Doug's rants, raves & observations on life...

Things Cheap People Life: Part Whatever

2011-11-30T03:12:00.000-05:00

When I was a young lad in my sleepy little Nova Scotian fishing village,* I dreamed of two things: living in Pine Valley, Pennsylvania, and having my very own home office. Since ABC cancelled All My Children, I've turned to the second in hopes of not failing all of little Doug's future aspirations. I also learned that Pine Valley was not a real place. Imagine my surprise after spending weeks scouring the suburbs of Philadelphia for it.

Marco is probably reading this and thinking We already have a home office. Well, not so much thinking it as actually saying it, and shaking his head disapprovingly. But Marco, I say, it's your office, not mine, and there's far too much stimulation there. Like bookshelves and clean floors and comfort. That's why I decided to make the basement my home office.

Nevertheless, having a home office and living in Pine Valley were not my only two childhood dreams. The other? To never spend money on anything.** So does one reconcile these two desires, you ask. Home offices are expensive, and having a second is superfluous. Well, I respond, it's easy when you have a basement and a little bit of ingenuity.

May I present: The Basement.

Creepy, you think. And you're right. It's not one of those fancy finished basements with things like pool tables and floors and convenient electrical outlets. But it'll do.

First, clear out a space. Except for piles like this:

I tried moving this last spring, but something hissed at me. Live and let live, and throw out the old scales.

Find your self an electrical source. For me, this was an outlet clear on the other side of the basement. If that's your case, get a long extension cord. Rather than leave it on the floor, tack it to the ceiling. Literally.

In any office, the center piece has to be the desk, because that's where you'll do most of your work (well, not really. I've almost always been adverse to using desks, especially since The Incident in Grade 5. But that's another post).

This is a desk that Marco bought when we first moved to Columbus and didn't have any money. After we got money, we bought a desk at Ikea, and this one has been in the basement(s) since. When we moved, I lost the screws that hold it together, so it's very unstable. But it holds things, right? When setting up this home office, I was going to buy cork-board for notes and stuff, but that shit is expensive. I was just going to tape some flattened moving boxes to the wall and use that, but scissors are complicated. So I thumb-tacked things to the steps. Now I can reorganize things according to importance, due dates, or how I felt when I woke up that morning. Which is not often in a good mood, mind you. And as an added bonus, the stairs also serve as modern looking bookshelves.

So, how does one keep track of things?

The Calendar

I found this at Target for $5, and stuck it to the back of a box. I wanted to hang it somewhere, but seeing as how there's all concrete walls down here, I managed to find a wire sticking out of the ceiling. A clip, and voila! My very own hanging calendar, which I'm hoping the heating duct (directly behind it) does not catch it on fire. Fingers crossed.

There was no cheap way out of a chair, so I marched myself over to Wal-Mart and sprang $49 on one. That hurt. And for taking notes and jotting down things, which often times involves me pacing back and forth, talking to myself like a crazy person...

White Board

I already have a white board, but I wanted a bigger one. Taking notes on a white board often involves me taking pictures of said notes before erasing them, storing them on my computer and never looking at them again, much like photos of family get-togethers. So I needed to keep it fresh, keep it real... I needed a bigger whiteboard. But that's rather pricey, so I went for the next best thing. Plastic. Since I'm using dry-erase markers, I figured that if I bought a sheet of plastic and stapled it to the wall, it would work just fine. I marched myself over to Joann Fabrics with a dry erase marker in hand, and wrote on at least 7 bolts of fabric and plastic until I found the one that would readily erase. And then I wrote on 4 more because it was kind of fun. And then they kicked me out.

Staple it to the wall, staple a board to the bottom so it stays in place, and suddenly, for just $10.75, you have a 75 inch by 50 inch white board. Nifty, eh? If you don't have white walls, I probably wouldn't bother, because who really wants a brown board? Ridiculous.

Not I'm free to pace to my heart's content. And write, and all it cost was $60.

The basement home office - built yours today!

Oh, and Marco? Suck it.

*Neither of these statements are true. My town was miles from the ocean, and my sex wasn't able to be determined until age 13.

**My allowance was $1 a week until I was ten, and then I stopped getting an allowance at all. I used to spend it on chocolate bars. So this not only explains why I'm cheap, but also why I'm fat.

Where I fell, but still not broken

2009-12-10T02:03:00.002-05:00

Marco is upstairs snoring peacefully.

At 2 a.m., I'm still awake, and have decided to do nothing tomorrow.

After 3 months of getting up at 7 a.m., it's officially over. 12 a.m. no longer strikes fear into my heart as it did a mere few weeks ago, knowing that I'd be exhausted the next day if I didn't not go to bed soon. But no longer.

I'm feeling a bit guilty over the grades I submitted today for my class, because they were not at all what I expected them to be. The class wasn't what I expected it to be. Of the six classes that I've taught, this one was the first that was an absolutely struggle, day-in and day-out. Nobody wants to take Spanish at 8:30 a.m., and I sure didn't want to teach it at that time either, but those are the cards we were dealt. So grab a 2 litre of Coke and put a smile on, right? I did, and it worked... for a few weeks.

And then the vast majority of the students stopped trying. Literally stopped trying everything: participating, talking, remaining awake, absolutely everything. Normally, before class starts, the room is abuzz in conversations about what people did last night, and how other classes are going, or Grey's Anatomy, or whatever. But this class? Nothing. Dead silence until 8:30 a.m. when I would rise out of my chair and declare "Ya es hora de empezar."

And then? Nothing.

No participating.

No looks of interest, despite making up a story about seeing a UFO for a chapter we did on strange phenomenons. When I asked the class to pool their ideas about the strangest tabloid story/rumour they'd ever heard, I started the conversation with Stevie Nick's assistant blowing cocaine up her ass so as not to ruin her vocal cords. One girl said she had read that Oprah was having an alien baby.

Nobody else said anything.

Silence eventually turned into rancor from two students in the back of the room. Well, actually from just one student until he convinced another to follow him on his path of idiocy. We're all adults, right? Most of the time, it sure didn't feel that way. There are three students that I hope to never see again, and they comprise 66% of that group.

Motivation became an increasing problem, both for me and the students. By the end, I was literally counting down the days.

Despite that, I am grateful for a few of the students who had interesting things and participated as much as they could. They really salvaged the class for me.

The only really good thing to come out of this quarter was going to bed at the same time as Marco. For some reason, it's made me feel closer to him.

It's 2:25 a.m., and Marco's still snoring. I think I'll join him.

The Beach

2009-11-03T00:26:00.001-05:00

It's a long, desolate stretch of road between Campeche and Champotón, punctuated by occasional shacks perched precariously against the sea and lone vendors of coconuts. It's not a place most tourists see as they zoom down the new highway some miles from the coast, but it's a place that grabbed me, instantly taking me back to similar, desolate stretches of roadway along Nova Scotia's Atlantic Shore. Being close to the ocean is something that I have frequently taken for granted, but when I'm in the moment, it's something awe-inspiring. Christel and I used to walk along the malecón in Campeche at night, staring out at the vast blackness of the sea spread before us. So dark, yet beyond the pale, cities like Veracruz, Houston and New Orleans unfold. In Nova Scotia, it was the opposite; across the ocean was Africa, someplace unimaginable.

The beach at Champotón was rather unmemorable. My classmates and I made our marks, stretching out in the fleeting sun and taking occasional dips into the briny water.

The beach was marked with the occasional oil-motor bottle, and near the road, a large dead turtle splayed out across a wooden plank. It had died in netting and washed up on shore, left as a grim reminder of the shortness of life in the deep ocean. It was disturbing, yet at the same time, utterly fascinating. How could something so magnificent could be felled by a simple net? In the battle between the sustenance of the people and the life of animals, the latter seemed to have little chance of winning.

We didn't have a particular reason for going to Champotón but to relax, so that's what we did. I was having a particularly hard time adjusting to life in Southern Mexico, so the day-trip was a release. I was living by myself, although I had, nominally, a host-mother. A money-grubber she, I was put up in a house on the edge of the city, an hour bus-ride from the university. As if that weren't bad enough, I didn't have a fridge, a stove, or even electricity. Over the weeks I had been living there, I became completely cut off from the world outside of my daily university classes. At night, I would return home to a dark house, dodging the tarantulas on the street that had crawled up from the jungle below. I entered the baking house and laid down on my sweaty bed, listening intently to a small radio, catching the occasional radio transmission from Texas at night, but mostly just static. I eventually went to the local Chedraui and bought myself laundry detergent and a rope so I could at least wash my clothes. And every few days I would do just that, sitting on the floor of the bathroom, scrubbing my clothes in an old cement bucket to rid them of that smell and hanging them out back, praying that it wouldn't rain so that I would have something to wear the next day. I count the month that I lived in that house as one of the toughest & loneliest of my life.

After a few hours spent lazing around the beach, the wind had turned cool and the sky morbidly dark. In the distance, waterspouts flirted with the shoreline, prompting us to make a retreat to a safer area. Suddenly, we were summoned to a sandy knoll by a few people from the university in Campeche. Our purpose at the beach was to be realized: with tired hands, they dug into the sand — searching, pulling. What emerged was beautiful: tiny turtles. Our mission was to give them a chance at survival.

In handfuls, we carefully picked up the clawing, reptilian beasts. The nibbled and scratched, at once both irritating and entirely endearing. We were given strict instructions to take them to the shoreline, place them on the sand, and do no more. If they didn’t walk towards the water, we were not to move them because it could interfere with their inborn sense of direction. The turtles knew what to do, we just had to get them to the water.

With several in hand, I walked to the water, overwhelmed by the experience. I placed one down on the sand, and slowly, it stumbled towards the water. And the second, and the third, and the fourth. Instinctively, they swam forth to destinations unknown, doing just as generations before them had. Seagulls circled overhead, looking for a tasty snack, but the dark conditions greatly inhibited their hunting capabilities.

I had just one turtle left, but as I was about to lower him into his sandy escape, I noticed that his shell was deformed. I asked one of the university students if that would hurt him and, bluntly, they admitted that it would: he was one of the ones unlikely to grow into adulthood. At that moment, I considered putting him into my pocket and going home, giving him a chance to live, but decided that there was no other fate but the one stretched out before the both of us. I lowered him onto the sand, stepped back, and watched nervously as he made his way towards the water. At he reached the edge, he stalled, then turned back, seemingly confused. As much as I wanted to turn him around and point him in the right direction, I couldn’t — it was sink or swim, so to speak.

We later asked the students from the university why they protected the turtles as they did, and that explained that this particular species was on the brink of extinction. In the wild, they would have a 1 in 1000 chance of survival, but their incubation and release technique doubled those odds. Off all of the turtles we released, only one would return to the same beach to produce the next generation. The rest would meet grisly fates — they would drown, or be eaten.

At the shoreline, the turtle with the deformed shell took his first steps into the water, seconds before a wave washed him away. As the remaining rays of sunlight danced on the surface, the sea was awash in black specks swimming furiously to destinations unknown, fighting to be the one to return.

Later that night, as I scrubbed my clothes in the old cement bucket, my thoughts kept returning to that turtle.. Was he still alive? Would he be the one to return? Would he meet the same fate as the fascinatingly grotesque turtle on the wooden plank? He stayed in my thoughts even as I went to bed, the static of the radio slowly lulling me to sleep.

29 years ago at this very minute...

2009-09-07T02:10:00.000-04:00

You know the drill. Me, hateful, mother, lady parts. See 2006 for details of that.

The sea separated, and I came walking out.

Since I've elected not to have any more birthdays for the rest of my life, I shall enjoy today. I want ice cream and balloons. And glitter. There can never be enough glitter.

So who's throwing the party?

Taking back control

2009-08-26T02:00:00.003-04:00

While Loralee is over there talking about health care and getting the attention of the President, I'm sorta just trying to keep my head above water. No, I'm not depressed or anything, but kind of apathetic. You ever have the feeling where there are so many things that you want to change about your life, and you know exactly what they are, but you have absolutely no motivation to do so? Me, check. Like, for the past two years.

Relationships are great, but they tend to make one comfortable. I love Marco incredibly, but I'm in that "comfortable" position - more like a rut. And no, Marco, it has nothing to do with you, it's just me, and my need to shake things up a bit. You don't need shaking up. Well, maybe when you're snoring.

And with the start of the new year*, there couldn't be a better time to jolt myself.

So, here's my list of things. I know it's not for great reading, so skip by if you'd like. Me putting this out in public makes me more accountable. Well, probably not, but me pacing across the living room talking to myself really isn't cutting it anymore.

Be more physically active. OSU has a fantastic gym, so why don't I use it more? Because I'd rather be at home, shoving chocolate into my face, that's why. Do this 4x per week, right after I finish teaching at 8:30 a.m. Speaking of which....
Try to become less hateful in the morning. Yes, the 8:30 a.m. teaching assignment ranks right up there cleaning behind the fridge with things I actually want to to, but it's only 10 weeks. 10 long, hateful weeks.
Eat chocolate at 8:25 a.m.
Be more responsible with money. My income is fixed at $1325/mth, so really, this can't be that hard. Usually, if I have some left at the end of the month, it's cause for celebration. The alcohol takes care of the money-overflow.
Take left-over money and send back to Canada. Pay off credit cards. Like, really.
Speaking of which, WTF is up with Bank of Montreal upping my credit limit to $11,000? I would call them and tell them that I barely make that much in a year if I didn't think a credit limit of 11k was so entirely cool.
Cook on Sundays, eat throughout the week. This is key. I throw away too much food because we eat out, and I really feel guilty for all of the kids in Africa who have no food to throw out at all.
Note: Mail week-old tomatoes to Nigeria.
Simply phone numbers. Right now, there's a Skype number, a vonage number, and a cell number. And Marco's phone. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Except for the last two.
Be a better friend. Get over persistant "they probably don't want to talk to me anyway" syndrome. Because really, I'm feeling cut-off.
Stop buying useless things. Like Diet Coke. Yes, the DC has to go.

I shall be held accountable for all of this, most of which is self-contradictory and pointless. Let's see how this goes....

* For academics, the "New Year" = September. The real people "New Year" = time to crawl into a hole for a month and ignore everything you're supposed to be doing. But aren't.

The cucumber runneth dry

2009-08-06T01:37:00.002-04:00

It's 1:37 a.m. and I'm starving. Marco took the last of the pasta to work with him, so now I'm stuck eating Weight Watcher's ice cream. It's actually pretty good, if only the FUCKING STICK WOULD STAY STUCK IN THE DAMNED ICE CREAM. This time it didn't, so I'm scooping the rapidly melting ice cream out of the wrapper with a fork. Yes, a fork, just because.

I'm also eating cucumber. Cucumber which I cut up 3 days ago, and is already very dry. Like "oh- my-god, I-didn't-know-that-cucumber-could-get-stuck-in-my-throat" dry. And now I've decided to return to blogger.

I know that there's nobody left out there who reads me, but I've been stuck for a long time trying to figure out what this blog should be. I *think* that some of my students found this, so no more nitty-gritty personal details! Or maybe yes, depending on how I feel, or how angry the FUCKING DRY cucumber is making me.

There are several possibility for this blog. I shall list them, for your viewing dis/pleasure:

A weight loss journal. When I originally started this blog, I was a tad bulimic and anorexic, and became thin! But because I ruined my metabolism (which felt so good at the time), the weight came all back. I haven't gained any weight in a year, and I'm not some kind of jelly-blob, but it's time to start taking it off again. Hence eating FUCKING DRY cucumber. I'm minus 6.5 pounds at the moment.
A journal of funny links I find on the internet. But hey, that's been done before.
A celebutard blog. I shall call myself Clisted. You know, like Dlisted, but more geared towards the grade I'm going to finish my degree with unless I get my ass in gear.
Did I mention that the cucumber is dry?
A recipe blog! Probably not.
A academic revue-type journal. However, given that I'm barely interested in academia as it is...

What to do? All of the above? Maybe. Check back for more once I return from buying vegetables that aren't completely rancid. That goes for you too, celery.

Some to come

2009-07-20T02:32:00.000-04:00

It's time to resurrect this sucker.

Now this is a catfight!

2008-11-22T03:44:00.005-05:00

I'm seriously sorry about not writing recently. School hasn't been overwhelming, and all of my free time is split between Marco and Peggle, so what can I say? But I was weeding through my Bookmarks and came across this gem that somebody linked on a forum once. I've never seen this "Generations" show, but WOW! And I thought Dynasty was bad-ass.

P.S. - I do have a substantial post that just needs editing. I WILL get to it this week. And all of the blogs I have been missing. I'm keeping up on Reader, I swear.

Saturday Night Live

2008-10-07T02:16:00.001-04:00

Mary Poppins is a slut. Perfection.

Frustrations from 43201

2008-10-07T01:57:00.004-04:00

Now that Marco and I have been in the 43201 for two months, it's time for the bitching to begin. Bitchfest 2008, as it will be called from this moment onwards. And what would a Bitchfest be without actual bitching?

Where shall I start? Marco and I were willing to give Columbus the benefit of the doubt for the first month we were here, but then things start to sour. For me, it came right around the time I was WITHOUT POWER FOR 5 DAYS due to a FUCKING 2 HOUR WINDSTORM that American Electrical Power called UNPRECEDENTED! UNPRECEDENTED! Like the end of the world! Aren't there fucking tornadoes in this state? Hey, AEP, I'm from Nova Scotia. Wind is a way of life for me. I thrive on wind, especially the bitterly cold North Atlantic winds that only February can bring. The remnants of a hurricane don't faze me in the least. So why did they faze you? Anyway....

It's Sunday. Marco and I want to do something. We've already ventured to German Village. What else is there to do in Columbus? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. The city is completely dead on Sundays. For a metropolitan area of 1.7 million people, it's rather shocking. So instead, we go to Wal-Mart. Along with 1.7 million other people. And after picking through the remains of the vegetable and fight off some old bag for the last pair of 99 cent socks, we go home. And do more of nothing.
The 43201 is filled, and I mean chalked full, or ugly, screaming people. Neither Marco nor i have been able to discern what they're screaming about, but all we know if that they do it all the time, every single day. If they're not doing that, they're peeing on the corner store across the street. How do I know this? Well, during that blackout, besides throwing out expensive food and boring myself to sleep by listening to CNN on Sirius out in the car, I sat on my front porch and read novels by the street light. In clear view of the corner store. And yet, people would still pee on it.
Wal-Mart has one aisle of vegetables, but five of chips and other assorted candies. not that it matters - fruits and vegetable are so expensive here that nobody bothers to eat them anyway. $2.49 a pound for apples at the Kro-ghetto? Are you fucking kidding me?
On a related note, I think I am developing rickets.
It's utterly impossible to get anywhere in Columbus without a car. And even with a car, things are so spread out and far apart that it's pointless ot bother. Interesting factoid - London, a city I once so loathed, a city of just 340,000 people, has more sky-scrappers than Columbus - by a large margin. Thanks skyscrapper.com!
Lighting ones house on fire seems to be all the rage here in the 43201 as fire-trucks zoom past our apartment every five minutes.
The cost of living, outside of $1.99 orange peppers (no, not by the pound), is pretty good. Electricity rates are outrageous, though.
The Buckeyes? WTF is a Buckeye? I still have no idea, but I do know that fans of whatever this is take up all of the parking on our street every second Saturday.
Land of big hair and fat asses. Enough said.

But on the upshot, I've only got 47 more months here!

Witness the following: (via Ugly Betty)

Willhemina: I love that dress, girlfriend!
Betty: No you don't. You hate it.
Willhemina: You're right. It's hideous, like driving through Ohio.

And there you have it. Ugly Betty perfectly sums up our Ohio experience thus far. There must be some good points, right?

Next time, something positive, I swear!

Delayed from 43201

2008-09-17T12:08:00.002-04:00

Marco's gone for the week, there's no school until the 23rd and I have a car. It was supposed to be the perfect week. Lots of cleaning, organizing, blog posting and calling friends.

The Hurricane Ike happened. Or whatever was left of Hurricane Ike by the time it passed over 43201.

So now I have no electricity. I've had no electricity since Sunday. So no blog posts. No phone calls, no refrigerated food, no organizing and certainly no cleaning. Just lots of gentle sobbing in the dark corners of my house.

Well, not quite. So pity me if you must, but pity the people in Texas more. Or better yet, make a donation to a relief fund. Because as much as it sucks to have to throw out three pounds of chicken breast that I just bought on Saturday, at least I still have a roof over my head.

Live from 43201

2008-09-12T00:10:00.003-04:00

So it's very early on a Friday morning and I now have two cursors on my screen. Trippy. Did I mention my growing antipathy towards Windows in general? Quiet, Jess.

I'm sitting here, hungry and bored. Bored because Marco is already asleep and for some reason I decided to take a nap when I came home from school this afternoon. Silly me, I thought he'd wake me up when he got home, which is usually around 5:30. But he did not. So now I'm hungry because, instead of waking me up, he ate dinner by himself and took my nap time as his relax time. Am I really that much of a chore? I'd rather not have answers on that one.

I don't even really know what to eat because all I hate is shitty Aldi bread that costs 79 cents a loaf. Aldi, the store that proclaims itself as the place where you can do "90% of your grocery shopping." Really, Aldi? It's more like 40% on a good week because all you carry for spices are black pepper and garlic salt. Whatever shall I do without cinnamon for my bath?

Damn, I keep finding black specks in this Aldi bread. Should I take it back? I'll just eat around them.

Anyway, it's been several weeks since I posted, so I wanted to give an update of what C-bus is like. But that's really boring, and I know you all only care what kind of slum I've pigeon-holed myself into this time, so here it goes.

The outside (courtesy of Google Street View):

Yes, the random guy crossing the street comes included. In fact, there was a random guy in a wheelchair screaming at random passing people just yesterday.

Get out of my neighbourhood, whitey!

Quite literally. So much neighbourhood flavour! But besides the insessant noise, the drag racing down the main street and what I'm pretty sure are crackhouses on nearly all sides of us, I like it!

As for the rest of it, the pictures are not uploading, so I shall leave you in suspense until tomorrow.

So yes, I am alive. And yes, I have been busy. And yes, I'll return to blogging. And yes, I will have another shitty Aldi bread sandwich and probably get the diarreah. The third main ingredient is HFCS! In bread?

Obesity, here I come.

Miscellany from a hammock

2008-08-16T19:59:00.004-04:00

It will come as no surprise to those who know me that one of my favorite summertime pass times is sleeping. There's nothing I enjoy like a good, long nap to sleep away those dreary summer afternoons. Well, dreary if you're in Nova Scotia, because all it does here is RAIN.

My second favorite summertime pass time is, as it has been since I bought it in Mexico in 2002, napping in the hammock outside. But during those times of lucidity, in between dozing off for the tenth time, dodging the variable showers and reading the Globe and Mail, I like to think. About random things. So here it is:

Marco and I are officially DINKS! Yes, we were DINKS before, but in giving up half of my yearly income to take on the punishment of the Ph.D., I never thought that things would actually get better for us. But boy, was I wrong. Thanks to Marco securing a nice job in Columbus, we shall never struggle for money again. Thank God. I was so tired of shopping for off-labels.
I've been struggling with a cold, likely brought on by visiting Chantal and her 20,000 cats. Well, it's probably closer to two than 20,000, but seeing as how I hate them so, it certainly felt more like 20,000. Although it was really two.
Congrats to Team Canada on finally winning a medal. We're no longer tied for 83rd! Instead, we're in the 20s, tied with Turkey, Georgia (who, yes, is currently at war), Spain and Austria, the birthplace of Hitler. We're still behind Zimbabwe, what with their trillion percent inflation, Indonesia, who had to pull their athletes away from the Nike factories and North Korea. North Korea?!?!?! Maybe Canada should engineer a famine to get the team going...
I have developed a fondness for cookies. The scale groans.
CTV is currently rerunning "Murder In The Hamptons." I've seen this movie at least 7 times. Sigh.
I was dreading not having internet at home, but so some reason, I was able to pick up wireless from one of the neighbours. I was cruising reader one day and noticed that Loralee's latest post was written by "von Loralee." Strange, I thought. Loralee never mentioned taking on the title of a German Princess. Suddenly, Jess was "von Jess." "von Kristopher." "von Katherine." Had the world gone mad? Was everybody taking German royal titles? Is there even a German royal family? Then I discovered that every internet variable was in German. It seems that the internet I'm stealing is indeed in German. I don't even know the logistics of this, and so long as I continue to get free internet, I don't really care.
Following the trajectory of her life, my sister has run away with the circus. For real. Or what passes for the circus around here, anyway. Yes, my sister is now a carny. Jerry Springer should do an on-location with my family.
I love fresh plums. Especially those from the tree in our backyard.
Columbus is pretty nice. I'm going to take some pics of our fantastic apartment when I get back.
Want your computer to look like a Mac even though you're too cheap to buy an actual Mac? Try RocketDoc!
The blogging hiatus is nearly over. One I get back to Columbus, look for old hell to break loose on the blogging front. Or at least minor heck.

Things to appreciate...

2008-07-22T00:45:00.005-04:00

Hiatus, I know, but whatever.

Finally shaving my head, because then I will appreciate having hair once again.
The smell of skunk lessening (one sprayed my window Saturday night), because then the smell of non-skunk is so much more refreshing.
Having the heartbreak of psoriasis on my elbows, because it's finally migrated away from my head.
Finding lip-balm under the coach, because then my lips don't burn like the fires of hades.
Finishing the latest bottle of Diet Coke, because I know there's another one in the fridge.
Somebodies sink backing up into my bathtub, because I will later know what it's like not to have to scrub it everyday.
Ripping off my toe nails (odd habit, I know, so don't lecture), because they will later grow back and I can do it all over again.
Roger's charging me for an extra month of cable (it's in the CONTRACT!), because then I will no longer have to deal with them. Ever again.
The rain, which washes away the aforementioned smell of skunk.
The heat and humidity, for winter shall be so much sweeter.
Being away from home, so I actually like my family when I visit them.
Having Marco be away for a week-and-a-half, for the reunion shall be much sweeter.
Still being 27, which means I'm not yet 28.
Having $500 more in my savings account than I anticipated.
And finally, having wonderful readers who still track me even though, like clockwork, I go off the deep end every single summer.

And to hiatus again...

Hiatus

2008-07-13T23:04:00.003-04:00

In case you haven't already guessed, Doug's Rants, Raves & Observations on Life is officially on hiatus. There are a few reasons for this, primarily that I really don't have any more stories that I want to tell. Well, for now, at least. That's not to say that I don't have stories, but blogging about them involves turning on my computer, logging into my account, typing, clicking "publish post" ... and by then I've usually dozed off.

Blogging can be very exciting, but it's also very draining and right now I'd rather put those energies into my creative writing that I've ignored for far too long. As well, Marco is coming tomorrow (yay!) and I move to Ohio in two weeks, so it's going to be a very long haul over the next two months. But I will survive, and by then, perhaps I will have more stories to tell.

Thank you all for reading! I do keep up with your blogs (I have about 20 in Reader), even though I may not comment. I'll do my best to keep on keeping on in the blogging world, but there are no guarantees, as it goes without saying.

Have a great summer!

Who am I?

2008-07-01T03:06:00.004-04:00

Of late (and in between thinking up new ideas for Things Cheap People Like - new post this week, I swear!), I've come to wonder exactely who I am. I know that in the grand scheme of things it doesn't mean much - I'm multi-generational Canadian and that's pretty much that. Ancestry for me wasn't something that I ever actively thought about, but with the emergence of my father in recent months, I've started to wonder.

Tracking down ancestry, especially when your family has been in a country for about 200 years, isn't an easy thing to do. And that's doubly true when you have no idea who the other half of your family is, and all you have to go on is a name and some anecdotes your aunt told you.

A few years ago, the father of my aunt, before he died, became absolutely obsessed with family trees and tracked ours down to the first people who came off the boat from Germany, so I'm fairly positive regarding my mother's side.

Family names: Bush, Corkum, Baker.

