Goodbye, Dean.

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.

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

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

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

Hello

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

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

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.

SATURDAY NIGHT (Drive to Whistler)

Shannon Falls

Closeup

View from the roadside lookout

View down the valley

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."