My week in retrospect: The Highs the Lows

Laryngitis. It’s a bitch. Enough said. Primarily because I can’t say anything. All I can do is wheeze and gesticulate my way through a conversation. Telephones are a little more challenging. I did not call in sick. I’m amazed with myself. It would appear I’m growing up. Having said that I did manage to infect 3 people that I know of at work, and at least two outside of work.

Speaking of growing up. It’s my Birthday, or the Happiest Day of My Mothers Life. Hindsight's 20/20 am I right? So I was bitching to Polkadot via text about something, and she made a comment about my birthday creeping up on me. I said it wasn’t so much creeping as it was lying in wait. Which reminds me, the reason I text her was because of this dis-tress-ing piece of information. I was sorting through a mountain of denim, deciding what the most pleasing formation on the table would be. When all of a sudden a glaring long thread nestled smugly betwixt the jeans. I pulled at it and in no time realized it was not a thread, but a strand of my hair. My beautiful long blonde . . . . . . . hang on! I psst’d to my co-worker and in a panicked ear-splitting whisper bleated out the words “BLONDE OR GREY?! . . . . . . . BLONDE OR GREY!?” . . . . . . silence and some inspection took place and the sweet young thing in front of me said matter-of-factly “it's white.”

I could have wrung her lithe 18 year old neck. So ladies and germs, my first grey . . . oh I’m sorry, white hair.

It’s really difficult to convey urgency and anger when the only sound you can make sends dogs into hysterics. I probably should have called in sick Monday. But I couldn’t you see, because it was my contract negotiation meeting. Huzzah! Overall it went well, I am now the proud owner of a slightly revised title: Visual Merchandising and Graphics Manager. This is good news, and I think we all know how often I have good news to share. I do in-fact have more good news, but you’ll all find out about that in about 9 months . . . hardy har har.

'

Seriously though. Pregnancy. I could use some 'Mat Leave' and who doesn’t want priority seating on the bus? And lets not forget the joy of bringing life into the worl . . . . never-mind. I can’t even keep a straight face. So back to real life. Prams and strollers on the bus anger me. Take an effing cab. Between the 400lb dude sitting across from me and the mother to my left 5 regular size people have been displaced. Well I mean the bus is disgusting, they deserve to be on it. I don’t. I had a friend who used to say “friends don’t let friends ride public transit” that was a nice thought . . . . before the luster faded and I ended up back on the bus. Naturally, seated next to the wally who barks into his mobile in broken English . . . and fluent Quebecois. I cranked my Jethro Tull and could still hear his grunting over the whine of Ian Anderson. Hate. But fortunately the work week is almost over, and another weekend quietly and mysteriously descends. Anything could happen . . . ? And by anything I mean laundry.

Tune in next time to find out the positive and typically negative effects of three 6 foot blondes let loose in a city over 48 hours.

A Very PG Christmas

It wouldn't be Christmas if Mum didn't kill one of our cats. An otherwise delightful 60 minute drive into the depths of suburban Ontario was ruined when I tactlessly asked if both cats were still alive. This question prompted an all too familiar glare from my dad in the rear-view mirror, and muffled sobbing from mum in the passenger side. * silence * Apparently the answer to my question was 'no'.

And so began my trip back east for the Holidays.

The homestead. A few things we need to sort out first. Moth balls. In a word: Dreadful. And as I just very recently learned, a cousin to the urinal cake. Upon opening the folks front door I immediately began wheezing and gagging in mock-ish agony. In the infinite wisdom of those in the 1600's where by disguising a putrid smell with a slightly more floral putrid smell, Mum thought it appropriate to ignite some scented oils. I marched upstairs within minutes of arriving home and tore open the folks closet doors. My bionic nose had lead me right to a small mesh bag of what appeared to be mentos (not even close to being the fresh-maker) dangling at chin height from a hanger. I snatched them out of what would otherwise be a lovely walk in closet and tossed them over to Mum who obligingly pitched them in the rubbish. The smell lingered for days. Fortunately after three days of not leaving the place my nose became acclimatized and I couldn't smell a thing. Until that is I stupidly left the warmth, sandwiches and milky tea of my sanctum sanctorum for the cold outdoors. I left the house 3 times in 6 days.

After the assault on my olfactory senses, I was able to begin to familiarize myself with my surroundings. Over the phone Mum had warned me that she had put up the Christmas ornaments. “you'll probably think it's too much.”