All German and/or Dutch. Bush is one of those that could be either German or English, but the vast majority of the population of my home county, Lunenburg, is of German ancestry. The foreign protestants came to Nova Scotia in the 1750s to work for the British, but soon broke away and formed their own settlement down the shore. Work your way forward a few hundred years and here I am. Being a German Bush also alleviates me of the remote possibility of that other famous family, which is a soothing thought. Mix in a bit of Mi'qmaq for good measure, and there you have my mother's side of the family.

My father's side is a bit murkier, and all I really have is their surname: Bolivar. It always sounded German to me, so I never though too much about it until I came across Simon Bolivar, the 19th Century liberator of South America. Not that I'm related to him, but all of my internet research has only brought me to one conclusion: I'm part Spanish as Bolivar is not associated with any other country that I've read about. My aunt, who is the only person I'm close to on that side of the family, often refered to her mother as "the indian," so I can only assume that she was Mi'qmaq. Full or partial, who knows. And I'm not about to find out.

As I said, not that it really matters, but all of this research has left me more confused than ever. Can we ever figure out who we are if we have no idea where we came from? Damn those Europeans...

Spanish Lesson

2008-06-23T23:32:00.004-04:00

So I'm sitting around rocking out to Madonna's new album, which, coincidently, I LOVE, grooving and surfing the net (yes folks, that's about as cool as I get, unless I happen to be cleaning out the freezer), when I suddenly realize that something is wrong. So very wrong. More specifically, the lyrics to the song Spanish Lesson, a snappy little number that will probably never see the light of the singles chart (although it did appear in the sappy finale of Ugly Betty).

Now, I really like Madonna's music, but I have never looked to her for inspiring lyrics. If anybody has, they seriously need to be slapped around. Need I remind you of these gems?

From Impressive Instant:

I like to singy-singy-singy,
Like a bird on a wingy-wingy-wingy.
I like to somba-somba-somba
Let's do a romba-romba-romba

From I Love New York:

I don't like cities,
But I like New York.
Other places make me feel like a dork.

And finally, from the Bjork-written Bedtime Stories:

Words are useless, especially sentences.

Does she mean the word sentences is useless, or is she refering to actual groupings of words? The mind wonders...

Then along comes Spanish Lesson. Now, as you all know, my primary concern is for the children, be they big or small., hairy or tall. A small-one may accidently pick up this CD and confuse it with Berlitz, so I must take it upon myself to clear up all confusion right here and now. Because Madonna, frankly, although you have written children's books and have several children yourself, you are not to be trusted with their education.

Yo te quiero means I love you
-- A decent start. Gramatically correct. 1 gold star.

Mucho gusto means I’m welcome to you
-- And suddenly, it all turns to shit. Mucho gusto actually means much pleasure, so I don't know where the hell you get I'm welcome to you. What does that even mean?

Callate means close your mouth
-- Close... It's more like shut-up, so I'll give you a pass.

Bésame means give me love
-- Dame amor, Madonna, dame amor. Really, were you even trying?

Dígame means tell me baby
-- Yes, yes! Well, except for the baby part.

Yo soy loco means you drive me crazy
-- Yo soy loco means I AM crazy, not you drive me crazy. God, it's no wonder GWB thought that no Child Left Behind a necessity what with your innane lyrics passing off as Spanish lessons.

Entiendo means I get it
-- More like I understand, but close enough.

Siempre means that I won’t forget it
-- Actually, it means always, not I won't forget it. Is there any wonder people think that Spanish is a breeze to learn what with you infecting their brains with thoughts of one Spanish word summing up an entire English sentence? I can see hapless North American tourists in Cancun right now - a hot local passes reads her number aloud and the dufus white guy reponds with Siempre. Is this really what you want Madonna? Really? And if not for the dufus white guy, please Madonna, think of the children! Remember - you have several of them!

You cannot be so irresponsible with your lyrics and expect everybody to give you a pass. Watch out, because from this point forward I'm the person who won't give you a pass. The children and their education are simply too important.

The weekend, and other stuff. No, just the weekend.

2008-06-18T23:43:00.004-04:00

Last weekend was jam-packed for me, and it was nice. For once, I actually did something on the weekend beside lay on the coach, watch downloaded movies, stumble to the laundromat and sob the minutes away. Wait, did I just write that out loud? Yes, yes, I did.

On Friday night I picked up a car and drove up to Guelph to see Naomi for the first time in a year, which was fantastic. I was more than a little nervous to drive again, but I quickly got over that and headed off. I did get lost in Kitchener along the way (a hugely confusing city that barely qualifies as a city), and arrived in Guelph just in time to go out and get drunk. And although I don't remember a whole lot of it (beer and marginally illegal substances will do that to folk), the headache I woke up with the next morning assures me that much fun was had. It was wonderful to see Naomi and Malcolm again and it was really just like no time had passed at all. After going so long without seeing somebody, one worries that a bond will be lost. But it wasn't like that at all, which was very reassuring. And since Naomi has a undefined amount of time left in Scotland (we don't talk about that, really), I know I'll be seeing more of her in the future. and I would love to get in a trip to Scotland in the meantime, but it's just not in the cards at the moment, unfortunately. Sigh.

Oh, the pic!

Why do I come out looking like a fat axe-murderer in all of my pics? Seriously, I'm so cute in the mirror, which I constantly stare into. This is why I don't take random pics of myself. Everything must be carefully orchestrated.

Since I had the car, and since Marco and I seem to have found a really nice apartment in Columbus, he convinced me to drive down there on Sunday to take a gander at the place. So I went to bed at 9pm on Saturday, awoke at 3am on Sunday morn and took off. After driving for 7 hours, I had a two-hour meeting with the landlord, decided to take the place and then turned around a came home. So yes, on Sunday I drove for almost 14 hours just to see an apartment. But I liked it, so I guess it was all worth it. And as an added bonues, my calf muscles completely seized up on me for the next two days. Yay!

It's odd though, how street names always have something to do with my life. For instance, right now I live on Kent Street, which is very close to the name of the ex who shall not be named. Last December, Marco moved to Ohio St in San Diego, back when OSU was the "joke" application (how little did we know...). And next up is Indianola St. Interestingly enough, when I was driving though Columbus in March, I saw Indianola St and thought that it would be the last place I would want to live. Why? Simple word association. Indianola, Indiana, Granola. Yuck. But now it's set in stone. After Marco and I finally move to Indiana in a few years (because this is obviously going to happy), I'm damned well living on Hawaii St. If we accidently end up on Detroit Rd. or Compton Ave, I may just cry.

All in all, it was a good weekend, if not very hectic. This weekend I have three days off. Let the gentle sobbing begin!

My Secret Workplace Shame

2008-06-18T20:02:00.003-04:00

If they only knew...

Through the Looking Glass

2008-06-10T21:19:00.003-04:00

Time and circumstances both change, but other things remain the same. Skin sags, lips droop and hair greys, but eyes remain the same. The constant in our lives, even as our body changes and transforms into something that would have been a complete stranger just a few years ago, they retain their luster -- that spark, the life. Or one would hope so. As I stand in front of the mirror, just as I did several years ago, I am taken aback as just how much life has changed.

Change is the only constant in life, and change itself it something that never changes. I sit back in awe, reflecting upon all of the changes in my life over the past several years, wondering how I got to where I am and how I became the person I stare at today.

Back in the year 2000, I was a lonely 20-year-old living with my best friend, deeply unhappy with my life and wishing nothing more than to break out and become something entirely different.

In 2001, I did just that, moving to Mexico and broadening my horizons.

In 2002, I refocused my energy into school, convinced that if I should do well there, I could go anywhere in life.

In 2003, I continued upon the same path, racking up academic achievements and settling into a somewhat satisfying life.

In 2004, I moved to London and began an entirely new path, and in the process transforming myself into the person I had always wanted to be.

In 2005, I had my first boyfriend and my second, living with a crazy cunt who nearly drove me insane and delving more deeply into school.

In 2006, I had a complete breakdown, became sucidical and anorexic as I tried to transition from school to work. Ironically enough, I look back at it as the best year of my life.

In 2007, I threw off the shackles of everyday worklife and moved to California, shacking up with Marco and living for the moment.

In 2008, I moved back to London and back into that mundane, ho-hum life that I had lived so many years before, silently waiting to break out once again.

Life goes in cycles. For me, 2008 is turning out to be a lot like 2000, with the exception of Marco. But that's an important exception.

As I stare in the mirror, carefully watching those eyes that have trotted North America, from Montreal to Halifax to Mexico to London to San Diego and back again, I wonder where I'll be in 8 years. How fast will those years go? As fast as the last 8? And what will I be doing? In 2005, I had no idea what 2006 would have in store for me. Will a dramatic change in life happen again?

Sometimes I think back to the day I left Nova Scotia in July, 2007, and remember my Grandmother grabbing my hand before I left for California. I stared at them, so dry, patchy, and old. It's was the first time that my Grandmother's age actually hit me, and it made me wonder how fast life has gone by for her. Was 27 just like yesterday, even though it was 50 years ago?

For me, it's one of the great wonders of life. A second is a second is a second, but there are times in life when a second flies by so much fast than others.

I overanalyze, yes, but so is much nature. Always wondering and imaging, dreaming about what may lie on the other side of the looking glass.

How do we protect them?

2008-06-06T00:12:00.002-04:00

My Grandmother is a very independent person; even though she's going to turn 78-years-old this year, she still lives alone, doing everything for herself. Piling her own wood, washing her own dishes, mowing her large lawn, taking care of the property, and everything else that being a homeowner entails. And even though the last year has been a rough one health-wise (breaking her shoulder, falling again in the mall, the infamous bulluos penphigoid and needing a blood transfusion because the steriods destroyed her potassium levels), she's come through it with flying colours. Although she's still on the steriods, her shoulder is fine, the BP is clearing up and her potassium levels are back to normal. So no, I don't worry too much about her health. She's tough, just like the rest of her family.

But alas, just when we thought everything was fine, along comes the latest scare.

For the last few months, my Grandmother has been convinced that people have been on her property at night. Why? Well, she heard noises, found cigarette butts around and just "felt" their presence. Nonsense, we all thought. It's Bridgewater, come on. So I worried not.

But over the past few weeks, things have become ever more strange. Somebody has been tampering with the lock on her mailbox (one of the group standalones like you find in rural areas). I figured it was the hellian kids in the neighbourhood, as there are many, many of those. So I worried not.

Then suddenly, last night comes along. Around 12 a.m., my Grandmother got a phonecall, which was very odd because really, who calls at that hour? It was the police, letting her know that they had caught some kids on her property and that they had stolen some solar lights. The police officer (Cunningham, as he is known as locally) called and said that he'd be by in a few minutes to give them back, so she should be on the lookout. My Grandmother, paranoid as she has been recently, decided that she was not going to answer the door and ended up sitting in the kitchen in the dark for two hours while the officer knocked at her front door.

Something seemed off about the whole situation, so this morning my Grandmother decided to call the police. As it turns out, Cunningham was not working last night and there were no reports of thefts in the area. Why my Grandmother did not call the police while those people were at her front door, I'll never know.

As it goes without saying, this scared the shit out of me and it still does. But unlike her health, where we can all band together and help her heal, there's nothing we can do. Absolutely nothing.

Who did it? Who knows, but I have a very sinking feeling that it was none other than my sister. Yes, my dear, sweet sister. She has been desperate for money lately (seeing as how she's 18 and just does feel like she should have to work) and called my Grandmother last night, demanding food because she was "starving" (she had asked for money for lunch the other day. My Grandmother asked how much. $50. Yeah, sure). My Grandmother turned her down. Although I do feel somewhat for my sister, after she left her boyfriend in February, she was living in a shelter where she was getting meals and a roof over her head. But because she must make the absolute worst possible choices for herself, last week she decided to shack up with some loser who lives just down the street from my Grandmother. 21 and no job, he's just my sister's type.
I have no proof, but if I ever get any, watch out little girl because hell hath no fury.

So how do we protect them? The answer? I simply don't know.

10 Things I Love About You

2008-06-01T02:20:00.003-04:00

Where "you" = London.

Where to start? Over the past two years I've given London a lot of flack, in almost every post. Even the positive things I've managed to turn into negatives, just because I'm that kind of person. But now it's time for a change; it's time to praise London like I should. Don't blink or you'll miss it, because I'm never likely to do it again.

10 Things I Love About London

10. The smell of freshly made Rice Krispies that sometimes floats over downtown from the Kellog's factory in the east end. Or maybe it's the smell of the mysterious steam that constantly comes from the sewer grates; I've never been able to figure that one out.

9. That the people who built this city decided that it would be wise to have busy two rail-lines run smack through the middle of downtown, but only three streets with over/under passes.

8. The odd little neighbourhoods that encircle downtown. The beautiful, stately homes on Queens Avenue (my former haunt) that have their asses nestled up against the crack dens of east Dundas.

7. That one is never more than 5 minutes away from a Dollarama. Or 3 minutes from a Tim Horton's.

6. That it's close to Toronto.

5. That the bad area of downtown literally (and ironically) starts on the other side of the railroad tracks.

4. That the east-end of the city is like a trip back to 1983, mullets and all.

3. Victoria Park, smack dab in the middle of downtown. Nothing snarky to add about this one because I actually love it, and don't feel like I'm going to be stabbed when I'm alone at night there, unlike Halifax's Public Commons.

2. The wildlife. I've never seen a city with so much wildlife. Hedgehogs, rabbits, skunks, racoons, crabs falling from the crotches of prostitues... And the chipmunks. Oh, those crazy little fuckers. If one were to take a picture outside anywhere in the city, it would likely include at least 5 chipmunks because they are literally everywhere. And they stare. It makes me rather uncomfortable.

And the thing I love the most about London?

1. The insane people who live here and the perverse enjoyment that they bring me. From the cracked-out barking, yelling, touching crazies that infest downtown to the Paris Hilton wanna-bes with their Ugg boots and unnecessarily big sunglasses that infest the malls, London is a cornicopa of interesting, if odd people. And without them, the city would have no character at all.

So here's to London, and the 69 glorious days I have left here! Cheers!

Two years on...

2008-06-01T02:10:00.002-04:00

Well, today marks two years to the day that I started this blog. I'm not really sure if noting "to the day" was necessary, but I'm leaving it because the delete key is all the way at the top of the keyboard and my stubby fingers don't stretch that far. I could move my arm, yes, but.... eh.

Two years ago I started this blog to fill a purpose in my life. Feeling lonely, I wanted to connect to others and entertain them in the process with the fascinating tales of my very exciting life. Well, it wasn't so exciting at the time as I slowly decended into complete insanity, but even that has it's thrills.

Two years ago London was full of people whom I knew and loved and it still is, only the faces have changed. Two years ago I had no idea who Loralee was, never mind that there were actually two of them, and Marco was but a twinkle in the sky, somebody who I would first hate, then love.

Two years ago I was quite bulimic and never thought that I would recover. I was unemployed, bored, and briefly took anti-depressants. Two years on I am fat once again (but working on it), gainfully employed, but still bored. And those anti-depressants? I now prefer alcohol.

Two years ago I was obsessed with the second-season finale of Lost, and two years on the fourth-season finale.

Two years ago I had fewer wrinkles, and a whole lot less money.

Two years ago I started this blog, and two years on I am posting in retrospect. Here's to two more! Months, at the very least.

Things Cheap People Like #3

2008-05-24T02:48:00.011-04:00

Welcome back to the newly rebranded Doug's Tips for Cheap Living, for now on out to be known as Things Cheap People Like. Yes, an obvious rip on a now very popular blog, but when you're in the quest for the ultimate in cheap living like I am, piracy is fair game. Or cheap knock-offs. Just ask my closet-full of top-notch Präada clothing.

But today's tip has nothing to do with clothing, nor piracy, nor even my growing love of pocketing leftovers from random potlucks I happen to stumble upon at work. No, this week's tip for cheap living has to do with the one thing we all fret about. No, not somebody breaking into our homes in the middle of the night, making themselves and sandwich and not bothering to clean the crumbs off the counter, but hair. Yes hair. Many people wouldn't dare skimp on their hair for fear of screwing up and being publically ostracized, but fortunately, I am not one of them.

The Problem: Expensive haircuts.

Men, are you with me? The last time I went for an actual haircut, the barber actually charged me $12.99! Plus tax! And a 25 cent tip! Well, the tip was my fault, but as I left the barber shop that grey April afternoon, I decided that I would never again pay a professional to cut my hair. That, and the fact that my hot hairdresser Moe has decided to go and do whatever, and the new girl looks anorexic. And I've been anorexic. It leads to the shakes, and I really don't want her coming at me with a pair of scissors, shaking them towards my left ear - the one that I affectionately refer to as "the completely intact one."

The Solution: Why it's simple silly! Cut your own hair and watch the savings pile up as fast as the hair clippings at your feet!

You may be nervous cutting your own hair the very first time, and you might want to schedule it at a time when you won't have to appear outside of your house for at least a month. But after a few kicks at the can, you'll be an expert and wanting to cut everybody's hair! For a fee, of course. Nothing in life is free.

You will need:

Knifes. Can be purchased at the dollar store. Scissors are too expensive and will only get lost. And besides, after you're done cutting your hair, you're ready to sit down and enjoy a nice steak. Or some TVP, like me.

Cheap, low grade hair gel. Preferably in industrial sized quanities because you will need lots of it for the first few days if you plan on venturing outside of your home. Failing pre-made, you can whip up a batch of your own using gelatin, hand cream and a dash of cinnamon for a pleasant, long-lasting smell. However, don't make the same mistake as I did - do let it chill for several hours before applying. That's a mistake you only make once, trust me.

As well, water and a mirror. Any will do.

And perhaps most importantly:

Finger crossing. Lots and lots of finger crossing. Crossing the toes wouldn't hurt either.

Starting off, you probably look something like this:

In this picture, I am showing off a scarf that I knitted for Marco. The rest of the picture if for his eyes only. As you will notice, the hair is long, straw-like and completely unmanageable. But we're going to fix that!

Step #1: Completely wet your hair and then, whilst strattling the bathroom sink, pull close up to the mirror and grab a chunk of hair.

Step #2: Cut. A serrated edged knife works best.

Be careful! Always remember to measure twice and cut once!

Step #3: After you've whittled the front down to the desired length (be careful, too much random cutting and shaving it off may be the only option!), it's now time to work on the back. I recommend unstrattling the sink as this can get complicated. If you do choose to continue strattling the sink, be unextremely careful. An accidental dismount is entirely possible and you may end up stabbing yourself in the back.

For this part, you'll mostly have to rely on your own good judgment. This is where the crossed fingers come in handy. Just remember not to keep them crossed while you're in the process of cutting. As an alternative, you could cross your toes instead.

Step #4: By this time, you're probably standing knee deep in your own hair and verging on tears as you look in the mirror. There are bald spots, yes. And it's grossly uneven. And you got bored 20 minutes back and don't even care if you finish the other side. Now is the time for the low-grade gel I mentioned previously, or a concoction of your own making.

Throw a large dollop on your head. And then some more for good measure.

Remember, be very liberal with the gel, because gel fixes everything.

Step #5: Massage gently into your scalp, covering all areas. Style in a very disorganized way. It's trendy and it hides the slight uneveness. Move hair around to cover any bald spots. If you do it right, you should finish looking something like this:

But try not to look so scared. Cutting your very own hair for the first time is a tramatic experience, and many have been known to cry. For instance, this picture was taken just as I opened my eyes to the mirror for the very first time.

The best part of all? You've just saved yourself $13.24. Now go out and buy yourself something nice from the Dollar store!

Closing out the season...

2008-05-13T23:51:00.004-04:00

As the strike-truncated television season of 2007/2008 comes to a close, it's time to take stock of the shows I'm watching, and what I can weed out next season. Because I'm watching too much tv while knitting, and tv is too expensive. Not tongue-in-cheek like my cheap living postings, but really. The digital box (of which I only really watch network tv) is $40 a month. So, as of the Lost finale on May 29th, bye-bye cable and hello cheap-ass TVOntario and CBC French!

Speaking of which....

Lost: Lost really came out of the gate swinging and, with the exception of maybe two episodes, has been flying high ever since. It's really crazy just how much is going on on the show, and how hard it is to keep track of it all. I'm still not happy that Danielle is dead (so much story left!), but really, with such a plot-focus now and 35 episodes left, when would they tell her story? Oh, I know when - how about last season during Jack's dreadful tattoo episode feature the incomparable Bai Ling? But on another note, I had the craziest nap dream tonight about the season finale where I literally dreamed up the whole thing, watching on some broken down set with Joanna in a building I wasn't familiar with. Still the show I love the bestest.

Desperate Housewives: Formerly a favorite, but now a habit. It's a relaxing Sunday evening show, but nothing to write home about. Supposidly flashing forward 5 years for the rest of its run. Could it really hurt?

Brothers & Sisters: While it is fun to watch Sally Field emote, and Kevin and Scotty's wedding was sweet, the almost-incest story is gross. And getting worse. And Calista Flockhart still bugs me. Some things never change.

How I Met Your Mother: Very Friends-esque, but the second appearance of Britney was not very well done. She's like a block of lead. I still enjoy the show a lot though. The actors play off each other very well.

Two & A Half Men: A default show, on between HIMYM and SW? Sometimes so smutty that I feel embarassed watching it. Hey, it's The Nanny for the 00s!

Samantha Who? Great show, great Christina Applegate. Too many good characters to choose from, but I especially like Deena, Sam's awkward best friend who moved back in on her life after the amnesia. Almost every line she delievers is hilarious, is only for her subtle reactions. And could Applegate be any more adorable? And Barry Watson any more hot?

Law & Order: SVU: What a mess this show is. So, Olivia gets almost-raped a few weeks ago and yet she's all happy and perky the next episode? Again, great story lines, terrible execution. I still watch mostly for Christopher Meloni, who only gets hotter with age. And this week marked the exits of both Adam Beach and Diane Neal. Yay!

Ugly Betty: The first half of the season was fantastically hilarious, but the post-strike episodes not so much. Adding Eddie Cibrian was a wise move pure on a selfish stance, and I'm glad the whole Betty/Henry mess is just about over. Really, Betty is possibly the least interesting character on the show. But my favorite episode of the season? Claire giving Betty the poisoned perfume and Betty's reaction when she couldn't stop spraying it on herself. Closely followed by Amanda breaking into Milkshake at Bradford and Willhemina's wedding. It's moving production to NYC this fall, so maybe that will reenergize the show.

The Office: Some great episodes, some not-so-great ones. I hate when Michael devolves into being a total idiot, and that's happened more than a few times so far this season. I also hate when they delve out of the office too much, and that's happened a lot too. But the absolute high point of the season was Jan and Michael's dinner-party and Jan's decent into complete insanity. Followed by Toby rubbing Pam's leg, then quickly announcing he was moving to Costa Rica and feeling the scene.

Robson Arms: A Canadian goodie that I encourage you Americans to pick up on DVD or DivX. It's a half-hour series about the people of a Vancouver apartment building, with both comedic and dramatic elements. I've loved the show since it first aired, and this season has been good so far, whenever CTV's decided to air it. Thank god for CTV broadband!

Thoughts?

Doug's Tips for Cheap Living #2

2008-05-10T01:57:00.006-04:00

Times are tough... you know the drill.

In my second installment of Doug's tips for cheap living, I'm going to explore the expensive problem that has vexed people since they first started interacting over coffee at the local Starbucks. So for me, 2007.

This week's problem:

Friends.

Meet Jenn.

While Jenn has learned to save money by sorting through old 80s fashions wisely hidden somewhere the back of her closet, I have not. Jenn and I like to get together to chat over cups of $4 cup of Starbucks hot chocolate that, while delicious, is something I could have easily brewed myself using baker's chocolate and Brita water (more on that next week). In these hard economic times, I implore you to seriously consider becoming a hermit.

Friends are expensive. Being a hermit is not.

In becoming a hermit, you no longer have to worry about several things, like phone bills, social clothing, hair products and toothpaste. Yes, it will be hard at first, but your wallet is begging you. After a short while, you will learn to love your own company. And yes, you can even have interesting conversations with yourself. And fights. I nearly punched myself in the face the other day over a seemingly innocent comment that I made. I really hate myself sometimes. Unfortunately, the art of self conversation is nearly dead, but you can bring it back. At first you may need a mirror to facilitate things. Make sure to wear old gym clothes and look all disshelveled.

But it will become easier, I promise.

Alas, you neighbours may think you're crazy, leaving your apartment only to go to work, grab the mail, and sort through the garbage for pop bottles that neighbours carelessly disregarded. But the good news is that there's a solution to that too: laughter. Every once in a while, let out a loud, boisterous guffaw. Like this:

For added effect, try by an open window. But don't waste money on turning on the lights. Suddenly, your crackhead neighbours will think that you're hosting the party of the year and they're not invited. Meanwhile, you're strewn out on the coach lying in your own filth, cheesie stains covering your shirt because you were too lazy to grab a napkin.

To keep up the charade, you may need to occasionaly slam the front door to fake people coming and going. And for the love of God, don't forget to change your vocal tone every once in a while so they don't catch on. Because then you'll just look crazy.

Total cost of having make-believe friends: $0. Take my advice and watch your bank account grow!

Doug's tips for cheap living

2008-05-03T00:38:00.008-04:00

Times are tough. Life is so hard. So here's your fucking Christmas card...

So went the verse I once found under my mother's bed, scribbled out like so many illiterate scratchings across Hilroy double-lined. Although it's not Christmas and no, I probably wouldn't get you a Christmas card, times are tough. And life is so hard. So here's your fucking blog post.

In my new Saturday column, I will be exploring ways to cut costs around the house through cheap and effective sacrifices that you can easily make. Rest assured Loralee, I would never suggest giving up the Diet Coke for RC Cola, or whatever the hell Wal-Mart is selling these days. But there are other things you can save money on. For instance, bubble bath.

The problem: Expensive baths.

Everytime I run the water to take a bath, the only thing I can think about is how expensive that one simple bath is going to be. Literally money down the drain, never to be seen again. And why? Bubble bath! That shit is what, like $2.99 a bottle now? Add 50 cents for the really good stuff, and even more for Epsoms salts and those tiny beads that always find their way into your ass crack. Who can afford that kind of luxury? Especially nowadays when you practically have to mortgage your house in order to buy a bag of rice. Or so I've been told. Remember, carbs are the enemy.

But all is not lost. You, yes you, can do something about these expensive baths. Let's start with the bubble bath itself. I discovered this little technique myself a few weeks ago when I was fresh out of the good stuff and dying to take a bath. So what's the secret?

Dish detergent.

Yes, dish detergent. It foams well, and as an added bonus, after you have a bath in this stuff, you'll smell grape-fruity fresh and have an ass so anti-bacterial that you could have a dinner party on it. And it's only $1.99 a bottle.

And instead of Epsoms Salts, go for the real thing! Actual salt is practically free and dissolves much better in the water. For an even cheaper route, go outside and stock up on road salt before it all washes away.

While you're at it, feel free to add other things:

Cinnamon for that sweet, "I've been baking all day!" smell.

Curry powder so people think you actually know how to cook internationally.

Cayenne pepper for that "muy caliente" finish!

Or my personal favorite, basil.

I think it smells like Italy, so why not smell like it all day long? It's the closest I'll ever come to Italia.

See? Cutting corners it not so hard. Come back next week for even more money-saving tips!

Odd London encounter of the... year?

2008-04-28T00:26:00.002-04:00

I was planning to write a post about the 10 things I love most about London (culminating in the smell of fresh Rice Krispies than sometimes waifs over downtown from the east-end Kellog's plant), but then this goes and happens. I've seen and heard a lot of weird things in London, but Saturday's encounter absolutely took the cake. And the plate, the knife, what was left of the frosting in the can, and even the frosting left on my fingers after trying to get the rest of the it out of the can and into my slovenly mouth.

