Evidence that I am totally, absolutely and completely bored: I can't even be bothered to write an entry.
So instead, a couple of quotes which, apply very well to the would be "King of the World" just south of us. Poor Dubbya really must be made to realize that ChooChoo is actually Supreme Emperess of the universe, known and unknown. And me? I'm her evil sidekick. I'll be doing the dirty work, ridding the world of likes of Dubbya & Co. Ltd.
Oh, yeah, right, maybe that actually qualifies as good works. But "nice* sidekick" just doesn't quite cut it, does it?
Usually, terrible things that are done with the excuse that progress requires them are not really progress at all, but just terrible things. - Russell Baker
We need a president who's fluent in at least one language. - Buck Henry
* It's hard being Canadian!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
4 things
OK, enuff already! Chooch harassement has been stepped up, so here’s the 4 things meme… I might have forgotten some, but this is all you get.
4 jobs I’ve had
I worked for the Quebec Winter Carnival in the middle of summer. We had to conceive of, and build, a kiosk at the Old Port in Quebec City for the Tall Ships in 1984. The Tall Ships tanked, and I spent the most boring summer of my life there. And when the Tall Ships actually came to Quebec City, it was a scorcher of a day and people came to watch in our air conditioned kiosk. And let their annoying little kids run around while expecting me to babysit them. I didn’t have much choice as they would’ve torn the fucking place apart if I hadn’t clamped down.
Years later, Mr. Jazz and I realized that we had to have seen each other there, since he was working at a fast food place where I regularly ate. And since there was virtually no one on site....
I worked as a receptionist at a collection agency. With people calling to cry that they couldn’t afford to pay for the TV and such stuff. It was my first job in the big city, my first “on my own” job, my welcome into the world of the office. Annoying as hell it was.
I worked at IBM as a temp during the layoffs in the 90s. I was about the only one around who didn’t walk around with my head between my shoulders, hoping against hope to remain unnoticed, hoping against hope the axe wouldn’t fall. Not a fun atmosphere to work in, but a 6 month contract stretched to over a year.
I worked a total of 1.5 days in a clothing store. Didn’t work out because I loathe being harassed by salespeople when I go into a store and I loathed doing it to people. For minimum wage yet? I think not.
4 shows I watch
Les hauts et les bas de Sophie Paquin – Probably no one that reads this except maybe my sister knows this; it’s a French show on Radio Canada. The story of a woman who owns a talent agency. On the eve of giving birth, her boyfriend leaves her for her best friend, opens his own agency and poaches most of her clients. She has the kid, turns out he’s black – the product of a one night stand in New York. This show is hysterical.
4 jobs I’ve had
I worked for the Quebec Winter Carnival in the middle of summer. We had to conceive of, and build, a kiosk at the Old Port in Quebec City for the Tall Ships in 1984. The Tall Ships tanked, and I spent the most boring summer of my life there. And when the Tall Ships actually came to Quebec City, it was a scorcher of a day and people came to watch in our air conditioned kiosk. And let their annoying little kids run around while expecting me to babysit them. I didn’t have much choice as they would’ve torn the fucking place apart if I hadn’t clamped down.Years later, Mr. Jazz and I realized that we had to have seen each other there, since he was working at a fast food place where I regularly ate. And since there was virtually no one on site....
I worked as a receptionist at a collection agency. With people calling to cry that they couldn’t afford to pay for the TV and such stuff. It was my first job in the big city, my first “on my own” job, my welcome into the world of the office. Annoying as hell it was.
I worked at IBM as a temp during the layoffs in the 90s. I was about the only one around who didn’t walk around with my head between my shoulders, hoping against hope to remain unnoticed, hoping against hope the axe wouldn’t fall. Not a fun atmosphere to work in, but a 6 month contract stretched to over a year.
I worked a total of 1.5 days in a clothing store. Didn’t work out because I loathe being harassed by salespeople when I go into a store and I loathed doing it to people. For minimum wage yet? I think not.
4 shows I watch
Les hauts et les bas de Sophie Paquin – Probably no one that reads this except maybe my sister knows this; it’s a French show on Radio Canada. The story of a woman who owns a talent agency. On the eve of giving birth, her boyfriend leaves her for her best friend, opens his own agency and poaches most of her clients. She has the kid, turns out he’s black – the product of a one night stand in New York. This show is hysterical.
Survivor – I’m a junkie. Mr. Jazz forced me to start watching it in the second season. ‘Nuff said. Probst is nice eye candy though.
Lost – except of course when it’s not on which is most of the damn season. I don’t know why I bother. Oh, yes I do. Naveen Andrews.
24 – But only on DVD. It must be so annoying to wait a week for stuff to happen. I wanna be Jack Bauer when I grow up.
4 places I’ve lived:
Boring, but nevertheless:
Greenwood, Nova Scotia – An airforce base in the Annapolis Valley. Yep, I’m an air force brat.
Chicoutimi, Quebec – Cause that’s close to Bagotville, where there’s another base.
Quebec City – Nice place to visit, but I so wouldn’t want to live there again. Very white, very French…
Montreal – The place I’m meant to be. Very multicultural, great restaurants, all sorts of things going on all the time. Even if I don’t hop around bars and cultural events all that much (seeing all the time spent at the cottage), it’s nice to know they’re there.
4 foods:
Mr. Jazz’s BBQ chicken, stuffed with lemons and onions, and jerked to perfection.
