Tuesday, December 19, 2006

I Am A Technomoron

Background:
I had a really shitty day at work where I'm advocating for the client and the psychiatrist and manager are doing everything to cover their own ass'...to the point where they're being stupid enough to try that old 'keep the abuse in the family and shut up about it' crap. In the meantime, hubby is working with the satelite TV guys to install this technology so we can finally say 'Fuck You" to the cable guys.

Picture, if you will, Me...plastered on the biggest rum and coke imaginable in attempts of forgetting the earlier ambush from the powers that be. Picture my husband trying to put the new tv remote (wtf?) in my hand and instruct me how to use it.

TV on. TV off. volume. channel change. OK...brain is full...give no more info...brain full...will crash soon...shut the fuck up.

I find a few familiar channels and feel reassured in my extreme drunkeness that I will overcome and master this thing called 'satelite tv'.

The phone rings.

It's my father-in-law who lives in the flat below us. His wife has pressed some button and everything shut down and they don't know what to do.

Dilemna:
I'm piss-drunk. Hubby's doing step-aerobics at the gym. Early-dementia-had-a-gazillion-little-strokes-87-year-old-mother-in-law hits the button of doom on the satelite remote.

Solution:
Laugh so hard I piss my pants and barely spit out "I'll have Jamie call you when he's back from the gym."

This solution took immense reserve and control since, in my drunken, post-confrontation/abuse state I feel I have the patience of a rhinoceros, and I want to go 'fix' their problem myself.
I rally my fading sense of being humane and decide that Jamie can deal with his parents while I make a second killer rum & coke and forget the entire day happened.

After all, I can't seek Dr. Phil's advice because I can't find the fucking channel!!

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Sadistic Stores

One of my pet peeves:
Grocery stores always rearrange their entire stock just when you have finally figured out where everything is.

Now, I could understand rearranging stock if it made things easier to find items or it made the aisles easier to negotiate with a buggy with a sticky wheel. I fully understand the concept of putting sugary junk food at the eye level of a toddler, light toilet paper on the top shelf and heavy laundry detergent on the bottom.

But what is the advantage of moving the pet food next to the baby supplies instead of it's previous location beside the paper towels? Will I buy more soup if it's next to the soft drinks rather than the cookies?

I imagine they think that I'll buy more because I had to slow down and look at every item carefully as I search for cat food. Guess again. I actually buy less because I can't find what I'm looking for, become frustrated, and leave to go to another store that hasn't changed rearranged their stock.

If they want to use the shock and awe approach to get me to buy more, why don't they just design all grocery stores like a maze. We would all get lost in the maze...trapped for hours with skilled marketing and hunger gnawing at our willpower.

After all, it works for IKEA.

Monday, November 20, 2006

'Stupid' Money

I often wondered where the term 'stupid money' came from. I know people use the term when referring to others spending obscene amounts of money for something that has significantly less monetary value.

I now have a picture to put in my mind when I hear the term 'stupid money'


I need a new black leather purse and I've surfed Ebay for the past month or so to find what I'm looking for. In the process, I've come to know different designers and what their purses look like and what they usually cost.

Yesterday, I scrolled past something that I knew had to be a mistake. My eye could not have seen that price accurately. I checked. Yes, that was the number I saw. Convinced it was still a mistake...that the seller must have typed the wrong number, so I decided to compare prices.

I learned that the Hermes Birkin handbag is a very pricey purse, indeed.

$50 is an average price to pay for a basic leather purse.

Make that purse a designer purse made with vacchetta italian leather and you're talking perhaps $500. To me, that's more than I'd spend on a purse, but it's certainly not an outrageous price.

$1000 seems rather indulgent to me.

$5000 hits the point of rediculous in my eyes. This is the point where I feel a $5000 purse doesn't look any more elegant/classy/well-constructed than the $1000 purse.

Then there's the category of 'stupid money'. It's the price that's so rediculous it blows the mind. It doesn't matter if the purse is made from good quality materials or even if it has a bit of gold or diamonds or something on it. It's a purse. It's not a mode of transportation. It's not a power generator. It's an accessory.

This particular Hermes accessory can be yours for $39,000. Thirty-nine thousand dollars.

Who would be so selfish to buy such a thing?

Buy the thousand dollar purse and use the other $38,000 to fight world poverty. Think of what Muhammad Yunus could do with $38,000. http://www.grameen-info.org/

For a moment, I thought I should buy a knock-off Hermes Birkin for a joke, but then I thought two things.

1. People would assume it's a knock off based on the rest of my apparel.

2. I wouldn't want anyone to think I was stupid enough to pay $39,000 for a purse.

Stupid money.

Monday, October 16, 2006

My karma ran over my dogma

Some people believe in fate, and I'm one of those people.