I was waiting for the bus at Argyle mall on Saturday afternoon, a glorious cap to a week of absolutely beautiful weather. Minding my own business, grooving to 4 Minutes, trying to sniff out the distinct scent of Mini Wheats in the air. Suddenly, I heard this noise, like skateboard, but as the bus pulled up, I thought nothing of it. I got on and settled in only to have the noise grow louder and louder. I took out my ear buds and looked behind my back only to see a screaming lunatic charing toward the bus. Screaming so loud that it had drowned out my music, from the comfort of inside the bus. Screaming that I had never quite heard before - a blood curdling, loud, "Oh my god, somebody is stabbing me in the stomach" type of scream. Said lunatic then charged directly for the bus, running into it and falling backwards onto the sidewalk. The bus driver, in all of her wisdom, yelled " I'm getting the hell out of here!" and promptly sped off. As we left the parking lot, I continued to look back as the lunatic got up and started charging the bus again, still scream. We lost sight as we turned the corner and he charged into traffic. Still screaming.

I thought I had seen it all. Especially a few weeks ago when waiting for the bus with a co-worker.

CW: "Don't turn around, but the guy behind you is peeing"
Me: Huh? (and then I turn around).

Sure enough, the guy behind me is standing there, facing traffic, his penis flapping in the breeze and peeing all over the sidewalk. Nobody seems to notice, so I shrug and turn around, continuing our previous conversation.

I've become almost completely unflappable. No matter where I go nor what I see, I don't think anything will ever top the screaming lunatic charging at the bus.

You?

Life is like a roll of toilet paper...

2008-04-24T00:47:00.003-04:00

The closer you to the end, the faster it goes. Or so said Andy Rooney. Or those who would like to attribute the quote to him.

But it's true: the older I get, the faster the time goes. Maybe it was the switch from being a perma-student to a full-time wage earner, or having my future expectations diminished to the point where I refuse to look forward to things anymore.

A great example is this past week. Here it is, Wednesday night. Two more days left to work and I have absolutely no idea where the last three went. Seriously, I'm stunned that it's almost Thursday. I remember thinking on Tuesday morning "Gee, only 4 more days this week..." and then now. It's as if two whole days don't exist. And now, I don't have short-term memory loss, but rather this odd sensation that I'm losing time. I remember last weekend and it does feel like it was several days ago, but what occurred between then and now is a complete mystery to me.

Perhaps it's being stuck in a job that I really, really don't like. But then again, aren't so many? We simply shut our brains off, or rather our sense of time, at out employment and trudge through the day, waiting for the end of the shift. But before you know it, the next day is already starting and it's time to go again.

Is living like a zombie really considered living? A daily life so devoid of meaningful experiences that it's all a big blur? I have an out - school this fall - and I'm very happy for that. But what about those people who don't? How do they cope with the sinking sensation? Do they only look forward to the day when they can retire?

So, life is like a roll of toilet paper. But no, I'm not implying that I'm nearing the end of my life; I shall continue to live if I can scrap up a few dollars to buy a salt-packet portion of rice this weekend, or if the guy who lives upstairs and asks me for things every time I walk in the apartment building doesn't break into my house and kill me at night. But is it really living if the time passes so fast?

Anatomy of a hot yoga class

2008-04-13T01:05:00.002-04:00

January 15-April 10, 2008: Doug continually promises Joanna that yes, he is going to come to one of her classes. But he continually flakes out and finds random excuses for not going.

5pm, April 10: After a long day at work (damned tax season), Doug decides to actually go, thinking of how good he felt last year after going.

8pm: Realizing that there is no way out, Doug leaves for the studio.

8:20: Arriving, he greets Joanna, uses the bathroom, grabs a mat and lays down.

8:25: Damn, it's hot. But so long as he doesn't move, he won't sweat. He's already drank 1/2 a litre of water; 1/4 left to go!

8:29: It's time to leave.

8:30: Joanna comes in and commences class. Doug knows that she is a very good teacher, so he tries to follow her words and sink into his mat, letting the worries of the world float away.

8:32: The worries do not float away, and the heat is driving Doug insane.

8:40: Joanna instructs the class to raise their arms above our heads, then slowly lower them to our hearts.

8:42: After doing this twice, Doug is exhausted. There is a stream of sweat running down into his eyes. The room is blurry and spinning.

8:50: Holding poses? Forget about it. Doug realizes there is no way he can magically hold his foot to his inner thigh, and ends up holding it in place, despite the fact that a 60-year-old in front of him literally has her leg wrapped around her head.

9:00: Doug is down for the first rest, breathing shallowly and trying to rest his heart rate.

9:10: He decides to get back up. His head is rested rather comfortably on his mat, or at least what he thinks is his mat until he realizes that it's actually his spongy, gel-soaked hair.

9:20: Joanna shifts gears in class, going to a much slower pace, longer-hold yoga. Doug thinks this will be much easier.

9:25: He realizes he was wrong.

9:28: Doug's water tastes like sweat.

9:30: During the frog pose, he rolls over on his side and pretends like he actually gets it.

9:40: More gross, sweaty water.

9:45: Okay, the heat really is killing him. He wants nothing more than to bolt out of class and run for the Thames River, submerging himself amongst the lingering ice and frozen turds.

9:50: Class is finally out! Joanna says that we can leave whenever we want, after a relaxing breathing session. Doug thinks "Screw that!" and bolts for the door.

10:00 More chit-chat with Joanna. Even afterwards, he's not entirely sure what they talked about, the rush of cooler air making him both dizzy and nauseous. And now he's wondering what the hell he can't spell the word "nauseous" anymore without Firefox telling him that it's spelled wrong 15 times.

10:30 At home, Doug passes out on the coach after filling back up on water, relieved that his yoga obligation is over for another year.

And thus went my second hot yoga experience. I really, really do love the way I feel afterwards, but the class is killer!

And yes, I will miss you Joanna. Hot yoga in Halifax next time, right?

And Doug is off to...

2008-03-30T23:30:00.002-04:00

I've blogged about it before - where I'm going to spend the next 4 years of my life, living the Ph.D. hell. Well, not hell, really, considering that I'll be getting paid to go to school and will hopefully be able to land a decent job once coming out. Because frankly, this call centre crap isn't cutting it, and I'm stagnating. But I do have to be at work for 9 a.m. tomorrow and payday is Thursday, so whatever.

The decision has been made - The Ohio State University in passable Columbus, Ohio. I know when I gave my odds, OSU ranked pretty far down the list, but this change rapidly in ways we could never expect. I was flat out rejected at both Chicago and Texas (for reasons I am unsure of). The University of Pennsylvania rejected me as well. I know I had a good shot there because they actually invited me down for a visit (the compensation for which I'm still waiting for), but there was nobody who could work with me. Some of the other prospective students didn't have a clear idea of what they wanted to do and could fit in any number of research plans, but I couldn't. I have a very clear, concise idea of what I want to do and am rather inflexible, which I'm pretty sure is why I was rejected. Why so inflexible? Well, whatever you do your Ph.D. in pretty much dictates what you're going to teach in, for the rest of your life. I think it's pretty wise to be inflexible with that, especially if I'm really excited about what I want to do.

University of Pittsburgh? I did get in, but without a scholarship. I was put on a "waiting list," as I was told, and advised to explore other options. So why bother to accept me? The program would have run me around $50,000 a year (tuition and living expenses), for at least 5 years. That's not the kind of debt I'm willing to get into, so the application was a write off.

But OSU did accept me, and they seemed fairly excited about having me come there, which is a very nice feeling indeed. I was invited to go this weekend to check out the program, but fell ill on Friday (a headache from which I still have). I left Friday night regardless because I already had the rental car. Saturday I spent checking out the program and the city and I must say that I've really warmed up to the idea. Columbus itself is passable (from what I saw) - cheap to live in and not too far from Canada. I simply love the department and have already bonded with two other students (yes, in one short day). The city reminds me a lot of London, only less urban, so it won't be that big of an adjustment. School starts August 25th, and I have a tonne of work to do before that, so I'd best get cracking on all of that.

But, in one hand you have good luck, and in the other bad.

Coming back from Columbus, I had to detour off the I-75 through the suburbs of Detroit, something that made me more than a little nervous because, well, it's Detroit. And Detroit sucks. I stopped at a Wal-Mart on the way to pee, buy some protein (half the price than in Canada) and knitting needles (damn you, Erin!) and as I was coming out of the parking lot, the brakes on my rental car slipped and I rear-ended a lady in front of me driving an SUV-type vehicle at about 2 mph. Her vehicle was virtually undamaged (save for two small dents on her back fender), but there was moderate cosmetic damage to mine. Yay! I thought, "Great, I've rear-ended somebody in Detroit. Now I'm going to die." As I said a Hail Mary (and I'm not even Catholic) and got out of the car, I was greeted to a 57-year-old lady who wasn't even really angry. She just asked what happened, and then we went to file a police report. I've never been in an accident before, so I was freaking out (internally). I thought for sure that she was going to sue me (all of the stuff that goes through your mind, you know...). At the police station while waiting, we bonded a bit over the weather, filed the report and left. I apologized for taking time out of her day and she said "Well, accidents happen and nobody was hurt." But here's the rub: upon coming home, I discovered that the rental insurance on my credit card covers my car, but not hers, so I may be in the lurch for damages to her vehicle. I highly doubt that she'll file a claim though considering that the damage was virtually minimal, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed regardless. And that's the last time I'll ever depend on the credit card insurance.

Today I woke up with a panic attack, the first I've had in almost two years. So that was nice. I had to return the rental today and didn't know what I was going to tell them. I had already called their claims department and my credit card insurance, so the ball was set in motion. When I got to the office, I explained the situation (with the brakes) and the lady at the front counter told me that the brakes on this particular car tend be to less sensitive and the gas more. Nice to know now. But overall, they were very friendly and helpful, and even though there is a lot of paperwork left to do, I'm feeling pretty good about everything tonight.

So there you have it, the good and the bad. Let's hope the rest of 2008 works out more in my favor.

MIA

2008-03-27T00:55:00.001-04:00

Just a little busy right now - there will be a new post by the weekend. Good news forthcoming!

A day without music

2008-03-11T22:13:00.005-04:00

I would like to take a moment to thank god for the best invention since sliced bread: the mp3 player. Sure, there have been other important inventions in the meantime, like the personal computer, a cure for polio, the telephone and whatever Ikea has managed to come up with this week, but none have been my savior like the music god.

I take my player everywhere. It's particularly handy for the gym to block out the gaggle of Western girls in front of me sipping on their designer water while they adjust the resistance on the elliptical machine upwards to two, bitching about the "sweat" they're breaking. Really girls, sweat? If that's considered sweating, I torrent. Flow even. Almost drown.

It's also handy for long bus rides out to the grocery store. Because London has no grocery store downtown (why would they have a convenience like that?), I bus 40 minutes to get to pick up my grub. My blessed mp3 player drowns out the ranting of the random crackwhores on the bus, the little kids crying because mommy is having yet another cocaine-induced nose bleed, and the inevitable gaggle of Western girls yakking away on their cell phones about the sweat they just broke at the gym. Still sipping that stupid designer water. The mp3 player is especially handy to pass the time while I wait in the 30 minute line-up at Subway. But I won't get started on that again.

As it stands to reason, I've become so dependent on my mp3 player that accidentally leaving it at home is enough to throw me into crisis. Such was the case last Wednesday.

I was deep in my thoughts when I left home at 7:15 am, only realizing that I had neglected to take my mp3 player when I was just to far away from home to go back and get it. "Shit," I thought, apprehensive. I hate that feeling. It's a hopelessness, the sense that something bad is about to happen, like walking to work sans music is the worst thing in the world. But it is. Because with music, the half-hour walk goes fast. Without, it's an eternity, especially when it's 10 degrees below zero.

Not taking the mp3 player also means being subjected to London in all of its glorious insanity. I've posted about this before - how London is probably the most insane city, size-for-size, on the continent. Its downtown teems with insane people who are always looking for a handout, or simply a person to rant to. With the mp3 player, I can safely ignore all of that. But not that Wednesday.

My first indication that something was amiss was near the corner of King and Colborne, about half-way to work. Minding my own business, I was startled by a dog barking behind me.

"I hope it's not vicious," I thought to myself.

As I turned around, I saw not a dog but a man, wild haired and wildly disheveled, barking squarely at me. And not barking like "woof, woof" but harshly barking and actually growling. Fearing a rabies infested bite, I ran. Dogman ran the other way.

On the way home that afternoon, after a long day of surfing the internet while I was supposed to be paying attention to work, I was again startled as I walked by the police station. A man not 15 feet in front of me was apparently deeply offended by the police station and proceeded to shout obscenities and make sexual gestures towards the building. There were no police outside. And even as the police station was well behind us, he continued to scream at the building, turning around to see me trying to hold back a giggle. He said nothing, escaped into the addiction-recovery clinic and I ran once again.

The rest of the walk home was punctuated by the typical sounds of the city - the passing busses, random chatter of passers-by, drug deals going sour, the complaints at the Wellington and Dundas Subway, the chirping sound at the crosswalk, signaling that it's safe to go forward. It's really amazing what you hear when you're actually paying attention, when those ear buds aren't crammed against your ear drum.

But even amongst all of the noise, the silence was deafening. One person making their way home, alert to everything passing by, yet completely disconnected from the world. In the void of music thoughts take hold - life, work, finances, love, hate, and everything in between. Perhaps that's why I always take my mp3 player - not to escape from the insanity of the world passing around me, but instead to escape from my thoughts.

That was the last day without music.

Tilda Swinton

2008-03-05T20:49:00.003-05:00

How many times a day do you think of Tilda Swinton? I think of her at least 10 times a day, really. When I'm about to go to sleep, when I'm leaving the apartment every morning, even on lunch when I'm eating whatever slop I threw together that day. Tilda, Tilda... TILDA!

I don't know what Tilda looks like, and I've never seen her in anything (that I'm aware of). And I'm even too lazy to look her up on Google Images. But every since I heard about her winning that Oscar, the impact of which means nothing to me since I haven't the slightest clue who she is, I can't stop thinking about her. There's just something draws me... that name... all of those vowels... those consonants.... that combination of both!

Sweet Tilda Swinton... I shall dream of your moniker tonight.

Tomorrow: A day without music.

All the rage

2008-02-29T20:28:00.002-05:00

272 Dundas St, London, Ontario. Corner of Wellington and Dundas. Inside the Macs location. Probably the busiest Subway in the city of London. Open 24/7 during the summer months. Highly popular with students, transit passengers and local pimps. And I write this so that if anybody Googles the location, they'll find this post.

All I wanted was a goddamned sub.

I'm not a rage filled person, I'm really not. I'm calm--almost too much so. If somebody steps on my toes, I apologize for having my foot in the way. If somebody hurts my feelings, I pretend like it doesn't bother me. And if feel very angry, which I almost never do, I bury it and work on getting over it later. But today, oh not today.

I got off work at 4pm and went to the gym, working-out a storm despite my aching muscles. As a Friday night treat, and with the last $10 I had in my bank account, I decide to treat myself to a sub on the way home. From Subway, no less, because downtown London has few other options. It was either that or McDonalds, and I had worked-out too hard to undo all of that good. Plus, the people at McDonald's scare me. They're all greasy and old looking. Maybe it's all the grease. And that they're old.

So, against all of my better judgment, I go to the Subway location at the above address. I really should have known better, really, because I've been through the same old song and dance too many times. And because I need to let it all out, and also because I haven't raged in quite some time, the rest of this post is X-Rated. Do not read if you tend to be offended by strong language or rage. Lots and lots of rage.

First of all, what the fuck is wrong with you stupid people who work at that goddamned Subway?
I swear to Jesus that I have never gone to that Subway and had a pleasant experience. Not one fucking time. And I've been there 50+ times in the past 3 years, seeing as how I lived just two blocks away and the only other option was the aforementioned McDonalds.

To you, slow girl, the girl who is my new archnemises outside of my former cunty roommate Gill (not formerly cunty, because she's probably still a huge living, breathing, walking, whining cunt, but she is formerly a roommate), what IS your fucking problem? Why can't you seem to comprehend the simplest of instructions? No, I don't want your goddamned tomatoes, so stop asking me, then putting them on my fucking sub anyway until I tell you to pick them off. One by one. Next time I'm going to ram them down your throat. And why can't you work a little faster than whatever is considered the polar opposite of the speed of light? When I have a half hour break and I work, literally, ACROSS THE STREET, and there are two people in front of me in line, I should not leave sans sub. EVER. There is NO excuse, you stupid sloth. And when it's busy? Help the fuck out! Don't leave one person on the counter so you can run out back and shred fucking lettuce. Of course, you'd probably be more of a hindrance than a help anyway, but at least it would look like you're ACTUALLY TRYING. And there's this golden oldie, a stupefying exchange circa last year. Keep in mind that this Subway is in a very busy and rather large convenience store.

Me: Can I get a...
Stupid Girl: I'm sorry, I can't help you.
Me: Um, why?
SG: The fire alarm is going off.
Me: Is there an actual fire?
SG: No.
Me: So then?
SG: We're not allowed to serve customers when there's a fire alarm.
Me: (looking around) Well, the cashier up front is still ringing in customers, nobody is fleeing the store and I don't see anybody on fire, stop, dropping and rolling...
SG: (stares blankly)
Me: (leaves in a huff)

Replace fire alarm with cash register. Apparently, they have no back-up plan for when the cash register breaks. They just close instead.

Oh, the memories. The sweet, fucking memories.

Yes, stupid girl, we've had many a run-in. And yet, here you are, three years later and STILL holding the job. How? How is that just? You have to be the worst employee I've ever seen anywhere. And I've worked in many call centres. Or it could be that Subway is your peak. It's going to be a long, sad road downward. I'll expect to see you at McDonalds in 20, yes?

And to you, "I hate my life" girl. It's not my fault that you hate your job. Yes, working at Subway probably sucks. Do I care? Not really. Do I need to heard about it? No, I really don't. So when you announce to a line-up of 10 customers that you hate your fucking job and can't wait to get another one, all while slapping together a sub-standard sub for some unwitting naif who stupidly smiles and offers you pathetic words of consolation, don't expect my sympathy. Because I could really care less where you're applying, that you're working too late next Wednesday, or that you hate your "fucking" job. Because really, I'm there for a sub. I'm not goddamned Dr. Phil.

To the people who make the bread and stock the supplies, do your fucking job sometime, will ya? This Subway is ALWAYS out of multiple things and the bread is frequently stale, if there is any at all. One time I went, mid-evening mind you, and there wasn't any fucking bread. No fucking bread? Are you serious? YOU ARE SUBWAY. BREAD IS THE BANE OF YOUR BUSINESS. MAKE SOME. It's not like you have to go out back, sythe the wheat and mill the flour yourself. It comes in a bag. Mix it with water and stick it in the fucking oven.

And finally, to you, stupid girl #2 who served me today. I asked for a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub. "Sure!" you said with glee, proceeding to slap it together. Much to my surprise, you didn't put tomatoes on regardless of my wishes. But here's the rub:

SG2: What kind of sauce do you want?
Me: Sweet onion.
SG2: Sorry, we're all out today.
Me: Huh?
SG2: Would you like another kind?
Me: (stunned) What goes well with Teriyaki Chicken?
SG2: Um... nothing really.

It would be like me going to another restaurant, ordering a pasta alfredo and having it served sans alfredo because there's none left. And the waiter/ess no bothering to tell me before hand, after I'd waited a good 20 fucking minutes for that goddamned pasta alfredo. And then expecting me to substitute with whatever they have left rotting in the kitchen.

So here's my question to you, you fucking moron. If you have no Sweet Onion sauce, and I order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub, why the fuck wouldn't you tell me before YOU MAKE THE GODDAMNED SUB? Why would you wait until the end and then tell me that no other sauce is really suitable? Do you think that I like eating dry subs? Do I look like that kind of person? Do I look like somebody who wants to gag down bread, chicken and lettuce with nothing to lubricate the way? And I know that you knew before hand, seeing as how you didn't even look for the Sweet Onion sauce, but rather spoke off the top of your head.

Upon learning this, Doug did not freak out like Loralee (whose specific post I cannot find right now). Doug instead chose the Southwest sauce, paid, then went home, fuming all the way. The sauce was putrid, and I was still fuming, so I wrote this post to let it all out. And now that I've had my freak-out for the month, it's time to return to normal. Or maybe I'll just sit and rock for a while.

One thing is for certain: I will NEVER go to that Subway again. And I hope somebody from Subway reads this and realizes what damage this specific franchise is doing to the company name. I like Subway, I really do. Well, besides Jared. But this location is enough to turn me away for good.

Joe, part two

2008-02-24T03:13:00.004-05:00

After writing the original post back in December and receiving all sorts of good advice, I did what I usually do: ignore and file away. So no, I did not write to Joe. Stupid yes, but that's how I deal with things: avoidance.

Joe, however, did continue to write to me. Typical stuff, offering me a "perhaps unwanted hug" (his words), offering a movie night and a drive through the countryside. Nice place to dump a body, eh?

Still, it didn't really concern me because I'd heard it all before.

But then, things took a turn for the worse. Earlier this month when I was updating some Facebook stuff, I changed my city to London from Chula Vista (I'm slow on these things, what can I say?). Joe wrote me not 5 minutes later, asking me, now that I was back in the city, if I'd like to go out sometime. Creepy yes, but detrimental? No.

Things continued to slide throughout the month, culminating in me finding out that Joe is now working in my old department at Citi. When my name came up amongst my peeps, an insider told me that he became instantly interested, asking all sorts of questions like: What department is he working in at TD Bank? Is he going out for sushi on Sunday (for somebody's birthday)? And finally, and most worrisome, where exactly is he living? He also knew that I was only in London until August, which I have NO idea how he discovered. Big flashing red lights. I wish I had an emoticon for the occasion. The insider related this to me, and I asked said person to tell everybody there to keep silent on anything they know about me. I also deleted Joe from my Facebook account. You may be asking why I kept him on Facebook for so long. Well, that is a valid question that deserves an answer. I didn't want to rock the boat. It was a mistake to add
him in the first place, but he seemed pretty harmless. But not now.

After the deletion, I expected a message berating me, but instead I got this:

hows life these days and work, you still going for sushi tomorrow, hope your having a great weekend and all is well and you are enjoying lost being on!

Seems harmless, right? Well not so much, especially considering the intense questions he was offering up the other day. So I've decided to bite the bullet and write him, hopefully putting an end to this crazy mess. My goal is to be firm but nice. I really have no idea what his mind frame is so I really don't want to upset him for his sake but especially for mine. Well, I know the email is going to upset him, but I want to upset him the least amount possible.

I've tried to avoid sending this message as long as possible, but it's become unavoidable. Simply put, please stop writing to me and stop asking about me. It makes me very uncomfortable considering that I have not voluntarily talked to you in two years. Yes, we had a relationship, it was very short, and it ended a very long time ago. I don't want to be mean, but frankly, this trying to get in contact with me became creepy a long time ago and now it's unbearable.

I really do wish you happiness in life and I hope you find somebody who loves you. But I want to make it clear that there is no chance of us getting back together, nor even becoming friends. I have been in a relationship for a year now and I am very happy. And yes, one can be friends with their exes, but we had almost nothing in common on which to build a friendship. And it's quite obvious that you still have some sort of unresolved feelings towards me, making a friendship entirely inappropriate.

I am not writing this to be mean. I have really struggled with this because I don't want to be mean but I do have to say something. I have never led you on in any way. I only added you to Facebook because you changed your name. And I deleted you from Facebook when the barrage of messages became too much.

Most of all, I'm writing this to set you free and to finally, and definitely, close this chapter of our lives. I remember what I went through after a break-up in 2006 and it was pure hell. But after the guy finally laid it out to me, as cruel as it was at the time, I understood. And after a few months of kicking and screaming, I moved on to something much better for me and much healthier. I want you to experience the same.

To be clear, I'm not going to respond to you again because there's no need. I've laid out my feelings and it is what it is. Please accept that and find somebody who deserves you. You are a good guy, Joe, but we were not meant to be.

Feedback appreciated.

Some may ask why I came back to London if I knew that I would have this problem, and that's a valid point. Although I paint London as some small backwater, it is a city of 500,000 people so I never dreamed that our lives would cross. But circumstances change rapidly, like him working in my old department with people I'm still in contact with. And him suddenly becoming curious as to where exactly I'm living. That made me really nervous, and was a big wake up call. Things can get out of hand.

Option B is letting it go for now, ignoring whatever emails he sends me, waiting to send the above until I leave London in August. That is probably the safest option and one which I'll ask my faithful readers (the two left) and Mr G.

Something more fun next time, I swear.

CD of the month

2008-02-23T00:14:00.002-05:00

Let me qualify this post by stating the following: Sheryl Crow is one of my absolute favorite performers. I loved her 90's music, culminating in one of the best CDs of the decade, The Globe Sessions. That CD had such a different feel than her previous records, much more grungy, more rock, more real. Not that I didn't love the others, Tuesday Night Music Club and Sheryl Crow, but The Globe Sessions spoke to me.

Also let me follow that up by saying that I was completely underwhelmed by C'mon, C'mon, and completely wrote her off with the dreck that was Wildflower, her last CD. You know that moment when you completely lose face in an artist, not really caring when or if they release new music? That was Sheryl Crow for me circa last year.

That said, I'm giving her new CD Detours a spin and I have to say that it's a complete return to form in every way imaginable. Stylistically, it's a mix between The Globe Sessions and Sheryl Crow, her best CDs, and every single song is catchy. Missing from the last two of her CDs, the social messages that got Sheryl Crow banned from Wal Mart, is fully back and in full force.

Confidence restored. Give it a listen.

Ah, that's why

2008-02-18T12:23:00.003-05:00

After an outburst of sympathy for people in my hometown, remember back on my experiences there through rose-coloured glasses, I would like to take all of that back. Bridgewater is a shit hole and it's people gossip-mongers who have nothing better to do with their lives. And I write this because people from Bridgewater are finding my blog through Karissa-related Google searches as I can tell through my site statistics.

What prompts me to write this is an utterly vile Facebook group that is promising "Justice for Karissa" but is only succeeding in trying her mother in the public court and offering up even more unsubstantiated, impossible-to-know grist for the rumour mill. If anybody from that group is reading this, here's some advice: stop. You know absolutely nothing. Even if the mother is guilty, you still know nothing. And if the mother isn't, you're a douchebag for spreading lies and rumours under the guise of "concern."

I know Bridgewater, and I know the people there. And I know how much value a good piece of gossip has because there has been gossip about me (obviously not as widespread and serious as this situation, but serious and damaging to me). But please, do the world a favour: shut up and let the police do their jobs. You are not a prosecutor and are only working to damage the very fragile social fabric of the town at this time.

Tragedy in a small town

2008-02-14T17:11:00.005-05:00

I've talked on and off about my hometown and how much I hate it at times, for reasons that are obvious. It's small, people tend to be narrow minded, there is no future there, etc. But there are also reasons why I love it: my family is there, it can be a good place to get away from it all, and it's safe. I've never felt in any danger there, not once (well, except for the typical high school bullies, but that's normal, right?). Just this past winter I used to walk home at 1am in the morning, through a desolate park with no street lights. And although I was skeeved out sometimes, I knew that I was never in danger. Serious crime just isn't a factor there.

7,944 people, the population of the entire town, have been held captivated for the last three weeks over the disappearance of Karissa Boudreau, a 12-year-old, from the parking lot of a grocery store in which I used to work. Sunday afternoon, January 27th, her and her mom had a fight, then her mom went into the store to get something. When she returned, Karissa was gone without a trace. A scant few days later, the public was involved and the search proceeded. Many Facebook groups popped up, posters were sent everywhere, the mom made a desperate plea on television for Karissa to come home, and everybody speculated on what may have happened. It's not productive, no, but that's what people in Bridgewater do. They speculate and gossip because nothing ever happens there.

As the days passed, the search became more intense, focusing in two areas, the river and the large woods behind my Grandmother's house. Diver's went scoured the bottom of the river and helicopters flew above the tree line, but nothing. There wasn't a trace to be found. What I assumed, as did most people, was the Karissa ran away from home, was watching everything unfold and didn't know what to do. As I've related before, my sister was a frequent runaway and even went as far as sleeping under the bridge to be with "her man." One of my cousins ran away a few years back and went from place to place so nobody won't be found. Nobody expects the worst, not in Bridgewater anyway.

