Spring came and then abruptly left again. It was warm for a few days and now it feels like we have skipped spring and summer entirely, and moved right on to fall. It is the first time in years that I can remember not seeing a tinge of newly sprouted green buds in the trees by this time in April.
I wouldn't mind this so much if our building management would turn the heat back on. I need tea, my Snuggie, and a warm cat on my lap. Stat.
21.4.11
Starbucks may be a big evil corporate coffee chain
BUT AT LEAST THEY NEVER RUN OUT OF COFFEE CUP LIDS.
7.3.11
Quarantine
On day five of being housebound due to a rather debilitating bout of tonsillitis, and what feels like an ear infection but isn't.
Today I am finally starting to feel better, meaning that I don't have a fever and my entire body doesn't ache. Also, I can eat solid food! I feel like I have a boring, run-of-the-mill cold instead of the chronic illness that has plagued me since I was an infant (and, yet, my doctor still thinks it unnecessary to remove my tonsils since it's a procedure that "isn't really done anymore" despite the fact that this my fourth case of tonsillitis since June and has so far accounted for 20 missed days of work in less than a year).
And so in feeling better but still being required to stay home and rest, I am getting bored.
I'm reminded of the times in high school when I was sick enough to miss school for weeks on end.
1. I had pneumonia in grade nine, when I was fourteen. I had fevers peaking at 104 degrees Celsius and half the time I couldn't breathe, my lungs were so full of fluid. Thank God for advancements in antibiotics. I missed nearly a month of school, and spent day after day lying on the couch watching re-runs of Happy Days on the Christian network (seriously, it was the only alternative to day-time talk shows and soaps) and coughing up phlegm into a bucket conveniently placed within spitting distance.
2. When I was sixteen, in the eleventh grade, I had mono. At the time, I was kissing L___ B_____, but of course that's not the only way mono can be transmitted. Sure, saliva has to be involved, meaning you can get it off a shared pop bottle or a straw or a fork, or even a lipstick tester in the drug store. Technically I was sick for two months, but only missed school for about two and a half weeks. Prior to the full-blown illness I was getting sick very gradually, the most noticeable sign being the swelling of my face, particularly around the eyes. Then for days, I became more and more tired and finally on one spring weekend I was so sick my mom took me to a walk-in clinic where they tried to diagnose me unsuccessfully. A few days later we went to my family doctor, and he did a blood test that confirmed I had mono. And then followed my being unable to eat anything but Ensure and Boost health shakes, since it was impossible to swallow food given the size of my tonsils. The fatigue was the worst, I think. I slept maybe 16 hours a day, and spent the rest of the time lying in bed watching movies and whatever happened to be on television. Then if I had to go to the bathroom the sheer energy required to move myself from the bed, out of the room, and down the hall, ensured that I would be so exhausted that once I got back to the bed I fell asleep instantly and slept soundly for six hours.
This particular bout on tonsillitis is the worst I have felt since having mono almost exactly ten years ago.
But, now that I am finally beginning to feel better, I am becoming antsy. It might not be so bad if S. were home, but he isn't a sickie and so gets to go to work. I would go to work but I am strictly not to return to work, and get as much rest as possible, until I go back to the doctor tomorrow for a follow-up.
With my increasing restlessness, I suddenly I feel like James Stewart in Rear Window. The view from my living room window even looks right onto the backyards of a row of townhouses, although I am pretty sure that every one of the residents is mightily boring.
I'd like to be Grace Kelly a bit more than I want to be Jimmy Stewart.
It occurred to me that both of the aforementioned major illnesses, and the one I'm experiencing now, have all happened in the spring or, at least, the very late winter / almost-spring. Despite the bit of snow that we had recently, it still feels like there's a touch of spring in the air. So I've had my head filled with images of lilies of the valley and floaty dresses.
The dress is from the Donna Karan Spring 2001 collection.
Yes, sometimes I do follow and enjoy current fashion. I blame
this particular obsession with a dress on my mother putting the
March issue of In Style in my tonsillitis care package. So many pretties!
Today I am finally starting to feel better, meaning that I don't have a fever and my entire body doesn't ache. Also, I can eat solid food! I feel like I have a boring, run-of-the-mill cold instead of the chronic illness that has plagued me since I was an infant (and, yet, my doctor still thinks it unnecessary to remove my tonsils since it's a procedure that "isn't really done anymore" despite the fact that this my fourth case of tonsillitis since June and has so far accounted for 20 missed days of work in less than a year).
And so in feeling better but still being required to stay home and rest, I am getting bored.
I'm reminded of the times in high school when I was sick enough to miss school for weeks on end.
1. I had pneumonia in grade nine, when I was fourteen. I had fevers peaking at 104 degrees Celsius and half the time I couldn't breathe, my lungs were so full of fluid. Thank God for advancements in antibiotics. I missed nearly a month of school, and spent day after day lying on the couch watching re-runs of Happy Days on the Christian network (seriously, it was the only alternative to day-time talk shows and soaps) and coughing up phlegm into a bucket conveniently placed within spitting distance.
