Inarticulate Fumblings

I'm Lame

2008-07-17T05:57:00.001-07:00

Should I start with a bunch of excuses for having been absent for so long? Nah...

We leave on vacation tomorrow morning. If you want to come along, go here:

A Hop, Skip, and a Jump

A Little Ditty

2008-04-01T08:30:00.000-07:00

Sorry things have been so slow. I'm finishing up the last of my school projects and I am transitioning into a new job today. No more night shifts! Woo Hoo!

After watching this video, I suddenly realize what I should have done with all of the dead time at work between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

I Think I'm Getting The Black Lung, Pop II

2008-03-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

As you would expect from the descriptions of my coworkers in my last post, I would take any and all opportunities to work alone if given the chance. In most cases, this would mean driving one of these:
I know, I know! Any idea what this machine is called? Me neither! That said, I ran one... and often. The machine had a forklift on one end which would allow me to move pallets of concrete powder from one site to another. Now, this doesn't mean that the machine worked like it was supposed to. Too often, I would have to get off the machine and physically move the rusty forks into position in order to have them glide under the pallet so that I was able to lift it.

Throughout my six months at this job I, like everyone else, was subjected to 2 week shift rotations which meant 2 weeks of days, 2 weeks of afternoons, and 2 weeks of nights. It wreaks havoc on a person's internal clock and personally, I found it unmanageable. That 'unmanageablilty' caught up with me at about 4:00 a.m. on one particular shift, about a month before I quit.

Like I had to do many times before, I got off the machine to move those rusty forks into place. Annoyed, I reefed on them, jamming them into place. I felt a quick 'pinch' but didn't think anything of it. As I was climbing back onto the machine, I noticed that my entire right arm was bright red. "What the hell is this?" I thought. It was only when I looked up to my hand that I realized that my index and middle finger were still hanging onto my hand by way of a few nerves. We're talking hamburger.

I immediately became woozy an sat down to keep myself from passing out only to open my eyes and see my nails lying on the ground. I picked them up, shoved everything into my ice water, and walked toward the nearest underground telephone (they had one drilled into the wall every 100 feet or so for emergencies such as, well, this).

Me: Come and get me.

Randy: What?

Me: I... need... you... to... come... and... GET ME.

Randy: What the fuck for.

Me: Get off your ass and come get me.

I hung up the phone and waited. My body must have immediately gone into shock because I hadn't felt a thing at this point. When Randy got up to the site, he asked what was wrong. With a big smile on my face, I took my hand out of the bloody ice water and waved at him, dangling bits swinging from side to side. Randy started dry heaving as I plunged my hand back into the thermos.

So my journey to the hospital started. 45 minutes in the Jeep to the mine shaft, 15 minutes going up to the top where an ambulance was waiting, and a 45 minute drive into the city to the hospital.

Upon my arrival, the nurse asked me to fill out some paperwork. I believe my response was "And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?" Looks like my coworkers' choice of language had rubbed off on me. In the ambulance on the way over, they did not allow me to keep my hand in the ice water. Remember that part about not feeling anything? Ya, not so much anymore. Once I was full of drugs, they helped me take off my coveralls. It was a god thing I was so high, otherwise I might have been embarrassed by the threadbare, navy briefs with a giant hole in the ass that I had selected that morning because I hadn't done laundry in two weeks.

As I waited for the doctor (hours), I heard murmurs of taking off what was dangling and deadening the nerves with a wire brush. This did not go over well with anyone, even me in my loopy state. I explained that I played piano and this wasn't an option. I didn't want to have any digits looking like this and I was more than willing to wait. A plastic surgeon flew in and started putting back the pieces. I watched the whole thing, right down to him sewing back on the fingernails.

I left the hospital with a bandage that looked like a Mickey Mouse mitt and went home. Probably the hardest thing I had to manage out of the whole ordeal with driving my standard car (it was my right hand that was hurt) and keep the injury above my heart for three weeks so the stitches didn't burst. I don't know how many people I passed on the street who would 'wave back' with a confused look on their face, trying to figure out who I was.

All that said, I've got some 'mostly' normal fingers now. You wouldn't be able to tell that anything happened to them unless you took a good look.

Moral of the story? If you're going to cut off fingers, do it in Canada. The entire experience didn't cost me a dime.

I Think I'm Getting The Black Lung, Pop.

2008-03-19T08:06:00.000-07:00

Working in a mine had never crossed my mind. The very thought was laughable. Though I am born of strong farming and mechanic stock, I don’t like to get my hands dirty. I had also spent the first two years of University honing my skills at acquiring the largest tip possible from any table, regardless of it’s makeup: no nonsense with the business men, a quick wink at the gay guys, sitting with my arms around the cougars for photo-ops, and commenting to parents how adorable their ‘spawn of Satan’ offspring were. Why would I turn away from a good thing?

$28.90/hour as an introductory wage for an uneducated student is why I would turn away from a good thing.

A friend of mine had informed me a place called Agrium was hiring. I suppose I should have inquired more as to what exactly I’d be doing but I really didn’t care once I had heard what they were willing to pay students. I immediately began dreaming of dinners that weren’t described as ‘Pops,’ whether they be microwavable pizzas or breakfast cereal. I drove my brown, 1973 Mercury Carpi (clad with Dodge hubcaps) 45 minutes out into the country to the mine site and applied. Less than two weeks later, I was informed that I had been hired. I was elated. After all, I hadn’t started and didn’t know anything about the position.

The company had provided very little information as to what we’d be doing. They said that our job description would depend entirely on what team we were slated with. Regardless, we were to wear cover-alls, steel toed work boots, and required to bring a full jug of ice-water daily to prevent dehydration because the temperature consistently hovered around 65F/18C degrees that far underground. I showed up for my first shift and was informed where and with whom I’d be working. I was part of the team that drilled into underground lakes as to alleviate pressure on the mine shafts; once the water was drained from one lake, we would fill them with a lightweight concrete and move onto the next. OK, I thought. I’m up for the challenge. I was then introduced to my team: Randy, Paul, and Dude (yes, Dude. I still don’t know if he has a real name). I realized early on that despite the fact that I was only in my second year of University, I had eight years more education than any of these men. Most had dropped out of high school and started working for the company in their early teens. They weren’t bitter and jaded AT ALL (note the sarcasm. Made for a lovely introduction and working environment).