Lost – except of course when it’s not on which is most of the damn season. I don’t know why I bother. Oh, yes I do. Naveen Andrews.24 – But only on DVD. It must be so annoying to wait a week for stuff to happen. I wanna be Jack Bauer when I grow up.
4 places I’ve lived:
Boring, but nevertheless:
Greenwood, Nova Scotia – An airforce base in the Annapolis Valley. Yep, I’m an air force brat.
Chicoutimi, Quebec – Cause that’s close to Bagotville, where there’s another base.
Quebec City – Nice place to visit, but I so wouldn’t want to live there again. Very white, very French…
Montreal – The place I’m meant to be. Very multicultural, great restaurants, all sorts of things going on all the time. Even if I don’t hop around bars and cultural events all that much (seeing all the time spent at the cottage), it’s nice to know they’re there.
4 foods:
Mr. Jazz’s BBQ chicken, stuffed with lemons and onions, and jerked to perfection.
I love Tortellini Gigi – the pancetta in the creamy rosé sauce… my mouth waters just at the thought of it.
Otherwise, I’m pretty open so generally:
Vietnamese food - Love love love it.
Indian – Mahli (in Montreal) makes the best damn Channa Samosa in the world.
4 movies I’d watch over and over
Off the top of my head I can’t really think of any. Pretty much anything by Charlie Chaplin though. And maybe Blade Runner.
4 places I’d rather be
- At the ocean, listening to the waves
- Vietnam
- At the cottage
- Taking a nap
Otherwise, I’m pretty open so generally:
Vietnamese food - Love love love it.
Indian – Mahli (in Montreal) makes the best damn Channa Samosa in the world.
4 movies I’d watch over and over
Off the top of my head I can’t really think of any. Pretty much anything by Charlie Chaplin though. And maybe Blade Runner.
4 places I’d rather be
- At the ocean, listening to the waves
- Vietnam
- At the cottage
- Taking a nap
(or on the edge of the ocean in Vietnam or at the cottage taking a nap. It's all good)
4 people I'm tagging
It's evil to tag people, but what the hell, it's not like I'll harass them to death, hmmm ChooChoo?
So:
Friday, November 10, 2006
Tagged
I've been tagged. ChooChoo said I have to do it. Now, knowing ChooChoo, and since I value my life, I will do it. I just didn't have any time at all today to breathe, much less blog.
Work is highly overrated I think. I was born for a life of leisure, but no one is willing to "keep" me.
Damn.
Have a good weekend, I'm outta here!
Work is highly overrated I think. I was born for a life of leisure, but no one is willing to "keep" me.
Damn.
Have a good weekend, I'm outta here!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Reasonable accomodation
I hesitated for quite a while before posting this, thinking I might be accused of racism, intolerance, or whatever. Then I figured that hell, if I can't say what I think in an anonymous** blog, where can I? Let it be said right here and now that I am not a racist, that I am not intolerant and that basically, I’m probably more tolerant than I often should be about all sorts of things.
Here in Quebec, land of tolerance and live-and-let-live, we have a, principle I guess you’d call it, whereby people can invoke – often in court – something called “reasonable accommodation”. Now lets just say that I’m probably not a reasonably accommodating person, I’m more along the lines over overly accommodating (read: I’m a total wuss and you can walk all over me, then stomp me in the face and I’ll say thanks).
However, recently (over the past couple of years) the concept has been invoked regularly, and depending on the issue, I've been on one side or the other.
However, recently (over the past couple of years) the concept has been invoked regularly, and depending on the issue, I've been on one side or the other.
There was an incident, way back when, in the town I live, where people were banned from sunbathing in bathing suits in a park near my house because Hassidic Jews passed through and were exposed to the sight. This being said, being exposed to a fat guy in a Speedo slowly baking himself to lobster status is not a fit sight for anyone in my humble opinion. It is a shudder-invoking sight, to say the least. On the other hand, there were all those hot guys... um, ok moving on.
A school in Montreal banned Muslim girls from wearing hijabs. The Muslim community was up in arms, and eventually, the headscarves stayed. Personally, I didn’t see the problem. They want to wear a scarf? Whatever floats your boat. Teenage girls around here walk around with their thongs showing, is that really any less offensive?
Then, it was the Sikh boys who weren’t allowed to wear their kirpans to school. Again, since it was a religious symbol, and after the cause had its day
in court, Sikh boys were allowed to wear their ceremonial daggers. The pro side, argued that it was ceremonial, and is never used. Those against argued that, “Damn people, it’s a dagger, it’s a weapon. HELLO!!!” I tended to side with the “um, well, it could be used as a weapon” side of the argument, not necessarily by the Sikh boy, but by someone who might actually take it from him. In these days of taxing in the schoolyard, is that so hard to conceive of?
Then there was the “well we have to wash our feet to pray” controversy, where students at the university (don’t remember which one) were washing their feet in the bathroom washbasins, which, by the standards of those waiting to wash their hands a prayer time was just a little over the top.
And the “we need our own room and not a common non-denominational room to pray in” thing, after which a room was found.
There was incident when Muslim girls had to have the school pool to themselves, with all possibility of seeing into the pool area blocked off, because they couldn't be seen by men.
