the Hill

The Hallowed Halls of our Ivory Tower
Pulse well into the Night;
lapdogs, lackeys, fools in suits:
Buzz, text message nothing.

We erected these Marble Slabs together, Friend
Built Chambers and Antechambers;
Constitutions, and Freedoms spent:
Codified by what they are not.

You told me once you knew what It didn't mean
Defined It through It's absence;
Maybe, but is that Something to sacrifice our Sons and Daughters for?
No. No, no, no: Never.

We separate Ourselves by False Distinction
Caress through Man-Made Border Lines;
And though this Map points to where Home is, should be -
It fails to capture This.

la petite monnaie

Keep me in your left breast pocket, Boss; bills neatly folded, ready to be spent. It's not like you're George Costanza, and you've sent your hard candies and three-year-old expired warranties to me to die. You know what your currency is, and how much of it you're willing to spend. I know you're concerned about recent news events, and so you're questioning your strategy of my strategic location - wondering if you should switch to a money belt, placed dangerously close to your liver, so that would-be thieves would have to shoot you in the gut for it.

Don't. Don't let yourself go there. Night-time robbers following you home from the opera will get what they want from you no matter where I am on your person. A money belt at your abdomen, silver coins in your pants pocket, a roll of bills stuffed into a sock: if hoodlums want these things, they will take them. Yes, keeping me in your left breast pocket makes the level of your wealth more visible and prone to beggars, and isn't the safest location for me if you're worried about truant children swarming you in a dark city street one night as you make your way home for supper. But the damage done from a potential mugging is less violent than if they go for your abdomen, or your pants pocket, or your sock: in those instances they would make away with more pieces of paper, words and numbers ambiguously - and ultimately meaninglessly - scrawled atop.

Keeping me clearly visible and easily accessible means you are less likely to be stabbed for my contents, leaving a trail of blood to follow you around like breadcrumbs, showing others where you've been, suggesting where you're going. You are less likely to be scarred during burglary; wounded forever, permanently, the mark of the beast burned forever into your forehead for all to see. And you are less likely to lose it all. Vultures are happy to get a dollar here, a toonie there, when they know they can come back to the well for more when they like. Keep your bills in a smelly state of wetness in your Asics and, well, the leeches just might want all of it, right then and there: What would you be left with?

No, Boss. Continue to keep me in your left breast pocket, close to your heart. Let others know how much capital is at your disposal. People are more likely to pass you over that way, and look to the person behind you to rob. Humans always search for the greater payoff; they're willing to risk everything to see what's behind door number three, even if the Vegas odds all point to a goat. That's the beauty and the tragedy of currency, Boss. Besides, in this day and age of wireless transaction, faceless and touch-less - and love-less - communication, the Big Banks insure everything; the most you'll ever be out is the first 50 bucks. And it takes more than that to purchase your favourite pair of Gap jeans, doesn't it?

project RACE monthly update

163 bpms. Addicted.

requiem for a blog

What is it about you that makes me want to vomit words? Open the shades at my darkest hour, expose myself to you? I am Mona Lisa, a Shakespeare play; studied, dissected, and – worst of all – rehearsed. Circus clowns escort you past me: “Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see here.” I know this, and yet I still scream. Dangling in a cave in a Utah canyon; unknowable, unknowing. I cut off my nose to spite my face.

I sit before you, coffee in hand, and try to think of something to say. Nada. Ziltch. Zip. Void. You stare at me blankly, vacuum tubes pulsing light; we play a game of chicken. Who can make a fool of themselves first? One, two, three…GO! I lose. I always lose. One of God’s gifts to me was never a poker face. A pair of fours may be all I have, and I want to share it with you. I show you my hand before I even know what I have myself. If I had an eating disorder, it would be bulemia: binge, purge; binge, purge. Not to eat at all? That takes real restraint.

How sad, that I should feel this way, when I can hear the whispers of the most important people in my life in the background: Talk to me! they plead. Tell me a story! Catatonic, I keep the life preserver they request to myself. I don’t have the energy to throw it ten feet. But if it came down to it, I would swim for them. Jump in shark-infested waters. Drown, never to speak – or write – again.

In the end, it’s just garbage I give you. Thoughts that cannot translate into deeds. Caveat: Not all thoughts, of course. Some letters strung together (signs) form words that would be too much (signifier) for your pious selves to bear. WITNESS! your soul granted a pergatory pass would scream. A SINNER IS BEFORE YOU! (Indeed it would, because even THIS is too much for you, isn’t it?)

