Remember the post FAIL from 25 June? The one where I went to Tim Hortons and the Bagel Guy creeped me out? I went to Tim Hortons today. That one. Guess who was at the register? Bagel Guy. Conversation as follows:
BG: "Well hello. Congratulations."
Me: "Extra large steeped tea. Double double. Twelve grain bagel with cream cheese. Toasted. Please."
BG: "Did you want the bagel toasted before or after the cream cheese? It's just kind of messy if you do it after."
Me: *eyes roll* "Before if you could. Thanks."
BG: "Aren't you going to ask what I congratulated you for?"
Me: "I wasn't, but what?"
BG: "For being my prettiest customer today."
Me: *HUGE eye roll* "Wow. Thanks."
BG: "It's not everyday someone like you comes into this place."
Me: "I was here in June. You made my bagel."
BG: (Boss shows up. Thank God) "Here's your tea, ma'am. Have a great day."
Me: "Thanks."
The bad news is this Tim's is very near my new job. And I will be there everyday for well deserved yet unappreciated flattery. And steeped tea.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Public Service Announcement
YOU ARE NOT INVISIBLE WHEN YOU ARE IN YOUR CAR.
Not when you're driving it, not when you're waiting at a light and certainly not when you're sitting in it in a parking lot at night with the interior light on. So PLEASE, for the sake of others around you, don't pick your nose at lights, or touch your genitals for any reason in the parking lot. We can see you and you DO make us want to vomit.
Not when you're driving it, not when you're waiting at a light and certainly not when you're sitting in it in a parking lot at night with the interior light on. So PLEASE, for the sake of others around you, don't pick your nose at lights, or touch your genitals for any reason in the parking lot. We can see you and you DO make us want to vomit.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tang
Today, in Zellers (where I never go if it can be avoided, which it couldn't today. I had a fabric softener emergency and thought that Zellers would be less retarded than Wal Mart), I overheard the end of a conversation. In fact, all I got was the last sentence: "I'd rather drink Tang."
What could possibly be so awful that you would rather drink Tang. I rolled around a few possibilities, and was able to come up with a list of things I would choose Tang over.
1) Toilet water. Unless it had Tang in it. Then I might drink it.
2) Goat milk.
3) Camel milk. Artificial flavour or the real thing.
4) Gasoline.
5) Chartreuse
6) Cola (including, but not limited to Coke, Diet Coke, Pepsi and Diet Pepsi)
7) Blood (excluding human)
8) Mollusc slime
9) Raw sewage
10) Egg Nog (but I guess that falls into the raw sewage category)
What could possibly be so awful that you would rather drink Tang. I rolled around a few possibilities, and was able to come up with a list of things I would choose Tang over.
1) Toilet water. Unless it had Tang in it. Then I might drink it.
2) Goat milk.
3) Camel milk. Artificial flavour or the real thing.
4) Gasoline.
5) Chartreuse
6) Cola (including, but not limited to Coke, Diet Coke, Pepsi and Diet Pepsi)
7) Blood (excluding human)
8) Mollusc slime
9) Raw sewage
10) Egg Nog (but I guess that falls into the raw sewage category)
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Caution: Drama Ahead
I'm having a day. I was sick with the Irish Flu, my hair took an hour and a half to comb, and then I was woken up out of a four hour nap by a phone call I did NOT want to answer, but I did because I love to torture myself.
I went to Safeway, and at the checkout, I was accosted by the cheerfulness of a cashier who enjoyed her job WAY too much.
"How are you tonight?" she asked me.
How am I? Do you really care? How about shitty, thanks. I just got dumped via text message. The man I'm convinced that I want to spend a good portion of my life with is emotionally (and physically) unavailable and will be for the rest of his life. The one that I don't want to spend any more of my life with is relentlessly pursuing me with promises of marriage and security. But not happiness. I will be thirty in 154 days and have done absolutely nothing with my life thus far. And not to be melodramatic or anything, but everyday I look out the window at work and wonder how hard it would be to jump. I'm over being second best all the time. I just want to be good enough, instead of almost.
Instead, I just said, "Fine thanks and you?" And she proceeded to tell me about what a great day she was having.
I went to Safeway, and at the checkout, I was accosted by the cheerfulness of a cashier who enjoyed her job WAY too much.
"How are you tonight?" she asked me.
How am I? Do you really care? How about shitty, thanks. I just got dumped via text message. The man I'm convinced that I want to spend a good portion of my life with is emotionally (and physically) unavailable and will be for the rest of his life. The one that I don't want to spend any more of my life with is relentlessly pursuing me with promises of marriage and security. But not happiness. I will be thirty in 154 days and have done absolutely nothing with my life thus far. And not to be melodramatic or anything, but everyday I look out the window at work and wonder how hard it would be to jump. I'm over being second best all the time. I just want to be good enough, instead of almost.
Instead, I just said, "Fine thanks and you?" And she proceeded to tell me about what a great day she was having.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Huge Foot In Huger Mouth
Yes. My foot. My mouth.
Today, on my lunch break (which is at 2:00 in the afternoon), I ran into one of the IT guys, also just going for lunch. I said hi and then went with my Cousin Sarah to her office (which happens to be in my building) for a minute and then back to my office. Maybe fifteen minutes had passed since I ran into Sneebs in the mall. He came back up and was walking past my desk, when I said, "Hey Sneebs, back so soon?" He replied, "Yeah, I only got a short lunch, we're really busy today." To which I replied, "Yeah. They treat you like a slave."
Footnote: Sneebs came to Canada from Cameroon about eight years ago.
Today, on my lunch break (which is at 2:00 in the afternoon), I ran into one of the IT guys, also just going for lunch. I said hi and then went with my Cousin Sarah to her office (which happens to be in my building) for a minute and then back to my office. Maybe fifteen minutes had passed since I ran into Sneebs in the mall. He came back up and was walking past my desk, when I said, "Hey Sneebs, back so soon?" He replied, "Yeah, I only got a short lunch, we're really busy today." To which I replied, "Yeah. They treat you like a slave."
Footnote: Sneebs came to Canada from Cameroon about eight years ago.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Fast Fact
I was just informed that my (male) roommate waits for me to come out of the bathroom in a towel after a shower, not because he likes to ogle me, but because it smells good. I may have lost my touch.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Awkward Moments
So the best part of the elevator ride is the uncomfortable silence as you and the other occupants attempt to ignore each other or awkward conversation that ensues when you accidentally make eye contact with someone.
Here's one of the latter I had today on the ride down after work:
Senior Partner in the firm: Incoherent mumbling
Me: "Pardon Me?"
SPITF: "Had enough, have you?"
Me: "Yep."
SPITF: Incoherent mumbling
Me: "Pardon me?"
SPITF: "How are you?"
Me: "Good thanks and you?"
SPITF: "Fine, fine."
Zzzziiipppp
???
And thank God the doors opened.
Here's one of the latter I had today on the ride down after work:
Senior Partner in the firm: Incoherent mumbling
Me: "Pardon Me?"
SPITF: "Had enough, have you?"
Me: "Yep."
SPITF: Incoherent mumbling
Me: "Pardon me?"
SPITF: "How are you?"
Me: "Good thanks and you?"
SPITF: "Fine, fine."
SPITF: Incoherent mumbling
Me: "Pardon me?"
SPITF: "Hard day of business. Some days are good and some aren't. Heh heh."
Me: "Yup."Zzzziiipppp
???
And thank God the doors opened.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Terror on the Thirty-Third Floor
So. Apparently my new job is going to be nothing but non-stop adventure, with some phone answering and lewd looks in the elevator thrown in for good measure. I say this because yesterday, the fire alarm went off. Also, yesterday in the elevator when I got in, the lone male already occupying the car winked at me and then openly ogled me until I got off (the elevator. Get your minds out of the gutter).
And now, back to the ALARM. It was my lunch break, and I was happily anticipating sitting and reading and listening to loud music (so others wouldn't feel obliged to make conversation with me) after I finished a quick email. All of a sudden, this bell starts going off. It was advantageous that I had read the Emergency Procedures sheet the day before, and that I knew that the "fast pulse" (as opposed to the "slow pulse") meant get out now. Slow pulse, according to the sheet, means change your shoes, grab your jacket, and await further instructions. Fast pulse apparently means everyone panic and run for the stairs and leave the new girl to lock the gate by herself.
Since I had to stay behind to lock the gate, I was one of the last ones down the stairs, which was nice because I managed to avoid the crush of terrified office workers and had a leisurely stroll down thirty three flights of stairs, in a stairwell that was so hot I figured the fire was in it. By the time I got to the ground floor, all of my co-workers had disappeared, leaving me alone in a sea of confusion. I eventually found them. The firefighters gave the all clear, so we all trooped back into the building. After waiting ten minutes for an elevator (as there were a thousand people trying to get into one car every time the doors opened), we got to the front of the line, and when the doors opened, the car was already packed. My co-worker got in but I chose to wait for the next one. As you may have heard, I hate elevators, and if it's filled to capacity, there is no chance in hell of me getting on it. It turns out this was the best decision I made all day. Just after the doors closed, the alarm went off again, and the elevators all lost power and froze. It was only for a couple seconds, as they automatically return to the ground floor and lock when the fire bell goes off, but I think that would have been enough to end my day right there. Eventually the elevators got back on line, and we could all return to work. Aside from destroying my knuckles unlocking the gate, the rest of the day was largely uneventful.
I've been at this job for a week and have endured being stuck in an elevator and a fire alarm with a distinctly 9-11ish flair. I've learned that I'm not the only one who is uncomfortable in small spaces that are suspended high above the ground. I've learned that there's no such thing as an orderly mass evacuation, and I've learned that while walking down a million stairs is not as hard as walking up them, it still makes your legs scream the next day. I'm hoping there's no more lessons for while, because there's enough drama in my life right now.
And now, back to the ALARM. It was my lunch break, and I was happily anticipating sitting and reading and listening to loud music (so others wouldn't feel obliged to make conversation with me) after I finished a quick email. All of a sudden, this bell starts going off. It was advantageous that I had read the Emergency Procedures sheet the day before, and that I knew that the "fast pulse" (as opposed to the "slow pulse") meant get out now. Slow pulse, according to the sheet, means change your shoes, grab your jacket, and await further instructions. Fast pulse apparently means everyone panic and run for the stairs and leave the new girl to lock the gate by herself.
Since I had to stay behind to lock the gate, I was one of the last ones down the stairs, which was nice because I managed to avoid the crush of terrified office workers and had a leisurely stroll down thirty three flights of stairs, in a stairwell that was so hot I figured the fire was in it. By the time I got to the ground floor, all of my co-workers had disappeared, leaving me alone in a sea of confusion. I eventually found them. The firefighters gave the all clear, so we all trooped back into the building. After waiting ten minutes for an elevator (as there were a thousand people trying to get into one car every time the doors opened), we got to the front of the line, and when the doors opened, the car was already packed. My co-worker got in but I chose to wait for the next one. As you may have heard, I hate elevators, and if it's filled to capacity, there is no chance in hell of me getting on it. It turns out this was the best decision I made all day. Just after the doors closed, the alarm went off again, and the elevators all lost power and froze. It was only for a couple seconds, as they automatically return to the ground floor and lock when the fire bell goes off, but I think that would have been enough to end my day right there. Eventually the elevators got back on line, and we could all return to work. Aside from destroying my knuckles unlocking the gate, the rest of the day was largely uneventful.
I've been at this job for a week and have endured being stuck in an elevator and a fire alarm with a distinctly 9-11ish flair. I've learned that I'm not the only one who is uncomfortable in small spaces that are suspended high above the ground. I've learned that there's no such thing as an orderly mass evacuation, and I've learned that while walking down a million stairs is not as hard as walking up them, it still makes your legs scream the next day. I'm hoping there's no more lessons for while, because there's enough drama in my life right now.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Terror on the 29th Floor
I work on the thirty-third floor of a forty floor office tower. I have to take an elevator to this floor everyday. Several times a day, in fact. Here's a confession for you: I hate to take elevators. I hate taking them more than I hate taking the train to work at 6:45 in the morning. They're small, they're crowded, they are suspended by a thread hundreds of feet off the ground, and they are electrical equipment and it has been my experience that electrical equipment fails.
