I'm all about learning the non-christian origins of holidays. Me being a Godless heathen and all. Anyway, after a brief search on the good ol' internet I found a guzillion different origins of Easter. All of them infinitely less depresso than being nailed to a cross and coming back zombie-style.
Okay so back in the day there was this Godess named Ostara (she had lots of names actually some of them quite close to the word Easter). Anyway she was the Godess of fertility and of the rising sun. Incidently the word East (as in "the sun rises in the East") also comes from Ostara. Being the Godess of fertility, Ostara was all about the bunnies and the eggs. Bunnies being prolific breeders and eggs being mini baby factories.
One story I like is the one where Ostara entertained some kids by turning her pet bird into a rabbit. The rabbit laid all these bright coloured eggs. (not chocolate ones. The net is pretty vague on the chocolate origins except to say that it was probably the Germans' idea. Go Germans!) Anyhoo good ol' Ostara gave the eggs to the children. What a nice lady.
Another kind of cool story is that some people (I don't remember who, I'm writing this from memory) used to go into the forest and get all kinds of different eggs. This was the first Easter egg hunt. The eggs were different colours because they were from different types of birds (saves time dying). Then they ate them. I guess they realized this was kind of gross because they started dying chicken eggs instead and putting them in baskets made to look like birds nests.
All this fun stuff happens the first full moon after the spring Equinox. Or in our case, the first Sunday, after the first full moon, after the Equinox. That's when Ostara makes the sun rise and makes the spring come and makes all the animals get busy.
McNicoll Traditions:
On Good Friday we do jack all. Jack all is open. There's jack all to do.
On Easter Saturday (why isn't it called Easter Saturday anyway?) we dye hard-boiled eggs with food colouring. Then we colour them with markers. Adam is infinitely perplexed as to why we, after dying the eggs, would need to colour them again but it seems perfectly logical to me.
During the night a giant bunny comes and brings us chocolate. She also hides all the easter eggs around the living room. Some years she leaves us badly rhyming clues that lead all around the house and eventually to our Easter baskets (ie: "When you go to watch tv, and Easter clue is there to see"). This year she didn't do the clues because she left them on her old laptop by accident.
On Easter Sunday we find all the eggs and chocolate. Then we have an egg fight. This is one tradition I was unable to find an origin. It's certainly not something we invented because I found several references to families doing this (including one brief reference in My Big Fat Greek Wedding). So what you do is you hold your Easter egg so only the end is exposed. Then you tap it against some other person's egg. Whoever doesn't crack wins. What do you win? Nothing. I think it's a European thing.
Then we make deviled eggs. Yum!
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Early to Rise. Early to work.
Ever since my hours switched from 8:30 'till 4 to 9 'till 5:30, I've been getting up too early. I keep waking up at 6:30 (the old wake up time) and waiting for my alarm to ring at 7. By then, I so incredibly alert that I get ready in half an hour and arrive at work forty minutes early.
So anyway I have nothing to say. I'm just blogging at work. Waiting for the day to start. Waiting for another glorious day of talking to Americans.
Maybe I'll get in that extra half hour of sleep right now. FAT CHANCE
So anyway I have nothing to say. I'm just blogging at work. Waiting for the day to start. Waiting for another glorious day of talking to Americans.
Maybe I'll get in that extra half hour of sleep right now. FAT CHANCE
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Hack. Hack. Sniffle. Sniffle.
I have a cold. Blech.
Stages of the aforementioned cold:
Stage 1: Wednesday night I went to bed with a slight scratchy throat. I attempted to nip it in the bud by making a Neocitran. Unfortunately all we had available was the apple flavoured Neocitran that my Dad bought. My ridiculous father did not realize when he made the purchase that instead of a deliciously soothing lemon drink, the apple flavour tastes like warm, watered down, apple juice with an asprin crushed in it.
Stage 2: On Thursday morning the scratchiness in my throat had increased. I went to work (no need to worry about spreading germs around, guess where I got the cold?). Anyway my symptoms were such that nobody noticed I was sick. By the time to my fiancé's house, however, I was into stage three. (Adam rarely gets my colds. He's got some kind of Jen immunity).
Stage 3: Sneezing. Stuffiness. Never-ending running nose. I went to work again (it's only training, not as if I have to DO anything). This time my symptoms were very obvious. I drank a billion cups of tea (I brought the lemon from home) and even if I hadn't I still would've gone to the washroom every three seconds to blow the mini-waterfall that was my nose. Everyone was all "there, there, you poor sick girl."
Stage 4: Saturday and Sunday. No work. My nose is still stuffed up but not running. The worst is my throat. I have this hacking cough and my vocal cords have become useless. My voice ranges anywhere from "You sound funny" to "You need an interpreter". If my voice is still like this tommorrow I will not be able to go to work. On Monday my fellow trainees and I are scheduled to go on the phones and talk to real Americans for the first time. Any other job and I would rely on my winning smile. Calling in sick the first day of real work is not going to look great. There goes my dream of being promoted to head weasel.
In other news: My Dad is convinced that our across-the-street neighbour is responsible for the egging (see previous entry). My Dad's scenario is this: neighbour doesn't like us parking in front of his house. In the middle of the night he eggs the car, and then calls the cops on us. This, in my Dad's opinion, is the only explanation for getting egged and ticketed in the same night. I find it difficult to believe that an adult would do this, but I must admit the logic is sound (especially knowing my accross-the-street neighbour). Maybe I should go cough on his car. :)
Stages of the aforementioned cold:
Stage 1: Wednesday night I went to bed with a slight scratchy throat. I attempted to nip it in the bud by making a Neocitran. Unfortunately all we had available was the apple flavoured Neocitran that my Dad bought. My ridiculous father did not realize when he made the purchase that instead of a deliciously soothing lemon drink, the apple flavour tastes like warm, watered down, apple juice with an asprin crushed in it.
Stage 2: On Thursday morning the scratchiness in my throat had increased. I went to work (no need to worry about spreading germs around, guess where I got the cold?). Anyway my symptoms were such that nobody noticed I was sick. By the time to my fiancé's house, however, I was into stage three. (Adam rarely gets my colds. He's got some kind of Jen immunity).
Stage 3: Sneezing. Stuffiness. Never-ending running nose. I went to work again (it's only training, not as if I have to DO anything). This time my symptoms were very obvious. I drank a billion cups of tea (I brought the lemon from home) and even if I hadn't I still would've gone to the washroom every three seconds to blow the mini-waterfall that was my nose. Everyone was all "there, there, you poor sick girl."
Stage 4: Saturday and Sunday. No work. My nose is still stuffed up but not running. The worst is my throat. I have this hacking cough and my vocal cords have become useless. My voice ranges anywhere from "You sound funny" to "You need an interpreter". If my voice is still like this tommorrow I will not be able to go to work. On Monday my fellow trainees and I are scheduled to go on the phones and talk to real Americans for the first time. Any other job and I would rely on my winning smile. Calling in sick the first day of real work is not going to look great. There goes my dream of being promoted to head weasel.