A school in Montreal banned Muslim girls from wearing hijabs. The Muslim community was up in arms, and eventually, the headscarves stayed. Personally, I didn’t see the problem. They want to wear a scarf? Whatever floats your boat. Teenage girls around here walk around with their thongs showing, is that really any less offensive?Then, it was the Sikh boys who weren’t allowed to wear their kirpans to school. Again, since it was a religious symbol, and after the cause had its day
in court, Sikh boys were allowed to wear their ceremonial daggers. The pro side, argued that it was ceremonial, and is never used. Those against argued that, “Damn people, it’s a dagger, it’s a weapon. HELLO!!!” I tended to side with the “um, well, it could be used as a weapon” side of the argument, not necessarily by the Sikh boy, but by someone who might actually take it from him. In these days of taxing in the schoolyard, is that so hard to conceive of?Then there was the “well we have to wash our feet to pray” controversy, where students at the university (don’t remember which one) were washing their feet in the bathroom washbasins, which, by the standards of those waiting to wash their hands a prayer time was just a little over the top.
And the “we need our own room and not a common non-denominational room to pray in” thing, after which a room was found.
There was incident when Muslim girls had to have the school pool to themselves, with all possibility of seeing into the pool area blocked off, because they couldn't be seen by men.
As an aside, it seems to me that if men are so superior to women, they would be capable of controlling themselves if they see a woman who isn't veiled. I mean, since they're veiling their women to protect them from mens "needs". Do Muslim men so underestimate their capacity for self control? If so, how sad.
This week, it’s the Mile End YMCA. There’s an alleyway between the Y and a Hassidic synagogue and social centre. The yoga and pilates rooms look out onto the alleyway. Kids play in the alleyway while there parents are at the synagogue. The synagogue asked repeatedly that the windows looking out onto the alley be replaced by frosted windows so the children wouldn’t be subjected to the sight of women in shorts and other assorted workout clothes. The windows were replaced (to their credit, the synagogue paid for all labour and materials). People are furious because, among other things, they get no more light…
Now, personally, I’m all for accommodating the other guy. But, is it me or is it getting out of hand? If I emigrate to a Muslim country I’ll wear a hijab, or whatever else I have to wear. They won’t change their laws because I’m not too big on the whole burqua thing. So why, when people move to a secular country, to North America for pete sake, from whence all things nasty and despicable come (though apparently the good life trumps the contemptible aspects of our lifestyle), are we, the offensive and loathsome inhabitants, expected to bend over backwards to accomodate them?
It seems to me that this is going beyond reasonable. Would it be so wrong to put our collective foot down and say: You’re here, this is our society, this is how it works, deal with it?
Just sayin’, ya know?
This week, it’s the Mile End YMCA. There’s an alleyway between the Y and a Hassidic synagogue and social centre. The yoga and pilates rooms look out onto the alleyway. Kids play in the alleyway while there parents are at the synagogue. The synagogue asked repeatedly that the windows looking out onto the alley be replaced by frosted windows so the children wouldn’t be subjected to the sight of women in shorts and other assorted workout clothes. The windows were replaced (to their credit, the synagogue paid for all labour and materials). People are furious because, among other things, they get no more light…
Now, personally, I’m all for accommodating the other guy. But, is it me or is it getting out of hand? If I emigrate to a Muslim country I’ll wear a hijab, or whatever else I have to wear. They won’t change their laws because I’m not too big on the whole burqua thing. So why, when people move to a secular country, to North America for pete sake, from whence all things nasty and despicable come (though apparently the good life trumps the contemptible aspects of our lifestyle), are we, the offensive and loathsome inhabitants, expected to bend over backwards to accomodate them?
It seems to me that this is going beyond reasonable. Would it be so wrong to put our collective foot down and say: You’re here, this is our society, this is how it works, deal with it?
Just sayin’, ya know?
** Anonymous except for, oh, about 20 friends and close family members.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Rant
I’m sick of sex. Wait, let me rephrase that… I’m sick of the “sexification” of our society.
I’m sick of 12 year olds dressed like hookers.
I’m sick of underboobage. Seriously, what the fuck is up with that? Tops so high the bottom of your boobs show? Why? What’s the point.
I’m sick of looking at girls in low rise jeans so low pubic hair is not an option. At all. And I’m sick of seeing their butt cracks when I’m walking behind them.
I’m sick of hearing about 10 year olds giving blow jobs to boys hardly older than themselves.
I’m sick of billboards with practically naked nubile teenage girls selling everything from hacksaws to winter coats.
I’m sick that society is seemingly geared to making testosterone laden sixteen year olds come in their pants.
Whatever happened to sex appeal? You know, sexy without necessarily flaunting it all, sexy without butt cracks, sexy with, oh, I dunno, a bit of mystery? A bit of “what’s hiding behind there”? Sexy with allure…
There’s nothing erotic about what we’re seeing. Porn chic is just as tiresome as heroine chic was when all the models looked half dead on their feet. ‘Course they still do, but that’s besides the point.
There is nothing chic about porn. Watching porn can be fun between consenting adults, but google Christina Aguillera or Britney Spears and lots of their official photos look like shots from a porn site. Not so much porn chic as skank chic.
Paris Hilton and the latest Vogue cover? Not so much.
Britney Spears and Christina Aguillera with their boobs barely, if at all contained? Not so much either. I mean, c'mon, can you look at the skirt and tell me, seriously that this look is sexy?
It seems to me that if it’s all you see, sex becomes much less, erotic, less titillating, less interesting even. I can’t imagine growing up in such an atmosphere.
I’m really showing my age here, aren’t i?
I’m not advocating going back to a time before pre-marital sex, or back room abortions, a time where sex was a bad thing and had to be hidden away all the time. It just seems to me that it would be refreshing to actually have some of its skankier manifestations under wraps. Add back a bit of mystery.
