brain couldn't work my theft proof bike lock. And, in trying to open it without fully inserting the key, I managed to bend the key until it was unusable once I finally realized what I was doing wrong. I called my roommate Byla, desperate, and she offered to bring my spare-key on the subway, which probably saved my life, because the hypoglycemia was really starting to mess with my brain. While waiting for her, I realized that I had a bag of celery in my bag, which probably wouldn't help the blood sugar, but would amuse me for a spell. So, I sat on the wet ground beside my bike, eating celery and singing showtunes to stop me from crying while I waited for the most wonderful roommate in the world to rescue my bike. No one even looked at me twice. People are weird. I would have looked twice and then probably comment on how weird people are that aren't me.
Eventually my spell in purgatory ended, and I made it home. Actually, I made it before Byla, because there were subway delays. I love Byla, because she didn't kick my ass, even though she would have been in the right. This fact made me realize that although it seems like I'm going through a bad time, maybe it's not so bad, because it's when you have a really really shitty day and you're totally hypoglycemic and can barely see straight that you realize what kind of friends you have in your life. I realized I have good ones. Some people realize other things on days like that, and that is a real bad day. Mine was just a chance to practice being stoic. Next time I'll try to do it without singing Close Every Door from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. But I can't promise anything.
Showing posts with label Byla Rong. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Byla Rong. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Yet another bear free gift
Today I learned a new lesson: The day that you receive notice of a package from a friend is not the day to decide it's finally safe to wear non-clear mascara. Byla, my Yellowknifian friend, had warned me that I should be expecting something, so I was sufficiently amped. After I picked it up, I spent the walk home thinking about what it might be. I don't know much about Yellowknife and what can be found there. I often wonder if the souvenir shops sell a lot of yellow knives, or if that is too obvious. It seems it would be dangerous for public relations, you know, due to the likelihood of the former souvenir becoming key evidence for the prosecution.
I didn't think Byla mailed me a knife though, if only because she seems smart enough not to send sharp things in the mail. Then I thought, crap, what if she sent a bear. I do often mock her very cold hometown, and maybe I went too far at some point, so she jacked a bear up with Fluoroquinolones and sent it to maul me just when I'm most defenseless (that being while opening an exciting package). That seems like a completely appropriate response to one too many igloo jokes, you know, the attempted murder. I realized though that, were it a bear, it was most likely dead from starvation due to the unexpectedly long transit time, so I would probably be okay, and thought, "Haha, foiled again, Byla Rong." You have to get up pretty early in the morning to kill me with a tiny bear. Or at least spring for a courier. Then it dawned on me that Byla would have been smart enough to pay the extra expense if she'd already gone to the trouble to create an adorably small murder machine.
If not a bear, then what? Well, the only other Yellowknife thing I could think of was ice. But the package was not as wet or cold as I would expect were it ice. Maybe the post office was nice enough to dry it off for me, but then, why was it so heavy still, like it contained something other than ice that had melted and then carefully dried off?
By this point in my train of thought, I was home and already grabbing random sharp things that I thought might open a package and thinking how useful it would be for future packages if it contained a yellow knife. Once I finally got it opened, nestled inside was the greatest card ever.
She knows me well, and below her wonderful card was a tea pot.
I did not include the full 360 degrees, but if I had, you would note there is are no bears on it. There are moose and wolves, but no bears. It's times like these I realize how blessed I am. Then I read the card, and I will not recount it here, but, as I mentioned at the beginning, I wasn't ready risk coloured mascara.
My happy song today is My Sweet Lord by George Harrison, my favorite Beatle. Regardless of specific religious beliefs, I have an immense amount of respect for anyone with that much passion for anything. I'm sad he got sued over it. But I'm happy that he played the intro to it on Monty Python, but followed it by a song about pirates, because everyone loves a song about pirates. Ooh, I think that counts as two happy songs. I'm not sure how two songs benefits me, but I bet someone, somewhere is giving me points, and I really want to win that car.
