Y'know what I don't like? Sushi. People are ape about sushi and I just. don't. get it. It's fishy, mushy, cold and sour - seriously, could you pick four worse things to put all together into a single type of food? Probably the only thing you could do to make it worse would be to add in some "uncooked" - oh wait! Already done! Welp, that settles it. Sushi is hands-down the worst food I can think of.
Problem is, everyone else on the planet loves sushi, so I've been forced to live a lie all these years: "Oh, yeah, m'm, sushi sounds great buuuuuuuut I just had sushi for breakfast and lunch so, hey, let's go try that burger place for supper instead! Yay burgers!" But it's time for me to come out of the closet: I'm not actually washing my hair on your birthday, [insert names of endless string of friends whose birthday dinners I have brushed off], I just hate sushi. Any hair washing on your birthday or any other sushi-based special event is purely coincidental.
During one of those ill-advised conversations that couples should never have, DH told me that the one major thing he would look for in a future girlfriend if we ever broke up would be someone who likes sushi. Even my children love sushi, the little traitors. So while my kids are all "Bring us more morsels of uncooked weirdness like our future prospective new mom likes!" I'm not ashamed to say that I order off the kids' menu.
Okay, so I'm a little ashamed. I make DH order for the whole family so it's not immediately apparent that I'm the one eating only teriyaki and tempura.
It doesn't help that they send all the regular sushi on cute little round plates, while my white people sushi comes on square plates. Yeah, I'm picking up on your little underhanded jab there: I don't like real sushi, so I'm not cool. Future Prospective New Mom, however, I'll bet she gets all the round plates. Bitch.
So back to that conversation: okay, so it's a leetle bit my fault for asking, but it's way more DH's fault for answering. Like, 90:10. Everyone knows you never actually answer those relationship trolling questions, you fake answer like your life depends on it. He completely deserves hearing about it again every time "we" have sushi, eight years (and counting) later.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Maybe She's Born With It...
Small Fry just turned five. Do you know what that means? It means I haven't slept in five years. Actually, a little longer than that because I couldn't sleep for those final few months of pregnancy either. (Care for a nap? No thanks, I gestate.) To be clear, he got a party and a cake and more Lego than you can shake a stick at, so stop feeling sorry for him that his mother is whining about his birthday and start feeling sorry for me instead. That's the real point here.
But anyway, the other thing one's youngest child's birthday means is... it's Pap test time! Yayyy! I was on time for my doctor's appointment, but - thanks to a Pineapple Express that had rolled into town the night before - my doctor was not. So I sat on the examination table wearing naught but a pale yellow flannel bib on my top half and a pale purple flannel blankie on my lower half for the better part of an hour, waiting for the doctor to arrive and chatting with the doctor's intern, who, as luck would have it, was on time. And who was not only fully and impeccably dressed, but tall, dark and fricking gorgeous as well.
Shit.
"I like your socks," I said blithely, waving my enormous cup of double-double at his ankles. "They really match my blanket." (To be fair, they really did.)
Eventually my sparkling banter died a humiliating death and the talk turned to my health. I had been batting around the idea of going the pharmaceutical route for my insomnia for a while, but somehow having an uninterrupted hour of nearly-naked time with a captive medical professional audience and a giant cup of coffee really kick-started the process for me.
At one point during my hyper-caffeinated rant the intern interrupted me. "Have you ever tried drinking chamomile tea?" he asked.
I affixed him with my most withering of Mom stares. "Five. Years. Of insomnia," I said.
I walked out of the clinic with a prescription for an antidepressant medication that has such handy off-label applications as treating insomnia. Praise be.
But not without a little interweb sleuthing first.
Turns out, in addition to treating insomnia, the medication can be used to treat anxiety, OCD, itching (?), headaches, nausea, poor appetite (whatever that is), and anorexic cats. Not even kidding about that last one. Compared to not sleeping for the rest of my life, this stuff sounded not too bad. The idea of having my appetite further "improved" certainly gave me pause - I checked my closet to see where I was currently falling along the gradient of available fat clothes - but was swiftly offset by the possible (albeit unlikely) side effect of... spontaneous orgasms.