But what do I know, I’m not 20 anymore…
I’m sick of 12 year olds dressed like hookers.
I’m sick of underboobage. Seriously, what the fuck is up with that? Tops so high the bottom of your boobs show? Why? What’s the point.
I’m sick of looking at girls in low rise jeans so low pubic hair is not an option. At all. And I’m sick of seeing their butt cracks when I’m walking behind them.
I’m sick of hearing about 10 year olds giving blow jobs to boys hardly older than themselves.
I’m sick of billboards with practically naked nubile teenage girls selling everything from hacksaws to winter coats.
I’m sick that society is seemingly geared to making testosterone laden sixteen year olds come in their pants.
Whatever happened to sex appeal? You know, sexy without necessarily flaunting it all, sexy without butt cracks, sexy with, oh, I dunno, a bit of mystery? A bit of “what’s hiding behind there”? Sexy with allure…
There’s nothing erotic about what we’re seeing. Porn chic is just as tiresome as heroine chic was when all the models looked half dead on their feet. ‘Course they still do, but that’s besides the point.
There is nothing chic about porn. Watching porn can be fun between consenting adults, but google Christina Aguillera or Britney Spears and lots of their official photos look like shots from a porn site. Not so much porn chic as skank chic.Paris Hilton and the latest Vogue cover? Not so much.
Britney Spears and Christina Aguillera with their boobs barely, if at all contained? Not so much either. I mean, c'mon, can you look at the skirt and tell me, seriously that this look is sexy?
It seems to me that if it’s all you see, sex becomes much less, erotic, less titillating, less interesting even. I can’t imagine growing up in such an atmosphere.
I’m really showing my age here, aren’t i?
I’m not advocating going back to a time before pre-marital sex, or back room abortions, a time where sex was a bad thing and had to be hidden away all the time. It just seems to me that it would be refreshing to actually have some of its skankier manifestations under wraps. Add back a bit of mystery.
But what do I know, I’m not 20 anymore…
Thursday, November 02, 2006
This and that
Seen in the window of a pet store: *Brand Name*: A healthy dessert for your dog.
What the fuck is that? We’re talking about dogs here. Thos
e animals, which, in the wild, hunt and kill their own food. And eat it raw. And probably sometimes not quite dead when they start on it. These are the animals you want to feed a “healthy dessert” to?
Newsflash. They’re dogs, they don’t need dessert. They’re happy to eat raw bloody meat. Dessert isn’t even on their radar. People, they’re dogs* not people.
For that matter people don’t need dessert either. But that’s a whole other thing.
And healthy dessert? Doesn’t that sort of, I don’t know, negate the whole point of dessert?
Whole other topic: (I really need to find an elegant way to segue into new topics...)
If Mr. Jazz weren’t around to organize my social life, I’d be a hermit. Living deep in a dark, dank cave. Thank god for his social butterfly tendencies.
* No, I don't hate dogs, I love 'em. As well as cats and bunnies and other assorted non human life forms. Actually I probably like 'em much more than human life forms.
What the fuck is that? We’re talking about dogs here. Thos
e animals, which, in the wild, hunt and kill their own food. And eat it raw. And probably sometimes not quite dead when they start on it. These are the animals you want to feed a “healthy dessert” to?Newsflash. They’re dogs, they don’t need dessert. They’re happy to eat raw bloody meat. Dessert isn’t even on their radar. People, they’re dogs* not people.
For that matter people don’t need dessert either. But that’s a whole other thing.
And healthy dessert? Doesn’t that sort of, I don’t know, negate the whole point of dessert?
Whole other topic: (I really need to find an elegant way to segue into new topics...)
If Mr. Jazz weren’t around to organize my social life, I’d be a hermit. Living deep in a dark, dank cave. Thank god for his social butterfly tendencies.
* No, I don't hate dogs, I love 'em. As well as cats and bunnies and other assorted non human life forms. Actually I probably like 'em much more than human life forms.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
A post about nothing.
Once upon a time there was Seinfeld, the show about nothing. Today there is this: a post about nothing, because it’s my blog and I’ll post if I want to, even if I have nothing to say that could even be remotely construed as interesting – so there.
A new month. Again. Already. Time flies (clichés have become clichés for a reason you know) and it’s beautiful in Montreal today, blue blue skies (that deep autumn blue), cool and crisp, with that green, slightly decaying, smell you get in the late fall. Green on the way to dead. Or something.
So, November and we’re that much closer to winter. Is there any way I can actually describe my loathing of winter without this post eventually needing a may-not-be-suitable-for-all-viewers disclaimer? Nope. No way. None at all, so I’ll just shush about that particular topic.
I’m feeling sort of bleh today, but I decided a long time ago that this blog was not the place to roll out and display all my états-d’âme** (because a- it's way outside my comfort zone and b- it's not really interesting at all - I'm no Virgina Woolfe or Sylvia Plath) so I’m not going to do it today. I think y'all pretty much have enough of your own états-d’âme without others throwing theirs in your face. Unless of course you’re a shrink, in which case it’s your job to have crap thrown at you and you are well and highly paid for it so I have no sympathy for you whatsoever.
Talk about an entry going nowhere! Fast. I don’t know why I’m even bothering, except that I feel like writing something. I just didn’t expect it to be quite this horrifically bad. It’s just zipping along the highway towards the proverbial cliff which it will no doubt shortly meet the bottom of (à la Wile E. Coyote) with a decisive…
SPLAT.
