I'm sitting in the den/spare bedroom/office in the sun, watching the grass get greener.
Yesterday they were calling for snow today and a mild plus 10 on Saturday. Now it's Wednesday, and they say it'll be sunny and plus 15 all weekend.
Do they do this on purpose? To motivate the working (or...not) masses to pull through, pony up and make it through the week? We slog through the paperwork and laundry and grocery shopping and mediocre prime-time television of the hum-drum weekdays with only a hazy fantasy of patios and barbeques and cold beer and sunlight to help us through.
Seriously, Environment Canada, if you are lying to me about this weekend's forecast? I will stab you in the neck with a pen. That is mostly an empty threat because I'm anti-violence. But the feelings behind it are genuine.
Yeah, I thought it was about time for some more fun facts that you probably know/don't know/don't care about/are fascinated by regarding the author of this swill. To tell you the truth, Sarah and I ate at Peter's Drive In today, and the ketchup packets had Trivial Pursuit questions on them and I was inspired. Oh, Ketchup.
1. I only like Mayo- and even then, it must be Miracle Whip- in Tuna and Flakes of Ham sandwiches. It is also acceptable when used in a broccoli and cauliflower or curried broccoli salad. But that's pushing it. I will, however, suck it up for a roast beef sandwich from Sunterra, because yum.
2. I'm in charge of utility bills for our dwelling. I divvy them up between our suite and the downstairs folk using good old fashioned long division done by hand, written down right on the back of the bill. I love long division. I also love adding by hand. Okay. I just love elementary math.
3. I rarely open my mail. I get everything twice. I need to see about having the mailbox service cancelled. But that would mean actually calling Shaw, Alberta Energy, Bell...and god, I hate being on hold.
4. I still don't have the balls to do the crossword in pen. Getting there.
5. My favourite beer has fruit in it. Actually, I'm all over fruit beer. However, I also love Ricard's Red and Grasshopper, so there's still hope for me yet.
6. My favourite Mama-B made cookies are crackerjacks, but she wouldn't know that because she has refused on more than one occasion in the past six months to make them for me. Insert major guilt trip slash hint here.
7. My favourite colour is green.
8. When I was in grade four, we were assigned research papers on our favourite animals. You had to have a prop of some kind to bring in to illustrate your presentation. I was planning to write mine on hamsters and bring in my beloved pet. Two days before it was due, Smokey bit the dust. I wrote my paper on Hyenas instead. This marks the moment in time when I realized that I could in fact pull off a project that I'd been assigned several weeks prior in one night. A procrastinator was born at that exact instant.
9. I am most attracted to designs popular in the late Edwardian and Art Deco eras.
10. I currently long to purchase a beach cruiser bicycle. If I am ever again employed, I plan to.
11. I have never been in a wedding. However, in the next thirteen months, I will have done it twice. Bridesmaid suit up!
12. I don't like onions, but I love onion rings. Quite often I will pull the onion out of the batter-ey deliciousness.
13. The next CD I plan to buy is In Rainbows. You may be asking, "Why do you not have this already?" and I have no appropriate answer for you.
14. I enjoy museums more than is healthy. The best one I've ever been to is the Museum of Civilization in Ottawa. The Science Centre in Portland is also the awesome. I am all for edutainment. My children will someday hate me.
15. I've never been to: New York, anywhere in Asia, Italy, Seattle, and despite ten trips to Las Vegas: the Hoover Dam.
Have you ever noticed how hard it is to think of the words to a song while you're listening to a more different song? I was just trying to remember a line of a particular John Lennon song while listening to a song by The Golden Dogs and was having real difficulty.
I guess it's applicable to almost anything. I'm a fantastic multitasker, but when it comes to my thoughts, they are frequently occupied by only one thing at a time.
Not at all. I'm really jumpy. Even average-volume noises or slow-moving objects in my peripheral vision can startle me. It's all part of my neurotic charm. (right.)
This was well-tested last night when I watched The Ring. It was incredible, but I am still moderately terrified. So, to wipe that experience from my immediate memory, I am driving it out the only way I know how:
Coffee and My Big Fat Greek Wedding. No obstacles are overcome through dance, but there is a fierce makeover sequence and it's hilarious. Also, it's not jumpy. And since I'm home alone, by my lonesome, with all this eerie bright sunlight, I sure need something to take my mind off creepy and put it on souvlaki.
I'm sorry, I meant to post this yesterday, but then I got all distracted by my really, really, ridiculously good-looking boyfriend and well...
