Farm Reality Meets Yuppieville Hope

Saw this ad posted today on craigslist:

"So, last night I'm on my usual walk home though east vancouver and I hear some rustling in the bushes. I look down and there is the most miserable looking little chicken I've ever seen. The warehouse at the corner of Commercial and Hastings is some kind of chicken rendering plant. Anyways, I manage to catch the chicken, which is not an easy thing to do, and bring him home. God knows what he ate off the ground or experienced while running around east van. So there is a dirty and tattered (but otherwise healthy) little chicken in my bathroom, I can hear him chirping away as I type this. He has water, some torn up newspapers and some whole grains to eat. Oh, and we put the lava lamp in there in case he got cold. Willing to give this chicken to someone who will take care of him and NOT eat him. He must be one smart chicken to escape from the death factory and then I carried his filthy ass all the way home. This chicken has earned his retirement. I'd take care of him but we have a large cat and no real yard. If possible please provide picture of Mr. Chickens new home or field. Proof that you will not eat him would help too.
Thank-you
Adam
P.S. Please don't microwave plastic"

The bit about the lava lamp makes me like Adam in spite of his vegetarianism. But what's wrong with microwaving plastic?

Interview!!!!

There is light at the end of the tunnel, and we have but to see if it is legitimate light and whether I will need to carry mace.
Job interview Saturday afternoon for position of English tutor, 1-on-1 in students' homes. Sounds OK at first, but I have my worries, which are as listed:
- First off, the man who called me has a very strong Chinese accent and sounds like he could do with a spot of tutoring himself.
- He never gave a business name, and I forgot to ask. (Note to self: email re this question.)
- He asks that I meet him at a library for the interview. I will recognize him by the big black suitcase he will be carrying. (????)
- He asks that I bring my B.A. certificate to the interview, along with any grammar books I might have.
- He called me at 9 P.M.
- His name is the same as that of at least 10,000 other Chinese-Canadians in the area, so it's not like I can google him.

So,... I've never tutored English before. Anybody out there have any suggestions? Should I be worried? Is it normal for a tutoring place not to have its own textbooks and curricula?

On the other hand, it's a job. And I am dead broke.

A Good Day for the Comics

Elderly Drag Queens? Oh, They're in Aisle 7"

Reaching for the packet of coffee, my first thought was, "Hey, that guy and his wife have matching hairdos." Both wore their thin grey hair in high ponytails fastened by depressed-looking scrunchies. Then I saw his shirt. "Hmm. Wait a minute, that's a floral print. Little black and white flowers... keyhole neckline, tied with a ribbon... elbow sleeves..." Blink. "Oh my goodness, that man's wearing a blouse!" My eyes trailed down. Openly staring now, I took in the white miniskirt above his knobby knees. Then, "White nylons. He's wearing sheer white nylons, and he shaves his legs. Wow. High-heeled sandals, too... hey, Mar has that same pair." He and his wife were comparing teas as though it was completely normal for skinny 6'3" grampas to dress as women. I grabbed my coffee and ran before they could see me laughing. And then I thought, if my husband decided to turn transvestite, would I stick with him? That's a faithful wife, a strong woman, and maybe she deserves a little of my respect.

Wishlist

I want to stop thinking, and I want to stop trying not to think. I want to start really praying again. I want to stop being afraid of what is or is not to come, and I want to stop caring about what's in the past. I want to work so many hours in the week that the decision as to what is right or wrong is out of my hands - so I don't have to worry about running from my thoughts or not, so I don't have time to think between when I get home from my second shift and when I fall asleep. I want to stop being a coward. I want God to show me the way.

It was kind of a joint birthday party (family barbecue, really), since Robin and I are less than two weeks apart. Here's us right after he caught me trying to burn his ear off with my sparkler. Photo courtesy of Evan's camera-wielding Chinese fiancee, who also gave me the very cool necklace.

Persons of a Certain Age...