Another heap for these words I should find, lest they continue to bounce around inside me trapped - rotting, stinking, festering – until one day their toxic gases seep out of me, poisoning both of us in the process. Mona Lisa had a secret journal; that’s why her lips are curled.

cheese, wine, and other imports

If I were a Dude, I would be all over French chicks. Especially ones named Annick. I have yet to meet an Annick I don't like. The woman who leads my Saturday morning gym class is Annick; a beautiful brunette with an imperfect tongue and an infectious smile and laugh: the pale and predictable prairie girl I am is pathetic next to her. She's a dream, and is one of the only ones who can coax me to count aloud squats with her (I don't chant with the others usually; I feel like a dumb ass). But for Annick? I'll even numerate en français.

One of the women I work closely with is a Francophone. Spending time with her in Whitehorse made me realize why I always pick up the phone when she calls my desk after 6 pm (I don't with everyone). She's always been a sweet thing; accommodating, understanding, and, most importantly, patient. These qualities were tested though, when at the Fancy Dancy Supper we were at, we walked into the room to discover an Assigned Seating Arrangement (party planners everywhere are gasping). We had planned to sit next to each other; the master list had us at opposite ends of the room. "I hate when people tell me where to sit," she hissed, unleashing her inner sovereigntist - personal, not political (although how can these two things ever be separate?) "I. Hate. It." Beowulf couldn't slay that dragon.

This is why I love them, those thorny roses who could care less if you'd prefer they not smoke in front of you. ("There's the door. Use it.") Because - piss on it - doesn't matter what you think. No one tells them where to sit. No one suggests to them when it's time to go home. No one writes their constitution for them.

Blow smoke rings in their faces because, well, piss on it. And that's the only reason. I dig it.

happy birthday grandma-ma-ma!

I can't wait to see you at Easter! I am practising running to you for kisses and hugs. See?

Love, Turkey Roll

xo

the dresser

This is the third time I've been made-over. Fourth, really; but one cannot really count the transfer of wealth from one generation to the next as "reinvention." At least, I cannot. True change requires a stripping of my soul; a new purpose. Ironic, how in each instance less of me remains, but my value increases. Funny, how a society of such gluttons - mass producers of Che images, collective individuality; insatiable consumers of artificially-flavoured breakfast shakes in the pursuit of health - should value me more now that I've been used, sanded down into something brittle: my purpose, questionable. Open to interpretation.

Do you chase the history of humanity through your desire of me, or do you crave the chemical lacquer that covers my wounds, now called "character?" Is it love, or do you like choking me? Starving out my oxygen with each coat of clear, just to see your own reflection in me better?

Does this really matter to me? Not quite. They're just questions I have. The truth is, you can never define yourself through me, and I think that deep down you already knew that, despite how you sit on the edge of your seat, waiting for my number to be called, so that you may frantically, casually, raise your paddle, assert your authority over me. I am just a cover for you; a facade. You will stuff me full of socks maybe; summer soles in winter. Guest linens. Yellowed letters of love, buried like treasure, but just paper, just words: everything and nothing simultaneously.

You will give me much more than the deed to your house, folded neatly in a lock box, the bottom shelf (because thieves are too lazy to bend over). You will surrender more than the stains that tattoo your outer shell, the pieces of cloth that you strip away each night: equalized.

The currency with which you purchase me is more valuable than the manifestations of Mammon you humans are so quick to shed blood for; and yet you do not value them at all. Your secrets. Your essence. Your measure of self-worth. The representations of your own image in your mind's eye. What you do not share with others in this earthly life, but leave for them to discover in your death, once it's too late.

I am much more than slabs of wood precisely nailed together; a whole of parts, constructed, reconstructed, until, inevitably, deconstructed, used for kindling for the Christmas fire, memories of dressers past forgotten against the prospect of the new Dustbuster under the tree (so much cleaner, don't you think?)

Me? I am Your Protector.

what, me bully?

I call it a "grace deficit." Dad? He calls it "rammy." Whatever it is, it's true: I am a bully. It finally hit me last night, as strong a thump as when I'm walking down a hallway and run right smack into a doorframe. Suddenly, without warning, I veer to the left, causing a hip hematoma the size of a grapefruit. Grace deficit? Nah. I claimed for bankrupcy a long, long time ago.

