I bet you didn't notice the time passing, gentle reader, since your life has been abundant with metaphorical rainbows and puppy-dogs since my blog filled the dark hole in your heart you didn't even know existed until it was occupied by my musings. Or so I assume. But, time has passed, so much time that this is my 21st post. And, as my title may indicate, I've often heard it takes 21 days to break a habit, or, in this case, to make a habit. Unless you want to think of it as breaking my bad habit of not writing down random stuff everyday and posting it for your amusement, which is what I'm choosing to do. So today, I'm celebrating 2 things: My 21 days of posting, officially making daily posting a "habit" and the fact that I wasn't eaten by bears...yet. Everything's coming up Sharon!
Today I learned that when walking at Lilliput's place, it is important to watch for cow pies. That was a good lesson. I went on a quest to see their new calf while simultaneously not being eaten by bears, and though I was good on the second count, I could not find any sign of baby cow. I did see big cows though, and I think I need to apologize to Yelsel D'Stupid for mocking her belief that cows eat meat, because I'm pretty sure they were eying me in the way that something that wants to eat something else will eye up that something else. Then one licked its side, the universal sign for "I'm going to eat you and you will be delicious." Cows are terrifying and I'm glad for the invention of fences.
Thinking of fences, since going to the zoo, I have been considering ways it could be improved. My friend, Enna McLoggin suggested that it would be better if you could pay extra to go in a tiny cage inside the carnivores cage, so that they might be more interested in eating you. Also, to further increase the thrill, they could throw a rabbit in with you. I think that Alfred Von Bunnikins has super bunny senses, because after writing this I tried to pick him up and he bunny-ninjaed me.
So, later on (after first writing about my cow adventures) I went back with Shamus and did see the calf. Forgetting exactly how much the cows seemed to want to eat me earlier, I decided that I would try to pet one of them. Despite Shamus' assurances that the chances of them killing me were low (wait, in hindsight, he never actually assured that as much as didn't disagree when I asked whether it might be a possibility), I didn't manage to pet one because they seemed a little bloodthirsty as I approached. The point of this story is that I tried though. Tried and failed. And the lesson is if you never try, you never fail. But you also won't get to pet awesome cows. Although, I did try, and failed and also didn't get to pet cows, so I'm not sure what the point really is. Perhaps it's that before I die, I will pet a cow, even if it leads to my cause of death being cow.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
From the land of bears
Music is my friend, but also, not my friend. It's very good at bringing me out of my many funks, especially when combined with dancing or walking, but it also will periodically create bad moods. This is due to my inability to listen to a song without believing it to be 100% true. For example, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by the Rolling Stones. I listen to it and think "How poignant, it is true, I shouldn't always expect to get what I want." Wrong. It's not a matter of not getting what I want, it's about being vague in exactly what that is. You can't say, "I want 8.7 monkey butlers and I want them to all answer to the name Floyd" and expect to get what you want. What you need to say is, "I want some sort of something to serve me delicious Pina Coladas at some point in my future." There is every chance that this second choice will probably happen, but it does not eliminate the possibility that that something is a monkey butler named Floyd. By following this simple strategy, you can guarantee that you will always get what you want, especially if what you want is to prove Mick Jagger wrong.
"Don't Stop Believing" is one of my favorite songs, but it's also a little ridiculous. I mean, why tell me to not stop believing and yet never define what I'm supposed to believe in? It also gives me no clue as to what the feeling I'm supposed to hold onto is. I assume it's some sort of positive feeling, like "happy" or "exuberant", but it very well could be "anger" or "apathy", in which case, it's not actually a very good song at all. Although, to be honest, I've found both anger and apathy to be very useful emotions at times. Regardless, I think that this already awesome song could be far more awesome if it gave clearer instructions. Example: Don't Stop Believing (that leprechauns are going to give you delicious chocolate gold), Hold on to that (somewhat nauseous from delicious chocolate) feeling. Sometimes I wonder if Journey might have been aware of this, but concerned about unleashing a song that awesome on the world.
