Moths: An Infestation

Moths: An Infestation

There are a few different kinds of moths. There are the gigantic flappy terrifying moths that hurl their bodies into light bulbs, windows, walls and passers by, which seems to be the only thing they are good at. Then there are the epicurean moths that feast on bits of wheat germ and grains. And there are fashionable moths that nest, eat and crap in pretty much anything. The last two species described are excellent at their jobs. They are dedicated, disgusting and efficient.

I think I was in denial for the past year. Despite holes in cashmere and an increase in sitings, it wasn't until a literally moth eaten cow skin rug was found that the heavy denial really kicked in. That new stage of denial lasted approximately a month. Then one day when I decided to make cookies and hauled out the brown sugar only to find squirming larva all the way through it. I could ignore the problem no longer.  I immediately began pitching dry goods. At first checking the contents of each item, until I began feeling nauseous and just started blindly throwing away everything in the pantry. 

Next it was time to go through the out of season woollen bins in the closets. This wasn't going to be as simple as pitching rolled oats. This required finesse. Over the span of two days there were roughly 10 loads of laundry done. There were several bathtubs filled with scalding water to drown babies and sterilize large items. There was actual nit picking done. Except the nits were in fact cocoons and larvae. With rubber gloves up to my elbows I'd  individually pick bits of moth excrement off of precious articles of clothing. It's true moths only eat wool, the bad news is; they nest in bloody well anything. Cotton, synthetics, straw, you name it. 

I'm scared to go into the storage unit. I know it's a building infestation. And I fear the fallout is going to be huge. Regardless of the type of moth they are basically flying silver fish. Except thank Christ they are much less speedy than silver fish. However when you kill either they turn to dust. This is creepy. So hurray, moths are easily killed when spotted. However they are sneaky and little and can hide places.

The final step was to strategically set up little sticky pheromone laced tents around the flat. These are apparently designed to attract the wretched winged insects and adhere them to the pheromone-y glue lining the inside of the traps. Within minutes of setting my traps the moths came out of the wood work. They went bananas for these things. The moths appeared to be all loved up on fake pheromones and fluttered around the flat all willy nilly. I flailed wildly for about 15 minutes charging around the apartment swatting moths with flip flop in hand. That was enough exercise for the day and I stopped the masacre, unless one came within arms reach of the couch.

By bed time the moth death toll was around 22, including the few trying without much success to release themselves from the sticky traps. The apartment looked like a house of horrors with brown and black smears peppering my pristine pink walls. 

In three months the traps will have worn out, and the apartment may need a fresh lick of paint, but hopefully the moths will be gone. Fingers crossed.

Did you?

Like the acquisition of a pacemaker isn't enough to make a 36 year old woman feel like a geriatric. With my vacation tan fading fast, and the crows feet clawing their way through my epidermis, I am reminded I am geriatric. Now, I didn't hit every single branch when I fell out of the ugly tree, but I no longer carry the blush of youth. I actually have to carry blush. What has begun to drive this point home is the following comment: "Did you used to model?" That's past tense.

Let's face it. I suppose there are worse things people could say. Like " I know what VHS is, I was born in '91!", "Who's Andrew McCarthy?" and "What's an encyclopedia?" I guess looking like an over the hill model is better than looking like a six feet under model.

I mean it's my own damn fault. I like the sun. Sue me. Actually don't. As well as being the wrong side of 30 I'm also penniless. Sunshine is my vice. Other people have different vices, gambling, drinking, crystal meth. To each his own. Mine is carcinogenic levels of Vitamin D. Perhaps booze is a better choice? I think it pickles you. Whatever, I don't have the cash to buy booze and I don't have a life savings to fritter away at the slots.

I suppose stress could be partially to blame for the "aging". It seems to be society's scapegoat. However I think there are stats to prove it may actually be a valid scapegoat. I wouldn't say I'm stressed. But I do my fair share of unnecessary and occasionally necessary worrying. This may not have anything to do with the threat of age-spots, but I wager it's got something to do with the wrinkles, not to mention the cynicism and crabby moods. 

A sure sign of old-age, and one that I'm entirely comfortable with: cantankerous-ness.

Maui Lassitude

Spotted: 11 rainbows, 1 thrashing marlin, 4 sea turtles, 1 stingray,  1 pacific ocean,  throngs of tourists and the sun.

We touched down in Maui at 10:00 at night. We were not immediately adorned with fragrant flower leis by Tom Selleck. But the good news was it was warm. Well, warm enough that when we fetched our little Jeep we could drive to our condo, roof and windows down. Try that in Vancouver in May. Heck try it in August. Arriving there at about 12am we hit the sheets right away.