**What’s the word in English? Mood is just about it, but the nuance is not quite there; literally it means the state of one’s soul – ain’t that a pretty term
A new month. Again. Already. Time flies (clichés have become clichés for a reason you know) and it’s beautiful in Montreal today, blue blue skies (that deep autumn blue), cool and crisp, with that green, slightly decaying, smell you get in the late fall. Green on the way to dead. Or something.
So, November and we’re that much closer to winter. Is there any way I can actually describe my loathing of winter without this post eventually needing a may-not-be-suitable-for-all-viewers disclaimer? Nope. No way. None at all, so I’ll just shush about that particular topic.
I’m feeling sort of bleh today, but I decided a long time ago that this blog was not the place to roll out and display all my états-d’âme** (because a- it's way outside my comfort zone and b- it's not really interesting at all - I'm no Virgina Woolfe or Sylvia Plath) so I’m not going to do it today. I think y'all pretty much have enough of your own états-d’âme without others throwing theirs in your face. Unless of course you’re a shrink, in which case it’s your job to have crap thrown at you and you are well and highly paid for it so I have no sympathy for you whatsoever.
Talk about an entry going nowhere! Fast. I don’t know why I’m even bothering, except that I feel like writing something. I just didn’t expect it to be quite this horrifically bad. It’s just zipping along the highway towards the proverbial cliff which it will no doubt shortly meet the bottom of (à la Wile E. Coyote) with a decisive…
SPLAT.
**What’s the word in English? Mood is just about it, but the nuance is not quite there; literally it means the state of one’s soul – ain’t that a pretty term
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Three Things
While standing naked next to the gym shower this morning, waiting for hot water to arrive from the third circle of hell where the old Forum* seems to keep its boiler (about 5 minutes if you’re the first to shower in the morning), I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell I was doing there. Still, somehow it seemed a little easier (just a tad, just a hair’s breadth) than yesterday. I’m not insane enough to believe that eventually I’ll actually like it (the getting up part, not the gym part since I’m probably one of the only people in the known universe who actually likes the gym), but maybe, just maybe getting up before six will go from absolute torture to relative torture. That would be good.
When I was a child, lo these many years ago I never, ever had a Mr. Potato Head. Did he not exist in my time, or were my parents just evil evil people bent on screwing up my childhood by depriving me of him?** Whatever it was, I developed a passion for the spud. Mr Jazz has given me a few, I have Mr. P and his car courtesy of the JazzSis, as well as assorted baby spuds. Today I would like you to meet the latest addition to my menagerie (vegetable stand?) given to my by a friend: Darth Tater. Here he is sitting on the TV at the cottage. How cool is that?
Saw a great movie last night. I had heard very good things about it. I had also heard that it was basically porn (because the actors don’t simulate sex in the movie, it’s the real thing). I guess it’s a matter of point of view. The movie is Shortbus and it’s wonderful and it’s nowhere near porn. Of course, if you have problems with watching real sex on the big screen, you might be better to abstain. I’d also advocate not going with your mom – but I guess that would depend on your relationship with your mom. Most people I know however, well, not so much with the mom.
* The gym is in what used to be the Montreal Forum, home of the Habs and various assorted ghosts. Not that I believe in ghosts, but hey, it’s Hallow’een. The hockey team has moved to the Bell Centre and either the ghosts went with the team or got lost somewhere along the 2-3 km move. The Forum is now the home of my gym, a Cineplex and various restaurants that seem to go under with stunning regularity, only to be replaced my more restos that will go under soon. You’d think they’d learn. Or maybe the ghosts don’t like restaurants.
**I was also deprived of the game Perfection which I wanted so bad. I wonder how my life would have turned out if I had had that game. I'd probably be less of a spazz or, on the contrary, I'd be a twitching slobbering mess, the explosion of Perfection pieces every 45 seconds having traumatized me forever.
When I was a child, lo these many years ago I never, ever had a Mr. Potato Head. Did he not exist in my time, or were my parents just evil evil people bent on screwing up my childhood by depriving me of him?** Whatever it was, I developed a passion for the spud. Mr Jazz has given me a few, I have Mr. P and his car courtesy of the JazzSis, as well as assorted baby spuds. Today I would like you to meet the latest addition to my menagerie (vegetable stand?) given to my by a friend: Darth Tater. Here he is sitting on the TV at the cottage. How cool is that?Saw a great movie last night. I had heard very good things about it. I had also heard that it was basically porn (because the actors don’t simulate sex in the movie, it’s the real thing). I guess it’s a matter of point of view. The movie is Shortbus and it’s wonderful and it’s nowhere near porn. Of course, if you have problems with watching real sex on the big screen, you might be better to abstain. I’d also advocate not going with your mom – but I guess that would depend on your relationship with your mom. Most people I know however, well, not so much with the mom.
* The gym is in what used to be the Montreal Forum, home of the Habs and various assorted ghosts. Not that I believe in ghosts, but hey, it’s Hallow’een. The hockey team has moved to the Bell Centre and either the ghosts went with the team or got lost somewhere along the 2-3 km move. The Forum is now the home of my gym, a Cineplex and various restaurants that seem to go under with stunning regularity, only to be replaced my more restos that will go under soon. You’d think they’d learn. Or maybe the ghosts don’t like restaurants.