On my first day, my team and I, along with all of the other men, walked towards ‘the cage.’ Before we entered the ‘elevator,’ everyone was required to clip the numbered identification tag each of us had been given onto the board that signified who was underground in case of an emergency. Shoulder to shoulder, we pressed in. The metal door slammed and locked, the horn blew, and we started our decent. What exactly was I doing here, I thought. Within seconds, we had entered the darkest place I had ever been. I blinked furiously, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of light. After a few minutes we arrived at the base.

I don’t know what I was expecting to see. In my mind, I had visions of dwarfs with picks in tiny dark tunnels, uncovering massive diamonds. Nothing could have been further away from the reality. The doors opened to a massive underground city. The shafts were at least 30 feet high and what I came to learn is that the grids of roadways spanned 80 miles by 140 miles. My team got into our Jeep and started making the 45 minute drive to our site. I was astonished, not only by these new facts but by the overwhelming smell of sulphur.

So, let’s skip ahead to daily occurrences at the mine: Things I became a part of whether I liked it or not.

1. We didn’t actually work very often: Being so far away from everyone else in the mine meant that we could hear another Jeep driving our way with a 15 minute window to jump up and make it look like we were doing something. Randy, our ‘leader,’ would tell us to ‘Fuck Off, he was TIRED’ every time we suggested that it might be a good idea to drain that underground lake before it collapsed on us.

2. The porn ring: It circulated from site to site. Lucky me. Various copies of ‘Barely 18’ showed up at our coffee break table daily and those interested could take them home until the next day. I was subjected to daily conversations such as this one:

Dude: “Magee (my surname), get over here!!!”

Jess: “I’m OK, Dude. Thanks anyway”

Dude: “No, Magee… seriously!!! You’ve GOT to see this!!!”

Jess: “I’m seriously OK with not seeing it”

Dude: “You’re missing out, man. Not a hair on her biscuit and the tits of a ten year old boy!!!”

Jess: “Neat.”

Disrespecting their wives: For example, it didn’t matter what was sent for lunch. Randy was always unhappy with what was sent. On one particular day, his wife sent chilli and buttered bread. Turns out that the container with the chilli in it fit snugly into the larger container that held both the chilli and the bread. When he looked at what was for lunch, all he saw was the bread. And I quote:

Randy: “A butter sandwich… a BUTTER FUCKIN’ SANDWICH. That bitch is going to get a kick in the cunt when I get home… oh, wait…”

Such was my life for 6 months. It was only until I had a major accident that not only forced me to stop working for this company, but taught me money isn’t everything. Stay tuned…

Horrible Tattoos

2008-03-17T10:01:00.000-07:00

I've had THIS LINK on my blog roll for awhile but make sure you check it out once and awhile. Wow... I didn't know they could get this bad.
You'll notice it spans the person's ENTIRE BACK...

Six Sunday Stupids

2008-03-16T10:46:00.000-07:00

If you're like me, Sundays are one of those days where I can't bring myself to read blog postings more than 3 lines long and I certainly don't feel like writing one. So, I'm going to try out something new: A new segment called 'Six Sunday Stupids.' Throughout the week I am constantly coming across random bits that either make me cringe, laugh, cry, or throw up in my mouth a little bit. I thought, why not share them with you! So, here it goes. Round one:

1. Ga!! I have only been GO-CARTING once before, but it is the first and last time I will EVER go. Ladies, if you decide to take one for a spin, get a haircut!

2. For those of you that want to take defacing public property to a whole new level, CLICK HERE for some professional help.

3. All I can say is that if you are stupid enough to DO THIS, you had it coming.

4. BACON AND VODKA: Two beautiful things become one.

5. One of my life long fantasies has always been a SPONTANEOUS MUSICAL, where I am in a Staples or a Business Depot and suddenly everyone breaks out into song in perfect harmony. Looks like it's been done but something tells me it could have been done so much better.

6. Saving the best for last: Attention all Drag Queens. You need to take some lessons from this one on how to make an entrance! Check out the following clip at approximately :25 and just after 2:10.

Enjoy your Sunday!

Five Things

2008-03-15T12:07:00.000-07:00

I was tagged by SleekPelt. This isn’t the first time I’ve been tagged but it is the first time I’ve actually gone ahead and taken a fellow blogger up on the challenge (*trying not to make eye contact with Amorous Chick*). Truth be told, the only reason I am doing it this time is because I’m working all weekend and it buys me some time to figure out what to post about next. Besides, the challenge is simple: ‘List five things about yourself.’

1) I used to work two miles underground in a potash mine during my sophomore year of University. I decided to sacrifice my rule of ‘no jobs that require me to get my hands dirty’ for a pair of steel-toed work boots, a hard hat, and $28/hour. So ridiculous.

2) I used to enter every possible piano competition available to me. I’ve played since I was three years old and been hired to play and sing professionally… mostly for people that you’ve never head of (gospel singers and such) but if you know who Ashley MacIsaac is, well, that’s about close to fame as I’ve been. Oh, and if you need a pianist at your wedding, go HERE.

3) I will be heading to Turkey, Hungary, Poland, and Germany with my partner this summer. I’ve been to Germany briefly once before but the other three countries will be numbers 29, 30, and 31 that I will be able to cross off my life’s list.

4) While I lived in Taiwan, I was shot in a few commercials: for Lexus, Dentyne, and some Chinese made scooter that I can’t pronounce. Sounds glamorous but it was awful… I would go so far as to say painful… the days were endless, in the middle of nowhere, and the food was terrible. Having said that, it meant between $400 and $600 Canadian dollars per day. I got over it.