I didn't think Byla mailed me a knife though, if only because she seems smart enough not to send sharp things in the mail. Then I thought, crap, what if she sent a bear. I do often mock her very cold hometown, and maybe I went too far at some point, so she jacked a bear up with Fluoroquinolones and sent it to maul me just when I'm most defenseless (that being while opening an exciting package). That seems like a completely appropriate response to one too many igloo jokes, you know, the attempted murder. I realized though that, were it a bear, it was most likely dead from starvation due to the unexpectedly long transit time, so I would probably be okay, and thought, "Haha, foiled again, Byla Rong." You have to get up pretty early in the morning to kill me with a tiny bear. Or at least spring for a courier. Then it dawned on me that Byla would have been smart enough to pay the extra expense if she'd already gone to the trouble to create an adorably small murder machine.
If not a bear, then what? Well, the only other Yellowknife thing I could think of was ice. But the package was not as wet or cold as I would expect were it ice. Maybe the post office was nice enough to dry it off for me, but then, why was it so heavy still, like it contained something other than ice that had melted and then carefully dried off?
By this point in my train of thought, I was home and already grabbing random sharp things that I thought might open a package and thinking how useful it would be for future packages if it contained a yellow knife. Once I finally got it opened, nestled inside was the greatest card ever.
She knows me well, and below her wonderful card was a tea pot.
I did not include the full 360 degrees, but if I had, you would note there is are no bears on it. There are moose and wolves, but no bears. It's times like these I realize how blessed I am. Then I read the card, and I will not recount it here, but, as I mentioned at the beginning, I wasn't ready risk coloured mascara.My happy song today is My Sweet Lord by George Harrison, my favorite Beatle. Regardless of specific religious beliefs, I have an immense amount of respect for anyone with that much passion for anything. I'm sad he got sued over it. But I'm happy that he played the intro to it on Monty Python, but followed it by a song about pirates, because everyone loves a song about pirates. Ooh, I think that counts as two happy songs. I'm not sure how two songs benefits me, but I bet someone, somewhere is giving me points, and I really want to win that car.
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 5, 2010
You Can't Buy Happiness, Even if you Can Buy Monkey Butlers
It was my first day waking up on my BC trip, which means that I was up at 6am due my inability to sleep-in regardless of how late I stay up combined with a 3 hour time change. It was good because I got to see my brother Shamus before he went to work, but bad because then I spent hours waiting for anything interesting to happen. Periodically I would decide to try to befriend Alfred Von Bunnikins, but I think he must have somehow sensed my similarity to Elmyra from Tiny Toons and was smart enough to hide in his igloo whenever I came close.
Since the rabbit clearly wasn't planning on entertaining me, I found a book on baby names and leafed through it until it offended me, as tends to be the case with most books. It had a section on the first impressions that names make with lists of names under titles such as: "Arty", "Charming", "Friendly" etc. I thought, where are the negative adjectives? Then I found it, "Cranky". And what was there, nestled below "Doreen" and "Myrna"? None other than "Sharon". Really? And yet the name "Stormy" is under "Cheerful"? If I ruled the world, I would destroy all copies of this book. Wait, maybe my reaction is a bit cranky. No, I think it's normal, because that book was clearly out to get me. Also, evil.
It also had a list of famous pairs, I guess for those expecting twins. If I had twin boys, I probably wouldn't have much issue with naming them Bert and Ernie. They're solid names. I might call them Robert and Ernest for awhile, just to make it look like I didn't do it on purpose, all the while knowing that eventually someone is going to realize the obvious nicknames and then it will spread like wildfire. I guess it is true that some people shouldn't be allowed to have children, most notably my parents for giving me a cranky name.
So, after thinking about baby names for awhile, my mind drifted to yesterday, when I was at the Edmonton airport waiting for my connecting flight to Abbotsford and trying to steal WiFi to kill time. As you probably know, if you've read my other posts, I have no technical abilities, so I don't know how I did it, but I managed to get a few minutes of Facebook time in before it caught onto me and tried to make me pay. It was just enough time to notice a posting by my friend Birchington Wongstein that perked me up. I hadn't realized that I needed perking until I was perked, but was quite glad it had happened, because I really did need a good perking up, if only to allow me to overuse the word "perk" in my blog today.
