Blogitha

Goodbye, Dean.

2006-09-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

And one of the seraphims flew to me, and in his hand was a live coal, which he had taken with the tongs off the altar. And he touched my mouth, and said: Behold this hath touched thy lips, and thy iniquities shall be taken away, and thy sin shall be cleansed. And I heard the voice of the Lord, saying: Whom shall I send? and who shall go for us? And I said: Lo, here am I, send me.

In which Mel reveals the embarrassing depths of her inner hick.

2006-09-01T18:56:00.000-07:00

Listening to a couple of CDs while making dinner tonight, I had a thought. No, really, I did. It struck me that the best cheatin'-husband songs are found in country music. While this probably seems the height of obviousness (there has to be a better word, but I can't find it) to most of you, it had never crossed my mind before. Take, for example, Dolly Parton's "Jolene" and Loretta Lynn's "Family Tree." Great songs. Actually, I prefer the White Stripes' cover of Jolene, if only for its raw pain/passion. And since "Family Tree" is from the Van Lear Rose album, a collaboration with Jack White, does this lead us to the conclusion that all the best cheatin'-husband songs involve an anemic-looking fellow whose wardrobe is restricted to items in black, white and red? No; because both songs were written by the women with the big hair and sequins. And for further proof that all good cheatin' songs are country, consider Willie Nelson's "Red-Headed Stranger" album - all 33 minutes of it devoted to various aspects of the story of a man left by, and searching for, his errant wife. Beauty. Heck, accuradio even has a whole subchannel devoted to the subject: "Married, But Not To Each Other." So it would seem that country music has a monopoly on cheating, or at least on the topic done well. Yes, there are cheating songs in other genres, but only Blue Cantrall's "Hey Ladies" comes to mind, and it simply doesn't compare to the quality of the songs mentioned above.
Which leads me, in the end, to wonder why country singers are so good at this particular subject. Any ideas?

Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

2006-07-23T23:06:00.000-07:00

CEM- ???

I still have no idea what this sign was trying to tell me.

Hungry Herbie's in Cache Creek. The locals looked at us funny when we photographed this one. I'm pretty sure it was the tallest structure in town.

Punctuation so awful that, in the rush return to my table and grab my camera, I forgot how badly I needed to go pee.

(Speaking of punctuation, I think there's something wrong with that last sentence. Oh well.)

Top half of the Truckstop Cafe, middle of nowhere on a highway between Kelowna and Kamloops. I rather like it.

Defacing Property of the Ministry of Highways

2006-07-23T22:24:00.000-07:00

Saw this sign along a highway in the Interior while road-tripping with Sumptious D last week:

I thought, "You know, it needs a little something extra."
Good old lipstick.

Happy little dead mountain goat.

Nighttime on a Santa Paula Patio

2006-07-04T10:29:00.000-07:00

Hello

2006-07-03T20:55:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since the last post, and you've all been waiting so patiently, it really touches my heart. That being said, not much new here. I am spending the summer working for my dad in the greenhouses, because: 1) he pays better than the office-temp agency did; 2) my commute consists of walking across the driveway (and with current gas prices, this was a big factor); 3) free food; 4) was tired of sitting on my a## 8 hours a day, this here is hard work, and dude, I am so ripped right now; 5) he needed me - well, he needed somebody who didn't think it was okay to go smoke pot outside during work hours, run the carts into/destroy nice plants, and bitch and whine about having to lift things. I only bitch and whine outside of work hours.
So here I am, living at home, working at home, planning to move away from home right after work slows down for fall, trying not to hate my family, making student loan payments on time, and very happily visa-debt-free and working on this thing called "good credit," which the adults tell me is very important.
Anyhoo. Since I really have nothing more to tell, and when I do try to tell things I usually hate how I wrote it and/or come back and delete the post next day and/or bore all ye to the death, I have made a decision. From now on, I will post mostly photos (Oh wow, you say. So different from hte last few months. Well, this time it's intentional.) Think of them as photo essays, like the ones important journalists put in glossy magazines. Only this isn't a glossy magazine and I'll never be a journalist because my writing sucks and I'm too lazy and shy to really hunt someone down for a story.
First photo-essay coming up. Soon, for those of you holding your breath.

Slightly Bridget Jones

2006-04-21T18:19:00.000-07:00

I'm a temp worker. Phew. Feels good to get that out there.
Anyway, this current position is two months of playing receptionist for an investment brokerage in White Rock, a very quiet retirement town by the beach. The average age there is about 40 years higher than anywhere else in the province, excepting maybe the geriatric ward at VGH. It's an easy but pretty boring job. All I have to do is show up, look presentable, answer the phone (which rings maybe 20 times a day), greet the occasional elderly client, and load the dishwasher at the end of the day. The biggest excitement is when mustachioed GLENN HILMLINGER, whose name requires capitals, stops by to remark that I am wearing pink. Yes GLENN, I am wearing pink. Oh, that's nice. Yes, isn't it. Have a maltball, Pink. Thank you, GLENN.
Until one day last week. I was passing the time by staring out the window at the parking lot and counting veterans' license plates as is my wont around mid-morning, when somebody walked in through the door. Somebody tall. And dark-haired. And good-looking. In a suit. A pinstripe suit, no less, that fit very well. If he'd been wearing a fedora, I don't think I could have held myself back.
Sitting up a little straighter and casually taking off my glasses, I asked whether I could be of any help (back rub?). "Yes," he said. "I'm here to see Rob." "Oh," I said, "I'll just ring him in his office. Could I have (take?) your name, please?" "It's Darcy," he said.
Could it GET any better?
The answer is yes, it could have, if he'd decided to chuck his meeting with Rob in favour of taking me out for lunch in some cozy bistro on the strand, followed by a proposal to sweep me off to the south of France for a few years and tell my parents later, but no such luck. So here I am, back to the reception desk and reality...

Scheduling My Hip Replacements Already

2006-04-21T17:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, standing under the uglifying fluorescent lights of the office bathroom*, realizing that, much though I love the new super-short haircut, it does at certain times whisper insinuatingly of Barry Manilow and not Audrey Hepburn, I received a shock.
I found my first grey hair.
It was actually more white than grey.
I've inherited my dad's man-hands and man-feet, concave ribcage, filthy temper, and inability to act normal in public, but not his lastingly youthful hair. Dammit.
Now, there's nothing wrong with a little grey hair, although personally I think premature greying looks better on the menfolk. Some women can carry it off gracefully - Stacy from TLC's What Not To Wear, for instance, with that grey streak dramatically framing her face. But me? No no, my first grey is this bright little wire of a hair standing in glorious prominence at the top center of my head. If that hair had life, instead of being only a chain of dead cells, it would have been be jumping up and down making "Sproing! Sproing!" sounds in between maniacal chuckles and muttered gibberish.
Needless to say, I leaned closer to the mirror, took aim, and yanked it out.
Problem solved - for now.

*the ladies' room that Scott and Tony use because they're too lazy to take the extra five steps needed to reach the men's.

2006-04-10T21:17:00.000-07:00

SATURDAY NIGHT (Drive to Whistler)

Shannon Falls

Closeup

View from the roadside lookout

View down the valley

2006-04-10T20:33:00.000-07:00

SATURDAY (A.K.A. Spirit of the Voyageurs)

(Deep Cove Again)
(Did I mention Deep Cove is one of my favourite places on God's green earth?)

It's classified rainforest for a reason

No we didn't crash

If you click on the photo and look closely, you will see that this family is actually playing Kayak Soccer. Only in Vancouver...

Approaching the beach/Belcarra Park

I look at this photo and think, "I have terrible posture."

2006-04-09T22:15:00.000-07:00

FRIDAY NIGHT

The Opening Act

Matt Costa

Cherry Trees by Night

Not Ready (at the Lennox)

OK, Ready.

2006-04-09T21:59:00.000-07:00

FRIDAY DAY (Part 2 - More Deep Cove)

Glossy Holly-like Plant with Yellow Bobbly Things

Ugly Feet, Pretty Colours

Sumptious Cove

Still Life Pink Magnolia Closeup

Man Is A Social Animal...

2006-04-09T21:41:00.000-07:00

...which is why I can't even begin to say how happy I was about Sumptious D's visit this weekend. We fit a lot into those two and a half days, and it was a lot of fun. Thank you thank you thank you, D...

And now for the pics. I don't feel like writing about the weekend, probably because I'm lazy and more than a little sleep-deprived, so I'm just going to post photos. Lots of photos. Gosh I love cameras. Luckily for my readers, this area is pretty phenomenally photogenic.

