Tops, Bottoms, Nothing.

Hey, here’s something that should help you sleep at night (those of you living in Michigan specifically). Today I was just brushing up on my trivia (as opposed to the original plan of giving myself paper cuts all day) and I came across an interesting fact. Apparently it is legal for the blind to hunt in both Texas and Michigan. However in Texas a sighted individual must accompany the ‘hunter’. Apparently in Michigan Blinky can hunt without such an accompaniment. This poses a few questions? The least of all is: How does one hunt when blind? I mean if you hear rustling in bushes do you just fire? Have you just shot a partridge, a kudu, or a scout troop? Are your other senses heightened and thus can tell that said rustling belongs to a dear in his mid forties, with a slight limp? Or do you just wait till you get mauled by the grizzly charging you and then shoot? To me there are all sorts of problems with this law. The stuff I read was questioning how you find your game after shooting it (this is assuming of course Blinky has some kick ass aim) Do you just shuffle along in the underbrush until you put your foot into a warm pile of intestine? How do you strap your zebra to the roof rack to get it home . . . ? Where do you get a roof-rack? Or can the blind drive legally in Michigan too, because if they can this whole hunting law is making a lot more sense. See? Problems.

On my recent trip “10 States 1 Lemon” I visited Michigan for the deliriously brief span of perhaps 6 hours. The state is a total dump. Economic climate, the crash of automobile industry, thousands job-less etc. . . . or is it due to the blind being allowed to hunt unsupervised? I ask you? Michigan has an enormous amount of road kill. And Christ knows what it is, there's a chance the death toll is 50/50: human and wildlife. It's all unidentifiable. Bits are strewn everywhere, antlers here, a torso there. I mean there's tonnes of road-kill on the interstate anyway, but in Michigan it was particularly gruesome. And now ladies and gentlemen, we know why.

Cee . . . perhaps you have some opinions on this subject? You like shooting stuff. What are the laws in the Yukon these days? And how safe do you feel knowing that there could be a blind person out for a Sunday massacre?

siiiiiigh*

I've been feeling nostalgic as of late. And I was hoping that reminiscing about my trials and tribulations in the LDN would knock some sense into me. But I'm afraid not. Despite the rampant idiocy I encountered on a daily basis I miss London something fierce. Let's take a casual walk down memory lane . . . .

MEMORY#1

Four men with top hats are trying to cross the street. It starts off like a bad joke doesn’t it? Seriously though. Sunz and I were walking home one day and happened upon, you guessed it, four men in top hats. To be more specific, four men in top hats hoisting a mahogany box on their shoulders. Performance art was my immediate deduction. However, upon closer inspection I realize the box was a casket. I felt bad for a split second and then resumed my performance art theory. I told Sunny, “Don’t stare and whatever you do, DO NOT make eye contact, otherwise they’ll drag us into their avant-guard bullshit.” I was 100% sure it was “art” when I heard one of the pall bearers ask a passer-by “Do you know where the pet cemetery is?”

I’m sure these dudes were art students or some crap trolling the neighborhood behind the Tate Modern for suckers. I suspect they were doing a reactionary piece to make fun of the Average Joe. Hell, I’d put money on it.

I mean what the hell kind of reaction do you think you’d get when a bunch of guys holding a small coffin, carnations spilling from lapels ask . . . “Which way to the pet cemetery?”

Bloody artists. Go back to your piles of felt and sacks of lard, and leave the rest of us out of your twisted little alternate dimension.

MEMORY#2

Then there was the time I saw the biggest dip-shit ever.

Well I didn’t actually see him. I saw his sweet ride. I can’t be sure if it was a Lamborghini or a Ferrari… frankly, it doesn’t matter. All I know is it had numerous horses under the hood, it was about an inch off the ground (which meant the roof reached my belly button and it was an excruciating pearlescent orange. What made it even cooler (an by cooler I mean nauseating) was the personalized license plate.