In the blissfully harsh light of day I was able to observe my surroundings. The theme in our condo seemed to be pineapples and early '90's plantation style on a budget. I counted 6 decor pineapples and one edible one. After surveying the room it was time to venture out and familiarize ourselves with the wilds of The Island. 

In terms of sights, there were a few. High on my To-Do list were waterfalls. Other than that I really didn't care. Actually I did. As long as I got sun and sea in excess I was A-ok. Or so I thought. Within 5 days I would eat those words, then promptly regurgitate them. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Five hour boat ride to a secret snorkelling spot, on the way the promise of dolphins and breakfast. After snorkelling, an on-board BBQ and all the Mai Tai's you can drink. Unfortunately for me, a half hour in the nausea took hold and didn't let up until I was back on the dock. The parts I remember are the parts of papaya and pineapple I threw up over the side of the boat. As I heaved over the railing I watched a pod of spinner dolphins doing their best to make me feel even more queasy. I did not partake in the BBQ.

My other watery experiences over the two weeks were more controlled. They involved dashing from sandy towel to splashing surf and back to towel again. Sometimes with flippers, sometimes without, but always with a harpoon. 

Speaking of deep sea fishing. Because of a certain person's aversion to seafood of any kind, I tried to respectfully avoid the piscine items on the menu. Two days later I aborted that mission. Not because I wanted to see my boyfriend vomit in front of me, but because I fast realized that seafood is what Hawaiians do best. And by best I mean adequately. If you like Cactus Club you'll like Maui. Except the food is better at Cactus Club. I had more than one extraordinarily terrible meal. I had a handful of palatable meals. Maybe 3 good meals. And one great meal, and that was a BBQ the family threw together poolside at their hotel. To sum up, I found Maui food to be underwhelming and gave it an overall rating of 2 meh's and a scrunched up nose.

But then we were not there for the food. We were there for the booze. . . . Wait, no. We were there for a wedding. Which by the way was lovely. The bride wore white, and the groom wore his heart on his sleeve. Perfect, tasteful, warm and romantic.

While we're on the subject of perfection. Turns out not only am I prone to bitchin' tans, but my hair looks awesome in Maui. Humidity, sun and salt are my new BFF's. My hair waved, bleached and volumized itself. Had I not been very careful I could have ended up about 3 days away from dreads. But that my hippie friends is what shampoo and basic hygiene is for. . . What am I saying? I don't have friends that are hippies. 

Boyfriend and I saw those photoshopped sunsets, and a handful of the cliched Hawaiian rainbows. We both successfully burned portions of ourselves. But with a healthy slathering of Maui Babe, those pesky burns glazed over and became fetching tans.

To sum up the vacay and Maui in general: It does what it says on the tin. 

If you're expecting sunny warmth, postcard worthy beaches and relaxation, this is the place for you. Culture and food, not so much, although if you look hard enough there's a sprinkling of both. But you need to look pretty hard. Personally I came away with a tan and an unhealthy love of palm trees and 1960's resorts. As well coming back from paradise only to find your home city is still shrouded in clouds and gloom can be more than a touch depressing. Siiiiigh*

But, we'll always have Maui.

Gloom

Okay perhaps I'm exaggerating just a touch. But on this 20th day of June, the first day of summer mind you, I find myself bathed in goosebumps. I'm on the roof of my exceedingly fashionable modernist Vancouver apartment building. The sun is directly overhead and I'm . . . . chilly. Unacceptable. If I was an optimist I'd say there was a haze. Because I'm a realist I'll say there's high cloud cover. Did I mention it's June?

Only Born and Raised West Coasters would actually continue to live in weather like this. Mainly because they don't know any better, and the rest of the globe keeps blowing smoke up their asses. Meanwhile it's 16 degrees and I'm in very short shorts and a semi-tank top. I'm pushing the limits. The limits of what someone my age should be wearing as well as what's appropriate in sub zero temperatures. But because this could very well be the only vaguely sunny day we get until July I'm going to bloody well take advantage of it.

About 13 years ago my folks up and moved from the real estate gold mine they owned in Victoria all the way to Ontario. Thousands thought my parents had gone prematurely senile. And perhaps they had. However they packed up their life for a few reasons. A major one being: "Toronto has seasons."

And as the haze turns to 100% cloud, I realize they were on to something. 

(is that a rain drop?) 

