Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Going home...
It’s just starting to get nice out here. I say this because I’m headed East tomorrow, East to the land of, well, Home, to me. It will theoretically be “spring” in the Eastern Townships in Quebec, which is where we’re going. However, I seriously doubt it will be as nice there as it is here. Calgary does have some good weather. We have some atrociously bad weather, too, as every place does, but we get The Chinooks, and those ease the pain of winter pretty well. A Chinook, for those of you who don’t know, is a warm, humid wind borne off the Pacific and over the mountains and delivered to us in a giant swath of snow-melting goodness. So while it very well may be –25C in Edmonton, it could very easily be +5 in Calgary. Thanks to the Chinooks.
The Chinooks come with a bit of a caveat, though, and for people who tend to experience migranes or crippling headaches, the Chinooks may help push those poor folks right over the edge. I, myself, experienced the odd terrible headache, and probably have a susceptibility to migranes, but what I am occasionally subjected to is nothing at all compared to what my sister goes through, or what some of my less-fortunate co-workers experience.
At any rate, the Chinooks notwithstanding, we’re having some nice spring-like weather. Sunny and warm. The kind of weather where you want to get out the patio furniture and bask in that long-forgotten sun, just soaking up every ounce of warmth. Rob is one of those people who, at the first sign of melt-y weather, will put on shorts and parade around the house and back yard JUST to irritate those of us who are still freezing our asses off at –5C. So you can’t go by what he’s wearing, you just have to find your own way. But he put on some shorts the other day, and I stuck my head out the back door, and sure enough, the air did not freeze in my nostrils, and it was even warm. I got out and cleaned all the patio furniture, and sat in a nice patio chair, at the patio table, and basked. Sure, it snowed a few days later and we plunged back into –10C territory, but it’s coming around. This week, it looks like we’re getting +10C to +15C temperatures, which means it would be nice enough out to relax and try to enjoy the outdoors again, to free the yard from the covering of dog poop, to allow the cats to venture out, whiskers all twitching, to sit on the patio furniture and enjoy drinks and lunch…
But we will not be here. We are going away. We are going to Quebec, where there is still snow. There won’t be for long, because the forecast contains a projection for rain this weekend, which is fine by me. The increase in temperature means that the sugaring season will begin (it has already). Sugaring is the process of extracting maple sap out of the maple trees to boil down to maple syrup. Oh, there are lots of other things you can do with it – they make maple butter, maple treats, maple sugar, maple sugar-on-snow… Most are variations on maple sugar, which is maple syrup further reduced and crystallized into sugar crystals (so it tastes maple, of course), which you can easily do yourself by boiling it to a certain point, and then “dropping” it, ladling it into a large pan from a couple of feet high, as it cools so the crystals will form.
Quebec is where my mother is from. More specifically, the Eastern Townships. Located about 2 hours South East of Montreal, the Eastern Townships were originally settled by the 13 colonies of Loyalists just as the Americans decided they wanted nothing more to do with merry old England. Sure, Canada had been well-established by then, and most of the people in Quebec were descendants from France. But this pocket of land was settled by English-speaking former Americans, some even descended from the original settlers of America at Plymouth Rock. Most of the population there now still speaks English, and my grandmother (whose farm we’re going to) doesn’t really speak French much at all. She knows enough to ask where the bananas are at the supermarket (or, Supermarché). My mother and her brothers and sister all grew up speaking English and French. Thus, my siblings and I were all forced to learn both languages. It was probably a good thing, although my mother went about it all wrong, and forced us to speak French when we didn’t want to, so instead of appreciating it, I didn’t like it and when given the choice in University of a language option, I did NOT take French (I already knew it), so instead I took Spanish, which I figured was a much more interesting language. Turns out they’re nearly the same, so there you go. But, still, I know or knew French pretty well. I haven’t spoken it in years, though, so although I will understand what they’re saying to me, I will likely not be able to think fast enough to respond with any accuracy.
We will leave tomorrow morning, spending most of the day in transit, arriving at the farm probably around dinnertime. My plan is to stop at the grocery store in the small town about 15 minutes away from the farm to get supplies, and hopefully arrive in time to cook something, or at least get take-out. My grandmother, when the farm was in operation and my grandfather was still alive, used to go to town once a week, on Thursdays, to sell eggs and whatever else they had to sell, and buy supplies or machine parts or tools for the farm machinery. Going to town was a big deal. Going to town was a treat. Nowadays, with town being much closer in terms of travel (faster cars, bigger town), I could go into town every day, if I wanted to. “Town” is closer than I lived to Calgary, when I lived in Airdrie.
The other days of the week were spent doing farming things. My grandfather would go out into the field and work – either plant crops, tend cattle, tend or dress chickens, etc. – and my grandmother would stay in the house, cooking. She had men to feed, you see, so she had to prepare breakfast (oatmeal, toast with maple sugar, eggs, possibly some bacon) then the men would come in and eat (usually pretty quickly) and then go back out to work. Then, she would clean the kitchen from breakfast, do dishes, and maybe start a little baking, and start on getting lunch ready. Lunch wasn’t the way it is here in the city – lunch was a substantial meal. Like, maybe a ham or a casserole or hot sandwiches (and many of them), with sides, and a full dessert like a cake or squares. After lunch, there was cleanup and usually a lot more baking. On some days, she baked bread. On other days, she made cakes and pies. On still other days, there was canning to be done, or just general dinner preparation. Dinner was, of course, the main meal of the day. Huge dinners, really. Chicken pie. Roasts. Roasted chicken. Ham. Occasionally, pork chops. And side dishes – carrots, rice, potatoes, bread, beets, vegetables I can’t even name, there were so many. And the desserts were plentiful – pies and cakes and cookies and squares…
And in the summer, there was gardening. Always gardening. Her garden spanned at least an acre, and had all manners of squashes and zucchinis, carrots, beets, turnips, beans, peas, lettuce, radishes, spinach, raspberries, cherries, blackberries, currants… everything you’d need to run a farm without having to ever go to the store. And the flowers – the flowers were amazing.
Nowadays, this is not the scene. Now, my grandfather is gone, and my grandmother is getting too old to really look after herself and cook much any more. There are no more cattle or chickens. Her garden has shrunk to a tiny size and she doesn’t grow a lot of complicated vegetables any more. She still grows some, because she can’t not have something to do during the summer, but the mass-producing gardens of days past are gone. She has to take medication for her heart and bones. She naps a lot more now. And she watches television – something I remember her deliberately NOT doing when I was young.
Going back to the farm this year will be sad, for me. I fear the changes. But I long to go so badly – I miss it fiercely. It is the most beautiful place in the world. In the summer, it is green and warm and lush. In the winter, it is a snowy landscape wearing a majestic mantle. In spring, it holds such a promise of new life that your heart could burst, and in the fall, the unimaginable explosion of colour and the show the trees put on is unforgettable. Every aspect of that place burns in me, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be anywhere else. I suppose most of us have places like that from our childhoods, where time seemed to go more slowly, and adventure lurked behind every corner. Now, living in the city, going to work in my car every day, and dealing with countless people (always people) it seems like the magic of life may be gone.
A lot of the time, I can just forget about it. I can trick myself into thinking that such a fantastic place exists and I’m not there is probably just a dream or something I saw on TV. If I thought about it every day, I’d drive myself insane with longing and the pain of separation. So I just don’t think about it. I try to distract myself, I have a little yard, and pets, and friends to talk to. But times like this, when I’m so close, and I know I’ll be there in almost 24 hours, my mind cannot focus on anything else. I remember every little detail from when I was a kid, playing with my cousins every summer, building hayforts in the barn and looking for the kittens. We would take long walks in the forest, following the brook or looking for the old collapsed sugar shack. One year, we found it, all broken-down and sunken-in, and a skunk had made his home beneath the ruins. We found salamanders in the brook, and little minnows. And if you walk up the brook to the source, you can find fools gold, iron pyrite, glittering in the banks. One year, we followed the brook all the way down to the lake, too, and since we were in shorts, our legs were cut by the sharp sedges growing near the outlet. We didn’t care. We were invincible. Time meant nothing, and age was as vague a concept as the end of summer.
We picked apples in the orchard, we touched the electric fence with a piece of grass to dull the shock, we looked for wild gooseberries. We made little pathways through the raspberry canes, looking for the “best one”, as if any of them weren’t the most succulent things you could expect to find growing anywhere. We laid in the grass, we played cards, and we didn’t care that we were missing television. We “helped” with the baking. We did the dishes as quickly as we could so we could get back outside, to play.
And even now, when I go back as an adult to that paradise, I feel that I might still be myself, that person I was becoming when I was a child. Most of the time, that person I could have been is hidden now, crushed a little by responsibility, dimmed by disappointment. In the city, you learn not to be generous, you learn not to extend yourself to those who will certainly take advantage. You learn to hide your feelings, and keep to yourself. You learn to give only what you have to in order to get ahead. The insanity of all this seems unnoticed by everyone here, so you just go along, trying not to act out of place.
That’s not how I wanted to live my life. I want to be the generous person I was as a child. I want to give everyone everything, and trust them unconditionally unless they prove I cannot. I want to breathe deeply, instead of this shallow breathing forced by the constrictions of business wear, proper conduct, “civilization”. I want to know my neighbors, have them over for tea and pie I baked myself with fruit I grew in my own garden. I want to work hard every day and fall into bed at the end of those days, tired but feeling good about everything I’ve done. I want to feel sunshine on my face, and stave off the cold of winter by chopping my own firewood. I don’t want to “get ahead”, or “make something of myself” – I just want to live a good life.
See you in a week, if I come back.
The Chinooks come with a bit of a caveat, though, and for people who tend to experience migranes or crippling headaches, the Chinooks may help push those poor folks right over the edge. I, myself, experienced the odd terrible headache, and probably have a susceptibility to migranes, but what I am occasionally subjected to is nothing at all compared to what my sister goes through, or what some of my less-fortunate co-workers experience.
At any rate, the Chinooks notwithstanding, we’re having some nice spring-like weather. Sunny and warm. The kind of weather where you want to get out the patio furniture and bask in that long-forgotten sun, just soaking up every ounce of warmth. Rob is one of those people who, at the first sign of melt-y weather, will put on shorts and parade around the house and back yard JUST to irritate those of us who are still freezing our asses off at –5C. So you can’t go by what he’s wearing, you just have to find your own way. But he put on some shorts the other day, and I stuck my head out the back door, and sure enough, the air did not freeze in my nostrils, and it was even warm. I got out and cleaned all the patio furniture, and sat in a nice patio chair, at the patio table, and basked. Sure, it snowed a few days later and we plunged back into –10C territory, but it’s coming around. This week, it looks like we’re getting +10C to +15C temperatures, which means it would be nice enough out to relax and try to enjoy the outdoors again, to free the yard from the covering of dog poop, to allow the cats to venture out, whiskers all twitching, to sit on the patio furniture and enjoy drinks and lunch…
But we will not be here. We are going away. We are going to Quebec, where there is still snow. There won’t be for long, because the forecast contains a projection for rain this weekend, which is fine by me. The increase in temperature means that the sugaring season will begin (it has already). Sugaring is the process of extracting maple sap out of the maple trees to boil down to maple syrup. Oh, there are lots of other things you can do with it – they make maple butter, maple treats, maple sugar, maple sugar-on-snow… Most are variations on maple sugar, which is maple syrup further reduced and crystallized into sugar crystals (so it tastes maple, of course), which you can easily do yourself by boiling it to a certain point, and then “dropping” it, ladling it into a large pan from a couple of feet high, as it cools so the crystals will form.
