Top 10: Things That Aggravate Me (and then some)

In no particular order. For no other reason than I've seen a lot of them recently. And I believe they need to be shared, exposed, finger pointed for all that they are. If you find yourself guilty of any of those, please consider stopping.

Public Bathroom Etiquette

Here are just a few of the things I've been subjected to in the last couple of weeks while trying to take care of my -rather private, thank you- business.

• Public bathrooms, as opposed to parking garages, should be surrounded by 10 feet of concrete all around. The bathroom stall is no place for lengthy conversations on your cell. Of any kind. I have no interest in being witness to the fight you're having with your boyfriend, or the quotes the insurance company is offering you. And hey, here's a little tip: if I'm aggravated by not being able to shoot my golden trickle in peace, whoever you're talking to is bound to be aggravated by your grunting and the sound of toilets flushing all around you. I can see where you might need to use your phone in a parking garage. I mean if your car won't start or someone is trying to mug you, it might come in handy. But seriously, I rather doubt you'll call anyone if you happen to have a bathroom emergency. First you'd probably be too embarrased by whatever you're calling about, and second, let's face it, no one in their right mind would come rescue you anyway. If you need coaching for anything happening in there, I suggest you re-take potty training.

• No talking. Please. Do your thing and go. If you absolutely need to talk to me while I'm in the bathroom, please let it be about something worthwhile. If you can't manage even that, at least wait for me to be at the sink. Do not, I repeat DO NOT engage me in conversation while I'm actively relieving myself. Or while you're doing that, for that matter. Conclude your conversation before entering the stall and resume it at the sink, if you must. Better still - come by my desk or stop me in the hallway. That way I at least have the option to pretend I'm busy or late for lunch. Cornering me between the sink and paper dispenser will only lead to your demise. I can't help it, shoving your face in the trash bin and running for my life is a reflex.

• Take your big business home. Or use the handicapped washroom. Or find an empty floor. Ok, I know bathrooms are supposed to be for crap, and you're totally in your right to take one in there, but please consider the poor ventilation, poor flushing power and other bathroom guests. I mean, seriously, I hate pointing it out, but grunting and heavy breathing tend to make me uncomfortable to the point where I'm trying to remember my CPR training. To use it on myself. My gag reflex isn't that sensitive, but if you're serious enough about passing that log, I might have to consider turning around and emptying the other side of me once I'm done peeing. Which would be no small feat considering the auto-flush toilets in the building.

• Wash your freaking hands. Don't pee and dash. That is just disgusting. It takes what, 10 seconds? Oh, and use SOAP. Wriggling your fingers under the tap just won't kill all that nasty shit you just wiped off your ass. And if you think I don't know who you are because you were in the stall when I came in and got out while I was in there, you are mistaken my friend. I ALWAYS look at shoes under the wall, and I'll track you down. Oh yeah. I'll know you're a dirty non-washing crap hand fiend. You remember THAT next time you're in the crapper...eyes everywhere. Thought those fancy patterned socks were cool? They're very incriminating, that's what they are.

Being out and about etiquette

Ok first, I have to point out that these things only aggravate me if I see them when I'm on my own. With one or more friends, I find those very entertaining indeed. Guys, thanks for providing entertainment, and keeping us laughing for weeks. Only please try to keep it for when I'm with company - sharing afterwards, without the visual, is really not as fun.

• Girls need support. Big girls, small girls, all girls. Wear. A. Freaking. Bra. I don't care what size you are, they make bras that'll fit you. Buy a corset. Shit, use duct tape if you have to. Seeing you walk down the street with each boob swinging in different directions is just not a sight I should be subjected to. I get dizzy, distracted, and a little grossed out. I don't really care about that 'be natural' granola crap. The natural shape of your boobs is whatever shape your bra molds them into. Period.

• Oranges look best unpeeled. K now before this sounds harsh, I do realize that cellulite is quite unavoidable, even in thin people. But for heaven's sake, I don't need to SEE IT. I've got enough of my own to deal with. Quit wrapping your textured thighs in too short, too tight apparel. It just doesn't look good. Sorry to be the one to break it to ya, but yeah. Not sexy.

• Know where you're going, and get there. Yeah, I know, the market is a pretty amazing place, and those carrots will make you stop in your tracks. But for the love of god, MOVE TO THE SIDE. There are people walking behind you, and in front of you, and if you're in the middle of a group of 10 people who all stop when you do, I'm bound to just walk right into Uncle Ed's behind. I have places to go, I know exactly where I'm going and how fast I want to be there. Don't stop my progress because you just realized you forgot your shopping list or because you have to get your cell phone out of your oversized purse. MOVE!

• Learn to walk before you get stilettos. Yeah, they look great on the shelf. Yeah, they make you look awesome when you look at yourself in the foot mirror. But try walking in them before you set out on you Friday night adventure. Walking as if you've got a watermelon up your butt with arms extended in front of you ready to grab whoever happens to walk by because you can't keep your balance only makes you look like a cheap whore on your first night manning the corner. Mind you, they don't even walk, so you look worse than they do. But you are pretty funny to look at. Carry on.

Driving Etiquette

Oh my. Where do I start. Where do I stop? I have to give myself a limit on the number of Aggravating Situations I write here. Me being the EXCELLENT driver that I am, I tend to notice flaws when it comes to others.

• Blink on, blink off. I don't know which aggravates me most. Those of you who don't use the blinker, or those of you who forget it's on. If you want to cut in front of me, you better have that blinker on. Yes, I will recognize the telltale signs that you desperatly want to get in front of me. The hugging, the swerving, the dangerously close nosing...but I will not let you pass unless I see that little flashing light. Period. Asshole in the big SUV that think you can squash me just because you're bigger than me: not working my friend. Flashers work on every model, I checked. They are not an option. I'm sure you're no closer to wanting to fuck up your bumper than I am to letting you do mine in. I'll play the bluff any day. And that little finger gesture? I don't get it. Write a manual on what it means and mebby I'll think of reading it. After I see you cut in BEHIND me. Blinkers on? Seriously? Don't you HEAR that tick tick tick thing going? Come ON!! If you're a little Smart thing just following your line, not so bad. I know you're just high on something or other, or muching bio-health food and haven't realized that the little spiritual drumming you're hearing is your blinker not going off. But hey, big 18 wheeler-guy? You freakin scare me. Are you moving into my lane or not? Cauz you're swerving anyway, so it's hard to tell. I hate playing the 'did-he-see-me-did-he-not' game. If you see me passing you at 200 over the speed limit, check your blinker. It's probably on.