But, alas, the simplistic hopes of a happy conclusion were not to be. Last Friday, a body was discovered on the river bank. The autopsy would take several days, but everybody knew that it was Karissa. Nobody else had been reported missing and if Karissa had indeed tried to cross the river, that her body washed up on the bank made sense. It would have been a sad conclusion to the story, yes, but not a entirely shocking one.

The other boom dropped today as the autopsy results were revealed. Karissa was murdered. No suspects, no leads, nothing. Just dead silence, and an entire town in mourning. My thoughts immediately flashed to my own sister, who we warned so many times that bad things can happen. She would laugh it off, confident that we were just trying to scare her, to separate her from "her man." She'd retreat back to her sanctuary under the bridge, ignoring our pleas for her to come home and be safe. Maybe Karissa thought the same.

A town forever transformed. Growing up in Bridgewater, there was always an obliviousness to crime not because it was so impervious in society, but instead because there wasn't any. Parents never worried about where their kids went after school because they'd come home before dark, guaranteed. And even if they were out after dark, there wasn't a danger to worry about.

The dynamic has changed; a sanctuary destroyed. And now Bridgewater has to pick up the pieces and figure out what the new normal is.

As for my sister, she finally understands.

Doug's Choice

2008-02-06T19:31:00.000-05:00

I've filled you guys in on the basics: I'm applying to various Ph.D. programs. And if I get accepted (and survive the next few months of cell phone not working, too much credit card debt, student loan jerks and the long, long Canadian winter that just never ends. Ever), I will undoubtedly do one. But here's the rub: like my M.A., I have this odd feeling that I'll either get accepted to all of the programs or none at all. Since I'm an optimist (stop laughing), and assuming that I do get accepted to all, what do I do? I know, I turn to my blogging friends for help! So here it is, Doug's choice. In this theoretical world, I get into all of the programs, the Democrats win in November, Diet Coke makes you poop out dollar coins, pound cake has negative calories, and I dance through downtown London in a tutu, singing Celine Dion songs. But this time the police don't catch me. Since program details are boring, I'm leaving them out.

University of Pittsburgh

Pros:

Inexpensive to live in
Cheap to live in
Really, really muthfukin' cheap.

Cons:

There's got to be a reason why it's so cheap, right?
The weather is distinctly London-like (so nay).
Apparently it's falling apart.

Odds I'll go there: 1:2.5

University of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia)

Pros:

Philadelphia is chock full of history and has some nice up and coming neighbourhoods
Close proximity to New York and Erin in Baltimore
Program offers a generous stipend
It's Ivy League, baby!

Cons:

Cracktown central!
Is only a minor step up from, let's say, Detroit.
Do you like oil refineries? Yes? Well Philly's got 'em in spades!
Across the river from Camden, New Jersey. Ick.

Odds: 1:2.5

Ohio State University (Columbus)

Pros:

Program is really interested in me (already have had a call)
It's, um....

Cons:

I hate Ohio.
I hate Columbus.
Columbus and my massive failure to read simple instructions were what triggered my anoreximia last year.

Odds: 1:10

University of Texas at Austin

Pros:

Nice weather
Nice city
Very liberal. For Texas. Which is like calling me a very straight man despite liking to sleep with men.

Cons:

Texas.
Texas.
Texas.
Oh, and the program couldn't seem less interested if they tried.

Odds: 1:15

University of Chicago

Pros:

Chicago is a gigantic city with gigantic things to do and lots of gigantic people. Seriously.
I like Chicago deep-dish pizza. Wait, no I don't.
Oprah?

Cons:

Oprah.
The program hasn't responded to any of my emails.
The weather sucks.
I recently saw an MSNBC special on runaways in Chicago and the tranny scared the shit out of me.

Odds: 1:33

Help me make a theoretical decision, guys! I've only got until April! I'll respond when I get back from Philadelphia. Yes, U Penn has invited me for a visit. Which is all kinds of frightening.

Who's your daddy?

2008-02-01T00:45:00.000-05:00

I've always feigned mild irritation with this question, jokingly coming up with the answer "I already told you that I don't know!" Because I really don't know. And it usually throws the askers for an amusing loop in which I can then revel.

But I lie. I do know who my father is; I know his name, approximately where he lives, one of my aunts, and two cousins. I've just never met him.

People sometimes ask why I've never met him, and I really don't know how to respond anymore beyond the unimaginative "I dunno." I mean, I could easily do it, I probably should do it, but yet I don't. It's never been presented to me as a viable option, and I'm not really interested. As a kid, I was always told about how "bad" he was, and that's why he wasn't in my life. Is it true? Perhaps. My mother briefly went to live with him and his family shortly after her 16th birthday (he was 18), and thus I was conceived. As I've been told, she was abused (etc, etc), I was conceived, she was rescued, I was born, the end. But now, 27 years later, I'm left wondering.

Should I meet him? He is accident prone (much thanks to alcoholism, as I'm told), and almost died in a car accident (no fault of his own, however), a few years back. As he lay in a hospital bed, I rested my head a scant few kilometres away, sitting in my apartment, wondering what might have been. But in the end I didn't meet him, and he recovered. Guilt averted.

But a crazy thing happened on the way to the forum. Last December I heard news that my father was helping my uncle build his new house. It seems that he was passing by, stopped in and offered a hand. My uncle accepted, cautiously, but everything seemed to go fine. As I heard of this news, and my uncle made his typical Christmas-day visit, I took a step that gave me pause - I sent my father a Christmas card. For the first time in 27 years, I decided to make contact.

Would it be something that I would come to regret? Quite possibly. With my aunt acting as a mediator, my father got our house phone number (which he probably already had, seeing as how we've had the same number for 30+ years) and called. But alas, I wasn't home.

In the two weeks before I left, I wanted to make that call. I would take the phone, sit down on my bed, and proceed to dial the numbers. But something stopped me - I always hung up before the call went through. What that something was remains a mystery - perhaps it was fear of losing my bond with Chantal, both of us in the "who's your daddy?" club. But that was nothing but a very poor excuse.

When ugly things from the past raise their heavy heads, all sorts of things come accompanied. "It will all come out in the wash," as my Grandmother says, and so it did. My Grandmother started feeling guilty over years of secrets, finally letting it be known that it wasn't that my father didn't want to see me, but rather that it was made very clear that he wasn't aloud. Not surprising, I thought to myself, as I'd always pretty much known that. But an even more shocking facet - my mother wanted to give me up for adoption, but it was my great-grandmother who convinced my grandmother not to let her do it. Sometimes I almost understand the antipathy my mother displays towards me. Almost.

Eventually my uncle asked my father to stop coming around. Constantly drunk, he was more of a danger than a help. And then my father demanded money for the work he did. As it appears my uncle and he had come to some sort of unspoken, unspeakable agreement: if my father got to meet me, the work would be for free. If not... Needless to say, my uncle is not happy with me, valiantly disguising it as a concern my my father's feelings after all those years. Nice.

Here I sit on a Thursday night, alone, thinking about him, while he's probably sitting alone in his trailer, drinking, thinking about me. Both of us wonder why, or maybe why not, but neither question really matters. After 27 years, two people, related by blood, may as well be strangers, and I think that's the way I'd like it to be.

Who's your daddy? I'd rather not know.

Update

2008-02-01T00:32:00.001-05:00

Since I'm a few weeks without work and without much else to do (including money to spend), I'm going to be posting more regular updates, starting immediately. I'm also going to revamp the design of the blog a bit, since it's a bit stale, add new links, etc. And yes, I'm finally going to delve into Google Reader and see what I've missed. That's fine, except that Loralee's scares me a little because she write eleventy million posts a day. But she's a good writer, so it's been entertaining. I'd just better have a Diet Coke handy.

Lost tonight!

2008-01-31T18:03:00.001-05:00

I haven't been this excited since I was officially cleared of lice in the 4th grade! Maybe even moreso! Will post later tonight...

Undelivered promises...

2008-01-15T00:08:00.001-05:00

I promise you a deep, introspective post, and I will deliever. But not now. For you see, I'm on my way back to Skunkville tomorrow. Yes, I said that I'd never go back, but Skunkville is really easy for me right now, and a good place to plunk down my ass until I start a Ph.D. in September. I'll try to update on the cell. Until a week from now... wish me luck!

For your entertainment...

2008-01-13T01:45:00.000-05:00

I'm laying here on my bed. It's roughly 8 C in my bedroom, so I'm wearing a coat. Baby Jane is nestled neatly by my side, my Grandmother is sound asleep, and I'm still hungry despite going to a buffet tonight. Because they're slow, I ate only a bowl of pasta and a tiny slice of pizza. And I just retyped "just" 5 times because I'm typing in the dark.

As I prepare to leave this province once again (no matter what Ellen Page said on Letterman a week back, Nova Scotia is not a great place to live. Or rather, not a great place if you're young, outside of Halifax, and have to work 40 hours a week for a living. Sigh. But do watch the clip. She's hilarious) and write a more somber post tomorrow, I reflect. Not upon serious things like the implication of Benezir Bhutto's assasination on the geopolitical situation of the Indian subcontinent (although it has crossed my mind), but instead on funny videos I've seen this past year. Because I'm lazy and need to post something. But seriously, these are pretty damned funny.

The Gross Out
I simply love the way she puts it back together and acts like nothing happened. I just wish I could speak Chinese! Not to understand the video, obviously, but because China will soon be our masters.

Alanis Cries
Alanis is a pretty dept comedienne, which you'd know if you ever watched MadTV, which she sometimes pops up on. But you probably don't watch MadTV, and I don't anymore. This has no point.

Anne of Green Gut
If you're neither Canadian, Japanese or Mexicalense (for whatever odd reason), you probably don't know who Anne of Green Gables is. And if you're not from Eastern Canada, you probably have never heard of Codco. But what if Anne had wound up in Newfoundland instead of PEI?

Save the Children!
You'll burn in hell for laughing at this. But you will laugh at it, and I will have some company. Naomi, show this to Malcolm.

Crackwhore in Toronto.

I think I gave her a quarter once. (Note: graphic)

Tomorrow: The tears.

My Grandmother's condition...

2008-01-06T00:02:00.000-05:00

has a first name, it's b-u-l-l-o-u-s, my grandmother's condition has a second name it's p-e-n-p-h-i-g-o-i-d... Bullous Penphigoid... is that complicated enough for you?

Here's what it is: your body's antibodies, for whatever reason, start attacking the glue that holds your skin to your body. This begets infection, which begets a rash and literal bubbles of infectious liquid all over your body. At first we thought it was hives, then eczema, so actually having a name for it is nice. Even though my Grandmother calls it "bo-bo-blah."

It's not hereditary, it's not infectious, and it's completely random, rare, and usually only hits seniors. Had my Grandmother gone to the doctor, oh, say two months ago, it would have been easy to fix. But since she didn't, they had to go to drastic measures and put her on an immediate steriod perscription. Two days in and she's doing much better- too much better. She's acting like Superwoman now, cleaning the entire house, crawling upon the counter to do the windows when only 4 days ago she slept 16 hours a day. She's also itching less, thus bleeding less, which is a definite plus.

The good news is that the steriods will make the symtoms go away, even though it may stay active for up to six years. Sigh. Well, at least it's not cancer...

The late fall/early winter of my discontent

2008-01-03T22:42:00.000-05:00

First off, I must apologize for the lack of posting. Yes, I promised you more, but here it is two weeks since my last blurb and I still don't know what to write. Well, I do, but just not how to write it in a way that doesn't make me seem completely insane, selfish, etc, etc, etc. Etc, for good measure.

I thought that coming home would be fun. Well, not exactly fun, but passable. And you know, November was okay. I got the job of my non-dreams, providing me with my first income in months, settled in nicely, and even wrote some stories, something which I had neglected for most of the summer. Simply put, November was okay. But not more than that.

But December, oh December... how quickly things went downhill in such a short amount of time.
Work started consistently scheduling me on early shifts and, as I noted earlier, mornings are my arch-enemy (well, outside of one-time roommate Gill). This worked fine until December 9th when my Grandmother tripped and fell in the mall. Fortunately, the outcome was only a few sprained ligaments, but, with continued weakness in her right arm after a shoulder break in March, she was unable to get herself out of bed. So every morning at 6a Iw ould get up to help her. This was compounded by a mysterious full body rash she's had since October. When I saw rash, I really mean eczema, only worse. Blisters and full body bleeding worse. The doctors don't know what it is, so she's seeing a specialist tomorrow. Anyway, this has meant that I've been picking up the slack around the house - washing dishes, hauling in wood, shoveling the driveway, and moving four entire piles of wood so she'd be able to more easily access them when I leave. And I don't mind doing these things because she's done so much for me, but after working 40 hours a week, I'm tired too.

Even after regaining the ability to get herself out of bed and her arm healing, my grandmother has taken it upon herself to be my personal alarm clock, despite the fact that I already have a fully functioning mechanical one. Normally I get up at 8:30 to make it to work for 10, but she seems to think it's necessary to call me at 7am, then every half-hour thereafter. Suddenly my 6 hours of sleep are cut down to 4.5. 4.5 x 5 equals 22 hours a sleep during the work-week, a littleles than half of what I'd like to get, and 75% of what I actually need to function properly.

And Baby Jane... sweet Baby Jane. I love the dog, really, but for the last month she's been stuck to me like glue. Maybe it's seeing my Grandmother being weaker, so she's sucking up to me... Anyway, since she insists on sleeping with me and barks at my door if I don't let her in, I haven't been able to get a peaceful night's sleep. Although she's just 8 pounds, she insists on sleeping in the centre of the bed. And being nice, I don't have the heart to move her.

Other December events:

The power cord on my laptop stops working, so now I'm using the old eMachines, the computer that just won't die. Well, all except for the space bar, which sticks and drives me crazy.
Previously detailed fight with my sister. I saw her a few times over Christmas, and we were civil and more or less normal. Except for her not even giving a Christmas card to anybody in the family (not even my Grandmother), despite bragging about the gift she bought for her boyfriend's mother and all the money she got as gifts. But why give a Christmas card when you can simply say Merry Christmas? Oh wait, she didn't do that either...
The death of my Grandmother's younger sister on Christmas Day after a battle with cancer.
The death of a distant 12-year-old cousin in a four-wheeler accident, again on Christmas Day. I didn't know him, but many are in shock.
Seeing my 2-year-old niece twice, despite the fact that she's scared of me and won't come near me.
My mother constantly bragging up my younger brother for helping her out two days with her business, despite nary a word about me even thought I designed and continue to operate their entire fucking website and have done so for over a year.
Not liking my job. I know, I know, many of us don't, but I'm really beyond that now. Every minute I spent there I think: "This is a complete waste of my time. I got two fucking degrees for this shit?"
Weather, weather, weather. Winter hit hard and furious here. We've been snowed in since late November, and have had 4 major storms in the last 10 days. Yes, I know I'm Canadian, but man, it's really taking a toll.

So there it is. My long list of complaints. I know that I should just get over it, but today I feel like complaining. And I may do it again tomorrow.

Much to my chagrin (or utter surprise...)

2007-12-21T22:23:00.000-05:00

I like lots of alt and/or obscure music. Hell, among my favorite tunes Nina Simone's Who Knows Where The Time Goes (along with the phenominal Sandy Denny original), most of the songs on Sheryl Crow's criminally ignored album The Globe Sessions and Shawn Colvin's Sonny Came Home, too many obscure Canadian artists to count and Roxette's Joyride. Okay, so that's not so obscure or alt, but it's weird nonetheless.

Radio usually makes me puke. To me, it peaked in the mid-1990s and slid steadily downhill since. I stopped paying attention to pop culture in 2004, replacing that with a fascination for Mexican population statistics (just kidding! Sort of...). And last night on ABC's terrible but fascinating game show Duel, I sat jaw agape when the 29-year-old contestant had absolutely no idea who ABBA was. Fernando, sick the Dancing Queen on him! Meanwhile, Chiquitita and I will huddle in the corner crying.

I am a nerd.

Still, the best pure pop song I've heard this year? Piece of Me, via Britney Spears. Being gay, it's in my genes to love great dance music, and that's exactly what the song is. I don't care if she's drugged out, would trade her children for a hamburger, still thinks she has the same body she had 8 years ago, has a wholesome 16-year-old sister who just announced she's pregnant, forcing her mother's book on parenting to be infinitely delayed. In just don't care. Despite it all, Britney continues to make some damn good music.

Piece of Me. Listen now.

Top reason to look forward to January 31, 2008

2007-12-19T22:46:00.000-05:00

Shorter, but creepier....

Things beyond my comprehension

2007-12-19T00:18:00.000-05:00

Browsing the internets the other night, doing my typical "God-I'm-so-bored-I'm-looking-through-the-archives-of-the-local-newspaper
-for-potential-mentions-of-myself," sweeping through Gmail, the fascist Television Without Pity, Datalounge and reading up on pygmies on Wikipedia, I stumbled across Nielsen Media Research's annual list of things ranked in the USA. And while some of it was to be expected - yes, American Idol really was the top rated tv show of last season - some of it was downright bizarre. As in, really? kind of bizarre. But fascinating nonetheless.

For instance, you would never, ever guess what was the most-buzzed show on the internet. Grey's Anatomy? With Meredith kinda dying and all, it's a good guess. Maybe American Idol, the thought of which leaves me semi-nautious. But nope, not those two. The Office? Hereos? Lost? It must be one of those, right?

Wrong. The most talked about series on the internet this year was My Name Is Earl, a show which I've never heard anybody, ever, never talk about. According to Nielsen "buzzmetrics," MNIE was buzzed about online almost twice as much as American Idol, the runner up. Coming in at #5, inexplicably, was The West Wing, a series that ended two seasons ago. The buzz-meter is broken, apparently.

In the blogsphere, despite Loralee's most valient efforts, Salt Lake City did not appear in the top 10 cities of people who contributed most often to blogs. That honour went to Austin, Texas, where at least 15% of the population contributed to or read a blog in the past month. Beehivers do, however, watch alot of movies, with SLC ranking first amongst the percentage of people who watch movies regularly and purchase DVDs.

And because I'm getting old, let's talk about music. Of the top 10 most radio-played songs of the year, I have not heard five of them. I have no clue who two of the artists even are, including the number one - T. Pain and his/her song "Buy You a Drank." And just because I'm getting that old, I will go on record as noting that there's so much wrong with that song title that my head almost exploded upon typing it out. Oh, and that fucking Fergie song is #4. As my readers may remember, just last year I noted that I had absolutely noidea who Fergie was. But now, thanks to the magic of radio, I really wish that woman, if she indeed is a girl, would cry. Because big girls sometimes do that, Fergie. (Sidenote - I swear that the lyric "And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket" is the single worse lyric that I've ever heard. And this coming from somebody who loves Roxette).

Skipping books because, really, if it isn'tSpanish I likely haven't heard of it, and even if it is in Spanish I still probably haven't, we'll go to the wolf-in-sheeps-clothing, the most utterly shocking category - Consumer Packaged Goods. Sounds exotic, no? Well, not really, as it's just milk, eggs, cigarettes and shit like that.

And speaking of shit, here's the most shocking finding of the entire Nielsen survey. This year, 97% of Americans purchased fresh bread at somepoint. 95% bought milk. Hell, 85% bought batteries. But the most shocking placement? Toilet paper. This year, apparently 7% of American households purchased no toilet paper whatsoever, the same number who managed to survive without cookies. Slightly more people managed to make due without canned soup and potato chips. My question? If they're eating all of this food.... you know.

So there it is. I won't bother to make further comment on that, because the people who did not buy toilet paper last year know who they are. And they should not be proud. While you may think you're sticking it to the man by not stocking up on Duracells, please reconsider the TP aversion. For all of our safety.

Source: Coming as soon as I can launch Adobe Acrobat in IE without it crashing... Damn stupid Windows. Mac, here I come!

I hate mornings

2007-12-12T22:58:00.000-05:00

There, I said it.

I've alluded to it before, but during these last few weeks it's become more apparent to me than ever before. The reason? Well, the people that be at my new job (aka - worst employment ever), insist that I work mornings. Normally, I would consider "morning" anything before 2 p.m., but their definition differs somewhat. They mean like 8 a.m. morning. Like Doug wants to scoop out his eyeballs morning.

It's not that I haven't worked mornings before, because I have. At my previous Citi incarnation, I worked Sunday and Monday mornings at 7 a.m. Way back when I worked at a grocery store many years ago, I spent an entire summer working mornings, and again for a few months some years later at the same place.

But still, I never got used to it. I simply hate mornings. I hate everything about mornings and everybody and everything in the morning. Including, but not limited, to the following: myself, the weather, the alarm clock, cereal, co-workers, my eyebrows, showering, leaves I may trample on the way, the bitch at the corner store who would refuse to check my lottery tickets, just to name a few. Everything. Really.

I used to have a few tricks for dealing with the mornings. Back in my Citi days, I would throw myself in the shower as soon as I woke up, not really being cognizant of what was going on. And it worked: I would have my typical morning breakdown in the shower, cry and swear that I was going to kill myself, then be all ready to go by the time I stepped out the door. But here, that's not possible. Because there is no central heating but instead merely a wood stove planted in the kitchen, having a shower first thing in the morning is the absolute last thing I want to do. Or could do, considering the air temperature inside is frequently hovering around the freezing mark by the time I get up. I'd get hypothermia, not to mention severe shrinkage.

I simply cannot go to bed early. I just can't. I lay and toss and turn, thinking about how much time I am wasting trying to sleep when I could be playing that Super Mario 64 emulator I downloaded last night. My ideal time to sleep, as I've discovered, is 4 a.m because by that time, I'm usually very tired. Any later than that and I risk having the sun rise, and as I discovered last year, nor can I sleep once the sun has risen. So I basically have a two hour window between 4 and 6 a.m. in which to fall asleep. The problem? I now have to get up at 7. My working weeks here I view more as a punishment: make it through the five work days, all tired and zombie-like, then rest on the weekend. But as I've discovered, as one gets older, the harder it is to do that. And being a person that needs exactly 8.5 hours of sleep a day in order to feel fully functional (I'm odd like that - I just can't understand how somebody can feel good after 6 hours of sleep), I am on the verge of collapse.

Tough, you might say - you just need to suck it up. That's life. And other tired cliches. However slowly but surely, the night-owls are being vindicated. I recently read a story that confirms that being a night-owl or early-bird is genetic. And since I can't find that story, here's one for Google News. Suck on this, naysayers:

The gene, Period 3, forms part of our internal body clock, and comes in two variants, one short and one long. Dr Simon Archer, lead author, said: "We discovered that the shorter variant of the gene is significantly more common in people with an extreme evening preference.
"This is even more so in patients suffering from delayed sleep phase syndrome, a sleep disorder where people fall asleep at very late times and have difficulty waking up in the morning." Prof Jo Arendt, senior member of the team, said: "It is tempting to speculate that one day some people might choose their lifestyle according to their clock genes." Source

And upon reading that story, I realized two things. 1) This was just reported in a Canadian newspaper last month, even though the above story was written in 2003. Are Canadians really that slow on the uptake? 2) Why should I live under the tyranny of the early risers? Think about it: the entire world runs around your schedule while we night-owls suffer. Not only that, we are also assaulted with your verbal tirades about how we're "lazy" and "not motivated" and "fat." Okay, so maybe not the last one.

I wanted to come up with a snazzy ending to this post but unfortunately, I have to work at 8:30 a.m. and already feel like I'm going to die. And for that I blame you, Mrs. or Mr. "I love to wake up with the birds!" Keep your joy to yourself, especially at 7am or I may just bite your head off.

Some thoughts on TV

2007-12-03T01:51:00.000-05:00

As I sit here waiting for Mr G. to come online and liven up my otherwise completely unspectacular evening, I've decided to write a blog post. After mentally going over some hot topics that would make even The View girls blush (all except for Barbara Walters, who apparently has a thing for Astroglide, whatever that is), I've decided to hold back. After all, who wants to read about the calluses on my feet? Truly, for me, that is a hot topic in these desperate times.

Since coming home, I've gone into somewhat of a holding pattern. It's difficult being here - losing my independence (my grandmother acting as my morning alarm clock when she gets up every morning and conversates with Baby Jane. Yes, I know that conversate isn't a word, but it really should be, so I'm pioneering it), working at a job surrounded by utter, utter retards (sorry for using that word, but really... the stories I will weave later on...), the rapidly encroaching winter that promises to be 100% worse than last year, and not knowing what to do with my time. That's the biggest problem for me: time. This weekend, for instance, I had off. I considered going over my Ph.D. applications, but really? I've done that a million times. Last night I finished off a story I was writing, cleaned my bedroom, reformatted my computer, played with Baby Jane and briefly considered tackling the thick roughness that is the bottom of my feet. And I watched television. I've been doing that far too much lately, but honestly, there are few other options. I can only check my email so many times before I start to go crazy.

So, without further delay, here's what I'm enjoying right now:

Ugly Betty: Seriously, how can anyone not love this show? It's hilarious week-in and week-out. Wisely, they made it an ensemble piece and made Wilhelmina (as played by Vanessa Williams) the villain. Yes, it's way over the top most of the time, but damn, it's good. It's also the gayest show on TV, by far, I might add. And with the serious lack of gayness here in my hometown, any extra gay is greatly appreciated.

Desperate Housewives: The show has gotten remarkably better since last season. Dana Delany is really quite good as the new housewife and all of the stories are revving right now. The tornado episode airing tonight was a bit of a let-down, considering that they've been airing promos for it for three fucking weeks and tonight saw no resolution at all, but it's still in my good graces.

Samantha Who? I watched this because I like Christina Applegate, and so far, it's been pretty good. I really don't see how they can keep stretching out the whole "amnesia" thing forever, but it's funny so far.

Law & Order: SVU: I know that this is one of Loralee's favorites, so maybe she can weigh in on it too. I've missed quite a few episodes this season, but don't feel particularly bad about it. Some episodes have been laughably bad (especially the season premiere with Cynthia Nixon) and Benson seriously gets on my nerves for a reason that I haven't quite identified yet. Much to-do was made about last-season's finale, and I distinctly remember Loralee wanting to see a good resolution to all that, but none was provided that I can see. To me, this show has always had good story ideas, but they are executed very poorly, going right along with the writing and acting.

Pushing Daisies: I really wanted to like this show, I really did. But then along came last week's episode and I fell asleep right in the middle of it. It's just more of the same, week-after-week, and the characters talk way too damned fast. Really, I have a headache by the end of each episode. Everything is just way too cutesy and novelty-like for this to last more than one season.

Grey's Anatomy: I'm not a regular watcher of this show, but it's hard not to know what's going on. I did watch last week's episode though, with the whole ambulance thing, and quite enjoyed it. However, too many characters on this show annoy me too much for me to become a regular viewer. Especially Meredeth, who seems to be a whiny bitch from hell. How Ellen Pompeo got lead on this show is truly one of the great mysteries.

Brothers and Sisters (aka: The Show in Which Sally Field Stars): I just recently starting watching TSIWSFS and must admit that I quite enjoy it. It's really, really soapy, but in a good way, and I feel quite proud of myself that I now know who all of the characters are and how exactly they're related to each other. That in itself is a huge accomplishment. But the true draw of TSIWSFS, as Mr G. pointed out to me, is Sally Field herself, complete with all of her acting ticks. Expressing disappointment? Sigh and look down. Expressing happiness? Laugh and look down. Sadness? Cry and look down. It's really quite a marvel.

The Amazing Race: I've always been a fan of TAR, and this season's been especially good. Highlights include goth couple Kynt and Vyzysnsn (sp), and some chick freaking out while trying to milk a camel in Burkina Faso. I've been waning on TAR during recent editions, but this one has me right back into it. But then again, I have few options.

So there you have it. Going back over that list, I realize that I watch way too much female-oriented programming on ABC. But that looks to change once Lost comes back, whenever that may be. And with the writer's strike, almost none of these shows have any new episodes left to air! Which means that I'll finally be able to take a break from the television and take a long, hard look at my life.

Writers, please come back. I beseech you.