**I was also deprived of the game Perfection which I wanted so bad. I wonder how my life would have turned out if I had had that game. I'd probably be less of a spazz or, on the contrary, I'd be a twitching slobbering mess, the explosion of Perfection pieces every 45 seconds having traumatized me forever.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Early morning gym sessions
I would like to be one of those fabled morning people. I would also like to be Jack Bauer, ‘cause damn, his life is never boring but that’s a whole other kettle of fish.
So, as wishes go, let’s get back to being a morning person. What brought this on? I went back to the gym this morning. To get back to the gym I had to get up at 5:45. Let me tell you, those extra 35 minutes I get when I don’t go to the gym make all the difference in the world. When I get up at 6:20, I’m only useless. At 5:45 I’m basically a zombie.
There’s also the problem of sleep deprivation. Mr. Jazz, he’s the type to manage quite well thank you very much on six hours of sleep. Seven is my bare minimum. At six I can’t even function. Meaning that if I’m to be up at that hour every morning of the week, theoretically I should be in bed – sleeping !!!! – at 10:00 pm. In bed at 10:00, not so much of a problem. Asleep? Much more of a problem.
I suppose one gets used to sleep deprivation. Look at all those bleary eyed parents wandering around. It can be done. I feel it necessary to point out here that I have no children, and the idea of habitual sleep deprivation might be part of the reason.
But I have to get back into shape. The whole asthma thing is apparently much less of a problem if you’re in decent shape. Right now I’m probably in the worst shape I have ever been... and liking it when faced with the alternative of a 5:45 wake up call.
After work at the gym is not an option. After work at the gym is the despised gym bunny hour. These women and their spandex and makeup scare the hell out of me. I’m not sure they’re human. And they descend on the gym in hoards at 5:00 pm. Plus a 5:00 pm gym call means I’m not home before 7:30 at the earliest. Bleh.
So early morning gym session it is. Is there any way to graft happy-early-morning-riser genes onto myself?
So, as wishes go, let’s get back to being a morning person. What brought this on? I went back to the gym this morning. To get back to the gym I had to get up at 5:45. Let me tell you, those extra 35 minutes I get when I don’t go to the gym make all the difference in the world. When I get up at 6:20, I’m only useless. At 5:45 I’m basically a zombie.
There’s also the problem of sleep deprivation. Mr. Jazz, he’s the type to manage quite well thank you very much on six hours of sleep. Seven is my bare minimum. At six I can’t even function. Meaning that if I’m to be up at that hour every morning of the week, theoretically I should be in bed – sleeping !!!! – at 10:00 pm. In bed at 10:00, not so much of a problem. Asleep? Much more of a problem.
I suppose one gets used to sleep deprivation. Look at all those bleary eyed parents wandering around. It can be done. I feel it necessary to point out here that I have no children, and the idea of habitual sleep deprivation might be part of the reason.
But I have to get back into shape. The whole asthma thing is apparently much less of a problem if you’re in decent shape. Right now I’m probably in the worst shape I have ever been... and liking it when faced with the alternative of a 5:45 wake up call.
After work at the gym is not an option. After work at the gym is the despised gym bunny hour. These women and their spandex and makeup scare the hell out of me. I’m not sure they’re human. And they descend on the gym in hoards at 5:00 pm. Plus a 5:00 pm gym call means I’m not home before 7:30 at the earliest. Bleh.
So early morning gym session it is. Is there any way to graft happy-early-morning-riser genes onto myself?
Friday, October 27, 2006
More stories of the fifth floor washroom...
The washrooms on our floor are bizarre. We’re talking office washrooms here. How can a lone sock end up on the counter? How can you lose a sock in an office bathroom in October of all months? Wouldn’t you notice it when you get outside?
Then there’s the mystery of the disappearing soap. The building supplies soap in the bathrooms, obviously, but it’s that fluorescent-pink-as-an-alternate-you-can-use-it-to-refinish-your-living-room-floor stuff. Plus it really doesn’t smell that good. So someone from our office brought in a bottle of hand soap. Your ordinary run of the mill Jergens Soft Soap. Nothing fancy. Not Aveda, not Crabtree and Evelyn, not Body Shop. Jergens soft soap at two bucks a bottle. Two days later it was gone. Stolen. Who the hell would steal a two buck bottle of soap? Plus, damn, we were being nice. We left it there so everyone could use it, even the nutjobs from the sixth floor who sneak down to our washroom.
Idjits.
I have rarely, if ever, talked directly about my job here, but today, I gotta tell you, I hate numbers. I hate working with numbers, I hate trying to puzzle out what they mean. They’re just squiggles on a page for me. Numbers make me feel stupid. More to the point numbers make me look stupid. Even more to the point, after a few hours, numbers actually make me stupid.
They don’t talk to me. They turn their backs on me. They are out to get me. Not the best when you work in an engineering firm.
Gimme a new language and I’ll absorb it pretty easily, give me numbers and they’ll wrestle me down, beat me over the head and make me bleed.
Then there’s the mystery of the disappearing soap. The building supplies soap in the bathrooms, obviously, but it’s that fluorescent-pink-as-an-alternate-you-can-use-it-to-refinish-your-living-room-floor stuff. Plus it really doesn’t smell that good. So someone from our office brought in a bottle of hand soap. Your ordinary run of the mill Jergens Soft Soap. Nothing fancy. Not Aveda, not Crabtree and Evelyn, not Body Shop. Jergens soft soap at two bucks a bottle. Two days later it was gone. Stolen. Who the hell would steal a two buck bottle of soap? Plus, damn, we were being nice. We left it there so everyone could use it, even the nutjobs from the sixth floor who sneak down to our washroom.