• Left = Faster Than Right. Yes. I know this is complicated to understand. So let me explain it in no uncertain terms. Stay. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Way. I am a pretty decent and patient driver. I really am. I will follow you in the left lane at 60 kms an hour, so long as you're actually PASSING people in the right lane. I won't tailgate you or anything. But if the right lane is empty, or you're going the exact same speed as your right-couterpart, I get aggravated. The left lane is meant to be a passing lane. I know, surprising, eh? Dude. Glad we cleared that out. If you're not passing, MOVE OVER. Don't try to be the hero that slows me down. You'll just end up being the dimwit that has my bumper in your butt. Yes, I have a right to go 100 kms an hour on the highway. Not my fault your Lada only goes up to 75. Deal with it and move over. I might be going slightly over the speed limit, but if I'm not passing, I'll move over myself. See? It's that easy.

• Pedestrians are kings. I believe that, even when I'm a driver. Let them pass. It's not worth trying to make that right on the red because you think you can make it before the crossing people reach you. Be freakin' patient. Oh, and don't try to make it through the light if you haven't got space on the other side. You'll just end up in the middle of the pedestrian crossing line and my friend Andre will take pleasure in scratching your car with his bag as he walks by. We are all pedestrians at some point. Show them the respect you expect when it's you crossing busy streets. And if it's raining? Give them the right of way. Dude you're high and dry in the car. They're walking through the downpour. Seriously.

• Stay. The. Fuck. Away. I have no interest in feeling your front bumper hit my steering wheel. If you're trying to pass people in the right lane, let me pass them first and then I'll move out of your way. If you've been hugging my ass while I'm doing that, DO NOT pull in behind me as I change lanes. You better pass me, and fast. Else you got ME in your ass the whole way. Seriously, that drift you're getting just isn't worth it. You're not saving that much gas. If I can't tell what kind of car you drive cauz all I see in the rearview mirror is your ugly face and half your wipers, you're way too close. Know what that leads to? Breaking. Yeah. So you make up your mind whether you want to follow me at 60 kms an hour. Smart ass.

Ok, I'm getting aggravated just writing this stuff. I have way more coming - how could I bypass the gym, the customer service or the phone etiquettes? I'll write that up in Part II. I'm done for tonight.

Going Home

Yes, I will be going home to North Hathley tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll be back on Sunday. My parents, recently back from an 8 year stay in Africa, are having their long-awaited house warming. Them and all 62 guests.

It'll be nice to go back towards Estrie, to feel the cool air and see the mountains and trees. I'm hoping for a visit to the cemetary so I can say hi to my grand-parents. I'll be seeing my sister, brother in law and my godson. It'll be nice to be with the family - and not at work.

I have had a pretty busy week, so I'll surely have a lot to write about when I come back. In the meantime, hope everyone has a good weekend :)

Sabs - no laughing without me, and keep Dan and Kazoo entertained. Don't forget the mix.

Dan - keep Sabs entertained and get Kazoo back from vacation. I'll staple your shirt when I come back to work on Wednesday.

Andy - hope you're having a blast in BC. Sorry about your luggage, but I'm sure you can find purty underwear wherever you are.

Ray - stay out of trouble. Hah! As if :)

Everyone else reading this - don't miss me too much. If you can.

I Don't Have a Prostate

Well not that I know of anyway. But I know a bunch of people who do, and although I'm not quite sure what it does for them, I do know that it is prone to cancer. And, well, the bunch of people I know who have a prostate are quite dear to me (for the most part), so I'd rather they hang around and stay, well, alive.


That is one of the reasons I participated in the Ottawa's Motorcycle Ride for Dad event. And I say one of the reasons because it would be quite dishonest of me to try and convince you that was the only one. I have to admit I was really looking forward to the ride, and the riders, and seeing all the bikes, and partaking in all that the Ride involves.

The $300 I managed to raise from sponsors was totally for my love of healthy prostates, however. My friend Andy and I raised close to $500 together, which I think is pretty decent, and which I hope will help researchers find a cure. So I'd like to officially send a BIG thank you to all of you who contributed, and apologize if I guilt tripped you into it. No scratch that. I'll stick with the thanks :) I also owe a HUGE thanks to Dan for totally stealing my donation sign up sheet and collecting over $100 on my behalf. AND donating of his own on top of that. Dan, you da best. After me. I mean. Yeah, you totally rock. Whenever they start the Sexy Prelude Ride for Prostate Cancer, I'll be sure to return the favour.

For any of you who have a prostate or know someone who does, or did, you can donate online here.


Ok, I'll stop talking prostates soon enough, but there is a bit more in there somewhere that I just have to write about, so bear with me.

So we're hoping for nice weather on Saturday, obviously, because riding in the rain isn't quite as fun as riding in the sun. The first part of the ride is a big procession of bikes going through downtown at crawling speed, just so everyone gets to see us and grow really annoyed at all the blocked streets. We were to meet up at the National Aviation Museum and from there all the riders took off in a double line procession running through downtown and all the way to the first halt in the Carp area. For the road map, click here. Start time: 8h50 SHARP.

Or so it said on the paper.


So Saturday morning, 6h30, Andy and I are looking at the downpour out the window and hoping it'll stop, even though it really doesn't seem like it will. And this wasn't a drizzle, either. I'm talking freakin buckets of water coming down. I wouldn't ride the motorcycle in that, let alone walk out the front door for fear of one of those massive raindrops connecting with my skull and making my brain explode. But of course we don't want to miss the Ride, so we do the only thing we can - decide to leave as late as possible without being late. Three coffees and a shower later, and BAM - the rain has stopped. Don't ask me how, but I did it again. Willed it away. Heh. Yeah, I'm that good.


15 minutes later, we're on the road (ok make that 17 minutes cause we had to go back for the camera). The sky is steel gray but the sun is shining through and we're pretty much feeling like a million bucks. Riding through almost deserted streets through Ottawa in the morning is pretty nice. As we got nearer to the starting point, we started seeing volunteers posted at every street corner, waving and giving us the thumbs up. How they knew we were going to take part in the Ride I have no idea, but my guess is they waved at every bike they saw. This was the big day, after all. As we got closer, I started seeing bikes coming from every direction. And I mean - bikes. Everywhwere. Murders of bikes, as Andy likes to call them, 20, 30, 50 strong. They're in front of us, in the back of us, all you can hear is bike engines roaring and the anticipation is so strong you can feel the electricity in the air. Had I not been wearing my helmet, my hair would probably have been a big freakin hissing electrified thing akin to that ball of lightnig we loved to play so much with at the museum as kids. It was cool.


So after going all around the museum, we are instructed to park in a line. People park behind us, and there's a sea of bikes all lined up, as far as the eye can see. Let me tell you, it was pretty impressive. And (devil me) I couldn't help but wish for someone to lean against one bike and start a domino slide...ok, bad bad Xtine. No. I didn't wish that. I just...giggled at the thought. Yeah. It was a pretty neat experience. I also discovered the joys of being a passenger on a bike after a rainstorm. Remember riding your bicycle in the rain, and how you got that wet and muddy line from your butt all the way to the top of your spine? Yeah ok, multiply bicycle power by what, 3 billion? Yeah. My butt was wet, and so was my braid. But hey. I'm a biker chick now apparently, so it's perfectly normal to have a mud skid mark on my back. Bonus for the hair.