2. When I was sixteen, in the eleventh grade, I had mono. At the time, I was kissing L___ B_____, but of course that's not the only way mono can be transmitted. Sure, saliva has to be involved, meaning you can get it off a shared pop bottle or a straw or a fork, or even a lipstick tester in the drug store. Technically I was sick for two months, but only missed school for about two and a half weeks. Prior to the full-blown illness I was getting sick very gradually, the most noticeable sign being the swelling of my face, particularly around the eyes. Then for days, I became more and more tired and finally on one spring weekend I was so sick my mom took me to a walk-in clinic where they tried to diagnose me unsuccessfully. A few days later we went to my family doctor, and he did a blood test that confirmed I had mono. And then followed my being unable to eat anything but Ensure and Boost health shakes, since it was impossible to swallow food given the size of my tonsils. The fatigue was the worst, I think. I slept maybe 16 hours a day, and spent the rest of the time lying in bed watching movies and whatever happened to be on television. Then if I had to go to the bathroom the sheer energy required to move myself from the bed, out of the room, and down the hall, ensured that I would be so exhausted that once I got back to the bed I fell asleep instantly and slept soundly for six hours.
This particular bout on tonsillitis is the worst I have felt since having mono almost exactly ten years ago.
But, now that I am finally beginning to feel better, I am becoming antsy. It might not be so bad if S. were home, but he isn't a sickie and so gets to go to work. I would go to work but I am strictly not to return to work, and get as much rest as possible, until I go back to the doctor tomorrow for a follow-up.
With my increasing restlessness, I suddenly I feel like James Stewart in Rear Window. The view from my living room window even looks right onto the backyards of a row of townhouses, although I am pretty sure that every one of the residents is mightily boring.
I'd like to be Grace Kelly a bit more than I want to be Jimmy Stewart.It occurred to me that both of the aforementioned major illnesses, and the one I'm experiencing now, have all happened in the spring or, at least, the very late winter / almost-spring. Despite the bit of snow that we had recently, it still feels like there's a touch of spring in the air. So I've had my head filled with images of lilies of the valley and floaty dresses.
The dress is from the Donna Karan Spring 2001 collection.Yes, sometimes I do follow and enjoy current fashion. I blame
this particular obsession with a dress on my mother putting the
March issue of In Style in my tonsillitis care package. So many pretties!
This spring-like feeling makes me want to be, I don't know, creative or something. Which is when I came up with the idea to do a little project, a thing called a moodboard which we used to make back in elementary school and which I've seen turning up in friends' art blogs and even in an issue of Flare magazine at my doctor's office. For the unfamiliar, it's almost like a collage, except you can use objects like books or jewellery or photographs, even clothing, as well as images cut from newspapers or magazines. I used to love making collages as a kid and later, I even loved to make them as a teenager. I wish I had a photo of the collage that used to decorate the wall behind my bed, almost like a giant headboard of creativity. I created and added to it for about five years.
Anyways, because of this feeling in the air today, I wanted to try and capture this state of mind I was in, and so I came up with this.
Included in this 3D collage are some favourite pieces of pretty, inexpensive jewellery and whispy silk scarves. The heart-shaped photo in the middle is of myself when I was eleven years old, and my two best friends from elementary school. The picture was taken at Girl Guide camp; we went camping every spring. I used to keep the picture in a heart-shaped frame which broke long ago; as for the girls in the picture, we grew apart years ago and are now mere Facebook friends. The plastic bow barrettes are from when I was a little girl. The vase is Wedgwood and it was given to me by S.'s mother; it had belonged to S.'s grandfather. As for the books, I first enjoyed Mrs. Dalloway in the spring. The flowered notebook is an old journal, but the cover is so pretty. It is filled mostly with memories from spring 2003. I am currently reading The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, set during summer 1950, and I am absolutely loving it. The flowered dress is a perennial favourite, as are the turquoise hat and sunglasses (they're actually Prada, legitimately. I nabbed them from the lost and found at work, years ago. Totally within my rights, too. They had been languishing in that box for months). I bought the high-heeled shoes last summer for my cousin's wedding, and they are the most beautiful shoes I've owned in my entire life. Oh, and that idyllic lake scene is a still from the film Barry Lyndon. It's in a Stanley Kubrick book that I gave S. for Christmas one year.
Anyways, because of this feeling in the air today, I wanted to try and capture this state of mind I was in, and so I came up with this.