Idjits.
I have rarely, if ever, talked directly about my job here, but today, I gotta tell you, I hate numbers. I hate working with numbers, I hate trying to puzzle out what they mean. They’re just squiggles on a page for me. Numbers make me feel stupid. More to the point numbers make me look stupid. Even more to the point, after a few hours, numbers actually make me stupid.
They don’t talk to me. They turn their backs on me. They are out to get me. Not the best when you work in an engineering firm.
Gimme a new language and I’ll absorb it pretty easily, give me numbers and they’ll wrestle me down, beat me over the head and make me bleed.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Anniversaries
Well, here it is. The moment. Today is my first anniversary on Blogger. No bells and whistles. No fireworks. Wassup with that? I thought blogger would host a huge party or something.
No such luck. I guess I’m spoiled because my birthday coincides with a holiday here in Quebec, so at least I’m always off that day. So I expect something special…
Seriously though, I didn’t think I’d last this long. Really. I thought after a few months I’d get it out of my system and it would just fade away. To my surprise, it’s grown on me. Like all bad habits I suppose.
I also didn’t think I’d end up making such a totally dull entry for my “anniversary”. Geez. Coochoo’s guest blog below is much better. I love that I can nag her into doing stuff for me**.
I’ve been asked to write Jazz’s I’ve-been-on-blogger-for-a-year-post (although she does have a sordid past on Open Diary). I suppose we might also call it a this-is-what-Jazz-gets-paid-to-do-post.
I don’t really have the brainpower to write this right now, but I’m doing it anyway. This is partly because Jazz is my good friend (well, she might be more psychotic than she is good…), but mostly because she nagged me into it, and I’m afraid she’ll turn up on my doorstep if I don’t.
What can I say about Jazz, I wonder? Well, she likes knives. After having divulged all the juicy (gory, blood-splattered, sticky) details on how she almost took her finger off with one on Friday, she goes right onto telling us all about her cleaver on Tuesday, which she is obviously disturbingly proud off, since she’s contemplating bringing it when she visits her friends.
And now Jazz has been a blogger-blogger for a whole year. Who ever thought she’d live this long?
There. All done.
And now back to our regular programming.
Mr. Jazz and I have gotten our hands on seasons 3 and 4 of 24. Yay! So far, in season 3, Jack Bauer has not killed so many people, though he did start a riot in a prison. But I guess you can excuse the low numbers of dead and dying, the guy is, after all, trying to save the world while in heroine withdrawal. ‘Cause Jack? He's going cold turkey. Jack? He’s a mensch.
And on the way home from a cocktail yesterday (me and the Mr. at a cocktail – somehow that just doesn’t quite compute in my head), we passed by the Cinéma l'Amour, Montreal’s last porno movie house. Tuesdays are free for couples. There is definitely a Wednesday blog entry coming up soon on that one.
** After reading this she complained that I can only nag her into doing stuff if she's braindead at that particular moment. I stand corrected.
No such luck. I guess I’m spoiled because my birthday coincides with a holiday here in Quebec, so at least I’m always off that day. So I expect something special…
Seriously though, I didn’t think I’d last this long. Really. I thought after a few months I’d get it out of my system and it would just fade away. To my surprise, it’s grown on me. Like all bad habits I suppose.
I also didn’t think I’d end up making such a totally dull entry for my “anniversary”. Geez. Coochoo’s guest blog below is much better. I love that I can nag her into doing stuff for me**.
I don’t really have the brainpower to write this right now, but I’m doing it anyway. This is partly because Jazz is my good friend (well, she might be more psychotic than she is good…), but mostly because she nagged me into it, and I’m afraid she’ll turn up on my doorstep if I don’t.
What can I say about Jazz, I wonder? Well, she likes knives. After having divulged all the juicy (gory, blood-splattered, sticky) details on how she almost took her finger off with one on Friday, she goes right onto telling us all about her cleaver on Tuesday, which she is obviously disturbingly proud off, since she’s contemplating bringing it when she visits her friends.
And now Jazz has been a blogger-blogger for a whole year. Who ever thought she’d live this long?
There. All done.
And now back to our regular programming.
Mr. Jazz and I have gotten our hands on seasons 3 and 4 of 24. Yay! So far, in season 3, Jack Bauer has not killed so many people, though he did start a riot in a prison. But I guess you can excuse the low numbers of dead and dying, the guy is, after all, trying to save the world while in heroine withdrawal. ‘Cause Jack? He's going cold turkey. Jack? He’s a mensch.
And on the way home from a cocktail yesterday (me and the Mr. at a cocktail – somehow that just doesn’t quite compute in my head), we passed by the Cinéma l'Amour, Montreal’s last porno movie house. Tuesdays are free for couples. There is definitely a Wednesday blog entry coming up soon on that one.
** After reading this she complained that I can only nag her into doing stuff if she's braindead at that particular moment. I stand corrected.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Cleavers and Beavers
Mr. Jazz and I had dinner with friends last week and at one point one of our hosts (lets call him M) was cutting through a chicken breast. I told him had I known I would have brought my cleaver, which would have made the job that much easier. Plus the thing would actually get some use. It was a gift and I’ve never actually used it, since I don’t often have chickens or rabbits to hack apart.
Actually maybe I should get a rabbit or other furry dead thing to try it on. Cause as it stands, it’s just there. Waiting. Waiting for that madman to break in, at which point I’ll take the cleaver and whack him with it, splitting open his head and the cops will arrest me and I’ll end up in jail and spend the rest my life as Big Bertha’s bitch. While there’s something to be said for being lodged, clothed and fed, being Big Bertha’s bitch… meh, not so much.