My sister, I love you (part 2)

2007-11-28T01:55:00.000-05:00

So what do you do when your sister decides to start living her life like she's stuck in some early 1990s Salt n' Peppa song? (And I know, because I recently rediscovered my "Very Necessary" CD and I must tell you, I still like it). Nothing, pretty much. I've recently discovered that lesson.

I've mentioned my sister now and again on this blog, mostly as a source of frustration more than anything. She spent last summer with "Brooks," some guy who convinced her that she should quit school and sleep under the town bridge. After she came to London last October, Brooks decided that it would be a convenient time to break up with her and I decided to show her something outside of that (or rather this, since I'm living here for the moment) small-minded hometown where the possibilities seem endless, if your possibilities include working at a call-centre or the local chicken joint. And it seemed to work - for the first time in a long time, she seemed happy and motivated to do something with her life.

So quickly that went to hell. Coming back to Bridgewater, she decided that she wasn't going to go to school, and promptly hooked up with some other guy, informing my Grandmother a week before Christmas that she was going to spend the holidays with her "man," as she put it. She never returned.

Since last December, she's been living with this "man," subsisting on the monthly family allowance cheque that my grandmother receives from the government. When I was a kid it was $33. Now it's $309. WTF? Were we worth less as children? Anyway, they had a nice system going on for a while where my sister would come to my Grandmother's house multiple times a month and get the money - in cheque form. In total, it was $309, but spread out in umpteen disbursements. After listening to my Grandmother complain for months about it, I told her what she should do - write out a cheque for $309 at the beginning of the month, give it to my sister and be done with it. So in July, she did just that. Great plan? Not really, because two weeks later my sister was out of money (she had just very wisely gotten herself a cat) and asked my grandmother for money from the next month's cheque. So my grandmother, a sucker she, obliged.

Cut to October. The cheque for October arrives on the 20th, and by the 30th, my sister already had received all of the money from the November cheque. My grandmother tells her there is no more. A week later, my sister calls my grandmother, crying, natch, that she really needs money. For what? The excuses varied - taxis, cat litter, food, a winter coat for her boyfriend, etc. My Grandmother refused, as she should have. My sister needs to learn how to budget her money and if she has to learn that the hard way, so be it. She won't be receiving this money at all after April when she turns 18, so she'd better get her act together.

Anywho, cut to two weeks ago. My sister calls, crying that her boyfriend is in jail. Apparently, according to her, he was sent to jail for "skipping school." That's my sister, a constant liar, but still not very good at it. He's in until December 15th and she is just intent on crying until he gets out. But not only does she call once that day, but proceeds to call 5 times, begging for money. The excuses, again, varied. The next day my Grandmother refused to answer the phone, but at one point it rang 25 times, followed by 16 times five minutes later. My Grandmother's been a bit sick lately and has an inexplicable, yet severe case of hives, so this really isn't doing her any good. On Wednesday, before I went to work, my sister called again. This time I picked up the phone, told her to stop harassing my Grandmother and hung up. She didn't call back.

Fast-forward to Friday on MSN, while I was awaiting Mr. G. My sister comes online very late at night, so I say hi. Long story short, we get into a cyber-fight when I ask her why her boyfriend is in jail and implore her to stop harassing our Grandmother. She writes something extremely hurtful - probably the most hurtful thing I have ever had directly towards me. And I'm not one for hyperbole, but it was extremely direct and personal. In response, I blocked her.

I sat and thought about the whole situation for a while, then had an epiphany - I have to start treating my sister like an adult. She may not act like one, but her age indicates that she is almost there, so be it. I plan of renting a car to do some Christmas shopping in Halifax in a few weeks, so I invited her along. She still hasn't responded. Even despite the hurtful words (which I forgave, citing her like duress over her boyfriend's jailtime), I realize that I do love her and if we're going to have any sort of relationship going forward, things have to change. So that's where I sit. I guess I'm not looking for any sort of advice, but instead am giving an update as to my sister, whom I frequently have in mind. Does anybody else have experience with siblings gone sour like this? How did it work out?

A long, long time ago, I can't even remember...

2007-11-24T22:55:00.000-05:00

How I used to make you smile.
And I knew not that if we broke up
You'd become a tad obsessed
And stalk me all over the internet...

(sung to the tune of American Pie. Madonna's version, because I'm into that shit. And shit it was.)

So way back when, back before Mr. G and even David, in the fall of 2005, I had a boyfriend. He was my first boyfriend and it was exciting. Not necessarily because of him, but because I actually had a boyfriend.

He found out about me in May of 2005 by visiting some profile that I had created god-knows when, but no longer checked. As he later told me, he had wanted to meet me for months, but I never responded to his messages (because I wasn't getting them). (Un)fortunately, his roommate just so happened to be somebody with whom I went to school, and after they discovered this connection in October of 2005, "Joe," as I will call him, got my school email and we proceeded from there.

Joe was sweet, but older. 42 to be exact. Quite far out of my age range, but it was something different, so I decided to give it a try. Every weekend he would watch BBC America while I drifted off from boredom, and every week night we would talk on the phone for minutes and minutes about his constant headaches and utterly boring life. After just a month-and-a-half, I had pretty much figured out that it wasn't going to work out, for all of the obvious reasons. At the end of November, he decided to go on vacation, dropping me off at my house with the mind-bogglingly bad send-off "Well, I guess we'll talk in two weeks." I thought that he was going to Cuba, but as it turns out he just stayed at home and sulked his vacation away. I left him a few phone messages, but he never bothered to get back to me, so I assumed that the relationship was over. I sent him a final email confirming it (email - I know, but what option did I have? He wouldn't talk to me on the phone), but boy, was I wrong.

Later that night, he fired back an email stating how upset he was and how insensitive I was. He thought, in his words, mind you, "that the distance would make you realize how much you loved me." From a guy I knew for just 60 days. He actually did once say - the sometimes cringe-inducing "I love you," which I basically ignored at the time and proceeded to pretend it never happened at all.

By that time, I was talking to David and became more and more interested in him, leaving me less and less interested in Joe. Honestly, I didn't even think we could be friends - we had absolutely nothing in common and he was one of those "my life is worse!" people. Everytime I would share a painful story, he had to one-up me and insist that, well, his life had been worse. Trust me Joe, peeing yourself in a canoe cannot even begin to compare with being accused of molesting your sister at age 13. But that's another story.

After 2005 turned into 2006, Joe sunk further and further n my mind to the point where I didn't even think of him at all. Then one day, while buying a newspaper at Macs (an Ontario chain corner store), he apparently saw me from across the street, bolting over and through traffic to catch up with me. I didn't see him at first, leading to him greeting me from behind (in my ear, mind you), with the following:

Did you miss me?

Honestly Joe, no I did not. I hadn't thought of you for months and probably wouldn't have ever again. And you're fucking creepy. We had a very awkward 10 minute conversation in which he almost starting crying when I told him that I had already moved on. Not a sympathetic person I, an excuse was made and I got the hell out of there.

As the summer wore on and I tried to mend my broken heart, I put up some ads on dating websites as a confidence builder, but low and behold, Joe was on these sites as well. I knew this because he wrote me a message, then immediately phoned me afterwards, both types of messages I deleted without checking. Kristina nearly kicked me for that, asking how it was possible that I didn't want to know what he had said - how I wasn't even curious. As I told her - "Not interested, not even a bit."

In October of 2006 I started work at Citi, as the readers of this blog well know. I knew that Joe also worked there, but in a different department on a different floor, so I prayed every single day that I would not run into him. My prayers were answered until February of this year when I very briefly ran into him and exchanged banal pleasantries. As ultimately disinterested and I tried to make myself seem, that seemingly inconsequential rendez-vous seemed to have resparked his interest in me, meaning more messages to my online profiles, which I rarely, if ever, checked. He even went as far as to add me as a friend on Facebook, but under an assumed name. Some people are very diligent in making sure they know the people they add them as friends, but not Doug! To this affect, I received the following message from him last month:

Hi Douglas, so glad you added me, I really wish we could have spent some more time together while you were here in the city, i guess you just werent that into me hahaha, seriously your a great guy, not much new here still planning to get back to my travelling so working on finding a position some where different, i hope your well and happy, huge hug my friend.

Well, he was right about one thing - I just wasn't that into him. After ignoring that message, tonight he sends me another:

Hey Doug, hows life been these days..what are you up to and where has your journey brought you .. Hope you are well , fuerte abrazo con beso.

Mr G. is not worried at all, nor should he be. Joe and I had a two month relationship that ended two years ago. I know I'm good, but damn! It's time the guy gets over it.

So, my question to my faithful readers: what do I do? Do I just continue to ignore the messages, or do I write to him and set the record straight once and for all? That I'm really not interested in even being friends and he's been creeping me out for quite a while now? Is that too harsh?

Feedback needed. TIA!

A history of violence

2007-11-14T21:20:00.000-05:00

No, not the recent movie that I never saw, thus having no impact on me and rendering me unsure as to why I even remember its name. Instead, my history with computers. Yes, a history of violence because it's what I often feel towards computers. Sure, everybody feels violence towards their electronic machines of pure evil at one point or another, but I'm sure that nobody has had quite the experiences that I have had. You got a taste of it last year with my Dell rant/rave, but that was only the tip of the iceberg.

I now present: A History of Violence, featuring computers and me.

1990-1992: My very first computer, a Vic-20. You may remember these little buggers, then think,"Hey, weren't they massively outdated by 1990?" I resent that comment, and if you don't stop pointing out that sad, ugly truth, I shall retire to playing my Atari 2600 instead of writing this blog post. But yes, I had a Vic-20, complete with connection to the back of my black & white tv and cartridges that plugged directly into the keyboard. And I even had the tape deck! What an antiquated piece of crap... Sort of went along with the aforementioned Atari 2600 that I had at about the same time.

Broken: When I decided to take it apart. Oops.

Cost: Gift from my wretched ex-step-father.

1992-1995: My second computer, some IBM compatible piece of crap that ran on DOS. Nope, it didn't even have Windows, nor even a 3.5" drive. Yes, I got well acquainted with those old 5.25" floppies, but on the upside, I learned everything I know about DOS from that computer. A whole hell lot of good it does me now.

Broken: Damn my inquiring mind!

Cost: $300

1995-1998: My third computer, used like the last two, was another IBM-Compatible. Windows 3.1 with some very basic programs. On the upside, I could play Sim City 2000, but on the downside, I once blew $300 trying to install the internet on it. (First bought the modem - 14.4k, then a CD-Rom to install the ISP programs. In the end, I ruined the CD-Rom and the 3.5" floppy drive). But this computer, man, I thought it was top of the line!

Broken: Really, I've got to get a grip on this.

Cost: $700

Spring 1999: Living in Montreal, I decided that I needed a computer. I went to a used computer store where the salesclerk talked me into buying a Mac - something a little more complicated than a Commodore-64. Did I want English or French format, he asked. "French," I responded smugly, thinking that I would be able to improve my language skills using the computer. What I later discovered what that when anything was saved on a floppy on this computer, it was not compatible with English-format computers Macs, like the very kind we had at school. So anytime I did homework at home, I then has to read all of it onto a tape, then transcribe it at school. But I learned my lesson. Or so you would think.

Broken: Not sure... I blacked out at one point.

Cost: $150

Fall 1999: Halifax, Nova Scotia. Tired of going to school to use the internet, I decide to plunk down $1000 (!) on an IBM ThinkPad. Considering that I was making $6 an hour at that time at the grocery store, it was a big purchase for me. And all was fine with the computer, until the spring of 2000 when the G H and " keys suddenly decided to stop working. So copy and pasting letters became my thing. I took it to be repaired and long story short, three months later I had it back, free of charge (it turns out the person who was working on it quit, then they lost it, blah, blah blah. The anger's gone now, but then? Oh, it was all I lived for). Later, the hinges on the monitor completely broke, leaving me to prop it up with a paint-can. In the summer of 2001 it finally died when one day it just wouldn't start. Fucker.

Broken: Described above

Cost: $1000

December 2001: Fresh back from my stint in Mexico, I headed to the Best-Buy owned Future Shop and bought myself an E-Machines desktop. Supposedly the worst of the worst, it came with 128 MB of RAM, a 20G HDD and Windows XP. I was stoked! Besides trying to add too much memory and one monitor catching on fire unexpectedly, the computer was fantastic. In fact, it's still here, and my grandmother uses it. Or, rather, she says she will but never does. Whatever.

Broken: Still alive and kicking

Cost: $900

August 2004: Deciding that I needed mobility in moving to London, I buy my most expensive computer yet, a Dell laptop. I've already chronicled that here, and the anger's finally subsided, so I'm not going to add any more.

Cost: $2100

June 2006: With the Dell dead and my thesis deadline fast approaching, I once again went back to Future Shop, this time buying a Gateway laptop. A decent little machine, and shockingly, I've had amazing luck with it. I once spilled water on it and thought "Well, it was nice while it lasted...", then took it all apart to air out. When I put it back together, much to my surprise, it worked! Then in California while cooking Pad Thai one night, I accidentally spilled vinegar on the keyboard. Yes, because I'm an idiot. The keys stopped working, but after I took it apart and aired it out, fine again!

Despite all of that, one night while Mr. G was busy working and I was doing whatever, I picked up my computer to check my email. The screen black, a per usual, I hit any key to kill the screen save. Much to my dismay, 1/3 of the screen was gone. For no reason. Angry at first, I've since become accustomed to it. Everything is sized into the part of the screen that I have left and when I want to check the time, I go to Google and type "Current time." Works like a charm. And sometimes the colour band even dances for me. As my grandmother noted: "That's pretty!" Indeed it is Nan, indeed it is. But I know that this band is going to slowly buy surely expand and eventually I'll be working on one tenth the screen, not willing to give-up the dream. Oh, and on top of that, the computer won't pick up that there's power connected to it unless I wrap the cord around the monitor. That's pretty too. Joanna, meanwhile, somehow manages to smear peanut-butter on her touchpad and use the hand rest as a coaster for hot tea, but nothing happens to hers... Sigh. It's my destiny, I swear.

Legend:
Red - highlights the "pretty" dancing bands of colour.
Yellow: The black nether-region.
Green: The fucking power cord.

Cost: $800

Number of computers between 1990 and 2007: 8
Number leaving my hands destroyed: 6
Number that should be destroyed: 1 (and I'm typing on it).
Total Cost: $7000
Violence: Too much to count.

A lesson learned at YYZ

2007-11-11T17:07:00.000-05:00

So yes, I'm back in Nova Scotia. And yes, I'm working at a job that I hate with people who are borderline retarded. Par for the course here, I realize. But I am thankful. Strange, you may think, but after weaving my story about the horrors I faced at YYZ (other wise known as Lester B. Pearson International Airport, aka - Toronto International Airport), you'll understand why.

I left San Diego last Monday at 9:30pm, flying overnight to Newark, then catching a short flight to Buffalo. Crossing the border back into Canada was quite easy, in fact, much more so than I thought it would be. I got to Toronto Tuesday afternoon, wasted a bit of time, then headed to the airport to pick up my rental car. The rental agency (Payless, for those who care) is located about 10 minutes from the airport, so I arrived there via their shuttle service. The next two days went fine - I drove to London, spent time with Joanna & Mike, wrote the GRE, saw Kristina, then left Thursday afternoon for Toronto once again. The car was due back at 7pm, and my flight left at 7:45. I left London at 3:30, a half-hour early, just to be safe. But that's where it all went to hell. A chronology, if you will indulge me.

3:40: I hit traffic in London.
4:00: I finally get to the southern part of the city to get on the highway, only to find road construction. Traffic is an absolute nightmare. I'm planning on a two hour drive to Toronto, so I figure that I can still make it.
4:15: I finally manage to get on the highway, and take off like a bat out of hell.
4:35: Just outside of London, traffic is slowed to a crawl because of a car accident.
4:50: I finally get out of the traffic accident area, and am off again. Flying down the highway at 130kmph (80mph), 30 over the limit. But really, I just don't care.
6:00: I finally get to Brampton, just outside of the airport area. But traffic!
6:15: I miss the turn-off to the airport because of said traffic.
6:20: I get off the highway, finally, taking a route that I don't know because I have to do something.
6:25: I take the wrong way, and have to turn back.
6:30: I finally find the airport, and decide that it would be wise for me to get my ticket before I return the car.
6:35: I park in terminal 1, because I think that's where WestJet flies from.
6:38: I realize that WestJet flies from Terminal 3.
6:45: Hauling 70 pounds of luggage and bolting through the airport, I get on the train and make it to Terminal 3.
6:48: Thanks to there being no line-up, I check-in right away. I ask the boarding time: 7:15.
6:50: Back on the poorly-labeled train, I go in the wrong direction.
6:53: I get on the other train, and once again go in the wrong direction.
6:58: Back in Terminal 1, I call Payless. I inform them that I can't get the car back, and they inform me that I "must." MUST!
6:59: I commence the panic to end all panics.
7:02: I arrive back at the car, then search for the ticket to get out of the parking lot.
7:03: I realize that I've lost the ticket.
7:10: I arrive at the customer service desk, dripping in sweat and practically having a panic attack. I manage to get a new ticket.
7:12: Realizing that I can't possibly make my flight and return the car, I once again call the agency. Mike, who works for Payless, is quite pissed and rants and raves about how they have "no protocol" for this situation. Really? You rent cars to customers predominantly from the airport, yet you've never had somebody leave the car at the airport before? REALLY? He asks me where it's parked. I realize that I don't know.
7:15: I run back up to the car, taking careful notes about where it's parked.
7:20: I beg the person at parking customer service to keep the keys for the car until Mike gets back.
7:25: I call Mike again. I give him exact directions, trying to suck up to him as much as possible, although he grumbles.
7:26: I bolt for Terminal 3.
7:30: Arriving at terminal 3, I realize that I no longer have a drop of moisture in my mouth and can't control my breathing. I'm having a panic attack.
7:32: At security. No line-up. Over the P.A., they call my name. I realize that I'm in trouble.
7:35: I get through security, then realize that my gate is at the end of the terminal. I run as fast as I can, sweat pouring off me like Niagara Falls. They call my name on the PA AGAIN.
7:40: I arrive at the gate, and thankfully, they let me on.
7:55: We take off. I sit silently and try to regain my composure, nearly passing out.
9:00: I watch Grey's Anatomy, thankful that WestJet has in-flight satellite TV. I don't even watch GA, but it certainly kept my mind off of all the possibilities: they don't find the car in the parking lot (which charges $8 an hour for parking), they charge me hundreds of dollars for picking up the car, etc, etc, etc.

Lesson Learned: If you're renting a car to make a flight, don't rent the car from an agency that isn't located directly at the airport. No exceptions. If they're not located at the airport, there's a reason for that.

Final bill: $55 dollars for the rental, $102 for other fees.

1400

2007-11-01T12:59:00.001-04:00

On the GRE, which I wrote yesterday. 760 on the quantitative (math), 640 on the verbal. Unknown on the writing sections. Way better than I expected, and thankfully done. Gotta go!

Goblins are humans too!

2007-10-29T12:50:00.000-04:00

I read this online in the Daily Mail this weekend, and I couldn't help but to post it.

Isabelle Duerme - AHN News Writer
London(AHN) - A theory has been put forward regarding the human species dividing into two different subspecies, after reaching its physical peak by the year 3000.
According to Oliver Curry, an evolutionist of the London School of Economics, it is very likely that the human species will someday subdivide into two different species - a race of the attractive and intelligent ruling class elite, and the dumb, ugly, goblin-like underclass.
Curry explains that the split will most probably be caused by an increase in standards upon choosing mates, as health indicators become of greater importance.
The scientist explains that those belonging to the upper class would be tall, slim, attractive, intelligent, and creative. The males would have symmetrical facial features, deeper voices, and bigger penises. The women would have glossier hair, smooth skin, large clear eyes, and pert breasts.
The average height of these humans would be 6 to 7 feet tall, with a lifespan of 120 years, as relayed by the Daily Mail.
Curry warns, however, that the steadily-growing dependence on technology would make these humans become similar to domesticated animals, according to the BBC.
"While science and technology have the potential to create an ideal habitat for humanity over the next millennium, there is a possibility of a monumental genetic hangover...due to an over-reliance on technology," Curry explained.
Communication and other social skill will decrease and probably disappear, along with the essential human emotions of love, trust, sympathy, and respect. These humans will also be unable to work together, much less care for other humans.
The propagation of medicine will also result in the weakening of the immune system, and health problems will be rampant.
This theory is of great resemblance to that proposed by H.G. Wells in his novel The Time Machine, which portrayed two human sub-species divided by qualities similar to those described by Curry.

So Mr. G and I, on our many weekend adventures in moving, kept an eye out for future goblins-to-be. Unfortunately, we saw several.

Abandonment

2007-10-27T22:06:00.000-04:00

Dear Friends,

I have not abandoned you again. I am going through hell this weekend and will not be posting for at least a week. This weekend, I'm helping Mr. G ready the apartment for abandonment, which is taking up hours and hours and hours. On Monday night, I'm leaving San Diego for Buffalo, New York, arriving at 9 am. From there, I take a bus to Toronto, go to the airport, rent a car and drive to London. In London, I get to spend some time with Joanna and hopefully see Kristina. On Wednesday, I write the GRE. On Thursday, I drive back to Toronto to make my flight to Halifax, renting a car and arriving at Chantal's at 12:30 am. On Friday, Doug drives back to his hometown and has a job interview at 2pm. I then drive back to Halifax, spend some time with Chantal, then return to Bridgewater on Sunday to start a new job on Monday.

Yes, Doug is going home. Being here in San Diego with Mr. G has been wonderful, but wonderful costs money. Lots of money. So I'm going back to Bridgewater for three months, living at home and paying off my debts. In February, I hope to return to London until August, then I'll go home for my 10 year high-school reunion (!), then off to Philadelphia/Pittsburgh/Columbus/Chicago/Austin to start my Ph.D.

Going home sucks, but on the bright side, I'll be home for Christmas. I'll also be in a much better financial postition when I leave. And Mr. G will wait for me, which is very nice indeed.

So friends, pray for me. If I indeed make it through the next week, I'll be invincible!

Love,
Doug

Wild Fires of 2007

2007-10-24T01:06:00.000-04:00

Some photos taken on the I5 around Escondido, CA around 5pm today. Like the decent into hell.

Everything here in Chula Vista is covered in ash, but in tact. Thank God.

Ugh

2007-10-21T11:51:00.000-04:00

Congestion, runny nose, dry cough, slow, subtle headache, popping Halls like it's Pez... yep, Doug is sick. Ugh. But that's not going to stop me from going to Las Vegas. More on that Tuesday night.

California Customer Service..

2007-10-16T22:26:00.000-04:00

Customer service is something we usually take for granted. When it's good, we don't notice, usually giving the standard "thanks" or a small tip as a token of our appreciation. But when it's bad, we bitch and moan, tell our friends, scream at our dogs and sometimes kick the wall in frustration.

Okay, so maybe that was a bit extreme. Or was it? Ever since I moved to California, I've simply been astounded at the poor customer service here, found virtually everywhere. I've never experienced anything like it and hope to never again. The primary root of it? As you may of may not know, San Diego is an extremely laid-back, beach-y type city. Nobody ever seems in a hurry to get anywhere, not even the people mulling around outside of the local emergency room. I swear that everybody smokes pot here. Seriously.

Anyway, back to the poor customer service. Here is the story of Doug and Mr. G's strange adventures through San Diego's customer service hell.

Beginnings

Location: AMC Theatre in Palm City. Mr. G and I were going to watch Hairspray and have fun, relaxing night. But this intention was quickly shattered by the person who waited on us at the concession counter.

Mr. G: Could I have a glass of water, please?
AMC Idiot: A what?
Mr. G: A glass of water.
AMC Idiot: Sure. (turns around and proceeds to walk away. Then she turns back): What was it you wanted again?
Mr. G: A glass of water.
AMC Idiot: (walks away. Returns 10 minutes later) How can I help you?
Mr. G: Forget it.

Disappointed, we watched the movie sans water.

Increasing Idiocy

Picture it: Panera Bread, Chula Vista, 2007. Mr. G and I stop in because they have good bread at decent prices. Surprisingly, their sandwiches aren't that good. I don't know what gets lost in the translation.

PB Idiot: How may I help you?
Mr. G: Yes, I would like a...
PB Idiot: (puts her finger up in order to "pause" our order, turns her head to a co-worker walking by): So what did you end up doing last night?
Mr. G: ARGH!

Defying Lowered Expectations

Sushi Deli 3, in Clairemont. This particular restaurant just went though a change in management, going from the sensibly titled Osaka Kitchen to the bizarre, head-scratching Sushi Deli 3. We're not even sure where the two other Sushi Delis are, or why they're called Delis when they're really restaurants. They also replaced the very amiable, if not pleasant looking Japanese lady with a slew of teenagers who have no clue. Anyway, we continue to go there because they have a decently proportioned bento box for just $7.99. Or so we thought...

Mr. G. and Doug enter the restaurant and wait for 5 minutes. Finally somebody points out a sign-up list.

Mr. G: (To the person crunching numbers at the front desk upon noticing a table for two open in the back): Hey, there's a table back there. Can we take it?
SD3 Idiot: We're really busy tonight. 13, 14, I don't know!
Mr. G: Uh-huh.

Doug and Mr. G go out into the parking lot to wait, only to be called back in immediately. We're seated and given menus. Then we wait. And wait, and wait some more. Our server, busy, yes, decides to give us 15 minutes to make up our minds. A little disturbed yes, but nevertheless we decide to order two bento boxes, calamari and water.

The calamari took 10 minutes, and was a bit cold and greasy. The water came shortly afterwards. Then came the bento boxes, a mere two minutes after the calamari. I suppose that we were lucky: the last time we went, the calamari (an appetizer, mind you), came 10 minutes after the main course. But the weirdest part of the night came with the bill.

Mr. G: (picks up the bill, then hands it over to me)
Doug: $11.75??!??
Mr. G: Shhhh! They only charged us $2.99 each for the bento boxes. But just in case, I'm going to leave a $20.

So I went to the bathroom.

Upon coming back, I notice the credit card tray with at least $11 dollars on it. I assumed that they had corrected the mistake and Mr. G gave them $40 instead to pay for the meal. But I was wrong. As it turns out, to the guy at the front desk, the one who said "We're really busy tonight. 13, 14, I don't know!", $20 minus $11.75 = $11.75 in change. Who knew?

Mr. G wanted to leave a $5 dollar tip, but I insisted on leaving just $3. I'm normally a good tipper, but the service and food were both terrible. Sorry, Sushi Deli 3, three strikes and you're out.

The Last Straw:

Home Depot, Eastlake, this past Sunday. After being particularly impressed with a nice lady in the paint department who really knew her shit, we run across this. There is no exaggeration in the following exchange.

Mr G: Excuse me miss, but do you know where I can find moving boxes?
HD Idiot: Moving boxes?
Mr. G: Yes.
HD Idiot: (clueless look) Um... do you mean boxes that you put stuff in and them move them?
Mr. G: Why not.

No comment necessary because it really does speak for itself. Then later, as we're trying the self check-out, struggling with a large box that won't scan, the lady overseeing those self checkouts stands and picks at her ass instead of helping us. Despite the fact that we were the only people at any cash register in the entire store. So instead, we go over to the only regular cashier open. She scans all of our stuff. Mr. G pulls out the credit card. Ms. HD Idiot #2 then informs us that her credit machine is broken and if we want to use it, we'll have to go to the self checkout.

BANG.

The end.

(but more to come, I'm sure).

The 10 Immutable Laws of Suburbia

2007-10-10T02:57:00.000-04:00

Ah, suburbia. Is there anything better? Wal-Marts and Home Depots stretching as far as the eye can see, punctuated by carefully planted palm trees lining wide avenues, flanked by sidewalks that are never used. It is truly the life.

Since moving to California, Doug has done something that he's never done before: become a suburbanite. By nature, Doug is urban; despite growing up in a small town, Doug likes to be crushed in small spaces, have people in his face all the time, and be constantly woken up by the sound of drunken university students or the neighbour's car alarm as his vehicle is broken into in the middle of the night. Ah, the city... sweet memories.