In other news: My Dad is convinced that our across-the-street neighbour is responsible for the egging (see previous entry). My Dad's scenario is this: neighbour doesn't like us parking in front of his house. In the middle of the night he eggs the car, and then calls the cops on us. This, in my Dad's opinion, is the only explanation for getting egged and ticketed in the same night. I find it difficult to believe that an adult would do this, but I must admit the logic is sound (especially knowing my accross-the-street neighbour). Maybe I should go cough on his car. :)
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Attack of the Egg-weilding Parking Bilaw Officer
Wednesday night I decided I didn't want to go through the embarrassing ordeal of attempting to parallel park at the end of my drive-way, so I parked on the road. Thursday morning, I awoke to find a thirty-five-dollar parking ticket and a car covered in frozen egg. Have you ever tried to scrape frozen egg off a windshield? It is not possible. It was not going to happen.
No time to wash it off, I drove to work, knowing that I was the laughing stock of the entire QEW. After work, I went to a gas station that had a car wash. I tanked up and asked the attendent if there was any way in hell that the carwash would get the frozen egg off my car. The answer was no. No. Way. In. Hell. Touchless carwashes don't actually wash cars. They just make already clean cars look cleaner.
Okay, so I probably could of guessed that a touchless carwash wasn't going to do it for me. But I challenge anyone to find a carwash that is not touchless. For Spock's sake! TOUCH THE CAR!
Luckily Adam knew of a coin car wash where you could wash the car yourself (how innovative). So him and I got to work and got most of the egg off. Now I just have to pay that STUPID TICKET.
By the way, further analysis of the ticket revealed that it was written at around 4 am, well after most egg-weilding youngsters go back to their homes to watch Olsen Twins videos. Therefore one of two things must have happened:
a) The parking bilaw officer egged the car him/herself.
b) The parking bilaw officer saw the egg, laughed and laughed, then poured salt in the wound by writing the ticket.
Only Captain Meanieface of the starship Prick would do either of these things, but then only Captain Meanieface of the starship Prick could hold a job as a Parking Bilaw Officer for any length of time. (Sorry PBOs. I know how hard it is to make money without selling your soul).
No time to wash it off, I drove to work, knowing that I was the laughing stock of the entire QEW. After work, I went to a gas station that had a car wash. I tanked up and asked the attendent if there was any way in hell that the carwash would get the frozen egg off my car. The answer was no. No. Way. In. Hell. Touchless carwashes don't actually wash cars. They just make already clean cars look cleaner.
Okay, so I probably could of guessed that a touchless carwash wasn't going to do it for me. But I challenge anyone to find a carwash that is not touchless. For Spock's sake! TOUCH THE CAR!
Luckily Adam knew of a coin car wash where you could wash the car yourself (how innovative). So him and I got to work and got most of the egg off. Now I just have to pay that STUPID TICKET.
By the way, further analysis of the ticket revealed that it was written at around 4 am, well after most egg-weilding youngsters go back to their homes to watch Olsen Twins videos. Therefore one of two things must have happened:
a) The parking bilaw officer egged the car him/herself.
b) The parking bilaw officer saw the egg, laughed and laughed, then poured salt in the wound by writing the ticket.
Only Captain Meanieface of the starship Prick would do either of these things, but then only Captain Meanieface of the starship Prick could hold a job as a Parking Bilaw Officer for any length of time. (Sorry PBOs. I know how hard it is to make money without selling your soul).
Monday, March 07, 2005
Spontaneous Vacance
I'll make this quick because I have to get up early tommorrow and start my glamorous call centre job. Saturday morning Adam calls me up. He has e-mailed in "sick" for work and wants to go on a trip. "Let's go to Montreal," says he.
Well this weekend, spontaneity was my middle name (usually it's something like procrastination, or Trekkie, or Meghan). So I packed a few things and hopped into Adam's Forester and made the 7ish-hour journey to the birthplace of Mordecai Richler, William Shatner, and Yours Truly.
We found a cheapish motel (the bathroom door would not shut but it didn't matter because the door was transparent anyway). Then we rode the Metro to nowhere in particular and ate dinner at a crowded Mexican restaurant. Then we went to the grocery store where I bought 2 BIG jars of pickled tongue (you can't get it in Burlington; Adam seems to think that's a good thing) and some alcoholic beverages (mostly because of the novelty of being able to buy alcohol in the grocery store).
The next day we went to La Musée des Beaux-Arts and saw an Eqyptian exhibit, some Picassos, and some interesting furniture from different art-historical periods (much more fun than it sounds). Then we had lunch at an all-day breakfast place and then we drove ALL the way home.
Note to Montrealers: Lines on roads are VERY necessary. Repaint the lines NOW.
Note à les Montréaleurs: Les lignes sur les rues sont TRES necessaire. Il faut peintre les lignes MAINTENANT.
Well this weekend, spontaneity was my middle name (usually it's something like procrastination, or Trekkie, or Meghan). So I packed a few things and hopped into Adam's Forester and made the 7ish-hour journey to the birthplace of Mordecai Richler, William Shatner, and Yours Truly.
We found a cheapish motel (the bathroom door would not shut but it didn't matter because the door was transparent anyway). Then we rode the Metro to nowhere in particular and ate dinner at a crowded Mexican restaurant. Then we went to the grocery store where I bought 2 BIG jars of pickled tongue (you can't get it in Burlington; Adam seems to think that's a good thing) and some alcoholic beverages (mostly because of the novelty of being able to buy alcohol in the grocery store).
The next day we went to La Musée des Beaux-Arts and saw an Eqyptian exhibit, some Picassos, and some interesting furniture from different art-historical periods (much more fun than it sounds). Then we had lunch at an all-day breakfast place and then we drove ALL the way home.
Note to Montrealers: Lines on roads are VERY necessary. Repaint the lines NOW.
Note à les Montréaleurs: Les lignes sur les rues sont TRES necessaire. Il faut peintre les lignes MAINTENANT.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Alien Moon Bikers
In my never-ending quest for ultimate nerdom, I have created this picture:
Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW
Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW Star Trek Klingon Ferengi BMW
Saturday, February 26, 2005
I'm not as hopeless as I thought
I've been reviewing my procrastination list and have discovered that I am the most productive girl ever!
Here are the things that are totally done. Totally:
Here are the things that are totally done. Totally:
- Write that article for my Mom's magasine about star-gazing in the city. I call it Bright Stars, Big City. Mom still has edits for me, but the important thing is that I wrote the thing.
- Look for a job. I got a job so I must have been doing this somewhat productivly. Of course, the search for the ultimate dream job is neverending. The Neverending StOreeeee...ba da ba ba da ba ba da baaaa...
Here are the things I actually worked on. (The thing I mean).