Usually, when people think of fate they think of 'big-moment' things like meeting their soul mate or getting a certain job. I believe fate can be all the little things as well, and I'll tell you why.

The other morning was rather frosty for a mid-October morning. (It was the day that Buffalo got a dump of unseasonal snow that sent the city into a state of emergency.) Last weekend was sunny and balmy...classic Indian Summer weather (where did that term come from anyway? I'll check that out later) so the jump from summer to winter was a shock for my body.

Unaccustomed to the cold-sharp wind, my body instructed me to compensate by providing it with hot, high-calorie food. Since it was morning, it also craved caffeine. 'Starbuck's maple macchiato' is what it whispered to me. Mmmmm...the flavors of autumn...pumpkin, maple, apple...

I had recently set up my office with coffee-maker, coffee, and cream so I wouldn't spend stupid-money at Fourbucks (I mean Starbucks) everyday. So, the logical side of my brain battled it out with the part of the brain that was freezing it's ass off.

The brain battle started as I walked to the streetcar stop. I usually take the Queen car, but if I miss it, I can catch the King car which gets me almost as close to work. The King car stops at the corner of King and Shaw....where there is a Starbuck's. I just missed the Queen car that day, so I had to catch the King car. Fate was putting his thumb on the scale.

The ride to work involved the ongoing debate in my head. Maple..mmmmm...but I can save up for that Marino Orlandi purse I want...but it's warm maple.....

My stop is up, I ring the bell and walk to the door of the streetcar, with battle almost won in favor of the maple macchiato with the logical side putting in an admiral effort. As the car rolls to a stop, I see a woman standing at the streetcar stop wearing a green Starbuck's tunic...and she's holding a tray of little coffee cups.

What is this? Did someone order their coffee ahead of time and this woman is giving it to them on the car?

I step off the car to be greeted by the woman in the tunic who smiles at me and says "Good morning...would you like to try a maple macchiato?"

My karma ran over my dogma, and I walked up to my office happily, with a vente maple macchiato warming my cold hands.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Walk This Way

Sit up straight.
I'm sure we've all heard this command from some authoritative parental figure at one time or another.

Changing one's posture takes only attention and will. I go through periods where my posture deteriorates and I spend a few weeks being aware of the times I'm slouching, and pushing back my shoulders in response.

Changing the way one walks isn't quite as simple, nor is the process discreet.

When I walk, I don't lift my feet much. I don't drag my feet and I don't shuffle, conversely, I don't glide or sashay. There's nothing remarkable about the way I walk.

Except that every once in a while I trip on absolutely nothing. I don't fall, but I lurch rather noticeably.

I recently had the (not so) brilliant idea that I would change the way I walked the way one improves posture.

Have you ever thought about the way you walk and tried to walk differently? It's not an impossible task...for a distance of about 50 feet, but it's not sustainable.

Visualize, if you will, the sight of me walking down the halls of the psychiatric hospital where I work, picking my feet up in a slightly exaggerated fashion...somewhat the way someone walks when their foot has fallen asleep. Now, adjust your mental picture when you hear that I walk like a cross-dresser when I wear heels.

I decided that vanity is worth the price of the occasional stumble, and all efforts to change the way I walk are a thing of the past.

...and sit up straight.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Ode to the Outhouse

There are two kinds of people in the world; those who love outhouses and those who hate outhouses. Remarkably, I fall into the former category. This is remarkable because of the fact that I have a rather nauseating aversion to spiders.

Why do people that hate outhouses hate them? The reasons are fairly obvious. Smell. Insects. Spider webs. Germs. The path through the grass/woods/abyss with the snake/mouse/frog/monster lurking just out of site ready to attack.

Reasons to hate outhouses are fairly clear. Reasons to love outhouses are a bit more obscure.
1. Some people...especially men...like to do their business outdoors.
2. Can be cleaned by simply hosing it down.

While renovating the cottage bathroom and waiting for the guy to come and pump out the honey pot (aka holding tank) I was required to do my business outdoors. Sans outhouse. It was a nostalgic adventure.

I found a smooth log, stripped of it's bark that hung out over a small hill. It was the perfect height from the ground so I could sit and hang my butt over the side and my toes just reached the ground. It even had branches sticking out on either side of my 'spot' to hold on to for reassurance and to hang the toilet paper role on. I loved my risky little adventure...meditating out in the woods where no one could see me but there was a small risk of the neighbour seeing me from a distance if he was getting something from his car. I used my meditation time to think of something to say other than "Hi, Eugene" if the neighbour wandered into range. Something witty. I never did think of anything.

Although this was quaintly fun in a silly way, it wasn't a long term solution...certainly not a solution for middle-of-the-night business or guests. The cottage needs an outhouse for the winter months without running water, times when the number of guests outweighs the capacity of the septic system, and for that eccentric niche of people that prefer to do their business outside. I sought the opinions of others so I could build a friendly outhouse.