But that's another post. For now, Doug lives in Chula Vista, California. A mere 3 miles from Mexico, it now holds 217,000 people (or so says the highway signs) and continues to grow rapidly. The view from my kitchen window is of a large hill where construction workers are constantly moving dirt, likely preparing yet another new subdivision, and just beyond that, the bright lights of Tijuana, the city that never sleeps. Or at least never turns off their lights.

Living in suburbia is... well... interesting. It's not as inherently evil as I previously assumed it to be, but it still lacks a certain something. The most positive aspect is that, since I don't have a car, I've been doing a lot of walking. If you live in suburbia and you don't have a vehicle, you're pretty much screwed, but I've turned even that to my advantage as I walk about 4 miles a day now. That's by far my biggest observation on living here, the car thing, but there are more! There's always more. So, without further anticipation, I now present the 10 Immutable Laws of Suburbia:

There shall be nothing within a five minute walk, except McMansions and SUVs parked on the side of the road because they're too big to fit into a normal parking space.
The houses in the never ending cul-du-sacs shall all be entirely unique*
The local public transportation shall consist of one bus that goes absolutely nowhere. This bus, at some point, shall connect to another that takes at least one hour to arrive at a central location.
The only apartment building in the neighbourhood shall be looked down upon, no matter how well maintained it is.
Every seventh house shall be in foreclosure, and poor people shall stand at the nearest intersection, twirling a sign to let everybody know there's a deal to be had. (Do they only do this in California?)
Every house shall have a perfectly manicured green lawn, but nobody shall ever be caught dead playing on it.
Wal-Mart shall be packed at all times, and nobody shall figure out how to use the self checkout in an efficient manner.
All neighbourhoods shall have cutesy, diverse names, such as "Lomas Verdes" and "Sunrise Estates," but all of these neighbourhoods shall look exactly the same and have nothing at all to do with their monikers.
Most, if not all, streets shall be named after trees and plants, like Pine, Rose and Rhododendron, even though those very organisms were destroyed into order to create that neighbourhood.
Finally, nobody shall talk to anybody else outside of their home. Despite the "neighbourhood" feeling carefully cultivated by planners, people shall rarely leave their houses when they're not at work.

*This law applies to the first five houses only. The rest shall not be unique.

And that's what I've discovered so far. Feel free to add your own

Dear Readers...

2007-10-08T01:19:00.000-04:00

I know that I've mistreated you. First I drop the blog in June with nary a word of warning, then I make my "comeback" in September, only to leave you waiting for an entire month while I whittled away my time, thinking about what I should post first, only to never actually do it. And for that, to the one loyal reader I have left (you know who you are), I am sorry. (Notice how I didn't name that reader, thus being able to misconstrue that "one person" as anybody who happens to glance at this? I'm crafty that way).

Anyway, Doug is back, and this time with a vengeance. Well, maybe not a vengeance, but perhaps a longing for the days of old when people used to pay attention to what I said. Well, maybe not a longing, but instead slight itch, sort of like the rash I have on my stomach that I just can't seem to shake. But that's really another conversation.

As most of you don't know, I moved to sunny San Diego in July to be with Mr. G, and everything is wonderful on that front. So far, we've been on trips to Catalina, Sequoia, Tijuana and San Francisco, with the Grand Canyon/Las Vegas yet to come. Look for posts on those trips a little later on. As for me and Mr. G, everything is wonderful. Being thrust into a full-time relationship can be stressful, yes, but besides some uneasiness over cooking and driving directions (our mutual Achilles heels, at least while doing them together), everything has been fantastic. Unfortunately, since Doug has no Visa and was unable to find work teaching, he has to return to Canada at the end of this month. But fret not, my friends, Doug and Mr. G will reunite next year for visits and permanently when Doug starts his Ph.D. next September in either Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Columbus, Austin or Chicago. But more on that later.

Doug has also developed an utterly annoying habit of talking about himself in the third person. No Issiah Washington he, it will stop right now.

When I ended this blog back in June, I said that it was to find a new purpose for this space. Well, seeing as how my life will be in much turmoil over the next year, I think I've found it. Turmoil, turmoil... where would I be without you?

More coming this week....

To Get Us Started....

2007-09-13T14:18:00.001-04:00

Doug will return shortly. After three months of rest, he's ready to produce his most meager observations yet! To get us started, here's a gem that I found the other day while filling out the online application for the University of Michigan. Something so, so wrong. Can anybody offer an explanation?

Estupideces

Memories I take with me

2007-06-03T22:54:00.000-04:00

For those who still visit this oft-ignored blog, you may have noticed that I have not updated this space in quite some time. Besides being downright lazy, there is a good reason for that - last Wednesday, I finally picked up stakes and left Skunkville forever. Forever is such dramatic word, no? Well, in my never ending quest to become less and less of a drama queen, let's change that wording to "for good." Yes, that's much better. I've left Skunkville for good.

Leaving has never been hard for me, and perhaps that's because I never set down roots in any one place. As I explained last year, I envision myself as a modern-day vagabond, never getting too comfortable, never "settling down." When I left my hometown at age 17, it wasn't a moment too soon. Montreal was a one-year experiment that mostly failed, and after six years in Halifax I was more than ready to leave. I had never gotten comfortable in any of those places, and in Halifax I went as far as moving every 4 to 6 months so I would never have to sign a lease. Coming to Skunkville to do an M.A., I never envisioned staying more than two years as everybody else seemed to be off to bigger and better things (I'm looking at you, Erin and Naomi), but with the mess I was in last summer, I knew that I couldn't leave.

To be honest, my life in Skunkville since last September has been fairly good. I graduated, got a job that was passably okay, spent lots of time with Joanna and my new friends my work, started going to the gym, got to know Marco, had my family and then Marco visit, made plenty of trips to Toronto. I even started collecting stuff, like clothing and household items. And yes, my dear Dirt Devil. How I miss thee.

In short, I became very comfortable with my life in Skunkville. The plan was always to leave at the end of April 2007, but I even extended that to the end of May because I wasn't yet ready to leave. And even before I gave my landlord my final notice, I winced; did I really want to uproot my life again? Besides, I had started to like Skunkville (a revelation which Joanna and I discussed last week. It turns out that she has started to like Skunkville too).

My future laid itself out before me: I could easily slip into a comfortable life, working at an okay job with an okay income, living in an okay house with an okay partner, making okay monthly trips to Toronto and buying okay clothing.

As that potential spread itself like so much butter on a piece of toast, I knew that I had to leave. I came upon the realization that I had gone as far as I ever would in Skunkville, and if I didn't leave now, with absolutely nothing holding me back, I never would. The decision was made.

Leaving Skunkville this time around was not hard in most senses. The goodbyes were not even that hard because, a) I'll see these people again, and b) they're going to leave Skunkville too, sooner or later. Erin and Naomi have already left, and the rest of us will slowly but surely follow.

As you can tell from the title of this post, it's not free of reminiscences. In fact, I'm going to completely submerse myself in the memories I'll take with me, the Skunkville moments that I'll always cherish.

Martini Monday (July 2006): 40C heat, 3 drunk grad students, and conversations about regularity. Chronicled here last year, I will never forget that night.
Graduation (October 2006): Together again, well, four of us anyway (Jo, Naomi, Erin and I). Having the family here made it all the better.
Time spent in the office (2004-2006): Some of my favorite times of all university were spent sitting in the office, talking about nothing. Especially in the first year, it was fantastic knowing that anybody could stop by at any time and join you in bitching about Juan Luis.
Gym with Naomi (2005-2006). How is it possible that we went to the gym three days a week but didn't lose any weight? It's easy when you eat fried food right afterwards! Well, then Naomi went on Weight Watchers...
Lost nights with Joanna (September 2006-May 2007): It started off with me convincing Joanna to watch just a few episodes and after I had suckered her in, enticing her to watch all two seasons in just a few weeks. For us, Lost night became less about watching a tv show than about a tradition: one night a week where we would stuff our faces and submerse ourselves in a crazy fandom. Eventually, Starbucks became ingrained in that routine, and eventually we let both Marco and Mike in on it. But essentially, Lost nights remained, until the very end (the finale two weeks ago), about Joanna and I spending time together, loving every minute of it.
Visits by Marco (March 2007) and my family (October 2006). Both very special and both for very different reasons, neither of which I could possibly get into here.
My place being Ale's second home (2005-2006). Sometimes not so much fun, especially during the various thesis breakdowns, but always an adventure.
Random office memories at Citi (2007). The job wasn't so great, but the co-workers were fantastic and left me with lots of pictures and funny anecdotes. Hey Jen!
Long nights at Alliance iCommunications spent gabbing away with the Notorious Kathy. Yep, the job sucked, the pay sucked and the hours were horrendous, but she made it okay.
Hispanistas Conference 2005. Held at Western, it was a fantastic event that brought us all closer and introduced us in depth to the world of academia. The back-stabbing, soul-sucking, sell-you-mother-for a nickel (more than her usual price) world of academia. Hey, at least we were warned (thank you, Marjorie). and then the Hispanistas Conference 2006, which is chronicled here (my very first post).
Desperate Housewives with Kristina and Naomi (2004/2005): Our Sunday ritual was an absolutely blast while it lasted; unfortunately, season two saw Naomi move out of town and series-interest take a dive.
Naomi & Malcolm's wedding, which was a great time and proved to be the very last time most of us would get together in the same room due to time/location constraints.

Most of all, I'd like to thank the friends that I made in Skunkville. Many school based friendships end after school is done, but as Kristina noted to me the other day, these truly are friendships for life and I really feel that I could call any of you at any time for any reason, and many times I have. I love you all.

But before I go, I shall address perhaps the biggest question of all: what shall become of this space? Started a little over a year ago, my profile blurb goes as such:

Living my fabulously unfabulous life in downtown Skunkville, Ontario, where everything glitters and glistens (only if you have vision problems), this is a place where I shall recount stories about me and my posse and try to fix my life. First step: stop referring to the neighbourhood raccoons as my "posse."

I no longer live in downtown Skunkville and my life, although not perfect, no longer needs fixing. And no, I no longer congregate with the neighbourhood raccoons. As you've likely gathered from my lack of posting, the blog no longer serves a purpose in my life. It was started as a way to reach out to people during a very lonely time in my life and by and large, it worked like a charm. Doug is no longer alone, despite sitting up at 2 a.m. feverishly typing out a post in the middle of the Nova Scotian countryside.

This is by no means an end to this space, but rather a hiatus; a respite until I figure out which path to take. I thank you all for reading and giving me an audience. For an attention whore like myself, it's all I ever wanted.

I fall to pieces

2007-05-19T01:31:00.000-04:00

Age, it's not just for the old people anymore. Now everybody's invited, even me, he who was once young.

As I lay here on my living room floor, contemplating whether or not it's worth getting up to pee, or if I should just use one of the many empty Coke bottles littering the floor beside me, I am in pain. Not emotional or mental (although a shot of rum wouldn't hurt right about now), but physical. Yes, I threw out my back. Well, kind of.

It all started the night of Wednesday the 17th. Because Doug is smart and decided to sell his bed before bidding adieu to Skunkville for good, he's been sleeping on the floor, propped up by a few pillows. The first night was fine. A little stiff as I stumbled up the stairs for my weekly showering, but none the worse for wear. But the morning on the 18th... well, something was wrong. I suddenly had a kink in my back, as my grandmother affectionately refers to it as. It hurt throughout the day, but not enough to prevent me from going out and partying last night. But it did give me ample opportunity to complain, which, as it turns out, is one of my favorite hobbies.

This morning, I awoke refreshed and alert. Hey, my back pain had mostly subsided! You know what? I feel like celebrating! Let's go the the grocery store! Practically doing cartwheels up the stairs, I suddenly felt alive and rejuvenated. Picking out my nicest blue shirt (because I have to look hot at the grocery store, for whatever reason), I proceeded to put it on, admiring myself in the mirror along the way.

Crunch.

Uh-oh. That can't be good.

Alas, it wasn't. I'm not quite sure what I did, but I hurt my back even worse. It still didn't stop me from going to the grocery store and lugging home a huge watermelon (I'm stupid, okay?), but it did almost cause me to black out on the bus when lugging that huge watermelon was more than I could bare.

So here I lay, on the floor, stretching as much as I can (which is little), hoping that I awake tomorrow refreshed. But like the wrinkles that are rapidly encrouching my eyes, it's not likely to happen.

I age. I groan. I fall to pieces. Patsy Cline would be proud.

The fun of Facebook (and not so much)

2007-05-06T22:36:00.000-04:00

If you haven't heard about Facebook by now, you've either been living under a rock, or, conversely, have been kidnapped by Falun Gong fanatics who only wish to drink your blood.

(Note to self: stop reading Chinese government propaganda. And take out the garbage. It really stinks.)

Since it's sudden rise last year, Facebook is impossible to escape, so much so that the CBC, the staid Canadian public radio broadcaster that targets a 65+ audience, mentions it several times a day, and on one of it's Friday afternoon programs, the production crew credits were read in order of who had the most friends. Yes, it was hilariously sad.

I'm not about to go into what Facebook is, because its blatantly obvious, but rather my opinion of it, intersected with some dry, witty comments and a fitting conclusion. After all, that's the reason why you come here. Or it's to stalk me. Whatever.

I joined Facebook last September at the urging of a guy I was then interested in, and had only him listed as a friend for many moons. Basically ignoring it, and after drama arising from other networking sites, I was not about to jump right back it. Not, that is, until Jenn at work decided to add me out of the blue. So curiously I logged back in, added her, and away I went.

Nearly every day comes a new friend request, and on some days several. Well, let's put that in quotations: "friend" requests. This is the secret of Facebook: for all of those that you see with hundreds of friends, a great deal of them aren't really friends, they're just people added to artificially bump up the popularity numbers. I'm not pleading innocence for I too have been weak. There are several people on my list that I don't even know and have never met. They requested an add, so I obliged.

Facebook has also become very popular with people looking for long lost friends, or people from high school who weren't really friends (or friendly) at all. Sometimes you find out that somebody is actually still alive, somebody whom you heard had died, and you think "huh, neat." Case in point: a guy who I was close friends with until age 12, then moved away to Toronto at 15. Rumours swirled that he was killed in a car accident and nobody heard anything from him for over a decade. He became sort of the urban legend of my group of friends, the "what ever happened to...?" guy. A few weeks ago, for some odd reason, he added me as a friend and we've talked a bit since then. He's still living in Toronto, and there never was a car crash. Mystery solved.

But for the majority of the people I've add from my grade school years, I've come to a startling revelation: I really don't care. Sure, it was neat to see what they're doing now, but beyond that, I don't care to make niceties with them now. I've got enough friends as it is. 74 according to Facebook, to be exact.

Then there's the family. So far, I've located my gangsta wannabe cousin (but did not add him), then stumbled upon two other cousins and my brother. And this, folks, is where it gets interesting. One of those cousins whom I was very close to growing up took some innocuous comments made in my profile, then ran and told my brother that I'm gay. Lovely. My brother, with whom I've not spoken in a year and a half (for no reason in particular, we just grew apart), then brought the subject up with my mother (who already knows) and was upset. "Shouldn't he have discussed this with the family first?" he fumed. She responded: "When exactly is the last time you talked to him anyway?" I may give my mother a lot of flack on this blog, but go, mom go! So basically, because of Facebook, my entire family now knows that I'm gay. Yay. I tend to keep my life private from most of them and have only come out to my mother, grandmother and sister, the only people whom I talk to from my family. It's sort of an open secret in that respect. Everybody else knows, but they just don't ask anymore. However, to make the point abundantly clear, I am considering taking out an ad in the local newspaper under the headline "You suspected, but now you know. Doug likes the cock. Tell your friends!"

But back to Facebook. It's been a neat way to keep in contact with the people I'm in contact with everyday anyway, but other than that, not so much. Like Hi5, Friendster and Myspace before it, it's bound to sink into obscurity once it's deemed too mainstream and the next new fad comes along. And given that the CBC is now mentioning it on an hourly basis, that moment is coming quickly.

For the record, my friends list:

Total: 74

People from Grade School: 24
People I'm in contact with everyday or nearly everyday: 17 (including frequent blog metionees Jenn, Joanna, et al)
Don't even know: 9
Old friends who drifted away: 9
My family: 4
People who I want to stay in contact with even though we don't talk nearly enough: 4 (Naomi, hubby Malcolm, Ale and... somebody else)
Know from meeting online: 2
Know through an ex: 1
Best friend: 1 (Chantal)

And perhaps, most importantly, people with whom I'm in love now. Total 2. Hey, I know I'm a terrible person.

Just kidding Marco.

714 update

2007-05-03T01:44:00.000-04:00

Since posting my 714 diatribe, I've noticed the number more and more. Dealing with numbers at work, it comes up a lot (3 times today alone).

Then tonight, at the Veronica Mars forum on the repressive Television Without Pity, I look to the address bar. VM, as you may know, is one of my favorite series; in fact, it's one of the few series I still watch.

Veronica's forum number on TWoP?

714.

I kid you not. Chalk another one up to the cosmic joker.

I'm telling you, before it was every once in a while, but now 714 is popping up all over the place. This July 14th, Doug shall be on guard.

More by Friday... I do apologize for the lack of updates. Life is kind of crazy what with preparing to leave Skunkville for good and all. Oh, and Erin, are you home yet?

Check your poodle

2007-04-27T02:45:00.000-04:00

This is too funny not to share.

THOUSANDS of rich women were conned by a firm into believing LAMBS were valuable miniature POODLES.

Entire flocks were imported to Japan from the UK and Australia then sold by the internet company as the latest “must have” pet.

The bizarre scam was rumbled when Japanese movie star Maiko Kawakami complained on a talk show that her new poodle refused to bark or eat dog food.

She showed photos of the animal and was devastated when told that it was a lamb.

Hundreds of women contacted police to say that they had also been sold lambs instead of pedigree pups by the tricksters based in Sapporo, Japan.

Cops believe that up to 2,000 people across the country had been swindled in the same way. One couple found out the truth only after a dog beautician told them that she could not trim their poodle’s claws — because they were HOOVES.

The company, whose name translated as Poodles As Pets, has now been shut down.

Bosses took advantage of the fact sheep are rare in Japan and most people do not know what they look like.

They advertised poodles online for £630 — half the price of the highly-desired puppies in Japan at £1,260.

A police spokesman said yesterday: “We launched an investigation after we were made aware that a company were selling sheep as poodles.

“Sadly, we think there is more than one company operating in this way.

“The sheep are believed to have been imported from overseas — Britain, Australia.”

Most of the people caught out by the scam are donating the sheep to zoos and farms.

Source: http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,2-2007190295,00.html

Sort of speaks for itself, no?

Random encounter of the day

2007-04-21T15:32:00.000-04:00

Doug: (sitting quietly at the bus stop, listening to his Mp3 player)
Old Man: (sits beside him). Hello! HELLO!
Doug: (smiles and nods)
Old Man: (curls up in the fetal position) Did you read the news today?
Doug: (smiles and nods)
Old Man: Do you know Churchill? (points to the paper)
Doug: He died 60 years ago.
Old Man: Terrorist! They wanted $10,000 for his head and then he still got to shake the hand of the Queen mother.
Doug: Uh-huh.
Old Man: Look at the terrorists in the paper. Everywhere goddamn terrorists.
Doug: (points to his head phones in the classic "Sorry, but I can't hear you" gesture)
Old Man: Jew news, this is nothing but Jew news!
Doug: My bus, it's here.
Old Man: Run Johnny. Go Johnny, go!
Doug: (escapes to the bus, hoping the old man won't follow him)

And so it goes in Skunkville...

I am being stalked (!)

2007-04-20T01:15:00.000-04:00

You know the old adage: boy meets boy, boy falls in love with boy, boy desperately tries to dump boy, boy just doesn't get it, boy lurks in the bushes outside of boy's house, boy photoshops himself into all of boy's family pictures...

Okay, so maybe not.

But the truth is that I do have a startling revelation: I am being stalked. Usually on the other end of this equation, I am not familiar with what it's like to be the object of an obsession, especially with that obsession is the object of an inanimate number. Yes, that's right, I'm being stalked by a number, and that number is 714.

Preposterous, you may say, how can one be stalked by a number? Well, it's very simple, you see. 714 is following me. It keeps popping up everywhere in my life at the oddest times, completely unexpected. I first related this story to Chantal, who scoffed. Then to Monique, who laughed. Then to Naomi who thought it was "interesting" (although her voice did have more than a generous hint of "whacko" in it). And finally to Marco, who insisted that I was on the look-out for 714, which is why it kept popping up.

But here's the rub: I'm not on the lookout for 714. It just keeps oddly popping up. And being a 3 digit number, it's even more odd still. Here's the rundown:

The Conner family (Roseanne) lived at 714 Delaware. This is my second favourite tv series ever (after Lost).
Bastille Day is 714.
Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs. I was a huge baseball fan in my younger incarnation.
While watching tv with Monique back in 2002, ABC ran a promo for the short-lived Dragnet remake. The final scene of the promo? Joe Friday's badge, prominently featuring the number 714.
While watching an episode of One Life to Live was back when, a hotel scene featured room number 714.

Sure, many of these things are very impersonal; if anybody were looking out for the number 714, they too would notice this. But this is where it gets more personal:

I was in homeroom 714.

That started it all.

On another personal note: last Friday while talking to Naomi, 714 popped up again. She was talking about one of her super-thin friends, and described her weight as such: "She's 7 stones, so at 14 pounds a stone..." 714.

Maybe all of this is telling me that I need to seek out more 714 in my life. Weighing 714 pounds. Shrinking down to 71.4 inches tall. Having $714 in my bank account (if only!). Living to the year 2714. Moving to northern Orange County, California (area code 714).

Perhaps 714 is the root of all evil, or the very secret to life itself. Maybe it's the ultimate answer to Lost. But then again, perhaps it's fate. Marco, with whom I'm quite enamored, was born on July 15th. As it turns out, he was almost born on 7/14, were it not for his large head necessitating a c-section.

Hmmm... maybe 714 isn't so evil after all.

With a splash of mea culpa, the winner is...

2007-04-10T22:09:00.000-04:00

Firstly, I must apologize for not being around for the past two weeks. I would love to say that I'm was doing something important like curing cancer or coming up with an effective way to clean my kitchen floor, but that would be a lie. Nope, I simply took a vacation. Laying in my own filth and effected by an ever-burgeoning case of sloth, I thoroughly enjoyed my time off and only recently got back into the habit of showering and brushing my teeth. My gums thank me. The mold growing on my back? Not so much. This was the first vacation I've had since the unemployment bout of last May/June, so it was well deserved. You may recall that I was off for a week in October, but my family was visiting, so I decline to count that as a vacation. Family and vacation just don't mix. Trust me.

Anyway, the week was spent with a special visitor and we had a lot of fun in many aspects of the word. Not "special" in the eats-only-cheerios kind of way, and not fun in the oh-my-god-isn't-scrapbooking-awesome! kind of way either. This visitor was somebody whom I had been waiting to meet for quite a long time, and the fun was had in various locations like Toronto, Niagara Falls and Grand Bend, Ontario's equivalent of Coney Island (only not so much).

Receiving a visitor as such, somebody who you know really well but not really, is always nerve wracking. What if you really hate them, you secretly wonder. What if they pick their nose and fling it across the room? And even worse, if they eat it? An episode potentially fraught with disaster, it's a huge leap of faith. Sometimes it doesn't work, but sometimes it does. This was one of the latter.

So, the winner is... the visitor. The winner in many respects: failing to realize my worst fears, being kind, generous and funny (sometimes at the most inappropriate times) and making me believe in love once again. Yep, it sounds corny, but that's where I'm am. Where will it all lead? Nobody knows, but the ride should be fun.

I've been in love three times in my life: once last year, the second time with anorexia, and the third time now. Here's to hoping I don't lose 40 pounds this time around! Or better yet, here's to hoping I do.

No matter how it works out this time, I believe that I'll be a lot more mature in handling the result. This blog was created in large part as a response to my faltering love of last year and how poorly I handled the entire situation. As I concentrated on just that one thing to the detriment of other aspects of my life, this blog became a "Hey! Look at me!" space. Ultimately, and unsurprisingly, that didn't work. But overall, I'm glad that I had the experience because it taught me how to keep my emotions more in check and act like an adult, not some lovesick teenager. And to that person (whom some of you know), I'm sorry that things worked out like they did and none of this was intentional. I truly wish you luck with life, where ever you may go and hope that you find your happiness because I have found mine. Keep in touch, eh?

Ah, maturity. And love. Isn't life grand?

Die, Canadian Tire, Die

2007-03-29T00:02:00.000-04:00

Picture it: Skunkville, Ontario, 2007. Doug looks in the weekly Canadian Tire flyer and notices a projection alarm clock, sale price: $12.49. Since his alarm clock is all but dead (some lose electrical wiring - every time he sneezes, the clock turns off, so he's been relying on his computer to wake him up for the past six months), he anxiously gets on the bus on a lazy Saturday afternoon and makes his way to the cracked-out east-end Canadian Tire, in search of this too-good-to-be-true deal. Happy, he thinks of all the fun he'll have tonight with his glorious bargain: setting the alarm clock, listening to it go off the next morning, then finally throwing it against the wall after it's rudely awaken him for the third time that day...

As he make his way down the electrical aisle, he notices something awry: there are no alarm clocks. His eye meets the paper and the shit hits the fan: sale priced alarm clocks, all gone. Yep, gone, and only one miserable day into the sale.

Alas, Doug is used to this sort of treatment from Canadian Tire. A store that is half car parts and half Wal-Mart, they frequently have "sales," only to run out of said items about 5 minutes after the store opens. Sorry, no rain cheques.

Back to Wednesday, and he's still fuming. Let's pan in for a closer shot.

I am absolutely fed up with Canadian Tire (CT) and the fact that they never have the sale items that appear in their flyers. Various retailers do this: have a giant sale, but only have two or three of said items. CT has done it to me twice in the past three months, first with an MP3 player, and now this. And it wasn't even a huge sale; buried on the third page, I reasoned that nobody else would have noticed it. But they obviously did.

Of course, everybody knows this old trick: have a big sale, but only 3 items, but then, since they are at the store anyway, people will mill around and pick up other things that are not on sale. This is the central tenet of the sale theory, and I used to be a corporate drone would happily buy a million other things even though the promised cordless telephones were long gone.

But why, I ask, is this okay in a retail store and not, say, in a grocery store? Could you imagine your local A&P having a sale on iceberg lettuce, but only stocking 3 heads of it? Their excuse? Sorry, they're not making iceberg lettuce anymore.

You know what? It's not okay, and to all of you fellow frustrated sale-ites, I propose a solution: it you go to a store particularly for a sale item, only to discover that the store doesn't have it, simply leave. Do not buy anything else. Maybe then retailers will get the message.

So what did Doug do? He went across the parking lot to Wal Mart and bought a similar alarm clock for a few dollars more. He doesn't really like shopping at Wal-Mart (unlike most people, I don't hate Wal Mart because of their shoddy labour practices, but rather because of their cramped stores, smelly customers and the 500-pound women with 18 children hanging off of them who stop in the middle of the aisle DIRECTLY in front of him so they can examine an 18 pound bottle of shampoo and debtate whether or not they really need said shampoo, despite the fact that there's a trail of grease on the floor behind them dripping from their Crisco-fresh hair. But I digress...), but hey, it's the competition. And until Canadian Tire and similar retailers actually get the point, that they can't treat their customers like lackeys that will simply laugh it off when they run out of $3 gloves, but proceed to stock up on essentials like fertilizer and matches, I will continue to shop at places like Wal Mart. If may be dirty and many of the people wondering around the store may smell like ass, but they always have their items in stock.

Suck on that, Canadian Tire.

The Quebec Election

2007-03-26T21:50:00.000-04:00

Not living in Quebec, you'd think that Quebec politics don't matter one single iota to me. Normally you'd be right. Even when I lived in Montreal, I didn't pay much attention to the provincial scene as it was then dominated by the Parti Quebecois (the separatists). Being ambivalent about the whole thing, I simply tuned out.