- Work on my novel, "Unintended." It's getting there. I read to my mutual admiration society yesterday (writer's group). They gave me a few edits that I might fix later.
Here is the stuff I still haven't bothered with:
- Finish my flash animation movie. I don't know if this is going anywhere. It might be one of those creative endeavors that I just scrap. (my 'puter is full of unfinished flash cartoons, half-written novels, and opening paragraphs for short stories that are never to be)
- Paint some paintings for my wedding centerpieces. I took the ones that suck (imo) off the wall. The ones that are left are okay, I guess. I think I can finish them by September.
- Wedding-related stuff. Like look up my relatives addresses. This still doesn't excite me.
So that's like 2.5 out of 6. Hang on a sec...start, programs, accessories, calculator... 41.67 % Okay so I'm not winning any productivity contests, but at least I did stuff. The most important thing is that my current Pinball* high score is 9,554,750. Beat that!
*3D Pinball for Windows - Space Cadet
Friday, February 25, 2005
I'm Employed!!!
I finally got ahold of the call centre and they hired me! I can now look forward to a glamorous job as call-centre girl (I believe that's my official title). Not the greatest pay in the history of time but I'm good at this kind of stuff so I'll soon be given a large raise and be promoted to head weasel. Also, my friend Becca who works there says the training is just like school. I love school!
Telephone Tag
Those of you who attempted to decipher my Pig Latin blog entry know that I've been waiting on a call from a call centre in St. Catharines. Hopefully, they will be the ones to cure my unemployment woes. Well those who know me know I'm a hermit. I don't leave the house. Heck, I rarely step away from my computer. Unfortunately, I'm still just a level-one hermit (I still have friends and do go out on occasion). Today I needed to be a level-six hermit (Someone who believes personal hygiene is an unnecessary luxury) because the moment I stepped into the shower the call centre called. Whether they called to say "Welcome aboard" or "Chuck you Farley" I cannot say, because when I called them back I got a machine. I left what I hoped was an intelligent, non-desperate message. When are they going to call back? When?
Gagh!
Gagh!
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Ofie pot
Isthay ostpay isyay ofyay ayay ensitivesay aturenay. Otay eepkay ethay informationyay ereinhay omfray otentialpay employersyay (andyay orfay unfay) Iyay amyay itingwray ityay inyay Igpay Atinlay.
Odaytay Iyay adhay anyay interviewyay atyay Itelsay. Isthay asway ymay econdsay interviewyay (irdthay ifyay ountcay ethay uberyay easyyay omputercay esttay). Itay onsistedcay ofyay ayay ourtay ofyay ethay aceplay erewhay Iyay aymay oryay aymay otnay ebay orkingway. Igbay oorflay. Anymay onesphay. Iay inkthay Iyay illway etgay ethay objay. I inkthay everyoneyay owhay asway erethay illway etgay ethay objay unlessyay eythay aidsay "Iyay enjoyyay urderingmay uppypay ogsday" uringday eirthay interviewyay. Eythay illway allcay emay inyay "ayay ouplecay aysday".
Inyay asecay Iyay on'tday etgay ethay objay atyay Itelsay, Iyay ouldcay orkway atyay Ogersray Ideovay. Eythay alledcay emay isthay afternoonyay andyay onephay interviewedyay emay. Iyay owedway emthay ithway ymay Ockbusterblay experienceyay andyay idday otnay entionmay ymay imminentyay employmentyay ithway Itelsay.
Erethay ightmay alsoyay ebay ayay ealray objay onyay ethay orizonhay. Apparentlyyay, ymay Om'smay eindfray atyay ethay Orontotay Artsyay Ouncilcay oughtthay ymay ésuméray asway "illiantbray". Osay Iyay ightmay etgay anyay interviewyay erethay inyay ethay earnay uturefay.
Atyay isthay ateray I'llyay avehay eethray obsjay ybay ethay endyay ofyay ethay onthmay. Erewhay ereway allyay esethay uysgay ixsay onthsmay agoyay?
___________________________________________________________
That's enough Pig Latin for one millenium. In other news, Office Depot, having no idea how to change the bulbs in its light-up sign, has changed its name to Ofie Pot. Has a nice ring to it doesn't it?
Odaytay Iyay adhay anyay interviewyay atyay Itelsay. Isthay asway ymay econdsay interviewyay (irdthay ifyay ountcay ethay uberyay easyyay omputercay esttay). Itay onsistedcay ofyay ayay ourtay ofyay ethay aceplay erewhay Iyay aymay oryay aymay otnay ebay orkingway. Igbay oorflay. Anymay onesphay. Iay inkthay Iyay illway etgay ethay objay. I inkthay everyoneyay owhay asway erethay illway etgay ethay objay unlessyay eythay aidsay "Iyay enjoyyay urderingmay uppypay ogsday" uringday eirthay interviewyay. Eythay illway allcay emay inyay "ayay ouplecay aysday".
Inyay asecay Iyay on'tday etgay ethay objay atyay Itelsay, Iyay ouldcay orkway atyay Ogersray Ideovay. Eythay alledcay emay isthay afternoonyay andyay onephay interviewedyay emay. Iyay owedway emthay ithway ymay Ockbusterblay experienceyay andyay idday otnay entionmay ymay imminentyay employmentyay ithway Itelsay.
Erethay ightmay alsoyay ebay ayay ealray objay onyay ethay orizonhay. Apparentlyyay, ymay Om'smay eindfray atyay ethay Orontotay Artsyay Ouncilcay oughtthay ymay ésuméray asway "illiantbray". Osay Iyay ightmay etgay anyay interviewyay erethay inyay ethay earnay uturefay.
Atyay isthay ateray I'llyay avehay eethray obsjay ybay ethay endyay ofyay ethay onthmay. Erewhay ereway allyay esethay uysgay ixsay onthsmay agoyay?
___________________________________________________________
That's enough Pig Latin for one millenium. In other news, Office Depot, having no idea how to change the bulbs in its light-up sign, has changed its name to Ofie Pot. Has a nice ring to it doesn't it?
Monday, February 21, 2005
The Power of Positive Thinking
I have an interview today so I had this dream.