Today the unthinkable happened. There was a failure. I got in on the ground floor. I pushed the button. The other people pushed their buttons. The doors closed. The doors opened. The doors shuddered closed. The doors opened halfway and shut again. The alarm went off. It sounded like robotic laughter. The guy standing nearest to the buttons started frantically jabbing at the buttons, he gave them a dirty look that only a lawyer can muster. The elevator started going. The alarm stopped. The lawyer laughed nervously and said the elevator knew what was good for it, that it knew the screaming was next. We stopped at the twenty-ninth floor. A guy got off. The doors closed. The doors opened. The doors shuddered halfway open and shuddered closed again. They started freaking out. The alarm went off (still sounding like robotic laughter). I started freaking out. The lawyer started freaking out, frantically jabbing buttons. The lights went out. Someone said, "Oh Shit." The lights came on. The lights on the button panel remained off. The lawyer frantically hit the "door open" button over and over. Nothing happened. I watched him. The alarm continued. Someone suggested we use the emergency phone. The lawyer hit the button. THE DOORS OPENED!!! We exited the elevator in a hasty fashion. The ordeal was over. It had lasted five minutes. The lawyer was visibly shaken. Unfortunately we had to wait for another elevator, as the doors are locked inside the stairwell. We would have had to walk down twenty-nine flights of stairs and take another elevator all the way up. We pressed the button. The elevator opened it's doors and laughed at us. We sent it downstairs and called another one. It's doors opened. It was filled with people. We started toward it, when a courier jumped up from the back and hit the "door close" button. The lawyer flipped out, and was screaming at the courier as the doors shut and the elevator left. We called another elevator. It was empty. It took us straight to our floor. We got out and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The lawyer stormed past the reception desk and said he was calling maintenance. I'm glad that's not where I work.
I was telling the other receptionist about the ordeal, when I heard the laughter of the elevator. I turned around, in time to see a smallish Asian man stumbling out. He yelled to us over his shoulder as he hurried away, "I think there's something wrong with that elevator."
Today the unthinkable happened. There was a failure. I got in on the ground floor. I pushed the button. The other people pushed their buttons. The doors closed. The doors opened. The doors shuddered closed. The doors opened halfway and shut again. The alarm went off. It sounded like robotic laughter. The guy standing nearest to the buttons started frantically jabbing at the buttons, he gave them a dirty look that only a lawyer can muster. The elevator started going. The alarm stopped. The lawyer laughed nervously and said the elevator knew what was good for it, that it knew the screaming was next. We stopped at the twenty-ninth floor. A guy got off. The doors closed. The doors opened. The doors shuddered halfway open and shuddered closed again. They started freaking out. The alarm went off (still sounding like robotic laughter). I started freaking out. The lawyer started freaking out, frantically jabbing buttons. The lights went out. Someone said, "Oh Shit." The lights came on. The lights on the button panel remained off. The lawyer frantically hit the "door open" button over and over. Nothing happened. I watched him. The alarm continued. Someone suggested we use the emergency phone. The lawyer hit the button. THE DOORS OPENED!!! We exited the elevator in a hasty fashion. The ordeal was over. It had lasted five minutes. The lawyer was visibly shaken. Unfortunately we had to wait for another elevator, as the doors are locked inside the stairwell. We would have had to walk down twenty-nine flights of stairs and take another elevator all the way up. We pressed the button. The elevator opened it's doors and laughed at us. We sent it downstairs and called another one. It's doors opened. It was filled with people. We started toward it, when a courier jumped up from the back and hit the "door close" button. The lawyer flipped out, and was screaming at the courier as the doors shut and the elevator left. We called another elevator. It was empty. It took us straight to our floor. We got out and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The lawyer stormed past the reception desk and said he was calling maintenance. I'm glad that's not where I work.
I was telling the other receptionist about the ordeal, when I heard the laughter of the elevator. I turned around, in time to see a smallish Asian man stumbling out. He yelled to us over his shoulder as he hurried away, "I think there's something wrong with that elevator."
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Also
4. Publicly admitting to being a crybaby when you are explicitly known for your general heartlessness.
Things I Don't Recommend
1. Driving on Deerfoot in gridlocked rush hour traffic, traveling forty kilometres an hour. I especially don't recommend this if you are crying (or sobbing uncontrollably, as it happens).
2. Driving on the QEII at ten o'clock at night, in pouring rain, while you're crying (or sobbing uncontrollably, as it happens).
3. Nearly losing your heart to someone you can never really have (and you know it, but you do it anyway), and then doing either of the two aforementioned things after saying a tearful goodbye to said person.
2. Driving on the QEII at ten o'clock at night, in pouring rain, while you're crying (or sobbing uncontrollably, as it happens).
3. Nearly losing your heart to someone you can never really have (and you know it, but you do it anyway), and then doing either of the two aforementioned things after saying a tearful goodbye to said person.
A Close Call
Brace yourselves gentle readers, there is bad news coming your way. I was nearly killed yesterday.
I foolishly used the crosswalk to cross the road, and although I had the walk signal, I clearly didn't have the right of way. A car came speeding around the curve and upon seeing me, applied his breaks with great force, causing them to squeal with protest, but not great enough to actually slow the car to any degree. I did what you're always supposed to do in this situation, I stopped and stared at the car thinking, "What is this idiot doing?"
Thankfully, I was with my roommate (my male roommate), who screamed and ran, causing me to follow suit. Well, I ran anyway, I didn't scream.
And then this guy, who was obviously in the wrong, gave us a dirty look for having the audacity to be crossing the road and sped away. It was my first brush with danger since I moved to The City.
I foolishly used the crosswalk to cross the road, and although I had the walk signal, I clearly didn't have the right of way. A car came speeding around the curve and upon seeing me, applied his breaks with great force, causing them to squeal with protest, but not great enough to actually slow the car to any degree. I did what you're always supposed to do in this situation, I stopped and stared at the car thinking, "What is this idiot doing?"
Thankfully, I was with my roommate (my male roommate), who screamed and ran, causing me to follow suit. Well, I ran anyway, I didn't scream.
And then this guy, who was obviously in the wrong, gave us a dirty look for having the audacity to be crossing the road and sped away. It was my first brush with danger since I moved to The City.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Loser II
A post or so back I announced that I had lost the game Trivial Pursuit: Lord of the Rings. And that was the best outcome for that particular game.
Unfortunately, since then, I have kicked the pants off my opponent's in this game, which I ashamedly admit. Also, there have been games of Risk:2210 (Risk in Space). And I have won some of them. Two out of three. What does this mean? Well, paired with my new found love of FPS games (that's first person shooter to all you non nerds out there) and the fact that I am referred to as "Computer" (as in, "Computer, locate Captain Picard"), I have to face the sad truth. The Nerdification of Elizabeth is nearly complete.
There is, however, one nerdish thing that I will never do, and that's the World of Warcraft. Even I have a line that will not be crossed. So maybe with this as my saving grace, I can avoid attaining the status of TRUE NERD and get off as only a bit nerdy.
Unfortunately, since then, I have kicked the pants off my opponent's in this game, which I ashamedly admit. Also, there have been games of Risk:2210 (Risk in Space). And I have won some of them. Two out of three. What does this mean? Well, paired with my new found love of FPS games (that's first person shooter to all you non nerds out there) and the fact that I am referred to as "Computer" (as in, "Computer, locate Captain Picard"), I have to face the sad truth. The Nerdification of Elizabeth is nearly complete.
There is, however, one nerdish thing that I will never do, and that's the World of Warcraft. Even I have a line that will not be crossed. So maybe with this as my saving grace, I can avoid attaining the status of TRUE NERD and get off as only a bit nerdy.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Big News
Attention Fair Readers, I have an announcement to make. I am now a free woman. I am no longer being kept and am living on my own. Well, not precisely on my own. I am living in Calgary with three roommates (male roommates) and it is FABULOUS. I have come to the conclusion that it is the fool who chains himself to a single person for the entirety of his life.
Of course, this new-found freedom is coming with a price, the price of having to leave my poor Claire Dog behind, the price of coming out of retirement, and having to work for the first time in five years, the price of seeing shoes I want and not being able to buy them, the price of not being able to say, "I need some money." and having it magically appear in my hand in the form of crisp hundred dollar bills. But if this is the cost of freedom, I will gladly pay the tab and leave a generous tip (provided that I actually get a job).
This new-found freedom is advantageous in other ways as well. In the last month, I have been able to do things I've wanted to do for twelve years, but for one reason or another I couldn't. And I love doing these things.
So wish me luck on this new adventure and keep your fingers crossed that I will find a job that's not in WalMart or Tim Horton's (although I may have an in there...) and I will keep you informed of all the antics that I get into.
Of course, this new-found freedom is coming with a price, the price of having to leave my poor Claire Dog behind, the price of coming out of retirement, and having to work for the first time in five years, the price of seeing shoes I want and not being able to buy them, the price of not being able to say, "I need some money." and having it magically appear in my hand in the form of crisp hundred dollar bills. But if this is the cost of freedom, I will gladly pay the tab and leave a generous tip (provided that I actually get a job).
This new-found freedom is advantageous in other ways as well. In the last month, I have been able to do things I've wanted to do for twelve years, but for one reason or another I couldn't. And I love doing these things.
So wish me luck on this new adventure and keep your fingers crossed that I will find a job that's not in WalMart or Tim Horton's (although I may have an in there...) and I will keep you informed of all the antics that I get into.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Loser
It is with great pleasure that I am announcing my loss in the game Trivial Pursuit: Lord of the Rings. (It is with some displeasure that I will admit that it was a close game. If I wasn't so pretty, I may be mistaken for a nerd sometimes...)
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
FAIL
That's the word for today. I failed most of the things I set out to do, and if I didn't, I certainly tried my best.
This morning I attempted to meet friends for coffee at the airport (that's where I always go for coffee. It's very convenient). One friend was flying out, and the other was driving her. Our date was set for 9:15. Meet at the WestJet gate. Sounds easy. I woke up at 8:30 when my alarm went off. The shower was occupied so I decided to wait in bed until it was empty. I was tired. I stayed up late the night before. I woke up and it was 9:18. I hopped out of bed, washed my face and brushed my teeth and ran out the door. I made it to the airport, parked my car and got into the building. I went to the WestJet gate. There was no one there. I walked around. There was no one there. I waited and saw no one. It was 10:00. I missed my date. I took the wrong escalator. I walked the wrong way. I found myself outside, no where near where I had parked. It sucked. I walked around in the parkade, pushing the lock button on my keys (to make the car honk) and finally found my car. I left the airport vowing to never return, but knowing I had to return in a few hours to pick up a friend's mother. So much for the vow. But the parking man didn't charge me for parking, because I was the first car to go through his kiosk and he said that's how he likes to start his day. He was the best part of my day.
I still hadn't had any coffee. I needed it. I stopped at the first Tim Horton's I saw. I had to go in, it had no drive-thru. I hate that. Going inside means you have to actually interact with other human beings. I went in. The first thing I saw was the bagel toaster. The best thing I can say about him is he appeared to have all his teeth. I ordered coffee and a bagel. I got the coffee and had to wait for the bagel. I tried to stand there and look aloof. I was wishing I had left my sunglasses on. It makes it so much easier to ignore people when they can't see your eyes. Bagel toaster was finishing up with the guys in front of me and they were all buddy-buddy. Laughing and joking and were all, "See you later!"
Then it was my turn.
Bagel Guy: "How are you today?"
Me: "Fine thank you, and you?"
BG: "Better now that you're here."
Me: *eyes roll* "Ha ha, I'm sure"
BG: "No really, you've brightened my day. And after you leave, I'll be gloomy and by the time I get off my shift I'll be - What's you're name?"
Me (sighing): "Elizabeth..."
BG (throwing his arms up in a very Street Car Named Desire-esque fashion): "I'll be yelling your name, 'Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Come Back, Elizabeth!"
Me: "Give me that bagel."
BG: "Thanks, Elizabeth, have a GREAT day."
Me: "Fuck you." (not really, though I thought it rather vehemently)
When do things like that happen to a normal person? And at this juncture, I must stop to describe the Bagel Guy. Age: anywhere from a hard 35 to 42. Height: maybe 5' 5" with heels. Weight: under 160 for sure. Hair: Mullety and feathery. Prison Tats - Check. Missing tooth - Check (so much for appearing to have all his teeth). Hair net - Negative. Requisite mole the size of a timbit - Check. Car - Doubtful. Girlfriend - Probably not since prison.