FRIDAY DAY (Part 1 - Deep Cove)

Coffee and Cigarettes

Long Left Arm

Cove and Magnolias

Ego Me Mei Mihi Me
Magnolia Closeup

More Photos, Because I Have Nothing to Say

2006-03-29T17:23:00.000-08:00

...and also because the local flora are reminding me why I love springtime in BC.

my favourite, our magnolia tree

Japanese cherry tree

helleborus, a.k.a. lenten rose, so named for its purple blooms which

open and last for several weeks at this time of year

the magnolias again, because they're beautiful and I have a thing for

photographing tree branches from beneath.

Isn't it pretty? Come visit!

This One's for You, Dan.

2006-03-20T21:31:00.000-08:00

http://www.vsocial.com/video/index.php?d=13480

Find of the YEAR!!!

2006-03-14T22:32:00.000-08:00

The transcript to the entire recording of Eddie Izzard's Dressed to Kill video. My favourite bit below: (warning: may be offensive to some, but then you shouldn't be reading this blog anyway)

...we had the Pagans in Britain. You didn't really have the Pagans here. You had the Native Americans and it was much more of a warrior, aboriginal-type existence, and... we had the Pagans. They were into sex, death, and religion in an interesting night-time telly type of way. And we had the Druids! Long white robes, long white beards, early transvestites, didn't get their shaving together; and they built Stonehenge, one of the biggest henges in the world. No one's built a henge like that ever since. No one knows what the fuck a henge is! Before Stonehenge, there was Woodhenge and Strawhenge, but a big bad wolf came and blew them down, and three little piggies were relocated to the projects.

But they built Stonehenge, and it's built in an area called Salisbury Plain in the South of England. The area of Salisbury Plain where they built it is very ( eerie chanting ), ‘cause that's good, you know. It's a mystical thing; build it in a mystical area. You don't want to build it in an area that's ( singing upbeat jazzy tune ). No, there you build Trump Tower. But yeah, so they built it there. And the stones! The stones are 50 foot high, 30 foot long, 20 foot deep, and other measurements as well! And they’re not from ‘round there, that's the amazing thing! Remember, this is B.C. ( mumbles). This was before the B.C./A.D. changeover, when everyone was going, “Is it A.D. yet?” ( mimes adjusting watch ) You didn't have to wind your watch back, you had to get a new bloody watch! “Oh, it’s A.D., isn’t it? Fucking ‘ell!” And the Muslim people going, "A.D? Who's he?" Yes. ( hearty laugh from audience member ) Good laugh there!

So, yeah, the stones are from 200 miles away, in Wales, so these guys in Wales were obviously carving the rocks out of the very living mountain... "Fantastic, building a henge, are we? That's a fantastic idea! That's a marvelous religion the Druids have got! Yes, got a lot of white clothing, I like that. There we go!" And they smashed out a huge stone and then they put tree trunks down to roll it along on.

"All right, walk it along, here we go, here we go."

"Help you push 'em along? It's not far, is it?"

And the Druids going,

"Heave, everyone, heave! Well done, everyone, you're doing very well! You'll love it when you see it. I've seen some of the drawings already, it's very special."

After 200 miles…

"You fucking bastards! You never told us 200 miles! 200 miles in this day and age - I don't even know where I live now! ( sighs ) I wish the Christians would hurry up and get here!"

And they set all the stones up and the Druids still there tinkering around going,

"No, that stone and this one - can we swap them around?"

So that was the Pagans.

And then the Romans came along with their gods that they had borrowed from the Greeks. They invaded Greece, conquered them and stole all their gods... and renamed them with Roman names, ‘cause the Roman gods before that were kind of crap, you know - Geoff, the god of biscuits, and Simon, the god of hairdos… You know, they had the God of War, the God of Thunder, the God of Running Around and Jumping, and stuff. "Oh, let's get some of those! Thank God they've got some gods, ‘cause we have these crap gods, you know?"

Yes, the Emperor Fabulous put that into operation and... There should have been an Emperor Fabulous, shouldn't there?

"I am the Emperor Fabulous!"

"Oh, yes, so you are."

"Yes. And my son, Fabulous II, and him… really interesting guy... “

So yeah, and the Romans went Christian and then we had Christianity for about 1500 years. You know, Catholicism, we believed in the teachings of Cathol, and everything it stood for... Then Henry VIII came along. Henry VIII, a big, hairy king, and he said to the Pope, the head of the Catholic Church:

"Mr. Pope! I'm going to marry my first wife, and then I'm going to divorce her. Now, I know what you're going to say but stick with me, my story gets better. I'm going to marry my second wife and then I'm gong to kill her, cut her head off! Ah, not expecting that, are ya? Third wife, gonna shoot her. Fourth wife, put her into a bag. Fifth wife, into outer space. Sixth wife, on a Rotissimat. Seventh wife, make her into jam. Eighth wife…” ( makes sound similar to putting babies on spikes )

And the Pope's going,

( Italian accent )"You crazy bugger! You can't do all this! What are you, a Mormon? You can't marry all these people! It's illegal! You can't do all this! I am the Pope, I am the head of the Church, I have to keep up… ciao! I have to keep up standards. What have you been reading, the gospel according to St. Bastard?"

So Henry VIII, who was Sean Connery for this film, said:

( imitating Sean Connery ) "Well then, I will set up a new religion in this country. I will set up the Psychotic Bastard religion."

And an advisor said,

"Why not call it Church of England, Sire?"

"Church of England, actually. Much better... Even though I’m Scottish myself."

So they did! That's the birth of Church of England, the birth of the Anglican Church! Disgusting, eh? That's no basis to start a religion on! Nothing to do with the Protestant church, I mean, Henry just shagged and killed a lot of women and then stole all the money off the monasteries. You know, rape and pillage, that is!

The Protestant faith was different. That started probably around a similar time, but that was about Martin Luther, this German guy who pinned a note on a church door saying, " 'ang on a minute!" But in German, so, "Ein Minuten, bitte. Ich habe einen kleinen Problemo avec diese Religione." He was from everywhere. So yeah and so the Protestant faith was sort of tacked on by Queen Elizabeth I a bit later. "Oh, principles! Thank God! We've got some principles." Nowadays, Church of England is much more, "Hello, how are you?" Much more a hobby-type... "Hello!" A lot of people in Church of England have no muscles in their arms. "Hello, yes... ( chuckles ) Yes, that's what I thought. ( chuckles ) Do come in, you're the only one today! Now the sermon today is taken from a magazine that I found in a hedge. Now lipstick colors this season are in the frosted pink area and nail colors to match... And this reminds me rather of our Lord Jesus! Because surely, when Jesus went into Nazareth on a donkey, he must have got tarted up a bit…”

I Am the Walrus Dog

2006-03-07T23:18:00.000-08:00

And that is sad. I need to pray more.

2006-03-04T00:53:00.000-08:00

Paul McCartney and wife are in Canada this week to protest the hunting of seals. I'm not sure why pop singers think they can come along and tell a country - not even their own country - what its laws should be, but Bono tried it in the fall, too, with some other forgettable agenda. Luckily for us Province readers, we have Murphy as a guiding light of reason and humour:

Update

2006-03-03T23:31:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged in a while, and since I know you're all dying to hear what I've been up to, here's a quick run-down.
-The Saskatchewan job fell through. Contrary to anything written in the job advert, what they were seeking was a journalist, not an editor. They have computers do their editing.
-The law firm receptionist/admin job ended this past Tuesday. It went very well, apart from the day when I lost my voice to the head cold and could only communicate by tiny whispers and all the clients whispered too like we were in a funeral chapel with an open coffin and a weeping widow. After my job in California last year, I thought I hated law firms; turns out I just hated that law firm. People were nice at this one, didn't breathe down my neck every single moment of the day, and even had a sense of humour. Gordon (the lawyer) and I hit it off; he's brilliant and eccentric and reminds me a lot of a chain smoker I knew in college, only about forty years older. He had me bring in my resume on my last day and hinted at possibly hiring me and training for a legal secretary, so who knows. It's not exactly what I've always wanted to do, but then nothing I've ever really wanted to do has been practical, and a girl needs to eat, right? In the meantime, I have a chance at a job near home with good pay, and am keeping fingers crossed. Well not really, what kind of idiot actually crosses her fingers, but you know, metaphorically. Have also applied for a one-month job as an accounting assistant in Banff, simply because it has got to be one of the most beautiful places on earth, and working there/living in employee quarters for $240/month is the only way I can possibly afford to explore it.
-My hair is now shorter than it has been since I was in diapers. Little brother said it looks like a boy, but I say he acts like a girl and at least my hair will grow out of it. Anway it doesn't look like a boy's cut, it's very nice and feminine and I specified to the girl that I didn't want it dyke-short (then hoped like mad that she wasn't gay, because then I'd be in trouble).
-I've been taking a Photoshop class, which has been fun, especially the night I made a duck disappear and gave a pimply teenager clear skin. The only problem with the class is that our large-lipped and spineless instructor Mr. Mann (no joke) has fallen prey to the snares of one of the other students, a gorgeous artist with pink hair which I covet. The pink hair, I mean, not the artist or Mr. Mann. Whenever I try to ask a question, he doesn't hear or notice it because he's too busy hovering around Vanessa and her pictures of her artwork. Incidentally, her most famous artwork, "Seasons," is a series of busts of, well, busts, illustrating the passage of a female from girlhood to adulthood to breast-cancerhood to breast-cancer-survivalhood. Vanessa is a breast cancer survivor who started a group called "The Young and the Breastless", which is, also incidentally, what my similarly-built friend-since-we-were-babies Monique and I used to joke years ago that we would call a soap opera of our lives. That, or "The Bald and the Beautiful," when Monique's hair was falling out in chunks after her visit to Mexico. Anyhoo.
-Mom wants "The Last Rose of Summer" played at her funeral, and five calla lilies on her coffin. This is what my parents talk about on Friday nights, and is why going to the mall with T this evening was such a good idea.