You know you're getting older when...
-It's your birthday and your mom, coming back from running errands, announces, "Marcel [kid brother] and I said a whole rosary on the way to the store. And since it's your birthday, we offered it for you. [Uncomfortable pause, while I continue slicing bread for toast.] We offered it so that you'd find a good job, and a... [giggles, but tries to sound authoritative] ... a good husband!"
-You buy the cake and pick up the wine.
-Parents' birthday gift is $50 cash. This is a good thing.
-Mom later goes on to extol the virtues of former neighbour's son.
Mom: "Mrs. Tutt always says what a good man Charlie is, and you know he's given up dating girls up in that mining town, they've all been around the block a few times too many, and he doesn't want that... And remember, when you were 13, he said he'd like a girl like you, if only you were a few years older..." (Ew. You'd have to be sick in the head to want me when I was 13.)
Me: "But mom, Charlie's got to be near 50 by now!"
Older brother: "Yeah, that breaks the half-plus-seven rule. I think... yeah, he's too old for her." [Ed. note: the Rule says that the youngest a man may marry is a girl whose age is half his, plus seven. Therefore, if Ralphie is 34, the youngest skirt he may chase is 24 - half his, 17, plus 7. Older brother is fixated on said Rule.]
Mom: "He's only 42, Melina. And he's such a nice man."
Older brother: "Still too old. Not by much, though, come to think of it..."

Ah... pass the Little Penguin, will ya?

As of Today, Sept. 7, 2005....

...I have officially been unemployed for 2 months. Yay.

In the News...

-It has been one week since hurricane Katrina struck, and, though we have sent rescue crews down, and two warships loaded with aid and supplies are on the way, Canadians have so far donated less than $2 million to the New Orleans cause. This is in sharp contrast to the $37 million we donated within one week of the tsunami this past winter. Speculation is that, pity for the largely poor and helpless hurricane victims aside, we Canadians may be just a little miffed about the United States' holding back the $5 billion they have taken from us in recent years in illegal softwood lumber tariffs.* Pay up, neighbours. And yes, that is how you spell neighbour up here.
See these links for more information:
http://www.dfait-maeci.gc.ca/eicb/softwood/what-en.asp
http://www.cbc.ca/news/background/softwood_lumber/
http://www.for.gov.bc.ca/HET/Softwood/
*Bitterness over the outright theft of this $5 billion does not, however, keep us all from feeling tremendous pity for the dead, the sick, and the homeless; it only adds to the anger over American money-handling. Why, oh, why did they not get water and doctors out to these people earlier? Tonight, on the news, I saw a father holding up his severely dehydrated infant. He had no formula or water to give his child. Tell me, if the government is, as they say, spending $500 million per day on the recovery effort, why is that baby without food and water?

-In the most baffling agricultural mystery since crop circles, what is being called The Great Mutton Caper has farmers and police across Canada scratching their heads. Farmer NOrman Goulet in Manitoba awoke this morning to a pasture almost entirely cleared of the 1,700 sheep it should have been holding. They did not cross the border, they did not show up at the area livestock auction, and the only witnesses of the event are - sheep. The most likely scenario has skilled farmer-types showing up in the dead of night, hustling the approximately 1,200 hundred wool-producing beasts into at least 2 multi-level sheep trucks, moving them out to a different farm, changing the ID tags, and slowly assimilating them into the local freezers via small-scale slaughterhouses. To which I say, Baa Humbug. (Sorry, I had to put that in there.) What do you call this sort of thing anyway? Sheep-laundering?

-Is anybody else out there just a little bit bothered by the number of plane crashes in recent weeks? First there was the jumbo jet from France crashing at Toronto's Pearson Airport (miraculously, not a single person died); then there was the horrific Cypric crash, the one where the cabin pressure dropped and all the passengers were almost certainly dead before the plane hit the ground; then there was one in South America, wasn't there? Plus one in Asia? And wasn't there another in the news yesterday? What is that, five in a little over a month? Maybe it's just because I grew up in a Big-Brother-paranoid household, and because I spent a large part of my childhood stuffing people's mailboxes with conspiracy-theorist and extreme right-wing literature, but this crash rash has me worried. Not that I can think of any linking element between all these downed planes. Honestly, I don't think Bush or any other Power-That-Be is tossing planes to the earth, but why are they all going down? Whatever. I like my car. Oh, wait. That would be my parents' car, seeing as I'm unemployed and broke at the moment...