She was right. There were 10 x-mas trees throughout the house, and there were bits of greenery and /or holly perched behind spare corners of picture frames. Real boughs and faux boughs sprung out of every available vessel or trimmed any semi-bare surface. Mum had decked the halls. A lot to take in, but the good news is the woman has good ornaments. There were only a couple which I pleaded with her to remove. By 4:00 on day 1 two trees had been removed. Granted, it was later that night I found one in the bathroom and one in her bedroom. So not really removed, so much as re-positioned. At least she has taste, and at least she doesn't adorn surfaces with musical light-up snowmen. Highly festive, and by day 2 the delicate pong of mothballs was waning, and the aroma of piragi was permeating every room instead. * sigh*

Ahhh Christmas. In my old age I've found it rather pleasant to simply eat and snooze myself into oblivion over The 'Hols'. Mums are great. They are great for baking, dinners, hugs and their old Ports blouses. I ransacked my mum's closet a few times and came away with some sweet stuff. The bad news is, my mum has owned these things and worn them for years, but on my first outing in any of them I manage to stain or spill on them. Guilt. Fortunately Christmas Eve was the exception, even draped in cobalt blue silk, and feeding 'the last cat standing' gravy I remained stain free. Of course the ungrateful beast left me three little shreds of sauerkraut from her Christmas gravy. But even those remained on the delftware dish and not down my front.

In conclusion: Dry-cleaning is a total rip-off. I had to clean two of my x-mas finds already. Natch. It cost $50 clams, and the stains are still there. Thank Christ I got a Tide To Go in my stocking. That's the other thing about Mom's, at least mine, they know what their children need. And that friends, is constant supervision. Even in her 30's.

For JT

I hear Avatar is a rip roaring good time. I wouldn't know because I spent the duration making a concentrated effort to not throw up.

An elite few are fortunate enough to know about my exceptionally weak stomach. At age 12 I spent 85% of a Fijian cruise sleeping in the bunks of the ship. My earliest memory of being in an airplane was yakking my guts out at age 4 as we landed in Cape Town. The ferries were always unpleasant, although I think the only time I vomited was because I was coming home from seeing Nirvana on the mainland and was still a little drunk. Busses, I remember a particular trip heading up island on an excruciatingly long ride, I believe I spent 45 minutes or so in the can. Motion and me do not mix. This is another genetic gem I can thank my father for.

With the rejuvenated popularity of 3D films I have been forced to view movies through nausea colored lenses. I was prepared for the worst on my first outing. Shockingly Bolt was great. I laughed, I cried (seriously) and best of all, I did not toss my cookies. Up was also great, again, laughed, sobbed uncontrollably and kept my lunch down. Avatar. What could possibly go wrong? It's animated-ish? I survived the others . . . . ? Of course I can handle James Cameron's latest sci-fi epic Avatar. Here's the difference. With my first two 3D experiences I was not in the very front row of the theatre. I was also not subjected to constant (although I'm sure effective, if I had been able to focus) running, jumping and flying scenes. Scenes padded heavily with sweeping panoramic shots of levitating mountains, dive-bombing dragons and disorienting chases through jungles. I am amazed I remained in my seat for as long as I did. I only ate a quarter of a bag of pop-corn, which is unheard of, and I left half my soda-pop, also unheard of. I know the film was long, so I can't be sure if I got up an hour before the end or a half hour. All I know is when I came back from the bathroom I stood happily at the back of the theatre and enjoyed a civilized 3D experience from a tolerable distance. What I did see, which was A LOT of blue knee-caps, was terrific. I think I'll really enjoy it when I illegally download it on my computer next week.

"The Coast is Toast" - I refuse to take credit for the title.

Review: Volcano - Directed by Mick Jackson.

Not only does this film provide the most bizarre, not to mention feeble romantic pairing since Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovitt, but it delivers never-ending hilarity in the form of human incineration.

Ohmigosh….the earths core has reached a boiling point and like the pent up frustration of an adolescent boy the lava’s got to escape the confines of the planets mantel and crust! Where will the tonnes upon tonnes of molten rock go? LA. That’s where. Flash to 5 burly guys in hard hats and luminescent pinny’s squeezing down a manhole to perform some ‘plot’ dependent work on gas-mains. Let the hilarity and incineration begin.

Amidst violent eruptions on Wiltshire Blvd and a permanent rain of ash, expert: Anne Heche and sceptic: Tommy Lee Jones try to form not only a scientific alliance, but a romantic one. With all the chemistry of a biology lab these two fumble through two hours of lava flows, constant screaming, lessons in racial equality and tolerance for your fellow man (even if he’s a woman).

One and a half hours in, we breath a sigh of relief as LA’s finest (directed by TLJ) stop the painfully slow moving lava. Lava that’s creeping through the city faster than you can say….. speak and define; antidisestablishmentarianism. About two dozen helicopters and about 80 fire trucks saturate the magma with gallons and gallons of water and LA is saved. *cheering*

Right.

