See Jane run

Last night around 7:45 I went for my weekly 7k slog around the neighborhood. I have run in the dark before and usually, after my first “scary” run, concerned about tripping over twisted tree roots or stepping in steaming dog doo, I adjust. Wanting to be safe, I donned a white shirt and a white bandana, and even put on my glasses as my eyesight has diminished exponentially since this time last year (thank you post-secondary education). I grabbed my MP3 player, my digital watch (which beeps periodically and delivers and electric shock when I fall below a five minute kilometer), and headed out into the dark, praying I wouldn’t break an ankle. After a few obligatory “is it a mailbox, or is it a rapist?” moments, I got into the groove and started lamenting, as I always do at the second kilometer of seven, “when will this be over?”.
I stopped for traffic at MacKenzie and noticed out of the corner of my eye that a car had also stopped and was waiting to cross. Thinking nothing of it, I waited for a break in the yuppy onslaught of Audis and Volvos and darted across the street, with my vehicular companion following me. Running along the sidewalk I noted that the car that had crossed MacKenzie with me had not yet passed by, which was odd. I noticed then that the car was still beside me, keeping pace. Still not clueing in, because the worst acts of violence in Kerrisdale involve leaving the house before checking that one’s belt and shoes match, I assumed that the automobile occupants were looking for an address. That they were late for a brie and Pinot Gris tasting at Muffy’s house, but they weren’t sure where Muffy lived, because their son, Tad, had only been over to play with Muffy’s son, Biff, a couple of times, and that was during the summer – you remember, when the boys looked so cute in their Bermuda shorts and loafers – when it was light out, but now it was dark, and Muffy really ought to have strung up some Chinese lanterns to illuminate the way, don’t you think? Anyways, when the car had still had not pulled over or passed me, I began to think something untoward was going on. Inclining my head slightly in their general direction, I was somewhat surprised to find the car was rife, not with Tad’s family, but with three mid-twenties boys, screaming something unintelligible at me from their Honda, no less. I rolled my eyes and focused on the sidewalk, willing them to grow bored of their uninteresting prey (was it the bandana that had attracted them?) and leave. However they did not. I heard them yelling at me, but did not want to remove my headphones, because I had already learned all the fun synonyms for female body parts from Busta Rhymes over the weekend with my buddy Daryl. Unappeased, they mimicked their (not so distant) simian relatives by rolling down the windows and pounding the top of their car. It was at this point that I actually started to grow concerned. I was, after all, alone in the dark on a side street, being shadowed by three young men that were showing no signs of backing off; that in fact appeared to be increasingly agitated by my presence. I ignored them, and ran through my options. Option, rather - I had only one: go knock on someone’s door for help. Engaging in any communication with these individuals would have been pointless, since they clearly lacked the most basic knowledge such as: pounding on the roof of your car is stupid and unnecessary; and following single women for prolonged periods of time is creepy and not socially normal. After a few moments another car pulled onto the side street, sidled up behind the Honda, and reluctantly my tormentors took off. But not before screaming and beeping some more, of course.
I continued my jog and then began to wonder, would they come back? Had they darted down some alley to wait for me? Were they drunk? Had they pulled into a house that I was about to jog past? I spent the rest of my jog half-looking over my shoulder, and inspecting the make and model of every car that passed, sifting through them for the silver Honda Civic. At one point, as I jogged past an empty park I literally jumped when I saw my own shadow. I became despondent that this had happened. Daryl said “wouldn’t any decent guy(s) realize how frightening that could be and not behave that way?”. One would think. And yet it did happen, they did do it, and I was left wondering: what would’ve happened if another car hadn’t come by; and more importantly, what were they trying to accomplish?
I guess I could change my jogging route, as has been suggested to me. And no, I don’t know what exactly they said to me, so there is a possibility that I am blowing it out of proportion. God knows that if I, and two of my friends, were to roll down the window to ask a lone jogger, at night, for directions and if that jogger did not answer, I would definitely trail them, yell at them, and pound the top of my car. The point is that I shouldn’t have to change my jogging route. Changing my jogging route, or asking me what, verbatim, these losers of the gene-pool said to me, is somewhat equivalent to asking a victim of sexual abuse what she was wearing the night she was attacked: it’s irrelevant. What is relevant is that they made me uncomfortable. Why do I have to change? Why is this deemed semi-acceptable behaviour? Why does our society continue to put the onus on women to never put themselves in the most remotely precarious position? I’m not the one doing anything wrong.
A relative of mine made an extremely idiotic comment to me a couple of years ago about the way women dress. He said that men were incapable of controlling themselves around scantily clad women. I suggested that, if this was such an epidemic affecting men in such a horrible manner, that perhaps castration was the answer. This argument seems to go hand in hand with the “I had an affair because it’s in men’s nature to spread our seed far and wide” argument. Wow, I mean, it must really suck to be totally unable to control your body like that! It must make social outings utterly precarious, why, you might get whiplash when a pretty lady walks by. Or, you know, you might just feel the urge to procreate so badly that you commit a major faux pas in front of your boss at a business meeting. Give me a break. Really. Stop it, it’s tiring. It sounds like the kind of excuse Dubya makes before arbitrarily invading a country: utter bullshit.
My final argument in regards to last night’s event is this: if I had a different skin color, or if I were handicapped, and the comments undoubtedly hurled at me corresponded with my skin color/disability, it would be a pretty heinous act, correct? It would be racist and disgusting. And yet I have to jog elsewhere? So is it correct then, that black people should not jog in certain areas? Perhaps they shouldn’t use the same water fountains as us? A certain sect of people should have to change their routines to accommodate a few assholes? It’s pretty easy to see where I am going with this, n’est ce pas?
And this concludes my angry, women’s lib blog. Wanna fight about it?