Quebec is where my mother is from. More specifically, the Eastern Townships. Located about 2 hours South East of Montreal, the Eastern Townships were originally settled by the 13 colonies of Loyalists just as the Americans decided they wanted nothing more to do with merry old England. Sure, Canada had been well-established by then, and most of the people in Quebec were descendants from France. But this pocket of land was settled by English-speaking former Americans, some even descended from the original settlers of America at Plymouth Rock. Most of the population there now still speaks English, and my grandmother (whose farm we’re going to) doesn’t really speak French much at all. She knows enough to ask where the bananas are at the supermarket (or, Supermarché). My mother and her brothers and sister all grew up speaking English and French. Thus, my siblings and I were all forced to learn both languages. It was probably a good thing, although my mother went about it all wrong, and forced us to speak French when we didn’t want to, so instead of appreciating it, I didn’t like it and when given the choice in University of a language option, I did NOT take French (I already knew it), so instead I took Spanish, which I figured was a much more interesting language. Turns out they’re nearly the same, so there you go. But, still, I know or knew French pretty well. I haven’t spoken it in years, though, so although I will understand what they’re saying to me, I will likely not be able to think fast enough to respond with any accuracy.
We will leave tomorrow morning, spending most of the day in transit, arriving at the farm probably around dinnertime. My plan is to stop at the grocery store in the small town about 15 minutes away from the farm to get supplies, and hopefully arrive in time to cook something, or at least get take-out. My grandmother, when the farm was in operation and my grandfather was still alive, used to go to town once a week, on Thursdays, to sell eggs and whatever else they had to sell, and buy supplies or machine parts or tools for the farm machinery. Going to town was a big deal. Going to town was a treat. Nowadays, with town being much closer in terms of travel (faster cars, bigger town), I could go into town every day, if I wanted to. “Town” is closer than I lived to Calgary, when I lived in Airdrie.
The other days of the week were spent doing farming things. My grandfather would go out into the field and work – either plant crops, tend cattle, tend or dress chickens, etc. – and my grandmother would stay in the house, cooking. She had men to feed, you see, so she had to prepare breakfast (oatmeal, toast with maple sugar, eggs, possibly some bacon) then the men would come in and eat (usually pretty quickly) and then go back out to work. Then, she would clean the kitchen from breakfast, do dishes, and maybe start a little baking, and start on getting lunch ready. Lunch wasn’t the way it is here in the city – lunch was a substantial meal. Like, maybe a ham or a casserole or hot sandwiches (and many of them), with sides, and a full dessert like a cake or squares. After lunch, there was cleanup and usually a lot more baking. On some days, she baked bread. On other days, she made cakes and pies. On still other days, there was canning to be done, or just general dinner preparation. Dinner was, of course, the main meal of the day. Huge dinners, really. Chicken pie. Roasts. Roasted chicken. Ham. Occasionally, pork chops. And side dishes – carrots, rice, potatoes, bread, beets, vegetables I can’t even name, there were so many. And the desserts were plentiful – pies and cakes and cookies and squares…
And in the summer, there was gardening. Always gardening. Her garden spanned at least an acre, and had all manners of squashes and zucchinis, carrots, beets, turnips, beans, peas, lettuce, radishes, spinach, raspberries, cherries, blackberries, currants… everything you’d need to run a farm without having to ever go to the store. And the flowers – the flowers were amazing.
Nowadays, this is not the scene. Now, my grandfather is gone, and my grandmother is getting too old to really look after herself and cook much any more. There are no more cattle or chickens. Her garden has shrunk to a tiny size and she doesn’t grow a lot of complicated vegetables any more. She still grows some, because she can’t not have something to do during the summer, but the mass-producing gardens of days past are gone. She has to take medication for her heart and bones. She naps a lot more now. And she watches television – something I remember her deliberately NOT doing when I was young.
Going back to the farm this year will be sad, for me. I fear the changes. But I long to go so badly – I miss it fiercely. It is the most beautiful place in the world. In the summer, it is green and warm and lush. In the winter, it is a snowy landscape wearing a majestic mantle. In spring, it holds such a promise of new life that your heart could burst, and in the fall, the unimaginable explosion of colour and the show the trees put on is unforgettable. Every aspect of that place burns in me, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be anywhere else. I suppose most of us have places like that from our childhoods, where time seemed to go more slowly, and adventure lurked behind every corner. Now, living in the city, going to work in my car every day, and dealing with countless people (always people) it seems like the magic of life may be gone.
A lot of the time, I can just forget about it. I can trick myself into thinking that such a fantastic place exists and I’m not there is probably just a dream or something I saw on TV. If I thought about it every day, I’d drive myself insane with longing and the pain of separation. So I just don’t think about it. I try to distract myself, I have a little yard, and pets, and friends to talk to. But times like this, when I’m so close, and I know I’ll be there in almost 24 hours, my mind cannot focus on anything else. I remember every little detail from when I was a kid, playing with my cousins every summer, building hayforts in the barn and looking for the kittens. We would take long walks in the forest, following the brook or looking for the old collapsed sugar shack. One year, we found it, all broken-down and sunken-in, and a skunk had made his home beneath the ruins. We found salamanders in the brook, and little minnows. And if you walk up the brook to the source, you can find fools gold, iron pyrite, glittering in the banks. One year, we followed the brook all the way down to the lake, too, and since we were in shorts, our legs were cut by the sharp sedges growing near the outlet. We didn’t care. We were invincible. Time meant nothing, and age was as vague a concept as the end of summer.
We picked apples in the orchard, we touched the electric fence with a piece of grass to dull the shock, we looked for wild gooseberries. We made little pathways through the raspberry canes, looking for the “best one”, as if any of them weren’t the most succulent things you could expect to find growing anywhere. We laid in the grass, we played cards, and we didn’t care that we were missing television. We “helped” with the baking. We did the dishes as quickly as we could so we could get back outside, to play.
And even now, when I go back as an adult to that paradise, I feel that I might still be myself, that person I was becoming when I was a child. Most of the time, that person I could have been is hidden now, crushed a little by responsibility, dimmed by disappointment. In the city, you learn not to be generous, you learn not to extend yourself to those who will certainly take advantage. You learn to hide your feelings, and keep to yourself. You learn to give only what you have to in order to get ahead. The insanity of all this seems unnoticed by everyone here, so you just go along, trying not to act out of place.
That’s not how I wanted to live my life. I want to be the generous person I was as a child. I want to give everyone everything, and trust them unconditionally unless they prove I cannot. I want to breathe deeply, instead of this shallow breathing forced by the constrictions of business wear, proper conduct, “civilization”. I want to know my neighbors, have them over for tea and pie I baked myself with fruit I grew in my own garden. I want to work hard every day and fall into bed at the end of those days, tired but feeling good about everything I’ve done. I want to feel sunshine on my face, and stave off the cold of winter by chopping my own firewood. I don’t want to “get ahead”, or “make something of myself” – I just want to live a good life.
See you in a week, if I come back.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Many things, all about ME, because this is MY SITE.
Since it’s almost the weekend, I might have more entertaining stuff to tell you about on Monday, but for now, this is all you get. I’ve realized today while reading a large number of blogs that people are out there telling EVERYONE all about themselves, whereas I, usually, write stuff on this site that relates to my animals or interesting things that happen, or that I feel lucky and have a pack of animals and a pretty darn cool boyfriend. Everyone else tells you all these interesting things about themselves, so this is all about ME today!! Yay!
I’ll warn you right now – some of this won’t make any sense to you at all.
1. I think I’m smart, but sometimes, I also think I’m horribly stupid.
This isn’t exactly a revelation because I can be a pain in the ass sometimes about spelling and little known facts. But working at this job and dealing with the people all the time makes me stupid, and then I read about all these smart people on the innernet and think, Man, I’m getting dumber by the minute.
2. I like television a whooooole lot.
Some of you might know this already. I used to watch it a lot more than I do now, but Rob isn’t exactly a TV guy, so we usually end up doing things in real life more than sitting around watching TV. I kinda miss it. But this season has been shitty anyway.
3. I “secretly” want kids.
Eventually. But I don’t want to actually HAVE them, I’d like to just pick them up, pre-formed and ready to roll, preferably already talking so I don’t have to listen to them cry, from the child-store. That’s not really a secret, but I don’t go around telling everyone (until now).
4. I have less-than-perfect vision.
In a recent conversation with The Mac, he stated “You’re as blind as a mole”, to which I replied “No, I see better … than most moles”. This is, in fact, quite true. But I don’t got no 20-20 vision by any means, and I find it very hard to see in the dark.
5. I will never, ever be a showgirl.
This is probably a good thing, and I have very little desire to be an actual showgirl, but sometimes, I’d like to sing old showtunes – just me and a piano player in a lounge somewhere.
6. I love animals. More than people.
I know a lot of people say they like animals better than people, but I really mean it. Animals are really BETTER than people – in nearly all ways. People are mean, and small, and dishonest, and petty. Group-wise, they are the universe’s most abhorrent creation, although I like certain individuals out of the group. Animals – any kind, take your bears, your sharks, your moles, your crocodiles – are better than people.
7. (Further to the previous statement) I’m not crazy about monkeys or apes at all, either.
Maybe they’re too much like people. Small monkeys, true old-world monkeys like the tamarind or lemur, are alright, though.
8. I can’t drink rum.
But I can drink rye, and usually do. Oh, and wine (any sort) just kills me.
9. I dislike how I look in MOST pictures.
Yet I am compelled to look fixedly at myself in photographs, as though I am staring at a circus feature, all disfigured and totally fascinating.
10. My favourite place is my grandmother’s farm in the Eastern Townships in Quebec.
It’s the most beautiful place in the world, which is why I never have the strong desire to travel the world like most people. I already know where the best place is, so what’s the point of going everywhere else?
11. I have very good financial sense.
Except when it comes to my own finances. I hate having the money, but I like processing it. I like seeing it in my budget columns, and transferring it from one column to another.
12. Sometimes, I play dumb.
I have learned that it’s not always the best thing to say “I told you so” or divulge what I know. Playing dumb is sometimes pretty smart.
13. I colour my hair.
I colour it red. I sort of chose red because of The X-Files. And being a natural blonde might mean you have more fun, but you certainly don’t get more respect out of the deal. With red hair, people take you more seriously and are always a little more afraid of what you might do.
14. I hate shoe-shopping.
Being a girl, this probably seems out-of-character, but it’s a terrible time, shoe-shopping. I prefer to shop for sweaters to add to my nice sweater collection.