So the thing I love about life the very most, possibly more than anything else, is brunch. Oh, and breakfast. Big fan of breakfast, too. And every time I go to visit Erin, we have great fantastic fabulous brunches. We went to Cora's TWICE. I love Cora's. There's one here in Calgary, but it's so far south, it's practically in Lethbridge. (But it's worth the drive, right Laurel?)
We also ate delicious bagels from this delicious bagelry near Erin and Marc's. There I had the very best latte I've ever had in my entire life. It was like discovering espresso all over again, except this time, I didn't need to add three spoons of sugar and I wasn't doing it to try to impress the boys from drama club.
We had amazing chinese food that I've already mentioned, delicious cake that Erin made (adding a banana! how novel!) and then we found the perfect post-retirement job for my dad.
Dad, you need to get yourself a part-timer working at the Lonestar Grill, or any tex-mex fajita joint serving frosty margaritas and lots of in-house made tortilla chips. Our server was named Bull, and he reminded me of you so much that I nearly died. I think you'd be really skilled at slinging Margs and taking the chips away from us before we were done with them. Also, we could start calling you Dowg or somesuch nickname in a legitimate way! Also, we would tip you better than we tipped Bull. Promise.
You're going to think that at this point, we pretty much ate and shopped all weekend. Well, you would be right, friend. You would be right.
I learned a lot of important lessons during my weekend sojurn in our nation's fair capital. One of these lessons was do not challenge a wiry looking Asian guy to a kung-fu challenge. Just don't. Sweeping racial generalizations aside? Dude will probably kick your tuckus. Not because he's Asian. Because he's wiry.
I knew we were in for a good weekend when I arrived on time in Ottawa, to be greeted by my fair cousin Erin who was wearing not one single matching item of clothing, nor her expensive engagement ring, which to be truthful, I had flown all the way across the country to see. Love her. Carmen, the Maid of Honour in our Wedding Equation was delayed in Calgary en route from Vancouver (hahaha) so we had time to observe the signage around the baggage carousel.
Instead of flat-panel tv screens with ads, oh in Ottawa, they have massive, expensive, high-tech looking rolling screens with ads. Like the one my cousins built at Grandma D's. You know, Michael. The one I mean. Out of a Tide box. With magazine ads circa Before I Was Born pasted on a roller with a hand crank so you can "change the channel".
They spare no expense in Ottawa.
Carmen arrived, Carmen's luggage arrived, and we made our post-midnight way back to Chez Engaged People where we gabbed and inflated air mattresses and looked at thousands of magazine pictures of white dresses and gabbed some more. At around 3:00 am EST, we finally called it a night and put the wedding magazines away for the evening.
At promptly 8:00 AM, on the dot (trust me, I observed the time), we were roused from our slumber by the sweet sweet sounds of a JACKHAMMER ON THE FREAKING BALCONY. I must have died, and whatever I did in my lifetime was SO BAD. SO SO SO BAD.
Sadly, I have no milk and don't really feel like trudging through the snow and cold to go get some. Though, rice pudding would warm me up. And I have about 4 cups of cooked rice just hanging out, ready to be used.
So I promise, I have an epic and potentially amusing update in the works (it's in point form draft right now) regarding several amusing things about my trip to Ottawa, where I am right now.
But we just ate amazing chinese food and the rest of Team Dramnitzki/Howlett/Wonchulanko/Bailey (MSG makes Megans less witty) is awaiting my return to the living space for Wii and Vodka, and I'm tired and need to stretch out so I hurt less, so I must depart.
Yesterday Amanda and I were having an involved conversation about Other People's Children, which progressed into a conversation about Other Children's Parents and Super Psycho Mommies of many varieties: Urban Power Mommy, Vegan Hipster Mommy, Crazy Commune Mommy...
Okay, stop. This post should not indicate to you that at any point in the near or even distant future am I planning to join any of those above mentioned groups. In fact, the jury is still out on whether I'll ever attempt to join those clubs. I would, however, like to apply for Super Cool Honorary Auntie positions as they become available. I will forward you my resume. I will finger paint with your toddler using chocolate pudding. I will buy them sugary substances and outrageously expensive Disney Princess dresses and take them for tea at the Palliser and to pet the (less harmful) animals at the zoo- providing I ever find employement, of course.
So then we started talking about child names. And this is where the popular voting and interactive content part of my blog comes into play.
Would Ender not be a sweet name for a child?
Hellooo, little Ender would have an entire group of Gen X/Y teachers, doctors, strangers on the street, ballet instructors, playmates parents, etc. totally cooing awesome over that name.
(If you're thinking that I mean Ender as in, 'You are the End of all things good in my life, oh beginnings of my tiny Brood of Failure, you", then you would be mistaken and need to brush up on your scifi-fantasy references)
Your comments are muchly appreciated. Ender Modern-Lastname, yes or no?