My ramminess causes me to hemorrage words as well. Sitting last night in the hotel bar with the only colleague I have here who doesn’t consider me a spy, I interrogated him: How old are you? Where do you live? How old is your financee? How did you meet? Where do you see yourself in five years? Where do you come from? These rapid fire questions held him against the wall not ten minutes after he’d complained about the nosiness of a woman at the airport, who’d come up to him to ask him why he was so moody. “You look stressed,” he said she’d said. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

He’d thought her odd, and rightfully so. Who was she to probe him for such personal information? What gave her right to lay claim to his secrets? I agreed, and noticed no irony in my own line of questioning later on, until I’d tucked myself under the covers, thinking about how I’d asked him to expose himself through response.

He’s 37. He lives in a condo in the Market. His financee is 10 years his junior. He met her a lawyer party. (Um, isn’t that an oxymoron?) He’s not sure where he wants to be in five years. He comes from London, Ontario.

Aha! My mind’s lightbulb flashed bright as I clicked off the bedside lamp. That’s the difference between him and I. I am too open, too honest, a consequence of my Western Canadian immigrant heritage, maybe, ghosts within me recalling their wait in the line at Pier 21, answering The Man With The Stamp: Where do I come from? How old am I? Where do I want to be in five years? These answers pour out of me; my heart leaks onto the table. Which is fine for me, but maybe not so much for the person I’m confessing to, who is left to clean the table up.

And for him? Gentrified sensibilities of proper tea times past cause him to get his back up when the questions start coming. Ontarians like to keep themselves corseted. And while I have the ability to draw them out, like a naïve farmer harvesting friendship, I have to remind myself of my grace deficit before people start to feel like I’m pushing them into the doorframe as well.

Besides, generalization like that above is what keeps this country great.

traitor

It's a small country. Plane mates on the Vancouver to WHITEHORSE stint (yes, I'm in Whitehorse; which, I guess, is better than finding out mid-flight that you're going to Winnipeg, or something) included two dudes with whom I used to work with in Saskatchewan. Been almost four years since I've seen them, and save for a few grey hairs on their heads (not mine, of course), they are the exact same friendly, down to earth guys they've always been. I felt transported back in time for 2 hours and 18 minutes, until the plane touched down, and the various passengers scattered to form groups of colours around the baggage conveyor belt: red, Ontario; blue, I don't know who; black, well, you get the point. I drifted to the reds, who were hanging out with the colourless (because we can't pick favourites, now can we), and watched from afar as all the green plaids hugged, chatting happily with each other. The reds and colourless? We all checked our Blackberries, confirming that there is indeed no wireless service (THANK. GOD.)

I miss my green plaid peeps, even if their fashion sense is questionable.

4:12 am

Dear Fate,

You have perfect timing. Shortly you're to ring on my door, and carry me away for 96 hours. To a place where maybe Blackberries work; maybe they don't. Don't count on anything. Don't take anything for granted.

A good book, and two solid days to read.

No computer, green light flashing "on"; siren song of escape, and confinement.

Just me and, quite possibly, a pickled thumb.*

-----

*No, I guess that's Dawson City, not Yellowknife. At least, that's what Google says.

sending in my $1.99 plus shipping and handling

By now you will agree I've never been a normal girl. I've tried; oh, how I've tried. I've made the requisite list of Teen Beat, Teen Street and Seventeen and told my Dad I neeeeeded them, could he just pleeeasse pick them up on his way home for me? And, perfect papa he is, he did. They never really did anything for me, though. Kirk Cameron was kind of a weirdo. (Although Joey was always sooo much better than Jordan; maybe I was just drawn to him though because he was a December baby like myself. Though he was technically a Capricorn, that was close enough for this narcissistic Sagittarius.)

I flipped through the flimsy pages, passing easily the advertisements promising a one-on-one conversation with whatever heart throb my little heart desired. Nah. Not interested. I pored over the advice columns, solely for the smirk factor. What kind of self-respecting person cares about what her best friend thinks of her new shoes? Just go tell her to $@#& herself! Leo DiCaprio full face centre-fold? Pshht. (Though maybe I'd put that up on my wall now.)

