Go big or go home

Okay, the snow was kind of fun over the weekend. There was the looming prospect of a "snow day" which my teacher friend was excited about (yes: teacher... not student: teacher). It was kind of a neat thought that I might be stuck on the island for another night because of the veritable winter wonderland outside. But now the snow is just irritating. It should have rained by now to wash all this white crap away.
The issue is that the snow needs to go big or go home. This in between, snowy, icy, no rain in the forecast conundrum has led to a situation whereby people are still willing (and obligated) to try. See, if it had rained or warmed up, the snow would be gone, transit would be running smoothly, and everyone would be expected at work. If it had snowed another foot, everything would have pretty much shut down and we would not be expected to go anywhere, or do anything except make snowmen, drink hot chocolate and pray the power doesn't go out. The situation we find ourselves in currently is that of limbo. A kind of snow purgatory, if you will. The snow has remained, being compacted into ice in some parts. It has started to snow again, but not so hard that you wouldn't want to go out and give 'er. Nothing says "I am having a fun November" than trying to work your car out of its icy rut (after convincing yourself that you drive perfectly fine in the snow, though you've never wintered east of LANGLEY) only to "misunderestimate" yourself and t-bone a nice, shiny Lexus. And then have your airbag engage and mash your glasses all up in your face. This sequence of events hasn't actually happened yet, but I am anticipating my involvement in this very scenario when I attempt to go to school in the next couple of hours. Perhaps I'll just take the bus. Perhaps the weather could finally just shit or get off the pot and give us a nice rain or a blizzard, so all the difficult decision making would be done for me.

Snow day!