"I Am the Bottom of the Barrel...

2006-03-03T23:05:00.000-08:00

and I have been scraped," said the little voice in my head Sunday morning after *****-who-has-gone-to-my-parish-forever coerced me into brunch with him sometime. I was too exhausted from battling my cold, the depressing sermon, and a mild form of dysentery to think up a clever way out, dammit.
This is a classic case of Catholic Small-Parish Affection-Starved 30-Something NGB Asking Out Scary Flat-Chested Girl In Whom He Is Not Actually Interested, In Vague Desperate Hope That He Will Possibly At Some Point In The Future Get Some Action.
This is also known as Barking Up The Wrong Tree.

Seen and Heard

2006-02-16T23:09:00.000-08:00

I found this little gem of common sense while searching online for nice gifts for friends' baby showers:
BLUE BRIGHT STRIPED PATCHWORK NURSERY BEDDING
Bright multicolor stripes veer this way and that inside patchwork squares. The stripes are yarn-dyed for lasting color and the quilt’s edges are embroidered with decorative stitching. Reverses to solid blue chambray. 100% cotton; bumper has polyester fill. Machine wash. Imported.
Quilts and pillows are not for use with sleeping infants; see Crib Safety Tips.
One might, if one was feeling very very daring, ask What the Frink a Quilt Is For, Then?

Also, a joke from one of my firm's clients:
Q: What do you call a black man flying a plane?
A: A Pilot. What are you, racist?

I Forgot to Add,

2006-02-11T23:14:00.000-08:00

...and then it cleared up. The mighty Nicomekl returned to her banks,

and the mountains returned to their proper places on the horizon.

B.C. is so much prettier in the sun.

On the Weather, Because You Care

2006-02-11T22:35:00.000-08:00

After 489,354,716.2 days (alright, I exaggerate), it has finally ceased raining. Thank You God. The weather went out with a bang, then a little whimper (just three more days of gentle rain), and it has been sunny for THREE DAYS NOW. The bang was the storm we had last weekend, starting Friday night, knocking out power to the area (except for our lot - we have a generator, because of the greenhouses) until Sunday morning. Lightning, thunder, cloudbursts, raging winds, sizeable chunks of tree lying across the road, the whole deal. I love storms, so it was a good weekend.

Dad, despite absence of antidepressants, cracks a smile in anticipation of laying waste to fallen piece of nature, while Mom prepares to assume fetal position.

You can't photograph the wind, but you can try to capture what it's doing.

Little brother found these two barrels with !!!HYDROGEN PEROXIDE!!! WILL EAT YOUR FLESH!!! labels on them in the ditch. My first thought was (we live in Surrey, after all) OhMyGoshTheNeighboursHaveAMethLab and I was all set to call the cops on them, when Dad came along and told me we use the stuff in the greenhouses. Oopsy.

Dignity Restored

2006-02-03T23:41:00.000-08:00

I start work Monday at a law firm. It's only a temp job, but it pays a decent wage and will last me through February. Also sent out application for editor job and hope to hear back about that soon. If God really wants to show how much He loves me, temping at the law firm will last long enough and give me just enough $ to pay for the move and deposit on an apartment out on the prairie.

Mood: sort of "Yay!"

Prayer request

2006-02-02T22:43:00.000-08:00

As all of you know, I've been battling the dark demons of unemployment for some time now. There is light at the end of the tunnel, though; tomorrow I'm applying for the job of my dreams, and I'd appreciate any prayers sent my way. A small-town newspaper in Saskatchewan is looking for an editor, and I think they should hire me. Now don't laugh - I do have substantial English skills, however poorly I may demonstrate them in this blog, and I've been trying to get work in the editing field for some time now, so I'm really excited about this prospect. As it is a small weekly newspaper, I'd probably get to take part in all facets of production, which would make for great experience as well as more variety in my work. Also, housing prices in SK are a third or less of the prices here in the Lower Mainland, which means I'd actually be able to live on my own without selling soul or body to pay rent.
I'm getting my hopes up way too high already, I know, but - or rather, therefore - please pray for me.
Thanks much. -Mel

Rain, rain, go away...

2006-02-02T22:36:00.000-08:00

It rained again today, as it has every day but two or three since the beginning of December. Here's an excerpt from the morning paper on the subject:

"Today is Groundhog Day, and its de-facto commander in chief, Punxsutawney Phil, will be popping out of his hole. If he sees his shadow, he'll disappear again to duck six more weeks of winter. No shadow and he'll amble out for an early spring.
If Phil lived in the Lower Mainland, there'd be a third option. After making his entrance into the sodden season we've been enduring, he'd just shoot himself."

At least the bureaucrats probably won't ban lawn-watering this summer.

For a Laugh - Video Clips

2006-02-02T22:31:00.000-08:00

Brokeback to the Future:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfODSPIYwpQ

(For the following two, please ignore links on the sidebars)

Speak English?
http://www.break.com/index/speakenglish.html

Subtitles
http://my.break.com/Content/ViewContentPublic.aspx?ContentID=Yc6TabU0VEY%2bIfBA0Qsk9Q%3d%3d&ContentTitle=Iraqi+Terrorists+Interviewed&ContentURL=http%3a%2f%2fmedia1.break.com%2fdnet%2fmedia%2fcontent%2firaqnews.wmv

Music

2006-01-31T21:56:00.000-08:00

Flipping through a girl's CD collection is like reading her diary. Music tells much more than is written in the lyrics.

Irritating.

2006-01-31T21:26:00.000-08:00

My oldest brother has this great habit. He likes to say, "No offense, but [insert highly offensive phrase here]." "No offense, but the Catholic Church is stupid and all priests are child abusers." "No offense, Mom, but this soup [that you spent hours making for Christmas dinner] sucks." Do people really think that saying "no offense" makes what follows inoffensive? That this little clause instantly voids the rules of politeness and charity? That it's a free ticket to say whatever you want, no matter how hurtful, because hey, you said "no offense" first? Sheesh. Next time he bashes Catholics, instead of vaguely protesting while trying not to tick off anti-Catholic Dad, maybe I'll ask him what Pastor Bob says about certain of his life choices. "No offense, E, but does being Evangelical mean you get to pick and choose which bits of Christ's teachings you want to follow?" "No offense, E, but it's patently obvious that the only reason you're the sole white male parishioner of the Chinese Evangelical Church of Canada is that you dig Asian girls." "No offense, E, but smuggling guns across the border in Mom and Dad's van and selling them to drug dealers was stupid and wrong." This could be fun. Bitchy, but fun. On the other hand, he gave me $5 in a red-and-gold envelope for Kung Hei Fat Choy, so maybe I should hold off. And as Wavelet says, don't feed the monsters. Good advice.

Addendum to beer story

2006-01-31T21:10:00.000-08:00

Just to clarify, I realize that buying beer and not sharing is a selfish thing to do. However, the reason I was so depressed in the first place is because I was so sick of being broke and unemployed and living off my parents. I've always been pretty independent; had my own bank account from the age of five, because when I was a kid we worked whether we wanted to or not, but at least Dad paid us. From the age of nine we paid half for any furniture for our bedrooms, and from thirteen on we paid for all our own clothing. I turned fourteen in boarding school, and only called home once every month or three. My parents contributed to my first year of college but that is all. Last year, on a pretty crummy wage, I paid rent on a house shared four ways, bought my own food, bought my own car, made student loan payments, and paid for any flights home. And I was happy. So last week, all I wanted was MY OWN six-pack, paid for with MY OWN MONEY, to enjoy BY MYSELF once in a while when I needed a drink. And that is why I wanted to wring little brother's neck. A fourteen-year-old should know better, even one so infantile it sometimes surprises me that he eats oatmeal in the mornings instead of breastfeeding. The kid ties his shoelaces with the bunny-and-loop method, by gosh.
To sum up: yes I am selfish sometimes; M****l is a huge baby and needs to go to military school; being dependent at 25 sucks; and I am not an alcoholic, I was exaggerating because exaggeration makes for a better story.

