This Valentines' Day
I got a sweet love letter
From my dear husband.
It made me laugh, and
I remembered happy times
Like last night's dinner.
"What is a birthright?
Why did Esau give his up
for a chicken dish?
"Jacob must have been
one hell of a cook; did he
make teriyaki?"
Many giggles, snorts,
hushed up by my napkin, as
Andrew sat, musing.
"Was teriyaki
worth giving up his birthright?
Jacob was a fink."
"Maybe they'd now be
'Esavites', not 'Jacobites',"
I said, chuckling.
"But a whole birthright!"
My husband was indignant.
"For teriyaki!"
"It's not even that
delicious," said I, giggling.
"I don't care for it."
Later he bought me
red roses, because there were
no more peach-hued ones.
He says that roses
stay the same price all the time.
Despite what they say.
"Roses in August
cost the same as those in March.
Well, the ones you like."
It doesn't matter.
They still smell as sweet, don't they?
Shakespeare did say so.
I love my husband.
I love to write haiku, for
him and for me too.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Decor "whoa"s
My husband has informed me that a store in our local mall is closing. While this, in itself, is not really news - many of the stores are closing; the place looks like a ghost town during weekdays - it happens to be one of the stores I like the most.
Bouclair is a store which, up until recently, sold lots of fabric - I mean hundreds of different ones - along with sewing notions, pre-fab curtains, and various decor items: pillows, throws, mirrors, etc. I was looking on their website and smack on the homepage this week was the following ad:
Branches Starting at 6.99
Now, I don't know about you, my humble readers, but having a bunch of dead, or worse, plastic, branches artfully arranged in a vase just doesn't do it for me. Nor for the cat, who would no doubt knock it over in that "everything has to be on the ground" way that cats have. Nor really for anyone who doesn't live in a pristine, Zen-like atmosphere or has a maid.
I remember vividly, while watching Juno recently, just a few seconds of a manicured feminine hand rearranging things : aligning picture frames so they were slanted just so, polishing an upstairs banister, and adjusting what I assume were scent sticks so they fell in a perfectly equal spray.
Who has time for this for everyday??? I mean, maybe it's easy when you both work away from home and have no pets or children. Shoot, even then my house was a sty. But maybe that's just me.
I mean, to me, decor is wall hangings, paint colors, and the color/material/texture of furniture and accessories like pillows and throws. Not big vases filled with sticks or, heaven help me, giant bowls filled with plastic balls. Useless tchochkes are a huge pet peeve with me. Yes, you can have mementoes of people and places. But jeebus, keep it simple and uncluttered. Keep it contained. Have a cabinet specifically for those things if you must. But don't have things scattered all over hell's creation until you're knee-deep in crap and can't reach what you need.
Arg. I can't wait until I start my new job. Much clutter to clear. Much spring cleaning to do. Even though it's not spring yet. No like time like the present, aye?
Bouclair is a store which, up until recently, sold lots of fabric - I mean hundreds of different ones - along with sewing notions, pre-fab curtains, and various decor items: pillows, throws, mirrors, etc. I was looking on their website and smack on the homepage this week was the following ad:
Branches Starting at 6.99
Now, I don't know about you, my humble readers, but having a bunch of dead, or worse, plastic, branches artfully arranged in a vase just doesn't do it for me. Nor for the cat, who would no doubt knock it over in that "everything has to be on the ground" way that cats have. Nor really for anyone who doesn't live in a pristine, Zen-like atmosphere or has a maid.
I remember vividly, while watching Juno recently, just a few seconds of a manicured feminine hand rearranging things : aligning picture frames so they were slanted just so, polishing an upstairs banister, and adjusting what I assume were scent sticks so they fell in a perfectly equal spray.
Who has time for this for everyday??? I mean, maybe it's easy when you both work away from home and have no pets or children. Shoot, even then my house was a sty. But maybe that's just me.
I mean, to me, decor is wall hangings, paint colors, and the color/material/texture of furniture and accessories like pillows and throws. Not big vases filled with sticks or, heaven help me, giant bowls filled with plastic balls. Useless tchochkes are a huge pet peeve with me. Yes, you can have mementoes of people and places. But jeebus, keep it simple and uncluttered. Keep it contained. Have a cabinet specifically for those things if you must. But don't have things scattered all over hell's creation until you're knee-deep in crap and can't reach what you need.
Arg. I can't wait until I start my new job. Much clutter to clear. Much spring cleaning to do. Even though it's not spring yet. No like time like the present, aye?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
F-word and other obscenities
My hubby bought me the soundtrack to Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny for Christmas, along with an MP3 player. I ripped it onto my player, and have been listening to it almost non-stop. They seem more amazing the more I listen. Genius! Their gratuitous use of the f-word is not vulgar, it's oddly apropos. I mean, they're f*cking rockers, man!
At least, I don't think it's vulgar. Well, I mean, I know it is, but put into the proper context, it's not. It's just a very useful word in this movie.
"A long-ass f*cking time ago, in a town called Kickapoo..."
"The government totally sucks, you motherf*cker..."
"I totally miss the honesty and special times / and honestly /
I totally miss the f*cked up thing you do /
Dude I totally miss you / I really f*ckin' miss you /
Dude I totally miss you all the time"
I've been trying to avoid using vulgar language as much (hopefully, by the time I have a kid, the vulgarity will have been phased out about 90%) but have been failing miserably. It's all I can do to not take religious names in vain when talking to my mother on the phone, or using the word "shit" when my mother-in-law is in the room. When did I become so potty-mouthed? Eh, probably university. Even in high school, I rarely used the f-word, and "shit" was used sparingly. "Bitch" was probably the worst word in my pithy arsenal. Hey, I was the girl whose best friends deserted her in 6th grade because I didn't know what a condom was. *shrugs*
Now I try to be all copy-cat creative with stuff I've ripped off from books or movies. "Jesus Christ on a piece of toast!" had its heyday in my everyday rants while I was at SDM, though occasionally politely substituted with "Cheese with rice!" *nods out to JPF, of the rib0flavin persuasion, if he's reading this* Of course, after watching Team America, the use of "Jesus titty-f*cking Christ" skyrocketed.
Lately, "H Murphy!", or simply, "H!" has been my expostulation of choice. It doesn't mention any religious figures - only a poor guy named Murphy - and so shouldn't offend anyone's sensibilities. (In case anyone cares, that one super-morphed out of Diana Gabaldon's "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" Since I was not alive when Roosevelt was, and then wanted to use my dad's popular, "Jesus Murphy" without the "Jesus" part... QED.)
In French of course, it's all about religion. Bodily functions rarely figure into French cursing, in my limited experience. It's all about Dieu, tabernacle, hostie, and calisse, with the occasional merde thrown into the Jésus, Marie, and Joseph mixture. I'm really not as conversant in French cursing as, say, the average Quebecker. I remember this guy I went to high school with, Sébastien Larocque, and boy, could he curse. Pretty, in a kind of a bad-boy way, but a real prick. But I do remember being amazed at his ability to create blue streaks, en français. Hence the color of this post. But do I remember any of his unusual church-and-fornication collaborations? Alas, no.
Not that I'd use it, of course.
At least, I don't think it's vulgar. Well, I mean, I know it is, but put into the proper context, it's not. It's just a very useful word in this movie.
"A long-ass f*cking time ago, in a town called Kickapoo..."
"The government totally sucks, you motherf*cker..."
"I totally miss the honesty and special times / and honestly /
I totally miss the f*cked up thing you do /
Dude I totally miss you / I really f*ckin' miss you /
Dude I totally miss you all the time"
I've been trying to avoid using vulgar language as much (hopefully, by the time I have a kid, the vulgarity will have been phased out about 90%) but have been failing miserably. It's all I can do to not take religious names in vain when talking to my mother on the phone, or using the word "shit" when my mother-in-law is in the room. When did I become so potty-mouthed? Eh, probably university. Even in high school, I rarely used the f-word, and "shit" was used sparingly. "Bitch" was probably the worst word in my pithy arsenal. Hey, I was the girl whose best friends deserted her in 6th grade because I didn't know what a condom was. *shrugs*
Now I try to be all copy-cat creative with stuff I've ripped off from books or movies. "Jesus Christ on a piece of toast!" had its heyday in my everyday rants while I was at SDM, though occasionally politely substituted with "Cheese with rice!" *nods out to JPF, of the rib0flavin persuasion, if he's reading this* Of course, after watching Team America, the use of "Jesus titty-f*cking Christ" skyrocketed.
Lately, "H Murphy!", or simply, "H!" has been my expostulation of choice. It doesn't mention any religious figures - only a poor guy named Murphy - and so shouldn't offend anyone's sensibilities. (In case anyone cares, that one super-morphed out of Diana Gabaldon's "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" Since I was not alive when Roosevelt was, and then wanted to use my dad's popular, "Jesus Murphy" without the "Jesus" part... QED.)