Another weekend has passed, and oh! how time flies when you’re spending an inordinate amount of time on the BC Ferries. I’ll get to that in a moment. First I will fill you in on my Friday night. Yes, Friday night I went to the Shark Club downtown with Jupitergirl23 to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I wasn’t happy with the locale - equating it with all the ambience and originality that Joey’s has to offer – but I went anyways. Even after I mentioned my impending visit to the Shark Club in passing to a coworker who swiveled his chair around to stare at me in horror and disbelief. Even after another coworker, no doubt trying to assuage some of my mounting anxiety, told me “yeah, it’s a good crowd: there are some older people that go”. I asked him to define “older people”, to which he said, “you know… late twenties”. Even after we then reviewed the photo gallery on the Shark Club website and surmised that I just wouldn’t have enough time to dye my hair blonde, get a boob job and find an outfit two sizes too small before I was scheduled to make my dramatic entrance. Yep, still I went. I’m a trooper. Four drinks and a firm handshake later, I bid adieu. I had to get up early (9:30!) to catch a ferry the next day.
Michael dropped me off at the Horseshoe Bay terminal Saturday morning (funny, he is always so eager to drive me anywhere I want to go if it involves me LEAVING for any length of time). On the other side I was meeted and greeted by S, a friend that I have known since I was like six. How cool is that? I’ve known her for roughly a quarter century. Why did I go to the Shark Club? What was I thinking? You know, the only thing that place was missing was a frickin’ trampoline where women could disrobe and you know, bounce for free drinks while men throw wieners at them or something. God. Anyways, S was accompanied by her husband D and seven month old baby M. It was a little weird. For a moment I wasn’t sure she recognized me. Then she said “wow, you’ve totally changed” which I interpreted to mean: you haven’t aged well. She followed up with “you’ve cut off your hair… and did you always have glasses?” which I interpreted to mean: by cutting off your hair you’ve lost a major part of your femininity, and those glasses make you look like a lesbian lawyer. Hey, maybe it was the hangover, coupled with the always great duo: lack of sleep and PMS, that led to this feeling of slight insecurity. Some guy said “hey”, and I interpreted this as: your ass is gigantic in those jeans and you really need some highlights; you kind of look like Shaggy from Scooby-Do.
We hopped in the car and I learned that S and D (not to be confused with S and M who are also good friends of mine but are kind of weird…. I think they sell Amway) had been house hunting during the morning. I didn’t realize that they were millionaires, and then they explained that outside Vancouver, housing exists at prices under a million dollars. Who knew? I hate you, Bob Rennie.
We stopped off at Thrifty Foods to pick up dinner. I stood in the middle of the store with eggs, bread and bacon for inordinate amount of time. It’s what Islanders do for fun on Saturday afternoons apparently. Then we went to the liquor store. I was unfamiliar with the concept. A store that sells “liquor”. S bought port. We purchased what seemed like a lot of alcohol… at that point. It was snowing pretty heavily when we left. We all seemed incredibly surprised by this. I’m not entirely sure why.
I noticed many of the Islanders spoke with a thick, unintelligible patois. The cashiers at both Thrifty Foods and the “Liquor Store” engaged in strange facial acrobatics, whereby they would exert force to extend the corners of their mouths upwards, sometimes exposing their teeth. I was told that this was “friendliness”. I couldn’t find any parking meters.
Back at S and D’s house we caught up. I hadn’t seen S for roughly eight years. I think I was driving a 1980 Toyota Corolla at the time, and we had gone to a shitty place known as Bonita’s for some moronic reason… the night had not ended well. It was a bit weird: my last memory of S was that of a smart, fierce, edgy, slightly angry, party girl. I wasn’t part of her life when she met her (now) husband, got married, became a teacher and had a baby. A bit of a disconnect to see her in a totally quintessential role of loving wife and mother. And not just playing at it either: totally digging it. As new and exciting as her life was to me, there was still an element of familiarity there which made me feel totally at ease. Not so at ease that I was going to start discussing orgasms, but pretty comfortable nonetheless. Yeah, D would bring that up later. Had we even gotten into the wine yet? I don’t recall. It was definitely before the port and the Kahlua, though.
And the kid. Wow. I’ve never been great with kids: I feel like an idiot when I talk to (at?) them, and I have this sneaking suspicion that they’re looking at me and thinking “you would be such a bad mother; please, don’t even pretend”. But M was very good. He seemed to revel in every doting moment his parents gave him. He liked to watch tv. He really liked to pound his highchair and send Cheerios cascading to the floor. He liked to look at me while having a quiet bowel movement. I was like a focal point or something.
Dinner was fantastic – roast beef, which I totally make all the time too. We made D drive back to Thrifty’s to get dessert in the blizzard. That’s love. They taught me a game called Stupid. After my third glass of wine I would simply push my cards in their general direction and say “I have this many”. I won, apparently. After we got into the port (S: it’s like syrup, but with alcohol. Me: can I put it on my pancakes in the morning?), we tried to figure out a way to review and remunerate teachers based on their job performance. Voices were raised. I got distracted by a shiny object. We moved to the living room where we started discussing S’s fervent love for Jon Stewart. I finally got to watch the much touted clip of Jon Stewart on Crossfire with Tucker Carlson. I suggested the Bill O’Reilly/David Letterman interview of late. I got to re-tell my CBC/CTV story to a rapt audience (for those of you counting, I now have two stories: the one about my dad getting stung by a scorpion in Yelapa, and the CTV exec story). I told them about my lifelong dream to become Mrs. Stroumbouloupolos. I might have to work on my gigantic ass and Shaggy haircut.
We caught up on each other’s lives. We decided that our grade 6 teacher was a sexist, racist pedophile… which my therapist says has been a tremendous breakthrough. I learned about breast pumps. At eleven o’clock we were all thoroughly exhausted (okay, maybe some MARRIED people more so than others) so we made up the pull out couch. Yes, bedding was provided in some sort of gigantic Ziploc baggie to seal in the cotton goodness or something. I’m still trying to figure out what happened there. The cats kept trying to sleep with me throughout the night (S: I never did see the big showdown between Max and Bandit. My money’s on Max, he’s fat but… well. Okay, I guess he’s just fat).
The next morning got off to a slow start. I got bacon. M discovered the joys of pineapple. There was a lot of snow and some concern that I might have to stay another night. S was praying for a snow day.
And then the morning sort of wrapped up quickly and goodbyes were said. D valiantly risked his life to drive me to the ferry terminal. I tried to express my happiness at having met him and seeing the family dynamic with stilted words and sock puppets. He admitted that I was far less mentally challenged than S had originally let him to believe, which was nice to hear. We talked about finding a balance in life, about priorities.
I boarded the ferry. I contemplated life, love and the importance of things. I decided I was envious of their life. I don’t mean that I regret that I can’t have kids, but rather I envy their happiness and the way in which they enjoy their lives. They love each other and they love their son tremendously. S is a teacher and she wants to make a difference in the lives of some less-than-privileged kids. D is currently on paternal leave and I can honestly say that in my 30 years I have never seen a father more devoted to his wife and son than he is. And a good cook!
I want the best of everything for them. I hope they find their perfect first house. I’ll help them put in the flooring or paint the wood paneling white. I’d like to drink port with them again...I may even let them win at Stupid.