Included in this 3D collage are some favourite pieces of pretty, inexpensive jewellery and whispy silk scarves. The heart-shaped photo in the middle is of myself when I was eleven years old, and my two best friends from elementary school. The picture was taken at Girl Guide camp; we went camping every spring. I used to keep the picture in a heart-shaped frame which broke long ago; as for the girls in the picture, we grew apart years ago and are now mere Facebook friends. The plastic bow barrettes are from when I was a little girl. The vase is Wedgwood and it was given to me by S.'s mother; it had belonged to S.'s grandfather. As for the books, I first enjoyed Mrs. Dalloway in the spring. The flowered notebook is an old journal, but the cover is so pretty. It is filled mostly with memories from spring 2003. I am currently reading The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, set during summer 1950, and I am absolutely loving it. The flowered dress is a perennial favourite, as are the turquoise hat and sunglasses (they're actually Prada, legitimately. I nabbed them from the lost and found at work, years ago. Totally within my rights, too. They had been languishing in that box for months). I bought the high-heeled shoes last summer for my cousin's wedding, and they are the most beautiful shoes I've owned in my entire life. Oh, and that idyllic lake scene is a still from the film Barry Lyndon. It's in a Stanley Kubrick book that I gave S. for Christmas one year.I've been feeling rather creative lately, which isn't surprising since I've been feeling less depressed lately. Or at least I've had a lot of episodes of mixed mood, but no definite hardcore sadness. Last week I completed a short story to submit to the Toronto Star short story contest, and it felt really good to write something that I felt (and S. agreed with me wholeheartedly) was very solid and clever, and could conceivably be one of the winning stories.
Also, I've been delving into erotic fiction. S. has always claimed I'd have a talent for it, and so he's proving himself to be correct. Maybe someday I can publish and be Canada's very own Anais Nin. Although I feel somehow that the time for erotica has passed. Then again, people said that about burlesque, and it's experiencing an unprecedented revival.
Maybe an erotic moodboard (or "mood bed" since the one I created today was done on my bed) is next on my agenda. Of course I'll probably be fully recovered soon and then my biggest problems will be 1. work and 2. keeping S. from humping me, as we haven't had sex in over a week, goddamnit.
Also, I've been delving into erotic fiction. S. has always claimed I'd have a talent for it, and so he's proving himself to be correct. Maybe someday I can publish and be Canada's very own Anais Nin. Although I feel somehow that the time for erotica has passed. Then again, people said that about burlesque, and it's experiencing an unprecedented revival.
Maybe an erotic moodboard (or "mood bed" since the one I created today was done on my bed) is next on my agenda. Of course I'll probably be fully recovered soon and then my biggest problems will be 1. work and 2. keeping S. from humping me, as we haven't had sex in over a week, goddamnit.
13.2.11
Bauhaus need not apply
I am feeling the need for all things gothic this evening.
In no way do I mean that I have a desire to wear copious amounts of black eyeliner and listen to Einstürzende Neubauten or Peter Murphy.
Give me lonesome, windswept moors and mysterious English manors built of dark, heavy stone. Right now it feels like nothing could beat the heavy gloom of Jane Eyre or the fading glamour of the country mansion in Rebecca. I feel like Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey: in love with anything mysterious, ancient, and supernatural. I wish desperately for a castle lit only by candlelight, filled with tempestuous ghosts and long-lost secrets.
Until my dreams are realized I suppose I will have to settle for dressing myself in a long, flowing dress and letting my hair spill around my shoulders, my skin white as the dust off a moth's wings*. And reading a bit of The Mysteries of Udolpho or Bleak House. By the light of a flickering candle, of course.
Then, perhaps a viewing of Dragonwyck or The Others to lull me off to sleep, perchance to dream of secret passages and thunderstorms.
*Thanks to years spent avoiding direct sunlight due to the fact that it immediately makes my skin freckle and turn pink.
In no way do I mean that I have a desire to wear copious amounts of black eyeliner and listen to Einstürzende Neubauten or Peter Murphy.
Give me lonesome, windswept moors and mysterious English manors built of dark, heavy stone. Right now it feels like nothing could beat the heavy gloom of Jane Eyre or the fading glamour of the country mansion in Rebecca. I feel like Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey: in love with anything mysterious, ancient, and supernatural. I wish desperately for a castle lit only by candlelight, filled with tempestuous ghosts and long-lost secrets.
Until my dreams are realized I suppose I will have to settle for dressing myself in a long, flowing dress and letting my hair spill around my shoulders, my skin white as the dust off a moth's wings*. And reading a bit of The Mysteries of Udolpho or Bleak House. By the light of a flickering candle, of course.
Then, perhaps a viewing of Dragonwyck or The Others to lull me off to sleep, perchance to dream of secret passages and thunderstorms.
*Thanks to years spent avoiding direct sunlight due to the fact that it immediately makes my skin freckle and turn pink.
5.2.11
You know you're an unbelievable bore
. . . And have lost all my respect when you relentlessly update your Facebook about nothing but:
a) all topics concerning your wedding
b) going to the gym to workout (and fit into your wedding dress in time, since you bought it two sizes too small to motivate you to become thinner. "But, oh!" you say. "Women are under sooo much pressure to be beautiful and look perfect! I want to look beautiful on my wedding day! I want _____ to look at me and think I'm the most perfect woman in the world!" Wah wah wah. First off, don't talk about body image issues, and the pressure to be thin and pretty, like it's some kind of big revelation. And don't use your wedding as an excuse to be psycho. Secondly, if a man intends to marry you and is letting you plan a big, frilly wedding with stupid vows and live swans, there's a pretty good chance that he 1) already thinks you are perfect to begin with, and 2) has been lobotomized and / or is heavily medicated. And if you haven't heard a stand-up comedian in never he won't notice what you look like, because men never notice. He will be too hungover or will still be too drunk from his bachelor party (populated mainly by strippers who are thinner, prettier, and more flexible than you) to care.