5) I grew up in a town of 800 people in North Central Saskatchewan. I had a paper route to make extra money and during the winters, which lasted at least 6 months, I delivered them by way of snowmobile.

Wow. Thanks, Sleek! You've just inspired multiple blog postings! I'm not going to tag anyone with the same challenge, even though I would love to hear from all of you. If you're so inclined, leave me your '5 things' in the comments.

Because I Have To...

2008-03-11T08:25:00.000-07:00

I don't think I've ever been political on this blog... but when I hear verbal diarrhea like the speech Oklahoma representative Sally Kern delivered over the weekend, which she defended and refused to apologize for, I feel as if I need to do my part.

If this issue matters to you and you feel compelled to let the old broad know how you feel, here is a list of her contact information:

Capitol Address:
2300 N. Lincoln Blvd. Room 332
Oklahoma City, OK 73105
(405) 557-7348.

District Address:
2713 Sterling Ave.,
Oklahoma City, OK 73127.

Email: sallykern@okhouse.gov or srkern@cox.net

Be careful readers! Turns out that I'm a bigger threat than terrorism or Islam!

James Bond Who?

2008-03-09T15:22:00.001-07:00

Well, it's Sunday afternoon which means that I have been at work all night and am forcing myself to stay awake until this evening because I have to see clients bright and early tomorrow morning. I've got to say, I'm finding it difficult to write an inspiring blog posting while in this comatose state. I don't want to leave you with nothing, so I'll post two of my favourite performances by some unknown actors:

I don't know his name but I DO know he NAILED IT!! Brilliant performance!

You want an action scene, I'll give you an action scene!

P.S. I Love It When Stuff Like This Happens.

2008-03-07T07:33:00.000-08:00

This was taken from the March 7, 2008 New Zealand Herald:

A "chick flick" movie proved so boring for a Christchurch man he went to sleep in a Hoyts cinema last night - and his wife was so annoyed she left him there.

But when he hadn't arrived home by 3am, she panicked, returned to the cinema in Northlands Mall, and called him on his cellphone.

When the man woke up and tried to find an exit, he triggered a motion alarm in the cinema and police were needed to unite the highly embarrassed couple.

Northlands Mall manager Brian Bell told NZPA this morning he was short on detail and seeking an explanation. It was a Hoyts operational matter, he said.

Hoyts management didn't return calls.

I'd be really concerned if I was the dork who was in charge of cleaning up the theatre after the movie. What did s/he do? Pick up the guys feet and sweep the popcorn down the aisle?

I'm Like A Bird, I Want To Fly Away

2008-03-07T06:56:00.000-08:00

...or slam into a rock face at 200 miles per hour, one of the the two.

Ga! I can't believe that people do THIS!

A Slow, Painful Death

2008-03-05T08:47:00.000-08:00

By default, I took on the role of ‘Funny, Fat One’ in my rural elementary school. Truth be told, there were worse fates that could have been placed upon me in our ‘Lord of the Rings’ hierarchy. Sure, I was nowhere near the status of ‘Uber-Jock’ or the ‘Pretty, Pretty Princess,’ but I could have been stuck with ‘Weird, Smells Like Soup, French Girl’ or ‘Overly Freckled Redhead.’ All in all, I was doing OK.

I effectively used my humour to keep my rank hovering just under the middle of the lot, though it took some work. You can imagine why my anxiety peaked every time we started walking down the hallway towards the gymnasium for Physical Education. It was one of the few times where humour couldn't save me. On most days the stars would align and I could get by, thanks in large part to the roster of elderly and obese teachers at my school but there were the annual, ill-fated days where I would swing the door open to see my teacher setting up all of the fitness testing equipment. By the time I realized what was about to happen, I had lost all opportunity to go home sick or deliberately sprain my ankle.

I would put on a brave face while ‘Uber-Jock’ smiled from ear to ear, hissing out a ‘Yeeessssssss!!!’ as we walked to the boys change room to get into our gym strips. Having just hit puberty, getting naked in the change room was purgatory enough. I did my best to secure a corner that could offer me some protection not only from the other boys seeing my doughy, Casper-white stomach, but to prevent me from taking too long of a look while ‘Failed Twice, Don’t Mess With Me’ did a “whirly-bird” with his already highly developed penis.

There were a whole range of embarrassing moments that were bestowed upon me during fitness testing but by far the worst of these came with the dreaded ‘rope climb.’ The teacher would instruct us to sit in a big circle around the rope so that everyone had a good view. Perfect. Knowing the inevitability of ‘Uber-Jock’ darting his hand up when the teacher asked for a volunteer to go first, I made sure to sit right beside him risking the 50/50 odds of going next. Though going last meant more time for my anxiety to increase, there was always a glimmer of hope that someone else would make a fool of themselves before me. ‘Uber-Jock’ and ‘Void of Body Mass’ shimmied their way to the top in no time. I watched as a majority of my classmates made it all the way to the top, or at least half way. Finally, it was my turn. I had taken mental notes while watching the others. OK, I thought. I just need to wrap one leg around the bottom to keep me anchored in place, and hoist myself up with my arms. Looks easy enough. After my two-minute attempt, all eyes on me, quivering arms, and rope-burned hands, I could still feel the giant knot at the bottom of the rope wedging my shorts into the far reaches of my ass crack. Think 'human tetherball. ' Truthfully, I did not have a lot of time to worry about how embarrassing this moment should have been. I was too busy assessing whether or not I was doing permanent damage to my testicles.

I had about as much success with every other activity on those fitness testing days. I was lucky if I could run a full two laps around the room during the 12-Minute-Run portion. I would walk the rest of it trying to catch my breath, all the while keeping a safe distance from ‘Goth Makeup/DON’T LOOK AT ME,’ who just plain refused to run. There was a flexibility measure which had us sit on a glorified ruler to see how far down our leg we could push a little bar with our fingertips which I couldn't always get it past my knees, and of course chin-ups which brought 'pathetic' to a whole new level.