Mariah Carey

Last night I went to see Mariah Carey with my good friend Daryl. Actually, he is now my best friend. His status has been elevated, as yours can be too, if you take me nice places and buy me stuff. Anyways, through his work he got a couple of tickets to a box suite for the Mariah Carey concert. With free food and booze. Yay! Now, I am not a big Mariah Carey fan, so I went to the concert with little expectation except that I got to spend some time away from Michael. I will now proceed to give you the run down of the concert.
We arrived at the suite, grabbed a couple of drinks and sat down to watch Busta Rhymes and his sidekick (I believe the gentleman's name was Spliff) as they sweated profusely under the hot house lights. They were shamelessly promoting Busta's new album (The Big Bang), and tried to encourage the audience to remember it by having the audience scream it over and over again at the top of their lungs. What? The Big Bang! What? The Big Bang! It reminded me of the time I went to a weekend bible retreat and they tried (unsuccessfully) to brainwash me. What? Jesus is Lord! What? Jesus is... wait a minute! How come the bible doesn't mention dinosaurs? Okay, so we listened for a prolonged length of time to what these two gentlemen wanted to do to various parts of women's anatomies, while periodically screaming "The Big Bang!". All good.
Then Mariah Carey came out. Now, let me just say that I was still up six mystery pounds from my surgery, and still have a couple of waterproof bandages on my person, and couldn't fit into my regular jeans so had to wear my "fat" jeans. Yeah, and MC comes out wearing essentially a bathing suit and high heels. She looked like a million bucks. I had more wine. I also discerned that everyone had plastic cups because Mariah Carey can actually hit such a high pitch that glass shatters. Ironically, the "diamonds" in my ring shattered. Mike, you cheap f*ck.
Then some guy came out in a slick suit and everyone seemed to know who he was and he did a couple of songs. I think it was Mariah's pimp. He shamelessly promoted his new album, and then Mariah came out and promoted his album too. Actually, I think Mariah was his pimp.
Oh, and every time anyone mentioned "Vancouver" or "Canada" or "BC" the crowd went ballistic. There was no possibility that any person in the audience could have been confused about their whereabouts given the number of times Mariah Carey or Busta said "How ya feelin' Vancouver?". After a couple of times of the crowd fairly convulsing when Vancouver was mentioned I thought, no matter how stoned the audience is they have to at some point realize that they're being pandered to. Apparently I was wrong, and the crowd was made up of a bunch of simpering idiots. YAY VANCOUVER!!! The Big Bang!! Vancouver, Vancouver, BC, Canada! Vancouver! The Big Bang!
Anyways, back to the concert. MC did the majority of the concert half nekkid. But when you're that good looking, successful and talented I think that you can do whatever the hell you want. I am actually going to work half nekkid on Tuesday (just hope I can get the rest of that pesky yellow iodine off).
Overall, I must say that I enjoyed the concert. It was very upbeat, lots of crowd participation and Mariah Carey is incredibly talented, though her music is not to my taste. The aspect of the evening that I had not anticipated, was Mariah emanating a kind of sexuality and confidence that I found empowering. It also could have had to do with the free booze. I did come away feeling a bit saucy and emancipated. I think Daryl did too. Then we saw a guy getting arrested en route to our bus. He was sauced and incarcerated. What? The Big Bang! What? The Big Bang!