Outhouses that were painted white inside seemed to be more well received than their rustic wood counterparts. White is associated with clean. People seem just as content "imagining" that the outhouse is clean. The walls should be solid rather than planks of wood. Planks have seams and cracks that invite spiders to lay nests and spin webs.

Following extensive research, I realized the main problem people have with outhouses is the last reason that they'll admit to. The big, dark cavernous hole below one's most vulnerable part threatens to reach out and grab one by one's vulnerable parts and drag one into the stinking bowels of hell. The outhouse can be white, clean, and smell of roses, but the gateway to hell cannot be disguised.

I think I found the solution to appeal to outhouse lovers and haters alike. My outhouse will be build on a concrete slab facing the lake. A Dutch door will allow for modesty as well as a view of the lake for the commune-with-nature type. The path will be cleared of grass that may threaten to tickle squeamish legs or hide nasty critters. There will be a motion sensor light on the path at night so one does not require a flashlight (which only protects you from the monsters you see in the front, but not those behind you in the dark). And finally, there will be a composting toilet in the outhouse that has a little trap door that separates the basin from tunnel to hell. Hell's minions cannot open this door. One has total control and power when it comes to the doorway to hell. Take that!
I'm not completely naive. I still anticipate problems. My sister-in-law, for example, who has to have a shower every time she swims in the lake. Her expression was one of disbelief when I told her that the water in the shower comes directly from the lake. I even showed her the intake pipe beside the dock. But she has an unwavering faith that the water somehow transforms during it's twenty meter journey up the black plastic pipe to the shower. Whatever.

But I promised you and ode.

Oh lovely outhouse
that guards the gates of hell
Square, wooden sentinel
how often have I doubted you
No more
No more
May you rise to your place of glory.
*Flush*

OK...so I'm not a poet.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Spring on Steroids

Perhaps it was because we had a mild winter that spring has sprung...and is on steroids.

Plants are bigger than usual and are blooming earlier than usual. I don't think I've ever seen so many lilacs!

And it's no wonder that allergy sufferers are...well...suffering much more.

I was up at my cottage this weekend, and the hemlock trees (I'm assuming it's the hemlocks) are more than frisky this fruitful spring season. They put out so much pollen, it was coming down like fluorescent yellow baby-powder-fine snow. (Remembers the childhood saying, "Don't eat yellow snow.")

I was trying to clean the boat to get it ready for boating season. No sooner did I dust the pollen off the white upholstery and it was covered again. Waxing the boat was a joke. Yes, pollen sticks to wet boat wax.

But I couldn't get angry. It was so surreal, it was actually cool.

...not that I'd like it to happen again, though.


The most enjoyable aspect of this fruitful spring was to see a den of baby foxes. The den, mind you, was in a culvert of the driveway, as if the mother fox felt the rush of spring as well and didn't think she had time to look for better real estate.

I wonder what summer will be like?

Monday, April 17, 2006

The Friendship Garden

A few years ago, I had an idea. (Not to say that was the last time I had an idea, but...just read the blog, OK?)

I love my garden. It's my sanctuary. In the past 10 years I've moved a number of times and had to leave old gardens and start new ones. Now my garden is in an impossible location on steep Georgian Bay granite with 2 inches of mossy-grassy earth on top. To complicate things, the spartan soil is highly acidic.

Do I feel despair? No. I love a challenge.

Oops. Tangential Lisa has taken you in a different direction. I'll blog about the Georgian Bay difficulties another time. Right now, I'm suppose to tell you about friendship gardening.

Every year, I meet new people and make new friends. Every year, I plant new plants in my garden (whichever garden it is this year) A few years back, I decided to name each of my plant after someone new in my life each year. This way, whenever I looked at the plant, I could remember the friend and think about them while sipping tea (or a rum and coke) in the garden.
Initially, I just matched the next name with the next plant, but after a few coincidental character comparisons, the matching became interesting and fun.

A full figured divorced friend was matched with a rose that was drought tolerant with nice hips. A wine connoisseur was paired with a wine-red rose aptly named Tuscany superb. A fellow who avoids white food had to be linked to a white rose. Lily got a lily. Well...you get the idea.

My current garden lends itself more to daylilies and irises, so it will be fun to link specific traits to this year's friends. 'Late bloomer', 'reproduces well', 'easy to split', 'grows best when left alone' sound benign when referenced with a plant, but a bit more fun and memorable when linked with a friend.

Soooooo...what kind of plant are you?

Monday, March 13, 2006

Desperate for Signs of Spring

This winter has been unusually grey. We've had more rain, therefore more cloudy days. Add that to the depressing effect of short winter days, grey flat clouds, grey skeletal trees, grey dingey sidewalks, and sparse beige grass-stubble.

Was the sky every blue? The grass was green and soft once, wasn't it? I believe I've seen white fluffy clouds at one time or another.

I too, have faded through the winter. Beige hair, beige pastey skin...I feel decidedly...beige.
This time of year, I am desperate for signs of spring and begin looking through gardening catalogues and haunting garden nurseries.

Today, I achieved the epitome of desperation. I bought a bougainvillea.

Ah yes, the airy and papery bougainvillea. Vibrant shades of pink, red, and orange...trailing and reaching, promising the smell of the tropical tradewinds that would soon come...

Yeah, right.

My bougainvillea is suffering the same winter depression as I. It's a sparse array of a handful of spindley twigs with barely 3 leaves the size of a fingernail.

Why would I buy such a thing, you ask?

In this clump of driftwood-beige twigs, I see spring on it's way. It's coming out of it's winter dormancy. Little pin-head buds are beginning to push their way out. I can see the beautiful bush that it will become.

I'll place it on my windowsill in my office and watch it with renewed hope that spring is just around the corner.

...even though the weather forcast calls for snow tomorrow....

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

How Cold Was It?

When people ask me about the coldest weather I remember, I told them this story...

I was up at the cottage one bitterly cold winter day. The cottage is heated by woodstove, so when one arrives, one starts fire and does other errands (shovel snow, chop hole in ice for water) for a couple of hours until the place warms to manageable levels. This particular day was -20 degrees. After about an hour of shovelling (and mouth breathing), I came inside for a drink.

I opened a can of coke and took a few sips. "Hmmn...are there floaty things in my coke?" I squinted into the can to see little clumps of ice floating up with the bubbles. The coke was turning to slush in front of me!

I now have another 'How cold was it?' story...
This weekend past, I headed up north to go skiing. I set -20 degrees as my cut off point. If it's below -20 I snowshoe instead because I can generate enough body heat to avoid frostbite. Saturday was -21 degrees. Snowshoe weather.

There is a river (apty named the Mad River) that bubbles through Devil's Glen. It churns and tumbles so much that the water temperature can be below freezing and it still won't freeze.

Saturday morning was cold enough to create a phenomenon I had never seen before. The water vapour in the air froze on trees and still objects to create a layer of hoary frost. But the mad river churned too quickly for the frost to cling. Conversely, the water temperature was below freezing so the frost wouldn't melt into the water either.

In an eddy in the river floated a cluster of white lily pads. But they weren't lily pads at all. They were made entirely of frost. I partly expected to see little white flowers pop up to accompany them, but I did not.

The icy pads bumped and laughed for the remainder of the day. I was loathe to leave because I probably wouldn't see them again.

Goodbye, lovely icy lily pads. Thankyou for revealing yourself to me.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Radioactive Green Apple

My home is a rather depressing combination of 1970's chocolate brown and beige. These colours aren't bad in small quantities, but when every wall, cabinet, carpet, and appliance are chocolate brown and beige, one can feel...well,...beige.

Until now, I hadn't changed anything because I wasn't going to be here more than a few years, (that and the fact that I despise painting) but now that I realize I will be here a few more, those thought of even another 6 months with chocolate brown and beige depresses me profoundly.

...and so, off to the paint store I went.

The kitchen would be my starting point. Painting two walls would be a nice easy way to ease myself into the task.

Yeah, right.

I have a very good sense (read 'picky') for colour and light, to the point where, in a store with 50,000 shades and tones of paint, I can't find THE shade of green that I want. This one's too muddy, that one's too dark...too light...too yellow...too blue...too bright...too dull.

You would think I was painting the Louvre rather than my piddly kitchen in a Toronto duplex. But I was undeterred. I found the 3 closest shades and asked the clerk (bless her soul) what pigments were in each, then came up with a combination I thought would work. We did a test swatch and then mixed up a can.

Paint day was brilliantly sunny. I was energized. I was excited about bringing some colour into my beige existence.

Taking a deep breath, I rolled on the first signs of colour. My, but it looked a bit more yellow when it was wet. As more paint went on the wall, I found myself squinting from the glare. The bright sunshine was illuminating the paint as if it was phosphorescent.

I began to giggle. The more I painted, the more the giggle turned into sidesplitting laughter. I finished and left the room. Every time I walked into the room I burst out in laughter. I had wanted colour, and boy-oh-boy I got colour!

While painting, I thought "What have I done!" After I painted I thought "Holy crap, that's bright!" By early evening, 'bright' became 'funky'. By bedtime, I liked it. By morning, I loved it.

The brown cupboards are now envious of the walls, and so I will cheer them up by painting them eggplant purple.

I think now I'll do the bedroom red.