And Sold! to the bidder with the most compelling side effect.
No wonder it cheers you up and helps you sleep. I wondered how that worked.
So the next time you're appreciating the way my giant grin, glowing complexion and not-baggy eyes really complement my matronly figure and wondering what my secret is, you can think to yourself:
Maybe She's Born With It... Maybe It's Mirtazapine.
But anyway, the other thing one's youngest child's birthday means is... it's Pap test time! Yayyy! I was on time for my doctor's appointment, but - thanks to a Pineapple Express that had rolled into town the night before - my doctor was not. So I sat on the examination table wearing naught but a pale yellow flannel bib on my top half and a pale purple flannel blankie on my lower half for the better part of an hour, waiting for the doctor to arrive and chatting with the doctor's intern, who, as luck would have it, was on time. And who was not only fully and impeccably dressed, but tall, dark and fricking gorgeous as well.
Shit.
"I like your socks," I said blithely, waving my enormous cup of double-double at his ankles. "They really match my blanket." (To be fair, they really did.)
Eventually my sparkling banter died a humiliating death and the talk turned to my health. I had been batting around the idea of going the pharmaceutical route for my insomnia for a while, but somehow having an uninterrupted hour of nearly-naked time with a captive medical professional audience and a giant cup of coffee really kick-started the process for me.
At one point during my hyper-caffeinated rant the intern interrupted me. "Have you ever tried drinking chamomile tea?" he asked.
I affixed him with my most withering of Mom stares. "Five. Years. Of insomnia," I said.
I walked out of the clinic with a prescription for an antidepressant medication that has such handy off-label applications as treating insomnia. Praise be.
But not without a little interweb sleuthing first.
Turns out, in addition to treating insomnia, the medication can be used to treat anxiety, OCD, itching (?), headaches, nausea, poor appetite (whatever that is), and anorexic cats. Not even kidding about that last one. Compared to not sleeping for the rest of my life, this stuff sounded not too bad. The idea of having my appetite further "improved" certainly gave me pause - I checked my closet to see where I was currently falling along the gradient of available fat clothes - but was swiftly offset by the possible (albeit unlikely) side effect of... spontaneous orgasms.
And Sold! to the bidder with the most compelling side effect.
No wonder it cheers you up and helps you sleep. I wondered how that worked.
So the next time you're appreciating the way my giant grin, glowing complexion and not-baggy eyes really complement my matronly figure and wondering what my secret is, you can think to yourself:
Maybe She's Born With It... Maybe It's Mirtazapine.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
MWF $eek$ Weekly - w4??? - 35 (NW Calgary)
Hi there! I can't believe I'm actually trying this, but after so many failed attempts at doing this the old-fashioned way I'm still lacking that special someone in my life, so here goes nothing.
I'll start by saying that I have a very clear idea of what I'm looking for in this relationship. I'm certainly not inflexible and I don't want to frighten you off by being blunt, but I am particular about certain things. Because I'm on the rebound from a string of unsuccessful previous relationships of this nature and I don't want to have to deal with that sort of thing again, I think it's only fair to be completely up front about my needs to ensure we're both on the same page:
Kitchen - Wash pretty much everything that faces out as well as a few things that face in (microwave interior; the gross cupboard under the sink where the trash and compost live). Empty trash, wash floor, dust ceiling fan. The windows, blinds, fridge and oven are their own jobs that should be discussed separately, and if you don't look at the tops of the cupboards then I won't either. (See? Totally flexible.)
Living Room - Dust everything that holds still long enough to acquire a layer; vacuum upholstery - yes, underneath the cushions too; sweep/vacuum floor, including sliding furnishings out of the way to get behind the items. The living room floor gets dusty but not dirty like the kitchen floor does so I don't think it needs to be washed every week (flexibler and flexibler) but I'd appreciate if you kept an eye out for occasions where a spot clean or damp mop would be in order.