Men should not read this post

Hello all, on this fine day of recovery. As the title of today's blog implies: men should stop reading here. This blog will be dedicated to: the extraordinary time that I had while at Women's Hospital yesterday; my fallopian tubes; my period; my pubic hair; and endometriosis. Seriously, if you're a guy and you're still reading this, you secretly want to be a woman.
Alright, yesterday Michael drove me to Women's Hospital around 10:30 for my tubal ligation. I could tell he was just itching to get out of there the minute we arrived, but I told him in no uncertain terms that he would stay, and he would grin and smile and make small talk, right up until they told him he had to go. Unfortunately that was within about half an hour. Okay, so he didn't get to suffer nearly as much as I would've liked.
I was led into a day suite which I thought, as the name kind of implies, meant I would get to lounge around, get a mani and pedi and have a glass or two of chardonnay. This was not the case. I instead was told to put all my clothes into a plastic bag and given two hospital gowns to put on (the first with the opening at the back, the second with the opening at the front). As there were three other people in this "suite" with me, I hissed at the nurse, "I'm having my period". I assumed that she would simply tell me to leave my panties on. But no. Hospitals have panties too. Actually, panties are things that you buy at Sears and can sometimes look pretty and make you feel sexy. These things were like a mixture of cheese cloth and fishnet with two holes randomly placed in them, and some elastic. I swear to god they were one size fits all. And then I got to use a hospital sanitary napkin. It was approximately three feet long. At least I got to wrestle with it in the bathroom. Then they weighed and measured me and the nurse said "well aren't you a small one", which made me wonder if they were going to throw me back or something. I returned to my bed and eventually another nurse came around, asked a bunch of questions and then put in an IV. I guess I should say here that I've never had any surgery of any kind, been put under, or had an IV. I immediately stopped using my left arm once the IV was in and taped to it. I just kept looking at the drip, following the tube down to my arm and remembering there was a needle inserted into my vein and that movement of the arm was likely bad. Then the nurse came around to look at my abdomen and discerned that I needed a shave (after struggling to push the all-encompassing cheese cloth down over my hipbones). I think it was at about this time that I really stopped caring or having any allusions of dignity. I also felt badly for the nurse, because no matter how bad my day at work is, I never have to shave anyone's pubic hair. Though I have attempted to a couple of times. Then I got to clean out my belly button with rubbing alcohol. I was a little concerned, they'll trim my pubic hair but won't clean my belly button? The service was a little inconsistent. Then I got to take 3 Tylenol, an antacid and a couple of other pills all at once with about two tablespoons of water. I managed to do it, so I was pretty proud of myself. Then the nurse brought me some magazines and I basically read and stared at the ceiling for over an hour.
After a while an older, angrier nurse came and asked me more questions. Then went away. Then came back and said "do you want to use the washroom now?" to which I figured now was as good a time as ever. This involved hooking my IV up to a stand on wheels, which of course terrified me because I had to walk with it and, draped in my billowing hospital gown, I was sure I was going to catch it on something and rip it out of my arm. Yeah, me in my cheese cloth panties, two hospital gowns and and IV bag in a little hospital washroom, trying to tinkle one last time was brilliant. I came out and then got to take my IV bag for a walk, to sit and wait for my surgeon near the surgery room. Another nurse came over (I believe she was the one that would administer the anesthetic) and we chatted about being put out. Everyone seemed surprised that this was my first time (do I look like someone that gets operated on a lot??), and she said that the anesthetic was no big deal and that she had heard if you thought of a nice place while you were going under, that you might actually go there while you were out. Shortly thereafter my surgeon came into the hospital, shook my hand (which I thought was a good precursor to the fact that he would know me inside and out within the next half hour) and went to get scrubbed in. The nice nurse came and took my IV bag and started to lead me into the operating room. She said, "do you know where you're going?" to which I paused and said, "into surgery?". Evidently she was asking if I had determined what locale I was going to fixate on as I was going under. I'm a dummy.
Alright, this is the total best part of the whole day. There was a female resident or something sitting in a chair in the operating room, so I'm like hey, how's it going. Then they took off the outside robe (so now I was in one robe with the opening at the back - which was not closed) and then said I had to step out of my sexy panties. I said I was having my period and they said, "we'll take care of it". That was it: "we'll take care of it". How? How will you take care of it? That's what the three foot long sanitary napkin was doing. What are you going to do? So I am stripped of my panties and gigantic pad and I'm like, yeah, this is super. I am so having a good, happy time right now. Then I sit my bare ass down on the operating table and they help me get situated and put heart monitors on my chest, my finger, and hook me up to a blood pressure machine. Then a couple more people come in. This guy, who is not my doctor, says hey. They start discussing that I am healthy, haven't had surgery and have no allergies. He asks if there is anything that he should know. Do these people not communicate with one another? I said, "Uh, I have hypoglycemia?". Upon hearing this he kind of panics. One of the nurses asks what the symptoms are. I say, "well, I get kind of dizzy and faint and then I pass out". I clearly remember noting this on the medical forms. He kind of starts flailing around and asking people questions about my blood sugar levels, and I never heard anyone answer him, so now I think I'm going to die. Oh, and my little cap was rolling down my forhead and fitting itself snugly around my head via my EYES but because they had me all tucked in I couldn't move my arms so I had to yelp for help. They pushed it back up. The lady nurse says, "so these symptoms happen when you don't eat for some time, right?" to which I say "yes, I don't just randomly pass out" and they all laugh, ha ha the patient said a funny. All the while I'm thinking please let there be glucose in the drip because it's now 12:30 and I haven't eaten for over 12 hours.
Then they put oxygen over my nose and mouth and tell me to breath deeply, which I do, all the while listening to the beeping of all my vitals. I saw someone else injecting something into my IV bag and thought "this is it! This is where the FBI takes me out for all my anti-Bush rhetoric!", but the nurse says, "you're going to start to feel a little drowsy" and that was the last damn thing I heard.
No recollection of my dreams or anything.
Next few memories pretty groggy. People were buzzing around asking me questions and I felt awful. My throat was totally raw and I was phlemgy. The lights hurt my eyes. People were asking me to check my teeth, to see if they were chipped. Why would my teeth be chipped? Then I think my surgeon (?) said they had discovered I had endometriosis (this blog is too long, google it) and had done some work to fix it. I was like come on! I can't talk, I can barely open my eyes and I have no idea what's going on, give me a frickin' bone here. I kept on telling myself to wake up, to open my eyes and to try and get my mouth working properly, because all these people were asking me questions and telling me things, but I just wanted to go back to sleep.
Somehow I got back to the day suite where I had been before and they asked if someone was picking me up. I said, yes, Michael was. He was supposed to be waiting on the bench outside at 2pm. Of course he said that they told him 2:30, but I was there when they told him what time and it was 2pm. My surgery was at 12:30, he was to be there at 2pm. So of course they can't find him. That's cool. Cause there was still more fun to be had until he got there. Yes.
I'm still a bit groggy on the details, but I did have to go back into the washroom to try and fumble my way into another pair of scrunchy, mesh panties and finagle a three foot pad into them. With the IV still. Having just woken up from surgery. Yup, not feeling too hot. So I manage this, and then I hear the nurse directing Michael into my little cubicle area. I emerge, victorious, from the washroom, with my friend the IV stand trailing behind me. Michael looks at me, doesn't say much. I sit back on the bed and the nurse removes my IV, which apparently grosses Michael out. Oh, it was about to get so, so much worse for him. We discuss my teeth some more. I'm still not entirely sure what happened, but someone thought they had chipped my tooth when they were doing something - possibly putting a breathing tube down my throat? - but my teeth were all fine. Having something stuck down my throat would explain why, when I woke up, I felt like I had had something stuck down my throat, but my mom says I'm crazy. She says that all the time. The nurse brings my clothes and closes the drapes so I can put on my civvies. I take off my hospital gown and my stomach, abdomen and the tops of my legs are bright yellow, covered in sticky iodine. That, plus I have a huge patch over my belly button and a couple of bloody incisions covered in clear tape at the top of my (now freshly shaved) pubis. Michael just sits there, trying to be positive and enjoy my funtime panties and elephant sanitary pad. He says, "I'll bring the car around", to which I say "no, I'd like to walk a bit".
I go home, have a nap. Michael tells me I look great. I don't feel so great.
Today Michael went to work and I go to wander around Kerrisdale. I run into my very good friend outside her work. I'm wearing sweat pants, a baggy shirt and huge sunglasses. I am walking very slowly because I'm in some discomfort. My friend looks great, tanned, has just had her hair highlighted and it looks magnificent. I tell her this. I say "cause I know you're looking at me and thinking, there's a picture of health" to which she says "you look like... well, you look like someone that's just had surgery". This is true. I tell her that somehow, between my operation yesterday and today I have gained eight pounds and my stomach is sticking out (further than usual). She has had surgery a couple of times and tells me this is normal and then laughs, and says never mind. But then she comes out with it "unless they left something that weighs eight pounds inside you". We both laugh. I shuffle home.