15. I don’t have any hobbies.
At least, I don’t think I do. I used to like to collect television shows off the TV on tape, but now you can just buy the DVD sets, so what’s the point? And you can’t call my sweater collection a hobby.
16. For what is the first time in my life, I’m settled and happy.
I’ve been happy before, and it’s nice and all, but what’s going on now is definitely a settled and contented sort of thing. It’s the sort of thing where I can see that my life is going the right way and I don’t have to scramble or scrape or feel pinched and worried or that something is missing. The occasional joy I used to have once in a while when things would be going well is now pervasive and more of an undercurrent to everything all the time.
17. I have a cheezie addiction.
I’ve said before how much I love the cheezie, but now I think it’s actually an addiction, like to crack or heroin. I may have to swear off them forever, like an alcoholic, dreading the day when someone I know brings them around me, shaking in cheezie-tremens late at night when I’m watching TV. I’ve tried to substitute rice chips, but it’s just not the same (like methadone, I suppose).
18. I love my sports car.
Yes, it’s a Miata. So it’s not a Ferrari. I love it all the same.
19. I get along with my parents.
For the most part. Sometimes, they drive me nuts. We did not get along when I was younger, and I’m not sure why we do now.
20. I have no tolerance for disagreement whatsoever.
If I disagree with you, I will not argue with you. If necessary, I will get up and leave. If there is disagreement, especially yelling, around me, I will leave immediately.
21. I’m scared of two things in the world: Bears and sharks.
I don’t feel those are irrational fears – bears and sharks can eat people. I’m not afraid of the Big Cats or wolves because I feel I understand them well enough to get out of a situation with them (heh), but there’s no arguing with a bear or a shark.
22. I love to get a good deal.
So does everyone, probably, but I really, really like stuff when it’s on sale, even if I don’t need it.
23. I love getting mail.
Even if it’s just stupid bills. There’s something about getting a paper letter in an envelope in the mail – the better if it’s handwritten with the kind of stamp you have to lick to get to stick (they have pre-glued ones now, of course).
24. I can cook really well.
Although Rob does most of the cooking now (yay!), there are some things that I can cook that are THE BEST! I’m not kidding. Fried chicken. Home-made chicken soup. Chicken and asparagus pasta. It’s all very fattening, of course, but if I’m gonna really cook, it better be worthwhile.
25. This list took me a really long time to make up.
Looking at me type this and ponder on it, you’d think I’d be working or something, but you’d be wrong.
I’ll warn you right now – some of this won’t make any sense to you at all.
1. I think I’m smart, but sometimes, I also think I’m horribly stupid.
This isn’t exactly a revelation because I can be a pain in the ass sometimes about spelling and little known facts. But working at this job and dealing with the people all the time makes me stupid, and then I read about all these smart people on the innernet and think, Man, I’m getting dumber by the minute.
2. I like television a whooooole lot.
Some of you might know this already. I used to watch it a lot more than I do now, but Rob isn’t exactly a TV guy, so we usually end up doing things in real life more than sitting around watching TV. I kinda miss it. But this season has been shitty anyway.
3. I “secretly” want kids.
Eventually. But I don’t want to actually HAVE them, I’d like to just pick them up, pre-formed and ready to roll, preferably already talking so I don’t have to listen to them cry, from the child-store. That’s not really a secret, but I don’t go around telling everyone (until now).
4. I have less-than-perfect vision.
In a recent conversation with The Mac, he stated “You’re as blind as a mole”, to which I replied “No, I see better … than most moles”. This is, in fact, quite true. But I don’t got no 20-20 vision by any means, and I find it very hard to see in the dark.
5. I will never, ever be a showgirl.
This is probably a good thing, and I have very little desire to be an actual showgirl, but sometimes, I’d like to sing old showtunes – just me and a piano player in a lounge somewhere.
6. I love animals. More than people.
I know a lot of people say they like animals better than people, but I really mean it. Animals are really BETTER than people – in nearly all ways. People are mean, and small, and dishonest, and petty. Group-wise, they are the universe’s most abhorrent creation, although I like certain individuals out of the group. Animals – any kind, take your bears, your sharks, your moles, your crocodiles – are better than people.
7. (Further to the previous statement) I’m not crazy about monkeys or apes at all, either.
Maybe they’re too much like people. Small monkeys, true old-world monkeys like the tamarind or lemur, are alright, though.
8. I can’t drink rum.
But I can drink rye, and usually do. Oh, and wine (any sort) just kills me.
9. I dislike how I look in MOST pictures.
Yet I am compelled to look fixedly at myself in photographs, as though I am staring at a circus feature, all disfigured and totally fascinating.
10. My favourite place is my grandmother’s farm in the Eastern Townships in Quebec.
It’s the most beautiful place in the world, which is why I never have the strong desire to travel the world like most people. I already know where the best place is, so what’s the point of going everywhere else?
11. I have very good financial sense.
Except when it comes to my own finances. I hate having the money, but I like processing it. I like seeing it in my budget columns, and transferring it from one column to another.
12. Sometimes, I play dumb.
I have learned that it’s not always the best thing to say “I told you so” or divulge what I know. Playing dumb is sometimes pretty smart.
13. I colour my hair.
I colour it red. I sort of chose red because of The X-Files. And being a natural blonde might mean you have more fun, but you certainly don’t get more respect out of the deal. With red hair, people take you more seriously and are always a little more afraid of what you might do.
14. I hate shoe-shopping.
Being a girl, this probably seems out-of-character, but it’s a terrible time, shoe-shopping. I prefer to shop for sweaters to add to my nice sweater collection.
15. I don’t have any hobbies.
At least, I don’t think I do. I used to like to collect television shows off the TV on tape, but now you can just buy the DVD sets, so what’s the point? And you can’t call my sweater collection a hobby.
16. For what is the first time in my life, I’m settled and happy.
I’ve been happy before, and it’s nice and all, but what’s going on now is definitely a settled and contented sort of thing. It’s the sort of thing where I can see that my life is going the right way and I don’t have to scramble or scrape or feel pinched and worried or that something is missing. The occasional joy I used to have once in a while when things would be going well is now pervasive and more of an undercurrent to everything all the time.
17. I have a cheezie addiction.
I’ve said before how much I love the cheezie, but now I think it’s actually an addiction, like to crack or heroin. I may have to swear off them forever, like an alcoholic, dreading the day when someone I know brings them around me, shaking in cheezie-tremens late at night when I’m watching TV. I’ve tried to substitute rice chips, but it’s just not the same (like methadone, I suppose).
18. I love my sports car.
Yes, it’s a Miata. So it’s not a Ferrari. I love it all the same.
19. I get along with my parents.
For the most part. Sometimes, they drive me nuts. We did not get along when I was younger, and I’m not sure why we do now.
20. I have no tolerance for disagreement whatsoever.
If I disagree with you, I will not argue with you. If necessary, I will get up and leave. If there is disagreement, especially yelling, around me, I will leave immediately.
21. I’m scared of two things in the world: Bears and sharks.
I don’t feel those are irrational fears – bears and sharks can eat people. I’m not afraid of the Big Cats or wolves because I feel I understand them well enough to get out of a situation with them (heh), but there’s no arguing with a bear or a shark.
22. I love to get a good deal.
So does everyone, probably, but I really, really like stuff when it’s on sale, even if I don’t need it.
23. I love getting mail.
Even if it’s just stupid bills. There’s something about getting a paper letter in an envelope in the mail – the better if it’s handwritten with the kind of stamp you have to lick to get to stick (they have pre-glued ones now, of course).
24. I can cook really well.
Although Rob does most of the cooking now (yay!), there are some things that I can cook that are THE BEST! I’m not kidding. Fried chicken. Home-made chicken soup. Chicken and asparagus pasta. It’s all very fattening, of course, but if I’m gonna really cook, it better be worthwhile.
25. This list took me a really long time to make up.
Looking at me type this and ponder on it, you’d think I’d be working or something, but you’d be wrong.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Weekends, crazy dogs and chips
I know dogs need walks. The Mac walks his dog, Snowy, every single day. I used to walk the NoodleDog every day, twice a day. It’s not that I don’t walk the NoodleDog every day now, it’s just that Rob and I share dog-walking duties. During the weekdays, Rob walks the doggies in the morning before we go to work. Being a girl, I take longer to get ready, and usually, I’m home a lot earlier in the afternoons so I can walk them then.
However, the weekends are just a disaster. We always start out with great intentions. “We’ll walk them just after lunch!”, and then lunch doesn’t happen until 2p, and by then, I’m dying of starvation and am weak, or the weather is shitty (being in Southern Alberta, it’s a 50-50 shot over the wintertime). So the doggies don’t always get good walks on the weekends. This is a BIG MISTAKE.
On Monday, after the weekend, we left the dogs in the house all day. Foolishly, we thought that since the cats would be in there with them, Cooter would have plenty to keep him occupied. We were so wrong. When I got home, he had hauled a bunch of stuff off the coffee table and utterly destroyed it. He had gotten a hold of an instant camera – a little collectible of Rob’s – and that was in a million pieces all over the floor. He had chewed two D-batteries (lucky the little bugger isn’t dead), and annihilated my pilates mat. I immediately told him “BAD CHEWY” and put him outside, and cleaned up the living room a bit. Then, I ventured down the hallway to see what other destruction awaited me. Sure enough, there was evidence that he had taken something into the main bedroom and chewed it up on the bed. Then, I went into the spare room, and again, not only had he chewed stuff in there – an empty pop can – but he had gotten onto the spare bed and had chewed a large hole in a sweater I had knit when I was in high school. It wasn’t really a wearable sweater, but it had sentimental value. Rotten dog!
We noticed throughout the evening that Cooter was unsettled. He was jumpier than usual, more frantic about the cats. He couldn’t sit still, and would not settle down. Poor guy. After Rob played ball with the dogs out back for about 20 minutes, hard, they both came in and crashed, all nice and peaceful. So walking them, exercising them, is KEY!!
I spent part of the evening chatting with The Mac. I have a land-line now, and that means I can dial long distance again without incurring objectionably large phone bills. So I called him up, and he told me about a guy called “The Dog Whisperer”. This guy has a show on the National Geographic channel, and sure enough, he advocates exercise, discipline and affection in the training of dogs. Dogs are complicated little creatures. They come from a wild background and pack life, and if they don’t have a leader, they get all confusled about things like what to chew, where to go, what rules they don’t need to follow… Apparently, the trick is to teach them that you’re their pack leader and that they need to listen to you, follow you and do what you say, basically. Not exactly rocket science, but then again, not as easy as it sounds. When The NoodleDog and I first moved in with Rob, the NoodleDog really, really liked him a lot, but he didn’t always listen to Rob. Rob’s had to push him over and hold him down a few times to establish dominance. Now, of course, the NoodleDog worships Rob and might actually be in love with him – he can’t stand it when Rob leaves the room or goes out of sight, and always wants to be with him. Me? He can take or leave. Traitor! At least I still have the cats, although Rob says he'll steal their affections, too.
