Thursday, October 31, 2002
Hoping to God I Get No Kids at the Door
It's not as though I'm that batty old lady with her lights turned out, but I haven't bought candy. So if any weensy Powerpuff girls or Chaz Tenenbaums show up, I'd have to grab some instant couscous out of the cupboard or TacoTime Hot Sauce packets out of the fridge, and throw them into their precious jack-o-lanterns. See, I don't have to buy candy: I live in an old walk-up, and everyone knows kids don't come to apartment buildings for handouts. At least not 'round here. It just ain't where it's at. Kids these days take to the malls to get their Halloween loot. That's a shame. It just seems like parents are selling people short, and ripping off kids in the process. A whole generation will lose out on toilet-papering homes, trick-or-treating with the threat of older kids shaking them down, and getting the luck of the draw and stumbling onto the doorsteps of near celebs...
Let me elaborate.
It was Halloween in grade six in Edmonton. I was dressed in my best nurse outfit, replete with huge boobs. No doubt it was one of those years where we had to wear snowpants under our costumes--I don't remember, there were many like that--but we were a hearty sort, and the promise of a pillowcase stocked to the gills was too hard to pass up.
My best friend and I, along with two boys, Scott and Mike, met up somewhere along the way in our neighbourhood. This was a time when our mothers did not trail behind us in cars, keeping an eye out for pervs. This was the golden time of Halloween, when parents maybe took a snapshot of our getups then set us free upon the community to pillage and wreak havoc as we saw fit.
And so out we went. It was exhilarating because anything could happen: a furtive cigarette, a fistfight, a first kiss. It was all wide open and ours for the taking. With just a pillowcase and a bloodthirsty ambition to fill it to its brim, we were unleashed on the 'hood.
The four of us took in as many homes as we could that night. The bounty was plentiful. Little snickers, licorice twists, nibs, chicklets, and those godawful candies whose near-redeeming value was the Halloween-themed wrapping. We were full and giddy with the sugar. We could call it a night. But one...more...house.
We rang the bell. The sing-song of Halloween Apples, which we alternated with Trick or Treat, fell to this home, as the rallying cry to get your asses off the couch and give us free snacks.
The screen door opened and our quartet went silent. No more singing, banter, no more jokes nor explanations of what our costumes were and weren't they clever?
We stuck out our bags and mutely received the treat.
We may have politely said thanks, but I can't be sure. We were star-struck in the dead of a mid-sized Canadian city, where no stars were known to reside.
We turned away from the kindly man, and sprinted across his lawn. That was Mr. Drummond, Mike said, matter-of-factly.
Turns out Mr. Drummond has an identical twin brother. The trick was on us.
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
yeah, it's not like this anymore
It's Wednesday night: Cheap wine, fags, Amazing Race. Repeat.
My lovely friend is having a baby. I don't know what they're naming it, but if I know her, baby, and name, will be as unique and special as she is. That's not just the wine talking. Well, maybe just the "special" part. Not to say he/she won't be special, it's just that special isn't normally in my vocabulary. Okay, the wine is talking. Peace out.
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
The Search for Cool
Is it, or is it not, hip to be contemptuous of hipsters? Is it merely a pre-emptive strike against the hip to establish supreme hipdom?
I think it goes without saying.
A simple search of domains with hipster/hipsters/thehipster/thehipsters comes up empty. These people do not want to be the ones acknowledging their own coolness. This site obviously fails. And you know, they tried. It is an .org. But trying does not a hipster make.
Of course the best in the series is Hipsters.org. Now that was unexpected. And kinda cool too.
Monday, October 28, 2002
A Would-Be Rock-Star's Lament
You know, I've often wished my parents had been completely overbearing.
I'm sad I never learned to play an instrument. Yes, yes, not fair to blame the folks for everything. But if they could have just pushed me in the direction of something, then presided over lessons with an authoritarian zeal, I would be a much more well-rounded person today.