The one page I could never get past? Usually, it was in the last two, maybe three, pages of the magazine. The ones where they advertised packages of sea monkeys and t-shirts with your boyfriend's name on them and pen pals? Yeah. I wanted a pen pal.

introducing the dank

Dear Uncle Chris,

Daddy is taking an on-line real estate course right now, so he needed a couple hours of "Boh-free time" to study on Saturday afternoon. So Mommy took me to Irene's, because where else to take a baby on a sunny weekend afternoon whilst Winterlude is keeping our Nation's Capital aglow and abuzz but an ill-lit stinky pub with greasy burgers, cheap Blue on tap, and the names of patrons past carved into your table? We think we saw your picture on the wall...

Uncle D. had rented out the basement to host a jam session with Uncles B. and S. The girls ate greasy fries and showed Mommy their wares from a morning of spending too much money.

Mommy said she missed the days of disposable income. The only thing disposable in her purse now are diapers, Size 3.

It was open mike, and some regulars got up to play a few tunes. The last song they played was a Neil Young cover, Rockin' in the Free World. I was getting fidgety, so Mommy and I got up and danced. (Funny that; Irene's has no highchairs.)

It was my first live band. Mommy said it reminded her of Paris, and the night she danced with Carlos, a Mexican who could not speak a lick of English but for Elvis Presley lyrics. The band then played Can't Help Falling in Love, and Mommy took Carlos by the hand to a small spot by the stage to dance.

Carlos glowed.

The band yesterday didn't look much different than the band from the restaurant in Paris (pictured below). Except, you know, they were English, so the flare was relatively muted.

But it was still a good day.

Love, Boh

XOX

saturday night

Epic – Faith No More
Your Woman – White Town
Tom’s Diner - Suzanne Vega
Fast Car – Tracy Chapman
Smoke Baby – Hawksley Workman
Mind Flood – Sam Roberts
Let Go – Frou Frou
Missing – Everything But The Girl
Only Happy When It Rains – Garbage
Papa Was A Rolling Stone – The Temptations
She’s So Cold – The Rolling Stones
Freedom! ’90 – George Michael
Lola – The Kinks
Somewhere Over The Rainbow – Ab Orchestra

echocardiogram

You'll no doubt be pleased to know that today was finally a slow day at work. I'm down to about 99.

I. Rule.

email jail

As a self-acknowledged Crazy List Maker, one of my favourite itches to scratch is to keep a very thorough and organized email filing system on my computer at work. I pride myself on my Folders. My first few weeks at a new job are invariably spent lovingly nurturing A System - a system that lets me pull up an email on any given topic with just a few assured clicks of the mouse. Though it's occurring to me as I write this that I could use the general Search function to the same effect, there is no glory in that. There is no challenge in typing, "Sport", and "Hosting", "Good god, HOW MANY TIMES do we have to go through all this sh!t AGAIN?!!", so that the email with all the answers pops up, to remind you of that funding formula that you still don't understand, but have to brief up on anyway. No. That email is in its proper Folder, waiting. Waiting for me to dig it out again, show it the glaringly florescent light of day (or early evening, as is too often the case these past few weeks).

It's why I got the twitches briefly, earlier, as I watched in the matter of seconds seven emails come in at once. Bang... Bang... Bang, bang, bang, bang.

BANG!

And I looked at the counter, and realized the ridiculousness of my days: over 300 emails. Unread. And most of them: un-Foldered.

I. am. losing. control.

Sure. Many, if not most, of these emails are the day's headlines. Notices from friends about social gatherings long since past. Diatribes by up and coming young whipper snappers about what reasonable accomodation really means in Quebec. Emails by bright young things years younger than me, some of whom will someday be my boss. And so I want to keep them, read them one day when I have a half hour to spare.

But - alarmingly - there are also too many emails left unopened that I know contain some important nugget of information relevant to one or more of the twenty-two tasks at hand. I'm skating. And I've fallen through the ice a couple times already. Today. I'm not too concerned about my ability to manage all this - yet. I am learning at an astonishing rate; exponentially. I've reminded myself that I'm generally a good employee. I ask questions. I admit error. And I move on. (Or try to, anyway.)

It's the lack of Folder organization that's going to kill me. The next time my boss Berries me frantically four times in 10 minutes without recieving a response, it won't be because I'm getting a coffee down the street. It'll be because I've reached 400, and my heart could no longer take it.

love

We're all so quick to define what it is that we don't love: "I hate spinach." "I can't stand it when you do that." "I would prefer the yellow one, please." But in love? We're silent. Partly because days like today have taken the concept to a grandiose level, have elevated the word "love" to mean something we think is - or should be - unattainable. And it's not.