Bathrooms - Full clean and sanitize; empty trash. The bathrooms were really my breaking point with my previous cleaner: hairballs in the corners, scummy soap dishes, streaky toilet bowls, etc. To be totally blunt, if I wanted someone to do a half-assed job I'd just nag the husband and kids to "help", for free. As it is I work a lot, I'm tired, and I want my weekends to involve more than just scrubbing toilets and nagging. Here's my gold standard for bathrooms: Someone could fall seriously ill at any moment. The bathroom should be a sanitary and welcoming place to spend the day writhing in agony.
Bedrooms - Dust; vacuum. Take these directions with a grain of salt, as one child is a Lego fiend and the other a slobby pre-teen; I fully realize that all surfaces may not be reasonably available for cleaning at all times.
Basement/Laundry Area - Lost cause. Don't bother.
Stairwell, Halls, Entryway, etc. - Vacuum, dust, etc. as necessary. Sanitize all light switches and spot clean hand prints and booger stashes wherever you may find them, but be very careful with my baseboards: if you disturb even the smallest area the chic grey tones I've decorated in will be revealed for the uniform patina of accumulated dust that they truly are. My house has about seventeen kilometres of baseboards; you will be expected to wash all them. Consider yourself warned.
I'm interested in a weekly arrangement. If you can fulfill my needs as described above, you can name your price. Age, sex and appearance couldn't matter less to me so don't worry about sending a photo.
I'll start by saying that I have a very clear idea of what I'm looking for in this relationship. I'm certainly not inflexible and I don't want to frighten you off by being blunt, but I am particular about certain things. Because I'm on the rebound from a string of unsuccessful previous relationships of this nature and I don't want to have to deal with that sort of thing again, I think it's only fair to be completely up front about my needs to ensure we're both on the same page:
Kitchen - Wash pretty much everything that faces out as well as a few things that face in (microwave interior; the gross cupboard under the sink where the trash and compost live). Empty trash, wash floor, dust ceiling fan. The windows, blinds, fridge and oven are their own jobs that should be discussed separately, and if you don't look at the tops of the cupboards then I won't either. (See? Totally flexible.)
Living Room - Dust everything that holds still long enough to acquire a layer; vacuum upholstery - yes, underneath the cushions too; sweep/vacuum floor, including sliding furnishings out of the way to get behind the items. The living room floor gets dusty but not dirty like the kitchen floor does so I don't think it needs to be washed every week (flexibler and flexibler) but I'd appreciate if you kept an eye out for occasions where a spot clean or damp mop would be in order.
Bathrooms - Full clean and sanitize; empty trash. The bathrooms were really my breaking point with my previous cleaner: hairballs in the corners, scummy soap dishes, streaky toilet bowls, etc. To be totally blunt, if I wanted someone to do a half-assed job I'd just nag the husband and kids to "help", for free. As it is I work a lot, I'm tired, and I want my weekends to involve more than just scrubbing toilets and nagging. Here's my gold standard for bathrooms: Someone could fall seriously ill at any moment. The bathroom should be a sanitary and welcoming place to spend the day writhing in agony.
Bedrooms - Dust; vacuum. Take these directions with a grain of salt, as one child is a Lego fiend and the other a slobby pre-teen; I fully realize that all surfaces may not be reasonably available for cleaning at all times.
Basement/Laundry Area - Lost cause. Don't bother.
Stairwell, Halls, Entryway, etc. - Vacuum, dust, etc. as necessary. Sanitize all light switches and spot clean hand prints and booger stashes wherever you may find them, but be very careful with my baseboards: if you disturb even the smallest area the chic grey tones I've decorated in will be revealed for the uniform patina of accumulated dust that they truly are. My house has about seventeen kilometres of baseboards; you will be expected to wash all them. Consider yourself warned.