So there's a stage there, and some people talking, but I'm busy looking around at bikes and people and outfits and stuff so I can't tell you much about it. I only recall one gentleman talking and that's cause he was funny, and here's the last bit of the prostate talk for ya. This gentleman was talking about this and that and then says: ''So I've been getting a lot of emails from you guys, and I really try to answer all of them, but in the meantime let me answer the most popular questions so you all get the answers right here''. Ok by then he had my attention. Here's what he said next.


"Prostate exams. A few tips. If the doctor has both hands on your shoulders while doing the exam, GET OUT OF THE ROOM.'' (laughter here, although nervous laughter, as far as I could tell, from the gentlemen present. Mine was a big heartfelt laugh. Go figure). ''Oh and one other thing - if the doctor asks you to make any sound at all, like animal sounds, that is NOT part of the exam''. (more laughter, definitely strained at this point. I'm still laughing my ass off. Go figure again). He did make me pretty happy I'm a woman and don't have a prostate, whatever it's for. Heh.


So after quite a bit of talking, we are asked to walk to our bikes and get ready to go. My 3 coffees are starting to swell up in my bladder by this point, but I don't feel like using the restroom when we're almost ready to go. So Andy says - yeah, but can you hold it in for 2 hours? Yeah. I can. No problem. So off we go to the Old Virago, and...wait. Who would have thought it takes so long to get 2000 bikes going double file? Yeah. Takes a while. But not to worry, we're still pretty excited, waiting to go, we can hear bikes roaring to life row by row, and by god we can't wait to get going. Eventually we do, and we're off!


We ended up being side by side with a Harley guy and his passenger. Now I'm a pretty easy going gal, and pretty accomodating as far as I know. But seriously, this guy got on my nerves. For one, he had the radio blasting 'Oldies 105' and the songs just kept repeating themselves. I'm not sure if his partner enjoyed the songs or just wanted to die, seeing as she was pounding her thighs with her fists to the beat of 'Love me Do'. Now I'm not sure what was up with that guy, but he obviously could not deal with the idea that we might be ahead of him. Even though the biker in front of him was closer to him than the biker in front of us, every time we sped up to catch up, he'd gun it and try to outrun us. Which is to say, he'd speed up as close as possible to the guy in front of him so that our front wheel did not go beyond his. Let me tell you, if he didn't have a backrest on there, that girl woulda been sitting, driver seat, on the bike behind within seconds. This was just brutal. I laughed at most of it, because I really didn't care. But it was just ridiculous. If that girl doesn't have whiplash today, I'm really surprised.


The really cool thing about the parade was that all cross streets were blocked off and we got to run red lights. Cops even waved us through those. And you wouldn't beleive the cars waiting in line to turn. It's not like there weren't signs, either. But I guess people just ignore those, because all you could see for miles were lines of cars with doors open and drivers out on the curb sheilding their eyes to try and see how long this line of motorcycle really is. Long, it was. And we just waved at them smiling. Hah! I do pity the joggers waiting to cross to get to the other side of the path. I mean you can only jog in place for so long before giving in and starting to wave. Yeah, everyone was having a grand time.


When we got to the first halt, most of the parade was already there. It was pretty cold, too, and although it wasn't raining, the sun had gone and hidden behind clouds, so that by the time we stopped I was freezing. All I could think of was the free coffee...and the porter potties. Yes, by that time, my 3 morning coffees and water had inflated my bladder to what felt like exploding proportions. So we made a beeline for the potties.


Ok. 2000 bikes means approximately what, 2500 riders? Add volunteers, gawkers and police officers, and you got roughly 3000 people in one spot, gunning for coffee and potties. All 10 of them. Yes. You read that right. 10 potties for 3000 full bladders. Ouch. By the time I got halfway up the lineup, I was looking for nearby bushes. Better still, I was trying to convince all the male prostate wearing people to head for the woods and let me through. Seriously, by the time I actually got to a free one, I didn't even feel like I had to pee anymore. I cursed for not buying depends, but in the end all was well. I did my business and walked out about a thousand pounds lighter.


We headed for coffee and the poker run table. Oh, I didn't mention the poker run. We got to draw a card when we registered, and we got to draw one at every halt after that. You collect 5 cards and make the best hand out of it. With my luck, my first card was a 2 of spades. Never fear, I was gunning for 4 of a kind, or a full house. Jacks full of deuce. So all excited about the first poker halt, I drew...a six of clubs. Not great, but hey, not bad. I still had a straight shot. After coffee and a smoke, we were about to set off when I spotted Paul, a guy I work with, and an avid biker. So we stopped and said hi, chatted a bit, then walked to the Virago and set off.

Now the rest of the run is free for all. Meaning that everyone is going towards the same spot, but we're not following each other anymore in a parade kindof way. So for the first half of this run, we were pretty much on our own, still waving at the many (surprisingly many) people on the side of the road or sitting on their lawn waving Ride for Dad flags at us. Oh I should mention that we had 2 said flags, but ended up losing them somewhere around Waba. I was supposed to keep an eye on their steadiness, but I guess my brain froze and when I looked next they were gone. Man in the minivan behind us, if they hit your windsheild, I'm sorry. If you happened to catch one, I want it back. Thanks! :D


We eventually caught up to some riders and followed them. More riders caught up to us and followed us. And so we pulled in to the second halt in the middle of a 40 or so murder of bikes.

There were hamburgers and hot dogs to be had there, and so we had them because we were pretty hungry. We got another card (9 of hearts - wtf), tried to warm up a bit (sun was still hiding) and got on our way pretty quickly. By this time, my reynold's fingers are tingling all the way up to my elbows. I can't feel half of my toes and all in all, I'm having a grand time.

So we set off again, and, of all wonders....the sun actually pops out. We go through hot and cold pockets, the scenery is breathtaking, and I can't beleive this wonderful and magical country is but an hour and a half from home. I had never been down that way but seriously folks, that is a really, really nice area. Fields, old welcoming farm houses, rivers and lakes, windy roads....so very poetic and rustic and homey. I forgot all about being cold, and just took all I could in before the next stop, which was lunch. MMmmmm.. Riding makes me hungry.


Lunch halt was nice simply because it was, finally, sunny and warm. We found a cool spot in the grass and just laid there for a while, warming up. I even took off my leather jacket and hoodie. Then we got some burgers and fruit, ate, and got the next poker card. Queen of spades. Finally a good card, but sweet fuck all for my run. Ah well. There's always next year. Andy at this point has two fives and whatever else though, so I'm still hoping he'll get a full house or something. After warming up, eating and going to the pottie again, we set off for the second to last run of the day. This one will take us to the final halt, and then there's the journey back home.