T day

Hello sports fans! Did anyone catch Avi Lewis hosting The Big Picture last night? The panel watched Richard Dawkins' documentary about fanatical religion and the harm it causes the world (he is an atheist), and then they debated it. It was fantastic! They had several prominent Canadian religious figures there who "sermonized" a bit, and this was peppered by comments from the general audience. It was both enlightening and terrifying (the zeal with which the Christian right seems to be organizing a grass roots campaign a la United States makes me want to move to France, land of no religious symbolism).
Some of the thoughts I was left with:
1) isn't it a bit ridiculous, that in a room of "grown ups", some of whom are quite educated, the individuals still believe resolutely that they are unfailingly correct? I mean, come on! How do you know your god is the one true god?
2) the fanaticism and ignorance with which Dr. Charles McVety (President of Canada Christian College) pontificated was abhorrent. A fellow panelist was Oxford educated and McVety practically sneered every time Oxford was mentioned. Boy howdy, what kind of education do you get at the Canada Christian College anyways? Well, I suppose Darwin is out. Maybe one could excel at "loving God lots".
3) I really couldn't see the difference between the Christian zealots and the Middle Eastern zealots.
4) some religious leaders (again, prominently McVety) want to combine religion and politics (again, that happens and I am GONE), though as an astute audience member pointed out, that hasn't worked out so well in places like Afghanistan.
There are other points, but I have to head out shortly. Today is the day! I am heading to the hospital in half an hour. Wish me luck.

What price health?

In between panic attacks over the (pointlessly) complex and convoluted income tax equations that I am supposed to know, Michael and I came across an interesting program on KCTS over the weekend. It was a doctor who had taken four years and over a million dollars in research to study what people can do to decrease the aging of their bodies. It was interesting and believable, and it focused mainly on heart health, diet and nutrition and exercise. Michael and I were very intrigued by it, and we decided that we would like to purchase some of the literature. It was a very exciting decision for us, since it was the first time that we had contributed to a public broadcasting corporation, of which we are both big fans. At the same time, it was somewhat unnerving that I was choosing to spend my dollars at this junction, give that KCTS had some programming featuring my favorite artist and future husband Dave Matthews a couple of months ago. I was enraptured. The pricing structure was something like: for $50 you could get an autographed t-shirt; for $500 you could get front row tickets to one of his concerts; for $5,000 he would meet you for a couple of hours at the Fairmont Hotel. Damnit! Why did I go to part time? I knew money was good for something… Anyways, on the health front Michael wanted to buy the DVD. I said no, I didn’t want to have to pop in a DVD every time I wanted to reference some health tip. I wanted the mythical third tier, which included the DVD and two books for $275. Michael was apoplectic, sputtering about $275, US dollars, exorbitant shipping and handling. I asked him, given the frivolity with which we spend inordinate amounts on Nike gear in the pursuit of physical betterment, what price one should put on their health. To which he answered firmly, $75 US. Well fine. I will buy the all-encompassing health package. And I will rent Michael the DVD at $6 a day. And should he fail to return said DVD to me by noon the following day, it is deemed that he has rented it for another day. And I will get a GST number and charge him GST, and I will account for all of my dealings with him using complicated income tax equations.
One of the good tips that I learned while watching KCTS, was that as long as you are getting the appropriate level of calcium (and are not prone to migraine headaches or heart palpitations as a result of imbibing too much coffee) you can drink as much coffee as you want! I am so happy! I hope that the same principal applies to Tinhorn Creek’s 2002 Cabernet Franc. Very delectable.