Who me? An overactive imagination???
Segue back to the cleaver conversation with M. Because me? I digress.
Once upon a time when television was a young and awesome medium with a bright future, someone invented the sitcom. One sitcom in particular interests us here: Leave It To Beaver.
A quintessential late fifties American family, the Cleavers (hence the tie-in with the knife – I seem obsessed with those lately, but again, I digress). Dad (Ward) goes to work every day doing who knows what. Mom (June) stays home and vacuums in full makeup, heels and pearls, coffee always on, smile plastered on her face, the woman was probably on Librium, or whatever happy pill used to be the norm back then. Then there’s the older brother, Wally, who’s just there for… well, no one knows too much why Wally is around, probably as a sidekick to , the show’s namesake, his little brother Theodore, aka Beaver.
Beaver. Beaver Cleaver. As M pointed out, either they were clueless or the show’s writers had an evil sense of humour putting a name like that on TV in the late 50s. I tend to go with the second possibility. Because Beaver Cleaver? That can't be accidental.
Actually maybe I should get a rabbit or other furry dead thing to try it on. Cause as it stands, it’s just there. Waiting. Waiting for that madman to break in, at which point I’ll take the cleaver and whack him with it, splitting open his head and the cops will arrest me and I’ll end up in jail and spend the rest my life as Big Bertha’s bitch. While there’s something to be said for being lodged, clothed and fed, being Big Bertha’s bitch… meh, not so much.
Who me? An overactive imagination???
Segue back to the cleaver conversation with M. Because me? I digress.
Once upon a time when television was a young and awesome medium with a bright future, someone invented the sitcom. One sitcom in particular interests us here: Leave It To Beaver.
A quintessential late fifties American family, the Cleavers (hence the tie-in with the knife – I seem obsessed with those lately, but again, I digress). Dad (Ward) goes to work every day doing who knows what. Mom (June) stays home and vacuums in full makeup, heels and pearls, coffee always on, smile plastered on her face, the woman was probably on Librium, or whatever happy pill used to be the norm back then. Then there’s the older brother, Wally, who’s just there for… well, no one knows too much why Wally is around, probably as a sidekick to , the show’s namesake, his little brother Theodore, aka Beaver.Beaver. Beaver Cleaver. As M pointed out, either they were clueless or the show’s writers had an evil sense of humour putting a name like that on TV in the late 50s. I tend to go with the second possibility. Because Beaver Cleaver? That can't be accidental.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
It was a toss up...
... between Bert and Oscar. I was sure it would be one or the other, and Bert won out. For the record, I'm not extremely serious, far from a total neat freak, and more than a little evil.
| You Are Bert |
 Extremely serious and a little eccentric, people find you loveable - even if you don't love them! You are usually feeling: Logical - you rarely let your emotions rule you You are famous for: Being smart, a total neat freak, and maybe just a little evil How you life your life: With passion, even if your odd passions (like bottle caps and pigeons) are baffling to others |
Just sayin'
It has always been the prerogative of children and half-wits to point out that the emperor has no clothes. But the half-wit remains a half-wit, and the emperor remains an emperor. - Neil Gaiman (whoever he is/was)
I found the pic at Elms Puzzles. They make custom wooden jigsaw puzzles. This is from a series by an artist called Gwen Connelly. Ain't it loverly?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Kinves and superstition
The whole knife thing got me wondering about knife superstitions since I knew there was something about how f you receive a gift of knives you have to pay the giver 0.01$ per knife so that the knife doesn’t “cut” your friendship.
Here’s what I found:
- The dropping of a knife foretells the visit of a man friend in the near future.
- And a variation on that one: Dropping silverwear will make company come. Drop a spoon and the company will be female, drop a fork and the company will be male. Dropping a knife will break the spell.
- A knife placed under the bed during childbirth will ease the pain of labor.
- Never give a knife as a housewarming present, or your new neighbor will become an enemy.
- It’s bad luck to make a present of a knife or any other sharp instrument unless you receive something in exchange.
- Never say thank you when handed a knife or you’ll cut yourself.
- Do not use knives or scissors on New Year's Day as this may cut off fortune
And finally:
- A knife as a gift from a lover means that the love will soon end.
That last one is a bit unfortunate since Mr. Jazz gave me the infamous Sanelli slicer. And as of yesterday we have been together 19 years. Good thing I’m not superstitious or I’d have to say, well, it was fun while it lasted.
Here’s what I found:
- The dropping of a knife foretells the visit of a man friend in the near future.
- And a variation on that one: Dropping silverwear will make company come. Drop a spoon and the company will be female, drop a fork and the company will be male. Dropping a knife will break the spell.
- A knife placed under the bed during childbirth will ease the pain of labor.
- Never give a knife as a housewarming present, or your new neighbor will become an enemy.
- It’s bad luck to make a present of a knife or any other sharp instrument unless you receive something in exchange.
- Never say thank you when handed a knife or you’ll cut yourself.
- Do not use knives or scissors on New Year's Day as this may cut off fortune
And finally:
- A knife as a gift from a lover means that the love will soon end.
That last one is a bit unfortunate since Mr. Jazz gave me the infamous Sanelli slicer. And as of yesterday we have been together 19 years. Good thing I’m not superstitious or I’d have to say, well, it was fun while it lasted.
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