I woke up at 9:15 am, which is way later than I had set my alarm since I had planned to go to Becca's house for breakfast before my interview. I couldn't find the addresses I'd printed out for my previous employers. Oh well, thought I. I opted to skip Becca's and just go to the interview. I ended up chatting with my brother about movies. Apparently there's a Richard Scarry feature coming out (in my dream at least). Anyway the next time I looked at my watch it was 11:15. This is a problem since my interview is for 10:30. My mom asked me what time is it as I ran out the door. I replied "I'm late." Mom said "You should've gotten up earlier." I said "My alarm didn't ring." I booted it to St. Cath and somehow got there two minutes later. The interview lady (a prematurely grey woman with a pony tail) appeared to be out of interview mode and was helping Becca do something on the computer. I introduced myself and sat down. She asked me why I wasn't there at 10:30. I don't remember what I said but I know it ended with "it won't happen again." Becca shook her head and said "This isn't going well." The lady looked at me with disgust and told me to take my sweater off. I did and there was another sweater underneath. Lady rolled her eyes and said something along the lines of "don't you know how to present yourself better?" She asked me to take my shoulder strap off (my purse was around my shoulder). I did, and my other sweater. I think my hair was all staticky too, and the lady was still disgusted by my appearance. Even though she'd already decided not to hire me she gave me a tour. In my dream, the place was so not a call centre. There were big rolls of fabric around. I tried to tell the woman off, saying she judged me before I had a chance to prove myself, that I was a good worker, and blah blah blah, but my words came out quietly and mousey. We got to this place where people were glueing snippets of magazines together to create new fashion statements. The lady asked me about my sense of style. I said mine was unique. I joined in in creating a cut and paste scen with some other girl. I rummaged through the bin and found an African American plastercine Superman and stuck it to the top of the picture. I then proceded to make a navy blue boat. I painted van gogh stars on it. Everyone seemed impressed by my antics except interview lady. Some other woman came by. She was a friend of my mom's and asked my how I was doing. I said that I was in the middle of an interview and the interviewer had already decided not to hire me. She shrugged "That's too bad" and left. Needless to say I didn't get the job. I went home and my parents could tell I didn't get the job because I was teary eyed.
When I woke up and realised that it was all a dream I was delighted to be given another chance. I'm going to get another few minutes of sleep now (it is WAY too early). Wake me up before 8 am.
I woke up at 9:15 am, which is way later than I had set my alarm since I had planned to go to Becca's house for breakfast before my interview. I couldn't find the addresses I'd printed out for my previous employers. Oh well, thought I. I opted to skip Becca's and just go to the interview. I ended up chatting with my brother about movies. Apparently there's a Richard Scarry feature coming out (in my dream at least). Anyway the next time I looked at my watch it was 11:15. This is a problem since my interview is for 10:30. My mom asked me what time is it as I ran out the door. I replied "I'm late." Mom said "You should've gotten up earlier." I said "My alarm didn't ring." I booted it to St. Cath and somehow got there two minutes later. The interview lady (a prematurely grey woman with a pony tail) appeared to be out of interview mode and was helping Becca do something on the computer. I introduced myself and sat down. She asked me why I wasn't there at 10:30. I don't remember what I said but I know it ended with "it won't happen again." Becca shook her head and said "This isn't going well." The lady looked at me with disgust and told me to take my sweater off. I did and there was another sweater underneath. Lady rolled her eyes and said something along the lines of "don't you know how to present yourself better?" She asked me to take my shoulder strap off (my purse was around my shoulder). I did, and my other sweater. I think my hair was all staticky too, and the lady was still disgusted by my appearance. Even though she'd already decided not to hire me she gave me a tour. In my dream, the place was so not a call centre. There were big rolls of fabric around. I tried to tell the woman off, saying she judged me before I had a chance to prove myself, that I was a good worker, and blah blah blah, but my words came out quietly and mousey. We got to this place where people were glueing snippets of magazines together to create new fashion statements. The lady asked me about my sense of style. I said mine was unique. I joined in in creating a cut and paste scen with some other girl. I rummaged through the bin and found an African American plastercine Superman and stuck it to the top of the picture. I then proceded to make a navy blue boat. I painted van gogh stars on it. Everyone seemed impressed by my antics except interview lady. Some other woman came by. She was a friend of my mom's and asked my how I was doing. I said that I was in the middle of an interview and the interviewer had already decided not to hire me. She shrugged "That's too bad" and left. Needless to say I didn't get the job. I went home and my parents could tell I didn't get the job because I was teary eyed.
When I woke up and realised that it was all a dream I was delighted to be given another chance. I'm going to get another few minutes of sleep now (it is WAY too early). Wake me up before 8 am.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
V-day the morning after
Valentine's Day is an excuse for romance and romance is good. But while some of us have significant others (like my sexy fiancé Adam), the rest are moping on the couch, eating Turtles, and watching Degrassi. These are the folks who go around saying "Valentine's Day was invented by greeting card companies", which, by the way, just makes me want to go to Hallmark and cheer. It isn't true though, I looked it up.
BORING HISTORY STUFF
Around the 4thish century, they had this custom where they'd put all the girls names in one hat and the boys name in another, then draw names to decide who has to date for the year. Then these church guys (who kept getting ugly stupid girls) said "um...let's celebrate something else" and the people were like "Like what? Prudish church guys?" and the church guys were like "How 'bout St. Valentine's Day?"
Then the church guys told the story of St. Valentine, which goes like this: Back in the day, the emperor figured out that married men make sucky soldiers (they care more about their wives and kids than they do about blowing themselves up. Priorities!). So he made marriage illegal. Valentine was like "chuck that" and he married people in secret. (He also did annoying things like try to convert people to Christianity). Anyway he went to jail, where he allegedly cured the guard's daughter of blindness (I say allegedly because I'm pretty sure the church guys made that part up). So that's how he got to be St. Valentine instead of Mr. Valentine, or Father Valentine, or whatever his name was before. Before he died, he wrote blind girl a letter and signed it "From Your Valentine" (because that was his name).
Well even if Hallmark didn't invent V-day, they are sure the ones who kept it alive. Do I care? No. Coke invented Santa.
Anyway here's what I did:
Adam came over after work and gave me a rose and a card (which he made). I gave him a giant card (which I made) and a flash movie about when we first met (which I made too. Hallmark, eat your heart out).
Then we went to Red Lobster. They don't take reservations (Donkeys) so we had to go there super early (@4). We both had lobster. Mine came with crab legs and shrimp and Adam's came with lobster pasta and tiny lobster tails. Lobster is expensive, but there's nothing quite like ripping the exoskeleton off a giant bug while it stares blankly at you (plus it's delicious).
After dinner, we went to Adam's house and "hung out". Then we watched the new episode of Degrassi: the Next Generation (but we weren't moping, because we had each other). As you may or may not know, the last three episodes have guest-starred Kevin Smith (aka Silent Bob) who is a big fan of Canadian melodrama. Then we watched two re-runs of CSI (how romantic) then Adam drove me home.
Next year, in addition to the date stuff, I think I'll get one of those boxes of Valentines (you know, that you used to give out in elementary school) and I'll give them out to all the people I see every day (the mail carrier, whoever). That will be nice.
BORING HISTORY STUFF
Around the 4thish century, they had this custom where they'd put all the girls names in one hat and the boys name in another, then draw names to decide who has to date for the year. Then these church guys (who kept getting ugly stupid girls) said "um...let's celebrate something else" and the people were like "Like what? Prudish church guys?" and the church guys were like "How 'bout St. Valentine's Day?"