I've been listening to a lot of Dixie Chicks lately. It started with the song, "Not Ready to Make Nice" because I wasn't. Then, I moved onto "Top of the World", which I like for it's dramatic strings, but sometimes I allow it to convince me that I'm a songbird with a broken wing that's never going to fly to the top of the world because of some jerk. Then I feel sad and weak and imagine that someone has somehow broken me. Then I have to remind myself exactly how false that is. If anything, I'm something that eats the little song bird, like a hawk (I just Googled "What eat songbirds" and had a disturbing number of hits). Actually, a hawk is not quite awesome enough. I'm more like a dragon. Want to try to break my wings? Go for it, because now you're on fire.
Today I tried to bike to a river. It went well, by which I mean, I'm still alive and found my way back to the computer to write this. But I couldn't find a river, mainly because, as I learned later, it was to the South, and I was heading due West. Sometimes, when you want to go somewhere, it's helpful if you know where it is first, instead of just hoping that your bike might act as some sort of divining rod and find water. That is what I learned today.
We're visiting Lilliput's family's home, where apparently bears run rampant and eat many apples, then pass out on the lawn in a drunken apple stupor. Sometimes they have bear fights. So, I fear this may be my last post. It's been nice. If I survive the maulings, I'll post again tomorrow.
"Don't Stop Believing" is one of my favorite songs, but it's also a little ridiculous. I mean, why tell me to not stop believing and yet never define what I'm supposed to believe in? It also gives me no clue as to what the feeling I'm supposed to hold onto is. I assume it's some sort of positive feeling, like "happy" or "exuberant", but it very well could be "anger" or "apathy", in which case, it's not actually a very good song at all. Although, to be honest, I've found both anger and apathy to be very useful emotions at times. Regardless, I think that this already awesome song could be far more awesome if it gave clearer instructions. Example: Don't Stop Believing (that leprechauns are going to give you delicious chocolate gold), Hold on to that (somewhat nauseous from delicious chocolate) feeling. Sometimes I wonder if Journey might have been aware of this, but concerned about unleashing a song that awesome on the world.
I've been listening to a lot of Dixie Chicks lately. It started with the song, "Not Ready to Make Nice" because I wasn't. Then, I moved onto "Top of the World", which I like for it's dramatic strings, but sometimes I allow it to convince me that I'm a songbird with a broken wing that's never going to fly to the top of the world because of some jerk. Then I feel sad and weak and imagine that someone has somehow broken me. Then I have to remind myself exactly how false that is. If anything, I'm something that eats the little song bird, like a hawk (I just Googled "What eat songbirds" and had a disturbing number of hits). Actually, a hawk is not quite awesome enough. I'm more like a dragon. Want to try to break my wings? Go for it, because now you're on fire.
Today I tried to bike to a river. It went well, by which I mean, I'm still alive and found my way back to the computer to write this. But I couldn't find a river, mainly because, as I learned later, it was to the South, and I was heading due West. Sometimes, when you want to go somewhere, it's helpful if you know where it is first, instead of just hoping that your bike might act as some sort of divining rod and find water. That is what I learned today.
We're visiting Lilliput's family's home, where apparently bears run rampant and eat many apples, then pass out on the lawn in a drunken apple stupor. Sometimes they have bear fights. So, I fear this may be my last post. It's been nice. If I survive the maulings, I'll post again tomorrow.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Marbles are magical, like the number 3
Tonight I went to Shamus' softball game. It brought me back to my T-ball days. T-ball was upsetting to me because I had to wear pants, which I was not fond of at the time. Also, I didn't quite understand the rules, and no one realized that they needed to explain them to me. When my coach brought me out to the field and told me to "stand here", I thought that meant that I needed to stay in exactly that place. Looking back, it seems I was aware that I could temporarily leave my assigned spot, but was worried that I would never find my way back to it, because I'm bad with directions and could have ended up anywhere. Then, I feared, my team would lose the game because of my inability to stay in one spot.