Of course, I did try to play the guitar a bit on my own. I remember in grade 12 walking down Stony Plain Road, with my guitar case in hand, long hair flowing in the wind, Native Indian beaded necklace choking the throat. (Yes, WOW.) It was then that friends of mine just happened to drive by, including a boy I liked at the time. That boy told me I looked "cool" and "totally like a musician." Precious words I would cling to, as girls in high school are apt to do. You would have thought that would have egged me on to keep playing. Instead I lost interest, blaming the strange bent of my fucked-up pinkie fingers on my inability to reach the tough chords.
Later, I picked up the guitar again. This time, in my mid-twenties, in an effort to sing with an indie-rock band. Better hair. Cool corduroys. Thrift store t-shirt. I went to two practices. The end.
The reason I bring this up? I'm jealous. I want to be Rachel Trachtenburg. If I had to live my teens all over again what would I do differently? Become a doctor? A stockbroker? A writer?
Nope, indie rock chick with cool pigtails. No question.
Sunday, October 27, 2002
How Daylight Savings Time and its Little End-of-the-Season Convention Makes a More Honest Woman of Me:
Roll out of bed at scandalous hour of 1:30, holding hand to head in post-champagne haze, wearing cool-blue-gel-eyepack. Digging to find lost dangly earring, notice these are Not Clothes Worn Night Before (that old story!) And Who Is This Man Laying Next to Me?
But can soon sigh with relief. Not terrible woman first appearances might lead you to believe: It is merely 12:30, not middle of freaking afternoon.
(Story Status: False. Except the 12:30/1:30 thing.)
Forgotten how comfy sweatshirts are. Have not forgotten promise to not wear said comfy shirt out and about in real world.
Really enjoying smell of new anti-perspirant, entitled Fresh. Ad execs really went out on a limb with that flavour name.
Generic "Woven Wheat Squares" (TM) are every bit as good, if not better, than your precious "Shreddies", pally
Wonderbra: Giving you a little bum where your breasts should be for the last 50 years.
Friday, October 25, 2002
An Open Letter to Co-workers Everywhere: Shove it
Being boring is a far graver crime than being mean.
Thursday, October 24, 2002
My Brush with Royalty
My attendance at an "official gathering" today brought me closer to the Crown than I have ever been.
Lieutenant Governor Lois Hole was there. This woman is so sweet. She is wont to giving out hugs to those she addresses or upon whom she bestows some honor or another. Today, as we moved aside to clear a path for her entrance into the gathering (to the din of bagpipes, I might add), she tried to look everyone in the eye and nod, and generally acknowledge those she knew she wouldn't get a chance to personally meet. As she walked by me, and I was standing oh-so-respectfully, with my coat folded over my hands in front of me, she patted my coat and remarked, "lovely" to herself.
It's the closest I've come to the monarchy. And I'm thinking Canada's appointments of the Queen's representatives are so much better than blood members of the royal family anyway. You know, no remote possibility of toe-sucking.
But what was best was when I was leaving the event. I was driving out of the parking lot when I noted a dark sedan with a little flag waving from the antenna. It was the Lois Hole-mobile! And she was sitting in the back seat! And all I could think is "If I ding her car, they will be soooo on my ass, pronto."
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
This was a little slice of ersatz Canadiana...also known as Banff
I just ran out and bought:
1) Plonk. (of the red variety)
3)The White Stripes' De Stijl
and I had some very awesome photos developed.
and the Amazing Race is on tonight.
No girl could truly be happier.
Oh, god! I almost forgot to add (scroll down to Five Fame Fucker list) John Cusak.
Let's never forget John Cusak, shall we?
(and it's not just because I'm attracted to politicos.)
By the way, I am soooo the Hi-Fidelity Cusak.
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
Trick or Treat
I read a story in a community newspaper recently about a couple of kids who took out of storage some baggies of playdough they received from last Halloween, only to discover the stuff was laced with broken glass! Now, what's remarkable about this is not that someone would be so cruel as to do something like that, but that their Halloween loot lasted a whole year. Incredible.
Anyway, it immediately struck me that this must be an urban legend. But Snopes tells me the closest thing to this story is razor blades in apples. And all of that reminds me of a story...
A young tumbleweed was still wearing a chin-strap with her cowgirl hat back when she got herself in a heap o'trouble.