Then the church guys told the story of St. Valentine, which goes like this: Back in the day, the emperor figured out that married men make sucky soldiers (they care more about their wives and kids than they do about blowing themselves up. Priorities!). So he made marriage illegal. Valentine was like "chuck that" and he married people in secret. (He also did annoying things like try to convert people to Christianity). Anyway he went to jail, where he allegedly cured the guard's daughter of blindness (I say allegedly because I'm pretty sure the church guys made that part up). So that's how he got to be St. Valentine instead of Mr. Valentine, or Father Valentine, or whatever his name was before. Before he died, he wrote blind girl a letter and signed it "From Your Valentine" (because that was his name).
Well even if Hallmark didn't invent V-day, they are sure the ones who kept it alive. Do I care? No. Coke invented Santa.
Anyway here's what I did:
Adam came over after work and gave me a rose and a card (which he made). I gave him a giant card (which I made) and a flash movie about when we first met (which I made too. Hallmark, eat your heart out).
Then we went to Red Lobster. They don't take reservations (Donkeys) so we had to go there super early (@4). We both had lobster. Mine came with crab legs and shrimp and Adam's came with lobster pasta and tiny lobster tails. Lobster is expensive, but there's nothing quite like ripping the exoskeleton off a giant bug while it stares blankly at you (plus it's delicious).
After dinner, we went to Adam's house and "hung out". Then we watched the new episode of Degrassi: the Next Generation (but we weren't moping, because we had each other). As you may or may not know, the last three episodes have guest-starred Kevin Smith (aka Silent Bob) who is a big fan of Canadian melodrama. Then we watched two re-runs of CSI (how romantic) then Adam drove me home.
Next year, in addition to the date stuff, I think I'll get one of those boxes of Valentines (you know, that you used to give out in elementary school) and I'll give them out to all the people I see every day (the mail carrier, whoever). That will be nice.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Procrastination list
Since I am still unemployed I am able to spend more time on my creative endeavors. Or, more accurately, I am able to spend more time procrastinating and making excuses why I am not working on anything, creative or otherwise. So, as part of my procrastination regime, I have decided to make a list of all the the things I want to eventually get around to doing.
THE LIST (in no particular order)
THE LIST (in no particular order)
- Work on my novel. "Unintended" (working title) a science fiction based on the fairy tale Snow White, in which most of the major characters are clones.
- Finish my flash animation movie. (no title yet) Made to look like a circa 1920s-30s Sci Fi, all the sounds are taken from recordings of my nephew playing with my microphone.
- Write that article for my Mom's magasine about star-gazing in the city. This has to be done by March.
- Look for a job. I actually do this more than any other productive thing, probably because it's the most necessary. If anyone has a job for me, I can quit this ego-bruising thankless excercise and go on to something more condusive to the super happy philosophy. Anyone?
- Paint some paintings for my wedding centerpieces. I need at least ten or twelve more. My progress was halted about a month ago by the sudden feeling that all the ones I'd already done suck so bad they will make my inlaws hate me.
- Wedding-related stuff. Like look up my relatives addresses. This is something that's supposed to excite me?
So that's it, I guess. Feel free to harrass me into doing one or all of these things. Or just hire me so that I don't have all this procrastination time. 894 people have viewed this blog already. Odds are one of you has hiring power, right?
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Air Canada Idol
Moooooo!
My mom found this ad in the paper looking for flight attendants. All I had to do was go to the Holiday Inn in TO sometime between 10am and 4pm with my résumé. Easy, peasy, Japanesey.
My parents drove me in because they wanted to look at the smart car. When they dropped me off I went into the hotel and a security guard directed me to a line-up of a thousand and three people. There couldn't have been more people if they were additioning for American Idol.
I got to the end of the line at 1 o'clock. Immediately, a security guard gave us all applications to fill out. A few minutes later another security guard (or maybe the same one) hollered at us that we'd have a four hour wait. Good thing I brought my trusty dusty science fiction Margaret Attwood with me (Peg should only write SF, IMO, but that really has nothing to do with anything). So I stood, in my uncomfortable interview shoes, reading Oryx and Crake, and moving forward at regular intervals to avoid being trampled by the cows behind me. The next time I looked at my watch it was 3:10.
I got to the front of the line. The cows kept pushing me forward.
"Wait until I call you forward," said Mr. Security. "If you move forward out of turn, you go to the back of the line!"
"Mooo?" said the cows.
It was difficult to hold my ground, but I managed not to get thrown to the back of the line.
Next we got to sit in chairs. Yippee! And a perky flight attendant talked to us about how to fill out the application. At least I think that's what she was talking about. I sat close to the back (not my choice) and could barely hear her. Good thing I had already filled out my application on my knee while waiting in line.
4 pm
Next we got into another standing line-up. What fun! We lined up two-by-two like we were waiting to board the arc.
4:45
Six people budded in front of me. Two women looked like they were going to have a fist fight about who was first in line. I was almost trampled again. They seemed to be under the impression that Air Canada was giving out jobs on a first-come first-serve basis. The hirers can see you, people! Who wants to hire an ill-tempered cow?
6:00
I got to the front of the line and this woman with short hair and glasses (who I guess was from the glory days of when you had to be tall and pretty in order to be a flight attendant) sat me down in a chair. She told us we weren't allowed to use our cellphones, then every time someone looked at their cellphone or looked like they were reaching in their purse, she would pounce on them "I'm sorry, but if you need to make a call you'll have to step outside."
I chatted with the girl next to me, who had come all the way from New Brunswick to do this fool thing. She agreed that the people were cows. "You're going for a job, not trying to get the last sweater that's left in size medium," said she. The friendly maritimer also scored more applications for us to fill out (because using your knee as a table is not the recipe for neat printing).
6:45
I went outside to call my parents because knowing my mother, she was already checking Toronto morgues. I made my Dad promise to buy me dinner because, having not eaten since one small bran muffin that morning, I was super duper starving by this point.
7:00
I finally got called to a table where the real interview was taking place. I was interviewed by a Flight Attendant named Heather Graham (no kidding). She asked me about my customer service experience and why I wanted to be a flight attendant. She asked that last question in french to make sure I wasn't lying about the whole billingual thing. She said they'd call me in three weeks.
7:02
I found my parents in the lobby of the hotel and we went out to dinner at a Scottish pub. I had the crunchy haddock, yummy stuff (but it didn't have to be, I would've eaten anything).
My mom found this ad in the paper looking for flight attendants. All I had to do was go to the Holiday Inn in TO sometime between 10am and 4pm with my résumé. Easy, peasy, Japanesey.
My parents drove me in because they wanted to look at the smart car. When they dropped me off I went into the hotel and a security guard directed me to a line-up of a thousand and three people. There couldn't have been more people if they were additioning for American Idol.