Fast forward to 2007 and suddenly, I'm sitting here on a Monday night anxiously watching the Quebec election results on CTV Newsnet. It's a real nail-biter, with the Liberals (nationalists) leading by only one seat over the Action Democratique du Quebec (ADQ, conservatives), while the Parti Quebecois lags. But instead of worrying about the fate of my country, I'm worried about the fate of my television. Just whose soundbites will I be listening to over the next four years? Will he be hot? Here's the run down:

Liberals -- Jean Charest

Pros:

Relatively young for a politician with as much experience as he - 48
Was more handsome when he was younger
Is not the typical "sound bite" politician
Appears intelligent
Oh, and yes, he's helping to hold the country together

Cons:

Is he sleeping with Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper? Then seem awfully chummy.
Is rapidly aging (as seen here)
What will he look like 4 years from now? Much worse, most likely.
Balding with gray hair. Double strike.

Action Democratique du Quebec: Mario Dumont

Pros:

Only 36-years-old
Very ambitious - created this political party in 1993 when he was only 22-years-old. At 22, I was more concerned with things like where my next box of macaroni was coming from.
And yes, he's usually quite handsome.

Cons:

In pictures, he's either hot or kinda deranged-looking. See here
Two words: helmet hair. Were it a little longer and blonder, he'd look like Donald Trump.
Said he voted for Stephen Harper in the last federal election. Is there some sort of clandestine threesome going on that we're not aware of?
Is not actively working to break-up the country
His doing well means that Stephen Harper will likely call another national election. 4 more years of seeing his exhausted mug on tv? Gag me.

Parti Quebecois - Andre Boisclair

Pros:

I've never seen a bad pic of him. Very, very pretty
He's openly gay
Extremely well educated
Only 40. Not out of my age range. Very much inside my age range when drunk
Single
Did I mention that he's gay?
Is a dramatic improvement from previous party leaders Lucien Bouchard and Jacques Parizeau.

(pictured, left to right: some fat guy, Lucien Bouchard (with the Hitler hair), Jacques Parizeau (who's always reminded me of corn chowder) and some other guy who looks like a pope.)

Cons:

Vows to break-up the country (but for him, I'm willing to overlook that)
Admitted to doing cocaine while in government (but really, who hasn't?)
As a separatist, he's unlikely to want me, a federalist (but I can change, I swear!)
Really isn't that popular inside nor outside of Quebec (except for inside my heart! I'll take you!)

Now, at 10:27 pm, CTV is predicting a Liberal minority government. 4 more years of watching dowdy Jean Charest? Maybe not - Jean Charest lost his seat, so he may just resign. I can only dream... Mario Dumont is second, while my beloved Andre Boisclair trails badly.

For the sake of my eyeballs for the next however-many-years, tonight I am in mourning. Quebeckers could have made a bold choice night, but they failed. Canada's first hot provincial leader; the dream is all but dead. But if you're free Andre, call. I'll be in the corner, shielding my eyeballs from Jean Charest's droopy jowls and Mario Dumont's crazy eyes, phone in hand, waiting.

Life Maintenance

2007-03-15T01:25:00.000-04:00

I've been somewhat of a ghost around here lately, and for good reason. No, I haven't run off and done something stupid like get my penis pierced or talked to my mother; I've been performing life maintenance!

After several months of wanting to do nothing in particular, I suddenly came upon the realization a few weeks ago that: a) I really need to stop eating so many cookies at work (Jenn, why won't you stop me? Slap me on the head, pull the cookie from my mouth, pour water down my throat. ANYTHING. Thanks in advance), and b) I really have to get my ass in gear and start getting my life organized.

Life maintenance is something that virtually nobody looks forward to (besides, perhaps, that bitch Martha Stewart who absolutely refuses to reciprocate my love), but something that must be done. The bills pile up, the dishes grow mold, the garbage turns rancid. Grease is left splattered on the wall, orange juice dispersed on the floor. But once you get up the gumption, it's... you know what? It's actually kind of fun. It's like I'm actually useful again.

So my life maintenance, in no particular order:

Dentist: Now that I finally have my insurance back, I got my temporary filling replaced with a permanent one, where "temporary" = one year due to lack of extra funds. I also got my check up and everything is A-OK. The dentist was even impressed. He's an odd on, he. I really think he gets off on cleaning teeth. While scrapping at my gum line, I heard grunts of "Oh, that's it." and "Oh yeah." Creepy.

Cleaning: I've just recently discovered the magic of the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. My god, how did I ever live without you? Marco assures me that it's non-toxic, but any product that literally makes dirt curl up and die, flinging itself from the wall, has got to have some serious chemical implications. Whatever the madness behind the method, I'm totally loving it. I've also resumed my magical love affair with my vacuum cleaner and learned that it is never a good idea to place a hot iron on the living room carpet, not even for a second. Oops.

Driver's Ed: One of my most degrading experience from last summer (besides nearly becoming a whisp from self starvation) what attending driver's ed. Me and 25 16-year-old. But now that's all over and I'm nearly finished my driving lessons. So far, so good. I'm very proud of myself, if I must say so.

Future Employment: I've applied for a few jobs for September which, should I get, would mean a drastic upheaval in my life. But a good upheaval, and a change that would put me on my career track much moreso than crappy credit processing. I'm not going to give up the details just yet, but an waiting with baited breath. I've convinced myself that I won't get any of these jobs, so I'm not expecting anything, but it's nice to dream, no?

Finances: Line of credit gone as of tomorrow morning when I deposit that check in the bank. Total consumer debt: $200, from a peak of $4000 last summer. I'm also getting nearly $2100 back in taxes. Yay me.

Other projects: Last fall I was working on a website for my mother's business, but dropped it and became disinterested. I picked it back up last week, completely redesigned it and now it's ready to go.

Gym: I continue to hover around 230 pounds, but have been weight training since November, so I've also developed quite a bit of muscle mass. I haven't gained any weight since January, which is great, but I haven't lost any either, so not so great. It's a toss-up. After I got over my starvation period (essentially losing 50 pounds between June and early September), I was eating everything in sight. That, fortunately, tempered off and now I'm working on getting my weight back down, healthfully this time. Wish me luck.

I also had crepes with Erin tonight, which was fantastic. And I'm sorry I was so tired, but martinis in May, okay? Joanna and I continue to hang out all the time and obsess over "Lost," I'm going to see Ale in Toronto this weekend (Happy Birthday!), and Naomi comes back in two weeks, so yay! Also coming in two weeks, Marco. It should be fun and I hope he has a great vacation.

So there's the update. Sorry it's delayed, and I'll check on my fellow blogger-ites tomorrow. Right now, it's off to bed. Life maintenance is exhausting.

Grey skies are gonna clear up...

2007-03-03T00:47:00.000-05:00

So put on a happy face...

It wasn't until the past year that I realized just how much weather effects our day to day lives. Perhaps I'm a bit naive, or even stupid, but I can never remember weather having such a dominant effect over my life to the point where I finally just become fed up with it all.

Even at present, I don't have any childhood recollections of climate being a negative factor in my life. It was never too hot nor too cold to go outside; snow was an opportunity (snow forts), rain a challenge (not getting wet). Heat was to be enjoyed, cold to be withstood. I have a few distinct memories from those formative years, all climate-centric. Now, as I sit in my living room all bundled up, it astounded me how non-plussed I was by the weather then.

I remember, as a kid (age 9, maybe), my cousin Denise visiting and simply refusing to venture outside. She said that if the temperature were to climb above freezing, she would go out. Of course, I didn't care if it were freezing or not, but for her sake, I prayed for that little tube of mercury to climb above 0 and when it didn't, I manipulated the thermometer so that I would appear warmer than it was. She was not amused.

I remember early spring mornings when, heavy snow afoot, my cousin David and I would work on the treehouse in the woods behind my grandmother's house. It was cold, yes, but that didn't stop us. As we built the second story and the wind howled on our faces, we would contemplate building a fire, much to my grandmother's chagrin. We actually did at one point, or rather, my cousin did. He was oddly drawn to the flame and I'm half surprised that he didn't become an arsonist. He turned out quite normal, while I, the straight-laced one who read the encyclopedia, became the family surprise.

I remember hot summer days when my brother and I would go biking. One particular day we biked to the beaches and back, 60 kilometres in total. It was blisteringly hot, but I didn't mind.

Even during the first two years of living in Skunkville, I never found myself that effected by the weather. Did I hate the cold? Sure, but it gave me all the more reason to appreciate the beautiful days of April and May before the humidity set in for the summer.

But the past year has changed all of this. Perhaps I've finally wised up, grown up, or I'm just more bitter and cynical than ever before, but I an officially annoyed with the weather. Last summer was the first time I can ever remember not being able to sleep because of the heat (the humidex approached 50C (120F), and there was no air conditioning upstairs in my bedroom). One day I practically drowned in the sweat that had pooled on my pillowcase. Then summer was abruptly cut short by fall as the temperatures suddenly dropped in September, followed by snow in October. November was near normal, December/early January a bit above, then late January and all of February far below normal with lots of biting wind and icky weather. By the first week of February, something very strange happened: I officially hated the weather, something I had never felt before. It was casting a pall on my life, and I was becoming depressed.

And so it continues. March 3rd and everything is covered in ice. It snowed heavily today in Skunkville, and the next two weeks are looking more icy and cold still. I realize that I do gripe about the weather a lot, but hatred of it really is dominating my life right now. It's an omniscient, oppressive force that is so because it's impossible to escape. Sure, one can go to a tanning bed to alleviate the winter blahs, but it's only temporary. Because when you get up to go to work at 6am the next day, it's going to be dark and cold. You may have a radiant glow, but who's going to see it?

Still, I realize that it could be worse. In fact, much worse. Dawson, a tiny village of 900 people in the Yukon (made famous by the Klondike gold rush of 1898), is having the coldest March on record so far. The temperature overnight tonight? -46 C (-51 F). So while I gripe about -5 and ice, at least I have a mall to go to (although I don't) and a job that doesn't involve tanning beaver pelts. What do they do in Dawson this time of the year? It's a 6 hour drive to Whitehorse, the nearest "city," and with 900 people, there isn't the population to support entertaining things to do. And, as an added bonus you already know, and are sick of, everybody else in town. Skunkville may be depressing right now, but at least it's not suicidal.

The blessings of life, however small they may be. So the next time I gripe about the weather, somebody please remind me that, while it's not perfect, at least it's not the Yukon.

An old skin

2007-02-26T22:52:00.000-05:00

Doug is laying on the couch, lazily pondering what to do. He looks to the television, but there is nothing on worth watching. He looks to the clock. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The time goes. Doug finally decides to write a post on his neglected-of-late blog.

We all comes to points in our lives when it just doesn't feel right anymore. What worked once no longer does and the future you thought would be is no longer an appetizing prospect. What "it" is undefinable in many ways. Sometimes the assorted pieces of life feel right, but they just don't come together in a meaningful manner. It's missing that "it," the intangible something--the reason to smile in the morning, to take the garbage out on time, to go to the gym, to go out and have a beer with a friend, to lose yourself in a great movie. Everybody has "it" at certain times, and we all lose it now and again. The problem comes when you don't have it more often than you do, which usually leads to a downward spiral, at least in my case.

Well, folks, I seem to have lost "it." I had previously lost it last spring and summer, struggled to gain it back in the fall, only to see it slip away again, like so much water down the drain of the shower. In the past several weeks I've alluded to this quite often, but it bears repeating - I seem to have lost all motivation to carry out day-to-day activities. While those postings were obviously tongue-in-cheek, they were only half so--attempting to wrap a general blasé mood in a funny exterior in something I do all too often when it comes to deep, personal feelings. Ask my friends.

Only this time, in my old, dried out skin composed of restless ambivalence, I find myself in a different, unfamiliar place. Here's the real kicker - I'm not depressed. These two feelings, ambivalence and depression, usually go hand-in-hand for me, but not this time. It's odd, and although I should be grateful, I really don't know how to react. The thought of doing the dishes makes me want to wretch, but I'm not unhappy when I do them. The world is not a gray, dreary place like it was for me last year. While I'm not exuberant, I'm not unhappy. Just indifferent.

Doug prepares himself a bowl of cereal, something that is quickly becoming his favorite pass time.

Work is okay. I like the people I work with; in fact, I like them much more than the people at the last place I worked (with the exception of Notorious Colombian Kathy, wherever she may be). The job is not difficult and the pay is okay. I've even made a lot of good friends there (like Jenn, who is reading this blog). But I'm still indifferent towards it. Many times I feel like I'm wasting my time and my education there, but I suppose that feeling is justified, just as it is for many others at Citi.

Home is okay. I never see my roommate (except for his wiry, black calling cards), and he's even leaving for 6 weeks starting this Friday. The place is a bit messy, a bit cold, but I enjoy it. In fact, the thought of leaving it in two short months is making me nostalgic - it's the first place I've lived in that I became attached to. But I'm still indifferent. The thought of having the place all to myself for 6 weeks? Meh.

Diet is okay. I haven't gained any weight in a month-and-a-half. I've put on some muscle and I go to the gym. But whatever.

Personal life is okay. I've been going out quite a bit recently and drinking much more than I normally do. It's been fun and I like the people with whom I'm spending time. But again, there's a great indifference. I'm even neglecting to call my friends, which is terrible. It's not that I don't love them, it's just that there's not much to tell right now.

Doug decides to watch Veronica Mars.

Maybe I just need a change. As I've said before, routine is anathema to me, and working full-time is, unfortunately, a dreary, soul-sucking routine. Would a change get me back that "it" factor?

Maybe I need a vacation. Unfortunately, that's still another month away. Will that do it?

How about finding a great job for September? I'm working on that one currently, and will relay information when I find out. Could that be the silver bullet?

But perhaps the sure-fire cure would be to finally accept the fact that this is what life is - nothing special most of the time, filled with routine, usually boring, and then you die. Most people don't find fantastic jobs, or even ones that they like. Most people don't live a great life filled with magic and fun, nor do most people have great bodies that they show off at will. These are facts that I've never been able to come to grips with, but maybe it's time I do. Life will never be perfect, and probably not even close. Settling is a good thing.

Doug decides to take a nap. It's one of the few things he still does with gusto.

It's a momentous occasion...

2007-02-20T00:19:00.000-05:00

I just had to share: for the first time in over a month, the temperature has officially climbed back above freezing. Things are melting! Squirrels are foraging! Skunks are skunking! The homeless are defrosting! For now, anyway.

Weather here is a very fickle thing. When I went to work this morning, it was -18C (0F). Right now it's 3C (37). Tomorrow? A little higher.

I'm in such a good mood that I may just run through the neighborhood naked; it's tradition. It's also my most common reason for being arrested.

Monday, Monday...

2007-02-19T06:38:00.000-05:00

...can't trust that day. Especially when it begins at 5:45am so you can beat your roommate to the shower. But on this particular Monday, he doesn't bother to get up at 6am as per usual and you want to, out of spite, drag him out of his bed and make him shower because you woke up 30 minutes early to beat him there.

Monday, Monday.... can't trust that day.

People need to be more predictable.

The saddest song ever. EVER.

2007-02-16T02:07:00.000-05:00

I was listening to CBC Radio One this afternoon at work (the public broadcaster), the show Freestyle to be exact, and they were playing songs by little known Canadian bands. As you may or may not know, little known Canadian bands tend to become very well known bands (well, sometimes anyway, as with Arcade Fire), and if there are lovers out there of torturous music, then they will love this band.

They're called Carbon Dating Service, and they hail from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. This is the song that got airplay, entitled "Dead Dogs Love Us Still." I got choked up, I really did.

Since I no longer have the podcasting (because Odeo is being totally cunty), I'll have to link to it.

Dead Dogs Love Us Still - Carbon Dating Service

(plays in Quick Time)

Although the vocals aren't amazing, the lyrics are weakish and the song is short, it may just be the least-cloyingly sad song I've ever head. I am not ashamed to admit, like some masochist, I downloaded it as soon as I got back from the gym and my 1218 calorie loss (hush Marco) and bawled my eyes out. I never cry, but this song really struck a chord somewhere deep inside my cold, dead heart.

Enjoy.

Doug's Shocking Cereal Expose

2007-02-16T01:36:00.000-05:00

It's my opinion that people are generally ignorant about what they eat. More than anything, we're a visual species-i-f it looks healthy, or it says it's healthy, we assume it is. Take craisins for example. Dried cranberries. I remember a co-worker telling me that was what she snacked on instead of potato chips because she was trying to lose weight. That led me to look at the nutritional information, which was a complete surprise.

What is the primary ingredient in craisins? Most would answer cranberries, then add, annoyingly, "you nut case." Well, they would be wrong. The primary ingredient in crasins is, in fact, sugar. And people wonder why we're the fattest continent. Needless to say, that co-worker never did lose weight, and most likely went into a diabetic coma shortly after our conversation.

Last Saturday, after my jaunt to the gym where I burnt a fair amount of calories, I came home and decided to have a simple bowl of cereal. Looking atop the fridge, my roommate's Mini Wheats stared at me tortuously. Man, how I wanted those sugar coated goodies. But I had just ventured to the gym; how could I ruin all of that hard work? Somehow I overcome my trepidation and ate several handfuls, becoming awash in a feeling of guilt mixed with gooey shame. Finally, I decided to check the damage. Bracing myself for the worst, I held my breath, closed my eyes and turned the box around to the side. The damage? Not so bad. In fact, not bad at all. That led me to check all of my cereal boxes, and the results were shocking, shocking I tell you!

Here's a secret: generally, all cereal has the same nutritional content. Yes, even Mini-Wheats.

Here's the breakdown per serving of the cereal I currently have in house.

Although it may have more sugar (but not more than Raisin Bran), Mini Wheats are better for you than both Corn Flakes and Oat Squares. And if you're on a low sodium diet, they're the way to go - the only cereal listed here with no sodium whatsoever.

And vitamins?

(blank space = negligible amount)

More vitamins than any of the rest! Corn Flakes have surprisingly few vitamins, and Mini Wheats have more in every single category than any other cereal, with the exception of Riboflavin, Magnesium and Phosphorous.

So my guilt? Gone.

Tonight I burned 1218 calories on the cross trainer--60 minutes of huffing and puffing, and although Marco assures me that burning that many calories in one hour is impossible, it's what the machine says and I'm sticking by it, dammit. So instead of having a bowl of bran, I'm going for the Mini Wheats. And you know what? I'm going to enjoy every single one of them.

Lesson: Read the labels. You never know what you'll discover.

I surrender

2007-02-14T01:02:00.000-05:00

Oh, Mother Nature, you sure know how to kick a guy square in the crotch. You've thrown everything you have at me--wind, snow, frigid temperatures, unrelenting gray skies, scant visions of... what's the round thing called that hangs around in the sky during the daytime? It's bright, really bright. Produces warmth? The Sun? Could that really be it? Whatever it is, I haven't seen it in a long time.

In case you're wondering, this is what the frozen tundra to the north looks like tonight:

Skunkville is on the map there somewhere, buried underneath a pile of snow, figuratively and literally. There's a raging snowstorm outside and on the map, we're where the snow flakes are covering the Great Lakes. Fun times.

The weather in Skunkville is simply dreadful. Today's high temperature: 11F (-12C). Low: 4F (-15C). Wind Chill: hovering around -10F (-25C) all day. Walking home from the gym tonight, I was convinced that I was going to die. I was simply going to fall into a snowbank and let a drift cover me, freezing to death in mere minutes. Even my nostrils froze shut. And this has what it's been like for the past month.

So, Mother Nature, what more do you have? Oh, you say it's going to be 10C (50F) by the end of next week? Really? Is this just a tease? If the temperature does manage to get that high, I may just strip off my clothes and run naked through the streets. It wouldn't be the first time, and it sure as hell won't be the last.

Lord, please deliver me from evil, where evil = Mother Nature. It's all I ask. I don't know how I stood this before, but really there's got to be a better way. I beg of you... I would get down on my knees, but I'd probably freeze to the ground.

And this post has officially run out of steam. Normally I would end it with a nice conclusion, perhaps an anecdote or a play on words, but Mother Nature has done beaten all of the creativity right out of me. There nothing left but a pile of dead, frozen brain cell, needing alcohol to flush them out.

The End.

Recovering from migrane...

2007-02-11T18:15:00.000-05:00

Everything is all spacey. I called in sick to work. I threw up chocolate covered almonds. I ate three bowls of raisin bran and drank a quart of soy milk. No cravings for caffeine... living room is a mess. Don't want to get up off the coach, must call Erin.

Am I better yet?

Naps are ruining my life!

2007-02-10T02:32:00.000-05:00

It's an annual tradition in Skunkville, the moment when the sun escapes behind the clouds in January and won't be seen for three more months. No, this isn't the land of the eternal sun (or night); for instance, Alert, Nunavut, the most northerly inhabited place in the world, has a period between mid October and mid February where there is no sun period. Vampires rejoice.

Skunkville is located smack dab between two Great Lakes: the pretty Lake Huron, and the vomitous Lake Erie, where the water is brown and bodies wash up downstream from Detroit. In the winter, before the lakes freeze and when the air is very cold, this leads to "lake effect snow." Wind blows over the warm water, picks up moisture and promptly dumps it on the land nearby. Remember the big snowstorm in Skunkville which I described in early December? Lake effect snow was the culprit. Sometimes however, this doesn't result in snow, but merely cloud cover. Months and months of clouds.

My response to this sunless hell is simple: napping. I can sleep 8 hours during the night, but will still be good for a 2 hour nap in the evening. The scenario is usually very clear-cut: I get home from work, check my email, call my grandmother, then look at the clock. 9pm, I think. Hmmmm... I then promptly set the alarm on my computer and nap for two hours, waking up all refreshed and alert at 11, just in time to go to bed.

Well, a normal personal would feel refreshed and alert. Instead, I wake up from naps feeling groggy and hateful, much like my everyday persona. To combat this, I take another nap, one that usually lasts until the next morning when I have to trudge to work once again.

The problem with napping is twofold: firstly, I have the strangest, most lucid dreams when I nap. Dreams involving murder and mayhem. Much like your typical episode of Murder She Wrote, although in my dream state, I am nowhere near as classy nor smartly dressed as Jessica Fletcher. Then when I awake, I have to dissect these dreams, something that usually takes hours until I have to go to bed, for real this time. Secondly, I get absolutely nothing done anymore. Napping is eating up an ever-increasing portion of my life, so much so that I'm considering donating my body to science so they can study the effect of sleep on body fat percentage. That would surely be scary.

But work, no naps there, right? Wrong. The program we process credit card applications in is entitled, ironically enough, Naps. Oh, the torturous irony.

So here I am, 2:30 in the morning, pondering whether I should take a nap or just go to sleep. The advantage with naps is that they're so easy to take. I find it much easier to fall asleep when taking a "nap" then when actually going to bed for the night. Why? I'm weird. Exclamation mark.

My eyes are all droopy now, and I feel a hate attack coming on. I close my eyes... just 5 minutes, I swear.

Weekends spent binge drinking with Ale

2007-02-04T21:47:00.000-05:00

Ah, memories, Erin is probably thinking right now, fondly recalling all of those weekends during the first year of the Master's spent binge drinking with Ale. But now it's MY turn, Erin, and you shall merely live in a vicarious manner.

To start, it's bitterly cold here. Look at the weather bug on the side of this page. Over there -->. -18 C, -30 C with the wind (0 F and -22 F, respectively). The heat in my living room isn't quite able to keep up with the dropping temperatures, so right now my ass is firmly planted on the heating duct. Yes, the constant stream of hot is is probably rendering me infertile, but I could care less at present. Actually it's probably a service to mankind. One of me is bad enough, who needs more?

I've also noticed that this winter has been very, very dry. In fact, my hands are chapped and bleeding as I type this. I moisturize 4 or 5 times a day, but they still look like, well, this. Thank god I still have my health. Or I would had I not just eaten a bunch of Chips Ahoy! That exclamation mark, as I've just realized, is on the bag. I'm not trying to punch up my writing or cover for any glaring lack of.... ! Really, is that ! after "Chips Ahoy" that necessary? Yes, the exclamation mark, the most overused piece of punctuation this century. The most underused, of course, is the comma. It's really, glaring how many people, don't know how to use, the comma. I always wonder if many, simply reading back over their work, at points realize that they haven't used a comma in a while and panic, randomly inserting them. English grammar people. Learn it.

Anyway, enough distractions. I went to visit Ale this weekend because, a) She's just gotten back from Peru, b) If I were to spend one more week in Skunkville without leaving I would kill my pubic-shedding roommate, and c) I have 3 vacation days I have to use by the end of February. So it was the perfect storm. And you know? The weekend was pretty fun, even if we didn't do that much because of the bitter cold. Friday was spent inside polishing off a bottle of rum and assembling an Ikea dresser. Fucking Swedes and their wordless instructions. Really, is there any wonder why people have problems when your instructions are full of finger icons and !s? And then the names. Ale asslembed the fluurgenslabberstaggen, I believe. After that was done, we capped the evening off by snapping pictures of ourselves while listening to gay dance music. Like these:

I don't know where the blue boa came from, I swear.

Then we passed out.

Saturday was spent lounging around the Eaton Centre, followed by a nap for Ale, then we prepared for our next night of binging. I strolled down to the LCBO to get a bottle of rum and some Diet Coke, then the drinking fun began. I believe I may have written emails and talked to people on msn at this time, completely trashed, so if I did, please excuse me. At around 11pm, we decided to stumble out of the apartment and to the bar, the Convento Rico. Unfortunately, I misjudged where Ale resides on google maps and we ended up walking in the wrong direction, but at that point I was way too drunk to care. About 10 minutes or so, Ale calls a cab to bring us all the way back, because, as it turns out, the bar is about 300 feet from her house. We go inside, and get down to it. I did lose her at one point, made out with at least two guys (what the hell is wrong with me? Why do I keep doing this?), then stumbled home at 3:30am after professing to be in love with at least 3 different people. I can't remember what they look like now and I guess it doesn't matter. I've noticed a very disturbing trend with myself of late: whenever I get drunk, I get very, well, slutty. Kind of like Loralee's cat. Well, not that bad, but I really have to stop making out with randoms. I'm 26 now, I need to be respectable. I need to start keeping my promises.

Like, that promise I make, about writing about naps! It did engender many comments, but I still haven't gotten around to it. And now I must nap. All of this alcohol has me in a fog, the Chips Ahoy! are not setting so well, and my nipples have been erect for so long that they're sore (the cold, people). Um... nap. I have so many things to do, but napping....

And the value conscious shall inherit the earth...

2007-01-27T00:34:00.000-05:00

...so said Moses in the little known Book of Jessica, a text so controversial and modernistic that only a select few have been allowed to see it. I was one of them. I won a contest in a cereal box.

Doug has a problem, and that problem is simple: he's a shop-a-holic. Well, this is one of Doug's problems, which may just number in the thousands, but the one that he will try to deal with today. Fortunately for Doug, he's not one of those "It's brand new!" shop-a-holics (like the people who paid thousands for VCRs in the early 1980s), nor a nut for shoes (a la Erin and Imelda Marcos, aka Naomi McLeod), nor even for cheaply made Chinese goods (like the throngs of people who marvel at the dollar stores). No, Doug is a sucker for a bargain, and he just can't stop himself. Yes, there are a large classification of people suffering from this affliction, but Doug is of an even narrower variety: the bargain-at-the-grocery store shop-a-holic.

This strange creature is one who feels neither pleasure nor pain before going to the grocery store, but rather a compulsion. You see, Doug may not have actually cooked a meal in weeks, but he diligently travels to the grocery store every Friday afternoon like clockwork, grabbing a cart and making the rounds. He's a different person once he steps into the store, the rules of modern society not applying. Kindness, compassion and common courtesy are the behaviors of lesser beings in this milieu. Up and down the aisles he goes, eyes scanning for bargains. They are well trained, on the lookout not only for sale prices, but also for large displays (the indication of a sale), groupings of other people (with their grubby hands) and colourful signs that usually designate low prices.