This news flash brought to you by boredom, repressed ranting, and Okanagan Springs' Medium Dark with dinner.

Splitting hairs

The Sideshow Bob effect is pretty well gone, praise heaven. The mushrooming became more apparent after 2 hours' lying curled up on my bed reading a junk novel, but with some water and brushing Ms. Ryan took the lead.
All set to go job-hunting tomorrow.

New Haircut

I just came back from Impressions and Whateverthef***, this hair place my mom recommended. My head now looks like, um, a little bit Beatle, a little bit Sideshow Bob, a little bit Meg Ryan, a little bit '50s housewife, and a little bit art-student-using-the-medium-of-hair-to-portray-the-mushroom-cloud-from-Hiroshima. Dammit. Alright, I'm heading upstairs to pour lots of water on it.

Ambitions for the Day:

1. Get out of the house. Thinking of going to watch indie film in Vancouver before picking up parents and baby brother at airport.
2. Avoid - by which I mean, give space and possibly therefore courage to - older brother and apparent girlfriend (finally!). The Ice Cube is melting...
3. Think of ways to make my life wonderful and productive. Yeah right.
4. Practise guitar a la Iris DeMent and piano a la Joplin (Scott, not Janis).

I think I'm falling apart. Sitting here listening to Iris Dement sing "No Time to Cry", and crying.

You will perish of fits. Repeat this to yourself:
"Things can work out even if I don't get
my way. Things can work out even...."

What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?
brought to you by Quizilla

Geek Heaven

Yes, yes, I know, but this is one of the coolest sites EVER. Check it out (follow links to free trial). http://www.visualthesaurus.com/online/