When you wake up hours before anyone who might entertain you, it gives you a lot of time to think about things that perked you up (if you're wondering, I am trying to break the record for most instances of the word "perk" and its derivatives. It would probably be easier if I had some idea of what the record is, but I think I'm doing pretty well). Birchington is one of those people who doesn't really need to work to perk up someone's day. Once I tried to tell him this, but it didn't turn out well. First I tried, "You're special.....but not 'special' with quotations," then I went for "No, no, I don't mean it that way, I mean it more like you're precious....but not 'precious' with quotations." So, sitting there, WiFi-less, I spent the time thinking about the number of friends I've been lucky enough to have that can't be adequately described without a word that is also used in quotations when humoring "special" people.
I worry that this blog might be quickly descending towards a rather mushy side today, but I think I need to say that I feel like I spend a lot of time thinking about things that I want, like truckloads of money and monkey butlers. But, even a million monkey butlers could not replace knowing someone like Birchington Wongstein, Yelsel D'Stupid, Neyney Charmin, Byla Rong, Katarina Yashtastico, Bark Montes or the dozens of other magical people that I am yet to create clever pseudonyms for. Even if they were to all suddenly disappear from my life, I was beyond blessed to even know them for 2 seconds, so I should probably stop spending all my time thinking about how I might acquire an army of monkey butlers and appreciate what I already have instead. Yeah, I lied when I said I was worried about getting to mushy, because I totally went there, but I'm going to publish this anyways.
To make up for the mushiness, I'm going to tell you my truck stop laundry story. It begins with: Once I was doing my laundry with friends at a truck stop. There, we met a trucker, who we asked if we could drive his truck. He said he would be happy to let us, but didn't think we could handle the 18 gears. I think it was 18, it doesn't matter exactly how many though, because what really matters is that he then said, "That's more than I can count on my hands and feet." At that point you could see everyone looking at there hands and feet, trying to do some quick math in their head and thinking "Wait...somethings wrong..." After the proper timing for optimal effect he said, "That's right, I only have 2 toes" (or 3 toes or something...it doesn't matter, the point is, he was a trucker who was missing multiple toes and clearly used it as smalltalk on a regular basis.) The strangest part of the story is that I don't think anyone in our group thought to ask him how he lost his toes. Or, if they did, I don't remember it, which doesn't seem like me. I usually remember stories that involve anything being severed. So, like most of my stories, this has a lesson: If you meet a trucker and they tell you they are missing any organ or appendage, ask them how, because you'll regret it if you don't. I know I did.
Since the rabbit clearly wasn't planning on entertaining me, I found a book on baby names and leafed through it until it offended me, as tends to be the case with most books. It had a section on the first impressions that names make with lists of names under titles such as: "Arty", "Charming", "Friendly" etc. I thought, where are the negative adjectives? Then I found it, "Cranky". And what was there, nestled below "Doreen" and "Myrna"? None other than "Sharon". Really? And yet the name "Stormy" is under "Cheerful"? If I ruled the world, I would destroy all copies of this book. Wait, maybe my reaction is a bit cranky. No, I think it's normal, because that book was clearly out to get me. Also, evil.
It also had a list of famous pairs, I guess for those expecting twins. If I had twin boys, I probably wouldn't have much issue with naming them Bert and Ernie. They're solid names. I might call them Robert and Ernest for awhile, just to make it look like I didn't do it on purpose, all the while knowing that eventually someone is going to realize the obvious nicknames and then it will spread like wildfire. I guess it is true that some people shouldn't be allowed to have children, most notably my parents for giving me a cranky name.
So, after thinking about baby names for awhile, my mind drifted to yesterday, when I was at the Edmonton airport waiting for my connecting flight to Abbotsford and trying to steal WiFi to kill time. As you probably know, if you've read my other posts, I have no technical abilities, so I don't know how I did it, but I managed to get a few minutes of Facebook time in before it caught onto me and tried to make me pay. It was just enough time to notice a posting by my friend Birchington Wongstein that perked me up. I hadn't realized that I needed perking until I was perked, but was quite glad it had happened, because I really did need a good perking up, if only to allow me to overuse the word "perk" in my blog today.