I got to the end of the line at 1 o'clock. Immediately, a security guard gave us all applications to fill out. A few minutes later another security guard (or maybe the same one) hollered at us that we'd have a four hour wait. Good thing I brought my trusty dusty science fiction Margaret Attwood with me (Peg should only write SF, IMO, but that really has nothing to do with anything). So I stood, in my uncomfortable interview shoes, reading Oryx and Crake, and moving forward at regular intervals to avoid being trampled by the cows behind me. The next time I looked at my watch it was 3:10.
I got to the front of the line. The cows kept pushing me forward.
"Wait until I call you forward," said Mr. Security. "If you move forward out of turn, you go to the back of the line!"
"Mooo?" said the cows.
It was difficult to hold my ground, but I managed not to get thrown to the back of the line.
Next we got to sit in chairs. Yippee! And a perky flight attendant talked to us about how to fill out the application. At least I think that's what she was talking about. I sat close to the back (not my choice) and could barely hear her. Good thing I had already filled out my application on my knee while waiting in line.
4 pm
Next we got into another standing line-up. What fun! We lined up two-by-two like we were waiting to board the arc.
4:45
Six people budded in front of me. Two women looked like they were going to have a fist fight about who was first in line. I was almost trampled again. They seemed to be under the impression that Air Canada was giving out jobs on a first-come first-serve basis. The hirers can see you, people! Who wants to hire an ill-tempered cow?
6:00
I got to the front of the line and this woman with short hair and glasses (who I guess was from the glory days of when you had to be tall and pretty in order to be a flight attendant) sat me down in a chair. She told us we weren't allowed to use our cellphones, then every time someone looked at their cellphone or looked like they were reaching in their purse, she would pounce on them "I'm sorry, but if you need to make a call you'll have to step outside."
I chatted with the girl next to me, who had come all the way from New Brunswick to do this fool thing. She agreed that the people were cows. "You're going for a job, not trying to get the last sweater that's left in size medium," said she. The friendly maritimer also scored more applications for us to fill out (because using your knee as a table is not the recipe for neat printing).
6:45
I went outside to call my parents because knowing my mother, she was already checking Toronto morgues. I made my Dad promise to buy me dinner because, having not eaten since one small bran muffin that morning, I was super duper starving by this point.
7:00
I finally got called to a table where the real interview was taking place. I was interviewed by a Flight Attendant named Heather Graham (no kidding). She asked me about my customer service experience and why I wanted to be a flight attendant. She asked that last question in french to make sure I wasn't lying about the whole billingual thing. She said they'd call me in three weeks.
7:02
I found my parents in the lobby of the hotel and we went out to dinner at a Scottish pub. I had the crunchy haddock, yummy stuff (but it didn't have to be, I would've eaten anything).
Friday, February 04, 2005
Star Trek is ending.
I'm bummed.
This has been coming for a while. Now it's official.
The Paramount Gods have decreed that there shall be no new episodes of Enterprise after this season ends in May. This means that next year will be the first year without new Star Trek episodes since The Next Generation premiered in September 1987, a month and a half before my eighth birthday.
I remember watching the show with my brother when we were kids. If one of us missed an episode, the other would make up a puppet show telling the other what happened. I remember my sister and I having fights over whether we would watch Star Trek: The Next Generation or Full House. (She recalls kicking me in the face over it). I now watch the new episodes of Enterprise with my 3-year-old-nephew.
I had hoped he would grow up with Star Trek the way I did. More importantly, I'd hoped I would one day be able to watch new Star Trek episodes with my children.
Star Trek has been a part of my life for over eighteen years. I am the token Star Trek fan in my circle of friends. They know it means more to me than just a show.
Perhaps Paramount will make more Trek movies now (though rumour has it Nemesis didn't do that well). Better yet, maybe they'll come up with a new Trek series by the time my nephew turns eight. Paramount: you have until 2010.
Otherwise Star Trek will live on in:
Re-runs
DVDs
Paperbacks
Comic books
Fan Fiction
Message Boards
Our hearts
This has been coming for a while. Now it's official.
The Paramount Gods have decreed that there shall be no new episodes of Enterprise after this season ends in May. This means that next year will be the first year without new Star Trek episodes since The Next Generation premiered in September 1987, a month and a half before my eighth birthday.
I remember watching the show with my brother when we were kids. If one of us missed an episode, the other would make up a puppet show telling the other what happened. I remember my sister and I having fights over whether we would watch Star Trek: The Next Generation or Full House. (She recalls kicking me in the face over it). I now watch the new episodes of Enterprise with my 3-year-old-nephew.
I had hoped he would grow up with Star Trek the way I did. More importantly, I'd hoped I would one day be able to watch new Star Trek episodes with my children.
Star Trek has been a part of my life for over eighteen years. I am the token Star Trek fan in my circle of friends. They know it means more to me than just a show.
Perhaps Paramount will make more Trek movies now (though rumour has it Nemesis didn't do that well). Better yet, maybe they'll come up with a new Trek series by the time my nephew turns eight. Paramount: you have until 2010.
Otherwise Star Trek will live on in:
Re-runs
DVDs
Paperbacks
Comic books
Fan Fiction
Message Boards
Our hearts
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Dream Job: Keep Dreaming
So I got the "chuck you Farlie" e-mail from the Ontario Arts Council. Apparently it was just so gosh darn tough to choose between all the highly qualified applicants. I wish that companies would only say that when it actually is tough instead of saying it everytime. They should say:
Dear applicant,
You have been tested, you have been judged, and you have been found wanting. Have you tried Burger King?
Sincerely,
I. Havajobandudont
Anyway. I'm still looking. This week I technically have a job. I'm helping Amy (best friend) take care of Stephanie (best friend's sister). Getting paid and everything. Most of the time we just sit around and watch movies. It's a great job. I'm looking for a more permanant position though (ie: longer than one week).
Tonight: pj party with junk-food-athon!
Dear applicant,
You have been tested, you have been judged, and you have been found wanting. Have you tried Burger King?
Sincerely,
I. Havajobandudont
Anyway. I'm still looking. This week I technically have a job. I'm helping Amy (best friend) take care of Stephanie (best friend's sister). Getting paid and everything. Most of the time we just sit around and watch movies. It's a great job. I'm looking for a more permanant position though (ie: longer than one week).
Tonight: pj party with junk-food-athon!
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Cold brings us together
Normally, the citizens of and commuters to down town Toronto do their best to avoid each others eyes when they ride the subway and walk the streets. But on Friday when I went to Toronto, several Torontonians broke the big city practice of anonymity in order to participate in a far more sacred Canadian tradition:
"It's cold out there, eh?"
"You can say that again."
"It's supposed to get down to minus 24 today."
"Is that all? It feels colder."
"The wind chill brings it down another 10 degrees."
blah, blah, blah
I had this conversation waiting in line to get subway tokens, on the subway, in an elevator, during a job interview, in three different stores, and again on the subway on the way back. Not one time did alarm bells go off in my head: AwooGA CRAZY PERSON AwooGA, which normally happens if someone talks to me on the subway. Also, the few times I initiated the ritual, the other person gave no sign that he thought I was a weirdo. Cold weather is something we can all talk about. It's what makes us all Canadian.