So we set off right behind some other folks, and some more soon join us in the back. This is where I finally remember I have a camera. Stupid me. I tap Andy on the shoulder and tell him I wanna get it out of the saddlebag, so he knows to lean to the left as I'm leaning to the right, half bent over the fast moving pavement, getting my camera out of the bag. We've done this before, so I'm pretty confident about not falling off. I'm less confident about not losing my gloves in the process, so I stick them under his butt. I get the camera out and start shooting, then realize the battery's about to go dead. Stupid dumb luck. Anyway, I tried to get as much of the murder and scenery as I could, so I hope this gives you an idea of how really cool this ride was. If you've ever been on the back of a bike and tried to snap good pictures as you're winding around scenic roads, without making your driver want to kill you, you might have a little appreciation for my sense of balance. Enjoy.

First pic of the day. Starting point, sea of bikes.

Same, from a different angle.

Andy and the bikes, before we set off.

Lunch halt - after half the bikes are gone. I never remember the camera.

Run to the last halt - this and the next few are just shots of the 'murder'.

Andy and I - In a rearview mirror.

Yup, I guess this is where we're turning :)

And, well, me and the Old Virago. Or I should say the Old Virago and I. Not the best picture, but this is after the last stop...I'm a bit tired. So is she. :)

Other things of note - we saw a rider down, it was sad. I think he/she is allright, we're still not sure what gender he/she was. Other than that, I didn't win the poker run (big surprise) but Andy almost got 5 5's. Which I think is cheating, but whatever. He didn't get them, so we just rode back.

And now my fingers are tired. Take care of your prostate, or prostate bearing friends. Be good, be safe...be all that you can be :)

Friends I've Never Met

I'm a pretty reserved person. I'm pretty stubborn, and I'm pretty private, and most people can't tell because I've also got a pretty loud mouth and a tendency to steal the spotlight. Call it a shell, call it a front, call it what you like. That's just who I am.

Truth is, I project a pretty strong image. I think somewhere inside I AM pretty strong, but deep down I'm also pretty insecure. I'm sure that's the case with a lot of people. So I have many aquaintances, but very few close friends. I'm a great gal to hang out with until you start asking questions that I will not answer, talking about stuff that is mine only, trying to pry your way into a place that is marked PRIVATE.

I mostly think I'm a burden. I'm not easy to live with. I'm not an easy friend, either. I'll be there for you 200% until I just...disappear. Into the Eternal Haven. And that's a long story so I won't get into it. Suffice it to say that the friends that have hung around know that at any moment I might just drop off the face of the earth and resurface at an unpredictable time. They also know it's hard for them to be there for me, because I'm too stubborn to let them help. And those true friends understand that and somehow find a way to help anyway.

This is therefore a tribute to those people who endure me because they somehow find that all this aside I still contribute to their life in one way or another, and that it's worth the hassle to keep me around and help me out, and let me help when I can.

Funny thing is, some of these friends I have never met. They are people I trust with my life, they are people who are always there no matter what. They are people who seek me out when I've dropped off too long, who care about me and don't judge. I always go back to them on all fours, asking for forgiveness, and their answer never changes. This time, it went like this:

Dave: Chris!! I am agog! Are the last, what three months of your life on the net somewhere yet? I was going to ask if you live in two different universes and been in the other one a while.

Me: Oh, yes. I do. And I have been. Thought you knew that by now ;) I just keep disappearing...but I always come back hoping you don't hate me yet.

Dave: Pffff. Absence make the heart grow fonder.

And like that:

Don: what was wrong?

Me: Wrong, hm..had to retreat to the hole for a while. Had to rethink life and stuff. Still working on that. Phase one: deal with it anyway you can. Phase two: pretend you're fine. Phase three: actually pretend so well you believe it and stop working at making it better. Phase four: realize you haven't done shit in forever and feel like crap. Phase five: realize not doing shit has gotten you in trouble and doing other shit has gotten you in more trouble. Phase six: run away. Phase seven: say hi to Don and hope to god he doesn't hate you. Good 'nuff?

Don: Yep. No hate. Life's a waterfall.

So there you have it. No questions asked, other than what I've been up to. No matter what I've dropped. No matter what I missed. I'll be brought up to speed, and I'm right back to where I was before I succombed to the call of the hiding god.

Somehow, these guys know me better than most people I see every day. We've talked online, worked together, dreamed of plans, found a common goal. We don't think the same way, we have very different lives, but we respect each other because of those differences. We welcome the opportunity to debate and share, and disagree. Because we know that our arguments, ideas and opposing thoughts bring us closer to understanding. And in the end, we're really not that different. Or at least I like to think so.

They make me realize that I have a right to retreat. They make me understand that it's ok to take a break. They respect the way my brain operates, and my needs. I would never expect that from them, but they give it naturally, and without question. They are pillars. They are inspiration. They make me want to be better at everything.

Hopefully I give a bit of that back. They certainly deserve it.

Dave, Don, thanks for everything. I'll be down there this summer. I'll bring maple syrup whiskey and I'll finally get to hug two guys who've been much more to me than they'll ever know over the last few years.

And hell, I'll drink to that.

Today's Riddle

Blogging makes me think. And although that's not always a good thing, having a blog is. Because thinking makes my mind spin, and writing stuff down helps. Especially when I can come back to it and read it later.

I have this whiteboard at work, behind my desk. Don't ask me why. It was just lying there and I put it up, because I'm a sucker for white spaces waiting to be turned into something. So I started writing riddles on there, and people at work try to solve them.

So I put up a new riddle yesterday, which I at first thought was pretty clever. Now of course most riddles have more than one possible answers and it's a bitch spending my day saying 'Oh, very clever but um...that's not the answer I'm looking for'. My board, my riddles, my answers. Deal with it.

Ok so here is the riddle:

Where can anyone but you sit?

Try to figure it out. Go on, work your noodle. And please don't be wusses and Google the answer like some people I won't name *coughSABScough*. Bless me. And no, the answer isn't on your face (although if you can do this, I hear Cirque du Soleil is looking for contorsionists) or on your lap (you pervs). No, there is a more subtle and poetic answer. And that answer is:

Next to you.

Now as I said, I thought that was pretty cool at first. But the more I think about it, the more that answer bothers me.

I've been sitting beside myself for way too long for it not to bother me. I've been sitting there, watching myself go through pain, joy, and stupid stuff. I've been holding my own hand, been handing myself tissues and been laughing at myself all too long to believe that this answer makes any sense at all.

You totally CAN sit beside yourself. With joy, grief and anger. You can hover, watch, learn and scowl. Not that it does any good, mind you, but still.