Yes it still occasionally rains back East. Yes you have to rake leaves and shovel snow. But guess what, you can also sit outside after 6pm and not have to wear a chunky knit and drape yourself in an afghan. Which is exactly what I wore on the roof last night shortly before 8pm. Actually I think there may have been sun earlier today? Because just now as I padded over to the railing (so I could pitch myself over the side) I think I burned the soles of my feet on the paving tiles. But as the clouds continue to loom overhead I feel, rather than trying to soak up a couple of pathetic rays of murky sun, doing several loads of laundry would be a better use of this summer afternoon. 

The weather. This is the one strike Vancouver has against it. Oh, and the ridiculous cost of living, and the alleged unfriendly nature of most inhabitants. Other than that it's swell. 

I love this city. No really. I especially love my neighborhood of South Granville. If I didn't have the great boutiques, convenient watering holes or half of my friends living within a 6 block radius the totally crappy weather would upset me far more.

I've lived, worked and loved here for coming up on 7 years, and apart from a couple of near fatal hiccups, things keep getting better. With any luck so will the weather. Although lets face it, contrary to what the name implies the globe is doing the opposite of warming. Within 30 years I'll probably be complaining that the saber tooth tiger meat is tough, the eternal winter's wearing on my nerves, and I simply don't have a thing to wear to the ritual sacrifice a week from Saturday.

Burgers + Bikinis

Let's face it. It's probably obvious to others, but for reasons we're going to blame on the ol' "I was in a coma" excuse the following was not obvious to me.

First. I was anticipating a dreamy trip to Maui. This is exciting because:

1) I've never been to Hawaii.

2) I haven't been on a tropical, hot, do-SFA-while-lying-on-a-beach type vacation since the early 90's

3) I get to go with my dreamy boyfriend and get to do romantic things.

4) Finally, and most importantly I get to buy a new bikini.

Bathing suit shopping. Exponentially more horrifying than jeans shopping. It all began one afternoon, when I decided to head downtown and meet a girlfriend and her teensie toddler. We were doing our usual wandering the streets when girlfriend said we should get the baby some grub. Naturally my maternal instincts kicked in, and I enthusiastically suggested McDonald's. One salad, one happy meal and a super-sized two cheeseburger meal later, it was time for me to head to my next appointment. I know what you're thinking. And you're right. It's  a TWO cheeseburger meal. I still say they should do a THREE cheeseburger meal. Two is hardly enough. Anyway, we parted ways and I headed to my appointment to visit a bikini designer who is in fact worthy of the pages of Sports Illustrated. I mean I suppose a worse time to try on suits would have been a week earlier when I was on the rag, or if I'd ordered the apple pies for desert. But this was still a pretty bad idea.

In the end I did not look like Giselle Bundchen. I looked a touch bloated, definitely pasty and had come to terms with the fact that I am delusional.  The good news is I got a bikini. After being there for a solid hour and trying on what seemed like every suit they had I came out with a possibly too skimpy black crocheted bikini. There was extraordinary patience involved. Both by me and especially by my angelic consultant.

With that traumatic albeit successful experience over, it suddenly occurs to me that there is a more distressing twist to this mediocre story. Burgers. In particular the fact that I can no longer stomach burgers, unless they are of the extremely fast food persuasion. For several years the delicious burger was my go-to meal. At least when I was eating out. It's hard to screw up a burger . . . hard but not impossible. So when visiting restaurants that boast unimaginative or just plain unsavoury menus, a burger was always a safe-ish bet. As a result of a week jaunt to Vancouver island bookended with dinner time ferry rides and ferry food, my annual "Week of Burgers" was born. For roughly 5 years I celebrated August with 7 days of imbibing. That is until last year. My epiphany happened today when one another girlfriend invited me over for a pool dangle and burgers this week. A tremendous idea in theory, however the last time I did that with her I had a cardiac arrest 3 hours later. I realize now my residual anti burger feelings could be a direct result of that "last meal."

What a terrible thought. "I had a cardiac arrest and all I got was a lousy fear of hamburgers" . . . and a sweet bikini.

Dim Wit

Like so many of my terrific yet consistently delusional ideas, this one too, was a colossal failure. Like the time I moved to London to seek my fortune, only to return two years later 25Lbs heavier with a cheese addiction and a significantly lighter wallet.

Anyway, lunch the other day was no different. Except that it was lunch and not a Pan-Atlantic move. Specifically it was Dim Sum. A great idea in theory. In practice however, pretty disgusting, except maybe for the shrimp dumplings.