I'm interested in a weekly arrangement. If you can fulfill my needs as described above, you can name your price. Age, sex and appearance couldn't matter less to me so don't worry about sending a photo.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Clean Angel
As a parent, partner and office visitation hotspot, I get very little time to myself. Very little. So little that I genuinely enjoy doing things like meticulously hanging up the delicates load to dry or scrubbing the bathrooms 'cause while I'm doing these things I'm almost, almost able to pretend I'm having a couple of minutes alone (others in the household generally avoid entering my line of sight while I'm doing housework because they think I then won't notice that I'm the only person doing housework and make them do something). I joke about having alone time in the bathroom but every parent knows this isn't actually true - the kids simply view any of my bio breaks as their having a captive audience.
Possible taglines: "Can I have some waaaaaterrrrrr?" "Which tights do you think I should wear with this?" "Where's my yellow dino with the orangeish tail?" "How do you say 'metamorphic' in French?" "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU LITTLE FREAKS WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME WHILE I'M PEEING FOR GAWD'S SAKE COULDN'T YOU WAIT FOR TWO FREAKING MINUTES??"
Really, the only true, solid alone time I'm guaranteed to get in life is when I'm in a bathroom stall at work at, say, 6:30am. Thank you, exceedingly small bladder, for bringing me this solace. Namaste.
But something has been interfering with my beloved alone time of late, a nasty, pervasive and cloyingly sweet something called Passive-Aggressive Bathroom Signage (PABS). In the unlikely event you've never been unwillingly subjected to the phenomenon, it goes something like this:
Laaaaadieeees! To avoid Plugging and Overflowing the toilets Please don't flush Any feminine hygiene products that are Not supposed to be flushed. Also Please don't forget to flush the Toilets. Also please remember to Check to make sure the toilet is Flushed and that the stall is clean and sparkly for the Next Person to use it! Thanks Ladies!
Laaaaadieeees! Please! Don't Forget to wash your Hands really well with Soap and Water when you're done using the Facilities! It's Flu season! Also good hygiene is Always in season! Thanks Ladies!
Laaaaadieeees! Please be a Clean Angel and wipe Up any water ! drips On the counter With Your paper towel when ! you're Done Drying your Hands! Thanks Ladies!
Gratuitous deployment of exclamation points and capitalization of random words in text are hallmarks of PABS, and if only I could get Blogger to reproduce the barely intelligible script font and flowery pink background that are also characteristic I would. These things alone are enough to wreck my mind on a given day, but when combined with the theft of my precious little alone time it really makes me snap.
I'll tell you a secret: I'm the person who routinely removes the signage. I don't even recycle it, I just flush that shit right down the toilet and then I laugh - ha ha ha! - at the Plugging and Overflowing that ensue. Y'know why? Because I've been made insane by PABS and can't be held responsible for my deep-seated feelings of aggression and rebellious rage. Plus there was no sign that told me I wasn't supposed to so clearly I couldn't have been expected to know better.
This week, there was a new development in the ladies rooms at work: laminated signs. Oh, yes. Passive-Aggressive Bathroom Signage at my office just got real.
The fourth floor counter-revolutionary cell has identified the need for similarly amped up tactics. Operative RedBot2 has proposed the following radical measures: produce our own laminated PABS. Post under cover of darkness in locations proximal to existing signage. Recommend deployment of correct grammar and punctuation, legible text and high-contrast background to further highlight ludicrous nature of existing signage. Suggested topics include:
- Have you phoned your mother lately?
- The RRSP deadline for the 2012 tax year is fast approaching.
- When was the last time you completed a breast self-exam?
- Do you contribute to charity as much as you would have people believe?
- Eat 5 to 10 servings of fruits and vegetables every day for optimal health.
- What would Grandma think of that fellow you're sleeping with?
- Please do not flush non-flushable signage.