When you wake up hours before anyone who might entertain you, it gives you a lot of time to think about things that perked you up (if you're wondering, I am trying to break the record for most instances of the word "perk" and its derivatives. It would probably be easier if I had some idea of what the record is, but I think I'm doing pretty well). Birchington is one of those people who doesn't really need to work to perk up someone's day. Once I tried to tell him this, but it didn't turn out well. First I tried, "You're special.....but not 'special' with quotations," then I went for "No, no, I don't mean it that way, I mean it more like you're precious....but not 'precious' with quotations." So, sitting there, WiFi-less, I spent the time thinking about the number of friends I've been lucky enough to have that can't be adequately described without a word that is also used in quotations when humoring "special" people.
I worry that this blog might be quickly descending towards a rather mushy side today, but I think I need to say that I feel like I spend a lot of time thinking about things that I want, like truckloads of money and monkey butlers. But, even a million monkey butlers could not replace knowing someone like Birchington Wongstein, Yelsel D'Stupid, Neyney Charmin, Byla Rong, Katarina Yashtastico, Bark Montes or the dozens of other magical people that I am yet to create clever pseudonyms for. Even if they were to all suddenly disappear from my life, I was beyond blessed to even know them for 2 seconds, so I should probably stop spending all my time thinking about how I might acquire an army of monkey butlers and appreciate what I already have instead. Yeah, I lied when I said I was worried about getting to mushy, because I totally went there, but I'm going to publish this anyways.
To make up for the mushiness, I'm going to tell you my truck stop laundry story. It begins with: Once I was doing my laundry with friends at a truck stop. There, we met a trucker, who we asked if we could drive his truck. He said he would be happy to let us, but didn't think we could handle the 18 gears. I think it was 18, it doesn't matter exactly how many though, because what really matters is that he then said, "That's more than I can count on my hands and feet." At that point you could see everyone looking at there hands and feet, trying to do some quick math in their head and thinking "Wait...somethings wrong..." After the proper timing for optimal effect he said, "That's right, I only have 2 toes" (or 3 toes or something...it doesn't matter, the point is, he was a trucker who was missing multiple toes and clearly used it as smalltalk on a regular basis.) The strangest part of the story is that I don't think anyone in our group thought to ask him how he lost his toes. Or, if they did, I don't remember it, which doesn't seem like me. I usually remember stories that involve anything being severed. So, like most of my stories, this has a lesson: If you meet a trucker and they tell you they are missing any organ or appendage, ask them how, because you'll regret it if you don't. I know I did.
Monday, May 3, 2010
4 8 15 16 23 42
I'm visiting my brother Shamus in BC this week. I don't get to fly often, so I got pretty excited about it today. I got up early yesterday morning to check in online and stake my claim on a window seat. As I was boarding today, I realized I'd inadvertently chosen a seat in row 15, one of the evil numbers from Lost. I think, as a rule, when flying one should try to avoid anything that could be connected to Lost, like knives or polar bears, so I'm not sure what possessed me to choose one of the numbers. As we took off, I noticed a 23 on the runway and decided I was most likely screwed. I was wrong, but I'm still going to stick with that rule, just in case (and I hate polar bears anyways).
When I fly I like to think of the beginning of Fight Club and wonder if this is the flight where I'll finally get to meet my soap making alter-ego. Could it be the middle-aged Asian woman beside me? I'm thinking that it probably isn't because she seems quite perturbed by me staring at her as I try to size her up. I guess I'll just have to wait until the next time I fly to meet my alter-ego. I bet she'll be tall.
Since my jinxing the flight didn't make it crash on a mysterious island (in Saskatchewan...?) I am now able to blog to you from Shamus' apartment where he lives with his wife Lilliput, their baby Char-char Junior the Second and their rabbit, Alfred Von Bunnikins. Alfred has been shedding lately, so their is fur everywhere. It kind of rolls around the place, like tumbleweeds. I'm trying to figure out how to monetize on it somehow, but the only idea I have so far is that when Char-char is a bit older we can use her tiny dexterous fingers to create elaborate rabbit fur crafts to sell at various novelty shows. Or maybe we can use it to make her whiskers and somehow make money off the resulting cuteness.