Cheering continues until clever Anne Heche realizes it’s not over till it’s daylight and thousands of innocent peoples lives are in peril.

Cue: impossible to execute plan, this time involving a precision building demolition. Now imagine TLJ’s daughter is in the basement of that building. (laugh track)

I won’t ruin it for all y’all by telling you TLJ charges into the demolition zone to save his idiot daughter and some token 4 year old kid. He catapults himself on top of the 2 children in the nick of time. After a tense 3 seconds or so TLJ emerges from the rubble carrying the random kid, with his idiot daughter crawling out behind him….. all three…. unscathed. Random kid looks across the masses of firefighters, doctors, looters, and blue collar workers and poignantly whispers.

“they all look the same”

Pan on ash covered crowd. (pause) 7 gratuitous seconds later the sky opens, and sunbeams dapple the throngs of people. The rain of hope and new beginnings begins to fall heavily. Washing away all traces of ash, reminding us we’re all very different, different is bad, and camaraderie in the face of an urban volcano will never EVER change that.

TLJ and AH exchange useless banter and don’t kiss in the down pour, as much as we want them to. Instead the movie ties up nicely with Anne offering Tommy, his idiot daughter and their golden lab a lift home in her Hummer. Helpfully leaving a slew of fires in Hollywood, mudslides in Malibu and a 2 mile wide bubbling crater smack dab in the middle of Beverly Hills.

John Corbett is in the movie as well, but he appears about as frequently as rational thinking. Twice.


The End

etiquette

I think it’s been raining for 3 weeks straight. There was really no end in sight. In fact there continues to be no end in sight. There was a brief hiatus in sight 2 days ago. That hiatus has now come and gone. It proved to be a few, what I assume were blissful hours of sunlight and dry. Not so much that the concrete was sapped of moisture, but dry enough that I didn’t have to wear boots this morning.

This has been the first year I’ve used an umbrella. Up until now I’ve been emphatically anti-umbrella. Why? Because they are cumbersome, soggy and dangerous. Dangerous for me primarily, who insists on unavoidably thrusting herself into harms way. I get mocked relentlessly by my friend Katie-Lynne for voicing my two biggest grievances. Umbrella etiquette and bicycle etiquette. However, despite the mocking I know I’m not the only one who the malpractice of both these activities irritates to high heaven. Abuse of umbrella and bicycle privileges runs rampant. As soon as the first rains arrive the bikes go inside and the umbrella’s come out.

There’s not a season in the calendar year that doesn’t have me flinging myself out of the path of some jack-ass recklessly wielding a spoke-laden weapon.

The rules are simple.

Bikes: If you’re riding a bicycle and you’re too afraid to ride on the road, keep the thing chained to a pipe in the laundry room where it (and you) belong. Don’t . . . I repeat, don’t force me to yield tso you may continue your leisurely roll down the sidewalk. And if you’re on a motorized scooter, you sure as shit better not be within striking distance of a pedestrian. More specifically? Me. A helpful hint in minding the p’s and q’s of bicycle etiquette is in the word sidewalk. Ahem.

Umbrellas: They are pointy. They are designed cleverly to keep you dry-ish, but it’s seldom a person’s person extends to the perimeter of that protective dome. It seems common sense (and courtesy for that matter) evades 80% of the population. Don’t walk under the awning with your umbrella when someone without one is walking towards you. (this is the exception where a wally on a bike would be welcome to run Umbrella Offender into a particularly wet puddle) Think about it. Do not assume everyone is 5’4”. Umbrella’s don’t skim the top of my head, they impale me directly in the eye. I will spaz. So jack-asses the world over, be prepared to have that umbrella either torn out of your hand and pitched into the streets, or carelessly deflected with the business end of my fist.

It’s time to implement some sort of ticketing system. Lets put those screaming wastes of space the Downtown Ambassadors to good use. Finally, something feeble enough that it could be “in their jurisdiction”. Otherwise I’m more than happy to perform my brand of a citizens arrest. I’m going to need an angry ferret and some steel wool.

The End of Summer

Just your average Sunday. It began with plans to test drive various city toilet facilities after the Chili and Blues Fest here in Gastown (appropriate locale). 18 types of chili for the bargain price of $15. What goes better with chili than Blues? I don’t know sour cream, toilet paper, avocado, cheddar cheese? Plans were rearranged 45 minutes into the day when all of a sudden out of nowhere came the offer of an intimate flight for 7 up to a secluded lake in the mountains. By 3:00 we were soaring up into the wide blue yonder. It was in fact blue, and wide. Few clouds plenty of sun, and little white paper bags for yours truly to heave into should the fancy strike her.

A 25 minute flight and we were at 5000 feet altitude in a float plane landing gently on the azure waters of Phantom lake. No shit. For a couple delightful hours a group of 7 enjoyed a picnic, some swimming and some feeble attempts at fishing. It was suggested next time we fly up to this particular lake we figure out what sort of fish are calling it home ,and pack lures and bait accordingly. One of my fellow passengers idea of digging for worms was only slightly overshadowed by my idea to stab a small chunk of my roast beef sandwich onto the hook. That worked ok until the line broke. Still, a more successful try than when I tied a string to my finger and tried to lure fish to the surface with that.

I am happy to report I only felt truly nauseated once when we were landing on Phantom Lake. I am also happy to report the Chanel bag I happened to be carrying when we were hijacked to go flying survived the trip. There is photo documentation of some twit hauling a Chanel bag onto a float-plane to god knows where. As we all stood on the dock I felt like we were about to embark on what so many misguided groups do. That being a run of the mill horror movie, where by the group of us would be murdered gruesomely and indiscriminately. By the end of the day we’d (the prerequisite two of us that remained unscathed-ish) end up with at least 5 unexplained disappearances on our hands, and multiple chases through dark and branchy woods.

As it turned out this aforementioned scenario did not happen. But in keeping with my cinematic imagination, I was also reminded of the film classic Lake Placid. As I dangled my dijits in the gently lapping waters surrounding me I asked my boat-buddy over my shoulder “what was it . . . . . (pausing to adjust the string on my finger, as it dripped on my silk blouse) an enormous crocodile?” (delicately splashing the surface again, not noticing the sinister yellow eyes that had just broken the surface 15 yards away)

This also did not happen. What did happen was simply lovely. Not in the slightest dramatic or bone-chilling. We flew to a lake, we landed, we snacked, we “fished”, we left. A delightful Sunday to be sure. The perfect way to celebrate one of the last weekends of Summer.

GSD

Without “blowing his cover”* I'd like to raise the issue of my Dad and his “occupation”. He's acquired a rather convincing limp. Now, I'm not sure whether this is an injury from “work” or from a “fall” he had a few winters ago, but he's been keeping it pretty consistent for three years. It hasn't suddenly switched legs in the middle of a stroll to the market. The guy's a pro. Or a “Professional” (see Jean Reno)

I like to think the “limp” is part of his “persona”. His “persona” of business prof/self unemployed consultant. I like to think my Dad, let's call him “DAD” is some sort of spy, akin to a Jason Bourne/James Bond/Simon Templar/Maxwell Smart. Since I can remember “DAD” has worked away from home. Home is where me and Mum were, and “DAD” travelled here and there, keeping us in lipsticks and latte's.

This was a less than ideal lifestyle for my Mum, and a totally acceptable one for me, as it had always been that way since I was teensie. By High School I, along with my friends (one in particular) were pretty convinced that “DAD” had a secret life. A few variations have taken shape. First; The Green River Killer ( . . . . a bloody axe falls out of his briefcase and he just shrugs it off.)Second; Mafia . Finally, my personal favorite (fingers crossed) the aforementioned Secret Agent. Naturally my friend and I were “sleeper” agents, what with our mutual Eastern European connections. And one day we too would be put into action and would begin leaping expertly from rooftops and roboticly and systematically firing semi-automatic weapons. But we're not talking about me here.

At a youthful 66, I expect “DAD”'s secret agent days are coming to an end. He's no Sean Connery, and he's got the “limp”. However he still manages to find the most dangerous places on earth to go visit LED light manufacturers(?). I don't know what was going on in Trinidad in the early 90's but he was there A LOT. More recently the list of these un-savory locations begin with a variety of “Stans”, Russia(the corrupt kind), Bangladesh, Zimbabwe, Fiji was cancelled . . . . (due to the Coup) and was replaced with Samoa, until the earthquakes, and next on the list is Sierra Leone. Natch. Now either the man is still “live” or finally he's putting some of that cash he's been squirrelling away for the past 20 years to good use and picking up some Blood Diamonds for me and my Mum.

Wishful thinking? Perhaps. But “DAD” can yammer on all he wants about his students, these manufacturers in god knows where and how he's a crotchety old man. I don't believe it for a second. I know as soon as Canada's out of ear-shot and he lands back in Europe, the Velcro sneakers come off and the Cesare Paciotti brogues go on. His weapon of choice? His biting wit, and probably a tidy little hand gun.

DAD” returns to his sleepy home a few times a year to find cauliflower soup and cups of milky luke warm coffee waiting for him. He laughs at inappropriate jokes, and sneers at small children (for about 19 years I was one of them). He appropriates those behaviors synonymous with an average dad/husband, but I know what's really going on. . . . He is merely a ringing shoe-phone away from his next mission.

*first use of inverted comma's, these will appear roughly 17 more times in this note.