I love Adoring and Wonderful Husband. I love my baby. (Though that doesn't mean I love waking up to a diaper so poopy from a meal of beans the night before. Um, yeah. Won't be feeding him those again.) And I love my family, and my friends, and myself. I love writing, and I love reading, and I especially love those things when the subject matter is me.

I loved Dead Tooth, until he came in for the kiss.

I love the movie Goodfellas. (The Departed seems like just a cheap knock-off, but worth the five bucks, nonetheless.)

And I know I will love the Chocolate Dipped Strawberries Blizzard Adoring and Wonderful Husband is bringing home right now, so we can watch 'Til Debt Do Us Part on the Life Network later, and gush about how well we're doing compared to those sorry suckers.

We, ourselves, should be the ones to define love. So that we're not scared of it. Love is a continuum. It ranges from a trite love of chick peas, to the profound sense of partnership that you find with the person you share signatures with on a legal document in City Hall. The only way to find the land where we tell each other we love each other each and everyday, and not once in a cold and snowy minute in the middle of the winter, is to learn how long your continuum is. Someday you'll find your end*, and that person there will be your truest Valentine.

(*Yes. I am aware that there is no theoretical end to a continuum, but there is in this life, okay?)

20 Minutes at Snowflake Kingdom

It should have been A Day At Snowflake Kingdom, according to Uncle Samy's very elaborate email, which apparently none of his jerk friends read. But Boh cried his little eyes out after only a short time, requiring Mommy and Daddy to get out of the cold and into a toasty warm apartment full of red wine, homemade hummus and yummy cheese. (We've trained that baby of ours well.)

Boh's first taste of a Beavertail.

Grumpy (but so very cute).
Daddy and Boh in front of the only ice sculpture we were able to see. Maybe next year, hey Uncle Samy?

memories

O. was apparently married this past Christmas. Good for her. I Googled her name one day for the fun of it, and saw her engagement photo. She looked happy (and thin). (And if you're wondering, yes, I've probably Googled your name at some point too. But don't worry. I must not have come up with anything too incriminating, otherwise it would have been posted on this blog.) I don't know that O. was happy in high school; I doubt that she was. I wasn't. And even though we could never be considered close enough friends for me to firmly establish that fact, I think we had a connection: I'm a bit sad, trying to be happy, shall we hang out once in a while? And so we did. We did the Brewster's trivia thing on Monday nights. My code name was Zyma. I don't remember what hers was. We both drank Wheat Beer and had the obligatory order of 10 cent wings.

That's where we decided that we would go to BC for a week before class started up again in September. We pinky swore, O., J. and I. It'll never happen, I thought. I'm not even really friends with these people. But it happened. An hour or so outside Regina they asked, "Do you really have to smoke?" and I said, "My van; I'll smoke if I want." So I did. And that was just the confirmation I needed to prove that I didn't know these people, and they didn't know me - and they surely to God didn't know smokers. That's why we offer to drive. That's why we'll host you at our house instead of asking to mess up yours. It's so we can smoke when we want, as much as we want, without feeling guilty or stinky - it's that simple.

Despite my best intentions, I actually enjoyed my week with O. and J. We met up with J.'s artistically tormented cousin on the Island for a couple days (or at least that's how I liked to think of him), and spent a night off-roading somewhere-only-God-knows, only to set up camp on a pristine beach in the middle of nowhere, drinking beer and placing bets on whose crayfish would make it back down to the water first (Irving lost; he died before becoming the true champion I know he was in my heart). I don't know whose house it was, but another black void was enjoyed on the patio of a 1500-sq foot house overlooking the Pacific (the only ocean I can claim to be mine, despite that I'm a prairie girl - - I miss you Auntie Denise!).

I remember the clean, crisp freshwater air while eating a sandwich in front of Lake Louise. The blue burned into my brain. I remember the chill of the campground of Salmon Arm when the conservation officer pulled up to tell us to put our fire out (stupid girls!), we weren't allowed to have one in the dead of summer. I remember the grogginess after waking up to O. putting on her runners for an early morning sprint through the streets of Victoria ("Crazy," I thought, laying my hung-over head back down for another hour of sleep (Need. Greasy. Sausages, I thought, but now I wish I'd have went with her).