Well, that's about all that happened today. I had thought that a plane ride would give lots of blog material, but apparently not so much. The following are some thoughts that don't really have much follow up. Edmonton is a very nice city for a stopover. The writers block in me wishes they were jerks instead, because that makes for good blogging. Mountains make me happy, because of the tallness. I'd like to be a flight attendant because it's like you get to perform a show every time you tell people how not to die in the event of an accident. This random assortment of facts does not a blog make, but I will still put them in to bulk it up.
Actually, I forgot to put something into my blog yesterday, and that to mention the CN tower is exciting to Byla because she's from Yellowknife, where all structures are made of ice, so nothing even close to the CN towers size has ever been built because of the inevitable tower floods in the summer. Sometimes, it's fun to mock where people come from. Just kidding, Byla, you know I'm just jealous because you can stay at a bar until closing and walk home in the sunlight. Actually, I'm not, because I'm a ginger, so sunlight is my enemy.
This post has gone downhill fast, I'm going to blame jet-lag, which is confusing me into thinking that I should have the energy to write this, because the world is still light. But I don't. I wish I'd brought my crayons. Tomorrow I'll get Char-char to write this. She seems to have some awesome graphic design skills. Also, she's a baby, so everything she does is automatically entertaining.
When I fly I like to think of the beginning of Fight Club and wonder if this is the flight where I'll finally get to meet my soap making alter-ego. Could it be the middle-aged Asian woman beside me? I'm thinking that it probably isn't because she seems quite perturbed by me staring at her as I try to size her up. I guess I'll just have to wait until the next time I fly to meet my alter-ego. I bet she'll be tall.
Since my jinxing the flight didn't make it crash on a mysterious island (in Saskatchewan...?) I am now able to blog to you from Shamus' apartment where he lives with his wife Lilliput, their baby Char-char Junior the Second and their rabbit, Alfred Von Bunnikins. Alfred has been shedding lately, so their is fur everywhere. It kind of rolls around the place, like tumbleweeds. I'm trying to figure out how to monetize on it somehow, but the only idea I have so far is that when Char-char is a bit older we can use her tiny dexterous fingers to create elaborate rabbit fur crafts to sell at various novelty shows. Or maybe we can use it to make her whiskers and somehow make money off the resulting cuteness.
Well, that's about all that happened today. I had thought that a plane ride would give lots of blog material, but apparently not so much. The following are some thoughts that don't really have much follow up. Edmonton is a very nice city for a stopover. The writers block in me wishes they were jerks instead, because that makes for good blogging. Mountains make me happy, because of the tallness. I'd like to be a flight attendant because it's like you get to perform a show every time you tell people how not to die in the event of an accident. This random assortment of facts does not a blog make, but I will still put them in to bulk it up.
Actually, I forgot to put something into my blog yesterday, and that to mention the CN tower is exciting to Byla because she's from Yellowknife, where all structures are made of ice, so nothing even close to the CN towers size has ever been built because of the inevitable tower floods in the summer. Sometimes, it's fun to mock where people come from. Just kidding, Byla, you know I'm just jealous because you can stay at a bar until closing and walk home in the sunlight. Actually, I'm not, because I'm a ginger, so sunlight is my enemy.
This post has gone downhill fast, I'm going to blame jet-lag, which is confusing me into thinking that I should have the energy to write this, because the world is still light. But I don't. I wish I'd brought my crayons. Tomorrow I'll get Char-char to write this. She seems to have some awesome graphic design skills. Also, she's a baby, so everything she does is automatically entertaining.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Hippo Bus!!!
Today was the last day I could spend with my friend Byla for a long time, so we decided to do something special to mark the occasion. Our dream was to ride the Hippo Bus, an amphibious vehicle that gives tours around Toronto. For a month, whenever I felt sad, or bored, or lonely, I would text Byla things like: "Woot woot, Hippo Bus." or "Guess what...Hippo Bus!!!!". I think what's so alluring about it is the thrilling potential of a horrible Hippo bus accident, because, seriously, buses should probably stay on land, even ones with cartoon Hippos drawn on the side. That might just be my opinion, but I think it's a good one.
Regardless of the safety of Hippo Buses, an important rule to live by is: check the price of tourist attractions before you get your heart set on them. I say this because we discovered the Hippo Bus is $38 a person. Pretty much, for $38 you get a 5 minute boat ride, because I'm sure the rest of the tour you're really just waiting to be in the water or wondering why the water part was not as cool as you'd expected it to be. I don't have the experience to know that for a fact though, because we quickly decided that the Hippo bus wasn't for us and instead went to the CN tower.