The tides turned, if only briefly, during fitness testing in seventh grade. The gods decided that I needed a break and the heaping dose of good fortune I was about to receive could not have come soon enough. Half way through the seemly never-ending gauntlet, I was horrified to realize that the yellow Chip 'N Pepper, hyper-colour T-shirt I was so proudly showing off at the beginning of the class had now turned red, only over my boy-boobs and stomach. Pretending not to notice, I stood behind 'Gangly And Kind Of Sad, Really' as he was about to run down the long line of mats, bounce himself on the springboard, and trust this body over the boxhorse onto the over-sized crash mat. Knowing I had about three minutes before I had to do the same, my nerves heightened in anticipation, my brow beaded with perspiration, and my red A-cup was growing into a Double D. I watched from behind as he sped up and tried desperately to coordinate his preying-mantis-like coordination. He hit the springboard with perfect precision and a great deal of strength... but failed to gain any height.

I'd like to apologize, 'Gangly And Kind Of Sad, Really' for not coming to your aid as your body lay on the floor, twisted among the various tiers of the stackable boxhorse. I was too busy breathing a sigh of relief and solidifying my stature at a shade above the midway point.

Photo ID

2008-03-05T06:49:00.001-08:00

I suppose it doesn't matter. It's not like she'll be allowed to travel or vote anyway.

Conversation

2008-03-02T08:56:00.000-08:00

My partner is a dentist and I swear that his title accounts for the obscene amount of calls we get from telemarketers. The first year we were together, I used to screen the calls and not answer when I didn't recognize the number. My tolerance for the incessant rings diminished greatly the first year I went back to school full time, and was at home working on papers during the day. We would get between 2 and 10 calls daily until I finally snapped and started answering each and every one, in an effort to get his name off of their lists. This isn't as easy as you might expect. Some of these callers are highly trained at keeping even the bitchiest student from remembering why they were so irate when they picked up the phone. Some of them would twist their words, convincing me that they were actually a company he had called first, or that their product or credit card was so amazing that he would be upset if I didn't pass on the message.

So, I had to get creative. Though it doesn't work every time, and certain key words need to be provided by the caller in order for my success, the following interaction provided me with a surefire template that would insure the company would never be calling our home again:

(Telephone Rings)

Me: Hello?

Telemarketer: Hello! May I speak to Doctor ... Kat...LEE...ta...oh?

Me: He's not home. Can I take a message?

Telemarketer: Then may I speak to the lady of the house?

Me: You're talkin' to her.

(Long Pause)

Telemarketer: Oh, I'm sorry.

Me: Ya, that's what I thought. Take this number off of your list.

(Click)

Huzzah! Works like a charm!

"That" Girl

2008-03-01T07:40:00.001-08:00

This makes my whole body ache.

Go check out Eliza Skinner's blog (the girl who made this video). She's got some other great material posted!

Heterosexuality Questionnaire

2008-02-28T20:06:00.001-08:00

This questionnaire is for self-avowed heterosexuals only. If you are not openly heterosexual, pass it on to a friend who is. Please try to answer the questions as candidly as possible. Your responses will be held in strict confidence and you anonymity fully protected.

1. What do you think caused your heterosexuality?

2. When and how did you first decide you were a heterosexual?

3. Is it possible your heterosexuality is just a phase you may grow out of?

4. Could it be that your heterosexuality stems from a neurotic fear of others of the same sex?

5. To whom have you disclosed your heterosexual tendencies? How did they react?

6. Why do heterosexuals feel compelled to seduce others into their lifestyle?

7. Why do you insist on flaunting your heterosexuality? Can't you just be what you are and keep it quiet?

8. Would you want your children to be heterosexual, knowing the problems they'd face?

9. With all the societal support for marriage, the divorce rate is spiraling. Why are there so few stable relationships among heterosexuals?

10. Considering the menace of overpopulation, how could the human race survive if everyone were heterosexual?

11. Could you trust a heterosexual therapist to be objective? Don't you fear s/he might be inclined to influence you in the direction of her/his learnings?

12. Heterosexuals are notorious for assigning themselves and one another rigid, stereotyped sex roles. Why must you cling to such unhealthy role-playing?

13. Why are heterosexuals so promiscuous?

14. There seem to be very few happy heterosexuals. Techniques have been developed that might enable you to change if you really want to. After all, you never deliberately chose to be heterosexual, did you? Have you considered aversion therapy or Heterosexuals Anonymous?

*I wish I could credit the author of this questionnaire. I received it at an anti-homophobia workshop and it had no identifying information.

Now Taking Applications

2008-02-27T07:29:00.000-08:00

My name is Paul, bitch. It’s not “you.” I pretended not to hear when you told me to get a job and called me lazy. Fuck you anyway. Do you think I like living out here? Do you think I enjoy competing every night for one of the only dry places to sleep? Not that I’m able to sleep much when I score one anyway. I managed to get new shoes from one of the agencies in town. Talk about a catch twenty-two. I bet you’ve never had the shit beat out of you for a pair of shoes that don’t have holes in them, have you? I suppose sleeping with one eye open is better than street-feet. Need me to educate you on that too, princess? It’s from wearing wet shoes for a really long time. You know when you’re taking a long bubble bath in your mansion and your skin gets white and puckered? It happens to my feet too, only the skin starts to tear and then it gets infected. It’s so painful that I can't walk. Before you tell me to “clean them,” tell me where I should do that, bitch! Besides, I’ll need about 10 pairs of clean socks to get them to the point where I can stand properly. I’d rather eat.

Now I suppose you’re going to get on my case about my drug addiction. I suppose you’ve got something brilliant to say like “just stop.” Well sweetheart, why don’t you ask me first if I was born an addict? If my mom was injecting crystal meth while she was pregnant? I’ll bet you didn’t spend your childhood watching your father cook up heroin at the kitchen table. If I knew how to stop, don’t you think I would? If I had more than five dollars, don’t you think I would spend it on something other than a hit that tricks my body into thinking it’s not freezing?