And I remember the slime on the crayfish that gave his life to me, so that one day I would have the memory, the memory I share with you today. It was cold, and felt the same way on my fingers as when I'm sick and blow my nose too hard. You know. When it goes through the tissue.

Thanks, Irving. Thanks for the memory.

evicted

My Summer Off? With three babies, a night-time serving job, and the general insanity that must come with living near the in-laws (just kidding Grandma and Grandpa!), I can understand the lack of time to blog. No hard feelings.

But Longings of Youth? LONGINGS OF YOUTH? There is no excuse. For shame, B. FOR SHAME. (Um, unless you're planning to do The Trials and Tribulations of a LavaLife Junkie thing. I am so into the peep show that would be.)

like answering the door to Ed McMahon

"I talked to our financial consultant today."

"Oh yea?"

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"We were approved for life insurance."

[Silence.]

"Really?"

"Yup."

"WHHHOOO HOOOOO!"

[Silence.]

"Oh. My. God."

letter from mommy: month ten

Turkey! Roll!

Okay, kid, this is the BIG TIME. Double digits. Methinks it’s almost time to buy you a razor. At the very least, your own blender. Chicks dig guys that bring their own blenders to parties. (At least I do.) Seriously though, what kind of cake should I make for The Big Day, now only two short months away? A vanilla angelfood cake in the shape of a puppy dog? Double fudge chocolate dressed as a fire engine? A cupcake tree of many different kinds, so you can try all the flavours of the Duncan Heinz rainbow? Because you deserve it, you know. You deserve the world on a platter in front of you. I want to make sure that, if you wanted to, you could GRAB THAT WORLD, AND EAT IT: squish it in your hand, mush it on your face, smash it up your nose. Have fun with it, and taste it all, Little Guy. Life is yummy, sweet, and best served with coffee. Strong, bold coffee, preferably from Mexico or Africa, because those are two regions of the world we really need to put our $1.79 behind. Like, yesterday.

This past month went by wayyy too fast, and you grew up wayyy too much while being out of the peripheral vision of mommy’s watchful eye. I jump off of the bus before it’s even come to a complete stop and begin to sprint towards Our Cocoon everyday with an urgent need to smell your belly and a secondary requirement to pee (why don’t I just go before I leave work, you may wonder? Because I can’t wait to get home to see you, that’s why. One minute extra with you is worth the bladder infection I am sure to shortly get.) You came back after a week at Grandma and Grandpa’s able to stand without holding onto anything for a good five seconds, and a baby baritone voice that you pull out whenever you want us to pay more attention to you. (“Mommy! Daddy! Quit watching Intervention on A&E and look at me put my wooden wrench up Gordie’s bum! HEUGGGGHHHH!!!!”)

You’re also quite the explorer, opening drawers, crawling onto things, and just giving Daddy a run for his money generally as he spends his day trailing your path of destruction. Office jobs and arbitrary deadlines and surly supervisors frowning at your inappropriate use of the company fax? Puh-lease. Those things ain’t nuthin’ compared to what it is to spend a day managing your expectations. At least as a desk jockey you don’t have to wipe your boss’ butt. (It’s a fine line, I know.)



Five bucks paid to each and every reader of this blog. That’s what I’m going to wager that the next time I write your monthly letter I get to brag that you’re both walking and saying mama. And if not, hey kiddo, it’s your birthday present fund that I’ll be using to pay off my bookie. Think about it. I love my best guy so, so, so, so, so, so much. So much that every time I want to scream obscenities over the phone at people across the river, throw my Blackberry against the wall in retribution for some irrational demand it’s making of me, or fall into a heap under my desk of whimpering incompetence, I look at your picture which I have beside my monitor and remember what’s really important. And then I put my big girl panties on and continue to fake it through the day, because the sooner I just take it like a man, the sooner I get to smell you. And that’s worth missing all the kick ass blender parties in the world.

Love,

Mommy

scraping the bowels

He walked out of the tiniest bathroom of the tiniest bachelor apartment I had ever squished my parched self and a six-pack of Stella into, and nodded to D.: "I like the reading you keep in the office. You can tell a lot about a man by what he keeps on the toilet tank." And that's how Adoring and Wonderful Husband decided that D., previously a mystery, was, in fact, a cool dude: he laid out an Uncle John's Ultimate Bathroom Reader for the viewing pleasure of his guests. (So much more practical than a coffee table book of sea shells.)