Poland

Sometimes I see news headings that make me laugh, such as this one: "PM urges Russia to recognize Poland as fully-fledged EU member". I know I should read it; it's intriguing. Why is Poland not considered a fully-fledged EU member? Why does Russia have a problem acknowledging Poland? Does Russia's failure to recognize Poland as an EU member have any legal, economic or trading ramifications for Poland? These are important questions. And yet, when I read the headline this is what runs through my mind:
- maybe Russia would take Poland more seriously if Poland would abandon their project to send a space shuttle to the sun.... at night
- this may damage Poland's trading relationship with other EU countries. I understand Poland is excellent at manufacturing submarines... with screen doors
- and finally, how do you get a one-armed Polish man out of a tree? Wave to him.
Poor, poor Poland.
In other news, I am going to walk over to Pacific Centre and buy a hat. I would like something jaunty. I may put a feather in my new, jaunty cap.
Lastly, Michael put half a banana in my lunch after I specifically warned him against it. What's up with that?

A perfect storm

Who gets drunk on a Monday night? I get drunk on a Monday night. Why would you choose to become intoxicated on any other night? Monday is the absolute best night to have one beer too many, and to drag your friends down with you. What could be better than whooping it up in a bar that is one third full, knowing full well that not only do you have to work the next day, but you also have to study for an exam in a class that you quite conceivably could fail? It was all so grand. But the main reason I’m totally wiped is because, as usual, I drank wine and the sugar content managed to keep me wired practically all night. When will I learn? Possibly never. It’s like Bart Simpson in the episode where Lisa rigs up a cupcake to shock Bart every time he touches it. But he keeps trying and trying to grab and eat it while getting shocked over and over. Eventually he curls into a fetal position on the floor, muttering “cupcake – ow; cupcake –ow”. That’s me.
And my coworkers suffer horribly for it too. The CFO had to watch in horror as I devoured my entire Popular Box #2 (why would they name it that? is there an unpopular box? does the loser box have to eat lunch by itself in the hallway because its mother can’t afford to buy it $200 running shoes so it can hang with the cool kids?) while muttering “aahhh… wasabi and soya sauce makes the churning stop. Why are the lights so bright? Can everyone please SHUT UP. My precious, precious spring roll”. Another coworker asked me what was new and then said “what’s making you sad, happy, irritated?” to which I replied “well, you’re here now”. This comment to a guy that donates 10% of his salary to the Surrey Food Bank.
But it was inevitable. I spent too many hours on Saturday, Sunday and Monday studying. I spent too little time outside the apartment during the weekend. My stress level was reaching an all time high (for those that know me well, this culminates in me biting my nails to the quick and then, because that’s not enough, peeling layers of my nails and picking my cuticles until they bleed). And then suddenly – freedom! Good music (how often do you go somewhere and find that they are playing an entire CCR album?)! Adequate wine! Stimulating conversation covering topics like:
• Women: Inferior Boxers or Do They Just Fight Like Girls?
• Snowmobiles: Betcha Can’t Buy Just One!
• You Sucked What for How Many Votes? Why Prostitution Still Hasn’t Been Legalized
• It’s 10:30 at Night – Do You Know What Your Union Anthem Is?
Seriously, who wouldn’t want to stay on and have another? And now my grand plan of getting a run in has been demoted to a ginger yoga session followed by a couple of hours of trying to keep my eyes open. Ah well. I guess the lesson here is that irregardless of what is going on, you need to stop and have a Saturday night. Preferably on Saturday night. Otherwise that Saturday night may just creep up on you when you least expect it. Ow.