The CN tower has all the terror of the Hippo bus, but with the added bonus of a no-contact security systems that makes you feel like you're in the future. By the way, I just had to Google "security at the CN tower" to remember what it was called, so there is every chance I've been marked as a potential terrorist. If I stop posting, you should probably assume it's related to that...that or a bear attack. The glass floor is kind of fun, but would be better if it were cleaner, because I want to really imagine that I could fall. I think they should have a second glass floor that you can pay extra for that they carefully de-scuff every night for maximum terror (oh no, I just tried to Google "terror synonyms" because I didn't want to use it twice...this is not going to end well).
The CN tower is full of blatant lies, like the following:
I payed my extra 4 dollars to go up 33 stories and have the city bow to my awesome power, but nothing. I considered asking for my 4 dollars back, but didn't want to deal with the hassle. The point is, never trust anything the CN tower tells you, because it is a liar. Now, at least, I've saved you 4 dollars and a lot of disappointment.
While on the observation deck, I noticed this door:
Then I thought about how I'd walked the entire observation deck and had not noticed an exit route of any kind (well, none that wouldn't lead to immediate death) and was terrified by the futility of the so-called emergency exit. We decided it would be a good idea to take the elevator down shortly after this, which brought us directly into the gift shop, where I decided to take pictures of products I disliked, like this shirt:
How many children could honestly wear this shirt? Based on the father's size relative to the CN tower, it is clear that he is some sort of horrible gigantic mutant. That or a robot. Except, robots can't have children. So he's not a robot. Which brings us back to mutant. The worst thing about it is that giant mutant children probably can't even fit into a child sized t-shirt, so it's like the shirt is teasing them. Finally they find a shirt that accurately expresses their feelings about their giant dad and it's not available in their size. I thought I hated it the most until I saw this book:
Seriously, why do you need to say bears 3 times? And why is it in a CN tower gift shop? I came to this tourist attraction to be scared by heights, not by bears. Here I am, innocently walking around looking at various phallic souvenirs, and then, "Holy crap, 'Bears Bears Bears'"! No warning sign or anything. There is just no awareness of bear phobia in our society, it's ridiculous.
Speaking of phallic souvenirs, Byla commented on how our society has too many phallic symbols, and I said, "You're right, where are all the big hole tourist attractions?" Sometimes it seems that the universe is listening to me, because, within 30 seconds we came across this children's book:
That's my disturbed look. We left the gift shop shortly after that. I wondered if it might have been a better idea to just pay the $38 for the Hippo Bus.
Regardless of the safety of Hippo Buses, an important rule to live by is: check the price of tourist attractions before you get your heart set on them. I say this because we discovered the Hippo Bus is $38 a person. Pretty much, for $38 you get a 5 minute boat ride, because I'm sure the rest of the tour you're really just waiting to be in the water or wondering why the water part was not as cool as you'd expected it to be. I don't have the experience to know that for a fact though, because we quickly decided that the Hippo bus wasn't for us and instead went to the CN tower.
The CN tower has all the terror of the Hippo bus, but with the added bonus of a no-contact security systems that makes you feel like you're in the future. By the way, I just had to Google "security at the CN tower" to remember what it was called, so there is every chance I've been marked as a potential terrorist. If I stop posting, you should probably assume it's related to that...that or a bear attack. The glass floor is kind of fun, but would be better if it were cleaner, because I want to really imagine that I could fall. I think they should have a second glass floor that you can pay extra for that they carefully de-scuff every night for maximum terror (oh no, I just tried to Google "terror synonyms" because I didn't want to use it twice...this is not going to end well).