Had a couple runny eggs for breakfast? The resultant five-minute trip to the throne could yield you fodder for your next date about how the average human foot has about 20,000 sweat glands, and can produce as much as half a cup of sweat per day. (Okay, a bad date.) Two too many Guinnesses the night before (and maybe a shot of Prairie Fire thrown in for kicks?) The necessary half-hour stay in Loo-Land is an Uncle John's PhD equivalent; three-pages about the biggest ever fire in London in 1666 keeps your mind off your own ring of fire, if you know what I mean.

My own toilet tank inventory tonight yielded interesting results. We normally prefer the latest Economist because of its short, crisp articles that one can get through in just a pee (though there often is a 14-page special report to entertain on those nights when the meat was just a smidgen undercooked). Our subscription to that great trumpet of the trickle-down theory was sadly out of reach earlier when I was, well, trickling-down, and instead I found a trusty old stand-by that Adoring and Wonderful Husband often pulls out in cases of emergency, Just Give'r, A Handguide by Terry and Dean (a signed copy no less; Dave D. would be so proud). Also, the February 2007 edition of Today's Parent (free from the doctor's office), an early January Maclean's swiped from my parent's house (cover story: "Why do we let our daughters dress like skanks?" Uhh, because if we do, MACLEAN'S WILL PUT THEM ON ITS COVER IN A DESPERATE EFFORT TO SELL MORE MAGAZINES, MAYBE??), and, finally, The Running Room Magazine, January/February 2007, featuring cross-Canada images from the Santa Shuffle. Who knew you could experience the runs in more ways than one?

better than paper napkins

"Maybe as a special treat we can get one of these tomorrow?"

[Looking at the Chocolate Dipped Strawberry Blizzard feature-of-the-month advertisement in my Hotmail]: "What? What's this? Winter! Do you get these emailed to you?"

"Yes."

"And they're personalized. You. Are. Ridiculous!"

But he still didn't answer my question.

fair is fair

"What's he eating?"

"I'm not sure. A piece of a paper napkin, I think."

"Whatever, Boh. You're the one who has to poop it out."

"Just like Gordie. What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

"Yes. That's what that means."

AND OH MY GOD GUESS WHAT?

I totally wrote that last post before I had a chance to read this post. No foolin'.

I guess great minds really do think alike.

lost in translation

During the 1995 referendum, We Westerners were pretty unequivocal: Let 'em go, We said. Don't matter to us, We claimed. And, truth be told, it wouldn't really matter to the West were Quebec to separate. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I want them to (as though I am the voice of the West or something - though I guess at least for this post I am.) I'm just saying, aside from a few bumps and bruises, life would most certainly go on. It would probably be good for Quebec's tourism industry, actually; somehow, it would become more exotic.

To my consternation, I am not even close to being bilingual. And why should I be? I come from a family of farmers. I should know Ukrainian if anything, and I don't even know that. I can barely speak and write English, for mercy's sake. French? I remember one friend in university ask me why I took Spanish instead of French: French? I looked at him quizzically, (and somewhat disgustedly, I must admit). French? The only reason I would have to learn French is if I moved to Ottawa someday, and that will only happen if Hell freezes over. At least with Spanish I have an excuse to drink tequila in Mexico.

News flash: Hell has frozen over. But that tequila was so, so awesome, wasn't it girls?

I have A File that's blown up at work over the last week or so, A File that involves Quebec. As such, I've spent a good part of this last week on Alta Vista Babel fish, trying to figure things out. As an average Canadian citizen, does this scare you? Because it scares me. And it makes me feel like an a-hole, every single time I have to ask one of my bilingual buddies, Umm, what does this mean? (It means Yes, Winter, they tell me. Oui. Means. Yes.)

But as dumb as I feel when it comes to French, Bureaucrat-ese is even more ridiculous. Today, in a three hour meeting, I discovered a new language. I expect anthropology PhD candidates everywhere to line up to get behind this new line of study (because I would guess that the federal government would only be TOO HAPPY to use its spending power to dole out grants to become an international leader on the subject). Can anyone, ANYONE, please tell me what this means?

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a trilateral, not a bilateral.

OH REALLY. I SEE. SORRY I GOT CONFUSED ON THAT ONE.