So, I created elaborate schemes to guarantee that I could find my way back. Usually, this involved drawing designs in the dirt that would allow me to identify my assign position. I would draw a picture and then step back and think, "Could that happen naturally?" and if the answer was yes, I would erase it and start again, to ensure that I wasn't distracted by any spot marker decoys. Unfortunately, this gave me a rep as the team dunce, which meant that I was always in the outfield, so I always felt like I needed a special marker. The funny thing is, had I been put at a base, this wouldn't be an issue and I probably would have actually played. Just one of the many Catch-22s that make up life. I had one day where I found a marble, and that game was the highlight of my entire T-ball career. I was running all over the place, safe in the knowledge that nature was not going to magically craft distraction marbles.
Here are some examples of markers I would draw:
This one is easy to draw, which is good, but is too easily reproduced by an evil child falling on their face. So, I would erase it and replace it with this:
Also, far too commonly found in children's t-ball fields. So I would replace it with this:
This one will work. No drawing of this caliber could be produced without significant, deliberate effort. Now I can finally get into this game. Wait, where's everyone going? Noooo, not again. Why am I so bad at this game?
After reading my blog about baby names, Shamus said to Lilliput, "If we have 7 children, I'm calling the 7th one Seven. That's our deal." And, after having dealt with a fussy Char-char all day, Lilliput said, "If you're having 7 children, it's not with me." To which, Shamus said "You could have sextuplets, and if we do, we'll just give them numbers." But I said, "What about poor Six," because you know that Six is totally going to be mocked mercilessly when the other children realize that a simple vowel substitution will lead to a wonderfully horrible nickname. And Lilliput said, "What about Six? Because Two, Three, Four, Five and Seven won't have any trouble." (Sarcastically, obviously, I hope.) Lilliput frequently makes good points. Except that I think Five will be good, because the kids will probably call him/her "Five Alive" and often high five him/her, which will lead to a positive sense of self. Also, Three might be magic.
So, I created elaborate schemes to guarantee that I could find my way back. Usually, this involved drawing designs in the dirt that would allow me to identify my assign position. I would draw a picture and then step back and think, "Could that happen naturally?" and if the answer was yes, I would erase it and start again, to ensure that I wasn't distracted by any spot marker decoys. Unfortunately, this gave me a rep as the team dunce, which meant that I was always in the outfield, so I always felt like I needed a special marker. The funny thing is, had I been put at a base, this wouldn't be an issue and I probably would have actually played. Just one of the many Catch-22s that make up life. I had one day where I found a marble, and that game was the highlight of my entire T-ball career. I was running all over the place, safe in the knowledge that nature was not going to magically craft distraction marbles.
Here are some examples of markers I would draw:
This one is easy to draw, which is good, but is too easily reproduced by an evil child falling on their face. So, I would erase it and replace it with this:
Also, far too commonly found in children's t-ball fields. So I would replace it with this:
This one will work. No drawing of this caliber could be produced without significant, deliberate effort. Now I can finally get into this game. Wait, where's everyone going? Noooo, not again. Why am I so bad at this game?After reading my blog about baby names, Shamus said to Lilliput, "If we have 7 children, I'm calling the 7th one Seven. That's our deal." And, after having dealt with a fussy Char-char all day, Lilliput said, "If you're having 7 children, it's not with me." To which, Shamus said "You could have sextuplets, and if we do, we'll just give them numbers." But I said, "What about poor Six," because you know that Six is totally going to be mocked mercilessly when the other children realize that a simple vowel substitution will lead to a wonderfully horrible nickname. And Lilliput said, "What about Six? Because Two, Three, Four, Five and Seven won't have any trouble." (Sarcastically, obviously, I hope.) Lilliput frequently makes good points. Except that I think Five will be good, because the kids will probably call him/her "Five Alive" and often high five him/her, which will lead to a positive sense of self. Also, Three might be magic.
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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