This week we will be observing the subject at the scared most sacred of events, the Dollar Sale at No Frills.

He sees a sign. It should be noted that the subject can't actually see what the sign says, but it looks like it could be a sale sign, so he darts in for the kill. The victim? Tampons, only $1.99. This particular shop-a-holic doesn't actually need tampons, but my god, $1.99!?!? He grabs two. Christmas is only 11 months away, he reasons.

Next, the pasta aisle. There seems to be a large congregation of people near the spaghetti sauce, and the subject wants in. He abandons the cart, a frequent tactic of the shop-a-holic, manoevering his way through the throngs of old ladies, their dodderiness and large purses irritating him to a large degree. Ragu, $1. Watching his relfection in the glass bottles, the subject is mesmorized. Limit 6. He'll have to make another trip.

After the thrill of the sauce, little compared. The frozen food aisle? Not much going on there, besides the typical deals on Michelina's frozen dinners. But at the end of the row, the subject sees a large display, mostly boxes. His saley-sense start tingling. Large displays = low prices, as he has learned through the years. And there is nary a person around.

Coming closer, the subject sees various types of cereals neatly stacked row on row. Corn puffs, Raisin Bran and something called "Oat Squares." Now health conscious, the subject decides to go with the latter, throwing 6 boxes into the cart then proceeding to the check-out.

Yes, Doug is a bargain-at-the-grocery store shop-a-holic. He has enough stuff stocked in his kitchen to open a small variety store.

Moreover, he still knows the prices of everything. Seared into his mind, each a reminder of a golden bargain he was unable to pass up.

Tuna (18 cans, 53 cents)
Cereal (12 boxes, $1)
Campbell's Ready To Serve Soup (11 cans, $1)
Macaroni (9 boxes, 9 for $2.99)
Tomato Paste (6 cans, 33 cents)
Tomato Sauce (4 bottles, $1. 18 bottles at one point)
Brussels Sprouts (4 boxes, $1)
Canned Salmon (2 cans, $2.99)

(not pictured: 6 boxes of whole wheat pasta, 6 Lean Cuisines, 3 boxes of Lasagna noodles, 6 pounds of apples, 1 large block of cheese, 4 packages frozen salmon, 3 pounds of sweet potatoes, 8 bags of Crispy Minis)

Sadly, the subject has no intention of consuming much of this food in the near future. But the thrill of the sale... that's something he will never forget.

Suddenly amibitious

2007-01-20T02:00:00.000-05:00

Just to let you all know, it seems that Doug has gotten his groove back. I had a long talk with Stella today and she gave me some tips and pointers, and now I'm ready to go. And raring, in fact. Is that how it's spelled?

I put my clothes away, cleaned my apartment, and even rushed to the grocery store tonight before it closed. I haven't been this ambitious in ages. Will it extend to other areas of my life, or even until tomorrow morning? That remains to be seen, but so far I'm hopeful.

More to come.

Passion-less ambition

2007-01-18T01:25:00.000-05:00

Ambition is not just a 7 letter word to those who misspell it, it truly is a state of mind. Madonna has it. Anybody who runs for political office has it. Hell, the homeless guy who steals empty Coke bottles from my garbage every eight days even has it. Yes, that's a weird Skunkville thing. The garbage is picked up every eight days. Which is really convenient in the summer, especially on a holiday weekend. It's possible to go 11 days without garbage pickup, and of course, you can't put it outside because the fucking squirrels with rip it to shreds. I could, of course, buy a garbage can, but that's way too logical. Suffer in stink I shall.

But I digress. I love that phrase.

I do not have ambition. I used to have it, then I somehow lost it. It was not atypical for me to dive right into school work back in the heady Master's days, emerging just long enough to slather some cream cheese on a bagel and dive right back in. Yes, I sure did get fat, but I got things done. Thanks to bagels and salmon cream cheese, I finished my thesis way ahead of schedule, only to have R. Montano make all of that hard work completely redundant.

I digress again.

Every since the perfect shitstorm last summer (anorexolimia, depression and lack of sleep for those who don't remember), I've completely lost my ambition. Hell, I even used to post on this blog every single day. Now? Once a week. Am I busy? Too hurried to sit down and write something? Not really. I've become especially fond lately of my evening naps, waking up in time to go to bed again, punctuated by a few episodes of Arrested Development. It doesn't help that the sun rarely shines on Skunkville these days, nor that I'm incredibly bored at my job and counting down the days until I can leave this shithole of a city for good. I did all three Sudoku puzzles appearing in the Toronto Sun (AKA--the right wing shitrag) at work today, and traded the crossword back and forth with Aisling, who, as it turns out, is a whiz at that stuff. I didn't actually read the paper because we're not allowed, but wasting my time on stupid puzzles? That's A-OK. I really hate that job.

I no longer vacuum. The thrill of running the Dirt Devil over the carpet long wore out for me. There are a pile of clothes laying on the floor as well. Because I didn't have the ambition to fold them at the time, I just threw them on the floor so they wouldn't get wrinkled and have been picking through them all week. I have a number of unchecked phone messages dating from well over a month ago. I was going to make rice the other night but decided that it wasn't worth the hassle of waiting for the water to boil. I have $1500 sitting in my chequing account that is just waiting to be transfered to my line of credit, but my god, that's at least 8 clicks away. And there's tying involved.

So I sit here looking at a great job opportunity. I finally got up the ambition to print it out and go through the requirements, and I know that I have a good shot at it, but man, it's so much work. I have to order transcripts and write letters and ZzzzzZzzZzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZ.

The only thing that seems to be working well in the ambition department is going to the gym. Yes, tired of my muppet arms, I am finally working on building muscle mass. Losing 60 pounds in rapid succession this year really did a number on my muscles, and I find myself only able to lift 20 pounds with my shoulders. It's quite embarrassing to see a 60-year-old woman lift 50 then leave the machine, only for me to have to adjust the weight down, and then still struggle with it. I'm up to 35 pounds now. That makes me ambitious.

So how do I snap out of this slump? Well, I'm not getting any younger, and that point was amply demonstrated over the past few days while reading of the cancellation of Passions. Yes, Passions, the perfect craptacular of bad writing, atrocious acting and howlingly stupid storylines, has been canceled and will end in August. I am ashamed to admit it, but I've watched this piece of trash from day one, July 5, 1999, and reveled in it's complete idiocy. Every step of the way I was there (until recently), and now it's all coming to a close.

So what does this have to do with ambition? Well, Passions represented a major chapter in my life, ages 19 through 26. It's a very important time when you're not quite an adult, but not really a teenager and are just trying to figure things out. Now with Passions ending, I've coming to the realization that I need to get serious about life. The experimentation phase is over. I am getting my ambition back, laziness be damned.

Maybe I'll start by picking my clothes up off the floor. Maybe I'll run the vacuum, wash the dishes and go do something fun. But then again, wouldn't it be much easier to just start watching Days of Our Lives? That's not ending until 2009, giving me two more precious years of doing nothing.

TV really does ruin lives.

Oh, and here's that picture. Blech.

Disasters in Online Dating

2007-01-12T01:39:00.000-05:00

They say that dying is easy, it's comedy that's hard. I'm not really sure who "they" are, and I'm pretty sure that it was one particular person who said it, and I don't remember their name right now. But I digress. It's not comedy that's hard, it's dating. For all those not currently dating, sitting at home and reading this pathetic post, you're probably better off.

I'll start by setting the scene: Skunkville, Ontario, 2006. There really is no gay community in Skunkville, as I've probably gone on about before, so meeting people here is virtually impossible. Thus, most people turn to online dating, and I myself have dabbled on Plentyoffish.com. It's free, which is nice, but it also attracts the strangest people.

I first put up an ad last July and I believe that I've had every single gay guy within a 100 mile radius of Skunkville write to me. I really lost count. My proposition was simple: write one email, meet up and go on a physical date. What's the point in endless emails? I thought that I'd get at least a few responses with this method, and I did. Too many, in fact. But those people responding must have forgot to read the byline because most were into the endless emails, or the anonymous sex. It's really a funny dynamic here--people won't go out on a date with you for fear of seeing somebody they might know, but they will come to a complete stranger's apartment in a heartbeat just to have sex. I'm not so much into that, so I took a pass.

Through this method, I went on a grand total of one date, a total spur of the moment thing. I invited him to a movie and 20 minutes later we met at the theater. He turned out to be quite the "wee mind," so it didn't go anywhere, and when I started talking about current events, a puzzled look overcame his face. As soon as I mentioned Ashlee Simpson, his face lit up like a Christmas tree, but that point I knew it was going absolutely nowhere. The date ended with a cold handshake.

I continued to entertain the emails, not responding to most. In fact, not responding to any. The most common email went as such:

Male.
58.
London, Ontario.

"I don't know if you're into older guys, but you should give me a chance."

No thanks. Been there, done that (not that old, but still). I have a question, however. When they were 26, would they have given the time of day to a 60-year-old? Probably not. You could be the sweetest 60-year-old in the world, but frankly, I don't want to spend my 35th birthday changing your diaper and feeding you strained peas. The fact that it would be another 10 years until I'm half your age is reason enough.

So I try to limit it to a narrow band, say from 25 (past the youngin' age) to 35 (with a stable career). But still, it goes nowhere. I ignored Plenty of Fish for most of the fall.

But along comes New Year's Eve. With friends out of town and work plans canceling (as discussed before), I tried to set up a date for the night via PoF. Simple proposition: we meet up, go out for the night, and if there is no feeling, we never have to see each other again. I stated as much in the ad. In fact, I stated it in those exact words.

I get the usual barrage of emails, none of which I respond to. Most explain that they're spending a quiet NYE at home, but they think I'm hot. Gee, thanks. I'm glad you're spending the night at home. Now fuck off. One guy emails me NYE morning and, out of desperation, I set up a date. I didn't even look at his profile in any depth. He was supposed to meet me at my place at 10:20, then we'd go to the bar. 10:20 comes, me half bombed, and he doesn't show. 10:30. Still nothing. 10:40. Nowhere to be seen. "Fuck it," I think to myself. "I'm going out anyway." So I did, which was an interesting experience in itself.

Me: (sitting at the bar, scoping the place)
Old Queen: (walks up) Are you here with your girlfriend?
Me: No.
OQ: Are you gay?
Me: Yes.
OQ: Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
OQ: Where is your boyfriend?
Me: Nowhere. He doesn't exist.
OQ: (returns to his gaggle of other old queens. They continue to check me out for five minutes. I walk away).

I did end up meeting some people there, mostly straight women (because a guy can never have enough hags), and made out with some random guy who's name nor face I don't remember. I also ended up seeing random date guy. He did make it after all; standing a mere 5'2" and hunched over like the geezer at Notre Dame, I pretended that I didn't see him. The next day I looked at his profile. I won't post the picture out of respect, but he had, no lie, a ball of spit in the corner of his mouth in his main profile picture. Who the hell would post that? And if that was the best one, what did the others look like?

So after this whole experience, I've given up on Skunkville. The only gay bar was a bust, there are no profiles which remotely interest me, and most of the 'mos here are deeply closeted.

But then, I get this email the other day, from a 49-year-old in Hamilton:

you have pic my attention by saying that your alone and you nedd someone to talk with and maybe you want to start in a new year with someone that will be4 always there for youif you waanted to meet me in hamilton it is my pleasure that i will make sure that you will not missed nothing when we going to haave a great time or fun together

Besides not having a clue what I wrote in my profile (I really don't need anybody new to talk to at this time), it was very heartwarming. True love still exists. Perhaps I'll give dating in Skunkville another shot. There's also a distinct possibility that I'll drink shoe polish. Let's see which happens first.

The worst feeling...

2007-01-09T06:29:00.001-05:00

In my narrow state of mind at the present, the worst feeling in the world is not having your hand bit off by a snake, nor eating poison; it's not even losing all of your hair in a freak electrical accident. No, it's getting up at 6am to be at work for 7, all the while trying to be perky and "happy" for overlookers at Citi, lest I be branded for not having the "spirit." Spirit my ass. I would rather eat glass than get up at 6am. Glass laced with flecks of metal, bathed in a sauce of road tar and light sprinkled with bird droppings. And I would gladly smile while eating it. But 6am... there is just something so wrong about that. I would frankly rather go back to my old job of working all night, and if they don't knock it off with these stupid last minute shift changes, I may just.

Morning rant ended. Now I must run.

In love with the little things

2007-01-03T03:25:00.000-05:00

I find myself in an excessively good mood lately. It's rather sickening in its scope and I'm sure it will pass soon, but I'm just in love with so many things right now. For instance, my blanket. So warm and cozy, like a... well, warm blanket. While I'm being terribly descriptive, I'll use this opportunity to rave on about some other things I'm in love with at the moment.

The Lebanese lady at the corner store. Remember how I posted about how she tried to get me to eat grape leaves over the summer? Well tonight she fed me chocolate. A few months ago, it was nuts. Every time I go into that store, she's excessively cheery and seems genuinely happy to see me and my money. And the chocolate tonight was simply divine. Dark, no less.
The hairdresser. Because my dryer is broken (which I discovered after two hours after pumping loonies into the machine, only to realize that, while it was tumbling the clothes around, it was not heating them), I had to cart 40 pounds of wet clothing to the laundromat on Saturday. Noticing a hair dresser next door, I decided that it was time for a hair cut. The hair dresser was gorgeous, caressing my hair in the most loving way and zipping along at a quick pace. Surprisingly not gay, he did a fantastic job and shockingly charged only $12. So shocked was I that I left a $10 tip. And I love the cut. I will post a picture if requested. Hell, I may even do it out of pure narcissism because that's just the kind of guy I am.
Cindy, my manager. Plans change, so when a visitor selfishly decided to change their mind about a planned vacation on short notice (I kid! You know I kid... or do I? Yes, yes I do), Cindy went with the flow and allowed me to seamlessly change my vacation on two weeks notice. She also gave me life advice, even though I didn't ask for it or necessarily want it. But I played along regardless.
Arrested Development. Jo has my DVD's in Newfoundland with her (which are now back in Nova Scotia), and even though I haven't really watched the show since I introduced David to it in March, I suddenly had this intense craving to see it. And MSN, God bless their greedy little hearts, is now streaming episodes online for free! http://arresteddevelopment.msn.com. If you haven't seen this show, watch it now. I'm an extremely discriminating TV viewer (I don't watch anything with black people in it), but I love this show beyond reason. It's probably the funniest series ever produced, but you have to watch it from the beginning. MSN is adding three new episodes every three weeks. Oh, and the black comment was a joke make in poor taste. Sorry.
Chantal. Speaking of black people, Chantal and I have decided to have a baby at some point. This will not be in the near future, mind you, but I think it would be a fitting next step in a decade + long friendship and I can't think of anybody else I'd rather have a baby with, provided that she gets off the weed. We have, however, mutually decided that there will no physical touching involved during the baby making process. Unless there are martinis involved.
New Year's Eve. It could have been terrible when plans changed at the last minute, but I went out anyway. And came home after I found myself making out with somebody whose face nor name I don't remember. I can't exactly recall how many people I kissed, but it was a lot. I did feel a little bit dirty, but the throwing up when I came home was repentance enough, I figure. What was great about it? It was a huge confidence builder. I went out alone but met tonnes of new people, most of whom I'll never see again. Hopefully.
Nicknames. Lyndsey at work has taken to calling me her "sugar cookie." I'm not quite sure what that means, but I like it. For a picture of Lyndsey sitting on the curb all classy like, see my picasa album. Also good at work is Jenn, with whom I share unrepentant narcissism, and Cat, my cubicle.
The future: The future suddenly seems pretty damn good. Well, not so suddenly, but it was a process to get to where I am and I'm glad that I arrived in one piece. How will 2007 go?

And finally, an open question, what little things are you guys in love with?

What I've Learned This Year

2006-12-28T20:18:00.000-05:00

With 2006 rapidly coming to a close, it's time to take stock of what I've learned in the past 365 1/4 days. Yes, that's the year in its entirety. And since I'm currently battling a head cold that's left me out of balance and rather unable to lift myself off the coach, there's no better time like the present.

Don't feed the homeless. They will follow you home, and once they're in your home, they're virtually impossible to get rid of.
On a similar note, don't feed the squirrels because there will come a day when you have no food to give and they will not be pleasant.
Always double check dates before making huge plans. See: Columbus, Ohio, May 2006.
Forever is not forever and is sometimes even shorter than you could have possibly imagined.
Two years can go by in the blink of an eye when you're having fun.
Moving in with somebody you don't know can be a terrible decision (see former roommate) or a pretty good one (see current roommate).
On a related note, I didn't know that it was possible to shed so much public hair on a daily basis.
Staying at a job that's ruining your health is not the right choice.
Becoming anorexic is surprisingly easy and can rapidly spin out of control. It's not as easy as just "eating a sandwich."
On that note, I do look better at 200 pounds.
Having a work girlfriend can be fun, so long as it stays at work.
Fate works in mysterious ways and opens doors that you didn't even know existed.
Following your heart is many times an absolutely terrible idea, but many times a great one. Just usually not in the long run.
Waiting six years to work towards your dreams is incredibly stupid.
It's very easy to lose touch with people and not so easy to pick up the chord again.
Being nostalgic is wasteful, but comforting.
Sometimes a big change in life is just what the doctor ordered, something which I'm currently pondering
Manboobs are not sexy.
There will be cunts no matter where you work (with apologies to Erin, Kristina and Joanna for use of the "c" word. Naomi, I know, will be cheering me on).

And finally:

Next year will always be better.

It's been a year of dizzying highs and extreme lows, but it's all drawing to a close rather well. I've met many people this year, some of whom have had an undeniably huge impact on my life and as I go into 2007, I take many of them with me, not all, but will never forget the people I leave behind. And to all of you, good luck in the new year and may you find peace and happiness.

(To wrap it all up, how can I resist posting a picture? Self love is all the rage these days)

Doug needs to be...

2006-12-27T00:55:00.000-05:00

With the New Year rolling around and with it, abounding opportunities to improve myself and my life, here are the things that I still need to work on. I may appear perfect on the outside (and trust me, I nearly am, but we won't talk about that as I am a modest person), but deep inside, I'm nearly perfect too. Well, except for the following things:

Doug needs to be:

Less lazy. Sure, I never have a sick day, drag myself to work no matter what, but am the laziest in the world when it comes to simple things like keeping up with friends. It's not because I don't care, it's because I keep putting it off. Tomorrow, I think to myself, which becomes three months from now, eventually. I really want to work on this.

More focused. I have many different projects going on, but never seems to come to a conclusion on any of them. So now I am really trying to focus myself and stick to one thing at a time, finish it, then move on to the next. It's a challenge, especially given my ADD, but I am going to work on it.

More fluent in French. More specifically, I need to learn how to properly pronounce the word "address" which nobody seems to be able to make out when I say it.

Less dyslexic. Most dyslexic people, over time, find ways to compensate for their disability. Mine, on the other hand, seems to be getting worse. I'm not severely dyslexic, but troubling are b's and d's, and strings of numbers.

More decisive. Rather than tackling my problems head on, I tend to wait for them to blow over because I am, at heart, indecisive. In particular, I need to figure out what I am going to do after April because it is very quickly approaching.

Logical. We can't always have what we want, and I need to stop dreaming of and depending on things that will never happen.

More consistent. On the weight front, I binge and purge. Well, I spent most of the year puring, but have now been binging for 2 months. I haven't regain massive amounts of weight, but this could definitely be a problem.

logical in ending things, rather than just running out of steam and stopping.

Well, maybe that last one is for next year.

To all you non-Beta-ites

2006-12-19T10:26:00.000-05:00

I'm not ignoring you, I swear I'm not! In fact, I'm trying to post comments on several right now (Beatrix, Loralee, Loralee 2, Naomi...), but blogger is not letting me. I just get the infinite "waiting for blogger.google.com" and then it times out. So I send my love regardless, okay?

Doug's credit school

2006-12-16T20:33:00.000-05:00

Working in the credit department of Citi Cards Canada loe these past few weeks has taught me a plethora a lessons about what to do and what not to do with their credit. Unfortunately, most people spend their 20s not caring about their credit and their 30s trying to repair their damage once they realize just how very important your credit is. Of all the files that are floating around out their about us, credit is perhaps the most important. Why? Well, do you want to buy a car? A house? A credit card to buy internet porn? If you have bad credit, none of those things are going to happen. I honestly think that credit should be taught in high school because it's right after that that too many people ruin theirs.

So here is what I've learned. Some definitions first.

Fico: This is your credit score. It ranges from 300 to 900, with most people falling between 550 and 700. The higher the better. About 800 is phenominal, but mostly reserved for older people. Below 600 is not good, and anything below 500 is a write off. If your below 400? Your credit is likely ruined for the rest of your life.

Trades: A trade is essentially a credit line. I, for instance, have 5 (3 student loans, 1 visa, 1 line of credit). Having trades can be both good an bad. A very high number (>20) shows that you may be overextending yourself. Too few (<3) shows that you don't have enough history. Trades come in two types: revolving and installment. Installment loans are ones which you get all the money up front, then make static payments every month (ie-car loan, mortgage). Revolving is one where you have a credit limit and the monthly payments fluctuate (credit cards).

Credit Age: The age, in months, of your oldest trade that is still on file. Mine would be my visa (84 months). If you close your oldest trade, your credit age then changes to your next oldest trade on file. This is why, even though you may be 60, your credit age may only be 20 months if you've closed all your old credit cards, paid off your loans and have only one newer card remaining.

Utilization: The % of your revolving lines that are used. If your Visa has a $1000 balance and the limit is $2000, your utilization is 50%. Utilization is very much a balancing act. Anything over 75% starts to hurt your Fico score, and going over your limit really hurts the score. (Lesson, don't go over your credit limits for more than a few days at most). But a low utilization is bad too; it implies that you have too much available credit and some people may not loan to you because of it. They could give you a $5k credit card, then you go out and spend up all the others and all of the sudden you can't pay your bills. It doesn't always happen, but it could.

Inquiries: Whenever you apply for credit, the company to which you are applying will check your report. Everytime they do, it gets recorded as an inquiry. Every inquiry also lowers your Fico score by a small amount. It's recommended that there are no more than 6 inquiries every 6 months. When choosing a mortgage or a car loan, it is understandable that one will shop around and have many inquiries on file because of that. But with revolving accounts, particularly credit cards, many inquiries in a short span shows that you are shopping for credit. Not only does this dramatically lower your credit score, but many places will not loan to you because of it. And yes, we can see who is doing the inquiries, so those mortgage/loan inquiries are not taken into account, just the credit card inquiries.

More about Trades: Trades, as previously stated, come as I or R (revolving/installment). But when you get your credit report, you will also see a number next to each one, anywhere from 0 to 9. These numbers represent the status of your account. 0 is too new to be rated. 1 is paid as agreed. 2 is up to 60 days late. 3 is up to 90 days late. That's where the fun stops. After that, 4-9 are increasingly bad, and once your trade gets into these statuses, you get a Derog. Derogs (derogatory), means that your account is really late, and the company is trying to recoop their money. One step worse than that is a Collection, which means that the holding company has sold your debt to a collection agency. But even if you have a status 9 (the worst), a derog or a collection, all is not lost. Simply pay it off. Yes, the collection/derog will stay on your account for 7 years, but if it's paid off, it will show as such and usually won't be held against you. The biggest damage a Collection/Derog can do is to your credit score.

And this wraps up lesson one of Doug's credit school. Any questions?

Memories of White Juan

2006-12-08T18:32:00.000-05:00

A few months back I posted about my trails and tribulations during one of the worst natural disasters to hit Nova Scotia since the age of the dinosaurs, Hurricane Juan. As freaskish as that storm was, Mother Nature spat at us again just five months last in a storm that was quickly dubbed, disturbingly, White Juan.

Huge winter storms are not uncommon back home. Because it's so close to the water, the temperatures don't drop too much (well, relatively speaking, for Canada), but all that warmer water on the coast tends to be picked up by the wind and dumped on the land in one of three ways: fog, rain or snow. Halifax gets, on average, 200 cm of snow a year. A few year's ago, St John's, Newfoundland, had a whopping 600 cm before any of it started to melt. That's 6 yards, or 19 feet. Yes, that's a hell of a lot of snow. Not helping matters is the jet stream which funnels all this moisture up the coast.

February 18, 2004 was like any other morning for me. Living with a crystal meth addict and unable to afford enough oil to heat the house, I got up in the morning, extinguished the crack pipes, then turned on my space heater to warm up my bedroom. Flipping on the weather channel, I immediately noticed that the weather forcast was calling for 50 centimetres of snow.

"That can't be good," I thought to myself.

Next, the phone rang. It's Gavin, a loser from work, asking me to come in because some other people called in sick. Knowing that I biked to work, I don't know why he even called. I rolled up my blinds to take a check and couldn't see anything. I politely declined.

I thought that working on my undergrad thesis would put me in a better mood, so I sat down and started typing away. Four hours I passed as such, straining to produce even three pages. At 25 pages, my thesis at that time consumed my entire life and took 4 months to write. That makes me chuckle now, especially considering that I can blow 10 pages out of my nose in the morning. 25 lousy pages. How little I knew about life.

Around came 3pm. I was just going to take a little break to watch Passions, I thought, and will return to the thesis at 4. I leave the computer and suddenly the power goes out. My three pages completely gone because I am an idiot who does not believe in saving their work. Why save it when you can rewrite it later?

I laid down on my bed. It was too messy to go anywhere, and I was sure that the power would come back on in a few minutes. An hour passed. My meth head roommate was craving and driving me up the wall, and after three hours, all huddled in the cold, I decided that I would walk to Chantal's, a 20 minute walk away. Well, 20 minutes under normal conditions.

So I set out trudging through the snow. There was literally zero visibility, the wind was blowing at 60 mph and whipping the stuff on the ground all around. I ended up walking in the middle of the street because a plow had passed through, leaving a narrow path. Every once in a while I would look up to make sure nothing was coming, my eyes stinging, showered by frozen droplets. I didn't have a scarf, so I had wrapped a towel around my neck, assured that nobody would see me dressed like that. But really, what did I care what I looked? It was a blizzard, for crying out loud.

90 minutes later I reached Chantal's place, thankful that the lights were on inside. I knocked on the door, delighted to hear footsteps coming to greet me. But it wasn't not Chantal, but instead her creepy 60 year old roommate, whose name now escapes me but was dubbed "Man-nan."

"Is Chantal home?" I asked, freezing.

"Actually..."

Oh fuck.

"She went out to get a gram. She should be back in an hour," he smiled, shutting the door.

Only Chantal, of all the people on God's green earth, would venture out in the middle of the blizzard of the century for a gram of weed.

So I walked home. The walk home wasn't so bad because the wind was blowing at my back, and some nice couple in an SUV were kind enough to pick me up. Normally I wouldn't ride with strangers (have sex with? sure!), but it could have been Hitler driving that car for all I cared. They dropped me off near my home and as I walked up to the stoop, I had to overcome a mountain of snow. No problem, I thought, I'll just roll over it!

Where do I come up with these bright ideas?

Of course, the snow was not compact enough to hold my weight (is any snow?), so I sunk to the bottom. A passing woman helped me out. I got in the house, still cold, only to realize that my roommate had left to score a gram himself. I wonder if he and Chantal ever crossed paths?

The power still hadn't come back on by 10pm, do I decided to go to bed out of sheer bordom. That's always the best sleep- the boredom sleep, the kind where you can't even fall asleep because you're too bored and have no lulling thoughts to put yourself down.

Anyway, in total, we got 105cm of snow that day (41"), the most ever in a 24 hour period in Nova Scotia. The city was shut down for a few days, and they even imposed a curfew to get the snow off the streets.

So 70cm? Child's play! C'mon mother nature, is that all you got?

Fuck, it's snowing again. I need to learn how to keep my big mouth shut.

Pretty, pretty snow

2006-12-07T21:39:00.000-05:00

For those who are into pretty snow, here's some pics of the "1cm" that was supposed to fall today.

Our first major winter storm. Here's to many more.