Right now I’m most concerned about the voices in my head that are telling me to kill myself. Sometimes they have conversations and keep me awake at night. I’m also seeing weird things when I close my eyes. These green and purple things right behind my eyeballs. I wish I knew what they were. They’re so distracting. I’ve had them ever since my father started beating me on a regular basis. I thought they might stop when I took off. No such luck.

So lady, now that my feet have healed to the point where I can stand, I guess I’m ready to work. You going to hire me? Put your money where your mouth is. You just told me to get a job and get off my lazy ass, so you just tell me what I’ll be doing. Working in your business? Working as your receptionist? I hope my outfit is OK. It hasn’t been washed in two months because it’s the only clothing I have. I’ve thought about standing naked in a Laundromat and using what little money I had for laundry detergent and washing but I decided to eat. I might be a bit distracted until I can get my first pay check and actually buy food and drugs. I’m also going to need to go out back and shoot up during my coffee breaks. Don’t worry. I’m at the place where the drug hardly makes me high anymore. Call it body maintenance. It keeps me from crashing. Oh, and I hope you have good ventilation in the office. The guy at McDonald’s told me I had to leave when I was sitting in there the other day, warming up. Apparently I really smell, which makes sense. I can’t remember the last time I showered. I stopped noticing a long time ago.

When do I start? Ya, that’s what I thought. You just keep pretending to talk to someone on your cel phone so that you don’t have to talk to me and I’ll take your advice by “getting off my ass” so that I can fish your half eaten Starbucks muffin out of the garbage.

How Do You Say 'Lawsuit' in Japanese?

2008-02-23T16:41:00.000-08:00

A little toilet humour for your weekend.

(There is a different kind of prank at approximately 4:30 that you should check out).

Do Not Enter

2008-02-22T15:53:00.000-08:00

Now, I won’t sit here and pretend that I’m an angel. I have way too many friends that read this blog whom I have provided with ridiculously embarrassing stories over the years. I’m sure they would get a gross amount of pleasure by ratting me out in the comments section of this posting, so I’ll just go ahead and beat them to the punch.

A major reason my halo is tarnished is in direct correlation to dipping into the sauce. On occasion I enjoy a glass of wine and on several of those occasions, I have become slightly intoxicated. By “slightly” intoxicated I mean “David Hasselhoff eating a hamburger” intoxicated. Should I be embarrassed? Perhaps. Mind you, the aforementioned friends have been with me more often than not on those nights. That said, should we be embarrassed? Well my friends, we no longer have to answer that question.

Thanks to a man named Steven Stein, any situation we have gotten ourselves into in the past has just been trumped. Check out this February 18, 2008 article I found on the website for KOIN News 6 in Portland, Oregon:

PORTLAND - Police say 54-year-old Steven Stein was apparently trying to drive home early Saturday when he got stuck.

And, if he was trying to get from Portland to his Vancouver, [WA] home, he was driving in the wrong direction.

Stein's misadventure stopped MAX train service for more than five hours Saturday morning, while Tri-Met workers figured out how to get his white Pontiac off the tracks. Once they accomplished that, there was repair work to do; about sixty thousand dollars' worth. "We go after the driver and their insurance company,” declared Tri-Met's Mary Fetsch. "We do that in all situations." However, Fetsch said she's never really seen a situation like this one.

Stein's legal problems don't end with a civil claim for dollars by Tri-Met. He also faces criminal charges for driving under the influence of intoxicants.

Investigators say he got onto the tracks at Goose Hollow, then drove westward on the tracks until finally getting stuck. They await lab results from his blood alcohol tests.

There are sensors in the tunnel that alert Tri-Met when an obstruction is present. It has worked in the past, when people walked into it. This is apparently the first time someone tried to drive into it.

We're in the clear, friends. Bottoms up!

People Come, People Go (Thank God)

2008-02-21T03:16:00.000-08:00

There are certain people that come into your life for a reason. Take for example, one of my best friends to this day, Faith. We met each other at the Christian private high school we attended in eleventh grade. My father was the dean of students. Her father was a minister. We are both gay. Need I say more?

Then there are those people who come into your life that, years later you are still trying to comprehend what on earth you did wrong to deserve to have crossed paths with them. One of these people was a boy Faith and I rented a house with during a semester of University. His name was Christopher but he would introduce himself as Christian. Why? Damned if I know. I learned very early on that asking ‘why’ was wasted energy that could be put to better use by focusing on coping strategies and finding a new apartment.

I really don’t even know where to start as far as creating a list of grievances. This is a guy who begged to rehearse with my new guitar, returned it full of deep gouges, and then proceeded to tell me that I had leant it to him in the same condition. This is the guy that would run up to near-strangers as they were about to enter a huge University lecture hall 15 minutes late, pretend to say hi, rattle the metal doors for about 10 seconds to make sure that the professor and all 300 students were interrupted, and then swing them open and run away, leaving the stunned victim staring at a bunch of irate scholars. Believe me when I tell you that this was only the tip of the iceberg. I could run through countless stories that would make your skin crawl. What I found most frustrating about him was that he got away with most of it, or people just tolerated him. It was supremely aggravating for me that people chose to walk away rather than confront him on things because it was an easy out. Being his roommate, I didn’t have that luxury. Maybe that’s what I was most pissed off about.

Just as all of these annoyances were causing us to reach our boiling point that semester, the universe handed us a little gift to help ease the tension.

You see, ChrisTOPHER had pissed off certain groups of friends to the point that he was at risk of completely annihilating his entire social network. He was pulling double shifts to make up for strings of lies and disappointments. One particular couple had even gone as far to leave a message instructing him to never call again. As soon as Chris was done at the furniture store he was working at that day, he raced over to their house with a bottle of wine. From what I understand, he apologized profusely and made nice with the couple. They had forgiven him and all was well. It was only when we got a second answering machine message that we knew part of his master plan had been botched. The machine message went something like this:

“Ya, Chris, I don’t know what the hell kind of bullshit you’re trying to pull but don’t ever call here again. Did you think that was fuckin’ funny? Did you? Go to hell.”