So I drank my coffee and ate my bagel that I probably should have thrown away and came home... just in time to leave for the airport again. Fortunately, I had already been replaced as driver and declined the chance to visit the Calgary International twice in the same day.
The morning progressed to afternoon, with Mario Party and board games, which progressed to evening and then into night. I had only the task to meet my cousin at her house around 9:15. I left around 9:oo, in order to give myself a five minute buffer. (For those who are not mathletic, that means it's a ten minute drive away). I got to her house at 9:52. That means it took me 52 minutes to make a ten minute drive. I will spare you the details, but it involved missing my turn about thirty times and being totally disgusted with myself. Since I took an exorbitantly long time to get to her house, the eating part of our date was cancelled and the movie was the prime target. The theater is about a ten minute drive from Sarah's, if you don't have directional retardation. I am directionally retarded. We got tot he theater at 10:16. The movie started at 10:15. We were blessed in that there are twenty minutes of previews before the movie starts, which can be the best part of the film.
We watched the movie, which was nearly three hours long, and would have been unbearable to anyone with a Y chromosome, left the theater at 12:54, and made it back to Sarah's without incident. I then returned home, also without incident, came in and opened a bottle of wine, and have drank nearly of it while I was writing this. I have had it with this day and am tired therefore will not be thinking of a proper closing paragraph. Sweet dreams, my lovely readers.
This morning I attempted to meet friends for coffee at the airport (that's where I always go for coffee. It's very convenient). One friend was flying out, and the other was driving her. Our date was set for 9:15. Meet at the WestJet gate. Sounds easy. I woke up at 8:30 when my alarm went off. The shower was occupied so I decided to wait in bed until it was empty. I was tired. I stayed up late the night before. I woke up and it was 9:18. I hopped out of bed, washed my face and brushed my teeth and ran out the door. I made it to the airport, parked my car and got into the building. I went to the WestJet gate. There was no one there. I walked around. There was no one there. I waited and saw no one. It was 10:00. I missed my date. I took the wrong escalator. I walked the wrong way. I found myself outside, no where near where I had parked. It sucked. I walked around in the parkade, pushing the lock button on my keys (to make the car honk) and finally found my car. I left the airport vowing to never return, but knowing I had to return in a few hours to pick up a friend's mother. So much for the vow. But the parking man didn't charge me for parking, because I was the first car to go through his kiosk and he said that's how he likes to start his day. He was the best part of my day.
I still hadn't had any coffee. I needed it. I stopped at the first Tim Horton's I saw. I had to go in, it had no drive-thru. I hate that. Going inside means you have to actually interact with other human beings. I went in. The first thing I saw was the bagel toaster. The best thing I can say about him is he appeared to have all his teeth. I ordered coffee and a bagel. I got the coffee and had to wait for the bagel. I tried to stand there and look aloof. I was wishing I had left my sunglasses on. It makes it so much easier to ignore people when they can't see your eyes. Bagel toaster was finishing up with the guys in front of me and they were all buddy-buddy. Laughing and joking and were all, "See you later!"
Then it was my turn.
Bagel Guy: "How are you today?"
Me: "Fine thank you, and you?"
BG: "Better now that you're here."
Me: *eyes roll* "Ha ha, I'm sure"
BG: "No really, you've brightened my day. And after you leave, I'll be gloomy and by the time I get off my shift I'll be - What's you're name?"
Me (sighing): "Elizabeth..."
BG (throwing his arms up in a very Street Car Named Desire-esque fashion): "I'll be yelling your name, 'Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Come Back, Elizabeth!"
Me: "Give me that bagel."
BG: "Thanks, Elizabeth, have a GREAT day."
Me: "Fuck you." (not really, though I thought it rather vehemently)
When do things like that happen to a normal person? And at this juncture, I must stop to describe the Bagel Guy. Age: anywhere from a hard 35 to 42. Height: maybe 5' 5" with heels. Weight: under 160 for sure. Hair: Mullety and feathery. Prison Tats - Check. Missing tooth - Check (so much for appearing to have all his teeth). Hair net - Negative. Requisite mole the size of a timbit - Check. Car - Doubtful. Girlfriend - Probably not since prison.
So I drank my coffee and ate my bagel that I probably should have thrown away and came home... just in time to leave for the airport again. Fortunately, I had already been replaced as driver and declined the chance to visit the Calgary International twice in the same day.
The morning progressed to afternoon, with Mario Party and board games, which progressed to evening and then into night. I had only the task to meet my cousin at her house around 9:15. I left around 9:oo, in order to give myself a five minute buffer. (For those who are not mathletic, that means it's a ten minute drive away). I got to her house at 9:52. That means it took me 52 minutes to make a ten minute drive. I will spare you the details, but it involved missing my turn about thirty times and being totally disgusted with myself. Since I took an exorbitantly long time to get to her house, the eating part of our date was cancelled and the movie was the prime target. The theater is about a ten minute drive from Sarah's, if you don't have directional retardation. I am directionally retarded. We got tot he theater at 10:16. The movie started at 10:15. We were blessed in that there are twenty minutes of previews before the movie starts, which can be the best part of the film.
We watched the movie, which was nearly three hours long, and would have been unbearable to anyone with a Y chromosome, left the theater at 12:54, and made it back to Sarah's without incident. I then returned home, also without incident, came in and opened a bottle of wine, and have drank nearly of it while I was writing this. I have had it with this day and am tired therefore will not be thinking of a proper closing paragraph. Sweet dreams, my lovely readers.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Yes, This Really Happened
Inappropriate conversation:
Doctor: "Your cervix is hiding from me."
Me: "Ummm... I'm not sure it is, I think it's kind of a dead end street in there..."
Doctor: "Sometimes these things are tricky."
Me: "Can we not talk right now?"
I was also wondering what he was referring to as "these things". Was it the speculum (which appeared to be malfunctioning)? Was it the actual procedure (which I would not call tricky, I'd maybe use horrifying or in the least frightfully uncomfortable)? Or was it the part of my anatomy that he was attempting to fit his entire hand into? My guess is the last one. It can be tricky to some men...
To add to the discomfort of the visit, there was the breast exam, which was completed with the "Doctor" staring deeply into my eyes.
Doctor: "Your breasts are very easy to examine. They're soft, not lumpy (!!!!!) like some are."
Me (turning bright red): "Ahh... thank you?"
Doctor: "Are you paying attention to what I'm doing?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Doctor: "So you can do this at home."
Me: "Right. Of course. I think I've got it."
Doctor: "You have very nice breast tissue."
Me: "Can we not talk?"
Doctor: "Your cervix is hiding from me."
Me: "Ummm... I'm not sure it is, I think it's kind of a dead end street in there..."
Doctor: "Sometimes these things are tricky."
Me: "Can we not talk right now?"
I was also wondering what he was referring to as "these things". Was it the speculum (which appeared to be malfunctioning)? Was it the actual procedure (which I would not call tricky, I'd maybe use horrifying or in the least frightfully uncomfortable)? Or was it the part of my anatomy that he was attempting to fit his entire hand into? My guess is the last one. It can be tricky to some men...
To add to the discomfort of the visit, there was the breast exam, which was completed with the "Doctor" staring deeply into my eyes.
Doctor: "Your breasts are very easy to examine. They're soft, not lumpy (!!!!!) like some are."
Me (turning bright red): "Ahh... thank you?"
Doctor: "Are you paying attention to what I'm doing?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Doctor: "So you can do this at home."
Me: "Right. Of course. I think I've got it."
Doctor: "You have very nice breast tissue."
Me: "Can we not talk?"
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Courage
I have more fodder for the Hall of Shame:
I was in Wal-Mart, looking at hair products, when the bottle I was holding fell from my hands and crashed to the floor. The top came off and a sticky white goo oozed across the floor. I picked it up and tried to put it back together, to no avail. So I precariously balanced the top on the jar and put it on the shelf. I then went to the "Beauty" Department (if it can really be called that in a Wal-Mart. I've yet to see anything beautiful in there. Well, maybe once, but I was looking in the mirror) to buy make-up I can ill afford, and pay for my hair care choices. As I was waiting at the till, an employee came past me, covered in a sticky white goo (a look I am all too familiar with) and asked for a tissue. I was going to tell her that Kleenex is no good when you're trying to clean that off, but decided to hold my tongue.
I couldn't help but overhear what had happened. She was straightening bottles on the shelves in the hair care isle when she grabbed one off the shelf and the top flew off and sticky white goo shot all over her. I hid my mirth long enough to pay for my purchases and listened with a mixture of glee and guilt while the cashier and my victim talked about the nerve of some people. I guess they would have preferred that I had left the bottle on the floor, instead of trying to cover up the crime. I nearly apologised to the employee but the way the two of them were nattering on I decided it would be most unwise to bring my guilt to light.
I left there feeling more like myself than I had in a while, because the new and improved me (and decidedly very un-Elizabethan me) would have apologised and bought the broken bottle, while the old (and very Elizabethan me) would have laughed out loud and offered the poor woman advice on receiving "the facial". I guess I'm devolving into my old self, mean and cynical, jaded and heartless, and that is what I need right now. A touch of heartlessness to help me with the unpleasant tasks that are awaiting me.
I was in Wal-Mart, looking at hair products, when the bottle I was holding fell from my hands and crashed to the floor. The top came off and a sticky white goo oozed across the floor. I picked it up and tried to put it back together, to no avail. So I precariously balanced the top on the jar and put it on the shelf. I then went to the "Beauty" Department (if it can really be called that in a Wal-Mart. I've yet to see anything beautiful in there. Well, maybe once, but I was looking in the mirror) to buy make-up I can ill afford, and pay for my hair care choices. As I was waiting at the till, an employee came past me, covered in a sticky white goo (a look I am all too familiar with) and asked for a tissue. I was going to tell her that Kleenex is no good when you're trying to clean that off, but decided to hold my tongue.
I couldn't help but overhear what had happened. She was straightening bottles on the shelves in the hair care isle when she grabbed one off the shelf and the top flew off and sticky white goo shot all over her. I hid my mirth long enough to pay for my purchases and listened with a mixture of glee and guilt while the cashier and my victim talked about the nerve of some people. I guess they would have preferred that I had left the bottle on the floor, instead of trying to cover up the crime. I nearly apologised to the employee but the way the two of them were nattering on I decided it would be most unwise to bring my guilt to light.
I left there feeling more like myself than I had in a while, because the new and improved me (and decidedly very un-Elizabethan me) would have apologised and bought the broken bottle, while the old (and very Elizabethan me) would have laughed out loud and offered the poor woman advice on receiving "the facial". I guess I'm devolving into my old self, mean and cynical, jaded and heartless, and that is what I need right now. A touch of heartlessness to help me with the unpleasant tasks that are awaiting me.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Turdus Migratorius
I have a new stalker. And this one takes the cake. He peers at me through the window when I'm watching TV. I hear him tapping on the glass when I'm in bed. He's constantly looking for a way in. I'm afraid to go outside, for fear of what he'll do to me. And the worst part, he's a bird. A dirty Red-Breasted Robin.
He stares at me with his beady little eyes, eyes that reflect the evilness of his little bird brain. I know what he wants. He wants to peck my eyes out and feed them to his children. But I won't let it happen. I will be victorious over the harbinger of spring. He can hop around in the grass pretending to look for worms, but I know better, and while he is plotting his devious little plots, I will be preparing for my own war on terror.
You can mark my words, Little Robin Red Breast has twittered his last.
Here he is, staring in the window, unaware that I was watching him. And yes, that is a chair carved from a tree stump. Don't ask.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Tragedy
My house guest is dead, I found him this morning in the kitchen. It looks as if it was peanut butter related. (As in that's what was use to bait the trap)
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Keeper 1 - Elizabeth 0
Yes the roads were bad, and yes I should have stayed home. I will more than likely sleeping on the couch again tonight.