I repent

My weekend? Not so good. Probably spent a total of six hours outside the apartment. Not healthy. I am quite keen to score higher than 55% on my upcoming income tax exam, you see. Other than depleting my eyesight to the point where I am unable to read street signs and am getting lost in my own neighborhood, I did have some fun this weekend. Went out with Big D on Saturday night to the Speakeasy. I'm still full! If the question was: how much food can one small girl pack away in a two hour span, the answer is: an ungodly amount. Then we thought that perhaps a walk over the Granville Street bridge would help us be able to re-button our pants. Not so. I ate so much food that when I got back home I fell into a coma-like state. I believe this was because my body was focusing all its energy trying to sort and process the myriad of gastro-intestinal ingestions that I was sapped of the ability to accomplish anything. Yep. My heart kind of hurts.
Then we watched "Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World". This was a bit of a strange movie. I had heard that it was unfunny and, as I was watching it I was thinking, "this is unfunny" and also "Mel Brooks is kind of a pompous ass". Then the whole movie wrapped up beautifically, culminating in a scene involving a Taj Majal snowglobe and a bunch of L.A. nitwits raising their glasses of Moet to Brooks for his feat of bravery: spending 2 weeks in the Middle East. At was at this point that I realized the whole thing was a satire, that Mel Brooks isn't a pompous ass he was only affecting one in order to shine a light on the ignorant, culturally misguided attitude of Americans towards the middle east. I'm a little slow on the draw these days, unless you want to talk about income tax. And even then I'm only right roughly half the time!
And finally I have a confession to make. It's not a confession of any great import. I'd say it's on par with the incident involving me missing my first income tax class after waxing poetic about being an old hand regarding all things college. I'll just go ahead and lay it out: I understand the knee turn. I was jammed into the 16 on Friday afternoon and the person next to me needed to get out. The bus was so full that it wouldn't have been prudent to stand in order to let my fellow rider out, so I engaged in the knee turn. The kicker? They said "thanks". So I will take this opportunity to temper my knee turn rant: if the bus is not too full, it is more polite than not to stand and allow your traveling companion an easy and graceful exit. If the bus is so crowded that when you turn your head you find yourself a hair's breadth from someone's crotch, it's okay to engage in the knee turn.
My second, less damning confession is that I kind of like the banana arrowroot cookies. They're quite addictive, actually. Maybe they've improved them or something. I don't remember them tasting so good. Although given the quantity of food that I consumed this weekend it is safe to say that unless it was still alive or bolted down I would eat it, and think it pretty delectable.

The bell curve

Our teacher officially handed back our quizzes last night. As mentioned in my prior blog, I received the top mark of 11/20 – scoring a stellar 55%. Apparently the class average was 7. SEVEN! That’s 35%, folks. And the people that felt they couldn’t hack it already dropped out, so it’s the diehards that are scoring sevens. Come on! Michael says that they will bell curve – that they have to because otherwise a lot of people will fail. Which brings me to the topic of the bell curve: what a bad idea! I’d advocate sleeping with the teacher before taking a mark that has been subjected to the bell curve. At least when you sleep with the teacher you know that, on some level, you had to work hard at something. But the bell curve essentially says: you’re all a bunch of degenerate sub-humans, however, to ensure that a healthy proportion of you go out – uneducated – into the world, spreading accounting fraud and errors as you go, I will deem the least retarded of you to be A+ students. So what, essentially, is the point of the grade? If this course is bell curved I will likely receive an A or A-. I certainly didn’t perform at that level. I wouldn’t hire me to do anyone’s personal or corporate tax returns. Hell, I’m still trying to come up with witty ways to remember all the convoluted tax acronyms.
Ah, I’ve been down this road before. Pass the shiraz. Which reminds me: I strongly recommend R.H. Phillips’ Shiraz. Yes it’s American, but damnit, it’s good. At least they didn’t name it Freedom Shiraz or something equally hypocritical. Though when I did sign my credit card receipt upon purchasing the wine the clerk said, “so just initial for the wiretap here” to which I said, “pardon?” and then she said, “sorry! Just sign here. Enjoy your trip to Guantanamo Bay. What? I didn’t say anything.” Weirdo. And apparently the homeless guitar playing guy stationed outside the liquor store isn’t allowed to perform Dixie Chicks songs poorly any more, either.
What else, what else… oh, went to the gym yesterday. Saw a fellow there that I had not seen before. Really, really big muscles. He looked like a bunch of walnuts crammed into a tube sock. But who am I? He was probably sitting on the recumbent bike, looking at me thinking, “hey, who’s the cute 13 year old boy?”.
That’s all I’ve got.