I really, really hate income tax

It's a stellar, sunny, September day today and yet I've spent an hour trying to determine what Minnie Mouse (a commissionable sales person) can deduct from her employment income for 2005. Why do they name the characters in complicated tax questions so? Are we, the students, supposed to give pause and laugh at the absurdity of having to determine the complex tax ramifications for Scrooge and Tiny Tim? Is this somehow supposed to alleviate the pounding pain in my head, or eradicate the scowl lines on my forward as my brow furrows in exasperation? I think, on that day not far from now, that wet, miserable, blistery afternoon where I will sit for the last time and try and regurgitate everything that my teacher has tried to cram into my tiny brain for the prior 14 weeks, that when I come across the question relating to Goofy's taxable auto benefits I will inhale calmly, pick up pencil and write, on that vast, vacant white space available to me for ponderance and pontification, "Goofy is a dog. Dogs don't pay taxes. I am not twelve. Walt Disney was an anti-Semite."
The tax related twitch in my eye aside, things are good. It is sunny and it is Saturday. I am going to go for a run with Michael, and perhaps grab a coffee afterwards. Last night I FINALLY went to Bin 942. Fantastique! What a tiny, tasty, brilliant place! Sarah and I had some nice wine and split the hummus and Navajo fry bread - delectable. It's my new favourite place.... I just need to find that rich doctor to help me facilitate this somewhat-more-expensive-than-the-Cheshire experience.
Afterwards I met with my friend Daryl and we had sushi, which we were both craving desperately. I was mortified to find that he has yet to see The Big Lebowski. How is this possible? I think it's paramount to sacrilege that he contributes to Duder's blog, without a full understanding of who Duder is. What are you, a nihilist?

Income tax and Condi Rice

I’ve got a double whammy for all you devoted fans today! First off, let me say that I did attend my tax class last night, so I now have a 50% attendance rate, which is stellar. I had an inkling, when I purchased my 2,700 page Income Tax Act (no, I am absolutely not joking), that this course would be very difficult and about as entertaining as watching paint dry. Actually, watching paint dry can be fun: when the paint is Hot Pink and you’ve just splashed it all over a Hummer for shits and giggles. Also, I love the term shits and giggles. Who coined it, and what prompted the pairing of the word “shits” and “giggles”? I’m not saying it’s a bad pairing, but it’s rather unexpected and juxtapositional… how can I make my readers understand – it’s like having a nice glass of Baco Noir with some dark chocolate cake. It’s somewhat odd, but it works. I also enjoy “ass hat”. We will discuss further odd pairings later in this blog. Okay, where was I going with this? Oh right, I was regaling you with the complexities and nuances of income tax. I do ruminate on the need for a 2,700 page guide on how to interpret, understand and calculate one’s taxes. Did it start out at a mere 200 pages and just go from there? At any point, did some bureaucrat who was randomly flipping through it not say, “Hey George, this Income Tax Act is up to 1,800 pages! Don’t you think we’re over-complicating things a bit here?”. My teacher told us that every time the CRA loses a tax case, they change the ITA to close the loophole so that it will never happen again. Which means there are loopholes. Looks like I’ve got some heavy duty reading to do. When I become Prime Minister, I’m going to get that sucker under 500 pages. Maybe 501 after I add in the section that will make the purchase of electric automobiles FULLY TAX DEDUCTIBLE. Oh yeah, Duder for PM, baby. Are you a litigious homosexual with a lot of time on your hands? Here’s a gem for you: the definition of spouse in the ITA still refers to someone of the opposite sex. Discuss amongst yourselves, I’m a little verklempt.
Alright, onto the second issue of the day: Condi Rice and Peter MacKay. I think it’s a precursor to the Apocalypse. Sure, aren’t the signs: 1) a mental midget will be re-elected to rule the world’s most powerful country; 2) leggings and the concept of tucking your jeans into your boots will become fashionable again; and 3) the woman that helped destroy the Middle East will get all bootylicious with a naïve Canuck? Don’t get me wrong: Peter MacKay is a hotty, but he’s a Conservative, he supported the US-led invasion of Iraq, and he’s part of the reason that “spouse” is still defined in 1950’s terms; no amount of Baco Noir and chocolate cake is going to get me to see past that! And Condi Rice. Wow. Okay, it’s a step above Ann Coulter, but I shudder to think what would happen to Canada’s identity if that “merger” were to go through. Let’s see: axe the CBC (can’t have any independent and/or liberal reporting anymore); eradicate Neil Young (or send him to a remote island with the Dixie Chicks); decrease educational funding (don’t misunderestimate the power of education!); increase military spending; and re-introduce the Lord’s Prayer in school. And she’d probably wear those dominatrix black leather boots that she sported when she visited the troops overseas while accomplishing the above. Which maybe Peter MacKay would enjoy. Yes, Belinda Stronach was wrong, but Peter, if we can forgive her, can’t you?