2006-01-25T22:07:00.000-08:00

The perfect way to end a really s****y day is to, step one, spend some of your very few last dollars on a six-pack of beer, and instruct your younger brother in the importance of not telling everyone you bought it. Then - step two - when Mom returns home, have him tell her that you bought beer and didn't want him to tell anyone. Great. Step three; as they sit drinking my beer, my parents are discussing what to do about their unemployed, selfish, alcoholic failure of a daughter.

That's it. I'm stealing the family nissan and moving to Calgary.

Window on the Storm

2006-01-25T13:43:00.000-08:00

One of the reasons I want to live in Quebec City.

2006-01-23T22:54:00.000-08:00

OUR NEW PRIME MINISTER

(Cute baby. But Mr. Harper has a very nice face too.)

Stephen Harper just gave THE BEST speech I have ever heard. The man spoke clearly, simply, thoughtfully, and genuinely. If he accomplishes a quarter of what he hopes to, he will have been the best thing ever to happen to Canada.
Never before have I been so proud of my country.

(If I can find a copy of his speech online tomorrow, I'm putting it up on this blog. Not that any of you, my American readers, will care. You probably didn't even know we were having elections today. I'm STILL going to post it.)

Election Night in Canada

2006-01-23T21:09:00.000-08:00

The voting stations are closed, and while some ridings are still sending in their results, it looks to be a minority Conservative government. This is good. What would have been better is a majority Conservative government, but one reporter's on-air questioning of Harper on his abortion views (he's pro-life, as well as anti-gay-marriage) a week ago drove away a large chunk of the female vote.
This has been the most exciting election campaign season that I can remember, and for a variety of reasons: a candidate I really like for once; the fact that he had a very good chance of winning; the Liberals' ridiculous and pathetic campaign, which consisted almost entirely of trying to scare people off Harper; and that nice young reporter Ben O'Hara-Byrne, who I think is hott. (I don't know what his political views are, but he has really good lips. They look like Scarlett Johansson's lips, but manly.)
The fallen Liberals are giving their farewell speeches right now. I don't care too much what Paul Martin says, as long as he's out. Catholic, my ass; a Catholic doesn't push abortion and gay marriage rights.
Speaking of gay, that good-looking, prayer-in-schools-banning Svend Robinson lost his Vancouver riding tonight. He gave a gracious little speech moments ago that went something like this: "Thank you. [Wild clapping and cheering.] Mm-hmm. Thank you. [Wild clapping and cheering.] Mm-hmm. Thank you. [Wild clapping and cheering.] Mm-hmm. I want to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart (which is located somewhere near my bum). Mm-hmm. [Wild clapping and cheering] Thank you." Pity he got caught stealing a $21,500 ring for his boyfriend last year, he might have won without that little incident. At least the bf (hey, those initials just struck me as funny for a whole new reason) knows Svenny loves him. Sorry. I don't hate gay people per se, just this guy - and mostly for his accidenses.
So, to sum up: Conservatives sort of in at 124 seats in Parliament; Liberals mostly out at 103; NDPers firmly entrenched in the background with 29; Bloc Quebecois swept Quebec as usual, winning 51; and one seat goes to Other, whoever they are. (I think the Rhino Party dissolved a few years back when the Red River flooded and the leader guy had to flee his house with little more than his famous sombrero and skateboard. Cannabis Party probably forgot to campaign. Green Party, maybe, or just some independents.)
Ah, Canada, how I do love thee.
Right. Back to Ben's commentary. You know, he doesn't really love his girlfriend, he's only living with her...

Hooray for Pro-Life!

2006-01-23T00:03:00.000-08:00

The doctor who writes a weekly column in The Province, the most widely read Vancouver newspaper, wrote today's article on his pro-life views. I cannot express how heartening it was to read this, and to know that the liberal press actually printed it:

"When I Was a Fetus, I Loved Dill Pickle Ice Cream"
I recently attended a conference of the Canadian Physicians for Life because... well, I'm Canadian, I enjoy Life and I play a Physician on Thursdays between 9 and 11.
I was impressed with the dignity, concern and thoughfulness that was evident at the conference, at least prior to my arrival.
For some doctors, the issue of abortion is simple. Their response to this ethical dilemma is to send every girl who believes she wants an abortion to the local abortionist and let them work it out. Easy case. Others wrestle with each case individually and set up a counselling process. Others still are uncomfortable being involved in the abortion process for any reason other than the most dire. It is in that latter pool that I have come to swim and possibly drown.
Given the back and forth from assorted lobby groups, it may be difficult to develop an informed opinion on this sensitive issue but, given the unexpectedness with which your opinion may be required, it is important that you form your own opinion and that it be exactly the same as mine.
Q: Shouldn't, as Morgentaler says, every child be a wanted child?
A: Every child is wanted. Every pregnancy is not. Thousands of couples spend thousands of dollars to adopt thousands of children from East Yaopingyanski. Doctors constantly receive requests from those who would love the opportunity to raise a child. Every child is wanted... by someone.
Q: What about a woman's right to do with her body as she pleases?
A: It is against the law for a woman to try to sell her body or do certain things to or with it. But a growing fetus is, in fact, not her body. It has its own distinct DNA, it has its own genomic character. An appendix or a toenail is part of our body but a fetus is a distinct society. My mother likes rutabaga and tofu but as a young fetus (don't we all miss those halcyon days) I rejected that stuff being rammed through my belly button and made it known I needed dill pickle ice cream and peanut buster parfaits with ketchup. We were and are different, genomically and gastronomically speaking.
Q: But a fetus is not a fully developed human being.
A: Fetus is Latin for "young child." After 12 weeks, nothing new develops in a fetus. It has everything in place; from there it simply matures. Two-year-olds are no less human beings than the more developed five-year-olds. They are just meaner.
Q: But being pregnant can be an inconvenience that causes stretch marks, and personally I just spent thousands of dollars for breast implants so it isn't a good time for me to...
A: Listen, Q, I remember you before implants, when you were just a little q. You were OK, er... ok. But yes, this is among the many reasons we hear why a woman wants an abortion.
Q: What is a partial birth abortion? Is this for real?
A: I would suggest that if you want to know how you really feel about abortion, go to any website that describes partial birth abortion. If that doesn't put goosebumps on your goosebumps, then nothing in this column will make any difference to you.
As many doctors wrestle with our stewardship to the expectant mother, I can't help but be concerned with the lack of concern for the unborn child that has too often turned an ethical decision into a mere gynecological inconvenience. What's the answer? I don't know - but I suspect it must involve dill pickle ice cream.

Travel Bug

2006-01-19T00:23:00.000-08:00

Tonight I set fare watchers on Travelocity for anything flying out of YVR to Los Angeles, Burbank, Nashville, and Geneva. Keeping fingers crossed for ridiculously low fare to Geneva, because someday I going to spend a week here. In the summer or autumn, or maybe spring...

Other places to be: here, because I dig lighthouses and big rocks; here, where you can have dinner with people carrying on one conversation in four languages (Italian, German, French, and English), be introduced to grappa (vile, but potent), and stand on a turret - the real deal, with crenellations and a trapdoor - at midnight; here, because Dinkel Acker is great and they serve you half a chicken and warm rolls with it, and every fourth song is "Wahnsinn" and you have to stand up on your bench and sing along to it and raise your krug of beer at the chorus, and everyone loves everyone else; here - second and third photos from the top - because last time I was there I was too broke for the 30 kroner to actually go inside the church, and anyway I've always wanted to see if I'd like Denmark better without having 4 bickering family members, one (little brother) constipated, along; and here (story here, more photos here) because it's just so odd and... cool.

I temped at Master Machinists the last two days, and am therefore well on my way to attaining the affluence requisite for extensive travel. Will send you postcards.

More photos

2006-01-15T23:18:00.000-08:00

In the same 2-hour rainless break yesterday, I went on a little jaunt around the back roads to photograph some old houses and barns I'd noticed recently.

I love how this one is slowly-but-surely being reclaimed by nature. To dust you shall return...