You're going to get fat having his babies, anyhow.
The fact that you are likely biologically capable of reproducing proves that this is a Godless universe.
I quote you now to back up my statements regarding your moronic nature (a newly acquired moronic nature, I might add, since you were an interesting person to talk to whenever we met up for coffee back in the day, or ran into each other at parties) and your new status as an unbearable bore.
"Choosing wedding invitations is waaaaaaaaaaayyy hard!!! I need a Belvedere cosmo and ma gurlz, stat!"
"sooooooooo many different shades of pink! OMG!"
"Wedding song! any ideas?!?! I can't decide!"
"just discovered I can register for gifts online! Can't stop myself now LOL!"
"Got my something old, something new, and my something blue! just need my somthing borrowed! Who has some tiffany for me? haha!"
"Ugh! planning a menu is HARD WORK! Time for some town time with hubby!"
And so on, ad nauseum.
What are you going to talk about after you're married? If you have to think about that for more than a second you're in trouble.
a) all topics concerning your wedding
b) going to the gym to workout (and fit into your wedding dress in time, since you bought it two sizes too small to motivate you to become thinner. "But, oh!" you say. "Women are under sooo much pressure to be beautiful and look perfect! I want to look beautiful on my wedding day! I want _____ to look at me and think I'm the most perfect woman in the world!" Wah wah wah. First off, don't talk about body image issues, and the pressure to be thin and pretty, like it's some kind of big revelation. And don't use your wedding as an excuse to be psycho. Secondly, if a man intends to marry you and is letting you plan a big, frilly wedding with stupid vows and live swans, there's a pretty good chance that he 1) already thinks you are perfect to begin with, and 2) has been lobotomized and / or is heavily medicated. And if you haven't heard a stand-up comedian in never he won't notice what you look like, because men never notice. He will be too hungover or will still be too drunk from his bachelor party (populated mainly by strippers who are thinner, prettier, and more flexible than you) to care.
You're going to get fat having his babies, anyhow.
The fact that you are likely biologically capable of reproducing proves that this is a Godless universe.
I quote you now to back up my statements regarding your moronic nature (a newly acquired moronic nature, I might add, since you were an interesting person to talk to whenever we met up for coffee back in the day, or ran into each other at parties) and your new status as an unbearable bore.
"Choosing wedding invitations is waaaaaaaaaaayyy hard!!! I need a Belvedere cosmo and ma gurlz, stat!"
"sooooooooo many different shades of pink! OMG!"
"Wedding song! any ideas?!?! I can't decide!"
"just discovered I can register for gifts online! Can't stop myself now LOL!"
"Got my something old, something new, and my something blue! just need my somthing borrowed! Who has some tiffany for me? haha!"
"Ugh! planning a menu is HARD WORK! Time for some town time with hubby!"
And so on, ad nauseum.
What are you going to talk about after you're married? If you have to think about that for more than a second you're in trouble.
27.1.11
Kill Your Television
Before your television kills you.
I quote Walter Berglund's character in Mr. Jonathan Franzen's delightful novel Freedom, a fantastically cynical look at young adult and middle-aged existence in the U.S. today, and the near-and-dear-to-the-heart family and cultural values held by the majority of the American population.
"And TV: TV was like radio, only ten times worse. The country that minutely followed every phony turn of American Idol while the world went up in flames seemed to Walter fully deserving of whatever nightmare future awaited it."
I love everything about this novel. I adore how Franzen treats religion with such subtle harshness, and how he doesn't hesitate to criticize, through his characters, the things that it has become taboo to attack (ie. 9/11, overpopulation, simple, honest-to-goodness, salt-of-the-earth working people with no need for la-di-dah education and fancy thinkin', homeland security measures, etc.), at least in America.
I can honestly say that reading this book has made me feel more sane. Ironic, because one of the subplots involves mental illness. Odd how these things work out.
22.1.11
I officially have a girl boner for Rooney Mara
Although I think my girl boner might still be largely due in part to Noomi Rapace, as Rooney Mara is transforming into the Lisbeth Salander character for David Fincher's adaptation of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.
I can't help but adore the Lisbeth Salander character. Intelligent, pan-sexual, unforgiving, tortured, and yet capable of torture herself, and equipped with a set of morals so black-and-white in an ironically twisted fashion as to turn her into a vigilante who doles out punishment as she sees fit. Which is to say that she takes no mercy or shit. And that's hot as hell. Nothing turns me off more in a woman, whether in real life, or on the screen or in a book, who whines and bemoans her shitty lot in life without fixing anything. Or a woman who meekly accepts cruelty at the hands of any abuser, whether it be a rapist or even her own husband, and quietly turns her cheek for more.
I understand there's a psychology behind that but I have a hard time believing a person doesn't feel rage enough to do something about. Last June a man grabbed me on a crowded bus and my response was to put my knee in his crotch right before disembarking. I've practically got a boner for myself just thinking about it.
Noomi Rapace did such a fantastic job kicking ass and impressing the hell out of me (I had not read any of the books before spontaneously seeing the movie at a screening at U of T) that when it was announced that there would be an American remake I groaned inwardly but I felt better once I knew David Fincher would direct.
When it was announced that Daniel Craig would play the lead role, I groaned audibly. First off, I find him unbearably wooden as an actor. Secondly, I've never understood the sex appeal. I know he was Bond. And Bond is a sex symbol (again, something I've never understood).
Does someone want to explain this to me? He looks like a
Russian politician or a spaniel or something. Also his head is
disturbingly round. I would not want to be the woman having his baby.
After Rooney Mara was chosen to play Lisbeth Salander, I was even more skeptical. I have only ever seen her being sweet and soft and dewey-eyed and rosy-cheeked.
Not until S. showed me photos of her done up as Lisbeth Salander did I start to gain confidence that the film might not be bad after all.
I could stand to look at her for 90+ minutes.
I can't help but adore the Lisbeth Salander character. Intelligent, pan-sexual, unforgiving, tortured, and yet capable of torture herself, and equipped with a set of morals so black-and-white in an ironically twisted fashion as to turn her into a vigilante who doles out punishment as she sees fit. Which is to say that she takes no mercy or shit. And that's hot as hell. Nothing turns me off more in a woman, whether in real life, or on the screen or in a book, who whines and bemoans her shitty lot in life without fixing anything. Or a woman who meekly accepts cruelty at the hands of any abuser, whether it be a rapist or even her own husband, and quietly turns her cheek for more.
I understand there's a psychology behind that but I have a hard time believing a person doesn't feel rage enough to do something about. Last June a man grabbed me on a crowded bus and my response was to put my knee in his crotch right before disembarking. I've practically got a boner for myself just thinking about it.
Noomi Rapace did such a fantastic job kicking ass and impressing the hell out of me (I had not read any of the books before spontaneously seeing the movie at a screening at U of T) that when it was announced that there would be an American remake I groaned inwardly but I felt better once I knew David Fincher would direct.
When it was announced that Daniel Craig would play the lead role, I groaned audibly. First off, I find him unbearably wooden as an actor. Secondly, I've never understood the sex appeal. I know he was Bond. And Bond is a sex symbol (again, something I've never understood).
Does someone want to explain this to me? He looks like aRussian politician or a spaniel or something. Also his head is
disturbingly round. I would not want to be the woman having his baby.
However, he does very much resemble Michael Nyqvist who played the role of Mikael Blomkvist in the original film.
I totally see a resemblance even if you don't.
And this isn't about you.
I totally see a resemblance even if you don't.After Rooney Mara was chosen to play Lisbeth Salander, I was even more skeptical. I have only ever seen her being sweet and soft and dewey-eyed and rosy-cheeked.
Not until S. showed me photos of her done up as Lisbeth Salander did I start to gain confidence that the film might not be bad after all.
I could stand to look at her for 90+ minutes.More photos, official and not-so-official, can be seen here and here .
I am impressed with just how much she seems to fit the role already, and now I really can't wait to see her shove a dildo up a rapist's ass.
Please David Fincher, don't cater to American audiences and remove that gem of a scene. I think it will do a lot more for young girls than the Jonas Brothers and abstinence classes and purity rings combined.
All of which are infinitely more horrible in the first place.
I am impressed with just how much she seems to fit the role already, and now I really can't wait to see her shove a dildo up a rapist's ass.
Please David Fincher, don't cater to American audiences and remove that gem of a scene. I think it will do a lot more for young girls than the Jonas Brothers and abstinence classes and purity rings combined.
All of which are infinitely more horrible in the first place.
20.1.11
Slush
If anyone ever believed that we are all unique, and that we are, each and every one of us, a beautiful snowflake of individuality in a blizzard of human existence, they should work as a research worker doing social and academic phone interviews for non-profit organizations, and speak with Canadians all across the country, and thereby learn that there is rarely anyone who seems remotely separate from the homogeneous masses.
Whenever anyone thinks they are making a lighthearted comment or a joke, it is always one I have heard a thousand times before. If a person thinks they have a clever retort ("Why don't you give me your phone number so I can call you?"), I know it came from the same Seinfeld episode I've seen on rerun, and that it was a witticism way back in about 1993.
And so I have reached the point that when I know I am speaking with someone that I might as well have spoken to before, given the lack of individuality, I find that my reserve of patience has slightly dwindled.
Here are some people I have spoken to far too many times:
1. Your name is usually Douglas or Gordon, and your wife selects you as a respondent but not without warning first that "my husband hates surveys, he'll just slam down the phone on you dear". Ironically your wife is always a sweetie, and completely willing to be compliant, and we have to carefully explain why we can't speak with her. But we can never get a hold of you anyways because you are usually out hunting or fishing or working on your truck. If we do manage to speak with you, you always behave as if you know exactly what we're calling about, but always manage to display your deep and fettered lack of intelligence by missing the point completely. I want to slam the phone down on you.
2. It is pathetic that you are a woman living in what seems to be in constant fear of your husband. "I can't stay on the line too long in case my husband calls the house". "My husband will wonder who I'm talking to, and I'm interested in your study but I just don't want to have to explain to him." "I'd love to chat but my husband will be home soon and wanting his supper. Can you call back on Saturday afternoon? He'll be out bowling with the boys then." Do you . . . realize what you sound like? I can find it in my heart to feel sorry for you if you sound at least old enough to have at least started off as a housewife in the 50s, maybe the early 60s. But if you sound at all like you came of age, married, had children, all that, in the post-60s and feminist era, I find it difficult to tolerate you.
3. Just about anyone from anywhere in B___ County, Ontario. You say things like, "We're just honest-to-goodness folk here and we don't want to be harassed by you big city know-alls" and use double negatives as in "We don't know nothing about public health issues" (which, in fact, means that you do know a thing or two about them) or "We don't know nothin' 'bout no health department" which is a triple negative and I don't even want to start trying to figure out what it means because I have no desire to become fluent in Moron. I find it difficult to believe that when researchers say they want broad opinions and random samples of the population that they are really talking about you. There are always kids screaming in the background and everyone sounds like they come from a trailer park in Arkansas, which is weird because this is Canada. Like, how do you all manage to sound so stereotypically white trash? Is there a class you go to at the adult learning centre which is mandatory for anyone finishing their high school diploma at age 25 because they were too busy getting stoned and having teenage pregnancies to pass math class? You make me believe more strongly than ever that we desperately need to re-open the issue of selected human sterilization.
4. Eighteen-year-old girls who take forever on the phone because they drag everything out with uuummmmmmm and liiiiiike . Or, similarly, eighteen-year-old boys who dunno what their opinion is about anything or whether tomato juice counts as a serving of fruit juice, "Since, you know, it's not fruit, right? And juice is made from fruits. So what's tomato juice then?" Do any of you realize what kind of impression you make on people? Perhaps I'm being harsh, but I know that I was nothing like that as a teenager. I was too busy trying to decipher the meaning behind The Fountainhead. P.S. A tomato is totally a fruit. It ripens off the vine. Fruit just rots. Schooled.
I wish desperately for floods and forest fires in your vicinities, and hold out everyday for the one-in-thousands opportunity I get to converse with intelligent, witty, category-defying and original members of the general population.
Whenever anyone thinks they are making a lighthearted comment or a joke, it is always one I have heard a thousand times before. If a person thinks they have a clever retort ("Why don't you give me your phone number so I can call you?"), I know it came from the same Seinfeld episode I've seen on rerun, and that it was a witticism way back in about 1993.
And so I have reached the point that when I know I am speaking with someone that I might as well have spoken to before, given the lack of individuality, I find that my reserve of patience has slightly dwindled.
Here are some people I have spoken to far too many times:
1. Your name is usually Douglas or Gordon, and your wife selects you as a respondent but not without warning first that "my husband hates surveys, he'll just slam down the phone on you dear". Ironically your wife is always a sweetie, and completely willing to be compliant, and we have to carefully explain why we can't speak with her. But we can never get a hold of you anyways because you are usually out hunting or fishing or working on your truck. If we do manage to speak with you, you always behave as if you know exactly what we're calling about, but always manage to display your deep and fettered lack of intelligence by missing the point completely. I want to slam the phone down on you.
2. It is pathetic that you are a woman living in what seems to be in constant fear of your husband. "I can't stay on the line too long in case my husband calls the house". "My husband will wonder who I'm talking to, and I'm interested in your study but I just don't want to have to explain to him." "I'd love to chat but my husband will be home soon and wanting his supper. Can you call back on Saturday afternoon? He'll be out bowling with the boys then." Do you . . . realize what you sound like? I can find it in my heart to feel sorry for you if you sound at least old enough to have at least started off as a housewife in the 50s, maybe the early 60s. But if you sound at all like you came of age, married, had children, all that, in the post-60s and feminist era, I find it difficult to tolerate you.
3. Just about anyone from anywhere in B___ County, Ontario. You say things like, "We're just honest-to-goodness folk here and we don't want to be harassed by you big city know-alls" and use double negatives as in "We don't know nothing about public health issues" (which, in fact, means that you do know a thing or two about them) or "We don't know nothin' 'bout no health department" which is a triple negative and I don't even want to start trying to figure out what it means because I have no desire to become fluent in Moron. I find it difficult to believe that when researchers say they want broad opinions and random samples of the population that they are really talking about you. There are always kids screaming in the background and everyone sounds like they come from a trailer park in Arkansas, which is weird because this is Canada. Like, how do you all manage to sound so stereotypically white trash? Is there a class you go to at the adult learning centre which is mandatory for anyone finishing their high school diploma at age 25 because they were too busy getting stoned and having teenage pregnancies to pass math class? You make me believe more strongly than ever that we desperately need to re-open the issue of selected human sterilization.
4. Eighteen-year-old girls who take forever on the phone because they drag everything out with uuummmmmmm and liiiiiike . Or, similarly, eighteen-year-old boys who dunno what their opinion is about anything or whether tomato juice counts as a serving of fruit juice, "Since, you know, it's not fruit, right? And juice is made from fruits. So what's tomato juice then?" Do any of you realize what kind of impression you make on people? Perhaps I'm being harsh, but I know that I was nothing like that as a teenager. I was too busy trying to decipher the meaning behind The Fountainhead. P.S. A tomato is totally a fruit. It ripens off the vine. Fruit just rots. Schooled.
I wish desperately for floods and forest fires in your vicinities, and hold out everyday for the one-in-thousands opportunity I get to converse with intelligent, witty, category-defying and original members of the general population.
10.1.11
Wondering
Why Egon in Ghostbusters continues to hold immense sexual appeal for me.
I think the answer lies in the fact that I can't help but be attracted to unbelievable nerds and have a . . . thing, I guess, for Jewish guys. Maybe it's the fact that I was raised Catholic and any guy who went to Hebrew school just feels so badass.
You can cross the streams with me any day, Harold Ramis.
I think the answer lies in the fact that I can't help but be attracted to unbelievable nerds and have a . . . thing, I guess, for Jewish guys. Maybe it's the fact that I was raised Catholic and any guy who went to Hebrew school just feels so badass.
You can cross the streams with me any day, Harold Ramis.
9.1.11
It's perfectly normal
For me to create Sims versions of myself and S. and force social interactions upon them until they fall completely in love and can't stop themselves from having sex in the hot tub.
And then play The Sims 3 incessantly when S. goes away for a few days on a ski trip.
Completely realistic and not at all crazy.
And then play The Sims 3 incessantly when S. goes away for a few days on a ski trip.
Completely realistic and not at all crazy.
31.12.10
Laughing at you
Yes, you. The guy in the family sedan, blasting your club beats so loud that your shitty stereo makes your car vibrate, and leering and hollering at us girls passing by.
You will never have sex with any of us.
I'll bet you're in that family-sized car because it's what you got out of the divorce when your wife left you for reasons of irreconcilable differences due to you being so utterly lame.
There is a capital 'L' on my forehead for you. Haven't done that since grade school, but what can I say, your pathetic example just inspires me.
You will never have sex with any of us.
I'll bet you're in that family-sized car because it's what you got out of the divorce when your wife left you for reasons of irreconcilable differences due to you being so utterly lame.
There is a capital 'L' on my forehead for you. Haven't done that since grade school, but what can I say, your pathetic example just inspires me.
13.12.10
So Sue (Johanson) me
There should be an official holiday named for this woman. Not only is she the female equivalent of my beloved Dan Savage (see a testament of my love for him here) but I was enjoying her humour, and frank manner of speaking about all things related to sex, for years before I discovered Dan. Moreover, I believe that she has done more than anyone to promote women's sexual health (and just about anyone's sexual health, in general) in Canada since Dr. Henry Morgentaler fought for the right to a safe abortion in the 60s.
Plus, the delight that I garnered from seeing her recommend sex toys on her Hot Stuff Bag segments on her former t.v. show (made all the more amusing due to her remarkable resemblance to my late maternal grandmother) will likely never be matched by any other septua- or octo- genarian.
Also, this.Oh, and also, there was some Order of Canada thing. That too. That's just as important as the chin dildo, you know. If not more, even. Just slightly more.
S. and I have an ongoing tradition of occasionally naming a certain day to be [insert name of celebrity or well-known figure or even just a person we know here] DAY. For instance, we declared May 20 to be James Stewart Day, when we will participate in some doggone good, wholesome activities and talk just like Jimmy. There are many other examples, most of which I can't remember specifically because we normally make these decisions while slightly tipsy.
However, being of sound mind and body and having had only two 5oz glasses of wine, I declare July 29 (Sue's birthday) to be the official Sue Johanson Day in our home, which will basically be an all-out sex toy and lube fest. It goes without saying that we will use fully poseable dolls to work out some yet-untried positions for ourselves, and make reference to our body parts using medical terms, foregoing dirty slang for the day.
Or perhaps May 31 will be more fitting, since that was the day she received her Order of Canada.
Oh, heck. I'll just go ahead and celebrate both days, in the aforementioned fashion.
12.12.10
Things said by dumb girls at my work #7
"I don't think my see-through top is, like, see-through enough."
Wondering
Why you need to make me privy to your toddler's potty-training achievements. Please don't tell me just how well he is excelling at pee-pee and poop-poop both at home and in public restrooms. The look of pride on your face frightens me.
You make me want to get my tubes tied.
You make me want to get my tubes tied.
7.12.10
Wondering
If you would be less busy if you didn't spend so much time updating your Facebook status to say how busy you are.
6.12.10
Common Courtesy
I have a new job, and at my new place of employment I am friends with a girl who is from the U.K. Earlier today we were having a discussion about the perception that Canadians are polite, that Americans are jerks, and that Brits and the French are rather rude.
She said that before she came to live in Canada she was under the impression that Canadians are always saying, "Sorry" and are overly concerned with being polite. Then she came to live in Canada and found that Canadians really only seem to say sorry without 1) meaning it, 2) even really thinking about it and just doing it automatically, and 3) sincerity.
In the time she has been in this country, she told me, she has rarely been given what she feels is a genuine sorry by anyone.
She told me she didn't want me to feel offended that this is the feeling she has about most Canadians. I told her I couldn't agree more.
First of all, having experience in customer service and as a research worker, I am not unaccustomed to rudeness and the sarcastic "Sorry" that Canadians seem to do so well.
I have always felt that kind of behaviour says a lot about a person. To treat someone you don't even know as being somehow less deserving of courtesy is just low. I have little tolerance for people who think so highly of themselves they feel they can treat others as being inferior. Even before I ever had a job I never treated anyone as poorly as some people treat me. I have never spoken rudely to a waitress or to someone at the other end of a marketing call. I've never yelled at a bus driver or demanded to speak with a manager to make a complaint. It's not difficult to treat another person with respect, even in a difficult or even extreme situation.
A manager in a cafe once explained to me that some people are "difficult" because they like to feel important or special. Like a customer who makes specific demands about drinks or food, and orders off menu. Just go somewhere that actually serves what you want. I think it is pathetic. I'm able to feel special all on my own without someone giving me special treatment or making exceptions for me. Maybe I'm special in that I don't treat others like shit, or that I feel different from others without even trying to be unique, but I have never needed for anyone to bend over backwards for me to feel good about myself. That's just lame.
An anecdote: this evening on the streetcar a woman screamed at me for wearing a knapsack. I had my hands full of grocery bags and the trolley was so packed that I could barely move to slide the straps off my shoulders and place the bag between my feet. Still, I apologized.
Nevermind the fact that she appeared to be at least 300 pounds and that two people could fit snugly into the space she occupied.
Oh yes. I'll be a bitch online, just not to her face. Because that would be rude, Ms. Fatty McFatfat.
I find Canadians certainly have a habit of apologizing, but only as a precursor to an insult. As in, "Um, sorry? But you're totally incompetent. No offense, of course." We've become so very polite that we're back at the other end of the asshole scale.
Anyhow, Girl From the U.K. says that while people in North America tend to think Brits are rude, she thinks that while they may definitely be restrained they are far more polite, in general, that Canadians and Americans.
I told her I would love to travel to England and see just what common courtesy is like on the other side of the pond, since it can't get much worse here.
EDIT: It could just be Torontonians.
She said that before she came to live in Canada she was under the impression that Canadians are always saying, "Sorry" and are overly concerned with being polite. Then she came to live in Canada and found that Canadians really only seem to say sorry without 1) meaning it, 2) even really thinking about it and just doing it automatically, and 3) sincerity.
In the time she has been in this country, she told me, she has rarely been given what she feels is a genuine sorry by anyone.
She told me she didn't want me to feel offended that this is the feeling she has about most Canadians. I told her I couldn't agree more.
First of all, having experience in customer service and as a research worker, I am not unaccustomed to rudeness and the sarcastic "Sorry" that Canadians seem to do so well.
I have always felt that kind of behaviour says a lot about a person. To treat someone you don't even know as being somehow less deserving of courtesy is just low. I have little tolerance for people who think so highly of themselves they feel they can treat others as being inferior. Even before I ever had a job I never treated anyone as poorly as some people treat me. I have never spoken rudely to a waitress or to someone at the other end of a marketing call. I've never yelled at a bus driver or demanded to speak with a manager to make a complaint. It's not difficult to treat another person with respect, even in a difficult or even extreme situation.
A manager in a cafe once explained to me that some people are "difficult" because they like to feel important or special. Like a customer who makes specific demands about drinks or food, and orders off menu. Just go somewhere that actually serves what you want. I think it is pathetic. I'm able to feel special all on my own without someone giving me special treatment or making exceptions for me. Maybe I'm special in that I don't treat others like shit, or that I feel different from others without even trying to be unique, but I have never needed for anyone to bend over backwards for me to feel good about myself. That's just lame.
An anecdote: this evening on the streetcar a woman screamed at me for wearing a knapsack. I had my hands full of grocery bags and the trolley was so packed that I could barely move to slide the straps off my shoulders and place the bag between my feet. Still, I apologized.
Nevermind the fact that she appeared to be at least 300 pounds and that two people could fit snugly into the space she occupied.
Oh yes. I'll be a bitch online, just not to her face. Because that would be rude, Ms. Fatty McFatfat.
I find Canadians certainly have a habit of apologizing, but only as a precursor to an insult. As in, "Um, sorry? But you're totally incompetent. No offense, of course." We've become so very polite that we're back at the other end of the asshole scale.
Anyhow, Girl From the U.K. says that while people in North America tend to think Brits are rude, she thinks that while they may definitely be restrained they are far more polite, in general, that Canadians and Americans.
I told her I would love to travel to England and see just what common courtesy is like on the other side of the pond, since it can't get much worse here.
EDIT: It could just be Torontonians.
29.11.10
I can't stop eating jalapenos, stuffed with feta cheese, and soaked in olive oil
My mouth is on fire and there is just no end in sight.
One pepper isn't even all that hot.
But if you've eaten a whole pile of them there is no stopping the heat.
25.11.10
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