Turns out Chris stole a wine bottle filled with water off of one of the shelves at the furniture store that was being used as a prop.

The Emancipation of Elizabeth

2008-02-19T08:15:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if your extended family was like ours. We plastered on a façade of perfect, Christian happiness. Looking back, I suppose it was a means of survival. After all, we were a prominent, church going family in our town of 800 and were well known for our community involvement. Gossip spread like wild fire under the guise of prayer requests so it was vital that all weakness and wrongdoing be stifled, and kept airtight behind closed doors.

To look at my grandmother, you wouldn’t have suspected that she was living with an abusive husband. She was always immaculate, looking much like a younger, hipper version of the Queen Mother. To this day, you will never see her with anything less than a perfect, blond bouffant that she has been maintained since the early 60s. Though our farming community was simple and demure, she unabashedly wore metallic lamme dresses and never left the house without donning large pieces of jewellery, a mink stole, and heels. My grandmother has always been heavy handed with her makeup and has walked around in a cloud of Estee Lauder perfume for as long as I can remember. It was only on Sunday mornings when she accompanied my grandfather on the piano while he led singing in church that she opted to leave her Lee Press-On Nails at home but it was a trade off she was more than willing to take. Sunday mornings were her time to shine. As my grandfather announced the next hymn, she was already pounding out massive, rolling chords on the keyboard and beginning another too-long introduction as if to communicate to him and the congregation that they could join her when she was good and ready to let them join.

I never really knew this woman. She was kind but unavailable. Occasionally, I would walk a block down the street to her house. With open arms, she would take me in and ask if I wanted to bake cookies. Within an hour, before the cookies were finished, she would become surprisingly quiet and would tell me that it was time for me to go home because grandma needed a nap. What I didn’t realize back then was that my departure always coincided with the arrival of my grandfather.

I was twenty years old when my grandfather suffered a massive heart attack. The day the bastard died was the day that Elizabeth got her groove back.

I’m sure she took a moment to mourn. Not necessarily him per se, but what her life had been until that point. A quiet solitary moment that she was going to take for herself… without asking. It was directly after this moment, without warning, that she grabbed the chainsaw pull-start, fired it up, and started annihilating our family closet, ripping out every bone of every skeleton and putting it on display for the world to see.

Before he was even in the ground, she packed every last solitary possession of my grandfather’s into cardboard boxes and called the Salvation Army “to come pick up the junk.” She made sure to contact the funeral home before the service to let them know that by no means should they be bringing the flowers from the funeral back to HER home. “Why the hell would [she] want them. They’ll only remind [her] of bad memories.”

My grandmother kept her mouth shut for most of the funeral, until the funeral director opened up the service for anyone to come up and say a few things about the dearly departed. His offering was met with dead silence. One of my aunts, uncomfortable with the silence, got up and started spewing out disgustingly sugary stories, informing people about his Christian character and how he had worn out three bibles over his lifetime. That is when my grandmother could take no more. As my aunt sat down she was met by an alarmingly loud ‘whisper’ from my grandmother. “For crying out loud, don’t start spreading bullshit lies just because he’s dead. You’re treating him like a saint” which was followed by a sarcastic laugh from her and I'm sure those that were close enough to hear it. We were too stunned to notice.

Over the following months, my grandmother made it her mission to inform the world about the affairs my grandfather had had, the abuse she had suffered, and apologized profusely to her children and grandchildren for being so distant and seemingly aloof. She started making regular phone calls to me, something she had never done before, which were filled with giggles about single men that lived down the street and brazen questions about “the gays.” When asked about how she was holding up, she would respond with a giddy laugh and went on to explain that she “had more money than [she] ever had in her entire life and [she] was going to BLOW IT!!”

Within six months, the 78-year-old sold her home and said goodbye to "all of the phony, backstabbing people" we had grown up with, moved into a retirement condo in the city, went out and bought a brand new sedan in cash, and then drove the 3,000 kilometres to visit her sister in Buffalo, New York. Over the last ten years she has spent her time volunteering countless hours to various organizations, and dating potential bachelors though she “[hasn’t] found anyone that [she’s] that sexually attracted to.”

My grandmother still looks like the Queen Mother but she's somehow morphed the look with the attitude of Maxine. I couldn't be happier for her and selfishly, I couldn't be happier for me. Grandma got her groove back and subsequently, I got her.

My Dot Com Valentine

2008-02-13T06:36:00.000-08:00

When I was living in Taiwan, dating prospects were few and far between. It took one pseudo-relationship with a local to realize that making it past date number three with a Taiwanese man was going to require me learning Mandarin and an extra four or five years in the country to hone my skills. Not going to happen. The expatriate community offered it's own set of problems. Aside from having a miniscule number to gay boys to choose from, there was the issue of 'zero to hero,' a phenomenon that affected all men regardless of sexual orientation. These were the individuals who had absolutely no chance to making it in their western country of origin for one reason or another and found instant celebrity status in Taiwan solely because they spoke English, made decent money, and were a potential green card opportunity. It was shocking how many straight, fat, bald, greasy men I saw on the weekends with an absolutely stunning, perfect Asian Barbie on their arms. The gay boys in this category relished in the fact that there was suddenly an enormous pool of men available for one night stands that seemed to have no problem overlooking the fact that they were wearing short-shorts and spaghetti strap tank tops, something they couldn't get away with at home. It always fascinated me that a majority of these men did not take issue with not being able to communicate with spoken language. Not for me. Sure, there was the odd attractive boy that came around but they were either looking for other things (read the previous sentences) or already attached.

With about four months left before we were moving back home, I remember my best friend calling me one afternoon and instructing me to find my way to a certain dating website she had discovered. I was supposed to check out all of the hot boys she had found in Vancouver. It didn't take me long to realize that I was not going to be able to thumb through the profiles with her in order to make fun of their pictures and poor sentence structure because I didn't have an account. "You should put up a profile" she said. I scoffed at the idea until I my next trip to the bar. I needed no more convincing.