Road Trip Stats

No. of kilometres traveled (it's a Canadian car, ergo metric odometer) : 5,167.
No. of days gone: 11.
No. of unwanted interactions with cops: 0.
No. of times I included "...and please, God, don't let there be any unwanted interference from cops" in prayer for the road: every time.
No. of sections of the I-5 currently undergoing road work: at least 19.
No. of overturned flatbeds in Oregonian mountain passes, complete with full load of corrugated-steel shingle-like things spread across highway:1.
No. of minutes it took to pass through Seattle-Tacoma area today: 118.
No. of minutes it should have taken to pass through Seattle-Tacoma area today: I dunno, 25?
No. of golf-ball-sized stones bounced at my windshield from truck ahead: 1, plus several of its smaller friends.
No. of cracks in windshield: 0, by the grace of God. 2 nice oval scratches though, right at eye-level.
No. of weddings attended: 1.
No. of times I got danced with at wedding: 1.
No. of times I had to beg and cajole a guy into dancing with me at wedding: 1
No. of times during wedding reception I looked at my all-single-girls table and then at the all-single-guys' table in the corner (and ne'er the twain did talk) and thought about that Simpsons episode with the dating show called "Bottom of the Barrel" in which Thelma and the mole-like guy are unsuccessfully hooked up: several.
No. of times I got to explain to people that why yes, I am a complete failure - yes, I'm broke, unemployed, living at home, turning 25 soon, and - no, I'm not dating anyone, but thanks for asking: 20-24.
No. of boxes of accumulated belongings from 5 years of living in California I managed to stuff into that poor little Sentra to bring home to Canada: 7, plus one huge steamer trunk, assorted things from last box that couldn't fit assembled into car, one small duffel bag, fluffy towel a la Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, assorted maps, tupperware filled with baby carrots, and 2-gallon container of drinking water.
No. of boxes removed from carefully-packed trunk of Sentra and sent by UPS one hour into trip up north: 2 - the heavy ones filled with books. The engine's peevish moaning at every acceleration attempt was getting to me. That and all the bottoming-out.
No. of skilled changings in back of car, followed by illicit swims in pools of Best Westerns I was not staying at: 1. Hey, when you've been driving through the desert for 7 hours, have 4 more to go, and you're hot, sticky, and getting sleepy... I think it's for the common good.
No. of times thanked God for Best Westerns, with outdoor pools and unlocked gates, in middle of desert: many.
No. of times saw views so beautiful I could cry for joy, but couldn't stop to take photos because I was driving at 80 MPH with large semi looming in rear-view mirror: 20-40.
No. of nights spent in dingy hotel about half a mile from Tijuana: 2.
No. of hours, first night, that hotel was completely without electricity: 7.
No. of shirtless Mexican men standing in moonlit doorways, skin gleaming in the night, hands casually holding bottles of beer, informing us girls that there was no power in the hotel: Not sure, I was walking too quickly.
No. of dollars it would have cost us to cancel our reservation and switch hotels: more than the cost of the room itself.
No. of names I thought of for my future potential children, during final 11 hours driving today: 6. No. of girls' names among those: 5, which poses a difficulty, as I only want one girl and a whole lot of boys.
No. of McDonalds hamburgers ingested during trip: 4 or 5.
No. of years since I last ate a McDonalds hamburger, prior to this trip: 4 or 5.
No. of adorable grey-and-cream kittens nearly turned into roadkill at my hands: 2. I swore and swerved, and heard no Thunk.
No. of times I contemplated how many times, on average, a resident of Weed, CA is subjected to marijuana-themed jokes re his hometown during his lifespan: 2.
No. of hours it takes to drive from my home to SP: approximately 22; more if you truly respect speed advisories.
No. of times tried in vain to be in the vicinity of The Skillet restaurant in Mt. Shasta City during lunch-dinner hours: 2. If you are ever there, gentle reader, have one of their memorable bacon cheeseburgers and think of me.
No. of hotels in Mt. Shasta City whose front lobby features a statue of Ganesh and the sickening odor of incense: 1.
No. of hotels in/around Mt. Shasta City inquired at before I found one non-creepy enough, between Ganeshes and incense, Buddhas and heckling, deaf Finnish men, Temple of Doom and B-rated horror flick vibes, and pot-bellied hairy old men by the hot tub who watched much too closely, to stay over in: 5. 6th was, incidentally, a Motel 6, clean, safe-feeling, with a very nice front-desk lady. I was sold.
No. of meals eaten in non-fast-food restaurants: 3.
No. of meals was able to finish in said restaurants: 1.
No. of times contemplated the possibility that Bush could go a long way toward battling American obesity if he simply told restaurant owners (he could start with the Dennys chain) to serve reasonably-sized portions: 3.
No. of families, clad entirely in camouflage, eating in restaurant in the mountains: 1. Mom, dad, 4 young kids. Unclear whether they were on a hunting holiday (when is hunting season, anyway?) or just a wee bit nuts.
No. of Complete Asshole U.S. Customs officers who, on my way into the States, interrogated me, held me back an hour, yelled at me, then told me I couldn't cross that day or even try for 6 months or I would get in trouble: 1.
No. of combat-boot-wearing U.S. Customs officers who searched my car and riffled through the undies etc. in my duffel bag: 4.
No. of U.S. Customs supervisors I talked to before Mr. Complete Asshole was compelled to let me go: 3.
No. of times I wondered exactly what Mr. C.A.'s girlfriend said to him the night before to put him in such a foul mood: 7-8.
No. of times I asked officer standing by my car if Mr. C.A. was always that much of an asshole or was it just today's special: 1.
No. of times he answered my question: 0 (He did tell me how to get out of the parking lot though).
No. of subjects resolved, during trip, to study once I get home: 5 - Guitar, French, German, piano, and basic auto mechanics.
No. of degrees closer I've gotten to knowing what I should do with my life: 0.
No. of times I regretted taking this trip: 0.