Reception relief

I was going to preface this particular diatribe by saying that, generally, I am a relatively easy going person. Then I leaned back (in the receptionist’s chair) and contemplated if the term “easy going” is, in fact, applicable to my personality. Much like people report seeing their lives flash before their eyes when death looms certain before them, I too had a vivid sequence of memories flood my synapses. It was, to quote the musical score in Team America, a montage: Duder fingering a Hummer; Duder punching her brother in the face; Duder fiercely debating a CTV executive; Duder writing angry letters to no less than the president and vice president of the United States, a Republican senator from Kansas, and Scotiabank; Duder yelling at her shyster mechanic; Duder wearing a sandwich board (only) reading “It’s not easy being green” while ranting “the end is nigh, repent sinners!”. Okay, maybe the last one is just a fantasy of mine.
So we’ve established that I am not an easy going person. In fact, I’m more likely to punch than hug you… ask my family and friends. I’ve taken them to emergency numerous times, whispering feverishly “I’m so sorry, it will never happen again! Please don’t leave me; I love you”. Suckers always buy it. Therefore, it was with something other than graciousness that I accepted the punishment meted out to me solely for having breasts: to perform reception relief in the absence of our office administrator.
I have a long and illustrious history of reception relief (which I view as something akin to paid sexual discrimination). My first foray into the exciting world of answering phones and typing was when I landed my first job for a construction company. Though I was hired to do mostly data entry and assist the controller, the office manager deigned herself unable to answer more than one phone line at a time. This resulted in yours truly being situated in the office next to the manager so that, halfway through a lengthy tape I would have to stop, hearing the insistent beep of a second, incoming call. This continued until my boss executed a coup d’etat, forever rescuing me from the clutches of the facsimile and memo.
The next occurrence of administrative angst occurred at my subsequent job, where everyone in the office took turns manning the phones while the administrative person was on lunch and breaks. The call volume was high, and when flustered I resorted to simply hanging up on the unfortunate soul that choose the switch board over an individual’s extension. It was at the job that I met my lovah, Michael. He was, if possible, worse at reception relief than I, and I would often catch him swigging vodka from a flask in his back pocket while muttering “the phones, they never stop. How much organic produce do these people need???”. We both quit.
My last stint, before the circus that is today, was similar: rotating reception relief to cover breaks and lunches. This one had the added twist of having to a) check the bags and packs of inbound warehouse workers while b) having them attack me with such witticisms as “hey, you new here? I haven’t seen you around before”. I resorted to paying other employees with less hatred (you might say they were more “easy going”) towards the process than I, five dollars to cover my days. Management got wind of this and promptly put an end to it. Yea, the director of the company could return from lunch drunk, we could perform warehousing functions for Wal-Mart, known for routinely violating its workers rights, and we could ship arms to Iraq for the US government, but it was a no no for me to pay other people to do reception relief. As management was not subject to this horror, I became a supervisor. And then quit.
Which brings me today. I must say that since I first wet my toes in the tepid pool of pleasant greetings and abject seething, things have changed somewhat. One of my male coworkers saw me flailing at my front desk duties and came to confide that he too noticed only those breasted individuals seemed to end up in this precarious position. He expressed contempt that we would not see a particular young male in my hot seat; ironically, this young man and I engaged in some banter earlier about how he was unfit to hold my post because his hair wasn’t “blonde” enough.
I suppose the best part was when a visiting venture capitalist wanted to plug his thumb drive into my computer (no, I’m not being figurative) so that he could print out a document. After crawling on the floor in front of him on my hands and knees I couldn’t find the port thingy (I’m an accountant, not a tekkie). Convinced I was stupid, he volunteered to crawl around under the desk to undoubtedly find what I had missed. As he waggled his rump in the air and his face became flushed and florid he realized I was right. And then I said “if you like, I can take this to my office and print it out”. Sheepish, he agreed to watch the door in my absence. It was a nice “relief”.