Possible taglines: "Can I have some waaaaaterrrrrr?" "Which tights do you think I should wear with this?" "Where's my yellow dino with the orangeish tail?" "How do you say 'metamorphic' in French?" "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU LITTLE FREAKS WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME WHILE I'M PEEING FOR GAWD'S SAKE COULDN'T YOU WAIT FOR TWO FREAKING MINUTES??"
Really, the only true, solid alone time I'm guaranteed to get in life is when I'm in a bathroom stall at work at, say, 6:30am. Thank you, exceedingly small bladder, for bringing me this solace. Namaste.
But something has been interfering with my beloved alone time of late, a nasty, pervasive and cloyingly sweet something called Passive-Aggressive Bathroom Signage (PABS). In the unlikely event you've never been unwillingly subjected to the phenomenon, it goes something like this:
Laaaaadieeees! To avoid Plugging and Overflowing the toilets Please don't flush Any feminine hygiene products that are Not supposed to be flushed. Also Please don't forget to flush the Toilets. Also please remember to Check to make sure the toilet is Flushed and that the stall is clean and sparkly for the Next Person to use it! Thanks Ladies!
Laaaaadieeees! Please! Don't Forget to wash your Hands really well with Soap and Water when you're done using the Facilities! It's Flu season! Also good hygiene is Always in season! Thanks Ladies!
Laaaaadieeees! Please be a Clean Angel and wipe Up any water ! drips On the counter With Your paper towel when ! you're Done Drying your Hands! Thanks Ladies!
Gratuitous deployment of exclamation points and capitalization of random words in text are hallmarks of PABS, and if only I could get Blogger to reproduce the barely intelligible script font and flowery pink background that are also characteristic I would. These things alone are enough to wreck my mind on a given day, but when combined with the theft of my precious little alone time it really makes me snap.
I'll tell you a secret: I'm the person who routinely removes the signage. I don't even recycle it, I just flush that shit right down the toilet and then I laugh - ha ha ha! - at the Plugging and Overflowing that ensue. Y'know why? Because I've been made insane by PABS and can't be held responsible for my deep-seated feelings of aggression and rebellious rage. Plus there was no sign that told me I wasn't supposed to so clearly I couldn't have been expected to know better.
This week, there was a new development in the ladies rooms at work: laminated signs. Oh, yes. Passive-Aggressive Bathroom Signage at my office just got real.
The fourth floor counter-revolutionary cell has identified the need for similarly amped up tactics. Operative RedBot2 has proposed the following radical measures: produce our own laminated PABS. Post under cover of darkness in locations proximal to existing signage. Recommend deployment of correct grammar and punctuation, legible text and high-contrast background to further highlight ludicrous nature of existing signage. Suggested topics include:
- Have you phoned your mother lately?
- The RRSP deadline for the 2012 tax year is fast approaching.
- When was the last time you completed a breast self-exam?
- Do you contribute to charity as much as you would have people believe?
- Eat 5 to 10 servings of fruits and vegetables every day for optimal health.
- What would Grandma think of that fellow you're sleeping with?
- Please do not flush non-flushable signage.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Real True Information
Why does my microwave dinner feel compelled to warn me that it may become hot when cooked (well, duh) yet gets all coy about letting me know it likely contains at least one chunk of sick gristle?
I've got thermodynamics down, thanks. And yup (the futility of the enterprise notwithstanding) I shouldn't deploy my hair dryer in the bathtub. What, everything smaller than my head is a choking hazard? Whew, thanks for letting me know.
I get that everyone is worried about spurious legal action but in my opinion we've swung too far in that direction along the continuum - on one hand, no amount of product labeling can prevent stupidity and on the other hand ... the next generation is descended from the survivors. Maybe we shouldn't be trying so hard to keep certain people around and muddying up the gene pool (this bag of peanuts may contain peanuts? deeeeeep). However you wish to view it, I don't think we've really explored the possibility of product labels providing the average non-stupid user some real true information about the product. Now let's get on with telling us things that don't necessarily and logically follow from the nature of the product, yet would be useful to know:
"This product can burn eyes." This is on my straightening iron, but for some reason it's not on my clothes iron or my toaster or my oven, all of which also become hot and could feasibly be viewed as equal eye-burning risks. Maybe even greater if you're the sort of person who likes to check on your toast to see how it's coming along. (I am.) So tell me, manufacturer: what is it about this straightening iron that might compel me to stick it - more so than any other hot household appliance - in my eyes? That's what I'd really like to know so I can be sure to stay on guard for it.
"This product is not a substitute for parental supervision." Well shit, I bought these plastic plug in covers precisely so I wouldn't have to supervise my children, in general, ever, but fine - now that I know that, tell me where the hell I can find something that's a good substitute. I could really use a nap.
"Suggested serving." You mean there's not an entire cherry cheesecake inside this tin of condensed milk? WTF? Just kidding, I actually was able to deduce that on my very own. But I bought the damn tin because I'm extremely susceptible to suggestions of cheesecake at certain times of the month and now is one of those times. Tell me how to make this cherry cheesecake you promised me happen from this tin of condensed milk before someone gets hurt.
Here are a few more ideas I figure might be helpful for the average consumer to know in advance:
I've got thermodynamics down, thanks. And yup (the futility of the enterprise notwithstanding) I shouldn't deploy my hair dryer in the bathtub. What, everything smaller than my head is a choking hazard? Whew, thanks for letting me know.
I get that everyone is worried about spurious legal action but in my opinion we've swung too far in that direction along the continuum - on one hand, no amount of product labeling can prevent stupidity and on the other hand ... the next generation is descended from the survivors. Maybe we shouldn't be trying so hard to keep certain people around and muddying up the gene pool (this bag of peanuts may contain peanuts? deeeeeep). However you wish to view it, I don't think we've really explored the possibility of product labels providing the average non-stupid user some real true information about the product. Now let's get on with telling us things that don't necessarily and logically follow from the nature of the product, yet would be useful to know:
"This product can burn eyes." This is on my straightening iron, but for some reason it's not on my clothes iron or my toaster or my oven, all of which also become hot and could feasibly be viewed as equal eye-burning risks. Maybe even greater if you're the sort of person who likes to check on your toast to see how it's coming along. (I am.) So tell me, manufacturer: what is it about this straightening iron that might compel me to stick it - more so than any other hot household appliance - in my eyes? That's what I'd really like to know so I can be sure to stay on guard for it.
"This product is not a substitute for parental supervision." Well shit, I bought these plastic plug in covers precisely so I wouldn't have to supervise my children, in general, ever, but fine - now that I know that, tell me where the hell I can find something that's a good substitute. I could really use a nap.
"Suggested serving." You mean there's not an entire cherry cheesecake inside this tin of condensed milk? WTF? Just kidding, I actually was able to deduce that on my very own. But I bought the damn tin because I'm extremely susceptible to suggestions of cheesecake at certain times of the month and now is one of those times. Tell me how to make this cherry cheesecake you promised me happen from this tin of condensed milk before someone gets hurt.
Here are a few more ideas I figure might be helpful for the average consumer to know in advance:
- Spicy as hell.
- Your kids will never eat this.
- Your collagen is never coming back no matter how much of this or any other potion you rub on your face.
- Your kids will never eat this.
- Your collagen is never coming back no matter how much of this or any other potion you rub on your face.
- This product might be beneficial in the long term, but it will definitely give you fish burps something fierce in the meantime.
- Not very nutritious.
- This garment will self-destruct in two washings.
- This product is not clinically proven to do anything at all.
- You probably shouldn't be eating this.
- This product is a sheer waste of twelve dollars.
- Please don't wear this. It looks terrible on you.
And possibly the saddest Real True Information of all:
- This product is only as effective as the person cleaning the bathroom with it.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Trees, Trees, the Musical Fruit
I don't really know anything about plants anymore these days but after years of immersion in what amounts to a well-paid dork subculture (and I mean that in the best possible way), planty thoughts are understandably pervasive in my life: I slip unnoticed into Latin. I catch myself building meals around plant genera. I select bouquets for their alpha diversity.
And it's totally cool for me to do these things... when I'm at work. When they happen at not-work, welp, it's plain weird. I started plant rambling at some point over Christmas and only noticed when my sister gave me a look that said "Did you just fart?" (which temporarily gave me pause - er, did I?) until I realized the look meant "What in hell are you talking about and for gawd's sake why?" In short, plant things are not things that are discussed in polite company.
Except, surprisingly, when you're buying a guitar.
When you're buying a guitar and the portly, bald, sortof gnome-like fellow who wishes to sell you said guitar tells you the topboard is made of spruce and you accidentally say "OooOh! What kind of spruce?" (then quickly bite your tongue because you've just speech-farted a stranger and, besides, the average person on the street thinks everything with needles is a generic sort of entity known only as 'spruce'), you will be pleased to learn that you have inadvertently stumbled on The Only Right Time Ever to Ask a Plant Question in Public. You will know this because the fellow's eyes will roll back in his head and he will enter what appears to be a state of gnome rapture.
"Er, are you alright sir?"
"Ooooooohhhh, yessss! Ooohh, I'm so glad you asked! It's Sitka spruce. Most guitars use Engelmann spruce but this! This is Sitka spruce. Oh, it has such a much better sound than Engelmann!"
I tried not to look at him as if he had just farted.
"Oh, just listen to the sound of it!"
I listened to the sound of it.
"Did you hear it?"
"Um... yes. What a lovely sound it has, thank you."
Which got me thinking, as I drove home with my new guitar in tow: if a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear what species it was?
And it's totally cool for me to do these things... when I'm at work. When they happen at not-work, welp, it's plain weird. I started plant rambling at some point over Christmas and only noticed when my sister gave me a look that said "Did you just fart?" (which temporarily gave me pause - er, did I?) until I realized the look meant "What in hell are you talking about and for gawd's sake why?" In short, plant things are not things that are discussed in polite company.
Except, surprisingly, when you're buying a guitar.
When you're buying a guitar and the portly, bald, sortof gnome-like fellow who wishes to sell you said guitar tells you the topboard is made of spruce and you accidentally say "OooOh! What kind of spruce?" (then quickly bite your tongue because you've just speech-farted a stranger and, besides, the average person on the street thinks everything with needles is a generic sort of entity known only as 'spruce'), you will be pleased to learn that you have inadvertently stumbled on The Only Right Time Ever to Ask a Plant Question in Public. You will know this because the fellow's eyes will roll back in his head and he will enter what appears to be a state of gnome rapture.
"Er, are you alright sir?"
"Ooooooohhhh, yessss! Ooohh, I'm so glad you asked! It's Sitka spruce. Most guitars use Engelmann spruce but this! This is Sitka spruce. Oh, it has such a much better sound than Engelmann!"
I tried not to look at him as if he had just farted.
"Oh, just listen to the sound of it!"
I listened to the sound of it.
"Did you hear it?"
"Um... yes. What a lovely sound it has, thank you."
Which got me thinking, as I drove home with my new guitar in tow: if a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear what species it was?
Friday, January 11, 2013
Jet Setting
My brother and I have red hair and green eyes; our parents do not. I distinctly remember the day in my early teens when I realized just what "from the mailman" meant.
(What the... aw, ewwww, moooom!)
But now that I'm older I see the fun in the game and busy myself with leaving little breadcrumbs to adulthood for my own kids. One day they, too, will come to be perturbed by those mysterious snippets I planted in their inquiring minds in their childhood:
'Mom, there's something wrong with the shower!'
(It was on a massage setting; I set it to spray.)
'Oh, no, dear. It's so right.'