I like sitting next to myself in contemplation. Feels much better than sitting inside myself in dread. Makes it easier to go 'tsk tsk' when you're watching someone else make those mistakes, doesn't it?

Anyway, I dunno. I think the right answer might still be lurking out there. Where can anyone but you sit? The question should be where can you sit that no one else can. I think, for now at least, the answer will be where I'm already sitting. And no one reading this better DARE try.

And so with that I leave you with a much better riddle:

A hundred prisoners are each locked in a room with three pirates, one of whom will walk the plank in the morning. Each prisoner has 10 bottles of wine, one of which has been poisoned; and each pirate has 12 coins, one of which is counterfeit and weighs either more or less than a genuine coin. In the room is a single switch, which the prisoner may either leave as it is, or flip. Before being led into the rooms, the prisoners are all made to wear either a red hat or a blue hat; they can see all the other prisoners' hats, but not their own. Meanwhile, a six-digit prime number of monkeys multiply until their digits reverse, then all have to get across a river using a canoe that can hold at most two monkeys at a time. But half the monkeys always lie and the other half always tell the truth. Given that the Nth prisoner knows that one of the monkeys doesn't know that a pirate doesn't know the product of two numbers between 1 and 100 without knowing that the N+1th prisoner has flipped the switch in his room or not after having determined which bottle of wine was poisoned and what color his hat is, what is the solution to this puzzle?

Hah. Have fun.

It's been too long...

Yes, I've been away. Been busy with um...well, life. Life tends to do that to me - take over. Even took over the StarLizard this time, surprisingly. I've been busy riding the Old Virago, aka the Stinger (aka Andy's motorcycle), playing Rock Band (yes, I DID get that platinum status!! - more in a future post), riding AWESOME cars (mine and, well, thanks for the rides in your sexy prelude, Dan) and, well, having fun. Which I really think I needed.

I also was sorta responsible in that I checked on the hole in the roof. My friend Andy helped with that, seeing as he just HAS to help, even though I'm too proud to ask (thanks Andy). So here's how this story goes.

After almost killing myself one too many times slipping on the puddle of water accumulating on my bathroom floor, I decided there must be a reason and the water had to come from somewhere. Yes I know, it takes me a while to get out of zombie mode, but hey, I did. Turns out I figured the water was coming from the bathroom vent, and turns out the puddle always magically appeared the morning after it had rained. Hence why I didn't see it (morning zombie mode is the worst ever) and almost hit my head on the tile floor that morning. Thankfully I missed the floor and hit the bathtub instead. Replacing cracked tiles is a drag.

I was determined to fix the issue, but of course too lazy to really think about it until one windy day, I heard sounds coming out of the vent. Now don't go thinking I go all bezerk at hearing sounds in the house. It IS an old house after all, and I've become quite used to all its creaks and moans - and let's not go into the noises that do NOT originate INSIDE of my house (took me a while and many sleepless nights and the police telling me to stop calling to realize that racoons in heat sound like a 5 year old being murdered). So with this said, I wasn't really alarmed with the sound, but I did find it odd, because, well, it was coming from the vent and it was, well, random. Not like a 'squeak squeak' or a 'ting ting' but rather like a um...'scratch rattle bump - silence'.

Now I'm not squirmy, nor am I afraid of bugs or pests or most things that could have been stuck in my vent. But I also did not cherish the thought of pulling the ceiling grid and having whatever critter dumb enough to fall in the pipe fall on my head and rearrange my hair in tangled knot of protection. So I did the first thing that came to mind. I called someone else so they could do it instead. And it went like this:

ring ring

Andy: Hey, what's up?

Me: Um, not much. You know that hole in the roof?

Andy: Yeah, the one I've been trying to convince you to let me fix for the past month?

Me: Yeah, that one. Um, there's a um...noise?

Andy: On my way.

click

And that was that. He must of been really keen on fixing that thing because 20 minutes later he was standing under the grid in the bathroom. Only there was nothing to look at other than a lot of cat hair because the noise had stopped. He figured it was just the wind, and I figured whatever was in there had scrambled back up the pipe, and either way it didn't matter. I pulled the grid and almost fell off the toilet in anticipation of the evil squirrel that was undoubtedly just crouching there waiting for the first opportunity to go all ninja on me but nothing happened. The squirrel didn't jump and I didn't fall and I cleaned the grid and the whole thing was really anticlimactic.

But there is a reason I'm writing all this. First because I haven't written in forever and this post has been a draft for over a month and I just had to finish it, and second because there IS more to this story.

Of course, now that Andy was here, he was intent on fixing the hole. Cleaning the grid was just not enough, because that would only allow MORE water onto the bathroom floor. So in the attic we went. Now THAT was fun. And for any of you wondering, no, I did not find the ring in there. Poo for me. We did find the hole, and later fixed it with a nice little cap, but that's a story for another post. What I was really excited to find was this:



This my friends is a 1984 copy (albeit not mint, as you can clearly see) of our local French paper, Le Droit.

There is much to be said about the contents, and I may one day have the patience to photograph and post pictures of the very good deals on the latest 1984 fashions at K-Mart, or the new and exciting electronics on sale at Atlantique Électronique, but this is what really caught my eye:

For those of you who do not speak or read French, this is an ad for a contest the paper is having. Make your Choice is the theme, and all you have to do is fill up the coupon and you might just have your pick at any of the excellent prizes pictured here. I want that Honda Nighthawk 650 cc. I really, really do. But if that's taken, I'll settle for the Doge Charger (1984 model, no less) or that big ass microwave oven in which you can fit not one, but TWO whole turkeys. It might mean a redesign of my kitchen because I currently have no place to fit that, but what the hey, it's free. And I mean a contest that is giving out $28,866 (not 865, not 867, but 866) in prizes is pretty awesome. So that's it, I was entering. Lucky for me, I had until April 19 to submit and I found this on April 12. One whole week (yeah, I told you this had be in draft form for a while).

Now for the tricky test question. This is #4, I can't imagine how hard the other ones must have been. ''Alexander Graham Bell invented...'' a) the VCR b) the telephone or c) the tape recorder. Tough one. I thought it was the space shuttle, so I'm going to take a wild guess and go with b. Hope for the best.

...Only I'm a sucker for small print, and unfortunately, I read it.

They just had to put a year in there, huh? The contest ends on April 19, 1984 and all contest slips have to be in before that date. Damn it. There goes my Charger.

Mind you, I might still submit next year. They might write something about me. And hey, you never know, they might send me a consolation prize. I'm hoping for a beta system. I think my grandfather still has some tapes lying around.

Becoming the Hero of my Own Life

I want to go back to a time of innocence
To when having a drink too many had for only consequence wetting the bed
To when a song was just wonderful
No matter what the lyrics
To when words meant exactly what they sounded like
Because ‘between the lines’ was for adults
I want life’s dilemmas to go back
To picking a flavour of ice cream
I want troubles with boys to mean pulled pigtails on the playground
And health problems to amount to a scraped knee
I want to think really hard about stuff that really matters
Like whether or not butterfly sounds better as flutterby
I want curfews to mean that mom is tucking me in
And I want insomnia to mean I’m trying to catch Santa as he comes down the chimney
I want to lose track of time in contemplation of an anthill
And to hear the sea for the first time again
I want to go back to a time of carelessness
When being careless was my duty and prerogative

No one ever thought of teaching kids in school
That in time, carelessness becomes responsibility
That between the lines is a way to use good words to convey bad meanings
And that not seeking that hidden space leads to sad endings
No one ever told me to expect
That songs I liked could become songs I dread
Because from one day to the next, the same words meant different things
I wish I’d listened more closely to the waves the first time I saw the ocean
So my memories of the sea lapping the sand didn’t sound like they’re coming out of a shell
I wish I learned to live for myself instead of others
So as to be proud of who I am instead of making others proud of what I’m not

I hope I can grow up to be what I know I was
I hope I still remember enough of my innocence
To grow down into the person I once took for granted
And finally achieve my long life dream
Of becoming the hero of my own life

Lazy, lazy Sunday...a day early

I dunno. Seemed like a good title. Besides, every day would be a lazy day if I had my way. Oh, hum, wait, I do...

So today is Saturday, and I'm lazy. I fell asleep at 8 pm last night for some reason - in my bed yet! - and woke up at 3 because Weezer was still blasting out of the computer. Shut that down, shut the lights and went back to bed. Except of course I couldn't sleep because I was hungry.

I'm a salty snacks kindof person. I really could have gone for nuts, or chips, or popcorn. But all I had lying around was chocolate and marzipan I got at Christmas. So I ate some of that and ended up falling back asleep a half hour later. I should remember to get salty stuff and leave it lying around, for next time.

I woke up at 10h30. Count it folks, that's about 14 hours of sleep right there.

And I feel like a nap.

Yeah, that's being lazy. Or tired, or exhausted, or I don't know what. All I know is I woke up, made some coffee, and played Spider Solitaire for a while. Then when I felt I really wasn't doing anything constructive, I went down and made breakfast. Yes, the first meal of the day is still considered breakfast even if it's 1 in the afternoon. More mindless card playing after that, and the wall was calling me. So I actually got dressed (if my painting pants and wife beater count as being dressed) and drew for a while. Now my arm and back are killing me so I thought I'd take a break.

A break on a lazy day is like um...well, I don't know, but seeing as I've been on break all day, I'd say this is the lazyest moment yet. So I was sitting here nursing a rum and coke (what, it's 3h30...) and chatting on MSN. And I'm saying I should be blogging something, or at least DOING something...so here I am. Blogging about being lazy.

I'm so lazy I can't even think of a subject to blog other than lazyness. Funny how my days on Saturday only start at about 5 pm. I mean Saturday nights are usually booked for doing fun stuff. Tonight, I'm going out. Meeting someone at 7h30. Meaning that by 5, I'll be starting to think about taking a shower, figuring out what to wear, and waking up. Because I'm still in zombie mode, I'll probably show up late. Weird how that works. I have all day to figure this out and here I am writing this instead of making sure I'm on time.

I'd like to believe that lazy days serve a purpose. The mind regenerates, the body relaxes. I mean something happens, right? It can't be that I'm just completely out of it for no reason. I know Monday will come too fast, I know I'll be thinking I shoulda done more with my weekend by the time Sunday night comes around...but I also know I'm just really comfy right now, doing nothing important or constructive.

So why do I feel like I should be doing something constructive? Why do I feel I'm wasting time? Probably because I'm rambling on here instead of cleaning the house or doing groceries. But hey. There will always be Sundays for that stuff.

Right now it's Saturday afternoon, I'm being lazy...and totally digging it. And hell, if THEY'RE allowed....

Sleep on, Zombies...this is what regenerating is all about.

All Is Not Lost...Until I See It Lost

I've lost many a thing over the years. I mean who hasn't? I spend my time losing stuff and then finding it when I hadn't even realized it was lost. Although I imagine that hardly counts as lost, if you don't miss it, and end up finding it when you don't really need it at all.

But other than those unlost and found things, I've lost - I mean really lost - a lot of things. Oh, we could go into the psychological part of it, losing friends, losing love, losing IT, period...yeah, I've been there too. I've probably lost IT more than I've lost any of those other unmaterial things, seeing as I have a short fuse and a whole lotta mouth. But I digress.

Realizing something is lost is a feeling I really hate. I mean if I lose something and I KNOW I'm losing it, it sucks, but at least it's right there in front of me. Like the time I went fishing with my very expensive and exclusive I-saved-up-my-allowance-all-summer-for-these sunglasses. Yeah, I know. 16 and stupid, but hey, weren't we all back then? Bend over the side of the boat to see my catch come in, feel them slip from my head, see them enter the water more than hear them, because they really just make a little insignificant *sloosh* as they hit...like it's nothing out of the ordinary, and it takes my brain about 3 seconds to fully realize what just happened. I remember watching those glasses slowly make their way to the bottom of the lake, lazily, all the while reflecting rays from the sun above me. It hit me then that losing the most expensive and valued item I had with me that day was almost poetic. My heart sank just like those glasses did that day, and when I finally woke up from the daze to realize what was happening, it was too late to make a grab for them. So I just watched endlessly until I couldn't see the reflection on the lenses anymore, then kept watching. Forgot the pike on the other end of the line, forgot the fact that I was almost turning the boat over. I had forever LOST those glasses. But what hurt the most was that they weren't LOST, really. They were right there, at the bottom of the lake. Had those glasses been crushed by a bulldozer and reduced to little more than a plastic pancake, it would undoubtedly have been easier on me. But they weren't. They were intact. Still quite perfect. Just unreachable. And THAT was what hurt.

But at least it was done and over with. There, then gone, shock, mourn, move on. The glasses were lost, so buy another pair and deal with it.

Realizing you've lost something when you didn't know it was lost is a whole other matter. This is the one that really gets to me. So while you may be wondering why I'm telling you all this, I am still in full where-did-I-not-look-yet mode.

I lost a ring. Or rather, while it may not be lost, I do not know where it is. This is the stage of in-between. Not quite lost, just not accounted for. I haven't given up on the idea that it may turn up, and in fact am still quite actively looking for it. But I can't wear it, because I don't know where it is.

I don't own a lot of jewelry. Or rather, I don't wear a lot of the jewelry I own. I certainly don't buy lots of it, but when I do, it's because I really, really like it. Because it's one of a kind, or really appeals to me. And it's usually not the most expensive stuff, but if I really like it, it becomes really important to me. Priceless.