But Cooter has pretty much listened to me the whole time. He does pretty much what I tell him, when I tell him, and is generally fairly obedient. He just can’t get over that built-up store of energy he seems to have. He’s of an energetic breed – border collie mixed with regular collie – so he needs something to do with his day. I think he would be a great working dog – he herds the cats, or counts them at least, and loves playing ball. But the exercise thing is of paramount importance in keeping him happy and settled-down.
The following contains Jeepers Creepers and Jeepers Creepers 2 spoilers. Read at your own risk.
Over the weekend, we watched a scary movie, Jeepers Creepers. We had been up late, at a party, and then came home reasonably early, but kept on drinking and watching TV. Rob kindly noted that Jeepers Creepers was on, so we watched it. It was a little scary, and I don’t usually watch scary movies. Basically, these two horrendously dumb kids “get involved” with this Creeper thing. They see it dumping what looks like bodies down a pipe at some abandoned church full of crows. Personally, if that had been me, and if The Mac had been in the car, we would have taken one look at the scenario and gotten the hell out of there. THE HELL! These kids saw the deed, then WENT BACK to the abandoned church and managed to get one of them fallen down the stupid pipe, and, well, the story from that point on just got less and less realistic. They run. The thing chases them. The thing doesn’t get them and they run some more. The thing keeps on chasing them. They get a PHONE CALL from a psychic woman who tells them basically that they’re in deep shit. They run some more. The thing keeps on chasing them and kills some other people while it’s at it. You don’t get the best look in the world at it, though, so your imagination can do some pretty good stuff with that. The back story on the Creeper thing is that every 23 years, for 23 days it gets to “feed”. It selectively kills people that “have something it needs”, like a tongue, eyes, whatever. No one knows where it came from or anything else about it. Anyway, the kids continue to try to get away from it, only they try to hide out in this police station, which effectively traps them enough for the Creeper thing to catch and carry one off. Yeesh. Oh yeah, the Creeper thing is fairly indestructible and supposedly can’t be killed by conventional means. If it was me? Again? And The Mac? We would have burned it. BURNED IT GOOD!!!
It was disturbing, sort of, and I had to put the lights on all throughout the house in order to remain calm. We went to bed right after (smart idea) and just about as soon as I had started to fall asleep, Rob started snoring. Rob snores after he gets to drinking the beer, and sure enough, he’d had enough beer to snore A LOT! I poked him gently and told him to roll over. He did. He kept on snoring. I told him to wake up because he was snoring. He moved around some. I tried to sleep. SNNKKKKRRRRRR-ch-ch-RRRRR. I poked him harder. He snored louder. I talked to him rationally. He kept on snoring. I shoved him around a bit. He kept on snoring. I kicked him with my feet. Nothing worked.
Finally, in frustration and tiredness, I turned the light on to see if that would make a difference, and of course, it did not. I thought if I thrashed around a bit, he’d wake up and move into a less-snory position. He did not. I got up and out of bed and went into the bathroom, turned on the light there, and then into the spare room to turn on the light there, having decided I’d have to sleep in the spare room for the rest of the night. It was late. I was tired. I was a little wary from having watched that stupid movie. The spare room has no little bedside lamp, so I had to go back into our room, turn on the big light (so there wouldn’t be any total darkness anywhere), get my bedside lamp, bring it into the spare room, set it up and then go back into the main bedroom to turn off the big light. Eventually, I got to bed. And Cooter came with me.
At first, I was glad Cooter was with me. I hugged him and told him he was a good dog to keep me company, and keep me safe. He curled up next to me and I closed my tired eyes, trying hard not to think about that stupid Creeper thing from the movie. Stupid Creeper. About five minutes later, just as I was drifting off again, Cooter got up and moved around. I figured he was just settling in for the night, but no, he got up, hopped off the bed and went in search of cats. He apparently found them all, because he came back a couple of minutes later and got back onto the bed with me, and I hugged him and told him “good doggie! Thanks for coming back!”
Yeah, right. Every five or ten minutes, Cooter would get up and go look for the cats. His job became a lot easier as some of them came into the room to settle down on the bed with me from time to time, but still. He kept on getting up to look at them. I think I finally fell asleep for the rest of the night around 4a-ish… and then by around 8a, the animals all needed to be fed and let out to pee. Greaaaat night. Oh, and I didn’t have any nightmares at all, about that stupid Creeper, or that the Mounties were after it, chasing it around in an abandoned industrial complex, or that I was kidnapped by it at all, or that somehow I escaped and was consulting with the Mounties on how to get it because when you want something done right, you call the Mounties… Nope, not at all.
We didn’t learn a thing from that experience, because the next day, we thought it would be a great idea to rent Jeepers Creepers 2. I have to say, though, that the second movie is a lot less scary than the first, although it had a lot more monster effects. The Creeper thing went from an ominous, inexplicable evil thing chasing down the two hapless teenagers to just a stupid freakish monstery guy with the most unbelievable batwings hunting a busload of idiotic kids. The movie started out well, with the Creeper thing hiding in plain sight in a cornfield, disguised to look like a scarecrow. Scarecrows are a bit eerie. It carried off a little kid who was supposed to be “fixing” the scarecrows as the kid’s father and brother tried to run after it (to no avail – it swooped away on those wings). I did like that the father then wanted to hunt the damn thing down and impale it. That was fun. After that, the Creeper disabled a busload of kids, and did away with the adults first. Then, apparently, it figured it could hunt down the kids it wanted at its leisure. It didn’t count on the enraged dad from the first scene, though! Hee! The kids fought amongst themselves as the Creeper thing chipped away at their bus, and then, for some reason, they all scattered. Scattered to the great outdoors! Heh. One of the girls, since the movie needed a psychic angle, started having visions of the first movie’s dead kid and he told her that this Creeper thing was after certain people and they better get their shit together and get outta there. In the deleted scenes, it shows that, in her supposed vision, the Creeper was involved in some sort of ancient battle, so we should have been supposed to surmise it was… old? Got it. The scene might have been helpful if they’d kept it, but then again, maybe not. As well, the movie’s creator did a little commentary in the accompanying documentary about where the thing was from, and he just said it was a messed-up guy who did something to be cursed long, long ago. Huh? Whatever. Eventually, the enraged father, who was all caution-to-the-wind about it, harpooned the creature with a post-holer and a homemade harpoon. He stabbed the living daylights out of it and, just as it was about to regenerate, it “ran out of time” (since it was on the last of its 23 days), and closed up on itself to wait out the next 23 years. The movie ends with the brother showing the “monster”, cleverly nicknamed “Bat out of Hell”, for five bucks to country rubes, and the dad, who is old, watching over it as he sits in his rocking chair, a harpoon aimed at its head, waiting for it to wake up again so he can stab it some more, presumably. Yeah, old guy? You might want to get SOME GASOLINE AND A MATCH for when it wakes back up. Or run it through a wood-chipper, now, before it’s active again. I’m just sayin’. It always bothers me that no one in the movies takes my suggestions seriously. I can’t tell you how many times I yelled at them to “BURN IT!! BURN IT!!”, only no one did. I guess if they did, there wouldn’t be any more sequels. Heh.
Faults from the movie included that it was “springtime” in the first movie (spring break), and in the second movie that was supposed to be set FOUR DAYS after the first one (so, still during the creature’s killing spree time), it was full-on fall and there was corn to be a-harvested. Also, and I can’t emphasize this enough, those wings. So! Unbelivable! Aerodynamically, that thing wouldn’t have gotten two feet off the ground, even if it had jumped, and it certainly wouldn’t have been able to flap its way along to chase a speeding car. And where was the Creeper’s eerie evil turbocharged truck in the second movie? We don’t know. As well, in the second movie, the Creeper thing was creating these artistic throwing stars or something so it could disable vehicles without having to rip their tops off as they sped down the road. Seriously.
Anyway. I guess that’s taken up enough of my time and attention. The Mac and I chatted briefly about movies when we talked. Your enjoyment of movies depends, really, on what you want to get out of them. Entertainment, for me. I don’t want to have these movies change my life or anything, I just want to watch to be entertained. Those Jeepers Creepers things served their purpose. I wasn’t watching them to get anything deep out of them. They’re like potato chips. You don’t eat them for the nutrition.
Get yourselves some chips, everyone!
However, the weekends are just a disaster. We always start out with great intentions. “We’ll walk them just after lunch!”, and then lunch doesn’t happen until 2p, and by then, I’m dying of starvation and am weak, or the weather is shitty (being in Southern Alberta, it’s a 50-50 shot over the wintertime). So the doggies don’t always get good walks on the weekends. This is a BIG MISTAKE.
On Monday, after the weekend, we left the dogs in the house all day. Foolishly, we thought that since the cats would be in there with them, Cooter would have plenty to keep him occupied. We were so wrong. When I got home, he had hauled a bunch of stuff off the coffee table and utterly destroyed it. He had gotten a hold of an instant camera – a little collectible of Rob’s – and that was in a million pieces all over the floor. He had chewed two D-batteries (lucky the little bugger isn’t dead), and annihilated my pilates mat. I immediately told him “BAD CHEWY” and put him outside, and cleaned up the living room a bit. Then, I ventured down the hallway to see what other destruction awaited me. Sure enough, there was evidence that he had taken something into the main bedroom and chewed it up on the bed. Then, I went into the spare room, and again, not only had he chewed stuff in there – an empty pop can – but he had gotten onto the spare bed and had chewed a large hole in a sweater I had knit when I was in high school. It wasn’t really a wearable sweater, but it had sentimental value. Rotten dog!
We noticed throughout the evening that Cooter was unsettled. He was jumpier than usual, more frantic about the cats. He couldn’t sit still, and would not settle down. Poor guy. After Rob played ball with the dogs out back for about 20 minutes, hard, they both came in and crashed, all nice and peaceful. So walking them, exercising them, is KEY!!
I spent part of the evening chatting with The Mac. I have a land-line now, and that means I can dial long distance again without incurring objectionably large phone bills. So I called him up, and he told me about a guy called “The Dog Whisperer”. This guy has a show on the National Geographic channel, and sure enough, he advocates exercise, discipline and affection in the training of dogs. Dogs are complicated little creatures. They come from a wild background and pack life, and if they don’t have a leader, they get all confusled about things like what to chew, where to go, what rules they don’t need to follow… Apparently, the trick is to teach them that you’re their pack leader and that they need to listen to you, follow you and do what you say, basically. Not exactly rocket science, but then again, not as easy as it sounds. When The NoodleDog and I first moved in with Rob, the NoodleDog really, really liked him a lot, but he didn’t always listen to Rob. Rob’s had to push him over and hold him down a few times to establish dominance. Now, of course, the NoodleDog worships Rob and might actually be in love with him – he can’t stand it when Rob leaves the room or goes out of sight, and always wants to be with him. Me? He can take or leave. Traitor! At least I still have the cats, although Rob says he'll steal their affections, too.