She was eating lunch with her grade-one pal when they started comparing their Halloween haul.
"I got sooooo many O'Henrys."
"Yeah, me too. They're gross. But I got lots of Caramilks too. And Jersey Milks," said the tumbleweed.
"I hate when they give you apples," moaned the chum.
"I know! Who wants apples? I can get those at home."
Then the lil' tumbleweed reached into her brown paper sack and took out one of the offending apples just at that moment, as if to make a point. She held it up and laughed.
"I bet this came from that dark house near the end of the cove. That lady had such a wrinkled face, and she smelled so smoky," said lil' t, wrinkling her nose.
The cowgirl's pal laughed and left to go to the washroom. It was then the tumbleweed stuck her hands in her pockets as she would do when left to sit by herself. In the right one, her little hands fingered a cool remnant from helping her mom diaper her baby brother the night before. A safety pin.
A plan was not hatched. It was thrust upon her. She bit into the apple.
She took out the pin as her little chum returned and reclaimed her seat.
The tumbleweedgal held out the safety pin and put the apple on the desk.
"I found this pin in my apple."
"Oh my god!" And that's when the little chum told the teacher.
The tumbleweedgal rode the bus home after school that day, her stomach feeling increasingly as though she had eaten a heap of Jersey Milks and more than a dozen apples, rife with safety-pins.
Her mother had not been informed of the incident. For that, lil' t was grateful. But it didn't make her feel any better.
After watching some tv and getting ready for bed, she had to come clean. She told her mom what happened. About the apple. About the pin. She didn't plan to do it. It just happened.
Her mom made her little 'weed call up Mrs. Devereaux that night. She did, and explained what happened. The little tumbleweed cried and cried and had never felt like such a liar before.
When she went out trick or treating next Halloween, she made sure to keep all her chocolate bars.
But she threw all the apples in the bushes.
Bon Appetit, Bruce
I'm eating like a freaking bachelor these days. A confirmed bachelor. Well, not that kind of confirmed bachelor, because then I'd be experimenting with reductions and arborio rice, and you know, cooking with flair. I mean I'm fixing meals for myself these days as though they were meant to be eaten from the saucepan and served up in front of the NFL game. That kind of confirmed bachelor.
Dinner tonight? Why, black bean chicken stir-fry served on a bed of cheezies, of course.
This is What it's Like
Lock Up Your...Sons?
Just in the name of research...in the name of documentation...I feel compelled to submit this for all Amazing Race 3 fans.
I will say nothing more.
Monday, October 21, 2002
Lock Up Your Daughters
Men, you have a new enemy. You may want to re-think terrorism as the single most threatening force to life as we know it.
This has replaced you.
Sunday, October 20, 2002
We were on the highway again tonight, on our way home, and I said to him, "I kind of feel like living with you right now."
"Oh?" says he, slowly and inquiringly.
"Well, I can't wait to get back home and turn on my computer, and see who's online, read my email, check my counter, and add to my blog. But I'd kind of like to have you sort of in the background while I'm doing all that."
"Oh. So I'd be like your objet d'art. Like, you'd take me out, dust me off? Rub mink oil in me once in awhile?"
I bought the most expensive shoes I've ever owned this weekend. (top row, second shoe from the left.) The shoes, along with my new eyeglasses, together run about the cost of a month's stay in India. My trip-saving is not going exactly as planned.
Saw 24 Hour Party People this weekend. It's styled as a documentary centering on Manchester as the birthplace of the rave. It starts out at the Sex Pistols' first gig there and introduces some of the members of the audience--Mick Hucknall, later of Simply Red; members of the soon-to-be formed Joy Divison(later to become New Order), members of the future Happy Mondays. Before it gets to those artists, the movie highlights some Buzzcocks, Iggy Pop, Siouxie Sioux--and you really can't go wrong with that. I liked it, even if it did lack focus. I love a good rock movie. A little-known actor by the name of Sean Harris played the role of Joy Division's Ian Curtis. He did an amazing job of playing the tortured soul who offed himself, I learn now, while watching Werner Herzog's Stroszek. I have rifled through my CDs to find Closer as a result of his performance. There we go. Ah, it's good. But I wish I could accompany it with a re-play of Harris' portrayal of the intense, artistic, tailored and strangely-cute Curtis. You know, just for verisimilitude's sake.