The nutritional value of plastic bags

This weekend certainly had its ups and downs. I had dinner with Paola on Friday night, then Michael and I watched Friends with Money, which I enjoyed. On the downside my aunt was very sick and needed to go to the hospital on Sunday. Her timing was impeccable: we arrived shortly before the Jack Ass wannabes in various stages of dismemberment did, which is always good. You just know that there's a severed finger in that bag of ice. I visited her while she was waiting for her test results, but none of the doctors looked like McDreamy. One of them did look like Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite though. Vote for Pedro.
On a happier note, an old childhood friend of Michael's was in town, so we met up with him for dinner. He works for the federal government, but so far his ethical and moral values have not been irreparably damaged. We tested him by saying "you voted for Harper too, right?" to which he started to laugh and then became fearful, wondering if we being sincere when we said that we had contributed to Bush Lite's ascension to power. We assured him we were merely joking, and that in actuality we had voted for the Communist Party, and I adjusted the my green beret with the red star on it. Fidel is doing well, thank you.
We had dinner at the Mill Bistro in Coal Harbour, where our waiter gave an inordinate amount of attention to my two male companions. Michael didn't seem to question that the waiter spent close to a minute arranging Michael's napkin in his lap. I would've said something, but was engrossed with the drinks menu. I quite enjoyed the Wild Horse Canyon Cabernet Merlot. The fun thing about going out with Michael's friends and family is that he attempts to be chivalrous and pay. Just one more reason to quaff three glasses of wine. If there had been steak on the menu, this girl would have been a voracious carnivore.
Our conversation was fun, turning to attempts at healthy eating and exercising. Apparently at one point Michael's friend was biking 30km to and from work. What a dingus. I told him he could get around that whole exertion thing by buying an SUV, preferably one of those mini-Hummers, or possible a Ford Excursion. You could just drive right over those ridiculous Smart cars if they cut you off. I understand that when you purchase an "environmentally challenged" vehicle these days, you have to send a sympathy card to the two soldiers most recently killed in Iraq, that fought so valiantly for your right to drive it.
Michael and I professed that we would like to attempt a full marathon next year. It's crazy the things you say on your second glass of wine. I just know I'm going to wake up with a throbbing head one morning to find out that, instead of drunk dialing old boyfriends (which I do a LOT, to see if any of them have become doctors yet), I instead inebriatedly registered myself for the Iron Man.
We also discussed the environment, and admitted we had yet to see An Inconvenient Truth out of fear that it would be a tremendous downer. Apparently we have only to walk along our very waterfront to find dead seals, though surely the cause of their untimely expiration was not pollution, but rather the well known fact that seals have an insatiable desire to consume plastic bags. Plastic bags, the scourge of the sea; flitting, ghostlike through the swells of the ocean, breeding like rabbits and providing little nutritional value to mammals that fight and swim so hard to catch them. Tasty morsels of the Safeway and Save On variety. The seals really ought to try hummus.
We ended our weekend with a walk over to Dunbar, so that I could reminisce in front of the house I once lived at, 25 years ago. I swear, when I closed my eyes I could hear the sound of the kids playing in the park at the end of the street, the ice cream truck making its rounds, and someone saying "Geraldine, that weird girl is standing in front of our house with her eyes closed again! Shall we call the police?" followed by "No Larry, let's just turn on the hose like last time".

Addendum

The coup de grace pertaining to my prior blog would be that I successfully managed to entirely miss my first Taxation class. Absolutely. Yes, I registered for the class and lo I saw that the class would be held at 4pm on Wednesdays. And yet, somewhere between my utter exuberance of finishing Auditing and my feisty travels throughout Toronto I managed to convince myself that I was to attend class at 7pm instead.
Walking into the (wrong) class I remember being somewhat surprised at my fellow students. They did not look like accountants. They did not have that weary-yet-trying-to-appear-upbeat look upon their faces. Instead they were relaxed, fresh faced: clearly all wrong. Nevertheless I sat. And began to ponder why their books were so, so miniscule compared the heft of my two compositions. And why theirs were green. After a while I turned to the girl behind me and ascertained that she was there to learn Macroeconomics. Ah, Macro… producing and trading guns and butter, those were the days.
At this point I still felt that I was in possession of my faculties, and that, clearly, one of two things had happened: a) all of these students were in the wrong classroom or b) my class had been moved elsewhere. I lugged my pack to a nearby computer, logged on and discovered that no, Room 1330 was correct. Perplexed, I scowled at the monitor, unsure where the flaw was, where I should lay blame. I double checked the day, yes, my class was on Wednesdays. And then I saw it: 4pm. Not 7pm. Three hours earlier. I had completely missed my first Taxation class. Unsure whether to laugh, cry or attend Macroeconomics for fun, I hightailed it for the door to catch the 7:15 bus home, having just spent $3.25 and an hour of my time aboard the fine #480 from downtown Vancouver to Richmond.
My subsequent conversation with Michael, explaining why I was home at 7:45, was a fun one, punctuated with him shooting quick, furtive glances in my direction as though trying to discern if he could visibly witness my GPA slowly falling. Fun also was the conversation I had with my boss whereby she asked how my first taste of tax was and I told her I really wouldn’t know.
And so ends my story, leaving me behind schedule and with a copious amount of meal replacement bars, purchased to substitute the dinner that I thought I would be missing between 7 and 10pm on Wednesdays. They’re quite good actually. I recommend the double chocolate varietal.

Text books

It is possible that I have changed my attitude towards my scholastic endeavors between my enrollment in post secondary education and now. Michael and I recently were reminiscing fondly about my foray into self-betterment - at the Langley campus of Kwantlen, no less - and how I was so nervous that I would get lost, and possibly pee my pants, we drove out to the campus on a weekend to peer into the windows in the hopes of being able to understand which room I was scheduled to attend on a weekly basis. Another time, I remember calling my mother for alternate directions to the Langely campus; panicking because heavy rains had blocked the road I normally traveled to get to school, and I was due to write a final exam. I arrived to class on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Gradually, this terror and self-consciousness began to fall away. Once, when we had to move our clocks forward an hour I, being a rebel, did not. Driving down Granville (heading for the Richmond campus this time) I remember thinking the radio announcer was an imbecile, because he said it was 4:15, while it was clearly only 3:15. In short order I realized that my class had started 15 minutes ago. Nonplussed, I called my mother to regale her with my funny mishap of a story. I became so comfortable as to even yell at one of my teachers, causing all the young 'uns to turn and look at me in consternation, thinking "surely you cannot speak to someone so august and illuminated as our beloved professor" to which I reply: you can if he's a dingus.
And now, as I approach this semester with the enthusiasm of... well, of any 29 year old faced with a taxation course, I can't help but think of how I have grown from a chrysalis to an airy butterfly. I've honed my skills of procrastination and apathy. I've managed to enrage fellow OB team members. When someone comes to me with a complex accounting dilemma I can proudly say "I have no clue".
And it was with this lazy attitude of laissez-faire that I logged onto net, scant hours before my class was to begin, to find out a) what room I was in and b) what books I need to buy for said class. This nonchalance quickly turned to rage as I tallied the cost of the two tomes needed: $225!! Who can afford this? What if I were a student, squeezing in shifts at $8.50 an hour at Tim Horton's while trying to obtain my diploma (or, if I were more ambitious, my BBA)? This is preposterous! How can a book (except for the one I will eventually write) ever be worth this amount of money? Though I am, as my wonderful friend Paola says an "annoying perfect person can run marathons, work a short week and still pay your bills, and write hilarious blogs all while looking beautiful for the camera"... I forget my point. Oh right, I just wanted to point out that she thinks I look beautiful for the camera.
My stunning looks aside, there is something afoot here! Somewhere costs are being inflated, expensive corporate trips are being paid for, nefarious contracts signed. This abuse of the powerless and semi-illiterate must be stopped, dare I say: audited! If only I knew someone that had recently gotten an A+ in Auditing....