The CN tower is full of blatant lies, like the following:
I payed my extra 4 dollars to go up 33 stories and have the city bow to my awesome power, but nothing. I considered asking for my 4 dollars back, but didn't want to deal with the hassle. The point is, never trust anything the CN tower tells you, because it is a liar. Now, at least, I've saved you 4 dollars and a lot of disappointment.While on the observation deck, I noticed this door:
Then I thought about how I'd walked the entire observation deck and had not noticed an exit route of any kind (well, none that wouldn't lead to immediate death) and was terrified by the futility of the so-called emergency exit. We decided it would be a good idea to take the elevator down shortly after this, which brought us directly into the gift shop, where I decided to take pictures of products I disliked, like this shirt:
How many children could honestly wear this shirt? Based on the father's size relative to the CN tower, it is clear that he is some sort of horrible gigantic mutant. That or a robot. Except, robots can't have children. So he's not a robot. Which brings us back to mutant. The worst thing about it is that giant mutant children probably can't even fit into a child sized t-shirt, so it's like the shirt is teasing them. Finally they find a shirt that accurately expresses their feelings about their giant dad and it's not available in their size. I thought I hated it the most until I saw this book:
Seriously, why do you need to say bears 3 times? And why is it in a CN tower gift shop? I came to this tourist attraction to be scared by heights, not by bears. Here I am, innocently walking around looking at various phallic souvenirs, and then, "Holy crap, 'Bears Bears Bears'"! No warning sign or anything. There is just no awareness of bear phobia in our society, it's ridiculous.Speaking of phallic souvenirs, Byla commented on how our society has too many phallic symbols, and I said, "You're right, where are all the big hole tourist attractions?" Sometimes it seems that the universe is listening to me, because, within 30 seconds we came across this children's book:
That's my disturbed look. We left the gift shop shortly after that. I wondered if it might have been a better idea to just pay the $38 for the Hippo Bus.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Sleep is totally underrated...
Today I am tired. I woke up to discover that I have officially run out of clean clothes to wear and had to work incredibly hard to put some semblance of an outfit together. By the point that happened, I had run out of time to dry my hair and was happy when I left my apartment to discover it was raining, because, that way, people could think that I was caught in rain, when, in reality, I'm just lazy and bad at time management.
So, obviously, number one on my list of things to do when I came home was laundry, which I did while watching "Funny Face" with my friend Byla Rong. I should note that our aim had been to watch a romantic movie, and believed that we couldn't fail with Audrey Hepburn. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about the 30 year age difference between Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire, which really didn't create the illusion we were hoping for. Yes, I know he has rhythm, but it's just not enough to make it not creepy. Also, it's never a good sign when the male lead's looks are improved by a false beard. Wardrobe's decision to dress him in a number of Mr Rogers style sweaters also really didn't help matters much.
Anyways, the reason I mention my laundry is to illustrate why this post might not be up to the standards you've come to expect, because my brain seems to have temporarily left me, hopefully not for Fred Astaire, because, as mentioned earlier, he's old (and, umm, dead...is it insulting to call deceased people old, or is that particular insult nullified by death? It's so hard to keep track of all the rules around that stuff...). So, I took the elevator down to get my laundry out of the dryer, and when I got down I realized that I'd forgotten my laundry basket. I live on the 14th floor of an overly superstitious building, so the 13 floor trip is not insignificant, but I trekked back up to retrieve my basket. Then I went back down to get my laundry and realized as I left the elevator that I had forgotten my basket again. So, I traveled the 13 floors up and down again. In total, it took 6 elevator trips to get one basket of laundry, and the entire time, my feet were dressed like this:
The moral of this story is my brain is fried and I shouldn't be allowed to dress myself. But, as I've mentioned frequently lately, my goal is to write every day, come rain or come shine. And, now that I know my brother Shamus is watching my every move, just waiting for me to slip up, I'm working even harder to make sure that there is something, anything, posted each day, because he is good at catching me in lies.
When we were kids, Shamus liked to make brownies, and I liked to eat brownies. It would have been a match made in heaven if he didn't also like to eat brownies, creating a competition for resources that, technically, he was entitled to win. I did not care for this, but, since he was bigger and stronger, I had no method to convince him that his brownies should actually be my brownies. Luckily, what I lacked in brawn I made up for in craftiness. Oh, and also, sneakiness: I can tip-toe like nobody's business. So, at night, when no one was around, I would sneak into the kitchen and steal delicious brownies. But, Shamus has a photographic memory, so, obviously, I couldn't just take a brownie without him noticing it was missing. I was good at geometric reasoning though, so instead of cutting a square brownie, which would be easily missed, I would carefully cut a strip of brownie off the end. That way, it would add up to the same amount of brownie, but its absence would be imperceptible to the human eye.