BICEP.(heaving with laughter)

MEMORY#3

I walked under a ladder right in front of Sunny the other day just to freak her out, and to illustrate a point. The point being I survived. We figured that the bad luck I should be expecting will probably be her death, as she almost got hit by 3 cars while we were walking around that day. Which brings me to the whole superstitious English thing. I have found out why folks are terrified of stepping over 3 drain hole covers in a row (refer to black cats etc. e-mail) Apparently it’s not just general bad luck they're destined to receive. It’s a specific area of life that will be crippled with bad luck. The Moronic English believe that they’ll suffer in the sack if they walk across these consecutive bits of city planning. For crying out loud. It’s not the pavement. It’s British genetics.

MEMORY#4

Now for some observations.

If you’re unlucky enough to get knocked up in England, and even more unlucky should you spawn a baby girl you are required (by law it would seem) to give your offspring one of the following loathsome names.

Izzie

Poppy

Daisy

(most have a floral aesthetic. Also read: petunia, iris and stink weed)

Hell . . . if you feel adventurous, use a couple of them for a repulsive double barrelled job (Izzie Poppy de Stick Up Your Ass)

Next up. Negativity.

Why I hate Ugg Boots. (except the pair strewn on my bedroom floor) I hate them because Daisy Von Rothschild-Church-Gibson has been putting on her Uggs every Sunday since fall 2003. She meets her equally floral and useless friends for brunch in Primrose Hill/Maida Vale/Westbourne Grove. She arrives a carefully disheveled mess. Shuffling to greet Izzie and Stink Weed with two wretched air kisses on either cheek. She looks like a paraplegic learning to walk again. Or a newborn fawn struggling to stand on shaky knock-kneed weight bearing legs. The heels of her Uggs are crusty and grey, the soles are riding up on the outside of her feet (imagine trying on your dad’s boots when you were teeny and not filling the foot bed entirely). This means Daisy is scuffing along on the suede ankle portion of the boot. Not only does this look great. It sounds great too. If you hear an irritating scuffing sound (often the sound carries from up to a block away) it’s undoubtedly a girl in her early-mid 20’s abusing her Uggs. Uggs should be worn in 2 places. And 2 places only. Australia and my flat.

So in retrospect, it's good to know some things never change (read: inappropriately worn footwear and my hatred for it) Some things that do change are baby names. Everyone take a count of how many little Eva and Ava's you know. The numbers are staggering.

A Wednesday.

Was it the lox or me?

Vote now.

I was sitting with My Friend at Solly's today eating bagels and lox. Now, there's an efficient way to build this concoction and an inefficient way. In my opinion, although delicious “Solly” built it inefficiently. Therefore I took it upon myself to reconstruct my bagel. I brushed off the capers (which had already mostly rolled off of their own accord) and removed the lox. I then stuck the capers back on the cream cheese, and securely placed the salmon back on top. I had cream cheese on all digits, when Friend decided it would be a good idea to fetch me napkins. He got up and I continued to play with my food. Seconds passed and I felt eyes on me. The two dudes sitting behind us were staring, and not too subtly I might add. I sort of did a double take as I turned around to see the prying eyes. They looked quizzical, and sort of questioned my motives. I said, if the capers go directly on the cream cheese they stick, and thus don't roll off. Easier to eat. They seemed vaguely accepting of this revolutionary idea. At this point Friend came back to hear my last words “ . . . not just a pretty face boys, I've got brains too.” Conceited? Perhaps.

Now my question is: were they staring at me because of my looks or because I looked like a jack-ass? So far the tally is 1/1. I say it was because I was making a mess of my food. My Friend thinks it's because I'm a moderately attractive blonde. I think that's ridiculous. To clarify I was not marching down the street in 5 inch heels wearing an inappropriately short skirt. I was sitting on a stool wearing a wool v-neck while dissecting smoked salmon and nasturtium seeds.

NB. Ginger Jen, you may not weigh in on this one.

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.