But Cooter has pretty much listened to me the whole time. He does pretty much what I tell him, when I tell him, and is generally fairly obedient. He just can’t get over that built-up store of energy he seems to have. He’s of an energetic breed – border collie mixed with regular collie – so he needs something to do with his day. I think he would be a great working dog – he herds the cats, or counts them at least, and loves playing ball. But the exercise thing is of paramount importance in keeping him happy and settled-down.
The following contains Jeepers Creepers and Jeepers Creepers 2 spoilers. Read at your own risk.
Over the weekend, we watched a scary movie, Jeepers Creepers. We had been up late, at a party, and then came home reasonably early, but kept on drinking and watching TV. Rob kindly noted that Jeepers Creepers was on, so we watched it. It was a little scary, and I don’t usually watch scary movies. Basically, these two horrendously dumb kids “get involved” with this Creeper thing. They see it dumping what looks like bodies down a pipe at some abandoned church full of crows. Personally, if that had been me, and if The Mac had been in the car, we would have taken one look at the scenario and gotten the hell out of there. THE HELL! These kids saw the deed, then WENT BACK to the abandoned church and managed to get one of them fallen down the stupid pipe, and, well, the story from that point on just got less and less realistic. They run. The thing chases them. The thing doesn’t get them and they run some more. The thing keeps on chasing them. They get a PHONE CALL from a psychic woman who tells them basically that they’re in deep shit. They run some more. The thing keeps on chasing them and kills some other people while it’s at it. You don’t get the best look in the world at it, though, so your imagination can do some pretty good stuff with that. The back story on the Creeper thing is that every 23 years, for 23 days it gets to “feed”. It selectively kills people that “have something it needs”, like a tongue, eyes, whatever. No one knows where it came from or anything else about it. Anyway, the kids continue to try to get away from it, only they try to hide out in this police station, which effectively traps them enough for the Creeper thing to catch and carry one off. Yeesh. Oh yeah, the Creeper thing is fairly indestructible and supposedly can’t be killed by conventional means. If it was me? Again? And The Mac? We would have burned it. BURNED IT GOOD!!!
It was disturbing, sort of, and I had to put the lights on all throughout the house in order to remain calm. We went to bed right after (smart idea) and just about as soon as I had started to fall asleep, Rob started snoring. Rob snores after he gets to drinking the beer, and sure enough, he’d had enough beer to snore A LOT! I poked him gently and told him to roll over. He did. He kept on snoring. I told him to wake up because he was snoring. He moved around some. I tried to sleep. SNNKKKKRRRRRR-ch-ch-RRRRR. I poked him harder. He snored louder. I talked to him rationally. He kept on snoring. I shoved him around a bit. He kept on snoring. I kicked him with my feet. Nothing worked.
Finally, in frustration and tiredness, I turned the light on to see if that would make a difference, and of course, it did not. I thought if I thrashed around a bit, he’d wake up and move into a less-snory position. He did not. I got up and out of bed and went into the bathroom, turned on the light there, and then into the spare room to turn on the light there, having decided I’d have to sleep in the spare room for the rest of the night. It was late. I was tired. I was a little wary from having watched that stupid movie. The spare room has no little bedside lamp, so I had to go back into our room, turn on the big light (so there wouldn’t be any total darkness anywhere), get my bedside lamp, bring it into the spare room, set it up and then go back into the main bedroom to turn off the big light. Eventually, I got to bed. And Cooter came with me.
At first, I was glad Cooter was with me. I hugged him and told him he was a good dog to keep me company, and keep me safe. He curled up next to me and I closed my tired eyes, trying hard not to think about that stupid Creeper thing from the movie. Stupid Creeper. About five minutes later, just as I was drifting off again, Cooter got up and moved around. I figured he was just settling in for the night, but no, he got up, hopped off the bed and went in search of cats. He apparently found them all, because he came back a couple of minutes later and got back onto the bed with me, and I hugged him and told him “good doggie! Thanks for coming back!”
Yeah, right. Every five or ten minutes, Cooter would get up and go look for the cats. His job became a lot easier as some of them came into the room to settle down on the bed with me from time to time, but still. He kept on getting up to look at them. I think I finally fell asleep for the rest of the night around 4a-ish… and then by around 8a, the animals all needed to be fed and let out to pee. Greaaaat night. Oh, and I didn’t have any nightmares at all, about that stupid Creeper, or that the Mounties were after it, chasing it around in an abandoned industrial complex, or that I was kidnapped by it at all, or that somehow I escaped and was consulting with the Mounties on how to get it because when you want something done right, you call the Mounties… Nope, not at all.
We didn’t learn a thing from that experience, because the next day, we thought it would be a great idea to rent Jeepers Creepers 2. I have to say, though, that the second movie is a lot less scary than the first, although it had a lot more monster effects. The Creeper thing went from an ominous, inexplicable evil thing chasing down the two hapless teenagers to just a stupid freakish monstery guy with the most unbelievable batwings hunting a busload of idiotic kids. The movie started out well, with the Creeper thing hiding in plain sight in a cornfield, disguised to look like a scarecrow. Scarecrows are a bit eerie. It carried off a little kid who was supposed to be “fixing” the scarecrows as the kid’s father and brother tried to run after it (to no avail – it swooped away on those wings). I did like that the father then wanted to hunt the damn thing down and impale it. That was fun. After that, the Creeper disabled a busload of kids, and did away with the adults first. Then, apparently, it figured it could hunt down the kids it wanted at its leisure. It didn’t count on the enraged dad from the first scene, though! Hee! The kids fought amongst themselves as the Creeper thing chipped away at their bus, and then, for some reason, they all scattered. Scattered to the great outdoors! Heh. One of the girls, since the movie needed a psychic angle, started having visions of the first movie’s dead kid and he told her that this Creeper thing was after certain people and they better get their shit together and get outta there. In the deleted scenes, it shows that, in her supposed vision, the Creeper was involved in some sort of ancient battle, so we should have been supposed to surmise it was… old? Got it. The scene might have been helpful if they’d kept it, but then again, maybe not. As well, the movie’s creator did a little commentary in the accompanying documentary about where the thing was from, and he just said it was a messed-up guy who did something to be cursed long, long ago. Huh? Whatever. Eventually, the enraged father, who was all caution-to-the-wind about it, harpooned the creature with a post-holer and a homemade harpoon. He stabbed the living daylights out of it and, just as it was about to regenerate, it “ran out of time” (since it was on the last of its 23 days), and closed up on itself to wait out the next 23 years. The movie ends with the brother showing the “monster”, cleverly nicknamed “Bat out of Hell”, for five bucks to country rubes, and the dad, who is old, watching over it as he sits in his rocking chair, a harpoon aimed at its head, waiting for it to wake up again so he can stab it some more, presumably. Yeah, old guy? You might want to get SOME GASOLINE AND A MATCH for when it wakes back up. Or run it through a wood-chipper, now, before it’s active again. I’m just sayin’. It always bothers me that no one in the movies takes my suggestions seriously. I can’t tell you how many times I yelled at them to “BURN IT!! BURN IT!!”, only no one did. I guess if they did, there wouldn’t be any more sequels. Heh.
Faults from the movie included that it was “springtime” in the first movie (spring break), and in the second movie that was supposed to be set FOUR DAYS after the first one (so, still during the creature’s killing spree time), it was full-on fall and there was corn to be a-harvested. Also, and I can’t emphasize this enough, those wings. So! Unbelivable! Aerodynamically, that thing wouldn’t have gotten two feet off the ground, even if it had jumped, and it certainly wouldn’t have been able to flap its way along to chase a speeding car. And where was the Creeper’s eerie evil turbocharged truck in the second movie? We don’t know. As well, in the second movie, the Creeper thing was creating these artistic throwing stars or something so it could disable vehicles without having to rip their tops off as they sped down the road. Seriously.
Anyway. I guess that’s taken up enough of my time and attention. The Mac and I chatted briefly about movies when we talked. Your enjoyment of movies depends, really, on what you want to get out of them. Entertainment, for me. I don’t want to have these movies change my life or anything, I just want to watch to be entertained. Those Jeepers Creepers things served their purpose. I wasn’t watching them to get anything deep out of them. They’re like potato chips. You don’t eat them for the nutrition.
Get yourselves some chips, everyone!
Friday, March 11, 2005
The Animals and I
So, as you know, we have a couple of dogs and a bunch of cats. By “couple”, I infer “two”, of course, and by “bunch”, I mean “FOUR”. The cats were recently integrated into the household and have now settled down, mostly. Of the dogs, the NoodleDog remains calm. The Cooter does NOT. The Cooter is not at all calm about having cats. He’s frenzied.
Cooter loves the cats, I think, or at the very least he is fascinated by them. Or, well, some of them, anyway. He is in lurve with Smudge, the kitten and smallest one. He is interested in Tobey part of the time, but knows he’s not allowed to chase or harass poor, clawless Tobey, who growls little growls of discontent about the whole dog situation. He is a little bit interested in Rumble (the big cat), but Rumble doesn’t put up with any of his shit and hisses and swipes at him frequently. He is not very interested in Caspar, and this is heartbreaking, yo. Caspar is interested in Cooter. Caspar likes dogs. I think Caspar must have been exposed to dogs in a good setting at some point because ever since I got him, he’s been pretty friendly towards dogs, whereas Rumble seems to hate most of them and only tolerates the dogs at our house.
Caspar comes up to Cooter all hopeful, tail upright and friendly, and tries to engage his attention, and Cooter invariably just runs past him, chasing or looking for Smudge. I can see that Caspar is disappointed, because he’s all “what am I, chopped liver?” only that’s not quite correct, because Cooter would probably be more interested in chopped liver. Dejected, Caspar retreats to the bed, where he can put all sorts of white fur all over the dark-coloured duvet cover.
Cooter, on the other hand, pursues Smudge with the affection and intensity of a stalker. He loves her, and thinks, “There’s that thing I love so much! I MUST see her! MUST SEE!! At all times! Where did she go? Under the sofa? Behind the sofa? WHY?!! I must see her. I must shove the sofa out of the way, knocking things off the coffee table with my giant furry tail, in order to see her. Is she on the sink? I can’t quite get up there! I can’t, but I must see her! What could she be doing up there? Why can’t she just come down on the floor where I can see her? I love her! I want to see her! THERE SHE GOES! Quick, follow her.”
Smudge, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care much that he’s there, other than that at times, he blocks her access to things or areas. Damn, she thinks, “there’s that stupid thing again. He’s so goofy, waving that giant tail around and grinning all the time. He follows me everywhere! He can’t get at me behind the sofa. I’m gonna go there for a while. Maybe I can sneak out the other side and behind the plant, and then into the kitchen to see the water drip. That’s neat! Water, dripping! It’s so cool. Oh, that rotten thing is there again. I’m hungry, too, and he’s blocking me from getting my food. You know, that’s it. I’ve had it. I’m gonna bop him on the nose next time he sticks it in my face. Reee! EEEEEE!” [bop]
Cooter: Wow! She did something! That must mean she likes me! She must want to play! I’m gonna crouch down and invite her to play with me. I just love her so much! Let’s play!
Smudge: Damn, didn’t work. I better hide.