(And on that note, just to clarify from my earlier post, the mouse that I saw in the spare bed was not dead, it was just hanging out, sleeping in the bed like it belonged there. I figured I would be a gracious hostess and allow it the comfort of the bed while I took the couch. Sorry for the confusion)
(And on that note, just to clarify from my earlier post, the mouse that I saw in the spare bed was not dead, it was just hanging out, sleeping in the bed like it belonged there. I figured I would be a gracious hostess and allow it the comfort of the bed while I took the couch. Sorry for the confusion)
Civil Disobedience: The Day After
What can I say. I went to Calgary. I got the shoes. I stayed longer than I was allowed to (I was supposed to go, get the shoes, and come right home, no dilly-dallying around). I came home to a moody Keeper who was upset about me going, me staying, and me coming home late. And I had a shitty night, which ended with me sleeping on the couch, because there was a mouse in the bed of the guestroom. Were the shoes worth it? You bet your ass they were.
And today there will be more disobedience. I was told that the roads are too bad for me to go to Rocky today for the Thursday English Torture Session for the Koreans. This excuse seems to being coming more from his desire to boss me around than from a concern for my safety. Yes it's snowing, and yes the roads are bound to be wet and a little bit slick, but I have been driving in Canada for thirteen years , and I do know something about travelling safely in winter conditions. I'm so sick and tired of hearing those words: You better not go because the roads are too bad. That's why I wasn't supposed to go to my Birthday Party (which I did anyway), that's why I wasn't supposed to go to Lethbridge (which I did), that's why I had to stay in Lethbridge for two extra days, and that's why I had to stay in Calgary the day I came home from Lethbridge (which I did with great pleasure).
I wish that I could somehow convey to him that I am not his teenager and that I am an adult and I, not The Keeper, am in control of me. For the record: ELIZABETH PARK CANNOT BE CONTROLLED BY ANYONE. SHE WILL DO WHAT SHE PLEASES AND GO WHERE SHE PLEASES, REGARDLESS OF THE ROAD CONDITIONS!!
And today there will be more disobedience. I was told that the roads are too bad for me to go to Rocky today for the Thursday English Torture Session for the Koreans. This excuse seems to being coming more from his desire to boss me around than from a concern for my safety. Yes it's snowing, and yes the roads are bound to be wet and a little bit slick, but I have been driving in Canada for thirteen years , and I do know something about travelling safely in winter conditions. I'm so sick and tired of hearing those words: You better not go because the roads are too bad. That's why I wasn't supposed to go to my Birthday Party (which I did anyway), that's why I wasn't supposed to go to Lethbridge (which I did), that's why I had to stay in Lethbridge for two extra days, and that's why I had to stay in Calgary the day I came home from Lethbridge (which I did with great pleasure).
I wish that I could somehow convey to him that I am not his teenager and that I am an adult and I, not The Keeper, am in control of me. For the record: ELIZABETH PARK CANNOT BE CONTROLLED BY ANYONE. SHE WILL DO WHAT SHE PLEASES AND GO WHERE SHE PLEASES, REGARDLESS OF THE ROAD CONDITIONS!!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Civil Disobedience
I have new shoes. They are waiting for me in Calgary. Unfortunately I have been told that I'm not allowed to drive to Calgary for a pair of shoes. This presents a problem for me. I need these shoes by Saturday. In fact I MUST HAVE these shoes by Saturday, so right now I am preparing to go to Calgary and spend a fortune on gas to retrieve a pair of shoes I already have spent another fortune on. According to the Keeper, a fortune in gas would be the $78.26 it costs to fill the tank in my car. I'm sure he will pee his pants when he finds out the shoes are well over $100, and the dresses that need these particular shoes cost nearly $300. This is why you don't give me your bank card and say, "Buy your self something nice." I will happily obey this command, however, I am going to Calgary for the shoes. End of story.
Maybe not quite the end of the story. Since when has the Keeper been so concerned about how much I spend on gas? He is in charge of ripping it from the ground. He makes a lot of money doing this. We can afford to put gas in my car. We can afford to put fuel in his truck and my car. We can also afford to heat the garage with it's poorly insulated door (meaning the door has an R factor of zero) all winter to the tune of $200 a month, when a new door would cost less than $500, with an automatic garage door opener. We can afford to waste all kinds of money, but all of a sudden we can't afford a tank of gas in order for me drive to Calgary just for a pair of shoes?
Something is fishy here. And by the way, it's not just for a pair of shoes. I will also be visiting my friends (which I suspect is the real issue here), and maybe doing some more shopping. Enjoying the waning freedom of buying things without looking at the price tag. Which I suspect will be coming to a screeching halt in the near future. But that is not the point.
The point is that I cannot be commanded not to do something by someone who claims to be my equal partner in our relationship, but constantly orders me around like some kind of tyrant. I am going to get the shoes, and you, Keeper, are going to have to live with it. And THAT is the end of the story.
Maybe not quite the end of the story. Since when has the Keeper been so concerned about how much I spend on gas? He is in charge of ripping it from the ground. He makes a lot of money doing this. We can afford to put gas in my car. We can afford to put fuel in his truck and my car. We can also afford to heat the garage with it's poorly insulated door (meaning the door has an R factor of zero) all winter to the tune of $200 a month, when a new door would cost less than $500, with an automatic garage door opener. We can afford to waste all kinds of money, but all of a sudden we can't afford a tank of gas in order for me drive to Calgary just for a pair of shoes?
Something is fishy here. And by the way, it's not just for a pair of shoes. I will also be visiting my friends (which I suspect is the real issue here), and maybe doing some more shopping. Enjoying the waning freedom of buying things without looking at the price tag. Which I suspect will be coming to a screeching halt in the near future. But that is not the point.
The point is that I cannot be commanded not to do something by someone who claims to be my equal partner in our relationship, but constantly orders me around like some kind of tyrant. I am going to get the shoes, and you, Keeper, are going to have to live with it. And THAT is the end of the story.
Monday, May 5, 2008
An Open Letter
Dear Keeper,
Once again, since you won't listen to what I have to say, I am forced to put it out for the world to see in order to get it off my chest.
Please, when you are driving with me in the vehicle, could you not incite others into fits of road-rage? And if you do something that others may consider impolite or poor driving, could you apologise to them instead of screaming out the window at them at red lights? And if someone pisses you off, would it really be so bad to just let it go, rather than chase them around town in order to ask them to pull over and resolve the issue via a fistfight on the side of the road?
I'm afraid I'll have to illustrate your bad behavior with a couple of examples.
Yesterday, in Red Deer, you cut someone off on the bridge. He wasn't happy about it and chose to take a page from your book and gesticulate and yell out his window. At the stop light, you both rolled down your windows and when asked "What his fucking problem was," he replied that you had "cut him off." An appropriate response would have been, "Sorry, buddy, I needed in that lane." The inappropriate response (and of course the one you chose to use) was, "I'll cut your head off!"
I'm sorry, did you really threaten to cut off someone's head in the middle of traffic on a busy road in Red Deer? A normal person does not do that. A normal person does not also threaten to cut off MY head if I don't shut up when questioned about the wisdom of such a threat.
Another driving related problem I would like to discuss with you is your behavior when driving my car. It is very distinctive, and is the only one like it in our town. Therefore, if you are driving it and acting like an asshole, the general public is going to assume that I am the one behind the wheel, and I don't need that. I strive to be a courteous driver, and I go to great lengths to control my temper whilst driving, and don't need you making a bad impression in my car.
Also, remember the time you stood on the corner at the only four-way stop in Caroline screaming at the guy in the gravel truck to get out and fight you, or the time you blocked a guy in at the post office for parking in what you deemed to be a no parking zone, and then calling him on, or the time you chased the red neon throughout the county because of some perceived traffic violation which you felt you had to rectify with a beat down? These things are unacceptable in polite society, and are even unacceptable in rigging society. They have to stop before you wind up in jail, and believe me, that's where you're headed. You don't stand on street corners screaming at truckers, or tell strangers (or your girlfriends) that you are going to cut off their heads. And if you insist on driving like this, then I must insist that we take separate vehicles, because you act like a beast when I'm the one driving as well.
Thank you for your complete understanding in this matter, I'm sure that you will take every word to heart.
Sincerely,
The Captive
Once again, since you won't listen to what I have to say, I am forced to put it out for the world to see in order to get it off my chest.
Please, when you are driving with me in the vehicle, could you not incite others into fits of road-rage? And if you do something that others may consider impolite or poor driving, could you apologise to them instead of screaming out the window at them at red lights? And if someone pisses you off, would it really be so bad to just let it go, rather than chase them around town in order to ask them to pull over and resolve the issue via a fistfight on the side of the road?
I'm afraid I'll have to illustrate your bad behavior with a couple of examples.
Yesterday, in Red Deer, you cut someone off on the bridge. He wasn't happy about it and chose to take a page from your book and gesticulate and yell out his window. At the stop light, you both rolled down your windows and when asked "What his fucking problem was," he replied that you had "cut him off." An appropriate response would have been, "Sorry, buddy, I needed in that lane." The inappropriate response (and of course the one you chose to use) was, "I'll cut your head off!"
I'm sorry, did you really threaten to cut off someone's head in the middle of traffic on a busy road in Red Deer? A normal person does not do that. A normal person does not also threaten to cut off MY head if I don't shut up when questioned about the wisdom of such a threat.
Another driving related problem I would like to discuss with you is your behavior when driving my car. It is very distinctive, and is the only one like it in our town. Therefore, if you are driving it and acting like an asshole, the general public is going to assume that I am the one behind the wheel, and I don't need that. I strive to be a courteous driver, and I go to great lengths to control my temper whilst driving, and don't need you making a bad impression in my car.
Also, remember the time you stood on the corner at the only four-way stop in Caroline screaming at the guy in the gravel truck to get out and fight you, or the time you blocked a guy in at the post office for parking in what you deemed to be a no parking zone, and then calling him on, or the time you chased the red neon throughout the county because of some perceived traffic violation which you felt you had to rectify with a beat down? These things are unacceptable in polite society, and are even unacceptable in rigging society. They have to stop before you wind up in jail, and believe me, that's where you're headed. You don't stand on street corners screaming at truckers, or tell strangers (or your girlfriends) that you are going to cut off their heads. And if you insist on driving like this, then I must insist that we take separate vehicles, because you act like a beast when I'm the one driving as well.
Thank you for your complete understanding in this matter, I'm sure that you will take every word to heart.
Sincerely,
The Captive
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
An Unfortunate Chain of Events
A very good friend of mine tore her knee out playing soccer (which is why you should NEVER play soccer) and is having surgery on Monday. In her honour, I will relate to you a story that is not my most embarrassing moment, but hers. And I'm so thankful that I had the privilege of being there as a witness. (In all actuality, if I hadn't been there, none of this would have happened, so while I will take the blame, I will not take the shame.)
It all started in the afternoon. Madame K (as I will refer to her as) and I were at her house picking on her younger brother. It progressed into us hiding his bus pass (Mistake Number 1) and then leaving. We had big plans for the evening. We were going to play Monopoly and drink beers at my boyfriend's house. And since I was so responsible, I told my mother what was going to be happening and that I would be spending the night there ON THE COUCH. Of course I had to lie to her about sleeping on the couch, but it was a small one, and I'm sure she knew where I would be sleeping. Madame K, on the other hand, told her parents she was staying at my house (Mistake Number 2).
We had to wait for "Dave" to get off work and neither of us wanted to risk being at our own homes, in case my mother came to her senses about allowing me to spend the night at my boyfriend's, or her brother realised his bus pass was missing and made a scene. So we did what all well adjusted sixteen year old girls do, we played Monopoly in the back of my van, and changed our clothes numerous times.
Finally "Dave" got home from work and the serious business of our first over-nighter at a boy's place began. There was beer involved, but since neither Kirstin (pardon me, Madame K) or I liked beer, I believe something harder was brought out (mistake Number 3). We did play Monopoly, and I think other things... maybe cards, I don't remember, but we did eventually go to bed. Madame K and "Dave's" friend "Ryan" slept on the couches, and I slept in "Dave's" bed. Nothing worth mentioning happened, except that "Ryan" removed his shirt and jeans in order to be more comfortable while sleeping (Mistake Number 4).
The next morning, unbeknownst to us, events were unfolding that were going to come to a head on the doorstep of "Dave's" house.
The bus pass was found to be missing, a call was placed to my house, looking for Madame K and Mr and Mrs "Smith" were told that Madame K and I had spent the night at elsewhere, namely a boy's house. A little side note here, when I told my mother what I would be doing that night, I told her two lies, not one. She asked me if Madame K's parents were aware of our plan and were okay with it. I said yes (Mistake Number 5). Back to the drama, our parents discovered they had been deceived, and perhaps the most unfortunate thing of all, my mother knew where "Dave" lived, and also had the phone number.