I went with a work colleague (let's call her Trixie). On our lunch break we dashed across the street to Trixie's restaurant of choice. We sat down and she asked me what I like. I answered, shrimp dumplings and BBQ pork buns. I said "I do not care for chicken feet." And helpfully pointed to the table next to us and began mock gagging. Trixie asked if I ate meat. I almost said "I eat meat, not gristle." But sadly didn't. Should have, but didn't.

As the first selection of gristly knuckles on a bed of greasy rice arrived, I realized I had made a terrible mistake. My other mistake was saying "I'll try anything!" True, but a dreadful idea.

Turns out, save for custard tarts, the thrice mentioned shrimp dumplings and gallons of tea, Dim Sum is wholly, and on most levels disgusting. I don't know why I think I like it. I really don't

Dim Sum is an unsavoury medley of textures, of which I am highly sensitive. Taste I can tollerate. Texture I can't. Most everything was slimy, except for what can only be described as deep fried scrotum. If only it tasted as good. As someone who has in fact choked down (muffled snickering) prairie oysters, I can tell you, I'd take actual scrotum over this any day.

Taro: A root (I hope), had been mashed up into some pinkish paste, closely resembling sick, then moulded into a bizarre football/ball-sack shape, only to be flash fried to within an inch of it's life and in such a way that delicate, if not far too realistic hairs formed over the whole thing.

The only things I've eaten that were possibly more nauseating were . . . . and it's a toss up here (pun intended). Both French and both horrific. Traditional Andouillette (intestine wrapped vein "sausage") at the same time offal and awful. Secondly, Gristle and Mustard salad which did and exceedingly convincing impersonation of potato salad, but may actually be groins d'âne salad (literally, "donkey snout" salad). You can see my dilema.

Gross food is fine. As long as it's not on my plate masquerading as a meal.

Tumbleweed.

Another Oscars has come and gone. And all I got were these lousy pillow marks on my cheek. What a snore.

First. Hugo. Who cares? I sure don't. In fact I could give a rats ass about the nominees and winners. As usual it's about what people are wearing and the expected witty banter thrown between presenters and host. Billy Crystal was not good. The only amusing presenters were Robert Downey Jr. partnered with Gwyneth Paltrow (who by the way looked delightful) and the unlikely duo of Emma Stone and Ben "enough already" Stiller. For the 5 minutes those four appeared on stage I was entertained.

There's always the death montage? Oh right that. I was more than a little surprised to have found out Cliff Robertson had died. But I suppose that happens when you're old. Speaking of people knocking on deaths door, a spry and charming Christopher Plummer made a delightful acceptance speech. That was a good part. As well he looked dapper in a velvet smoking jacket.

Which brings us to men's fashion. In general the men were adequate, if not a little bland. Christian Bale's patchy beard from last year seems to have come in nicely, and he's returned to his smoking hot self. Everyone else was a barely worth looking at.

With the not so helpful fashion commentary supplied by the irritating Nina Garcia and the predictable Tim Gunn, we were walked through their un-inspiring opinions of the night's couture. I lost all respect and interest in those two when in her dreadful accent Nina Garcia referred to Roony Mara's look as "Audrey Hepburn gone punk" Meanwhile Givenchy is rolling over in his grave.

My commentary would have gone something like this: "Peplums are rubbish." Both Tina Fey and Michelle Williams tried on this terrible idea for size. It did not fit either of them. Yet the press seems to be droning on about how phenomenal Michelle Williams looked. I don't see it. That tired old bleached head of hers detracts from everything she puts on. Right. We get it, you cut of all your hair, you're a serious actress. Other hair that looked dreadful was that of Penelope "mutt-ly" Cruz who's head did an unfortunately convincing impersonation of a 1950's housewife who's hot rollers shorted out.

As I recount the evening's events I realize that the only thing worse than looking awful is being totally forgettable. Sadly 80% of the evening has been lost in the depths of the cotton and unicorns which happily reside between my ears. Apart from a few misguided attempts at glamor, the Event Of The Year was wholly UN-eventful.

J.Lo - The Cell came out in 2000. The dress should have stayed on set.

Sandra Bullock - Jane Torvill and Christopher Dean looked better in their startlingly similar 1986 Olympic Ice Dancing costumes.

Stacey Kiebler - (Kimmy Gibbler) I can't get past your name, I dont care how tall and blonde you are.

Angelina Jolie - Who gives a crap about her leg, when her complexion is waxy and her arms are skeletal? Where exactly are those 10lbs the camera is supposed to add?

Emma Stone - Giambattista Valli couldn't save you this time. Uninspired.

These snap judgements brought to you from my High-horse. The one I'm sitting on while wearing Ugg boots and eating rice krispie squares.