Tobey: Don’t bring that thing near me. I’m trying to sleep, here. [tenses up, extends back claws in trepidation, then launches himself off my lap causing great furrows to bleed where his back feet were]
Caspar: Look at me! Look at me! I’ll play with you! I’m interesting! Really!
Cooter: Where’s that thing I love going? Where? Why? Oh, there’s the other one, the one I’m not supposed to chase. Should I chase it? Maybe I should. I’m gonna.
Tobey: Aaack!! [skitter skitter]
Me: COOTER!
Cooter: Rats. Now I lost track of that thing I love so much. I’m going to have to find her by looking behind and under everything!
Rumble: Not over here, you’re not. Grrrr!
The NoodleDog: Are there any snacks available? Would it be too much trouble for someone to get me some food? There might be food on the coffee table, which is conveniently located right at my head level. Can I eat this container? Lemme see…
Me: YOU GUYS ARE DRIVING ME NUTS!! DOGS OUTSIDE!
And then the dogs get tossed out into the back yard so I can relax for a few minutes and give the cats some breathing room. If Cooter isn’t following Smudge like a frantic boyfriend, he’s counting the cats. He feels compelled to run around the house and find each cat, then start over at the beginning and find them all again. It’s usually not too hard because if they’re sleeping, they’re probably not going to move around all that much. Except Tobey, who doesn’t like it when Cooter rushes up at him.
Cooter: Where are all those little things? There’s the one I love so much, on that chair. She’s not moving around. I should find the other ones and see what they’re doing. I should find them! FIND THEM ALL! There’s one – that one doesn’t like me. I will follow him at a distance. Oh! There’s another one! That one’s alright. And where’s the last one? Where?!! I need to find him. Is he downstairs? [kathunka, thunka, thunka] Is he in the bedroom? [clickety, clickety, clickety] Is he in the bathroom? OH! There he is! I found him! Where’s that thing I love so much? I need to check the back of the sofa – sometimes she goes there. Not there? Not on the sink? Oh, right, she’s in that chair. And the others? I should find them now…
And he runs from room to room counting the cats and then starting over. It’s funny, but when he keeps on doing it, I start to worry he’s going to lose his furry little mind.
Cooter and the NoodleDog are trained to run down the stairs when they get inside. It’s supposed to wear the mud and moisture off their feet, because the basement stairs are carpeted with older, rough carpeting, and we would rather that gets muddy than the kitchen floor or our nice new area rugs. Occasionally, Tobey and Cooter have a little standoff when Cooter gets inside, because Tobey likes to hang out at the bottom of the stairs. So Cooter will start to run down the stairs and then remember he’s not supposed to bug Tobey.
Cooter: INSIDE INSIDE INSIDE!! Yay! Inside is where those things are. I like to see those little things! OH. Except that’s the one I’m not supposed to bother. Hmm. I’m stuck here. What do I do? I have to get downstairs before I can start looking for that thing I love so much, but that other thing is down there, growling at me.
Tobey: Don’t come down here. Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t do it! I can’t take this!
Cooter: Well, I can’t go back up, I’m not supposed to, I have to go all the way down.
Tobey: I can’t get up because you’re there, and I want to run away from you! I need to get upstairs! This isn’t safe at all!
Cooter: Okaaayyy, I’m gonna tip toe down, slowly. Maybe he won’t see me if I move slowly.
Tobey: Aaaaa! It’s coming! What should I do? What should I do?!! Maybe I can get by him!
Cooter: Slowly, slowly… slooooooowly…
Tobey: EEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Run!! Run run run!!!
Cooter. Ah. INSIDE INSIDE INSIDE!! Where’s that thing I love so much?!!
There are other run-ins between the dogs and the cats. For instance, last weekend, Rob was fooling around with the dogs on the bed, getting them all riled-up and playing games. They were thrashing around, and Rob was making OOOOOooooOOOOOooooOOOOOoooo sounds like a siren, and the NoodleDog was barking and barking and barking at him, trying to get at Rob’s face to lick it. BARK BARK BARK!! OOOOOooooOOOOOOoooo BARK BARK BARK!! And Cooter joined in with his high-pitched barking, too, all “Yaaark! Rirk! Rih!!” Rumble was woken up by all this noisy fuss, and came down the hallway to investigate. He saw what amounted to a massacre in his mind.
Rumble: Those stupid dogs are KILLING THAT GUY!! My girl really likes that guy! This is NO GOOD AT ALL! I must put a stop to it immediately. Grrrr! Yeowlrrrrrr!! Get out you dogs!! Get out!! Reeeaarrow! SSSSSSSSS!!
And he came at the dogs hissing, growling and swiping. Funny, at first, only Rumble has a heart condition, and he didn’t think it was funny at all. He really believed Rob was in mortal peril and that the dogs had to be chased out of the room entirely. He swiped repeatedly at the NoodleDog, which was fine until the NoodleDog decided he’d make a stand because that game was just too much fun to give up. Also, the NoodleDog is in love with Rob and always wants to be near him, so he wasn’t about to let himself be chased out of the room. It was a tense situation for a while, and we had to shut the dogs out of the room and calm Rumble down. Poor guy. He was only doing his duty protecting the household.
It’s entertaining. Why in the world people wouldn’t want such endearing, charming creatures is beyond me. All of my animals were rescues, except Cooter (who is Rob’s dog). Rumble was found at a Humane Society shelter in Ottawa. Caspar was from the SPCA here in Calgary. Tobey was adopted from people who couldn’t keep him and were going to have to “get rid” of him because their unruly grandchild of a year (who was the size of a toddler, people – he was HUGE!) developed allergies to him. Smudge was found outside my condo just before a giant rainstorm as a kitten of about three months or so. The NoodleDog was being GIVEN AWAY by people who “couldn’t keep him”. So if you’re reading this and have nothing better to do this weekend, go and get a pet from a local shelter. Go!!
Also, today, we found out that Jetsgo has gone bankrupt. Rob and I had planned a vacation over Easter to travel to Montreal via Jetsgo, and now our plans need to be changed, rapidly. I have re-booked us, but in the process of doing so, I noted a bit of an issue. I booked on Air Canada, they had some nice low rates with their discount carrier, Tango. $124 direct to Montreal, $189 returning to Calgary through Toronto. Nearly the same as what we had paid on Jetsgo, so I figure it would be a good idea to book it. However, as I had just clicked CONFIRM ORDER, and sent it off, the Air Canada people conveniently returned a page to me stating “your rates for travel have changed.” About $300 MORE than the original price they had quoted. I thought, there must be some mistake, and retried the order. No dice. The rates had indeed gone up just that very minute. So I looked around the dates we had planned, and sure enough, ALL the rates were in the process of being drastically increased. Finally, I found travel times about a week out from our original plans and booked the trip at the original Air Canada rates.
I find it a little insulting that Air Canada is on the news, claiming to be trying to accommodate Jetsgo passengers and trying to be helpful to everyone, but are RAISING THEIR RATES!! They’re vultures. Really, profiting from this sort of problem for people is pretty low. I’m not saying lower your rates to what Jetsgo was offering, because well, duh, they couldn’t hack it at that small a profit margin. Fine. However, if you’ve already set rates out on your website, you can’t go about increasing them as people are in the process of booking flights. It’s just classless and an obvious cash-grab. So, Air Canada, I will never, ever fly on your airline again. If this weren’t a situation where we had already outlaid the money to Jetsgo (which we’re trying to recover), I would have no problem paying a little more to fly Westjet, an honourable airline. Air Canada = SLEAZY!!
Have a great weekend, everyone – go and find a pet to adopt!!
Cooter loves the cats, I think, or at the very least he is fascinated by them. Or, well, some of them, anyway. He is in lurve with Smudge, the kitten and smallest one. He is interested in Tobey part of the time, but knows he’s not allowed to chase or harass poor, clawless Tobey, who growls little growls of discontent about the whole dog situation. He is a little bit interested in Rumble (the big cat), but Rumble doesn’t put up with any of his shit and hisses and swipes at him frequently. He is not very interested in Caspar, and this is heartbreaking, yo. Caspar is interested in Cooter. Caspar likes dogs. I think Caspar must have been exposed to dogs in a good setting at some point because ever since I got him, he’s been pretty friendly towards dogs, whereas Rumble seems to hate most of them and only tolerates the dogs at our house.
Caspar comes up to Cooter all hopeful, tail upright and friendly, and tries to engage his attention, and Cooter invariably just runs past him, chasing or looking for Smudge. I can see that Caspar is disappointed, because he’s all “what am I, chopped liver?” only that’s not quite correct, because Cooter would probably be more interested in chopped liver. Dejected, Caspar retreats to the bed, where he can put all sorts of white fur all over the dark-coloured duvet cover.
Cooter, on the other hand, pursues Smudge with the affection and intensity of a stalker. He loves her, and thinks, “There’s that thing I love so much! I MUST see her! MUST SEE!! At all times! Where did she go? Under the sofa? Behind the sofa? WHY?!! I must see her. I must shove the sofa out of the way, knocking things off the coffee table with my giant furry tail, in order to see her. Is she on the sink? I can’t quite get up there! I can’t, but I must see her! What could she be doing up there? Why can’t she just come down on the floor where I can see her? I love her! I want to see her! THERE SHE GOES! Quick, follow her.”
Smudge, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care much that he’s there, other than that at times, he blocks her access to things or areas. Damn, she thinks, “there’s that stupid thing again. He’s so goofy, waving that giant tail around and grinning all the time. He follows me everywhere! He can’t get at me behind the sofa. I’m gonna go there for a while. Maybe I can sneak out the other side and behind the plant, and then into the kitchen to see the water drip. That’s neat! Water, dripping! It’s so cool. Oh, that rotten thing is there again. I’m hungry, too, and he’s blocking me from getting my food. You know, that’s it. I’ve had it. I’m gonna bop him on the nose next time he sticks it in my face. Reee! EEEEEE!” [bop]
Cooter: Wow! She did something! That must mean she likes me! She must want to play! I’m gonna crouch down and invite her to play with me. I just love her so much! Let’s play!
Smudge: Damn, didn’t work. I better hide.
Tobey: Don’t bring that thing near me. I’m trying to sleep, here. [tenses up, extends back claws in trepidation, then launches himself off my lap causing great furrows to bleed where his back feet were]
Caspar: Look at me! Look at me! I’ll play with you! I’m interesting! Really!
Cooter: Where’s that thing I love going? Where? Why? Oh, there’s the other one, the one I’m not supposed to chase. Should I chase it? Maybe I should. I’m gonna.
Tobey: Aaack!! [skitter skitter]
Me: COOTER!
Cooter: Rats. Now I lost track of that thing I love so much. I’m going to have to find her by looking behind and under everything!
Rumble: Not over here, you’re not. Grrrr!
The NoodleDog: Are there any snacks available? Would it be too much trouble for someone to get me some food? There might be food on the coffee table, which is conveniently located right at my head level. Can I eat this container? Lemme see…
Me: YOU GUYS ARE DRIVING ME NUTS!! DOGS OUTSIDE!
