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.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
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.
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).
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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
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
Saturday, February 7, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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