... huh?
It's like time travel when you think about it - I'm saying the words in the present, but really I'm speaking to some future Medium Fry whose current carbon atoms have for the most part cycled along to new career opportunities. The concept works the same with all manner of my own quirks and aphorisms. It's called "oh my gawd I'm turning into my mother" - a game which I also think I'm going to get a great deal of perverse enjoyment out of watching unfold, but for now the breadcrumbs game remains my favourite.
'Mom, you're the best cook ever. Is that because the secret ingredient is love?'
'Thanks, sweetie. I prefer to think of it as 'resentment'.'
... huh?
I pulled out the fridge and stove last weekend to clean behind them. (I don't know where I find the courage, either. Just awesome I guess.) Under the stove I found a Gladware lid (small diameter, round - still no idea where the containers themselves get off to), enough dust bunnies that a craftier me could have spun them into yarn and knitted a hat, and an entire banana, blackened and shriveled and quite thoroughly become "one" with the linoleum. (Who the hell dropped an entire banana under the stove and didn't correct the issue?!) Under the fridge I found the dust bunny mothership, a lunch bag strap, a spoon (mismatched), another Gladware lid, several jumbo raisins, some corn puffs, a school permission slip from the spring of 2009, and a toy horse (brown).
I distinctly remember the day in Small Fry's toddlerhood when he was writhing around on the kitchen floor muttering 'hush, hush' like a little mental patient and I had to shove him out of the way with the fridge door if I needed to get anything out of there because he refused to move.
Ah. Not 'hush.' 'Horse.'
And not quite time travel, then. More like listening to whale song and coming to the gradual realization that ... oh my gosh ... these things are people, too, and it might just be that they're trying to communicate with us. Perhaps we're just not advanced enough to understand it yet.
(What the... aw, ewwww, moooom!)
But now that I'm older I see the fun in the game and busy myself with leaving little breadcrumbs to adulthood for my own kids. One day they, too, will come to be perturbed by those mysterious snippets I planted in their inquiring minds in their childhood:
'Mom, there's something wrong with the shower!'
(It was on a massage setting; I set it to spray.)
'Oh, no, dear. It's so right.'
... huh?
It's like time travel when you think about it - I'm saying the words in the present, but really I'm speaking to some future Medium Fry whose current carbon atoms have for the most part cycled along to new career opportunities. The concept works the same with all manner of my own quirks and aphorisms. It's called "oh my gawd I'm turning into my mother" - a game which I also think I'm going to get a great deal of perverse enjoyment out of watching unfold, but for now the breadcrumbs game remains my favourite.
'Mom, you're the best cook ever. Is that because the secret ingredient is love?'
'Thanks, sweetie. I prefer to think of it as 'resentment'.'
... huh?
I pulled out the fridge and stove last weekend to clean behind them. (I don't know where I find the courage, either. Just awesome I guess.) Under the stove I found a Gladware lid (small diameter, round - still no idea where the containers themselves get off to), enough dust bunnies that a craftier me could have spun them into yarn and knitted a hat, and an entire banana, blackened and shriveled and quite thoroughly become "one" with the linoleum. (Who the hell dropped an entire banana under the stove and didn't correct the issue?!) Under the fridge I found the dust bunny mothership, a lunch bag strap, a spoon (mismatched), another Gladware lid, several jumbo raisins, some corn puffs, a school permission slip from the spring of 2009, and a toy horse (brown).
I distinctly remember the day in Small Fry's toddlerhood when he was writhing around on the kitchen floor muttering 'hush, hush' like a little mental patient and I had to shove him out of the way with the fridge door if I needed to get anything out of there because he refused to move.
Ah. Not 'hush.' 'Horse.'
And not quite time travel, then. More like listening to whale song and coming to the gradual realization that ... oh my gosh ... these things are people, too, and it might just be that they're trying to communicate with us. Perhaps we're just not advanced enough to understand it yet.
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