This system went on for months, and as I got cockier, I stopped worrying about how much brownie I took, because my strip system was so perfect that he could never discover me. Then, one day, I went to the kitchen for a scrumptious brownie treat, and just as I was cutting it, Shamus jumped out from behind the kitchen counter and screamed "I knew it!"
To help you to fully understand the amount of terror I felt in that moment, I'm going to completely lie about the rest of the story...
The shock of him jumping out caused my hand to shake so violently that I accidentally cut off my pinky finger. There was blood everywhere. It was horrible. Then Shamus said "You deserve this. How dare you steal my delicious chocolate treats?" and chased me out of the house with a broomstick. As I bled into the gutter, I thought "Never again will I let Shamus catch me off guard." And that is the reason that a post such as this is able to exist.
So, obviously, number one on my list of things to do when I came home was laundry, which I did while watching "Funny Face" with my friend Byla Rong. I should note that our aim had been to watch a romantic movie, and believed that we couldn't fail with Audrey Hepburn. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about the 30 year age difference between Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire, which really didn't create the illusion we were hoping for. Yes, I know he has rhythm, but it's just not enough to make it not creepy. Also, it's never a good sign when the male lead's looks are improved by a false beard. Wardrobe's decision to dress him in a number of Mr Rogers style sweaters also really didn't help matters much.
Anyways, the reason I mention my laundry is to illustrate why this post might not be up to the standards you've come to expect, because my brain seems to have temporarily left me, hopefully not for Fred Astaire, because, as mentioned earlier, he's old (and, umm, dead...is it insulting to call deceased people old, or is that particular insult nullified by death? It's so hard to keep track of all the rules around that stuff...). So, I took the elevator down to get my laundry out of the dryer, and when I got down I realized that I'd forgotten my laundry basket. I live on the 14th floor of an overly superstitious building, so the 13 floor trip is not insignificant, but I trekked back up to retrieve my basket. Then I went back down to get my laundry and realized as I left the elevator that I had forgotten my basket again. So, I traveled the 13 floors up and down again. In total, it took 6 elevator trips to get one basket of laundry, and the entire time, my feet were dressed like this:
The moral of this story is my brain is fried and I shouldn't be allowed to dress myself. But, as I've mentioned frequently lately, my goal is to write every day, come rain or come shine. And, now that I know my brother Shamus is watching my every move, just waiting for me to slip up, I'm working even harder to make sure that there is something, anything, posted each day, because he is good at catching me in lies.
When we were kids, Shamus liked to make brownies, and I liked to eat brownies. It would have been a match made in heaven if he didn't also like to eat brownies, creating a competition for resources that, technically, he was entitled to win. I did not care for this, but, since he was bigger and stronger, I had no method to convince him that his brownies should actually be my brownies. Luckily, what I lacked in brawn I made up for in craftiness. Oh, and also, sneakiness: I can tip-toe like nobody's business. So, at night, when no one was around, I would sneak into the kitchen and steal delicious brownies. But, Shamus has a photographic memory, so, obviously, I couldn't just take a brownie without him noticing it was missing. I was good at geometric reasoning though, so instead of cutting a square brownie, which would be easily missed, I would carefully cut a strip of brownie off the end. That way, it would add up to the same amount of brownie, but its absence would be imperceptible to the human eye.
This system went on for months, and as I got cockier, I stopped worrying about how much brownie I took, because my strip system was so perfect that he could never discover me. Then, one day, I went to the kitchen for a scrumptious brownie treat, and just as I was cutting it, Shamus jumped out from behind the kitchen counter and screamed "I knew it!"
To help you to fully understand the amount of terror I felt in that moment, I'm going to completely lie about the rest of the story...
The shock of him jumping out caused my hand to shake so violently that I accidentally cut off my pinky finger. There was blood everywhere. It was horrible. Then Shamus said "You deserve this. How dare you steal my delicious chocolate treats?" and chased me out of the house with a broomstick. As I bled into the gutter, I thought "Never again will I let Shamus catch me off guard." And that is the reason that a post such as this is able to exist.
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