And then the dogs get tossed out into the back yard so I can relax for a few minutes and give the cats some breathing room. If Cooter isn’t following Smudge like a frantic boyfriend, he’s counting the cats. He feels compelled to run around the house and find each cat, then start over at the beginning and find them all again. It’s usually not too hard because if they’re sleeping, they’re probably not going to move around all that much. Except Tobey, who doesn’t like it when Cooter rushes up at him.
Cooter: Where are all those little things? There’s the one I love so much, on that chair. She’s not moving around. I should find the other ones and see what they’re doing. I should find them! FIND THEM ALL! There’s one – that one doesn’t like me. I will follow him at a distance. Oh! There’s another one! That one’s alright. And where’s the last one? Where?!! I need to find him. Is he downstairs? [kathunka, thunka, thunka] Is he in the bedroom? [clickety, clickety, clickety] Is he in the bathroom? OH! There he is! I found him! Where’s that thing I love so much? I need to check the back of the sofa – sometimes she goes there. Not there? Not on the sink? Oh, right, she’s in that chair. And the others? I should find them now…
And he runs from room to room counting the cats and then starting over. It’s funny, but when he keeps on doing it, I start to worry he’s going to lose his furry little mind.
Cooter and the NoodleDog are trained to run down the stairs when they get inside. It’s supposed to wear the mud and moisture off their feet, because the basement stairs are carpeted with older, rough carpeting, and we would rather that gets muddy than the kitchen floor or our nice new area rugs. Occasionally, Tobey and Cooter have a little standoff when Cooter gets inside, because Tobey likes to hang out at the bottom of the stairs. So Cooter will start to run down the stairs and then remember he’s not supposed to bug Tobey.
Cooter: INSIDE INSIDE INSIDE!! Yay! Inside is where those things are. I like to see those little things! OH. Except that’s the one I’m not supposed to bother. Hmm. I’m stuck here. What do I do? I have to get downstairs before I can start looking for that thing I love so much, but that other thing is down there, growling at me.
Tobey: Don’t come down here. Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t do it! I can’t take this!
Cooter: Well, I can’t go back up, I’m not supposed to, I have to go all the way down.
Tobey: I can’t get up because you’re there, and I want to run away from you! I need to get upstairs! This isn’t safe at all!
Cooter: Okaaayyy, I’m gonna tip toe down, slowly. Maybe he won’t see me if I move slowly.
Tobey: Aaaaa! It’s coming! What should I do? What should I do?!! Maybe I can get by him!
Cooter: Slowly, slowly… slooooooowly…
Tobey: EEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Run!! Run run run!!!
Cooter. Ah. INSIDE INSIDE INSIDE!! Where’s that thing I love so much?!!
There are other run-ins between the dogs and the cats. For instance, last weekend, Rob was fooling around with the dogs on the bed, getting them all riled-up and playing games. They were thrashing around, and Rob was making OOOOOooooOOOOOooooOOOOOoooo sounds like a siren, and the NoodleDog was barking and barking and barking at him, trying to get at Rob’s face to lick it. BARK BARK BARK!! OOOOOooooOOOOOOoooo BARK BARK BARK!! And Cooter joined in with his high-pitched barking, too, all “Yaaark! Rirk! Rih!!” Rumble was woken up by all this noisy fuss, and came down the hallway to investigate. He saw what amounted to a massacre in his mind.
Rumble: Those stupid dogs are KILLING THAT GUY!! My girl really likes that guy! This is NO GOOD AT ALL! I must put a stop to it immediately. Grrrr! Yeowlrrrrrr!! Get out you dogs!! Get out!! Reeeaarrow! SSSSSSSSS!!
And he came at the dogs hissing, growling and swiping. Funny, at first, only Rumble has a heart condition, and he didn’t think it was funny at all. He really believed Rob was in mortal peril and that the dogs had to be chased out of the room entirely. He swiped repeatedly at the NoodleDog, which was fine until the NoodleDog decided he’d make a stand because that game was just too much fun to give up. Also, the NoodleDog is in love with Rob and always wants to be near him, so he wasn’t about to let himself be chased out of the room. It was a tense situation for a while, and we had to shut the dogs out of the room and calm Rumble down. Poor guy. He was only doing his duty protecting the household.
It’s entertaining. Why in the world people wouldn’t want such endearing, charming creatures is beyond me. All of my animals were rescues, except Cooter (who is Rob’s dog). Rumble was found at a Humane Society shelter in Ottawa. Caspar was from the SPCA here in Calgary. Tobey was adopted from people who couldn’t keep him and were going to have to “get rid” of him because their unruly grandchild of a year (who was the size of a toddler, people – he was HUGE!) developed allergies to him. Smudge was found outside my condo just before a giant rainstorm as a kitten of about three months or so. The NoodleDog was being GIVEN AWAY by people who “couldn’t keep him”. So if you’re reading this and have nothing better to do this weekend, go and get a pet from a local shelter. Go!!
Also, today, we found out that Jetsgo has gone bankrupt. Rob and I had planned a vacation over Easter to travel to Montreal via Jetsgo, and now our plans need to be changed, rapidly. I have re-booked us, but in the process of doing so, I noted a bit of an issue. I booked on Air Canada, they had some nice low rates with their discount carrier, Tango. $124 direct to Montreal, $189 returning to Calgary through Toronto. Nearly the same as what we had paid on Jetsgo, so I figure it would be a good idea to book it. However, as I had just clicked CONFIRM ORDER, and sent it off, the Air Canada people conveniently returned a page to me stating “your rates for travel have changed.” About $300 MORE than the original price they had quoted. I thought, there must be some mistake, and retried the order. No dice. The rates had indeed gone up just that very minute. So I looked around the dates we had planned, and sure enough, ALL the rates were in the process of being drastically increased. Finally, I found travel times about a week out from our original plans and booked the trip at the original Air Canada rates.
I find it a little insulting that Air Canada is on the news, claiming to be trying to accommodate Jetsgo passengers and trying to be helpful to everyone, but are RAISING THEIR RATES!! They’re vultures. Really, profiting from this sort of problem for people is pretty low. I’m not saying lower your rates to what Jetsgo was offering, because well, duh, they couldn’t hack it at that small a profit margin. Fine. However, if you’ve already set rates out on your website, you can’t go about increasing them as people are in the process of booking flights. It’s just classless and an obvious cash-grab. So, Air Canada, I will never, ever fly on your airline again. If this weren’t a situation where we had already outlaid the money to Jetsgo (which we’re trying to recover), I would have no problem paying a little more to fly Westjet, an honourable airline. Air Canada = SLEAZY!!
Have a great weekend, everyone – go and find a pet to adopt!!
Monday, March 07, 2005
Somebody get me a time machine…
It’s Monday. Again. I’m at work. Again. I’m sitting here after the weekend, feeling a little like somehow,I didn’t spend it that well. Rob and I were supposed to have taken this weekend for ourselves, to spend on ourselves in glorious, frivolous fashion. We were going to rent movies! We were going to eat junk! We were going to ignore the phone calls! We were going to relax, sleep in late, and not do much of anything at all!
We didn’t exactly do that at all. We came home on Friday all tangled up about this stupid possible real estate deal with this stupid fucking realtor, who I have dubbed “The Talking Head”. The Talking Head, Sean Telnes, for any of you residents in Airdrie who are thinking of dabbling in the real estate market, is a really self-interested guy. He is, of course, a realtor, so that goes without saying. Realtors are, in general, Bad People. I’m sorry if any of you out there are actually realtors, but you had better talk to the ethics department in your industry and sharpen them the hell up right away, because all of you have a terrible name in general, and my impression of realtors gets worse and worse every second I spend speaking with them. Slimy, good-for-nothing, greedy, self-centered, selfish sock-sucking bastards, all of ‘em.
Sorry. Back to the story here. The Talking Head had made an offer to buy my condo on Thursday. You would think “yay!”, but you would be wrong. The Talking Head said he wouldn’t dick me around on the price, and would give me what I was asking, except then he told me he wanted to charge me a commission for finding me (huh?) and representing me in the sale (wha?) and that he wanted me to sign a listing contract with him so he could get his “MLS points” (eh?). And he made an introductory offer that my friend, Bargains (who has her agent’s license, but is NOT a realtor so she’s not evil), looked at and laughed at and told me not to bother with, including an initial deposit of $500, and a possession date of 60 days. He wants to buy the place so he can show it, but he doesn’t want to pay for it for 60 days, hopefully having rented it out by then so he doesn’t have to spend any of his own actual money for it. Except during the interim, I still have to pay the mortgage and taxes and utilities, and I don’t get any of that back.
So I changed the offer a bit and faxed it back to him, and he didn’t seem to have any trouble with it, so he initialed it and faxed it back. Then he kept on pressuring me to sign it, sign it, sign it, sign it so we could get the deal rolling, so he could give me $1K, so he could get a key to show it, so he could get this show on the proverbial road, folks. Something in that whole severely pressure-laden pitch of his put me just a little OFF. I did NOT sign anything. I looked it over more carefully, and decided I just didn’t like some of what he was DEMANDING, so on Friday, I changed it all again. I went to the gym. I didn’t answer my cellphone. I purposely ignored The Talking Head, and Friday evening, Rob and I went over to my parents’ place to get my mother, who is on my mortgage with me in case I am killed (so the gov’mint doesn’t get my stuff), to also sign all this stuff. Which she did. Which I sent away in their fax machine to The Talking Head.
That took up a portion of our evening. We got home, and watched TV, and drank. When I drink, I get very, very tired, unless there is a party going on. If there is a party going on, I get nervous, and drink more and more until I am very drunk, and THEN I pass out, after a longer time period. But if it’s just me? Sitting there? I get too tired to watch TV, and have to go to bed by 10:30p.
Saturday morning, we did not sleep in at all. The alarm clock rang as though it was a weekday, and all the animals got up as though it was a weekday, and I was therefore FORCED to get up and feed them all or let them outside as the case may have been. I did not get to sleep in as I had planned, and I was tired. I still had TV to watch from the night before, though, so we watched that. And got up and had breakfast, and did chores and cleaned and cleaned and cleaned.
Part of that cleaning involved picking up all of the dog poop from the yard. Cooter doesn’t like to poop in places that aren’t the yard. When we go for a walk, the NoodleDog poops out wherever we are, so it’s easy to dispose of. You pick it up, toss it in the bin that the City services, and that’s that. Cooter, on the other hand, waits until he gets home. So the whole yard, and I’m not even exaggerating one little bit here, was FULL OF DOG POOP. Because we are bad people and haven’t cleaned it in several weeks. By several weeks, I mean we cleaned a section of it in January, but since most of the yard was covered in snow, we didn’t get that aggressive with it. Now, since the weather has been very nice for the past couple of weeks, everything has melted, uncovering treasure-rich deposits as it went.
Oh, sure, Rob had chores to do – he had to unload the camper. So who was picking up the poop? Yours truly. Me. I picked up poop for HOURS, people. HOURS. My back is sore, there was so much poop to be picked-up. Ick.