Let me tell you about this ring, so you'll understand the depth of my sorrow at - maybe - having lost it.

I moved out of my parent's house pretty early in life. We were having issues (by this I mean I was having issues and it was weighing on them) so I did what any young and rebellious and self-righteous kid who thinks they're better than everyone else does: I moved out. Moved in with my then boyfriend at his parent's for a while, then realized this arrangement was just like living at home but having to be somewhat polite on top of that, so that didn't last long. I convinced him to get an apartment, and since we were both in school and working part time, it was rough times. No need to tell you that we got the PC cookies and No Name toilet paper.

(Just to note here that if you've EVER experienced the shafing and fiber rub of no name recycled toilet paper, you'll understand how tight we were. We ended up spending more on Ozonol cream than we were saving on the paper, so we switched back to Cottonnelle in about a month's time)

Anyway, all this to say that I didn't have much money. As time went by, my relationship with my parents mended somewhat, and one day I went shopping for some much needed clothes with my dad. I think it was the first time my dad and I actually went shopping just the two of us and, although it was a bit awkward at first, it turned out my dad is a GREAT critic and a GREAT man to take along with you if you ever want a true opinion. He's patient, he's honest, and he actually looks for different sizes for you if whatever you picked doesn't fit. Yeah, he actually sits there and waits for you to try on half of what's in the store, and is always right by your dressing room door when you come out asking 'how does it look?'. Mom, you really scored on that one. Wow. And he won't tell you what you want to hear, but he'll be really honest. And yes guys, believe it or not, SOME women want honesty and not just what they want to hear. We're not ALL out to get you with trick questions like 'does this make my butt look fat?'.

So, moving along, my dad and I are shopping and I'm down to two shirts I really like, but I can only afford one. So while I'm pondering, my dad slips me a twenty and tells me that the second one is on him. *choke*. Yeah. Really. I mean mebby you saw that one coming, but I sure didn't at the time. I was so pleased and touched and greatful I almost forgot to take my change from the cashier. It was that special.

Walking back to the car, we go through the market (for you Ottawa residents, you know what I'm talking about...). The ByWard market in the summer is full of stalls selling useless crap that everyone buys anyway because um...I dunno, I guess you can find some cool stuff in there once in a while. Mexican wooden turtles with a bobble head, spiders made of wire and beads, dream catchers...and jewelry. I mean, lots of it. Rings, bracelets, chains, you name it, it's there. I don't really look anymore, but I sure did when I was 18. I mean, this is the Ali Baba cave of wonders to a youngster who doesn't have much cash! Most of the stall merchandise isn't very expensive compared to jewelry stores that were definitely off-limits to my very empty wallet.

So we're walking through the market and I'm trying to take all of it in while pretending not to look - because really I can't afford any of it. But then...then I see IT. The ring. The perfect, one of a kind, never seen before LIZARD ring. I stop dead in my tracks. My dad, oblivious to the charm and attraction of market treasures, keeps going. Then realizes I'm not there anymore, backtracks, and finds me handing a 20 to the stall attendant. For The Ring.

I look at him, stars in my eyes, delighted in my newfound shiny trinket. I think I must have said something like 'No tax, even!' or some insignificant statement that clearly was meant to say that I had found something priceless for next to nothing. I do however remember very clearly what my dad told me.

''You just paid $20 for that ring. I offered you a shirt you needed, not a ring you didn't need''.

Of course I was crestfallen. And so was he, understandably. I had jumped on something I thought I could never have, never afford. I had been denying myself just that kind of stuff for a long time, and I didn't even think twice about getting the ring. It was a find, a bargain, and it made me happy beyond belief. I was not realizing the impact of that buy, was not thinking about going back to No Name toilet paper for 2 months, had totally forgotten my dad's nice gesture.

He had brigded a gap. Offered me something I couldn't afford. Maybe started seeing me as the young responsible adult I was becoming, and wanted to encourage me in that way. He was witnessing the impulse no reasonning buy. I was cancelling all of his well placed toughts and action.

We stood there looking at each other for a while, me wavering between pleading and being sorry, him clearly being sorry and, in a sense, a bit sad I think. But I kept the ring. And we kept walking in silence.

We were silent for a while after that, except when it came to the ring. My dad endlessly brought it up at every occasion, and I rebeliously wore it every day, for every family dinner, for every occasion. Don't get me wrong, I LOVED that ring, and didn't wear it only to prove something. But as far as 18 year-olds go, there must have been some proving being done at some level, for sure.

Years later, I visited my parents in Africa. That's where they lived at the time - they moved there when I was in my early 20s. The gap was being bridged, slowly but surely, and I found myself learning to interact with my parents as an adult through those years we were apart. I was still wearing the ring every day by then, even though one of the lizard's foot had been ripped off and it was decidedly less shiny than it had been. Hell, I was wearing that ring 2 weeks ago....but we'll get back to that. All I mean to say about the trip to Africa is that I mentioned to my dad that our 'learning moment' must have been worth something after all, since I was still wearing the ring and very much liking it still. I must have mentioned something about a pretty good run for my money, and I think the incident was closed at that point. Like 10 years later. But that moment was a milestone. I understood it to mean that my dad had offered me the ring, or at least accepted that he had allowed me to get it, and that in the end was happy I had it.

In my mind, that ring became 'The Ring My Dad Gave Me'. My dad gave me a lot of lizard stuff in the years that followed, but that ring forever was the first and most important of them ever.

And now it might be lost.

I am beside myself with grief, anger and dread. This is the most important piece of jewelry I ever had, and ever will hold. If I ever get to hold it again.

I'll write more about my search for the ring, but in the meantime, please help me out. Use the comment form and shout any random space, so that I may look there if I haven't already, or double check if I have.

It isn't lost until I see it lost.

And I'm not about to let that happen.

********************************
Ok, update, as an incentive, whoever shouts the place I actually find the ring (because I WILL) wins a free doodle. I'll draw whatever you like and ship it to you wherever you are. And I PROMISE to check out every single shout. Urhm....within a reasonable range from my house, obviously. The ring can't be where I haven't been.

Why Charlie Chaplin Was Best in Black & White

It's funny the things you come across and dismiss as part of bigger things. I mean, we speak of information overload and of how we dismiss half of what we are bombarded with as spam, but how much of it do we lose in the process?

That's why I'm a sucker for little seemingly insignificant things. I just seem to jump on the weirdest bit of trivia just to see where it will lead.

I watched a movie last night. I had seen it before, but couldn't quite remember how it went, so I rather enjoyed feeling like I was having déjà vu but not knowing where it led. At some point, someone says 'Charlie Chaplin came in third in a Charlie Chaplin lookalike contest'. That of course brought chuckles from me and my co-watcher, but I did remember hearing and reading about it before. So I said 'That's not only funny because it's in the movie, it's funny because it's true'. Which of course brought a 'Really? No kidding?' answer.