It was easier than I had anticipated. In fact, it took far longer to choose the profile picture than it did to set up the account. I scanned through the boys in Vancouver and made a mental note of potential prospects. I narrowed it down to one and sent my first, quick message. I spent the next day at work wondering if I would get a response. As soon as I got home I logged into my account and checked for any messages. I had one. I quickly clicked to open it and read the first word. "Greetings!" Um, what? Greetings? With an exclamation mark? Cue really loud buzz and flashing red light. Call me superficial but hell no.

After about a month, I had found three different guys that looked good, knew how to write, and all seemed to have a sense of humour. We continued chatting over the course of the next few months and I arranged a date with each one upon my return. It is only after I got home that the realities of internet dating were about to bite me in the ass. Here is a snippet of the conversation from each date:

Bachelor #1:
Me: "So... um, where was your profile picture taken? It looks great."
Him: "At the party after my convocation from University. We had such a good time."
Me: "Ya, It looked like a lot of fun. So, um, what year did you graduate?"
Him: "In 2001. Oh, but that picture was from my first degree in '89."

Bachelor #2:
Him: "Ya, but I'm a loser."
Me: "You're not a loser. Just because he didn't call you back does not make you a loser."
Him: "Well, I feel that way. Sometimes I think I'm still in love with him."
Me: *staring into my glass, swirling around the ice cubes*

Bachelor #3:
Me: "Taiwan was an amazing experience. I'm not sure I'd ever go back but I'm glad I did it."
Him: "Oh, GOD. I wouldn't even want to visit. They're all so fuckin' weird."
Me: "Sorry, what?"
Him: "And they're horrible drivers."

I decided to take a hiatus from the internet dating world after my date with Prince Charming number three. It was a completely defeating experience and I was happy to forget that I had even been stupid enough to try. I spent the next couple of weeks focusing on getting settled back in Vancouver, finding an apartment, and getting my course schedule figured out. There were friends I still hadn't seen, and a plethora of food I had been craving for a couple of years that needed to be hunted down. As I was getting everything together, I decided that I was out. No more of this internet bullshit. I was going to take my profile down and start meeting people like normal people do.

Well, I thought. It wouldn't hurt to scan the profiles one last time.

Hmmm... Look at this guy. I scanned the profile for any red flags. Age, check. Picture, definite check. Interests, check. What the hell, I'll just send one last quick message before I erase everything.

Within 2 minutes of sending the message, I heard my computer notifying me that I had received an instant message from him. I read it. I smiled. So far, so good. I tried to come up with some sort of witty banter in reply. I sent it and waited. Several minutes later, another response. Now I was starting to get a bit excited. I sent one back. This went on for about half an hour before I realized that I might be setting myself up for another disaster. After all, the first three seemed normal, too. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me: "Well, you seem great but I have had some bad luck in the past with this."
Him: "O.k. I totally get that."
Me: "I'm not into getting to know each other online over the course of a few months, only to find out that one of us is a freak."
Him: "Then let's meet up. I'm cool with that."
Me: "Sure. Want to meet for coffee?"
Him: "What about a glass of wine? (cue wedding bells)

Three and a half years later, we are still going strong. It's still somewhat bizarre to me that we actually met online. I'm not quite sure why. After all, the best friend I was talking about is now married and pregnant with the guy she met while we were in Taiwan, and I have many other friends that have found their significant other via matchmaking websites. I guess it still feels odd because there is such a strong, surprised reaction from other people when we tell them how we met. Then again, perhaps the mild pangs of embarrassment stem from the actual site that we connected on.
So I got to thinking, how many of you out there hooked up with a significant other online? If not, how did(do) you meet?

Guess Who?

2008-02-09T12:39:00.000-08:00

I'll give you one guess...

Seriously, why didn't they just paint her with blackface makeup and name her 'Aunt Jemima?'

Pick Your Poison

2008-02-07T23:21:00.000-08:00

On the days I end up having to take the bus to school, I make sure to pick up one of the free daily newspapers on the street so that I have something to take my mind off of all of the crazies that I'm packed in there with. Today I read a little excerpt that gave character descriptions of people based on the type of alcohol they drink. I only had to read half of it before I started getting annoyed that the author was not hitting the mark. Mind you, I'm sure that the findings do not stem from heavily tested, empirically validated research. So here is the blurb, in white, and my thoughts, in black.

Red Wine: If you're a red wine connoisseur, you're conservative, classy and sophisticated. You also tend to be organized -- the type of person that alphabetizes your CD collection.
I will admit that this is the drink we pull out when we pretend to be fancy at dinner parties, so maybe the description of classy and sophisticated isn't too much of a stretch for those that actually know something about the drink. Having said that, did they forget about those of us that crack into the $10, 1.5 litre bottle of Jackson-Triggs on a Saturday afternoon? I'm also wondering who the hell they were interviewing that had a CD collection.

Martinis: Martini drinkers like to be seen and be seen. They love the sleek look and feel of the martini glass. The martini is more than a drink -- it's a fashion accessory. They frequent the trendiest bars and demand quality.
Sure, I can buy that. If I'm ordering a martini it is usually when I'm with friends, we're looking good, and we're fueling up for a great night. I'm not so down with the "being seen" part when the fifth martini and the half-digested quesadilla are on their way back up while you wait for a willing taxi.

Tequila: If you love the worm, then you're free-spirited. You're generally a lot of fun to be around. A tequila drinker typically exudes a younger behavior and outlook.
Right... "a lot of fun" for a sum total of 10 minutes. For those of you that can't even look at a bottle of tequila anymore, you know what I'm talking about. Tequila = shots. As soon as you invite that first Mexican down for the party, he is guaranteed to bring his entire extended family within a matter of minutes. They have one hell of a time but are eager to vacate the premises.