On the subject of cold bringing people together. Today, after dinner and after a snow storm, my brother, my fiancé, my nephew and I went out to the super market to buy some ice cream. Even putting aside the oddity of craving ice cream in minus 30 weather, a simple errand turns into quite an undertaking when it involves dressing a 3-year-old in a snowsuit, installing a carseat wearing mittens (or worse, not wearing mittens), and navigating unplowed parking lots. We arrived home safely with a carton of strawberry ice cream, and one of heavenly hash. "The best part about this ice cream," said my brother, "is that we earned it." (although it turned out my nephew wanted jello instead).
I began composing this late-night blog entry just after my fiancé left for the night. A minute into it and I get a phone call. Who could be calling at this unholy hour? I say to myself (because I always talk like a pompous Victorian when noone's around). I answer the phone and it's Adam (the aforementioned fiancé). He's calling from his cell phone because his car won't start and he has to stay over night. How's that for bringing people together?
"It's cold out there, eh?"
"You can say that again."
"It's supposed to get down to minus 24 today."
"Is that all? It feels colder."
"The wind chill brings it down another 10 degrees."
blah, blah, blah
I had this conversation waiting in line to get subway tokens, on the subway, in an elevator, during a job interview, in three different stores, and again on the subway on the way back. Not one time did alarm bells go off in my head: AwooGA CRAZY PERSON AwooGA, which normally happens if someone talks to me on the subway. Also, the few times I initiated the ritual, the other person gave no sign that he thought I was a weirdo. Cold weather is something we can all talk about. It's what makes us all Canadian.
On the subject of cold bringing people together. Today, after dinner and after a snow storm, my brother, my fiancé, my nephew and I went out to the super market to buy some ice cream. Even putting aside the oddity of craving ice cream in minus 30 weather, a simple errand turns into quite an undertaking when it involves dressing a 3-year-old in a snowsuit, installing a carseat wearing mittens (or worse, not wearing mittens), and navigating unplowed parking lots. We arrived home safely with a carton of strawberry ice cream, and one of heavenly hash. "The best part about this ice cream," said my brother, "is that we earned it." (although it turned out my nephew wanted jello instead).
I began composing this late-night blog entry just after my fiancé left for the night. A minute into it and I get a phone call. Who could be calling at this unholy hour? I say to myself (because I always talk like a pompous Victorian when noone's around). I answer the phone and it's Adam (the aforementioned fiancé). He's calling from his cell phone because his car won't start and he has to stay over night. How's that for bringing people together?
Monday, January 17, 2005
Houses and Henry
Today my good friend (also my fiancé) Adam and I went looking at houses in Hamilton* together. We're not ready to bye yet but it's nice to get an idea. Plus it's fun. We went to 3 houses.
The first was was all redone nice but it had a weird layout and was quite small (even for a small house) and was made even smaller by the fact that it was super crowded from people who, like us, saw the big ad it had in the Spec**.
The next one was much roomier, but was cold from being heated only by radiators and had some weirdness. The weirdness? There was a toilet in the basement laundry room. No, not a washroom. A toilet, just sitting there by the washer and dryer so you could do your business while the laundry maid*** looked on. Also Adam and I couldn't figure out how the owners got a 4-foot wide washer and a 4-foot wide dryer down a 1-foot wide staircase. Baffling.
The last house we looked at was in a grungy neighbourhood where every other yard had a plastic Virgin Mary. The house itself was like the others except whoever lived there was a freaky religious knicknack collector. Every room had at least a thousand Madonna statues, crosses, and pictures of the Pope****. One room had a photo of the Backstreet Boys*****. (???!) And there was a poster of women in Budweiser bathing suits in the upstairs hall.
*A city known for steel, polution, McMaster University, and generally cheap housing.
**The Hamilton Spectator, a newspaper.
*** Though I'd imagine someone who could afford a maid just for laundry could also afford to install a furnace.
****I'm not even kidding.
***** A boy band once popular with preteen girls and apparently also enjoyed by freaky religious knicknack collectors.
Later, Adam and I wrote the following, non-househunting-related, revolving story:
Henry
Once upon a time there was a pebble named Henry. Henry was in a tough situation as he was stuck in some guy's shoe. Every week he ended up somewhere else; this week it was Mississippi. Some pizza guy's shoe. It didn't smell but it wasn't very roomy being that there was a foot inside it. You see Henry was a Quantum Leap fan and built a leaping machine but instead of leaping from human body to human body he leapt from shoe to shoe and couldn't figure how to change it.
It seemed as if he would always be stuck in shoes. You would think that people would feel the pebble and throw Henry out but surprisingly not. Henry wanted a change and began working on his greatest invention ever the super flux capasitant, which as everyone knows is a super tasty kind of cheese that if Henry sold it would make him the richest pebble ever and he could buy all the shoes and never have to share with a foot ever again. But Henry knew this was a ridiculous idea as pebbles don't need money and even if they had it, couldn't spend it anywhere since he couldn't get out of the shoe. Besides, who would sell a pebble shoes? How would he carry his money? It would be bigger then he is.
Then he got an idea. He would communicate telepathically with the pizza guy and get him to buy things online for him. This is the way he would start his large shoe collection and buy all the shoes in the room.
I know what you're thinking: a fabulous notion. I mean a pebble with a shoe collection. Crazy yes. Impossible...well yes I mean...no.
So he began taking classes in telepathy but since he was a pebble it didn't work. Since he could not talk he could not tell the teacher he wanted to sign up and he instead had to sit in the back and pretend to be a pebble on the floor. Which he was so he wasn't really pretending.
But anyway without warning he started convulsing like a crazy pebbly monster who likes snickers bars and floor lint. This would not stop him from his ultimate goal of cross-dressing dogs in gay clubs with other snickers bars. "Man", he said, I have to lay off the drugs. It started with just one puff and now I'm an addict! So he went to Druggie Pebbles Anonymous and signed up. This time he could talk because he was talking to his reflection in the other side of the shoe. Remember, of course, he can't leave the blasted shoe. His hallucinations were going overboard. He's a pebble. Geeze. He can't do squat. Man, he thought to himself, what can I do? Maybe suicide. But no since how could he commit suicide when there was lint in the shoe watching his every move and forming a support group for suicidal pebbles? No, he would escape the shoe instead to find a chango machine. Chango, the famous suishi vending maching company.
Their machines were very popular. Even so much so that this very shoe had one. Henry jumped up and tapped one of the buttons and out came a meal of sushi. Since he could eat it he just sat there and ate it. Then he ordered 50 more sushi meals and stacked them on top of each other to make a ladder and escape the shoe. Then he went out into the world to find a witch who could change him into a human with her magic. He asked the witch, without speaking or moving, to change him over.