The weekend

Ah the weekend. So brief, so fleeting. So full of food that it makes it difficult to button my jeans. Friday started out nicely – I went for a wonderful Indian dinner on Davie with a good friend, followed by the movie Babel. Prior to this week I think the last movie I saw in the theatres was Crocodile Dundee or something. This week I saw TWO movies at the Paramount. Crazy, crazy shit. Babel was good; a thinking movie about communication and ostracization. It was a bit tense and sad, but such is life I suppose.
On Saturday Michael and I went bowling (!) with Big D. I had a surprisingly good time, though my arm was sore for two days afterwards. I am now an expert in consistently knocking down the two pins on the left. I don’t understand how people that bowl a lot are not malformed and misshapen, like those crabs that have one big claw and one puny one. You know the ones I mean, don’t be coy. I felt strangely compelled to start quaffing White Russians and I periodically barked “shut the fuck up, Donny!” to Michael. The six year olds having the birthday party next to us started to cry. Big D made numerous references to his bowling teammates being butterballs. How that fits into bowling I’ll never know, though it made me think of “turducken”. I haven’t thought of a turducken for a while…To top off the bowling extravaganza Michael and I went to the gym, where I ran 10km on the treadmill. Nothing says “oh my god, this is horrifically boring and arduous” than running 10km without actually going anywhere. With people staring at your beet red, sweaty face. And laughing.
Sunday. Sunday it all went horribly awry. Yes, I returned to Joey’s. Now, I will preface this by saying that it was for a friend’s birthday: I did not choose the restaurant. I was a little unsure if I would even be allowed back, considering the heated argument that I had with the manager the last time I was there. Good times. Irregardless, I do believe fun was had by all. Especially me, since I didn’t get home until 3am Monday morning. A wine glass was smashed. We attempted to see how many people could fit into a four door sedan (the answer is six, if you wish to know your friends intimately).
This segues nicely into my sleeping pattern on Monday: I got up at 9:30, had some breakfast, watched a little TV and then went back to bed until noon. I can totally still party like I used to.
And then, to top off an otherwise stellar few days, I received an email from my income tax teacher. I had written a quiz last week and as I left the classroom with bloodshot eyes, having ripped tufts of hair from my scalp, muttering under my coffee-breath about CCA recapture, I had the sinking feeling that I hadn’t done so well. As I am neurotic and obsessive and knew that I would spend the weekend re-hashing the quiz over and over in my mind I decided to email my teacher to find out just how badly I had bombed. She replied back that I received the highest mark in the class! Yay! I am not a degenerate failure! And the highest mark was apparently 11/20! Holy mother of god, that’s 55%. That SUCKS! She then proceeded to say that people had failed to read the questions correctly before answering. You know what? If the highest mark in the class was 55%, that means that almost everyone failed the quiz. And since I don’t drool incessantly, can manage to tie my own shoes, am able to cook dinner without burning my apartment to the ground, and rarely need water wings when I have a bath yet somehow managed to score a paltry 55%, I am led to believe that perhaps it was not the students’ inability to READ per se, but rather an issue with oh, say, the prof?
But, as my friend’s brother pointed out to me over the weekend: I am bitter and opinionated. And stupid too, apparently!