Sarah the Roommate and I do not have cable. We haven't had cable since the end of August. So far, it has not been difficult. Not usually. Not under ordinary circumstances. I'd rather read or talk to my friends or run around outside or drink coffee or watch 14 episodes of HIMYM on DVD in a row than sit in front of the tv and flick back and forth through forty stations.
But today I could not take it.
Either I was tired, or it was the snow (again), or my sliding motivation, but I cracked. I played with the rabbit ears in the den until I got clear reception on MTV Canada (weird) and watched 6 hours of crappy 'entertainment and lifestyles-based' television.
My brain hurts and feels useless.
When Sarah passes her big certification exam at the end of May, we are so getting cable.
Your roommate calls you at 4 pm and asks where you are, and you say, "On my way home. I'll see you later, right?"
But what you really meant was, "On my way to Jon and Amanda's home. I'll see you later, right?"
Because then when your cell phone battery dies and you're watching an eight o'clock start hockey game and you don't even think about it, and your roommate is so worried that 7 hours later, you haven't shown up, and she may start calling the local hospitals thinking you've been in an accident or died.
I'm so lucky, you know this- that I have enough people in my life that care about me to call the hospitals when I don't show up where I'm supposed to be.
All of that Grown Up Lady work, dashed on the sharp jaggedy rocks of That Drunk Girl behaviour.
I am so ashamed.
But also had a really good time. Thanks to all who made an appearance, thumped and shiggied, paid my tab, carried me up the stairs, held my hair back, and made me recite obscure Beatles lyrics to prove that I was still coherent.
You are a radio. You are an open door. I am a faulty string of blue christmas lights. You swim through frequencies. You let that stranger in, as I'm blinking off and on and off again. We've got a lot of time. Or maybe we don't, but I'd like to think so, so let me pretend.
Today I plan to write several pro-con lists and perhaps have a fierce disco nap in preparation of the epic thump/shiggy-athon to take place this evening. I also have to go through my wardrobe and find something appropriate to wear to a thump/shiggy type establishment. Oh, if only I hadn't forsaken my bar star apparel of yore for the garb of a grown-up lady.
In addition, I should start reading something that isn't related to: teenage vampires, dinosaurs, what shade of lipstick will be popular this summer, or the court of King Henry VIII.
And I realized this morning that I think I want to go to grad school. Which I am interpreting to mean that I need to get a job. Desperate times are starting to call for desperate measures, and that Masters of Robin Hoodology at U.Nottingham is looking better and better every day...
When it is snowing and slushy and raining and above zero, and you are driving along, and you see a young lady in a business suit and heels walking carefully down the driest part of the street, please for the LOVE OF LAWNCHAIRS do NOT speed up and splash her! She is on her way to a job interview! She is merely trying to become gainfully employed! She does not appreciate your asshattery!
Why does everyone assume that everyone in Calgary drives? I don't. I know several people that don't. I love the people that do and are oh-so-kind enough to chauffer my transit-impaired ass around, but seriously. It's not actually that difficult to get around this city without vehicular modes of transportation. So please stop assuming that everyone is driving somewhere. Because I'm not. And now I've got to walk six blocks soaking wet in what used to be a really nicely turned out business suit and heels. Let's not even talk about what my hair looks like.
Just because you need a reminder, oh friend of mine considering a modeling career:
If you EVER pose in an alley beside a car in just your underpants, we are FRIENDS. OFF.
Love and kisses!
I'm going to go towel off now and make some grilled cheeses and veggable soup. I sincerely hope to be less ranty tomorrow.
There is nothing like waking up to three hundred feet of snow in your front yard in mid-April. Except maybe waking up to three hundred feet of snow in your front yard in June, but it's not yet June so I'll worry about that when we get there.
Every single time I decide, 'Tomorrow it will be dry enough, I can rake the leaves and clean up the front and back yard! Hurray!', it snows. I'm not kidding. Every. Single. Time. It's like nature and the rake gods are in it together, to slowly drive me insane until I give up and say, "FINE! RETURN! Return to your natural state of unkemptness! Fine! I'm buying a condo! Never again, lawn maintenance! NEVER AGAIN!"
I fell asleep last night on the couch, curled up on the end, phone against my neck. I woke up around 3:30 and was very confused about where was I and why wasn't I in bed and what time was it and whose couch is this? For future reference, my living room is very cold at 3:30 in the morning. It must be because of all of the windows. Or the ill-functioning thermostat. Or my inability to self-heat.
You should all go see The Syringa Tree at ATP, though if you're my friend and you're in Calgary, you've probably already seen it or are tired of me nagging at you to go see it.