Now 'Really? No kidding?' answers always make me doubt myself. Although I was pretty sure I was right - I usually am - I had to research that little bit of trivia this morning. And hey, guess what? I was right. Ahem. I mean accourse I was right.

So now all I can say is What The Fuck?? Charlie Chaplin. In a Charlie Chaplin lookalike contest. Third. What the hell are people expecting? Bigger than life? Betting on the one who doesn't seem so real because there's always a catch somewhere? That has to be one of the most absurd thing I ever heard.

But it's also sad and scary. Because it means that humanity is losing its sense of trust and its ability to see what is right in front of their eyes. I guess it's always been like that in a sense - people want to believe that things aren't what they seem. The question, and the problem, is the reason people need to do that. It aggravates me to the point of making up words. Oh, alright, I don't need an excuse to do that, but I still think this particular issue needs one. And I got it.

Simpliciteness (do sign up to read it, it's free - plus you'll get a great story and be introduced to an even greater site). As in don't overcomplicate your life trying to find lies where there aren't. Take everything at face value, and roll with the punches if you're wrong. It also means giving everything at face value....and rolling with the punches if people don't like it. I strive to be true. I strive to be real. I strive to be brutally honest. But in a society where everyone tends to say what they think is the right thing to say, regardless of how they feel or what they think, that doesn't always go over so well.

Well screw that. Lift the veil. Live a little. Drop the black & white and come out in full colour. Show yourself and the world that politics and society can't tame humanity. And if you're having a hard time - do what I did.

Let your StarLizard take over.

I Fed The Hole

So my folks are coming for a visit today. This marks the 2nd week of what is apparently to be a month long celebration of my 30th birthday. Apparently everyone wants to be part of my newly found decade - although to be honest, there are days I feel like I'm 75...and act like I'm 20. So bring on the celebrations - 30 is as good an excuse as any to see my family and enjoy a few nights of good food and good drinks.


Needless to say I spent all day yesterday cleaning the house top to bottom. I have discovered that the single life can turn a girl into your typical bachelor. Out went the empty bottles and pizza boxes, and in came scented candles and good yet affordable shiraz. And once the overflowing ashtrays were emptied and the dirty clothes (well...they weren't all dirty but had all certainly exceeded the 30 second rule by at least 2 weeks) were thrown in the washer, all I had left to do was the hard stuff. And by this I don't mean clean the washroom (yes, I did that too) or scrub the floors (yup, done as well). The hard stuff is picking up all the junk that invariably appears randomly all over the house. For some reason, I don't see it piling up until it's too late. And you wouldn't believe the stuff I found, or the places I found it at.


Like this thing, for example:





Yes, that's a braid of my hair. I know. Ew. It's one of three I kept over the years. Where was it? In the living room, sitting in the bookcase between the latest Stephen King and my very battered copy of Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove (yeah, it fell in the bathub a couple of times). How fitting. Call and Augustus would be so proud of my hard-earned scalp...There IS no fitting place for this kind of thing though, so I did the best I could under the circumstances. I threw it in The Hole. The Hole, my upstairs third room closet, is quickly becoming a very convenient space for Things That Don't Belong. Like the boxes my ex has yet to pick up.


What else, what else...oh, THIS thingy:




I don't know what the hell that thing is. All I know is I remember it from when I was a kid and it somehow ended up with me. I can't remember ever using it and I have no idea why it's still kicking around. As you can plainly see by the amount of cat hair and dust on it, I found it behind the couch. Now being the packrat that I am, you know I didn't throw it out...I've kindof gotten used to finding it whenever I do The Major Cleanup. So in The Hole it went. Mind you, my folks will be here later today, so I might remember to ask them what it's for...and hey, mebby they'll even want it back. Bonus.


Now this next thing did not go in The Hole, I can tell you that much. It went in A hole, but it wasn't the closet:




This is a tin box. Inside the tin box was what was left of my sister's Christmas cookies. There wasn't much left, because my sister's cookies are to die for. Thankfully for me, those that WERE left in there were the biscotti. They keep for a loooong, long time. But they don't have to keep anymore. I ate them. Made sure to eat them before vaccuming, too. Those things leave crumbs. I must have lost sight of the box about the time the Christmas bills came in, because I found it under piles and piles of them. Reminded me I should take care of those, as well...I was tempted to throw THOSE into The Hole, but a little voice told me I might regret that decision later. Little voices bug me. So I threw the empty tin into The Hole, instead.


And of course, after finding all the fun stuff, you inevitably find the not so fun one. The one you can't just throw into The Hole, the one you never quite understand why you keep but can never quite bring yourself to get rid of. I mean this stuff:




Screws, hooks, IKEA 'special all purpose screwdrivers' that never work, paper clips...a USB clip, a leather tag from my new boots....Why the hell do I hang on to that stuff? Well, you know, because maybe I'll need screws at some point. And paper clips, well, they're kindof handy to close that bag of chips (didn't eat THOSE, because unfortunately I found the clip months after the chips were way passed stale). I don't know. I just kindof...hold on to them. But they're small and messy and so can't be thrown into The Hole, so I just found one of those convenient safe boxes (i.e. a tupperware container that has been forever parted from its lid years ago) and threw it all in there. Now I don't know what to do with the tupperware, so I just stuck it on a shelf in the office. Meh. At least the mess is contained.


For now.


So now the house is seemingly spic and span (The Hole is our little secret...), the scented candles will ensure it is breathable in here, and if all else fails, the wine will make everything look nicer...

I should really try to keep the house looking like this, I'm really enjoying having work surfaces and I had forgotten how nice the hue of my hard wood floors is. Then again, just in the time I wrote this post, I've managed to clutter my desk with the camera, 2 coffee cups and 3 ashtrays.


Go figure.

Another Blog, Another Day...

I've had way too many blogs go to waste. Every blog is the start of a new adventure, one which too often, because of lazyness or lack of interest, becomes dormant and is doomed to forever drift in the 'lost but not found' bin of the World Wide Web.

Yet I find myself being a blogger squatter on too many sites to convince myself not to start a new one. I've been there, done that, but never really WENT there, DONE that. To think that some people find it natural to expose these (at least for some) intimate and powerful feelings to the wide audience that is the web-enabled intrigues and wakes in me a strong wave of power and relief. I keep thinking of all that is going on in everyone's head every minute and is automatically dismissed by the rest of the living (if not the dead) simply because they are unaware that it is even there. How many connections have we lost, how much potential is wasted on egocentrists that think that these thoughts and realizations are theirs alone?

So a new adventure starts for me today, and although this first entry is doomed to become the polaroid of minutes passed, it may yet live in the present of someone else's tomorrow.

Stay tuned. I'll likely have interesting stuff to post at some point. After all, the brain keeps on farting....