Peachy

I went to the gym last night, to perpetuate the myth of a svelte physique, and saw several of the regulars there. I will take a moment to tell you about the regulars because they are quite blogworthy. I will also tell you their backstories, which I have completed fabricated and are fun to contemplate whilst trying not to get thrown off the treadmill (which I have seen happen, and it is not pretty).
There is "the guy in black": he drives a BMW (this is true) and is always dressed in black when he works out. He has black hair and by the time he makes it to the gym he has a five o'clock shadow going on. He never smiles, he runs really fast and he looks intense. I think he has a very stressful job even though he is only 34, and makes a lot of money. He doesn't have time for chit chat, he simply needs to burn off all the pent up stress to avoid having a heart attack at 36. Plus, he would think that everything you have to say is stupid. He's pretty hot.
"Xena" is a larger gal. She has nice, long brown hair. I underestimated her the first time I saw her: this lady kicks ass. She works out so hard she gets a sheen of sweat on her arms even. Yesterday I noticed she had a tattoo that wrapped around her upper arm. I think at one point she was a bit of skid, maybe got into some illegal substances, had a jerkoff boyfriend that thought he was the shit because he drove a Camaro that was covered in primer cause he couldn't afford to get a decent paint job yet. Something made her change. I don't think it was love. I think she got caught with a hot t.v. or Camaro boy took all her money and she realized she was getting too old for this shit. So she is now training to be an RN at VGH and needs to get in better shape to make her rounds more efficiently. The intensity of her workouts stem from her anger over Camaro boy.
Finally there is "crazy guy". He is just a bowl full of wrong. He is perpetually tanned and his brittle, wispy hair is yellow. He would be tall if he stood up straight, but he hunches over and walks like a praying mantis. He reeks of garlic, which makes working out next to him super enjoyable. But the characteristics that makes him totally bizarre relate to his work out habits. The lat pulldown? He doesn't pull it down with his arms. No, that would be the right way to do it. Instead, he leans all the way back, keeping his arms straight, until the back of his head touches the floor. Giant balls used for core workouts he uses as basketballs. Buddy, the gym isn't so big that you can run around like some retarded Globetrotter, bouncing your giant purple ball. Which is also noisy. The best is the medicine ball, I think. In order to.... something, he lies on his back and drops the medicine ball repeatedly onto his stomach. I think he is damaging his internal organs. His backstory? His parents owned a garlic farm, and they kept him locked up in a cage until he was fifteen. They should come and collect them. But he likely killed them years ago and ate their faces.
But now, let us get to the allure of the ass. There is another girl that I have seen there often. She is probably mid-twenties, looks vaguely eastern European. She has long brown hair and is quite attractive. The thing that you can't help but focus on, though, is her derriere. See, she wears tight togs (not unlike me), but I don't think she is wearing any underwear (or maybe a micro g-string). They kind of ride right up there and disappear. It looks uncomfortable. I often squirm, and read adjust my own granny panties just looking at her. She also has the J. Lo thing going on: this is no small ass. It is like a giant peach. I would use the term luscious to describe it. I don't think she is trying to minimize it, either. She works out pretty hard, but I think that not only is she happy with her ass, she would like you to be happy with her ass too. In my near 30 years on this earth I have never seen such a bum. It's hypnotic. It's a size or two too large to be fashionable (in that we currently seem to think that being a size 2 is fashionable, and fainting from hunger is cool), and yet I believe it is perfect. A thing to be revered. Something that is owed a moment of silent contemplation, like Matthew Fox and his ripped triceps. Love the tricep. Anyways, if I am walking into gym equipment while trying to maintain my boyish figure, surely men are having rabid fantasies about this after they see her. I bet that drop ins at the gym have increased significantly since she has shown up. No one even gives me a second glance anymore and they say things like "are you done with the pec fly, man?" and I mutter, "uh, I'm a girl".
I'm not really sure what my point is. I don't ever want to be the person that says women should or shouldn't wear something. If you've got it, flaunt it. If she is using her gluteus maximus to pick up men she will definitely succeed. Yeah, I really don't have a point. I've just spent a long time describing some anonymous girl's behind on my blog. Right. So anyways, I think I'll go have some coffee.

Blog names

A quick update. Okay, I admit it: I do care what people think of me. I want people to like me (and take me to hockey games and Mariah Carey concerts). I bask in the warmth of the praises lobbed at me by friends, family and coworkers when they say that I am funny, or that my legs look especially hairless today. This is why I often check how many visits have been made to my profile. As of today's date there have been 46. Now, I know you are thinking "is 46 high? low?". I will tell you! A couple of members of my blog ("my mom says I'm pretty" and "big D") have significantly higher viewings. My mom says I'm pretty clocks in at 190! That's a lot! That's almost as high as my IQ. But even more amazing is that big D has had 55 profile views and he still hasn't blogged anything! Yes, buddy, I am lighting a fire under your ass! You can't have a blog called "the D Spot" without putting something pretty titillating on it. Titmouse. To get more hits I am thinking of renaming my blog as:
1) free beer tomorrow
2) barely legal
3) let's make sexytime
4) i hate bush (see, that works on a couple of levels)
If anyone has any other suggestions then all this could be yours, could be yours. Ha!

Transference

I’m not sure if I have brought this up before, but why in god’s name are there Arrowroot cookies that have a banana flavour? I like the animal crackers, I like the original Arrowroot… why did the company feel the need to take a nice cookie and make it taste like something healthy? Numerous times I have been disappointed to find that there has been “transference” betwixt my virginal Arrowroot cookies and my lecherous banana. Somehow the flavours get all commingled in my lunch sack (it’s all very incestuous: I often whip open my sack to see if I can catch my yogurt and my sandwich in flagrante delicto), which results in me being disappointed when I finally get to have my 2pm cookie treat only to find it tastes like my 4:30pm fruit treat. Hey, why not beef ice cream? Or perhaps broccoli cake? Suffice to say I was somewhat concerned when Michael brought home the aforementioned banana cookies. Does he not listen to my rambling diatribes about which foods are not allowed to touch while being transported to work? Is he not concerned about the general intent behind the cookies: to make something that is supposed to be sweet and delectable taste like something that is good for us? I’m a little upset, I confess.
You know what else is upsetting? Arbor Mist. I cringe every time I walk past it in the liquor store. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some uppity oenophile that holds out to be the crème de la crème, but let’s face it: if you have to take your wine, carbonate it and add fruit juice you should just buy a mickey of vodka, pour in into your Slurpee and have done with it. This is something I do often at work. Makes for interesting accounting. Yeah. So the next time I have a get together, call me first. I’ll tell you what to bring. And what can and cannot touch in the grocery bag while en route.
On a totally unrelated note, everyone reading this (all two of you) must go see Borat. Quite possibly the funniest movie that I have seen in my entire life. I laughed so hard I cried. I thought the guy beside me was going to have a coronary. I thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I want to make sexy time with Borat. His strange, holey, fishnet-like underwear was very similar to those that I donned during my brief sojourn at the hospital, so in that I feel we are kindred spirits.

See Dick run

As many of you know there have been some significant developments in my life over the last couple of weeks; they will not be covered in this blog. I think instead I may create a support group and we can have weekly meetings. Jesus. Nevertheless, I will give you a recap of my weekend that started with a blow to the head and ended with a sprained ankle. All good.
Friday night I took the seabus over to see Michael, as he had $100 in gift certificates for the Cactus Club (do you know how many cosmopolitans that is??). When we arrived I asked if he could pop the trunk so I could throw in whatever bag o' unnecessary crap that I had been lugging around for the day. Which reminds me, I left my lunch sack in my office over the weekend so now it's contents must be festering and oozing and creating quite a smell for my cellmate. Huh. Good thing I'm off today. Anyways, back to the story. Michael pops the trunk, I lean in and all of a sudden wham! I suffer a staggering blow to the back of the head. The trunk had rapidly descended from its utmost open position, coming to rest on the base of my skull. Mmm... that's good physical comedy. Michael said it was an accident and he had his hands full, I felt like maybe it was an attempt on my life because of my enormous life insurance policy... it degraded from there. But we still wanted to go for dinner of course.
Because the lineup was six hours long, we got one of those vibrating coasters. There are a lot of things that I don't believe in: Bush's invasion of Iraq; Bill O'Reilly procreating; hard work; and those vibrating coasters, if they are more than fifty feet away from their mothership. Nonetheless, we obtained fervent confirmation that we could take this baby anywhere in the shopping village and it would summon us to sup when a table was ready. I voiced my doubts to Michael, but we went to Old Navy nonetheless. After killing much time trying on those long sweater coat things that give you the illusion that they will look good on you because you too are a size 2 headless mannequin, I decided that we should have been buzzed. We walk back to the Cactus Club and ask if a table had come up for us, to which we were interrogated: did the buzzer go off? I replied calmly that no, it hadn't. The hostess checked our names and LO AND BEHOLD they had tried to call us and, when we did not respond because the coaster was out of range, they gave our table away. The hostess was most apologetic (likely because in my delirious hunger I was muttering about headless mannequins and disturbing other patrons) and gave us a table.
Saturday and most of Sunday consisted of a series of crises and dilemmas. Fast forward to about 4pm on Sunday. Michael and I decide to go for a run. What a megalicious idea. So we're bopping along, chatting, running down 37th, trying to avoid the gaping, four foot deep puddles replete with their own ecosystem as we go. We get to Dunbar and out of the corner of my eye I see Michael stumble and fall. I turn and though I am praying for the best, I seem to recall a funny snapping sound as Michael went down. He gets up and answers "NO!!" to my obligatory, "are you okay?". Then starts hopping on one leg and engaging in sailor talk. All hooped up now, I'm running around in circles trying to carry him, offering to run home, asking if he needs to go to the hospital. Eventually, after much swearing, limping and then some more swearing, it is determined that I will run home to get the car. That was a really fast 2k home. Except for the quick pit stop to get a hazelnut latte. Oh, and when I got home I had a shower just in case there were some hot doctors at the hospital that we would be going to shortly. Hopping in the car I raced back, and found Michael hobbling towards home. He gets in. I had grabbed his wallet for ID so we were set to go to UBC. But no, he does not want to go. I am stressing him out. Cool. We return home and I take off his shoes and socks to see that one ankle is at least a third larger than the other. Michael is doing this thing where he pokes at his mouth with his fingers (to keep the screaming in, perhaps?). And he's kind of rocking back and forth in agony which is always good to see. But no, no hospital. I give him 2 superstrength Motrin (have bad menstrual cramps? don't care about mental alertness? try superstrength Motrin!) and head over to London Drugs to get more drugs and a tensor bandage at my mom's suggestion. My suggestion was to take him out behind the barn and put him down. I go to LD, get a makeup consultation, play with the blood pressure machine, come home to find that, miracle of miracles, the mixture of Motrin and RICE has brought the swelling down considerably. I put the .22 back in the closet.
And then, this morning, limping and grimacing the guy goes to work. Who does that? If I had a sprained ankle I would be off a day. If I cough more than four times in a row, the call to work is about me potentially suffering from SARS. Is it acne, or a contagious skin rash? Is it a hangover or the avian flu? I may be infested with pine beetles. I'm having prostate problems. I have amnesia... no, I don't know how I knew my work number to be able to call in sick...