Vodka/White Wine: These drinkers have an entrepreneurial spirit and like being in charge. Fashion is important to these individuals. They enjoy being up-to-date on the trends. They tend to be opinionated and independent.
Um, why are these two lumped together? White Wine is clearly a breakfast beverage and as far as I am concerned, Vodka's sole purpose is to be poured into an empty water bottle for a few nips on the mountain while snowboarding. Way off.

Gin: Comfort and security are two things gin drinkers crave. They focus on on home, family and friends with interests in soap operas, relationships, novels with happy endings and saving animals.
Of course gin drinkers crave comfort and security when they're drinking... because it makes them fucking CRAZY... well, I'll speak for myself anyway. Gin takes away comfort and security on the evening one chooses to partake of the beverage, and also takes away comfort and security for the next week or two by erasing all memory of the previous evening except for the knowledge that you said a whole lot of things you'll never be able to get back.

Beer: People who drink beer are experimental and creative in their thoughts and behaviours. However, the majority of these ideas are never acted upon. They are most likely to enjoy jazz and unusual art. They like wearing black.
Um, Jazz? Was that a typo for Monster Truck Rallies?

Mixed drinks: People who order mixed drinks are generally older and picky. They know what they want and are extroverts. They're also more likely to buy a drink for someone they're interested in.
Lets define "mixed drinks." This description makes sense for an old, crusty person that drinks a "Whiskey Sour" say, or a "Tom Collins." Does it also include those of us who have to get creative with whatever products happen to be in the house because everyone is refusing to be Booze-Bitch? If that's the case, older and picky DO NOT apply and the "buying the drink" thing will only happen if the buyer is guaranteed to get laid.

Blender Drinks: Those who order blender drinks are considered flaky and annoying. Men tend to avoid women who order these drinks because they are high maintenance.
Couldn't agree more... but I will say that they men stop avoiding these women if they are still alone and there is less than half an hour before the bar closes.

So people, what's your drink? Do any of these descriptions match for you? The biggest question I was left with was how to define the drinker who isn't fussy and will drink anything at any time of the day... I mean, theoretically... not saying who... just... throwing it out there.

Results May Vary

2008-02-02T01:18:00.001-08:00

Eff Jenny. Bitch can't cook.

I promised you that this blog wouldn't turn into a play by play of how we're (not) losing weight. I'll make sure I adhere to that but I want to give you an update as an accountability measure for myself. You know we called Jenny at the beginning of January. Now I am telling you that we're hanging up the phone. Jenny was SO last month. Been there, done that, didn't buy the T-shirt because it was cheap cotton and was probably made by a four year old child. Yes people, we are saying goodbye to Kirstie Alley and Valerie Bertinelli but don't think we're down for the count. We have our reasons.

So, here's the deal. We (well, read: me) stuck to the Jenny Craig plan for solid three weeks. Like any New Years resolution, we were really excited to get on a program in order to get rid of the junk in the trunk. We went with great intentions to the Jenny office, somewhat scared of what would transpire. Things started off somwhat rocky. At the initial visit, Lorraine said something to the tune of "oh, don't worry, I used to be a counsellor." NOT something you want to say to someone who has spent the last 8 years in university to become a counselling psychologist. I was frothing. Lorraine proceeded to punch my 'numbers' into her computer and tell me that my 'goal weight' was between 134 lbs. and 167 lbs. I immediately began to question her. "Umm... Lorraine, this is what I looked like when I was 185 lbs. Are you serious? I think I would kill myself if I got to that weight.

Her reply? "Well, that's what the computer says."

Right.

Lorraine insisted that it was really in our best interests to sign up for the lifetime membership. We declined. Their promotional '20 lbs. for 20 dollars' would be just fine. We figured we see how it went before forking over the $450 each that she was fishing for (and we all know how it went, don't we?). We paid for our membership and $300 worth of food for the week while Lorraine packed it up (Oh, which she was really good at by the way. Her work history not only boasts counsellor, but also cashier at London Drugs).

I don't know if we were expecting magic food to come flying out of the boxes or what but it turns out that all Jenny Craig really is, is portion control. They're not kidding around about it either. I made sure to flatten out the boxes after we had eaten it's contents because picking up the package didn't necessarily indicate whether or not the food had been consumed.

I think things started to go downhill when Lorraine asked Ryan if he was "serious about losing weight" directly after his third week weigh in. It was during that visit when Ryan learned he had gained .6 of the 1 lb. he had managed to lose in the month. At this point, it would seem mean for me to bring up the fact that I've lost over 15 lbs. so far but wait until I explain the modifications Ryan imposed onto the program before you do so. Since I have been working on the weekends, Ryan has gone up to Whistler every chance he can. So far this year it has meant every weekend. Like a loyal Jenny Craig participant, Ryan packed up all of his Jenny food, his gear, and headed to the mountain for a weekend of snowboarding. What I came to find out is that his meal schedule looked something like this:
Lunch: Burger, fries (and if I know him, about 8 packets of mayo and a litre of ketchup), and a couple drinks.
Afternoon Snack After Boarding: The entire weekends worth of Jenny food, and a couple drinks
Dinner: Room service, and a couple drinks.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a few 'off the wagon' days myself. Oh well. At least we're both down a few. Truth is, we need a diet that is more suited to our lifestyle so I googled some of the key words I was interested in researching... red, wine, and diet. The first hit came up with 'Mediterranean Diet: Protein and Red Wine.' Perfect.

UPDATE: Right, so my partner just got home from his weekend of snowboarding and he informed me that he was insulted by my latest post and that I was all wrong when it came to his diet when he was away snowboarding. My sincere apologies to Ryan (Of all the nerve! How could I be so ridiculous?) Fellow readers, in the above post please maintain all of the original text but please replace "burger" with "turkey sandwich with goat cheese, bocconcini, and creamy garlic sauce."

UPDATE II: My cold hearted lover didn't think that the 'Charlie Bit Me' post was that funny. I quote "the only reason you think it's funny is because the kids have an English accent." So I hit him over the head with this: