fa la la la . . . whatever.

Christmas. It happens every year. This one was a semi-big deal as, my parents hadn't seen my most recent acquisition. My first home. Naturally they knew I had bought some prime real-estate in the fair city of Vancouver. They knew it because they woke up one morning with their savings drained and debt collectors at the front door.

Their December visit was the first time they were going to see my abode . . . in the flesh. I'll preface this with, my apartment is rad. I feel it's got a very Holly Golightly-esqe quality about it. Thousands would disagree, but they are stupid.

Apart from a couple of kitchen and bathroom things (read: new floors), the place is pretty much done. A few different light fixtures and a lick of paint, and I was pretty satisfied. The most pressing matter was to throw up some storage in the bathroom. There wasn't any. None at all. So My Mum has been on me since Apartment's purchase in July to go to Ikea already, and get some wall mounted cabinets. This was clearly not as urgent to me as it was to her, because on their arrival by the 22nd of December I was still dangling things off towel racks and door handles.

The 27th of December. This was the day Dad, Mum and I piled into the rental car and sped off to Ikea. Dad was bored senseless, but he pulled through like a champ. In the end we got new mirrored doors for my closets,and 2 mirrored wall cabinets for the bathroom. We organized delivery for the following day. I'm not going to get into the gory details, but I will never in my life buy anything that requires assembly from Ikea again. Sheer hell. The assembly itself wouldn't have been so bad, assuming all the components had been there. I've built things with the Swedish already this year, and it went far more smoothly when it involved ginger bread.

Dad and I did a bang-up job. We were a quarter of the way through closet door one (of which there were 5) and Dad gouged his hand with the Phillips. Blood everywhere, inside and outside of the door.

"Dad, go wash your hand and get a band-aid.”

"I'm fine, don't fuss.” smears more blood across inside of door.

More sternly: “DAD, go wash your hand.”

"Zenija, I'm fine.”

"I know you're fine, I don't care about your hand, I care about my $400 white wool skirt hanging 3 inches from your hand. Now go get a band-aid”

He couldn't find a band-aid, but I found the bloody trail he left while he looked. Two hours later 5 doors were on, and my skirt remained pristine. The doors look terrific, and to my delight increased the space and pinkness of my bedroom. I LOVE IT.

The next day was bathroom cabinet day. No blood and less tears. It got done after a only 5 hours, and it's been over a week and they are still hanging. Success.

Foiled again.

It came and went. My anticipated engagement to Damon Albarn. The Gorillaz came to town. They played at a stadium(intimate). I had no doubt that Damon would recognize me from Westbourne Grove W11 and a solid 2 years of me either glaring or ignoring him. I mean yes, I was in a crowd of thousands and my hair is two feet longer and I'm about 30lbs (2.something stones) lighter. But heck yes, it was all supposed to come flooding back to him like a bad nose-bleed. The countless times I said nothing to him, the stolen glances. Siiiiigh.

Here's some background detailing my rather unhealthy if not totally delusional obsession.

London 2004

Damon Albarn update.

Have been a little concerned of late. Have not seen Damon pass by on foot, bike or otherwise. Last time seen was about 2 weeks ago (obviously did not see him in Switzerland…. Or perhaps he was behind that tree?) Strolled by in his cute slouchy “I’m not a rock star… really I’m not” way. Looked in shop, as I was adjusting bra. Well done. To be fair, wasn’t the only one below par that day. He looked dashing in track pants (What’s with this country!?) and camo truckers hat (presumably has not taken up driving the big rigs) and carrying bag of leeks. NB must get job at ‘Fresh and Wild’ grocery store down road. He is ALWAYS there. So after bra incident thought that was it, no more Damon. Not so. Rolled past on his bike 3 times today. Missed him first time but staff member (Imran) said he was craning his neck as he went by. Well, maybe not craning, splitting hairs. Then proceeded to ride by 2 more times. Did not look in the 2nd and 3rd time, obviously did not think I was in shop today. Still think have shot!

Fingers crossed. Z

OMG!

Finally made serious, unmistakable eye contact. Have never been closer! Almost blacked out.

Damon cruised down the road on his chopper heading to Fresh & Wild, as per usual. The difference between this time and the countless times before? Firstly, had spectacular view from shop door position. And held view for about 1 ½ blocks. Enjoyed about 20 mins of Damon striking poses (read: David Brent) as he loitered outside F&W reading the paper. Had no idea what he was doing for that amount of time. Fortunately bought me time to make myself presentable, as knew he would be back eventually. Was perched in doorway, having just flipped hair when not 15 feet away came a little bike with a slightly less little Damon laden down with parcels. Even better was that he was on the sidewalk not the road. Almost blacked out for second time. Psssst’d Imran, as he has more of a crush on Damon than I do. Imran insists that if I meet Damon, the two of them will become bestest friends. Just as I turned back to the door and Imran plastered himself casually to the window, D v. slowly and carefully peddled by, whilst balancing 2 pizzas’s a paper and his grocery shopping dangling from the bikes handle bars. Almost toppled bike as he looked up at me standing around looking useless in the doorway. Pretty sure I glared at him. Fortunately did not drool. Or perhaps blacked out for 3rd time and did drool.

Perhaps should have offer a helping hand? Missed opportunity. I mean had I smiled I’m sure some broccoli from last night would have navigated its way in-between my two front teeth. Smiling would have been foolish, better to glare. At least didn’t wave knickers at him this time. Am picture of self restraint.

Must figure out way to get him to fall madly and hopelessly in love with me. Think. Next time, trip him? Blow kiss? Not glare? Lift up top? Throw confetti? Steal pizzas?

Hope springs eternal.

To Sum up

Concert: fab

Damon: dreamy

Marital Status: Not Mrs. Damon Albarn

You're yolking!

Recently I've been spending a bit of time in the downtown East Side-ish area. In fact I was just driving through the other day with my beloved friend Bo and we reminisced about our visit there about 4 years ago. My have things changed . . . slightly. It reminded me of the time . . .

Three of us went for a delightful meal at Save-On-Meats. (Picture it, winter 2006 pre-gentrification of the Woodwards area) At first glance it had a quaint yet authentic delicatessen feel to it (but with a hint of mange and an air of morgue) Various bits of raw meat, from lamb neck to fake crab tempura were nestled behind hand print smeared glass. Past the ‘deli’ was the bakery which consisted of mini jelly rolls and 3 flavours of stale wafers. I think there was also some leftover x-mas fudge wrapped in dingy saran and displayed in a mildewy basket. Beyond the trailer park patisserie was a ‘restaurant’, complete with regulars. Three horseshoe shaped counters faced an open ‘kitchen’ which allowed the diners to view the griddle as well as a particularly delectable grease trap, which was no more than tinfoil spilling out of the aforementioned griddle and into a bucket.

That was fine and good, sanitary and all that. We were digging the ambience like dirt. Bo, JonJon and I sat down and ordered identical meals. Cheese burger and fries with a coronary on the side. As our food arrived we became more and more aware of the dude (who’s name we later found out was Ray) at the far end of the counter. He was most definitely strung out. Just how strung out was only apparent when his head flopped into his eggs(gagging). I can’t remember if it was our waitress who tried to wake him or if he miraculously did it on his own. All I know is he was face down in the eggs within two minutes of their descent in front of him, and now our Waitress was trying to establish whether or not he was conscious. JonJon and Bo easily managed to scarf down their burgers and I got about halfway through mine but was prepared to throw it all back up at a moments notice as my love for eggs blossomed by the second. Waitress somehow propped Ray up and was very concerned. I’m sure by now an ambulance or something had been called but Waitress was bound and determined to get to the bottom of this guy's damage. During Ray's routine in his plate he managed to attach a large blob of runny yolk to his eyebrow and there was some sort of congealed matter dangling off his sunglasses. JonJon said something to the effect of it being lucky he was wearing glasses cause it’s like snorkelling in a plate of breakfast. As I was dry heaving 2 medics showed up to escort the guy out. Oh Ray. (zany laughter and head shaking)

The great thing about these paramedics was the first thing they did when they got in the establishment. They put on rubber gloves, complete with flamboyant snapping of surgical rubber. This concerned us for one reason. Our compassionate waitress had been attending to Ray with bare grease covered helping hands. Hands that she served us with. Hands that brought us not only ketchup, cutlery and napkins but our burgers. Hands that poked at Ray’s crusty face, tapped Ray’s clammy hands and pulled at Ray’s tattered jacket. As we drove home (amazed to find the vehicle with unbroken windows and license plates intact) there was a suggestion from the back seat “I’ve managed to avoid hep C for 30 years up until now . . . say, instead of dessert lets all go get inoculated!”

Smells like gagging.

After years of looking for a delightful scent to be my signature apartment aroma I finally found Voluspa, Baltic Amber candles. Appropriate for a couple of reasons, subtlety is one, the Latvia connection is another. Anyway, I love this smell. Now here's the thing, I'm recently unemployed (gasp) and as a result am using said candle sparingly, because god knows when I'll be able to afford another one.

I haven't burned it in at least 2 weeks. So tonight on the rare occasion that I find myself at home I thought it may be nice to pong up the place. I lit the thing with my last match at about 7:45pm. I blew out the candle at about 9pm and at approximately 9:30pm I got a whiff of a dreadful burning plastic smell. I followed my bionic nose into the kitchen and zeroed in on my dishwasher. This was definitely where the horrific stench was coming from. I stopped the cycle and gingerly opened the door. Heat poured out and what may have been a smoke/steam combination followed. I pulled out the racks individually and wasn't able to identify anything immediately wrong, apart from the asphyxiating smell.