It was also nice enough on Saturday to get out the patio furniture and set it up, clean it off and sit around for a few minutes. But not too long, since we had so much to do. The Talking Head had left a message that the fax was blank, so we had to re-fax it. We also went back up to the condo in Airdrie and finished cleaning it out. All of the little odds and ends and bits of junk we left until the end? Are now out of there. That place is EMPTY, totally. So that’s nice. We won’t ever have to do that again, unless we move, which we are never, ever going to do. Ever.
That brings us to Saturday evening. Where, again, we weren’t sure what to do. We had been delayed getting home, of course, so by the time we figured out what was going on, it was really too late to cook, and we didn’t feel like it anyway, so we just ordered pizza, which is kind of junk-y, but not really what I had had in mind. And we didn’t rent anything, either, because we had TV backed-up from the week before, which had to be cleared off, so we watched that instead of renting anything fun. But there was a little drinking again, and of course, by 10p, I was passing out on the sofa, so we just went to bed. I am boring!
Sunday was a new day. We slept in a little more than on Saturday, although there were lots of animals asking for food and attention and whatnot, but we ignored them! Ha! No, we totally didn’t. Rob got up and fed everyone, and let the dogs out and got up. Apparently, he was hungry or something. So instead of really sleeping in, again, we got up by 8:30a, and were going about our day as though we were supposed to be working or something. Chores, chores, chores. Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Unpacking boxes by the dozen!
We spent, literally, the whole entire day working at unpacking boxes and cleaning and getting things done. I suppose the end result is nice – we have a clean house and more of my stuff is unpacked (still more to go, of course), and laundry is done so I have clean clothing to wear, but man, I feel like I missed out on enjoying a weekend here. I feel like I should have taken the dogs out for a nice long walk while it was sunny and warm, which it is now NOT (it’s actually raining today). I feel like I should have made an effort to get out to the mountains to see what’s going on out there. I feel like I should probably at least have gone to the gym for an hour to keep my activity level up. But I did none of that, and instead, just worked and worked and worked. My job that I get paid for is easier than what I did this weekend.
Sunday evening, we had some friends over for dinner. It was nice. Rob cooked a very nice beer can chicken, which is also known as beer-butt chicken, and I cooked a nice side dish of potatoes and spinach, which is a lot better than it sounds. We had garlic bread, and dessert, and fancy coffees with liqueur, whipped cream and grated chocolate, even. So we were all very full after that, and even for hours afterwards, I felt way too full.
Even then, the work did not end. Laundry still had to be finished. Endless boxes beckoned to be unpacked. We sort of half-assedly watched Men in Black II on the satellite downstairs. Finally, we went to bed at 11:45p, and now, today, here, I’m tired. And I feel cheated about the weekend, although I’m very glad the condo is done and I’m very glad the house is clean and I’m very glad my stuff is getting unpacked.
So what, then, is the answer? Should we half-ass our way through everything? Rush through the chores and cleaning, to rush through the enjoying/relaxing part to rush through the cooking? No. There is no answer, and I’m here to tell you that you’re all doomed. You can either enjoy a weekend, or clean, or unpack your boxes, but you can’t do everything. Know your limitations, is the lesson I have learned.
At any rate, it’s Monday and I have not heard back from The Talking Head. I changed up a lot of stuff on that offer, so we’ll see if he really wants the condo or not. Also, Rumble has gone to the vet’s again, because at his last appointment, they noted a heart murmur and today he gets an ultrasound to find out what’s causing it. Hopefully something simple that I can just treat with medication and diet. And I have some work to do, and a meeting this morning, and the week keeps on rolling.
I can’t wait for the next weekend…
We didn’t exactly do that at all. We came home on Friday all tangled up about this stupid possible real estate deal with this stupid fucking realtor, who I have dubbed “The Talking Head”. The Talking Head, Sean Telnes, for any of you residents in Airdrie who are thinking of dabbling in the real estate market, is a really self-interested guy. He is, of course, a realtor, so that goes without saying. Realtors are, in general, Bad People. I’m sorry if any of you out there are actually realtors, but you had better talk to the ethics department in your industry and sharpen them the hell up right away, because all of you have a terrible name in general, and my impression of realtors gets worse and worse every second I spend speaking with them. Slimy, good-for-nothing, greedy, self-centered, selfish sock-sucking bastards, all of ‘em.
Sorry. Back to the story here. The Talking Head had made an offer to buy my condo on Thursday. You would think “yay!”, but you would be wrong. The Talking Head said he wouldn’t dick me around on the price, and would give me what I was asking, except then he told me he wanted to charge me a commission for finding me (huh?) and representing me in the sale (wha?) and that he wanted me to sign a listing contract with him so he could get his “MLS points” (eh?). And he made an introductory offer that my friend, Bargains (who has her agent’s license, but is NOT a realtor so she’s not evil), looked at and laughed at and told me not to bother with, including an initial deposit of $500, and a possession date of 60 days. He wants to buy the place so he can show it, but he doesn’t want to pay for it for 60 days, hopefully having rented it out by then so he doesn’t have to spend any of his own actual money for it. Except during the interim, I still have to pay the mortgage and taxes and utilities, and I don’t get any of that back.
So I changed the offer a bit and faxed it back to him, and he didn’t seem to have any trouble with it, so he initialed it and faxed it back. Then he kept on pressuring me to sign it, sign it, sign it, sign it so we could get the deal rolling, so he could give me $1K, so he could get a key to show it, so he could get this show on the proverbial road, folks. Something in that whole severely pressure-laden pitch of his put me just a little OFF. I did NOT sign anything. I looked it over more carefully, and decided I just didn’t like some of what he was DEMANDING, so on Friday, I changed it all again. I went to the gym. I didn’t answer my cellphone. I purposely ignored The Talking Head, and Friday evening, Rob and I went over to my parents’ place to get my mother, who is on my mortgage with me in case I am killed (so the gov’mint doesn’t get my stuff), to also sign all this stuff. Which she did. Which I sent away in their fax machine to The Talking Head.
That took up a portion of our evening. We got home, and watched TV, and drank. When I drink, I get very, very tired, unless there is a party going on. If there is a party going on, I get nervous, and drink more and more until I am very drunk, and THEN I pass out, after a longer time period. But if it’s just me? Sitting there? I get too tired to watch TV, and have to go to bed by 10:30p.
Saturday morning, we did not sleep in at all. The alarm clock rang as though it was a weekday, and all the animals got up as though it was a weekday, and I was therefore FORCED to get up and feed them all or let them outside as the case may have been. I did not get to sleep in as I had planned, and I was tired. I still had TV to watch from the night before, though, so we watched that. And got up and had breakfast, and did chores and cleaned and cleaned and cleaned.
Part of that cleaning involved picking up all of the dog poop from the yard. Cooter doesn’t like to poop in places that aren’t the yard. When we go for a walk, the NoodleDog poops out wherever we are, so it’s easy to dispose of. You pick it up, toss it in the bin that the City services, and that’s that. Cooter, on the other hand, waits until he gets home. So the whole yard, and I’m not even exaggerating one little bit here, was FULL OF DOG POOP. Because we are bad people and haven’t cleaned it in several weeks. By several weeks, I mean we cleaned a section of it in January, but since most of the yard was covered in snow, we didn’t get that aggressive with it. Now, since the weather has been very nice for the past couple of weeks, everything has melted, uncovering treasure-rich deposits as it went.
Oh, sure, Rob had chores to do – he had to unload the camper. So who was picking up the poop? Yours truly. Me. I picked up poop for HOURS, people. HOURS. My back is sore, there was so much poop to be picked-up. Ick.
It was also nice enough on Saturday to get out the patio furniture and set it up, clean it off and sit around for a few minutes. But not too long, since we had so much to do. The Talking Head had left a message that the fax was blank, so we had to re-fax it. We also went back up to the condo in Airdrie and finished cleaning it out. All of the little odds and ends and bits of junk we left until the end? Are now out of there. That place is EMPTY, totally. So that’s nice. We won’t ever have to do that again, unless we move, which we are never, ever going to do. Ever.
That brings us to Saturday evening. Where, again, we weren’t sure what to do. We had been delayed getting home, of course, so by the time we figured out what was going on, it was really too late to cook, and we didn’t feel like it anyway, so we just ordered pizza, which is kind of junk-y, but not really what I had had in mind. And we didn’t rent anything, either, because we had TV backed-up from the week before, which had to be cleared off, so we watched that instead of renting anything fun. But there was a little drinking again, and of course, by 10p, I was passing out on the sofa, so we just went to bed. I am boring!
Sunday was a new day. We slept in a little more than on Saturday, although there were lots of animals asking for food and attention and whatnot, but we ignored them! Ha! No, we totally didn’t. Rob got up and fed everyone, and let the dogs out and got up. Apparently, he was hungry or something. So instead of really sleeping in, again, we got up by 8:30a, and were going about our day as though we were supposed to be working or something. Chores, chores, chores. Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Unpacking boxes by the dozen!
We spent, literally, the whole entire day working at unpacking boxes and cleaning and getting things done. I suppose the end result is nice – we have a clean house and more of my stuff is unpacked (still more to go, of course), and laundry is done so I have clean clothing to wear, but man, I feel like I missed out on enjoying a weekend here. I feel like I should have taken the dogs out for a nice long walk while it was sunny and warm, which it is now NOT (it’s actually raining today). I feel like I should have made an effort to get out to the mountains to see what’s going on out there. I feel like I should probably at least have gone to the gym for an hour to keep my activity level up. But I did none of that, and instead, just worked and worked and worked. My job that I get paid for is easier than what I did this weekend.
Sunday evening, we had some friends over for dinner. It was nice. Rob cooked a very nice beer can chicken, which is also known as beer-butt chicken, and I cooked a nice side dish of potatoes and spinach, which is a lot better than it sounds. We had garlic bread, and dessert, and fancy coffees with liqueur, whipped cream and grated chocolate, even. So we were all very full after that, and even for hours afterwards, I felt way too full.
Even then, the work did not end. Laundry still had to be finished. Endless boxes beckoned to be unpacked. We sort of half-assedly watched Men in Black II on the satellite downstairs. Finally, we went to bed at 11:45p, and now, today, here, I’m tired. And I feel cheated about the weekend, although I’m very glad the condo is done and I’m very glad the house is clean and I’m very glad my stuff is getting unpacked.
So what, then, is the answer? Should we half-ass our way through everything? Rush through the chores and cleaning, to rush through the enjoying/relaxing part to rush through the cooking? No. There is no answer, and I’m here to tell you that you’re all doomed. You can either enjoy a weekend, or clean, or unpack your boxes, but you can’t do everything. Know your limitations, is the lesson I have learned.
At any rate, it’s Monday and I have not heard back from The Talking Head. I changed up a lot of stuff on that offer, so we’ll see if he really wants the condo or not. Also, Rumble has gone to the vet’s again, because at his last appointment, they noted a heart murmur and today he gets an ultrasound to find out what’s causing it. Hopefully something simple that I can just treat with medication and diet. And I have some work to do, and a meeting this morning, and the week keeps on rolling.
I can’t wait for the next weekend…