This is my dream house. I have never been inside, but am sure it has old, amber-toned hardwood floors, a goodly fireplace, cozy attic rooms, and an inconvenient-but-charming kitchen. When it is mine, I will plant magnolia and Japanese cherry trees in the yard. Photo is slightly askew because I took it while driving and the guy behind me wasn't keen on waiting.

I was fascinated by the toll time and gravity were taking on the front of this barn...

Il Pleut.

2006-01-15T23:12:00.000-08:00

It has rained every day for the last 28 days. (Photo of the mighty Nicomekl River taken yesterday in 2-hour sunny gap before raining resumed.) The river is supposed to run between those trees and the berm-like banks to the left, and should be some several feet lower.

2006-01-15T18:25:00.000-08:00

Call Me Martha. Or, Shameless Self-Promotion.

2006-01-14T23:38:00.000-08:00

I cleaned my room, finally, and a clean room deserves flowers. However, it is winter in Canada and everything in the garden is dormant and/or dead. Solution: (smaller, cuter vase shown here; larger specimen on desk) lichen-coated magnolia branches with shiny fuzzy bud-things, thin weepy twigs off unidentified weepy tree, and, for colour, rose hips. I think it looks pretty.

Also: just because they're burned CDs, doesn't mean they have to have boring covers: (sneak preview for Draj)

I'm so artistic - that, or bored - I kind of amaze myself sometimes. The music's even better than the covers, though. I think you'll like them, Drajykins.

You Freak.

2006-01-13T17:36:00.000-08:00

Alrighty. Portia tagged me to list five weird habits, ones that make me a Highly Eccentric Person. Like Miss Bates in Emma, I'm tempted to say that the difficulty lies in limiting to so few, but here goes:
1) Fear of appearing partially clad in public. Every single morning in college, as I walked out of my dorm, I'd take two or three steps before pausing to do a little check. The check went like this: (applying quick pat to upper thighs, then lower rib area) "Skirt - shirt - OhThankGod!", after performance of which I could go on my merry way in peace of mind. I couldn't help it. I knew I'd gotten dressed, but had to check anyway. This probably stems from a nightmare of sitting through class naked or something, but other than that I really can't explain it.
2) I constantly play with words in my head. I have done this as long as I have been able to read, which is about 20 years now. Some random word will get stuck in my head and will spend the next several hours being absentmindedly taken apart, rearranged into other words, having its letters put into alphabetical order and/or given numerical values which are in turn played with every way possible, and finally put back together and dismissed in favour of new word-food. This happens every single day. Again - pointless, inexplicable habit, whose only merit thus far has been to give me a bit of an edge at Scrabble. Portia. Port. Pair. Rip. Tarp. Airport. AIOPRT, TRPOIA. 79. 16. 7...
3) I have difficulty saying my own name without stuttering, and therefore dread being asked. Seriously. I'll try to say it clearly when meeting someone new, or leaving a phone message, but all the five syllables run together and trip over each other and end up sounding like some sort of minor verbal seizure. If I do manage to say it clearly, it sounds like I'm not used to saying it (true) and am probably making it up.
4) Bellybuttons, navels, what you will, horrify me. They are so nasty. My biggest fear concerning future possible pregnancy is caused by the knowledge that most women's navels pop outwards in the later stages of pregnancy, and I don't think I could handle that. Ergh. Getting gag reflex just typing this.
5) For lack of better nomenclature, Need for sensory symmetry. If my left knee itches and I scratch it, I have to scratch my right knee in the corresponding spot as well. If I flex my right wrist, I have to flex my left. If I whack my right shin into the couch and rub it to ease the pain, I have to rub the left one too, even though it doesn't hurt. I can control this impulse if I really try, but it's like trying not to yawn during the rosary when the person two spots down has just yawned.

So. Wondering if I should be embarrassed, but realizing that most of us are secretly proud of our little quirks, so what the hey. Scrabble, anyone?

Tagging: Jedno, Nomikkh, and Wavelet. (Woo-hoo! I just learned how to link!)

There there

2006-01-05T19:30:00.000-08:00

I am such a Canadian. Our hockey team just beat the Russians 5-0 for the gold medal in the final game of the world junior championships - and in the tradition of the most apologetic country in the world, I felt so bad about our beating them so completely, that I spent the last 5 minutes of the game praying that the Russians would score at least one goal to soften the blow. I mean, the poor boys were sobbing after the horn blew...

Fun and Games

2006-01-02T21:21:00.000-08:00

We have a family friend who, for certain good reasons, is raising her nine children on her own. I've got to say the woman is doing an amazing job; the children are as good as they are beautiful, and they're really beautiful. Anyway, since every mom needs an evening to herself sometimes, and the four older ones were gone to ski camp for a few days, she readily accepted our offer to have the five youngest come to our house one afternoon and sleep over. It was a lot of fun: Emma, the youngest at 4, is a dark-eyed and fearless little thing who asks a lot of questions; the smile on Brendan's face when his mother talked to him on the phone almost made me cry; Michael trotted around radiating Irish benevolence; Bernadette found fun wherever she went; and Jane looked angelic and played piano but loosened up enough to giggle at the funny parts in the movie.

We had some great conversations with Emma:
1.
Emma: What are you drinking?
Mom: Beer.
Emma: I like beer.
Mom: Oh. Would you like some?
Emma: Yes, please.
Mom poured an inch into a glass and handed it to the child, who drank it down without batting an eye.
Emma: That was good. What kind of beer is that?
Mom: Rickard's Red. What kind of beer do you usually drink?
Emma: Guinness beer. But that was very good too.
2.
Emma: There's kissing in that movie.
Me: There is?
Emma: Yes. (Pauses) If you get married, you have to kiss like that.
Me: Yes, I suppose you do.
Emma: Are you married?
Me: Me? No, I'm not.
Emma: Oh. You should marry Jason. (She points)
Me: Um, his name is Robin, not Jason, and he's my brother.
Emma: Ewww!
Me: Yeah tell me about it.
3.
Emma: Can you show me your room?
Me: I'd rather not, Emma, it's quite a mess.
Emma. Please?
Me: No. It's so messy, it's embarrassing. I hope your room isn't that messy.
Emma: (Grabs my hand and heads for the stairs) Show me anyway.
Me: This is it.
Emma: It's not very messy. (Pauses) Guess what? I have pig pajamas. Do you want to see?
Me: Sure. Show me your pig pajamas.
4.
Emma: (to Maria, Robin's girlfriend) Why do you want to marry this guy?
Maria: (laughs, doesn't answer)
Robin: We're not getting into that right now.
5.
Emma: Shooting the can is fun!
Robin: Yeah. Hold the pelletgun higher, Emma.
Emma: What are those things on the pond?
Robin: Those are the ducks.
Emma: Can we shoot the ducks?

The kids were also lots of fun to photograph:

Clockwise from left: Michael, Brendan, and Emma

Brendan shoots, and I cut off Robin's head:

Emma swings :

Emma does photography:

Emma swings again:

Brendan swings:

Final Fantasy

2006-01-02T20:53:00.000-08:00

8) It is a sunny California day and I am sitting on the trunk of the old red Stangster, which is parked at the end of a road which meets the beach. In my hand is a hot In N Out burger (double-double, skip the onions and tomato, add ketchup), and resting on the trunk lid at my side are a tray of crispy fries, a couple of paper napkins, and cool glass of water leaving a dark ring on the otherwise faded paint. A light wind blows, the ocean sparkles, and I enjoy my meal.
Goodness how I miss those times. And what I wouldn't do for an In N Out burger right now...

Dec. 31 [Edited version]

2005-12-31T20:04:00.000-08:00

I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, folks. I've made one resolution, but it's more of a rest-of-my-life thing, and I made it about 3 weeks ago. It is, "I am never getting married." This is not a cry of despair, folks; this is a conscious decision spurred on by observation of husbands and wives of my acquaintance, these observations leading to the mental remark, "I am neverthef*** getting married." It is quite possible that I will change my mind at some point, but for the moment, Hell No.
So instead of listing off a lot of New Year's Resolutions that I would, as with last year's, break from the get-go, I am going to type up a list of things I fantasize about.
Here goes:
1) Getting in a car (one that runs well) and driving away, not to return for months and months. As it is winter right now, I would first explore the warmer regions of this great continent, stopping at such places as Salt Lake City and some of the farther-out cities of Utah; Tombstone, AZ; the Carlsbad Caverns; and let's not forget a stay at the Amargosa Opera House and Hotel near Death Valley. Once warmer weather set in, I would head northeast to see New England, the countryside of New York, do a little hiking in the Adirondacks, and cross the line again to visit Gaspe, Quebec, and all the northeastern provinces. This fantasy also involves the possession of sufficient funds for such a jaunt.
2) [Bitter rant deleted]
3) Having my very own cozy little house where I can sleep and read and play music and cook whatever I want to and People Will Leave Me Alone.
4) Curing my 14-year-old brother of babytalk. That is, making him change from "Dis is what faver said about de fing wif de cafflicks" to This is what Father said..." You get the idea. Gosh it's annoying. You're fourteen, for f***'s sake!!!
5) [Bitter rant deleted]
6) Not being such a morose b****. Instead, having a sunny (but not vapid, folks, vapid is right out) disposition, an increase in personal practice of virtue of charity, a job I like, losing the potty mouth, and having enough money to have my own car, make my student loan payments, move out of the house, and occasionally buy a pair of shoes from a store that is not called PayLess.
7) World Peace.

Alrighty. Mom is summoning me to go watch little bro and Dad play chess. We are having a rocking NY's celebration tonight, I can tell you...

Will probably delete this tomorrow.
Good night!

Another Craigslist Gem: New Year's Resolution

2005-12-27T00:12:00.000-08:00

new year's resolutions for the single straight male diner - m4w - 42
Reply to: anon-119961951@craigslist.orgDate: Thu Dec 22 11:35:30 2005Hi. I'm a middle-aged guy who regularly comes into where you work and eats (or drinks coffee) alone. Usually I'll also be reading the paper or working on my computer. As you may have noticed, there are THOUSANDS of me out here. As you've also noticed, we all really want you to like us, because you're pretty and nice and (usually) younger than we are by at least a decade. More often than not, you're also good at your job, so we know intellectually that your niceness is probably more professional than personal. But on some level we desperately want to believe that there's something more going on, that you secretly find us fascinating and attractive and would love to get to know us better. Maybe you do. I'm a nice guy, I have all my hair, I listen to some of the same bands you do, and it's not completely absurd to think that if we were thrown together by circumstance -- a sudden thunderstorm, say, or a terrorist attack -- we would find that we have much in common, and maybe even fall rapturously in love. Anything's possible. And. Yet. Because I respect you and like you, and because I respect and like myself, I have made the following New Year's resolutions, which I invite my fellow middle-aged single straight male diners to join me in observing: 1) I won't expect you to remember my name, my usual order, or my personal history. If you do, that's great, but I will always be aware that you see hundreds of people every day and that I am only one of them. If I see you outside of where you work, I won't assume that you recognize me. 2) I won't use your name except to greet you or get your attention, and I will never use it in conversation with other people to make it sound like I know you better than I do. 3) I won't tell you long stories or indulge in self-serving monologues while you have other customers or prepwork to attend to. 4) I will always tip at least 20 percent, and more if I'm taking up a whole four-top during a rush. 5) I will not make any comments, however complimentary, about your body or your face. I will allow myself to compliment you on beautiful or unusual jewelry or tattoos, or on your hair IF I'm a regular and you have recently changed it in a particularly noticeable way. If I have questions or comments about what's on your T-shirt, I will address them to you while looking directly into your eyes. Having established what's on the shirt, I will not let my gaze linger on it further. 6) I will NEVER, EVER ask you out while you're working. I assume that if you're really interested in me, you'll figure out a way to let me know. But I can leave and you can't, so as far as I'm concerned, you've got the ball. 7) I won't bring you gifts unless we have together clearly created a context for this through many previous conversations, and even then the gift will not be embarrassingly valuable. (E.g., I might bring you a snowglobe from Branson, Missouri, if Branson has become a running joke between us over the course of several weeks or months.) 8) If I do bring you such a gift, I will not read acceptance of said gift as proof that you are harboring deeper feelings for me. 9) I will ask you how you're doing and I will listen to the answer. I will never ask, "Are you in a bad mood?" 10) I won't sit over my third coffee/beer/flan and make sad eyes at you while you're trying to work. 11) I will reserve the right to treasure, deep in the darkest recesses of my ravaged heart, the incandescent possibility that someday we will share a sleeping car on the Orient Express as part of our yearlong trip around the world. But I will never inflict this dazzling vision on you without explicit permission. It's the least I can do for you. You rock. So, guys: Are you with me? Let's make 2006 the best year for interactions between cute waitresses and single straight middle-aged dudes EVER! Full of eggs and wist, A Regular
this is in or around the counter at magnolia, but really anywhere
no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

R.I.P. 1989 - 2005

2005-12-13T18:44:00.000-08:00

I would like to ask for a moment of silence, please, in memory of Stangster the Ghettobile, who has passed on. A difficult friend s/he was, but my friend all the same, one whom I loved in spite of his/her faults and foibles, in spite of faded paint and jimmied locks, in spite of those unfortunate breakdowns on the 405 in rush-hour traffic, in spite of oil stains on driveways, in spite of flat tires, in spite of - or rather because of - being by far the ugliest car in the law firm's parking lot, and most other parking lots, for that matter. Stangster was a very special car, was my first car, and, to date, my only car. His/her life ended this past Thanksgiving with a sudden and no doubt exhilarating plunge off a cliff along a scenic California highway, a plunge in which Stangster gave his/her life in protection of the five passengers, all of whom survived without injury.
Stangster - thank you. Wish I could have been there for you, buddy. We had our good times and our bad times, but I will always remember you fondly.
Sincerely,
Mel.

The Lord Will Provide

2005-12-11T00:06:00.000-08:00

I went to confession this morning and, after listing off all the usual offences, finally admitted to the old priest that my prayer life went the way of horse-drawn carriages this past June and hadn't come back. That all I do now is go to Sunday Mass, I don't pray, I don't want to pray, and I think I'm mad at God. He muttered something about the importance of regular morning and evening prayer then suddenly sprang up from his chair, dashed out of the room, and returned a minute later with a red vinyl-bound copy of the Liturgy of the Hours. For me. To use. To keep. We talked a little longer, then he named my penance, gave me absolution, and sent me on my shriven way.
In the quiet of the chapel I knelt to say the prescribed Our Father and Hail Mary, and then, since there's no time like the present, I opened the Hours and began to read. Saturday, Week II, Morning Prayer:
Let us listen to the voice of God; let us enter into His rest...
God, come to my assistance...
Lord, guide our feet into the way of peace.
I felt something then, while I sat reading in the chapel. Something I hadn't felt in what seems a very, very long time. Something I'd missed terribly but not been able to pinpoint until that moment.
Peace.

More Photos

2005-12-02T20:54:00.000-08:00

I can't help myself. This snow thing is just so damn cool...

Neighbours' picturesque pond.

The reason I couldn't go to "Accessing the Hidden Job Market" this morning - the front of that thing's hanging over the creek, the back end's stuck in sombody's field, and ours is dead-end street. They towed it two hours later.

Tree by neighbours' picturesque pond.

Cottonwood branches seen from below.

Morning sun over our property.

Beauty

2005-12-01T22:35:00.000-08:00

It snowed again today, making the view from the computer-room window so pretty I had to run out there with the camera when I noticed it ten minutes ago. These photos are of some branches on our tulip tree, taken from the underside:

Nice, eh?

More about Jack and Loretta

2005-11-30T20:08:00.000-08:00

"Portland, Oregon" - a song so good I'd fall in love with an Oregon boy just to have this be our song.

Update

2005-11-29T22:28:00.000-08:00

"Congratulations," Dad said, as I walked in. "Some woman called Darlene phoned to say you have the job if you want it. You need to call her back before 7."
That was the moving company.
What luck - the creepiest place I've ever seen wants to hire me and, broke though I am, I don't want the job. Dilemma: money or happiness... Money or happiness (not to mention safety)...
We discussed it over dinner, and Mom said to call my oldest brother for advice because he's worldly. Been around the block a few times, worldly, same diff.
The first time I called there was no answer, so I left a message. The second time, a quarter of an hour later, Ev picked up.
"Hey sis. I just got your message."
"Oh. Did you believe me when I said I was pregnant and needed your advice?"
"No. (Laughs) Of course not."
"Um. Not sure whether I should feel insulted or gratified. Anyway, there's this problem..." Went on to describe the company that wanted to hire me. "...and the place - it's really run down, near Newton, right by the river, - you can see the Pattulo Bridge from it."
"Sis, do you know what they call that area?"
"No."
"The Rat Flats."
"Ah. Well, I see why."
"Yeah. I'd go with the temp agency if I were you."
"Think I will then, thanks."
Brothers. I love them.

Tomorrow's plan: Hit up the temp agencies, harrass Domaine de Chaberton (great local winery) about a job, try to do something about student loan (non-)repayment. Easy peasy.

Every flake is different

2005-11-28T22:55:00.000-08:00

It started snowing tonight as I was driving home. I think I pulled a gut muscle giving the First Snow Happy Scream. It's so cool though! Of course tomorrow will rain and wash everything away, but for the moment it's just lovely.

Listening to: Van Lear Rose. You know, with Loretta Lynn and Jack White. Very cool album. It was one of those things you read about and think, gosh, this could be awful or it could be great - well, it's great. Thank you, Semiahmoo Public Library.

Reading: A Room with a View. Okay, I'm only on Chapter 2, but so far it's just as good as the movie. (Uh, that sounds bad... Honest, I'm not the "Why read it? The movie's coming out in October" type, but that movie was awesome!)

Thinking about: whether to take the job I interviewed for today, doing office work for a moving company. The scene was like something out of a horror flick, complete with mangy dogs scuttling around broken-down old chevys, and grimy inbred-looking truck drivers watching me from the corners of their eyes. Lady was nice enough, but the place was creepy: shoulda-been-condemned-in-'83 type of house turned into an office, rusted fences and sagging porches, and all definitely on the wrong side of the tracks. Hmm... Come to think of it, she never mentioned my wage, either.

Realizing: that just as my favourite dates have been with boys I neither pitied nor loved, my best interviews are for jobs I'm really not sure I want to have. I think it's a confidence thing, the whole this-is-me, I-don't-care-if-you-think-I'm-good-enough issue. Hmm...

Noticing: how girls speak with their hands a lot more after they get engaged.

What are you doing?

LOL!!!

2005-11-21T23:02:00.000-08:00

Another Craigslist Gem:

2005-11-21T22:30:00.000-08:00

Are You Missing Your Index Finger, On Your Left Hand
Date: 2005-11-19, 3:55PM PST
An artist is looking for someone who is missing their index finger, or part of it, on their left hand. Cash paid, 45 minutes of work, to do nothing but sit.
Job location is lower mainland
Compensation: $ 50.00

...One job for which I don't mind lacking the qualifications...

Tag! You're It!

2005-11-18T17:26:00.000-08:00

Just realized the Jedno tagged me a while back, so here goes... uh, my 23rd post only had one sentence, so lets do 24th... GAH! Damn you, Jedno!
"We offered it so that you'd find a good job, and a... [giggles, but tries to sound authoritative]... a good husband!" - My poor dear mother, talking about the intention of a rosary said in the car. Some things don't change - after I caught the bouquet at my brother's wedding last week (more on that below), Mom was heard to say, wishfully, "You know, they say it really works..."
Well. I think everyone I know has been tagged by now, so I'm not going to pass the honour on, but thanks, Jedno. Thanks for the recognition. It (sniff!) means a lot to me.

Anyhoo. The wedding. I would have to say that the finest point of the evening was not the exchanging of the vows (Evan said "Absolutely!" instead of "I do"... cringe...); nor was it the bride and groom's first dance, or the bride's tearful toast to the parents; no no, the highlight of the evening was the bouquet toss. Now, normally, I hate the bouquet toss, because it makes me feel like I am lying in one of the meat fridges at VONS with a label reading "Best Before: SOON" plastered on my forehead, along with a couple of those orange "$2.00 Off" ones - but this time was a little different. I caught the bouquet. The funny thing was, I didn't mean to catch it. I don't think I was even watching the thing as it flew through the reception hall. However, as sister of the groom, I had dutifully stuck my right hand up in the air; and as the tallest female there (everyone else was Chinese and short, and I had sadistically worn heels), the flowers landed smack in my grasp, wrong way up. One deep-red rose popped off at this abuse and skittered away across the floor. The absolute best part was lowering my hand, staring surprisedly at the bouquet, and declaring, loudly, proudly, unthinkingly, for all to hear, " SHIT!!" This fine moment was caught on not one but four video cameras (Chinese wedding, what can I say?) and goodness knows how many point-and-shoots. Ahhh... me so graceful. The families will be proud.

2005-11-01T22:29:00.000-08:00

Today I used Euclid I.1 and my belt to hang a painting of a sailboat and center it nicely over the towel rack in the upstairs bathroom. And **they** said a liberal arts education was impractical. Fools, for they have no far-reaching minds...

In other news, two of my Danish relatives - Tante Anna and Onkel Tommy - arrived tonight in anticipation of my oldest brother's upcoming nuptials. They are both 75: Anna is in the early stages of Parkinson's, while Tommy is still tall and handsome with his thin white hair and icy-but-laughing blue eyes. Tommy's cool, Anna's a bit harder to be comfortable around, and of course there's the language barrier. English wasn't taught in the schools in their day, and my Danish vocabulary is restricted to such simple phrases as jeg er tørstig (I am thirsty), godnat (good night), rug brød (rye bread), jeg ikke snakke dansk (I don't speak Danish), and jeg er forstoppelser (I am constipated - this fine tidbit of knowledge is due to my little brother's unfortunate reaction to the Danish diet on our last visit there). Oh and let's not forget the Danish national joke, which consists of asking the English-speaker to say rød skrød med flode (red berries with cream - very popular Danish dessert). Looks easy enough in writing, but the language is so gosh-awfully guttural that the phrase sounds something like this: "hrruoll skruoll mel fluhrtheh", with strong undertones of gagging. Always good for a giggle. New vocab learned this evening: bange-buks, or "scaredy-pants", which is the Danish equivalent to "chicken" and was applied to yours truly for avoiding the chunks of celery swimming around in my bowl of soup. The whole language thing is actually pretty fun - it's amazing how much of a conversation you can understand just by picking up on certain words that sound like their English equivalents. Should be doubly interesting when the French side of the family arrives next week...

A Memory - or, "Ain't No Wheatgrass at Our Bluegrass"

2005-10-24T22:47:00.000-07:00

"I'm going to get us a drink", he whispered, climbing past me to the aisle and disappearing into the darkness of the theatre. The song ended, a second was sung, and a third. A piece of the darkness took on human form and a paper cup was thrust into my hand as he clambered back into his seat. I took a sip, then another. "What is this?", I asked, thinking, It tastes like pop, he knows I don't drink pop. "Sprite" was the reply, and I looked over to see one eyebrow raised mischievously, and a smile on his lips. Noting my confusion, he reached over and twirled the straw around for a few moments, sending the ice cubes crashing against each other and the sides of the cup. I took another sip and grinned in recognition. "...or, more accurately, seven and seven," he said happily.

Perfect!

2005-10-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

So it was being a rotten Sunday - one of those days when I am SO tempted to break that little I-will-never-smoke-ever-again promise to God, buy a pack, run the g&t fixings upstairs to my room, lock my door and get happily smoky and tipsy and lie on the floor - and then I saw this in the paper:
...And suddenly it didn't matter so much that I'm unemployed, desperately poor, ready to throttle my mother, powerless to move out of the house, and very unlikely to have little dark-haired babies any time soon. Well, not quite. But at least I could chuckle about a comic strip while internalizing my rage at the injustice of the world.

P.S. Had a nice little gin&tonic anyway.

Survey

2005-10-13T01:13:00.000-07:00

After years of receiving gifts of orchids from my father's Chinese customers, I finally decided to find out what this Chinese New Year thing was all about. Or at least, which year I am. Now I'd like you, my faithful readers (yes, both of you), to go here: http://www.holymtn.com/astrology/year.htm and tell me how accurate you find your years' descriptions. Mine is eerily so. Not perfect, but pretty durned close. On all the good bits, anyway - of course the criticisms are all wrong. And of course these things are written using such ambiguous terms that each could apply to anyone with a gullible enough mind, yada yada yada, but still...
Anyhoo guess what my year symbol is? http://www.weebls-stuff.com/wab/anywhere/ Crank those speakers, ladies, and boogie.

Farm Reality Meets Yuppieville Hope

2005-09-29T21:12:00.000-07:00

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!!!!

2005-09-27T21:11:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-25T21:44:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-11T23:16:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-11T22:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-08T23:39:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-09-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

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....

2005-09-07T23:57:00.000-07:00

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

In the News...

2005-09-06T18:05:00.000-07:00

-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

2005-09-06T17:54:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-06T15:33:00.000-07:00

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:

2005-09-04T14:22:00.000-07:00

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).

2005-09-03T17:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-02T21:35:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-02T21:10:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-02T00:42:00.000-07:00

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.

On the road againnnnnn........