Oh yeah, so far I've got Wes Anderson, and now Sean Harris, on my Fame Fuckers Five. (care of Dooce) Go on, make your own.
The BF just smirks at the whole idea. He won't reveal his five, but if the amount of time he dedicates to the gossip of a certain celeb is any indication, freaking J-Lo is at the top of the list.
Friday, October 18, 2002
Saw Arthur Kent speak today. He's still got that hair.
You'd think he woulda put on a tie, but nooooooooooo, it's all about the denim button-down. Hell, he's the Scud Stud and he can do what he likes.
Thursday, October 17, 2002
Does your month have 4701 cc V-8 overhead cam 5-speed, manual transmission? No, didn't think so.
Hey, I totally didn't know this, but I feel obliged to inform you it's TRUCK-tober, kids. At least, that's what they tell me. I didn't know that. But I sure as hell like the sounds of it.
Highway to Heaven
Hmm. What to do, what to do?
Go and cover four-hour meeting on federal electoral boundaries, or stay at home with hot-water bottle, comforter and ibuprofen?
I have cramps.
Hey! This is a personal site, I write for myself, and I say what I like.
Now, I'm not a wuss when it comes to pain, at least no more than the next 'weed, but my cramps do get bad. The onset of them now, around five-ish, leads me to believe they will be full blown just around the time I'm trying to get to sleep. I, sadly, have no painkillers at my home. It may require a trip across the street. If I do not buy my drugs now, I may be immobile soon, leaving me *gasp* drug-free to battle the pain. It makes me think of that episode of Little House when Albert was given what today would be called "an intervention" but then was called "getting a hold of a youngster, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and giving him a good whupping." No, seriously, he was on morphine, so those good folks who cared about him (Pa, Isaiah, you know we're talking about you!) brought him out to a secluded shed and stayed with him until he toughed it out, and got rid of those "demons" in his system. He was all sweaty and spewing milky white stuff. He was even discourteous to his elders, which as far as Little House goes, is as gritty as it gets.
So, while I'm not talking at all about my addiction to opiate derivatives, and boy could I go on about that one all day, I'm envisioning me, sweaty, writhing in pain in my bed, or resting my forehead alternately against the bathroom lino or toilet, screaming Pa! Paaaaaa! help me exorcize the devil in my abdomen! There will be clutching at stomach and general kind thoughts about Michael Landon, wishing he were there to hold my hand and my hair behind my head, and wring out a wet cloth or two to soothingly hold to my brow.
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
Always a virtual bridesmaid, never a virtual bride.
Okay, wait, I've never been a virtual bridesmaid for that matter, but I wanted to keep the adage consistent. I have previously documented a number of nuptials announced online. Well now, here's a virtual engagement. She said yes.
I'm following these sagas as though I know these people.
By the way, (notice how I use the longhand, even though I know the shorthand), remember how I was bitching about receiving an RCMP press release way too late for question, comment or just sheer ranting at THE MAN? One day after the issue appeared in our local newspaper, the "policy" was reversed. Seems it didn't have a leg to stand on. Appears it was a *regional* initiative. Yes, that's gonna work when the RCMP is a federal body. K Division out of Edmonton heard about it from reporters here and they said there was no authority to implement it. "In the spirit of co-operation, it's been a long-standing policy to give media name and charges information," says head Edmonton cop, stating the obvious.
Seems our mounties didn't watch enough Romper Room growing up.
Monday, October 14, 2002
Not all of the Seven Deadly Sins are created equal
My mother thinks one can only be truly productive when one is mobile. Therefore, brisk walks in the 'burbs, getting a little shopping in and taking the dog out for a run all constitute worthy activities. Sitting in one's pajamas at the computer all weekend and emerging for meals is not.
So even though I've got stuff to do on said computer, I contributed over the Thanksgiving long weekend: I threw my ginger ale bottles under the sink, out of sight. After wrestling with the cutting of some fresh bread in order to make a sandwich, I swept up the crumbs with my hand. I arranged the newspapers I read all morning into neat piles. After an attack of post-turkey narcolepsy, which literally rendered me powerless to a two-hour nap on the living room couch while company was over, I did put the cushions back in their proper place and re-created the *effortless and natural* drape of the chenille throw against the back of the sofa. God is in the details.
When mom got back from a hard day at work today and prepared to start in on dinner, I decided to get dressed, go downstairs and participate in the family-ness. Even though I would be perfectly happy to wear flannel pants all day and hole myself up in the family's computer room which is like a command center. I mean it's got a big TV with a working remote control and swivel chair and computer with a big monitor and I'm like a freaking exec in there! So don't tell me I'm not productive. I think if more execs had spent more time at their home computers in flannel pajamas with big cows on them, Wall Street wouldn't be in the mess it's in today.
So when I'm wearing my PJs in the late afternoon, let me be. Don't tell me to take a walk around the block. Maybe we could convince corporate America's CEOs to give up the greed and trade in the yachts for a good lounging session with a bowl of cheezies, ebay and brushed flannel; but don't urge me to steer clear of the sloth. That, along with gluttony, is what Thanksgiving's all about.
Sunday, October 13, 2002
She made a quick horizontal-vertical gesture with her hand and in went the bird.
"Bless this turkey, bless the bread," said my mom.
"What are you doing?"
"That's what your nan did when she was baking bread or putting a turkey in the oven."
"And she made the sign of the cross?"
"Wow. I'm putting that on my blog. Did she do anything else?"
"No," said my mom, and clammed up.
So, it's nearing Thanksgiving dinner time, and the poultry should be cooking nicely, please be to god. (nan said that too)
And while it browns with the blessing of our Lord, I can't help but think my mom's sign of the cross is completely negated by the fact my dad has outfitted the bird in bondage gear. He runs this culinary lifting device underneath it, with handles on each end, in order to get the turkey out of the roasting pan with ease. There's something kind of lascivious about putting chains around his sleek, pale, and dimpled skin. Yes, you could say, something even sacrilicious about it.
I'm going to say ten Hail Marys as a proactive measure to minimize the wrath of God and to ensure the gravy turns out just the way I like it.
Friday, October 11, 2002
I received this press release in the newsroom today. At two minutes to 5pm before the Thanksgiving holiday long weekend.
What that usually means in my business is the sender of said release knows everyone is on their way out of the office, thereby minimizing the chance of receiving an inquiring phone call from a reporter. They are therefore admitting the issue is a controversial one and are either too sheepish or too scared to deal with media scrutiny.
I don't have much time here, but I feel bound to let SOMEONE know about this:
Received from Red Deer RCMP @ 16:58 October 11/02
THE RCMP WILL NO LONGER BE RELEASING CHARGE INFORMATION TO THE MEDIA.
THE PRIVACY ACT DOES NOT ALLOW US TO RELEASE NAMES AND CRIMINAL CHARGES TO THE MEDIA. IF YOU REQUIRE THIS INFORMATION, YOU WILL HAVE TO ATTNED THE COURT HOUSE AND OBTAIN IT FROM THERE.
WE WILL CONTINUE TO SUPPLY YOU INFORMATION ON CRIMINAL EVETNS, THE AGE AND SEX OF THE OFFENDER AND THE GERNERAL LOCATION WHERE THE SUSPECT RESIDES.
ANY QUESTIONS REGARDING THIS CHANGE SHOULD BE DIRECTED TO CST. RALPH CERVI @ (phone number). ((of course unreachable at the late hour))
I have looked up the privacy act, but my legalese is rusty, time not on my side, and frankly, I don't know if the page I was looking at just refers to the office of the privacy commissioner.
All I can tell you, is it changes my job considerably. We rely on receiving the names (of those formally charged ) from police in order to follow them through the courts. If we don't have a name, we're going to have to GUESS at which of the suspects appearing on the docket is the one related to the strange break and enter highlighted in a release, or which of the 271's (sexual assault) on the list was the violent one that happened to the mayor's daughter. We're literally going to have to be camped out at the courts all day, every day. I don't know of too many media outlets who have reporters assigned only to court.
I'll have more to say on this later.
I hope it's a thanksgiving joke.
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
You may have already arrived at this conclusion, but I'm just now realizing that work is getting in the way of a lot of other stuff.
I am trying to get some pictures up on the blog and create a bio page, but it's tough slogging. And, just as I start making some headway, it's time to go to work or go to sleep. And work is not just getting in the way of blogging, but of yoga. I have all the best intentions of practising in the morning, but I will often be up late the night before working, or blogging after working late, and a yogini just can't practise unless it's in the morning. Instead, I sleep late.
Then there's the time I would like to spend with the BF. Now when he comes over, he sees the computer on and playfully threatens at staging an intervention. These jabs will no doubt become more serious over time. The best is when we spend time, together, on the computer! Last night he walked me through scanning, bringing an image into Corel Photo House, setting up a SHAW webspace account, then installing FTP software. My mind is bravely clinging to bits of the massive amount of information introduced. To his credit, he is capable of supressing all incredulity as I moan, "WHY DO I NEED FTP SOFTWARE? WHAT IS IT? WHY CAN'T MY BLOG JUST FIND THE IMAGES ON MY SHAW SITE?" and more moaning and bitching at the arcane difficulty of it all.
His blank stare says it all: Why is it you don't inherently know why your notepad's HTML must then be turned into an index file, to be put into CuteFTP?
I simply need more time away from work to deal with these great questions. Thanksgiving's coming. What I am thankful for? Long weekends.
Monday, October 07, 2002
If you haven't heard the White Stripes before, this is your best opportunity.
There's a wee little town just outside of Calgary called Cochrane. Because of its close proximity to Calgary, some think of it as little more than a suburb. No doubt the population of approx 11 thousand residents are split cleanly down the middle between the commuters and those who believe their home is a bonafide town. It's not a good-lookin' place. Sure, the surroundings are great, with the mountain peaks off to the South, and the prairies enveloping the whole deal. But right smack dab in the middle of Cochrane is a sterile, treeless town. With a noticeable paucity of gas stations.
When the BF is driving, he likes to skirt around Calgary whenever possible, because of the traffic. Inevitably, his gauge will read LOW FUEL as soon as we hit town limits. And so the line-up begins. We have to sit among the SUV drivers who are all competitively waiting for THEIR TURNS at the pump, and will forcibly oust you out of the queue, because time is money, mister. Regardless of the fact that everywhere in Cochrane can be reached within a five minute trip. Cochrane residents, with their cell phones and sports utes, are Calgarians, who for one reason or another, didn't make the cut. They couldn't get the pretty girl, so they had to settle for her ugly friend. And they've all got chips on their shoulders to prove it.
Like I said, Cochrane ain't much to look at, unless you're staring, slack-jawed, at the architecturally-controlled nightmare of public buildings that can only be described as "Barn-themed." It's like they're trying to mimic Canmore's "Nordic-Chalet" motif, but where Canmore succeeds in making itself look like a quiet and pretty alpine milkmaid, Cochrane comes off looking like a loud, fatuous, Western ass.
Sunday, October 06, 2002
...Please read prev.post first. This is a continuation of v.suspenseful story..
...So upon check-in I poured myself some complimentary coffee and picked up a free copy of the Globe and Mail. I also took a bath, turned on the fireplace as much as possible, called down to the front desk to have them fetch us a corkscrew, brewed up my in-room coffee maker, and packed away the delicious green soap to take home.
We went for a luxurious meal that night: I had the 10 oz sirloin, eschewing the “Lady’s Cut” for fear I’d have to provide proof of living up to the name. The BF had a “Cowboy Cut,” apparently being no stranger to life on the range, and perhaps secretly wanting to live up to my girlish ideals of what a real man eats, and my love for cowboy esthetics. His was a staggering 20 oz ribeye. We had golden-roasted potatoes with fresh rosemary and perfectly braised string beans and carrots. All served in a cast-iron pan, brought to the table. Mugs of wheat ale and an appetizer of tiger prawns in a caramelized onion, garlic, and Pernod cream sauce rounded out the meal.
Rolled home. Bought wine on the way in order to round out night of excess.
Speaking of excess, did you know that porn costs $12.99 for about an hour and 17 minutes of action delivered straight to one’s loft-suite television?
Did you know that oftentimes the remote control menu options don’t work, and one has to order the filth over the phone? I think the best way to probably approach that is to call up reception and say “I’d like HARD EVIDENCE to room 255,” really matter-of-factly, and thank your lucky stars you weren’t interested in ordering the film titled HORNY COLLEGE CO-EDS GET NASTY.
Banff was absolutely wonderful; I didn't want to leave. But as I clung desperately to the BF, demanding petulantly we remain in the Rockies forever, he said, "We are slaves. We must return to our masters." And so we did.
It all began as we drove down from Calgary early Saturday afternoon. The national park is a quick dart down the highway, just about an hour and a half, and the wet snow began to fall as we neared the townsite. But this is not a sad tale at all! The snow was lovely, romantic even, lending a certain ambience to an already sweet scene. We parked the car and walked through the streets, poking into shops, watching the candy-makers, buying fudge, kissing and generally behaving sappily to the point where if I were an outsider looking in, I’d be prompted to mock, “You two! Knock it off already! The drudgery of life is a mere three hours away. And you’re not kids anymore, you know.”
We headed to our hotel for the 4PM check-in and it was as lovely as expected! Our loft suite had a main floor with couch, big TV (with some video game or other), gas fireplace and huge bathroom. Then up the winding staircase was a HUGE bedroom with a KING SIZE bed and another TV, overlooking the sitting area.
Now, in my books, it’s the bathroom that can make or break the quality of a hotel room. By the way, do you have any idea how excited I get by staying in a hotel or motel? I loooooooove it! I'm going wheeeeee like a schoolgirl the whole time! And clapping my hands quickly in glee! Back to the deal-sealer: This bathroom was perfection. It was very clean, betrayed no polyfill work on the walls, stocked extra towels, and its toilet paper roll was folded into a neat triangular tip. Which is, of course, a standard to be met at all costs. If your TP isn't sporting its manifestation of civility, you may as well check out. There are likely rats in the walls.
The toiletries available were everything a girl could ask for: French triple-milled soap, vanity package (q-tips, emery board, cotton balls), and shower cap, all in gold boxes; lotion, shampoo, bath and shower gel, all in attractive containers; shoe-shine shammy; and the capper: a mint-green-colored cucumber glycerin soap in the shape of a circle. Precious!
Now, I'm not a robe-stealer nor am I one to use up all the towels unconditionally. But I DO believe in using the resources provided to the maximum as I am paying more than one hundred dollars, after all, for less than 24 hours of lodging.
Friday, October 04, 2002
This Student Union Ticket Pack booklet of coupons is making me do crazy things.
It's got me considering the $10 DOLLARS OFF A NEW CLOSET ORGANIZER! or the $64.95 AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION SERVICE! that I'm pretty sure I don't need, or the 20% discount OFF YOUR NEXT CLEANING OF YOUR GRANDFATHER CLOCK! and I don't even own one.
So instead of, once again, picking up a FREE WHOPPER (when you purchase one at the regular price along with fries, 2 drinks and dinner for EVERYONE else), I've decided to splurge on a LUXURIOUS LOFT SUITE IN GLORIOUS BANFF ALBERTA! Yup, 30% off a DELUXE ROOM. We're heading to the loft suite here tomorrow night, but hit Calgary this evening.
I hadn't planned to take a little holiday, or as the British say, a mini-break, but hell, I'm SAVING money by doing it.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
She is such a demanding lover.
"Come talk to me. C'mon, put on some Elliott Smith and sit down. Put your hands on me," urges my rapacious blog.
It's not enough I face her every night, trying to suss her out and know exactly what she's thinking; and I'm usually pretty good at it. Oh, no! Tonight it was all the jealous routine. Coaxing, guilt, playing on my thoughts. Petty grievances thrown back in my face, "You spent almost a full day with your precious furniture, and you can't spend a measly hour with me?" So I turn her on, but leave her on her own, and she sits there, desire unslaked. "You're just going to leave me! To sit here, completely useless? It's like July all over again."
But tonight I just had to turn my attentions elsewhere. Everyone around here is feeling ignored: the stainless steel of the sink is moaning it's lost its lustre and I never polish it anymore. The bed complains I never doll it up with shams the way I used to when we first starting sleeping together. The mags are withdrawn, sitting neglected in an ever-mounting pile. And Christ, the dishes are bitching, and my psycho clothes are sitting in this heap, and the jaunty little scarves were picking catfights with my cardigans, all laying on the floor in a tangle.
So I got everyone where they needed to be. I separated the shirts from the pants, told the dust what it wanted to hear, I sucked the filthy carpets dry, fondled the mirrors and flipped the mattress.
And now I'm back with her, listening intently (or at least pretending to) and treating her like the tumblequeen she is. She knows of my infidelities, but I know how to fix it. Tomorrow I'll slink in and sheepishly proffer a bouquet of RAM. That'll smooth everything over.
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
Cosmic JUSTICE, Harvard-Law Style:
Awwww, the Harvard Law beauty queen has to sky-dive! She is shitting her pants and crying!
And all of this is happening after the other Legal Briefcase-toting Barbie*TM fell out of a wagon and nearly ended up facing the business-end of a burro's ass!
I LOVE THIS SHOW!
The Amazing Race Chronicles continues:
Ahhhh, Mexico City. Mr. Cabdriver, will you just wait here for us while we go do our funny American race thingy? Can we keep our bags in your trunk? Stay here, kay? Stay here! We'll be right back.
Good thing these twins boys are REALLY PRETTY.
The Amazing Race: The lowdown on the low-down.
They are beautiful. They are lawyers. They went to Harvard. What's to LIKE about these byotches?
And now THEY ARE USING THEIR COY FEMININE WILES TO CON PEOPLE OUT OF THEIR MONEY.
I HATE THEM! Thank you, Amazing Race!
There are all sorts when it comes to those who chat.
One of my friends is terribly bright and witty. Our instant messenger conversations go on forever and are quite engaging.
Another friend of mine recently added me to her list of contacts. When we were going to college together, she was about 19, very computer literate, smart, and up on every latest trend. I was smart too, but also older, therefore slightly out of the loop, and deathly afraid of anything tech. A few years have passed, and luckily I've finally seen the light. I have my own machine now and know at least a little bit more. I don't have to ask her how to create a folder or change my fonts anymore. *cringe at memory* So I'm trying to keep up with her lightning-quick typing speed, her acronyms, her references. It took me a split second to realize "ty" was thank you. And while her stuff was a laugh a minute, I felt about as unhip as one of those parents that reads the latest newspaper article on teen trends providing you with a glossary of what kids are actually saying these days.
Anyhow, I was coming down after the adrenaline rush of chatting with her, then I contact my BF through IM.(see how quick I catch on?)
"How are you?" I ask. I know, pretty boring but it's the opening volley which should lead to a smashing backhand.
"Fine," he replies.
My high came to a crashing halt.
I'm afraid it wasn't an isolated incident. He's not a great chatter. But what bugs me most is that in real life he is clever, funny, and sweet. But it doesn't come off in the "conversation box."
Perhaps it's best: otherwise he'd never stop playing chess, I'd never stop reading blogs and we'd be instant-messengering with just 5 minutes of drive-time between us.
TV wrangling: When did Dawson's Creek become this extremely lame movie of the week with far too many close ups and pop-punk songs? And what in god's name is Pacey thinking with that goatee?
Amazing Race is on tonight! I love the show but hate that it's lumped in under the umbrella of "reality television." Fear Factor is under that category and the day I sit through 60 minutes of chicks with big tits chomping down on water buffalo penis and histrionically gagging is the day I sit next to my fella, Bubba, in his truck without leaving that space between us.