I took the weekend off from blogging. I was too busy having a really great time to check in and ramble nonsense- I am so sorry. I will try not to let it happen again, but I can't make any promises.
So now, I shall return to my Sunday evening schedule of recovering from napping in the sunny spot in the spare room, reading about dinosaurs, writing cover letters, dusting lighting fixtures, hula hooping, doing crosswords and wishing that I had cable so that I could watch the Magical World of Disney.
You remember the Magical World of Disney, right? Sunday nights, CBC, Tinkerbell, sweeping music?
I could really go for some edited-for-TV classic animated content right about now.
Through the wonders of Facebook, I received an invitation to my Hometown 2008 Pre-Grad Party today.
Right. Because what I am dying to do, what I live for, the very essence of me is just panting, yearning, aching to drive four hours back home to go to a bush party at Derrings with a bunch of children I used to babysit.
Um, okay. Look. I didn't even go to my OWN Pre-Grad Party. I do not, in any way, support the activities that occur at the Hometown Pre-Grad Parties.
I've got nothing against underage drinking (except that people who are underage should think twice, because now the people that are underage were like, four when I was in high school. Weirded out.). What I DO have problems with is a quaint local custom that I will expand upon on this here blag, because I can, and if there is one thing I can do with my little voice on this little corner of the internet, let it be to kill the fun and bring some sense to the actions of the youth.
What makes the Pre-Grad Bush Party different than other bush parties that occur throughout the year? Aside from the capitalization I've used, the Pre-Grad party starts with something called Progressive Drunk.
The grade 12 class is split up, put into cars driven by grade 11 students, and taken on a long and windy back-road scavenger hunt. The aim of the game is to find your liquor, which has been split up and hid by those wily grade elevensers, and then drink it on the spot where you find it, get back in the car, and find the next. When you've found and consumed all of your booze, you go back to the party location and keep on drinking. The first team there wins. And then you keep drinking. And vomiting. And drinking. And sleeping with your cousins. (Wait, that only happened that one year, I think it was '00...no, I'm serious.)
So what happens when you put a bunch of teenagers in cars with booze on gravel roads going "no faster" than 140km/hour?
The path to becoming a grown up lady is long and windy.
(I was going to say curvy, but it's too close to being a pun and I mostly hate puns)
There are days when I manage to roast a chicken, clean the bathroom, have stimulating conversations and wear lipstick without coming apart at the seams completely. I've got a nicely-decorated house (thanks, Sarah, for moving in and decorating our house) and table manners that wouldn't make me nervous in front of even the Queen.
But sometimes, there are days like today when the wind and the cold and the responsibility really gets to a girl, and her only option is to revert totally.
There I stood, in Safeway, trying to figure out what kind of veg I should steam to go with the maple-glazed salmon I had planned to prepare for dinner. "Asparagus? Broccoli? Broccoli Rabe? (what IS that, anyway?)"
And I turned on my three-inch heels and clicked away. Away to the land of beaners and weans, what my dad would make for dinner when Mom was out of town or at a meeting.
Beaners and weans (uh, quite obviously, hot dogs and baked beans, for the remedial students among us) was (and I assume, still is) a Dad standby.
And that's what I'm currently eating. In my grown-up lady coordinated outfit, with my grown up lady manicure and my grown up lady placemats and centrepiece.
I get so close. So, so, so close. And then, so far.
a) Sit through a Gilbert & Sullivan Comedic Operetta b) Be thrown alive and fully conscious into a cavern of carnivorous velociraptors c) Experience a rather *ahem* agressive body wax named for a country south of Mexico d) Be stabbed in the eye with a hundred pointy things and one dull thing e) Eat navel lint
I'll take b, c, and d, occuring simultaneously, please.
I was really determined to get a solid mope on today.
I had elaborate plans of not getting dressed, listening to the Cure, drawing the blinds and wishing for swift release from the shackles of existance for most of the day.
But then something changed.
Maybe my heart grew three sizes, maybe there was something about the perfection of winnipeg rye toast and strawberry jam, maybe it was the way the sun hit sidewalk and slowly dried them- but I couldn't mope anymore.
I'm exceptionally happy in spite of my unemployment, my pending poverty, rejection from a job I really wanted and a house that seems unable to regulate temperature despite a highly expensive and modern thermostat system.
So I ked'ed up, let my hair dry curly and hit the street. I grabbed a coffee from my usual place, went for a walk in the sun, people-watched, smiled at strange dogs, found a used copy of the book my brother was looking for and purchased it for him, and had a really animated conversation with the girl working at the bookstore about upcoming summer festivals.
I'm surprised by how comfortable I am with what I thought was my biggest failure to date.