While all of this was taking place, "Ryan" discovered that he had left his medication (for what I don't know but I sure it was something disgusting, knowing him) at home and called his mom to get her to bring it over. When there was a knock at the door, "Ryan" went up to answer it wearing nothing but his undies and a blanket. HA HA. It turns out it was not "Ryan's" mother but Madame K's FATHER!!!!!!!
In a barely controlled voice he asked if Madame K was there and "Ryan" came down to tell her the news, although we had all heard it. Belongings were hastily thrown into the bag, and as she was taken away, the telephone rang. It was my mother. She demanded that I come home immediately. I was obliged to oblige. There was one little problem. My keys were no where to be found. "Dave's" house was torn apart. My van was torn apart, there were no keys to be had. And then I remembered. We put the keys in Madame K's bag to keep them from being lost. I had to call her house and speak to her mother (easily the most formidable of the two [her dad and my dad went to high school together in Three Hills, where they got into touble, and by coincidence Madame K and I met in phys ed many years later, so he was a little more forgiving of our shenanigans than he should have been]), and then "Dave" drove me to her house where I had to face her parents in person, and I was briefly allowed to see Madame K but she had yet to meet her fate so we didn't know what she was in for.
"Dave" took me back to his place, where I departed for home. Upon my arrival, the keys were removed from my possession and I was most unfairly grounded, for lying to my mother and causing her subsequent embarrassment. I didn't think I should be grounded but you cannot argue with that woman when her mind has been made up. I don't remember what happened to Madame K, I'm sure it was a grounding as well .... OH WAIT, I believe it was the most uncomfortable conversation imaginable - the Sex Talk!!
We learned a very valuable lesson that weekend. If you are going to be doing things you know your parents would not approve of, always, ALWAYS, keep in mind that everything you do is leaving a trail, so be very careful of your actions leading up to the mischief that you are planning to get into. We would have gotten away with everything if we hadn't hid that bus pass.
It all started in the afternoon. Madame K (as I will refer to her as) and I were at her house picking on her younger brother. It progressed into us hiding his bus pass (Mistake Number 1) and then leaving. We had big plans for the evening. We were going to play Monopoly and drink beers at my boyfriend's house. And since I was so responsible, I told my mother what was going to be happening and that I would be spending the night there ON THE COUCH. Of course I had to lie to her about sleeping on the couch, but it was a small one, and I'm sure she knew where I would be sleeping. Madame K, on the other hand, told her parents she was staying at my house (Mistake Number 2).
We had to wait for "Dave" to get off work and neither of us wanted to risk being at our own homes, in case my mother came to her senses about allowing me to spend the night at my boyfriend's, or her brother realised his bus pass was missing and made a scene. So we did what all well adjusted sixteen year old girls do, we played Monopoly in the back of my van, and changed our clothes numerous times.
Finally "Dave" got home from work and the serious business of our first over-nighter at a boy's place began. There was beer involved, but since neither Kirstin (pardon me, Madame K) or I liked beer, I believe something harder was brought out (mistake Number 3). We did play Monopoly, and I think other things... maybe cards, I don't remember, but we did eventually go to bed. Madame K and "Dave's" friend "Ryan" slept on the couches, and I slept in "Dave's" bed. Nothing worth mentioning happened, except that "Ryan" removed his shirt and jeans in order to be more comfortable while sleeping (Mistake Number 4).
The next morning, unbeknownst to us, events were unfolding that were going to come to a head on the doorstep of "Dave's" house.
The bus pass was found to be missing, a call was placed to my house, looking for Madame K and Mr and Mrs "Smith" were told that Madame K and I had spent the night at elsewhere, namely a boy's house. A little side note here, when I told my mother what I would be doing that night, I told her two lies, not one. She asked me if Madame K's parents were aware of our plan and were okay with it. I said yes (Mistake Number 5). Back to the drama, our parents discovered they had been deceived, and perhaps the most unfortunate thing of all, my mother knew where "Dave" lived, and also had the phone number.
While all of this was taking place, "Ryan" discovered that he had left his medication (for what I don't know but I sure it was something disgusting, knowing him) at home and called his mom to get her to bring it over. When there was a knock at the door, "Ryan" went up to answer it wearing nothing but his undies and a blanket. HA HA. It turns out it was not "Ryan's" mother but Madame K's FATHER!!!!!!!
In a barely controlled voice he asked if Madame K was there and "Ryan" came down to tell her the news, although we had all heard it. Belongings were hastily thrown into the bag, and as she was taken away, the telephone rang. It was my mother. She demanded that I come home immediately. I was obliged to oblige. There was one little problem. My keys were no where to be found. "Dave's" house was torn apart. My van was torn apart, there were no keys to be had. And then I remembered. We put the keys in Madame K's bag to keep them from being lost. I had to call her house and speak to her mother (easily the most formidable of the two [her dad and my dad went to high school together in Three Hills, where they got into touble, and by coincidence Madame K and I met in phys ed many years later, so he was a little more forgiving of our shenanigans than he should have been]), and then "Dave" drove me to her house where I had to face her parents in person, and I was briefly allowed to see Madame K but she had yet to meet her fate so we didn't know what she was in for.
"Dave" took me back to his place, where I departed for home. Upon my arrival, the keys were removed from my possession and I was most unfairly grounded, for lying to my mother and causing her subsequent embarrassment. I didn't think I should be grounded but you cannot argue with that woman when her mind has been made up. I don't remember what happened to Madame K, I'm sure it was a grounding as well .... OH WAIT, I believe it was the most uncomfortable conversation imaginable - the Sex Talk!!
We learned a very valuable lesson that weekend. If you are going to be doing things you know your parents would not approve of, always, ALWAYS, keep in mind that everything you do is leaving a trail, so be very careful of your actions leading up to the mischief that you are planning to get into. We would have gotten away with everything if we hadn't hid that bus pass.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Hypocrisy That Is I
In the past five years, every one of my morals has been gingerly stepped over and then set aside and forgotten.
I protested at the G8 summit when it was in Calgary, marching throughout downtown core and shouting taunts at all the oil companies. Now I live very comfortably off proceeds of petroleum and drive a gas-guzzling SUV.
I refused to wear, own, or eat any product that came from an animal. Now I enjoy eating flesh, wearing flesh, and owning furniture made of flesh.
I balked at the travesty of brand name clothing like Polo and Tommy Hilfiger and their exploitation of the Third World. Now my absolute favorite piece of clothing I own is an argyle Hilfiger sweater vest that is to die for.
I swore that no man would ever own me. My current occupation is kept woman and I can honestly say it's the best job I've ever had.
I still recycle everything I can, I will never wear fur, I vote in every election I can in order to honour the suffragettes who fought for my right to be classified as a person in the eyes of the law, and while I don't support the war in Iraq, I do support the soldiers who risk everything in order to do what they believe is right. So I guess, while I have relaxed my moral standing a bit from say ten years ago, I think I'm still an all right person. (And the irony of the last statement is it comes just before a post that highlights all of my worst behaviors)
I protested at the G8 summit when it was in Calgary, marching throughout downtown core and shouting taunts at all the oil companies. Now I live very comfortably off proceeds of petroleum and drive a gas-guzzling SUV.
I refused to wear, own, or eat any product that came from an animal. Now I enjoy eating flesh, wearing flesh, and owning furniture made of flesh.
I balked at the travesty of brand name clothing like Polo and Tommy Hilfiger and their exploitation of the Third World. Now my absolute favorite piece of clothing I own is an argyle Hilfiger sweater vest that is to die for.
I swore that no man would ever own me. My current occupation is kept woman and I can honestly say it's the best job I've ever had.
I still recycle everything I can, I will never wear fur, I vote in every election I can in order to honour the suffragettes who fought for my right to be classified as a person in the eyes of the law, and while I don't support the war in Iraq, I do support the soldiers who risk everything in order to do what they believe is right. So I guess, while I have relaxed my moral standing a bit from say ten years ago, I think I'm still an all right person. (And the irony of the last statement is it comes just before a post that highlights all of my worst behaviors)
Hall of Shame
I was recently asked what the worst thing I'd ever done was. That is what I'd call a really good question. What is the worst thing I've ever done? I had to stop and think about it, because like my most embarrassing things, there's a lot of material.
Things like convincing my youngest brother he was adopted and that's why he's blond and blue eyed while the rest of us have green eyes and brown hair (but never telling him that he looks exactly like our Scottish gran-dad - Sorry Thomas), or being so horrible to my middle brother that he ran away from home and lived with his friend for a year (Sorry Michael), or not going to see my oldest brother's baby in the hospital because I was too stoned (Sorry Rory).
And then there's the open tuna can hidden in a girl's locker, the mean things I did to my cousin Sarah, calling my Grade 8 science teacher a stupid fucking retard (actually screaming it at him through a closed door during class), making boys think I liked them and then publicly humiliating them, stealing the virginity of many boys and laughing at them when they cried after, being an all-round out of control teenager and being responsible for nearly all of my mother's grey hair, sneaking my friends into my Granny's basement during lunch in order for them to get drunk off my dead gran-dad's wine, getting suspended every year from grade seven to grade twelve, treating my entire step-family, especially my step-sister (Sorry Krista) like garbage, dumping the contents of a public trash can into the car of a girl who I didn't care for (and then having to run barefoot from the police through backyards in Three Hills because I gave my shoes to a girl who had snuck out of the PBI) and then after I was caught and forced to clean it out by the police, throwing out all of her cassettes as well as the garbage, totally power-tripping on kids who were a lower rank than me when I was an air cadet (yes I'm admitting to being in cadets, and it made me a better person so I don't want any flack for it), swearing at old people when I worked at Superstore, swearing at old people when I worked at the Stanford Inn... The list obviously goes on and on.
There is a whole litany of things from when I worked at the Buffalo, because I started working there in order to NOT have to be nice to people any more. I threw a drink on an old lady because she said I couldn't sing (which was only the truth), I threw a glass at someone and it shattered against the wall, I threw a handicapped guy out the door because I thought he was drunk (but he was only retarded - that one I feel really, really bad for), being mean to a sixteen year old girl who was hooking herself out for meth (and is more than likely dead now), and then of course, the giant mural of Miss Piggy fucking a buffalo in the ass I left on the white board as an ode to the bitch of a new manager the night I quit. Actually, I not going to call that one of my worst acts, I'm going to call it hilarious because the doddering old lady that worked days in the Buff didn't even see it and it was up for a long time.
None of these quite compare to what I would deem my worst act ever. That award goes to the time I made out with the Groom at a wedding I attended when I was seventeen. I'm going to say that it was a far worse thing for the Groom to do, but I definitely knew better and as I was there not only as a guest of the bride, but also as a representative of my air cadet squadron (which shows I was one of her favorites), it was by far the most inappropriate thing I've ever done.
Things like convincing my youngest brother he was adopted and that's why he's blond and blue eyed while the rest of us have green eyes and brown hair (but never telling him that he looks exactly like our Scottish gran-dad - Sorry Thomas), or being so horrible to my middle brother that he ran away from home and lived with his friend for a year (Sorry Michael), or not going to see my oldest brother's baby in the hospital because I was too stoned (Sorry Rory).
And then there's the open tuna can hidden in a girl's locker, the mean things I did to my cousin Sarah, calling my Grade 8 science teacher a stupid fucking retard (actually screaming it at him through a closed door during class), making boys think I liked them and then publicly humiliating them, stealing the virginity of many boys and laughing at them when they cried after, being an all-round out of control teenager and being responsible for nearly all of my mother's grey hair, sneaking my friends into my Granny's basement during lunch in order for them to get drunk off my dead gran-dad's wine, getting suspended every year from grade seven to grade twelve, treating my entire step-family, especially my step-sister (Sorry Krista) like garbage, dumping the contents of a public trash can into the car of a girl who I didn't care for (and then having to run barefoot from the police through backyards in Three Hills because I gave my shoes to a girl who had snuck out of the PBI) and then after I was caught and forced to clean it out by the police, throwing out all of her cassettes as well as the garbage, totally power-tripping on kids who were a lower rank than me when I was an air cadet (yes I'm admitting to being in cadets, and it made me a better person so I don't want any flack for it), swearing at old people when I worked at Superstore, swearing at old people when I worked at the Stanford Inn... The list obviously goes on and on.
There is a whole litany of things from when I worked at the Buffalo, because I started working there in order to NOT have to be nice to people any more. I threw a drink on an old lady because she said I couldn't sing (which was only the truth), I threw a glass at someone and it shattered against the wall, I threw a handicapped guy out the door because I thought he was drunk (but he was only retarded - that one I feel really, really bad for), being mean to a sixteen year old girl who was hooking herself out for meth (and is more than likely dead now), and then of course, the giant mural of Miss Piggy fucking a buffalo in the ass I left on the white board as an ode to the bitch of a new manager the night I quit. Actually, I not going to call that one of my worst acts, I'm going to call it hilarious because the doddering old lady that worked days in the Buff didn't even see it and it was up for a long time.
None of these quite compare to what I would deem my worst act ever. That award goes to the time I made out with the Groom at a wedding I attended when I was seventeen. I'm going to say that it was a far worse thing for the Groom to do, but I definitely knew better and as I was there not only as a guest of the bride, but also as a representative of my air cadet squadron (which shows I was one of her favorites), it was by far the most inappropriate thing I've ever done.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Boy Was My Face Red II
First of all, I would like to apologise to my adoring public whom, I'm sure, have been waiting extraordinarily patiently for a new post, so if there is anyone out there still reading, the day has finally come.
As an apology, I would like to offer up the next installment of:
As an apology, I would like to offer up the next installment of:
MY MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENTS (II)
I have been trying to come up with more, because there are so many, such as falling asleep in a tanning bed, which turned out to be my most embarrassing week and a half, or working at the Buffalo, which could be called my most embarrassing two years, but I've settled on three more gems that I'm sure will be greatly enjoyed.
My roommate and partner-in-crime Amy and I decided a late-night trip to Boston Pizza was in order. I can guarantee that pot marijuana was involved, as that is the only way I would have gone, but I digress. As it was a late night venture, we were both fashionably dressed in very large, very baggy sweat pants and as BP's was only a ten minute walk, walk is what we did. For those of you unfamiliar with my place of residence, it was in a complex of "condominiums" that were originally built as barracks to house trainees for WW II. They were old and decrepit, but they were across Gaetz from Mort's and that was what mattered. No worries about cab fare = more money for drinking. But I digress (again). Amy and I were returning from our late night foray and decided ten minutes was too long to walk, as it was cold and windy and decided to take the short cut, which involved trespassing through the Red Deer County yard and two chain link fences. I think you may have guessed where this is going. We made it over the first fence with nary a problem, skipped our way through the yard and came to the second, and bigger, fence. Amy hopped over with no problem. I climbed up and as I hopped over the top, my sweats snagged on the wire and I was stuck. I was hanging there like a coat on a hook. Like a picture on a wall. Like an idiot on a fence. Amy was a great help, she literally was rolling on the ground in a fit of laughter. And all I could do was hang there. This fence backed onto the parking lot of my block. I was within sight of my home. And just when I thought it couldn't get worse, a car drove in. This fence backs onto the entrance of the parking lot of my block. Yes, my neighbours saw me hanging from the fence. And they were so helpful that they drove past and waved, causing Amy to resume her fit of laughter. So I hung there as cars drove by, with Amy rolling around on the ground, until she regained her composure long enough to grab me by the legs and rip me off the fence, leaving the seat of my pants on the fence, and all of my dignity somewhere on the other side of it.
The next event on my trail of disgrace would have to be my 24th birthday. I was still working at the Buffalo, and had to work that day. It was the 10:00 to 4:00 shift, so I was off early and could still go out to celebrate. Or that was the plan. I instead started drinking around 2:00, so I was pretty drunk by the time I got off work. I remember doing shots with my greatest admirer, Rod the Indian (not to be confused with Rod my Father). I remember going to the Arlington with Rod the Indian. I remember doing shots at the Arlington with Rod the Indian. I vaguely remember leaving the Arlington to return to the Buffalo with Rod the Indian, and I know it must have been after 8:00, because I remember the band playing. And then I remember nothing, until my roommate and other partner in crime Candace and the bartender Keith were picking me off the bathroom floor and put me into her car. Yes, that's right. I am admitting to passing out on the bathroom floor at the Buffalo. And I don't recommend it. Candace took me home (apparently, but I don't remember it) and put me to bed, and then went out to celebrate my birthday with all of our friends. What I do remember is waking up at 4:00 am and thinking that the clock was wrong and wondering why no one was home. Candace and our friend Neil came home right after I woke up and we smoked a joint and she filled me in on what I had done earlier in the evening. I remember denying everything and I going back to bed. I think the worst part about this whole incident, is that while I have forgotten everything about the event, no one else has. That and the fact that I know what kind of terrors reside on the bathroom floor in the Buffalo. I'm probably lucky I didn't catch anything.
The last story that I will recount this time is a beauty I like to refer to as the family reunion. I was at the bar with Candace and others, and Candace introduced me to her friend, whom I will refer to as Mr F, to protect the both of us. Mr F and I hit it off and spent the night talking and such, and it eventually turned to kissing and such. As we were still in the bar it never progressed past that stage. While we were still talking and such, he mentioned he was going to a family reunion the next day, which was a coincidence because I was as well. If we had not been drinking I'm sure that we would have explored the issue a little further than we did, but I digress. After the bar closed, we toyed with the idea of me going home with him, but there were the reunions in the morning so it was decided we would exchange numbers instead. The next day, I drove to Markerville to the big reunion and was hanging with my family when a man and another familiar guy came ambling up to where we were. My mom stood up and hugged the man and then turned to me and said, "Have you met my cousin W** F**** and his son Mr F?" All I said was, "I've met Mr F." We spent many uncomfortable minutes while my mother and her cousin caught up, and then they finally left. Needless to say, Mr F never called me.
I don't know if I'll continue this series because while it is a great source of entertainment, it has also served to remind me just how much of an idiot I can be, and I really don't need that kind of reminder. Anyway, I hope that it was enjoyed.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Since You Won't Listen To What I Have To Say...
So I lit the BBQ on fire last night. Does this really give you the right to yell at me for HOURS and HOURS? No, it doesn't and I'll tell you why:
1) You know that girls can't operate a BBQ. This is why men are always in charge of the grilling.
2) I was not the last one to use the BBQ and fill it full of disgusting fat and grease, therefore it is not my fault that it started on fire.
3) YES, for the hundredth time, IT WAS ON LOW!!! Do not ask me again.
At the most I believe that one hour of yelling would have been sufficiant, even though, as I have stated, it was not my fault. And guess what? I am not cleaning it out today. Or tomorrow. Or ever. HA HA.
1) You know that girls can't operate a BBQ. This is why men are always in charge of the grilling.
2) I was not the last one to use the BBQ and fill it full of disgusting fat and grease, therefore it is not my fault that it started on fire.
3) YES, for the hundredth time, IT WAS ON LOW!!! Do not ask me again.
At the most I believe that one hour of yelling would have been sufficiant, even though, as I have stated, it was not my fault. And guess what? I am not cleaning it out today. Or tomorrow. Or ever. HA HA.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
NEVER. EVER. PERIOD.
The other night I was asked if I ever thought about having children. By the man who said he wouldn't marry me. I was astonished to say the least. Five years ago we had this discussion. No, I never want to have children. NEVER. EVER.
Now all of a sudden, "Have you ever thought about having children?"
Yes, in Wal Mart surrounded by screaming kids and white trash single mothers I have thanked the lucky stars that I have no desire for that kind of life. Or in the grocery store when some kid is having a meltdown over a bag of cookies. I smile and turn up the music to drown out the screams and say, "Thank God that's not me."
And really, why would I want to grow a parasitic being inside me for nine months, go through excruciating agony to get it out, and have it slowly suck the life out of me for the next twenty years, and then be so grateful for the life I provided it with that it sells my house and puts me in the cheapest nursing home it can find, and blows my life savings cheating on it's spouse?
I'm going to have to say no thank you.
(When the man who won’t marry me was asked the same question in return, he simply replied yes. Yes he wants to have babies, but no he won’t marry me. Really? You might get the milk for free, but if you want calves, you’re going to have to buy the fucking cow, and even then it probably won’t reproduce.
Now all of a sudden, "Have you ever thought about having children?"
Yes, in Wal Mart surrounded by screaming kids and white trash single mothers I have thanked the lucky stars that I have no desire for that kind of life. Or in the grocery store when some kid is having a meltdown over a bag of cookies. I smile and turn up the music to drown out the screams and say, "Thank God that's not me."
And really, why would I want to grow a parasitic being inside me for nine months, go through excruciating agony to get it out, and have it slowly suck the life out of me for the next twenty years, and then be so grateful for the life I provided it with that it sells my house and puts me in the cheapest nursing home it can find, and blows my life savings cheating on it's spouse?
I'm going to have to say no thank you.
(When the man who won’t marry me was asked the same question in return, he simply replied yes. Yes he wants to have babies, but no he won’t marry me. Really? You might get the milk for free, but if you want calves, you’re going to have to buy the fucking cow, and even then it probably won’t reproduce.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Easy Does It
What is it that makes a fat old man think that he has a chance with someone of my calibre?
This past weekend I took a trip with my mother and sister-in-law Leila (pronounced leee-la, so don't get it wrong or there will be trouble). Leila lives on the way into Red Deer, so I picked her up on the way to my mom's.
Just past Sylvan Lake, a red truck started to pass us. Leila happened to be looking at me, as we were talking, and the grease ball in the truck thought (somehow) that she was checking him out. So he stopped passing us and started doing the same speed in the next lane. Instead of watching the road, he was contorting himself to look out his passenger window, grinning like the creepiest idiot I have ever seen. This man was sporting a walrus moustache, jowls like a bulldog and a stomach like... I don't know what. It was huge.
I slowed down, and so did he. I sped up and so did he. Might I also state that it was not even 7:30 in the morning yet? I was in no mood to deal with this old loser, so i stepped on the brakes and slowed down to fifty, and he finally passed us and went into our lane. I sped back up and unfortuantely caught up to him, and he slowed down to ninety, hoping we would pass him. I did not. The entire time we were behind him, we could see him checking us out in all his mirrors. It was then that we noticed his bumpersticker, which said "Easy Does It" (there was also a cartoon cat and dog, which makes me think he was driving his wife's truck). I don't know why, but this was the creepiest thing about the whole operation he was running.
When we got to Red Deer we had th misfortune of hitting a red light. Just as he got to the line, he changed lanes, so we would be beside him. I was ready for this manouver and pulled in behind him. When the light turned green, he moved back into the other lane, but to our great relief, he took the exit and we were free of him at last.
I ask again: Why, if you are a man well into your fifties, do you think that you have a chance with me and/or my sister-in-law? Why do you think that what you were doing is going to impress us, and really, what makes you think that it's acceptable behavior?
This past weekend I took a trip with my mother and sister-in-law Leila (pronounced leee-la, so don't get it wrong or there will be trouble). Leila lives on the way into Red Deer, so I picked her up on the way to my mom's.
Just past Sylvan Lake, a red truck started to pass us. Leila happened to be looking at me, as we were talking, and the grease ball in the truck thought (somehow) that she was checking him out. So he stopped passing us and started doing the same speed in the next lane. Instead of watching the road, he was contorting himself to look out his passenger window, grinning like the creepiest idiot I have ever seen. This man was sporting a walrus moustache, jowls like a bulldog and a stomach like... I don't know what. It was huge.
I slowed down, and so did he. I sped up and so did he. Might I also state that it was not even 7:30 in the morning yet? I was in no mood to deal with this old loser, so i stepped on the brakes and slowed down to fifty, and he finally passed us and went into our lane. I sped back up and unfortuantely caught up to him, and he slowed down to ninety, hoping we would pass him. I did not. The entire time we were behind him, we could see him checking us out in all his mirrors. It was then that we noticed his bumpersticker, which said "Easy Does It" (there was also a cartoon cat and dog, which makes me think he was driving his wife's truck). I don't know why, but this was the creepiest thing about the whole operation he was running.
When we got to Red Deer we had th misfortune of hitting a red light. Just as he got to the line, he changed lanes, so we would be beside him. I was ready for this manouver and pulled in behind him. When the light turned green, he moved back into the other lane, but to our great relief, he took the exit and we were free of him at last.
I ask again: Why, if you are a man well into your fifties, do you think that you have a chance with me and/or my sister-in-law? Why do you think that what you were doing is going to impress us, and really, what makes you think that it's acceptable behavior?
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Spitters Are Quitters
There is a sign in the Caroline Arena (excuse me, the Kurt Browning Arena) right when you walk in, that says, in big red letters:
Really? You need a sign for that? What kind of place do I live in that you need to be reminded that spitting on the floor is not allowed? When I first saw it, I thought it was hilarious. But the more I think about it, the less funny it becomes.
For those who have never visited the fair Village of Caroline, let me paint you a picture. Chaps are not an uncommon sight, nor is a horse in the parking lot of the grocery store. There's even a hitching post. Moustaches, cowboy hats, and livestock trailers are essential Caroline gear. The main industries in the area are Outfitting (guiding hunters) and Horse Ranching. Every truck you see has a herding dog in the passenger seat. And you are lucky to see a woman with all her teeth (if you do, it's probably me). I wouldn't go so far as to use the word hillbilly, but I may be inclined to say rednecks at their finest.
I'm not disparaging Caroline, I love it here. And there are many outstanding figures who hail from this lovely little town. All I'm saying, is that if you need a sign reminding people to not spit on the floor, maybe it's time to switch from mountain-man special to something a little more refined. And to remember that just because you're an adult, doesn't mean you don't have to use manners.
"NO SPITTING ON THE FLOOR"
Really? You need a sign for that? What kind of place do I live in that you need to be reminded that spitting on the floor is not allowed? When I first saw it, I thought it was hilarious. But the more I think about it, the less funny it becomes.
For those who have never visited the fair Village of Caroline, let me paint you a picture. Chaps are not an uncommon sight, nor is a horse in the parking lot of the grocery store. There's even a hitching post. Moustaches, cowboy hats, and livestock trailers are essential Caroline gear. The main industries in the area are Outfitting (guiding hunters) and Horse Ranching. Every truck you see has a herding dog in the passenger seat. And you are lucky to see a woman with all her teeth (if you do, it's probably me). I wouldn't go so far as to use the word hillbilly, but I may be inclined to say rednecks at their finest.
I'm not disparaging Caroline, I love it here. And there are many outstanding figures who hail from this lovely little town. All I'm saying, is that if you need a sign reminding people to not spit on the floor, maybe it's time to switch from mountain-man special to something a little more refined. And to remember that just because you're an adult, doesn't mean you don't have to use manners.
Monday, March 3, 2008
I Don't (And Apparently Never Will)
In the past week, I have learned two things:
1) I was informed that I will never be getting married
2) I don't care
That's right. I was told the other night that if I want to get married, I had better start looking for someone else to marry me. An interesting piece of information to say the least, one that I might have liked to have known five years ago. Even more interesting is the fact that I don't care.
Two months ago I would have been bawling my eyes out, decrying the unfairness of life. In fact I did just that after I didn't get an engagement ring for Christmas (although I did get the ring I had picked out to be my engagement ring, minus the proposal). However, fate has a funny little way of making you think you want one thing when really, you want something completely different.
I think the only thing that I will really mourn is the fact that I would have been the most beautiful bride in the combined histories of the Park and Brown families.
1) I was informed that I will never be getting married
2) I don't care
That's right. I was told the other night that if I want to get married, I had better start looking for someone else to marry me. An interesting piece of information to say the least, one that I might have liked to have known five years ago. Even more interesting is the fact that I don't care.
Two months ago I would have been bawling my eyes out, decrying the unfairness of life. In fact I did just that after I didn't get an engagement ring for Christmas (although I did get the ring I had picked out to be my engagement ring, minus the proposal). However, fate has a funny little way of making you think you want one thing when really, you want something completely different.
I think the only thing that I will really mourn is the fact that I would have been the most beautiful bride in the combined histories of the Park and Brown families.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Service With a Smile
Here's how I know my new bra is a keeper:
Today I was in an electronics store, and I asked the first nerd I saw for help. He told my tits that he didn't know anything about the item I was interested in and took me to the guy that did. The guy that knew answered my questions while flicking his eyes ever downward, and for longer periods of time until he gave up and told my tits everything I needed to know. Then the two of them stood there and stared at me (my chest) until I blushed and said thank you very much. That's right, two nerds at BestBuy made me blush and run away.
I am definitely wearing this bra again.
Today I was in an electronics store, and I asked the first nerd I saw for help. He told my tits that he didn't know anything about the item I was interested in and took me to the guy that did. The guy that knew answered my questions while flicking his eyes ever downward, and for longer periods of time until he gave up and told my tits everything I needed to know. Then the two of them stood there and stared at me (my chest) until I blushed and said thank you very much. That's right, two nerds at BestBuy made me blush and run away.
I am definitely wearing this bra again.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Boy, Was My Face Red
Yesterday, as I was driving, I thought of so many things to write about. Today, as I sit here, there is nothing in my head but images of dead mice and x-rated thoughts. I guess years of being a total chronic really has affected my memory. So instead of whatever genius rant I had planned, you get nothing but boring stories from the past. So without further ado, I give you:
Later that same summer, I was babysitting, with my cousin Sarah, and we invited some boys in. I have since learned that this is not an appropriate venue for that kind of behavior, but being young, boy crazy, and new in town, we figured it was a good way to make friends. It was after midnight, and had I been thinking, I would have known that the parents were due back at any time. However, I was not thinking and was "making out" with a guy I had just met, in a dark bedroom, when there was a commotion upstairs. All of a sudden the door shot open and in walked The Mother. Who, incidentally, happened to be a close friend of My Mother. There was a great amount of drama, we were driven home, and My Mother, who was out of town, was called. She was told, unbeknown to me, that I was having sex with strangers while other strangers were robbing the house. This is UNTRUE. I was not having sex, and nothing was ever discovered to be missing. Fifteen years later, my mom believes that woman's story over mine.
Fast forward many minor embarrassments to the summer of 1997. I was at my boyfriend's house in the middle of the day when his parents were supposed to be at work. This time I was having sex, or had been, and was getting out of the shower when his mom came home. She called out a hello to (name withheld), who was in the shower and did not hear her. I had enough time before she got to the bottom of the stairs to get to (name withheld)'s room, naked. And my clothes were on the floor beside the couch, which she couldn't see from that angle. She did see my shoes by the door when she came in. (Name withheld) was getting out of the shower and his mom asked if I was there. For some reason, he said no. She asked why my shoes were upstairs and he lamely said I left without them. She obviously didn't believe him, and at that moment, the phone rang. The only phone in the basement was in (name withheld)'s bedroom, where I was standing naked. His mother came in to answer it and I had enough sense to hop behind the door. She sat on the bed and chatted with friend, while I stood shivering behind the door, for a good five minutes. At last she hung up and made to leave the room. To my horror, as she went passed the door, she tried to push it open. Into me. The door didn't move and she pulled it out to see what was obstructing it. I stood there like an idiot, naked and wet, for a minute and then said, "Hi Mrs (Name withheld)." There was a considerable amount of drama, a lecture on safe sex and, to my great embarrassment, I was invited to stay for dinner. I don't think she told Mr (name withheld), as I think I would not have stayed for supper if he had known.
There are many more tales in this large and untapped pool, and since this is long enough, you can wait until next time to hear some more. Until then, try not to picture me naked.
My Most Embarrassing Moments
The first (and only) time I was brought home by the police. My brother (13), my cousin Sarah (13), and I (14) decided it would be a good idea to sneak out in the middle of the night (sort of a recurring theme with us). We met up with some other town delinquents on "Main Street" and spent the wee hours getting into various troubles and eventually we were all separated. My brother had the misfortune of being busted. Sarah saw this go down and took off for home, getting there about the same time as the police were waking my mother up. She managed to sneak in the basement door, and was "sleeping" on the couch when my mom came down to check on us. It was then discovered that I was missing. She went up and told the officers that there was another Park on the loose, and an APB (seriously) was issued for me, along with the description of the vehicle I was probably in, weaseled from either Sarah or Rory, I have never found out which. So said vehicle (a blue station wagon) was located with me inside. I was taken home in the back of the cruiser, lectured the entire way, and returned safely to my mom, in front of the neighbours and worse yet, my Gramma. There was drama, groundings all round, and we were woken up two hours later at seven to begin scrubbing the house. I have to note here, this was before we moved to The City and took place in a horrid little town where there was a constabulary of five or six members, and everyone knew everyone.
It was the scandal of the crescent until we moved away, a month later.Later that same summer, I was babysitting, with my cousin Sarah, and we invited some boys in. I have since learned that this is not an appropriate venue for that kind of behavior, but being young, boy crazy, and new in town, we figured it was a good way to make friends. It was after midnight, and had I been thinking, I would have known that the parents were due back at any time. However, I was not thinking and was "making out" with a guy I had just met, in a dark bedroom, when there was a commotion upstairs. All of a sudden the door shot open and in walked The Mother. Who, incidentally, happened to be a close friend of My Mother. There was a great amount of drama, we were driven home, and My Mother, who was out of town, was called. She was told, unbeknown to me, that I was having sex with strangers while other strangers were robbing the house. This is UNTRUE. I was not having sex, and nothing was ever discovered to be missing. Fifteen years later, my mom believes that woman's story over mine.
Fast forward many minor embarrassments to the summer of 1997. I was at my boyfriend's house in the middle of the day when his parents were supposed to be at work. This time I was having sex, or had been, and was getting out of the shower when his mom came home. She called out a hello to (name withheld), who was in the shower and did not hear her. I had enough time before she got to the bottom of the stairs to get to (name withheld)'s room, naked. And my clothes were on the floor beside the couch, which she couldn't see from that angle. She did see my shoes by the door when she came in. (Name withheld) was getting out of the shower and his mom asked if I was there. For some reason, he said no. She asked why my shoes were upstairs and he lamely said I left without them. She obviously didn't believe him, and at that moment, the phone rang. The only phone in the basement was in (name withheld)'s bedroom, where I was standing naked. His mother came in to answer it and I had enough sense to hop behind the door. She sat on the bed and chatted with friend, while I stood shivering behind the door, for a good five minutes. At last she hung up and made to leave the room. To my horror, as she went passed the door, she tried to push it open. Into me. The door didn't move and she pulled it out to see what was obstructing it. I stood there like an idiot, naked and wet, for a minute and then said, "Hi Mrs (Name withheld)." There was a considerable amount of drama, a lecture on safe sex and, to my great embarrassment, I was invited to stay for dinner. I don't think she told Mr (name withheld), as I think I would not have stayed for supper if he had known.
There are many more tales in this large and untapped pool, and since this is long enough, you can wait until next time to hear some more. Until then, try not to picture me naked.
Good Morning
I can guarantee you this: There is nothing more delightful than waking up to a dead mouse in your pantry. It really starts the day off right.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Not Only Am I An Idiot, I'm Also A Liar
I've always told my Learners to come to me with things they don't understand and I will try to help them, as long as it's not math.
Yesterday one of them came to me, showed me this:
Field of View = low power FOV x magnification of low object lens
magnification of med. or high object lens
and said, "What does this mean?"
I'll tell you what it means. It means I can't do grade 8 science. I remember grade eight, and I remember not doing this in it. I also remember Bio 30 and I remember not doing this. I told her I would look it up and send her an email with the answer by eight at the latest.
After about an hour of google-ing, I found the answer and emailed it to her. And it was promptly sent back to me. So I tried it again, with a different letter, and it was returned. In this address there are two mystery letters that could either be "R" or "V"; and "U" or "W". I tried to send it with all the combinations and it refused to be delivered. Needless to say, I did not send the answer by eight o'clock. So now, she not only thinks I'm an idiot, but a liar as well.
Yesterday one of them came to me, showed me this:
Field of View = low power FOV x magnification of low object lens
magnification of med. or high object lens
and said, "What does this mean?"
I'll tell you what it means. It means I can't do grade 8 science. I remember grade eight, and I remember not doing this in it. I also remember Bio 30 and I remember not doing this. I told her I would look it up and send her an email with the answer by eight at the latest.
After about an hour of google-ing, I found the answer and emailed it to her. And it was promptly sent back to me. So I tried it again, with a different letter, and it was returned. In this address there are two mystery letters that could either be "R" or "V"; and "U" or "W". I tried to send it with all the combinations and it refused to be delivered. Needless to say, I did not send the answer by eight o'clock. So now, she not only thinks I'm an idiot, but a liar as well.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Whass Up Anywaysss?
This is a yield sign. It means slow down and if someone is coming, stop.
Unless you're a drunk Indian with a shitty beat up car in Rocky, with a big greasy NDN decal in the back window. Then it means pin it when you see someone coming and then slam on your brakes and slide through the intersection, missing the oncoming vehical by a couple of inches.
But there's no time to spare when it's opening time at the liquor store.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Stupid Little Girls
I am so sick and tired of being treated like an idiot because I'm a girl.
Things like old men trying to explain to me how a heater works, because it took them awhile to figure it out, obviously a girl would never understand.
So... you turn the dial to "ON" and set the fan speed to 1, 2, or 3? I don't get it, can you repeat it slower?
Oh, so you hit the hammer with the nail? Oh, oh, other way around. Stupid, silly, pretty me.
I just want to SCREAM. I know it, I'm smarter than you. I rebuilt my house almost entirely on my own. I can figure out the fucking fan.
No I'm not going to be stuck in three inches of snow; I know how to put my car in 4x4.
No my keys aren't too heavy for my ignition; they are not going to make my steering wheel fall off.
Guess what: I can (and have) changed a tire before. Once in high heels. I can use a nail gun, I can use a power saw, and I can use a drill, a hammer, a screw driver, a fucking flashlight.
I can sand, I can paint, I can empty a mouse trap, I can fish a dead bat out of the toilet. I can start a fire, I can drive a manual transmission, and if I don't know how to do something I can figure it out, ON MY OWN.
Just because I'm a girl, doesn't mean I can't do it. In fact it means I can do it, better than you, faster than you, and right the first time.
SO STOP TELLING ME HOW TO TURN OFF THE LIGHT!!!!!!!
Things like old men trying to explain to me how a heater works, because it took them awhile to figure it out, obviously a girl would never understand.
So... you turn the dial to "ON" and set the fan speed to 1, 2, or 3? I don't get it, can you repeat it slower?
Oh, so you hit the hammer with the nail? Oh, oh, other way around. Stupid, silly, pretty me.
I just want to SCREAM. I know it, I'm smarter than you. I rebuilt my house almost entirely on my own. I can figure out the fucking fan.
No I'm not going to be stuck in three inches of snow; I know how to put my car in 4x4.
No my keys aren't too heavy for my ignition; they are not going to make my steering wheel fall off.
Guess what: I can (and have) changed a tire before. Once in high heels. I can use a nail gun, I can use a power saw, and I can use a drill, a hammer, a screw driver, a fucking flashlight.
I can sand, I can paint, I can empty a mouse trap, I can fish a dead bat out of the toilet. I can start a fire, I can drive a manual transmission, and if I don't know how to do something I can figure it out, ON MY OWN.
Just because I'm a girl, doesn't mean I can't do it. In fact it means I can do it, better than you, faster than you, and right the first time.
SO STOP TELLING ME HOW TO TURN OFF THE LIGHT!!!!!!!
Friday, February 1, 2008
ANGST
Why is that you can wish and wish for something and you never get it even though it knows you want it and it teases you with it, and then years later when everything is going perfect without it, the thing that you always wished for comes back into your life and wants to give you what you always wanted and now there is no way you could ever have it but you want it sooooooooo bad and it really has what you wanted and it tells you that it has it and you CANNOT HAVE IT, but it is so good and you've wanted it for so long? WHY? WWWWWHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYY?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The Spanking
Perhaps I will regale you with a tale from the past, a tale that will have you glued to your computer screen for minutes. I have so many I don't know where to begin. I guess I’ll start with one of my favorites.
Once upon a time, my cousin Sarah and I were waiting for my mother in the parking lot of Canadian Tire. All of a sudden, a boy pulled up beside us. Being teenagers starved for the attention of boys, we started talking to them, and eventually (i don't remember how) made plans to meet them at Sarah's farm later.
We pulled the old, "we're sleeping in the camper" trick, and off to the quonset we went. This is where things start to get hazy for me, as it was also the first time I ever smoked marijuana, so I can't remember exact details. I do remember being in the camper with the boys, I remember playing hide and seek outside in the dark, and being terrified that coyotes were going to kill us, so much so that I thought a post was a rabid coyote coming to eat me, I remember getting shocked by the camper as I stepped out and grabbed the handrail, which was somehow electrically charged, literally picked off my feet and thrown to the ground. And I also remember the spanking (my favorite).
Now, I think that we had gotten away with the SNEAKING OUT TO MEET BOYS for a couple of nights, or maybe it was just one, but I know, for some reason we went down the road to meet up with them. Somehow, her mother figured out we were gone and came looking for us. Damn the pot, but I don't remember how it happened, if we came back before she did, or if she found us. I think I would remember getting found, I think we thought we were in the clear and as it turns out, we weren't. I vividly remember being yelled at in the living room, and then the worst thing that could have happened: Uncle David storming up the stairs. Those who do not know Uncle David, do not know that he has never been angry in his life, unless my father was involved.
This was probably the scariest moment of my sixteen years of life. His face was red, his eyes were wild. I knew we were in trouble. He stormed into the living room and grabbed Sarah, pulled her off the couch and over his knee. And then it happened. A SPANKING AT SIXTEEN. Oh the humanity. I thought I was next. I wasn't, but I think it was close. I didn't know what to do, no one did. As I said, it was one of the worst things I ever witnessed. I believe there were more stern talking toos and being sent to bed, not in the camper, but the thing that i see when I close my eyes is the spanking. Horrifying.
I know that because of this incident, we were more careful when it came to mischief, but it didn't end it, and now whenever I'm feeling blue, all I have to do is close my eyes and open my mind to the day of the spanking, and suddenly I'm not sad.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Call Me Back
I think I'm forgetting how to talk on the phone. Since the creation of the Text Message, i have used my phone for talking less and less. I text my brothers instead of calling them, and I prefer to send an email to actually speaking to a human being.
If you knew me in my teen years (before the invention of IM, TEXTING, and, EMAIL) you would know that the phone and I rarely parted company. Hour upon hour, spent talking into the speaker, the earpiece growing hot on my ear. Locked in the bathroom for privacy, while younger, more immature ears pressed themselves against the door in a vain attempt to eavesdrop. And always, the pounding on the door and the cry of war, "I NEED TO USE THE PHONE!!"
The battles for control of the phone were epic and ferocious. I've had telephones thrown at me, wrenched from my hands mid-sentence, the unfortunate listener traumatised by the sounds of struggle. My brother hit me with the family van in retaliation for ending his call prematurely. Yes, I have suffered the wages of war in attempts to liberate the phone from enemy hands. All for the pleasure to call my cousin and hastily whisper, "Call me back."
Ah yes, the final indignity: Long distance to my best friend, but not the other way. She could call me free of charge, I was not spared the cost. Through hours spent on the phone, we became quite savvy, coming up with codes for things we weren't allowed to talk about (boys, boyfriends, and S E X). Plots were hatched, plans developed, mischief made. Many a night of trouble started with the phrase, "Is Sarah there?"
Now the trouble begins with a chime and a pop up of "Sarah has just signed in". And the trouble does not entail sneaking out and meeting boys down the road, or dumping a can full of trash into a car and running barefoot from the police. No, now it begins, "Why are you up so late?"
The irony of the post is my brother called and I was talking to him on the phone while I wrote this
If you knew me in my teen years (before the invention of IM, TEXTING, and, EMAIL) you would know that the phone and I rarely parted company. Hour upon hour, spent talking into the speaker, the earpiece growing hot on my ear. Locked in the bathroom for privacy, while younger, more immature ears pressed themselves against the door in a vain attempt to eavesdrop. And always, the pounding on the door and the cry of war, "I NEED TO USE THE PHONE!!"
The battles for control of the phone were epic and ferocious. I've had telephones thrown at me, wrenched from my hands mid-sentence, the unfortunate listener traumatised by the sounds of struggle. My brother hit me with the family van in retaliation for ending his call prematurely. Yes, I have suffered the wages of war in attempts to liberate the phone from enemy hands. All for the pleasure to call my cousin and hastily whisper, "Call me back."
Ah yes, the final indignity: Long distance to my best friend, but not the other way. She could call me free of charge, I was not spared the cost. Through hours spent on the phone, we became quite savvy, coming up with codes for things we weren't allowed to talk about (boys, boyfriends, and S E X). Plots were hatched, plans developed, mischief made. Many a night of trouble started with the phrase, "Is Sarah there?"
Now the trouble begins with a chime and a pop up of "Sarah has just signed in". And the trouble does not entail sneaking out and meeting boys down the road, or dumping a can full of trash into a car and running barefoot from the police. No, now it begins, "Why are you up so late?"
The irony of the post is my brother called and I was talking to him on the phone while I wrote this
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
If You Don't Want Me To Buy It, Don't Give Me Your Bank Card
The Old Man always chastises me for buying useless things. One time I bought a compost bucket (that you put your kitchen scraps in until you take them out to the bin) and I got in trouble because a regular bucket would have worked fine. But a regular bucket isn't as nice as the compost bucket. And it's see through, which is no good because then you can see what's going on inside the bucket. Which is gross.
When he gets home tonight I'm going to be in trouble. I can't help myself. I bought some drawer organisers, which we already have. But the new ones are NICE metal mesh, while the old one is not. It's plastic and it's stained (from what I don't know because how do you spill in a closed drawer?) and it's stinky white ugly plastic. That I can probably get away with, it's the other thing that will really be the problem. What could that be? Learner's Chopsticks. I bought two pairs. For $4.99. They look like giant clothes pins and they also look like a TONNE of fun. Unfortunately the Old Man can use chopsticks quite well. How I don't know, but he can and will refuse to use the ones I bought and I will be in trouble for wasteful spending.
Another thing is I bought three books and the problem there is:
A) I have no more room for new books. The Book Room is full to capacity and is spilling it's contents throughout the house; and
B) I have already read two of the three I bought. But I read books like people watch movies. If I like it, I read it again and again. That is why I BUY them in the first place rather than borrow them from the Library, which is a whole other issue itself. Who wants to read books that countless others have had in their bathroom, and touched before washing their hands?
I think I will just put the books in the Book Room and hope that they quietly blend in with the others. Thus I will only be in trouble for on thing that I probably deserve to be in trouble for anyway. In the mean time, I have some chopsticks to use.
When he gets home tonight I'm going to be in trouble. I can't help myself. I bought some drawer organisers, which we already have. But the new ones are NICE metal mesh, while the old one is not. It's plastic and it's stained (from what I don't know because how do you spill in a closed drawer?) and it's stinky white ugly plastic. That I can probably get away with, it's the other thing that will really be the problem. What could that be? Learner's Chopsticks. I bought two pairs. For $4.99. They look like giant clothes pins and they also look like a TONNE of fun. Unfortunately the Old Man can use chopsticks quite well. How I don't know, but he can and will refuse to use the ones I bought and I will be in trouble for wasteful spending.
Another thing is I bought three books and the problem there is:
A) I have no more room for new books. The Book Room is full to capacity and is spilling it's contents throughout the house; and
B) I have already read two of the three I bought. But I read books like people watch movies. If I like it, I read it again and again. That is why I BUY them in the first place rather than borrow them from the Library, which is a whole other issue itself. Who wants to read books that countless others have had in their bathroom, and touched before washing their hands?
I think I will just put the books in the Book Room and hope that they quietly blend in with the others. Thus I will only be in trouble for on thing that I probably deserve to be in trouble for anyway. In the mean time, I have some chopsticks to use.
Monday, January 21, 2008
I Don't Believe in Santa
There is something that really bothers me and I think it needs to be discussed. People who say they "don't believe in chiropractors". A chiropractor is not like Santa or God. They are there. I've seen their offices. I've been to one. My back was cracked and it wasn't because I believed in him, it was because he was a real person with a real doctorate in a legitimate medical practise. So don't say you don't believe in chiropractors, say you don't use one.
Just Call Me "The Genius"
Okay.... so I'm not a genius, but it's a catchy title and really, in a world that judges every book by its cover, you need a catchy title. And an IQ of 121 is mere steps away from actual geniushood. I don't want to hear about anyone disagreeing with me. The title stays. The Genius has spoken.
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