Why I am going to hell

After slogging through another day at work yesterday I caught the bus home, having to listen to the booming baritone voice of a staunch pot advocate drone on and on from the downtown core all the way to Kerrisdale. Hey, pot is fun and I like it, but he was one of those guys, you know? Who is equipped with stupid one liners that he thinks are funny but are, in fact, nauseatingly stupid. Who, upon noticing a couple of transit riders chuckling at some inane thing he had said decides that he has the undivided attention of everyone on the bus which encourages him to expel greater and greater amounts of verbal diarrhea. Who has that condescending tone that veritably screams "because I am speaking to you in the same manner to which I would address a five year old, I must be correct". At any rate, I don't think I want to smoke pot anymore. But that's not why I am going to hell.
While waiting for the light to change to cross over to my street, a guy came over and did the several rapid jabs of the pedestrian crossing button which, admittedly, I do too, but because I was tired it pissed me off. Like what, you think I'm just standing, facing the horrendous traffic on one of the busiest roads in Vancouver for fun? Of course I pressed the button. Ass. As he was furiously working the little button I noticed (per the lettering on the back of his jacket) that he worked for one of the local community security patrol companies. I say one of them, because we have two. Yes. Welcome to Kerrisdale where, if you see something remotely suspicious (like someone driving a car that is more than five years old and/or is domestic) you can call the cops, they'll be there in three minutes to check it out, and then they'll make you a cup of hot tea to sooth you. So then he starts chatting me up about the weather, the moon, and the kids having a nice night to go trick or treating, as we're walking across the street (surely his rapid fire manipulation of the button was the main reason the light had changed). I had the oddest feeling that I was being escorted across the street. Then he said something like "have fun" or "have a good one". I would do well in New York. Friendly people freak me out. Oh, but the friendliness was about to get so much worse.
Trudging up to my apartment I see something hanging from the doorknob. Curious, I look closer expecting: a dead animal; a death threat; a subpoena. No. It is candy. I have been warned against taking candy from strangers, but no one ever said anything about not taking candy from a doorknob. But who could it be from? Plucking it off the knob I see it is from our next door neighbors. Yes, the lovely young couple with a baby that moved in at least six months ago. Yep, the friendly looking couple that I've said hi to a couple of times, with the baby that never makes a peep that I never introduced myself to or invited over for a drink or said, hey, welcome to the building. And they're giving me candy. And then, to drive the point home about what a jerk of a neighbor I am: another resident of the building has brought her toddler, now replete and overheating in a dog or bear costume who totally does not have any clue what is going on, and is knocking on my neighbor's door so her toddler can trick or treat. Clearly they know each other and are friendly. I am a bad person. Before my neighbor can open the door and fawn over the pressure-cooked toddler I open my door, whip inside, and start to eat my candy furtively, in the dark.