2005-08-21T16:23:00.000-07:00

Leaving early tomorrow on trek from Surrey to Santa Paula and thence to friend's wedding in San Diego. It's a 20-hour drive to SP, and I'd love to do the whole thing in one go, but that's hardly likely. And so a question elbows it way rudely to the forefront of my thoughts: do I know anyone in southern Oregon/northern California who'd just love to pull out the sofa for a friend for a night??? Don't think so. The tragedy of it all is that even the crappiest hotel in Willows, CA, charges $53.99 for a bed. Like, who'd actually WANT to stay in Willows? Have you seen the place? The least they could do is try to make their hotel prices appealing. That's two tanks of gas, thank you very much, and I'm on a (heckuva) budget. So perhaps I'll just be downing far-beyond-healthy-limits amounts of gas station coffee, putting the pedal to the metal (heh), and plowing on through to surprise the ex-roommates at 4 in the morning.
It's a good thing I like driving.
Wish me luck.

Blog-linking

2005-08-18T20:51:00.000-07:00

LMAO!!!!!!! http://thebigyellowhouse.blogspot.com/2005/07/context-is-everything.html#comments

Canadian champs win wife-carrying contest

2005-08-17T09:37:00.000-07:00

MARQUETTE, Mich. (AP) - A championship couple from Canada trotted off with first-place honours in the wife-carrying contest at the Finn Grand Fest 2005 in upper Michigan on the weekend.
Markus Raty and Dorothy Kazula of Toronto claimed victory with a time of 33.28 seconds, the Mining Journal of Marquette reported. They raced "Estonian-style," where the woman hangs upside-down with her legs around the man's shoulders and her arms around his waist.
Other styles include the popular piggyback carry and the wrestling-inspired over-the-shoulder fireman's carry.
Friday's race at the upper Michigan festival probably wasn't as intense as the Wife-Carrying World Championships in Sonkajarvi, Finland, in July where the Canadian pair placed 21st in a field of almost 50 teams.
But the 60-metre obstacle course at Northern Michigan University still featured tires and a kiddie pool to run through, plus a hazardous bale of hay to jump.
Raty and Kazula, winners of the last two Canadian Finn Grand Fest competition, said they didn't plan to compete in Friday's race.
"I'm still kind of nursing a sore hamstring," Raty said. "But I have, like, 14 relatives here."
According to legend, wife-carrying originated in Finland in the 19th century, when a man would run into a nearby village, pick up a wife he deemed satisfactory, and carry her back to his home.
The first "modern" wife-carrying events started in Finland as a joke. The idea took off and now there are contests around the world.

Late, but never too late

2005-08-17T00:24:00.000-07:00

I should have posted about this a while ago.
The brother of a very dear friend and sometime roommate of mine was killed in an accident at work three weeks ago, and today she sent me this photo of him. I would like to ask all of you to keep Joe Pedry, as well as his wife, daughter, and unborn son, in your prayers. Thank you.

Update

2005-08-17T00:10:00.000-07:00

The good news - my dad doesn't have a brain tumor. The bad? He's depressed. Can't say I blame him...

Sam, the Ugliest Dog

2005-08-15T23:34:00.000-07:00

For three consecutive years now, this - thing - from Santa Barbara has won the "Ugliest Dog" contest. At least we know they're not cheating...

The reader might be interested to know that Sam's a Chinese Crested (they're supposed to be hairless, but not this ugly) and has a line of warts and blackheads down his snout, and a hernia or something on his bum.

Today

2005-08-15T23:08:00.000-07:00

Dad thinks he has a brain tumor, Mom's decided it's really manic depression and he should take that lithium Tante Huguette spoke so well of back home in Quebec last week, and my oldest brother got engaged but it's all cool because we really like Amy.

Another Newspaper Clipping

2005-08-14T20:59:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when the icebreaker ship finds a barren, permanently ice-bound rock wayyyy the heck up north, in an area of ambiguous boundaries. The leaders of Canada and Denmark get in a snit over whose barren ice-bound rock it is, the non-leaders wonder why anyone really cares, and Dan Murphy draws up another zinger.

If my dad had gone to college, this would be him on a date:

2005-08-14T20:51:00.000-07:00

"Unemployed, in Greenland!!!" - Princess Bride

2005-08-14T20:07:00.000-07:00

Yep, that's me. Except that it's Canada, not Greenland.

They say necessity is the mother of invention. So, what does a 20 - something girl do on a Sunday night when she has the house to herself, no money, and nobody to hang out with? Easy. She downloads music, burns herself a good CD, cracks open a beer or two, and has a one-person dance party. My feet are killing me now, but really, why dance in shoes when you could go barefoot? Also, Fleetwood Mac's "Everywhere" is pretty much my favourite dance song ever. And DAMN... if only I didn't have to be alone to dance like this...

All the same, I miss people. Ten days or so until I throw a duffel bag in the car and drive to California for the wedding. (There is a God.) See you all soon.

2 hours later: Realize that admitting to - nay, further, blogging about - forementioned dance party, was caused by consumption of forementioned beer. Also realize that feet are not simply sore, they are blistered. But it was worth it.

2005-07-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Wyoming Mary and I watched "To Have and Have Not" last night. Now we both want to be Lauren Bacall - except, not dead...

husha, husha, we all fall down...

2005-06-17T12:43:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes life is going along swimmingly - your job's OK, your home situation is good, maybe there's that special someone to be with in the evenings, there's food on the table, and to top it all off you're in a state of grace - and then suddenly the bottom falls out of this bucket called your life and before you know it all of the above are obsolete (except the food thing, and somehow you've lost your appetite) and you're swirling away down into some sort of unknown, rushing, and rather terrifying black hole? Well maybe you don't, but it happens. And when it does, wowee - life's a bitch of the first water.
Let's elaborate on the whole heart issue. It's not bad enough that you've just had to kiss (metaphorically) goodbye to the person you'd love to settle down and raise a lot of odd and interesting kids with, and grow old with, and laugh your a** off with, but when you're down there and turned into a sobbing wet heap on your bed, you're at the same time acutely conscious of that fact that you need to blow your nose, and that you look ridiculous, and that the sound of blowing one's nose is undignified in the extreme, and couldn't you at least have a little dignity at least, at the moment. But no. And everything hurts so badly you wish somebody would walk by and casually slash your shoulder with a sharpish kitchen knife so that at least there'd be some physical pain to distract you, because right now the emotional pain is so overwhelming you simply don't know what to do with yourself and you feel like you're going to explode like one of those fish that live only in the deepest trenches on the ocean floor and burst in a brilliant show of shattered fins, intestines, and scales if you try to bring them to the surface. And then you realize that you're comparing yourself to an exploding fish and you almost crack a smile and WAIT, THIS IS MY HEART WE'RE TALKING ABOUT. AND IT HURTS. BAD. The worst thing is not being able to do a damn thing about it. You can't slap a bandage on it, or take an advil, and you've got too much sense to go out and get drunk or slash your wrists or starve yourself until someone notices your pain and comes running up to look after you. No no, you go blow your nose and wash your face and throw up and have one drink and try not to think about the whole thing because if you do you'll start crying again and crying gives you a nasty headache and makes you look like a rotting turnip with hair and so you lie in bed at nights reading Dorothy Sayers to keep your mind off things until you fall asleep with the book in your hand. Wake up, rinse, repeat.

And then, slowly, you start to get better.

Resistance is useless.

2005-06-16T13:52:00.000-07:00

I'm not arguing with the seriousness of blasphemy, but does anyone else out there ever wonder why "Thou Shalt Not Take the Name of the Lord in Vain" got to be its very own commandment? If it's just a respect thing, wouldn't it be covered under "I Am the Lord Thy God; Thou Shalt Have No Strange Gods Before Me"?
In other news, my last day of work here at the firm is July 7. After that I plan to drive Stangster the Ghettobile as far as it will go across the States, stopping in choice places like Salt Lake City, Jackson Hole, and Nashville, and then if the gods allow, back to SP. If the car doesn't make it - as it probably won't - then I ditch that old tin can (anyone want an '89 mustang for parts? Some of the parts are intact... $200!) and catch a flight home. Or hitchhike somewhere. Or take a bus. I haven't decided yet. I haven't decided much of anything yet, actually, which is half of what makes the trip so exciting. Anyone want to come with? I can only take one passenger, as S the G drives funny when more heavily loaded. Passenger will be chosen on the grounds of his/her possession of a digital camera, good taste in music, and courtesy in offering to split fuel costs.

You see,...

2005-05-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

The problem with a blog is, that the things I really itch to write about generally fall into at least one of the following categories:
-offensive to someone or other;
-"whoever reads this will think I'm nuts" and he/she might not be far off, but let's not go there;
-wayyy too personal; or,
-just not funny in writing.
In consideration of this fact, I don't think I'll blog any more. At least not for a while.
Ergo:
So long, and thanks for all the fish. (That movie was a letdown, by the way - if you haven't already seen it, don't bother.)