Back to school

I really don’t want to go back to school. Don’t get me wrong, I am excited that Taxation is the last piece of the puzzle that it my accounting diploma, but retch! I’m sick of it. Plus, my class is at 7pm on Wednesdays, so I have the privilege of working all day and then embarking on an hour long bus ride to get to Richmond where the teacher will try and shove more info in my already overwrought brain until I stumble out at 10 o’clock at night and mumble incoherently at Michael for the car ride home before getting my second wind as a result of being overtired and then bounce of the walls for an hour and a half before falling into a fitful sleep where I dream about… accounting! I’m additionally fearful that this will be the class that I walk into on the first day and someone mistakes me for the teacher because of my age. As well as the three gray hairs that I have now found. And pulled out of my head.
Bleh. In other, more exciting news. I finished in 7th place in my gender and age category for the Timex series. I thought that that might guarantee me a cash prize of at least six figures. Instead, after the race was run I got a piece of Costco muffin and some fruit. It was really good, but it’s no down payment on a house in Kerrisdale. I love muffins.
And the only other funny story I have occurred when I was out with my good friend Daryl and we ran into my aunt on 41st Avenue. I was hoping Daryl would grab my ass, look at his watch and say “Come on babycakes, we have to get to that hotel pronto” but instead he said, “It’s really nice to meet you” or some such drivel. Later on that day, Michael and I went to my mom’s house for dinner. My brother Jay was there, looking like the guy that picks through the recycling bins behind our dilapidated apartment. Hey Jay: good luck trying to cross the border, or catching a flight anywhere. Notice you’ve been pulled over an inordinate amount by la policia lately? Get the funny feeling you’re being tailed by in-store security while you’re shopping with the girlfriend? Are people returning your ID to you with quizzical looks on their faces and asking for a secondary piece of identification? Do little old ladies clutch their purses a little tighter when you walk by? It’s not a coincidence!

No water

Though this week’s water shortage in Tofino may be more attributable to that area’s geography, coupled with a relatively dry summer, the notion that a Canadian town has run out of water is a significantly scary one. A harbinger of things to come, perhaps?
Though I do have a lot of faith in mankind… no wait - the crusades, the holocaust, the potato famine, AIDS stricken Africa, illiteracy, homelessness, violence against women, homophobia – let me rephrase that. Though usually, when I squint and look through my rose-tinted glasses, I find that a large segment of the population should be allowed to procreate, I still am perturbed by our ignorance and apathy towards the world in which we live. I don’t want this to be a negative, downer blog and yet I do wish to share with you my incredulity regarding stupendous things that I see daily – even though I have my blinders on!
To revisit the water issue: why do people water their lawns? I mean, do these folks think that there is such an abundance of clean water that they can justify dumping massive quantities of it in their front yard? That’s got to stop. We need to start xeriscaping: using water conserving means of landscaping (www.xeriscape.org). Don’t flush the toilet every single time you pee. Shower with a friend. Turn off the taps while you’re brushing your teeth. Don’t use disposable wooden stir sticks for your coffee (though I’m not sure how to get around this, short of sticking your finger into scalding cappuccinos to mix in the sugar). Don’t use a coffee sleeve: searing hand pain can complement the ingestion of caffeine to aid in alertness. Use Tupperware. Get some cloth bags for your groceries.
Some interesting statistics per the Sierra Club (www.sierraclub.org): on average, one American consumes as much energy as 2.1 Germans; 12.1 Columbians; 28.9 Indians; 127 Haitians; 395 Ethiopians. By 2025 3 billion people will have to deal with water scarcity (currently it affects more than 508 million).
Of course we shouldn’t conserve too much. An overabundance of water in addition to increasingly profitable oil sands will inevitably lead to a US invasion of Canada, as they search our populace for WMDs like free thought, free speech, liberalism, gay marriages, pot, good beer and polite manners. To quote Andy Barrie, from my beloved CBC: “We'll explain the appeal of curling to you if you explain the appeal of the National Rifle Association to us.”
And that, my readers, is how you start off a blog on the topic of water conservation, and end up teeming with nationalism.