I called my friend Lemonade and had a little panic attack. She said “Congratulations you've been the proud owner of a dishwasher for a whole month!” I'm able to identify sarcasm pretty quickly and this comment was laced generously with it. I mean she's right. I've lived in my new apartment for just over a month now and I've almost lit my kitchen on fire already. It took a couple of calls back and forth with Lemonade to calm me down. I finally pulled out the bottom shelf of the dishwasher and stuck my head right in. I noticed something gold and shiny stuck under the bottom spray arm. Then oddly enough, I discovered it wasn't gold, as apparently my dishwasher isn't an Alchemist, it was charred bubbling plastic. I quickly realized the stopper for my blender had fallen out of the rack and landed on the heating element in the bottom of my Whirlpool. It had melted itself around the element and from what I could tell was still smouldering. I dragged my fan into the kitchen and have begun the process of airing out the second apartment I've tried to incinerate in the past 3 months.

Ultimately I'd like to burn my Baltic Amber candle to mask the stink, but I already burned it for an hour today, plus I'm out of matches. I'm also pissed off because that hour of candle burning is all but wasted as the reek of plastic is beyond overwhelming. Plus to add insult to aromatic injury, I guess no milkshakes for breakfast tomorrow morning.

The Big Smoke

I’ve come to realize I’m very adept at concentrating on work. So much so that this past week I found myself about 10 minutes away from being engulfed in flames. I was at my desk producing some sort of frivolous online advertising, and was apparently so engrossed in average typefaces and lilac gradients that I ignored the delicate pong of burning supper.

From past experience I should know that by the time I smell burning at my desk supper is as good as briquettes. Which is why my diet is rich in charred perogies and frozen peas. Because on this particular occasion I was ambitiously constructing a curry I chalked up the smell to my adventurous concoction. I knew there was plenty of liquid in the pan and that it was only simmering on medium. What I forgot was that I had also put rice on 20 minutes prior.

So when I casually walked into my living room I was unceremoniously greeted with a wall of blue smoke. I bolted for the kitchen and amidst wheezing, grabbed the charred pot and tossed it on the cutting board beside the stove. I Proceeded then to turn off all elements and started running around the apartment opening windows. It was at this point the smoke detector finally decided to do it’s job.

Amidst the thick smoke, the wailing detector and the frenzied screams in my head I had the foresight to locate my camera and snap some photo’s. NB: if there are flames, I wouldn’t recommend this. As I was adjusting the light meter I noticed there were still plumes of smoke billowing out of my kitchen. Armed with my camera I fought my way back to the stove, quickly realizing the cutting board I had set the pot on was now on fire. With the calm and precision of a very panicked flailing individual I grabbed the pot and tossed it into the sink and then decided to pitch the smoking cutting board out the kitchen window.

It was at this point I saw my neighbors nervously peering through their blinds at my apartment. I casually waved to my fans and continued on in mayhem.

My apartment reeks of smoke, and 5 days later I still kind of smell like campfire. Now I’m tasked with getting rid of the smell of burning. I’ve washed my walls and keep my windows open whenever I’m home, which recently is not often. I’ve solicited advice from friends, but since most of them are competent they haven’t had to deal with such a problem as permanent smoke damage.

Mom however always comes through. So I have choices.

1) Soak a wet towel and swirl it around the offending area (presumably this is useful when there’s still smoke – too little too late)

2) Put a tray of cat litter out to “absorb” the smell (sadly I find the stench of cat litter much less desirable than smoke)

3) Put water and baking soda in an atomizer so as to mist the crap out of your environment. This too I believe has something to do with smell absorption.

4) And this is my favorite. Put a couple of drops of your favorite perfume on a light bulb. If I’ve got this right, to get rid of the smell of burning I need to start an electrical fire? I understand the theory behind this asinine idea. But I refuse to drizzle a flammable substance on light bulbs throughout my apartment. They as well have suggested dousing myself in lighter fluid then lick a light socket. Worst case scenario, I won’t get my damage deposit back when I move out next month. A lick of paint and a blowtorch will take care of the rest.

Will work for food.

Cereal Box Surprise

“What the hell is that?”

I said with equal parts disgust and bewilderment. My Dad was standing in the TV room doorway looking puzzled. To the average human eye there may have been multiple problems with the ensemble that stood before me. But as a keen observer of “Dad” for over 30 years the black leather Velcro sneakers, the tattered flannel shirt tucked tightly into the thread bare two inches too short jeans didn't even register. This was standard. However what wasn't standard “Dad” wear was a small plastic red object clipped to his jeans pocket. It was the red, then the enormous 'K' emblazoned on it that grabbed my attention.

What's what?” “Dad” asked.

“That red thing.” (me pointing)

He began tugging on the red thing, which upon closer inspection had what appeared to be a digital clock embedded in it. In fact, not a digital clock, but a digital counting system.

It counts my steps as I walk, in the past 3 hours I've taken 1500 steps.” He replied excitedly. Actually “Dad” had been sitting in the basement at his computer for the past 4 days watching car racing . . . . so . . .

It's a pedometer isn't it?”

This was when Mum, who'd been sitting in the chair next to me piped up “JB has one, he was wearing it the other day. Your father liked it and I got that a year and a half ago in a box of Special K.”

Dad” removed the pedometer from his pocket and shook it at the passing cat. “I took 6 steps shaking it at Spanky!”