She instead accidentally turned him into a small pebble that was stuck in a shoe. What luck. Oh the humanity!! I mean pebbleanity!! It was terrible to think his measly existence was even measlier than before. But wait a minute! This was a sandal! He fell out and went to find a more reliable witch who could speak pebble and would change him into the sexiest man and he knew with a pebble in his shoe.
He would be the pebble of course. Wait, maybe a gall stone. Or a ball bearing in some fancy machine. That would be great. He couldn't find a witch. They all died in the great quake of 1980. It was a shame. There were no more weirdo pebble speakers. He became depressed and stopped breathing.
He started molding over like cheese and then someone came by and said, "Wow this is the tastiest cheese ever!" and they paid him a million dollars. No actually a billion trillion guzillion dollars plus all the shoes in the world. And he was happy forever and ever.
The End.
The first was was all redone nice but it had a weird layout and was quite small (even for a small house) and was made even smaller by the fact that it was super crowded from people who, like us, saw the big ad it had in the Spec**.
The next one was much roomier, but was cold from being heated only by radiators and had some weirdness. The weirdness? There was a toilet in the basement laundry room. No, not a washroom. A toilet, just sitting there by the washer and dryer so you could do your business while the laundry maid*** looked on. Also Adam and I couldn't figure out how the owners got a 4-foot wide washer and a 4-foot wide dryer down a 1-foot wide staircase. Baffling.
The last house we looked at was in a grungy neighbourhood where every other yard had a plastic Virgin Mary. The house itself was like the others except whoever lived there was a freaky religious knicknack collector. Every room had at least a thousand Madonna statues, crosses, and pictures of the Pope****. One room had a photo of the Backstreet Boys*****. (???!) And there was a poster of women in Budweiser bathing suits in the upstairs hall.
*A city known for steel, polution, McMaster University, and generally cheap housing.
**The Hamilton Spectator, a newspaper.
*** Though I'd imagine someone who could afford a maid just for laundry could also afford to install a furnace.
****I'm not even kidding.
***** A boy band once popular with preteen girls and apparently also enjoyed by freaky religious knicknack collectors.
Later, Adam and I wrote the following, non-househunting-related, revolving story:
Henry
Once upon a time there was a pebble named Henry. Henry was in a tough situation as he was stuck in some guy's shoe. Every week he ended up somewhere else; this week it was Mississippi. Some pizza guy's shoe. It didn't smell but it wasn't very roomy being that there was a foot inside it. You see Henry was a Quantum Leap fan and built a leaping machine but instead of leaping from human body to human body he leapt from shoe to shoe and couldn't figure how to change it.
It seemed as if he would always be stuck in shoes. You would think that people would feel the pebble and throw Henry out but surprisingly not. Henry wanted a change and began working on his greatest invention ever the super flux capasitant, which as everyone knows is a super tasty kind of cheese that if Henry sold it would make him the richest pebble ever and he could buy all the shoes and never have to share with a foot ever again. But Henry knew this was a ridiculous idea as pebbles don't need money and even if they had it, couldn't spend it anywhere since he couldn't get out of the shoe. Besides, who would sell a pebble shoes? How would he carry his money? It would be bigger then he is.
Then he got an idea. He would communicate telepathically with the pizza guy and get him to buy things online for him. This is the way he would start his large shoe collection and buy all the shoes in the room.
I know what you're thinking: a fabulous notion. I mean a pebble with a shoe collection. Crazy yes. Impossible...well yes I mean...no.
So he began taking classes in telepathy but since he was a pebble it didn't work. Since he could not talk he could not tell the teacher he wanted to sign up and he instead had to sit in the back and pretend to be a pebble on the floor. Which he was so he wasn't really pretending.
But anyway without warning he started convulsing like a crazy pebbly monster who likes snickers bars and floor lint. This would not stop him from his ultimate goal of cross-dressing dogs in gay clubs with other snickers bars. "Man", he said, I have to lay off the drugs. It started with just one puff and now I'm an addict! So he went to Druggie Pebbles Anonymous and signed up. This time he could talk because he was talking to his reflection in the other side of the shoe. Remember, of course, he can't leave the blasted shoe. His hallucinations were going overboard. He's a pebble. Geeze. He can't do squat. Man, he thought to himself, what can I do? Maybe suicide. But no since how could he commit suicide when there was lint in the shoe watching his every move and forming a support group for suicidal pebbles? No, he would escape the shoe instead to find a chango machine. Chango, the famous suishi vending maching company.
Their machines were very popular. Even so much so that this very shoe had one. Henry jumped up and tapped one of the buttons and out came a meal of sushi. Since he could eat it he just sat there and ate it. Then he ordered 50 more sushi meals and stacked them on top of each other to make a ladder and escape the shoe. Then he went out into the world to find a witch who could change him into a human with her magic. He asked the witch, without speaking or moving, to change him over.
She instead accidentally turned him into a small pebble that was stuck in a shoe. What luck. Oh the humanity!! I mean pebbleanity!! It was terrible to think his measly existence was even measlier than before. But wait a minute! This was a sandal! He fell out and went to find a more reliable witch who could speak pebble and would change him into the sexiest man and he knew with a pebble in his shoe.
He would be the pebble of course. Wait, maybe a gall stone. Or a ball bearing in some fancy machine. That would be great. He couldn't find a witch. They all died in the great quake of 1980. It was a shame. There were no more weirdo pebble speakers. He became depressed and stopped breathing.
He started molding over like cheese and then someone came by and said, "Wow this is the tastiest cheese ever!" and they paid him a million dollars. No actually a billion trillion guzillion dollars plus all the shoes in the world. And he was happy forever and ever.
The End.
Friday, January 14, 2005
I can go back to listening to English radio
I just had my french telephone interview for the Ontario Arts Council position. Non-billingual blog readers will be relieved to hear that I will be switching back to english now. Probably Forever.
The interview went okay. I concentrated more on how to say stuff in french than what I was actually going to say. This may have made me sound like a dork (who happens to speak pretty good french) but it kind of made me less nervous. After the phone call I felt soooooooooooo relieved. Whether I get the job or not I feel like I've accomplished something. I really am billingual now. In fact, I find myself thinking in french. If I sound a little bizarre it's because I'm translating my thoughts from french to english. The brain is a funny organ.
Update: I just got a call from the Arts Council. Apparently I'm french enough because I have an interview scheduled for next friday! Go me!
The interview went okay. I concentrated more on how to say stuff in french than what I was actually going to say. This may have made me sound like a dork (who happens to speak pretty good french) but it kind of made me less nervous. After the phone call I felt soooooooooooo relieved. Whether I get the job or not I feel like I've accomplished something. I really am billingual now. In fact, I find myself thinking in french. If I sound a little bizarre it's because I'm translating my thoughts from french to english. The brain is a funny organ.
Update: I just got a call from the Arts Council. Apparently I'm french enough because I have an interview scheduled for next friday! Go me!
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