In French of course, it's all about religion. Bodily functions rarely figure into French cursing, in my limited experience. It's all about Dieu, tabernacle, hostie, and calisse, with the occasional merde thrown into the Jésus, Marie, and Joseph mixture. I'm really not as conversant in French cursing as, say, the average Quebecker. I remember this guy I went to high school with, Sébastien Larocque, and boy, could he curse. Pretty, in a kind of a bad-boy way, but a real prick. But I do remember being amazed at his ability to create blue streaks, en français. Hence the color of this post. But do I remember any of his unusual church-and-fornication collaborations? Alas, no.
Not that I'd use it, of course.
Pet peeves
... when people spell it "perscription" instead of "prescription"
... when people say "the" to rhyme with "duh" when it's not appropriate, e.g. the end, the apple, the elephant. People, when the noun following begins with a vowel, "the" is almost always pronounced "THEE".
... when roof is pronounced like Tim Allen says it. It should rhyme with "goof", not have a soft double 'o' like "book".
... when people don't listen when you ask them a question, and answer with something really random. Honestly, if you weren't paying attention, or you didn't understand, it's okay to ask for clarification. I won't get mad.
Nuff for now. I'm sure I'll have more. Just needed to vent.
... when people say "the" to rhyme with "duh" when it's not appropriate, e.g. the end, the apple, the elephant. People, when the noun following begins with a vowel, "the" is almost always pronounced "THEE".
... when roof is pronounced like Tim Allen says it. It should rhyme with "goof", not have a soft double 'o' like "book".
... when people don't listen when you ask them a question, and answer with something really random. Honestly, if you weren't paying attention, or you didn't understand, it's okay to ask for clarification. I won't get mad.
Nuff for now. I'm sure I'll have more. Just needed to vent.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Shopping.
I will be going shopping after work today. I was inspired by a dream I had last night/this morning.
Short version of the dream: I was in an apartment that, in the odd way dreams allow, belonged to my friend Steph and my two great-aunts simultaneously. One of my great-aunts asked my youngest brother if he wanted to go through the stuff in the attic. Me, on the lookout for new clothes, latched on to this idea. I found myself attracted to several green shirts. One was a thin silk blouse with long sleeves, in a beautiful emerald green. The other was some sort of polyester/rayon shirt in a similar green, but which went with an overshirt that gave it a gold and purple shimmer. To be honest, the "overshirt" looked like a bib. Again, in that funny way that dreams are, it changed from an overshirt, to a bib, to a decoration that slipped over the sleeve, if you only wanted a hint of color.
Anyway, this dream really made me want new clothes. That, and seeing three shirts hung up and two dozen empty hangers. (I have since done laundry, and have more shirts, however.) But I still want new shirts. I haven't bought any new shirts in almost a year, so I think I'm entitled to a little spree before I am making less money. So... green shirt it is. And hopefully an orange shirt. And maybe a yellow shirt. I've had enough of blue for now; half of my wardrobe is blue, red, or black. No more bruise colors! I want spring colors!!
Hmmm... Old Navy, Smart Set... I can usually get tons of shirts for cheap there. Man, I miss H&M.
Short version of the dream: I was in an apartment that, in the odd way dreams allow, belonged to my friend Steph and my two great-aunts simultaneously. One of my great-aunts asked my youngest brother if he wanted to go through the stuff in the attic. Me, on the lookout for new clothes, latched on to this idea. I found myself attracted to several green shirts. One was a thin silk blouse with long sleeves, in a beautiful emerald green. The other was some sort of polyester/rayon shirt in a similar green, but which went with an overshirt that gave it a gold and purple shimmer. To be honest, the "overshirt" looked like a bib. Again, in that funny way that dreams are, it changed from an overshirt, to a bib, to a decoration that slipped over the sleeve, if you only wanted a hint of color.
Anyway, this dream really made me want new clothes. That, and seeing three shirts hung up and two dozen empty hangers. (I have since done laundry, and have more shirts, however.) But I still want new shirts. I haven't bought any new shirts in almost a year, so I think I'm entitled to a little spree before I am making less money. So... green shirt it is. And hopefully an orange shirt. And maybe a yellow shirt. I've had enough of blue for now; half of my wardrobe is blue, red, or black. No more bruise colors! I want spring colors!!
Hmmm... Old Navy, Smart Set... I can usually get tons of shirts for cheap there. Man, I miss H&M.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
New job. And great movie.
I did it. I'm back at a library. Well, I will be in two weeks.
I have resigned from the Service Canada Centre, and will be working as a page (read: shelver) at a local branch of the Ottawa Public Library. For considerably more money than I made at the same job in Halifax, but I digress. It will be part-time work; fewer hours than I'd like, to be honest, but there's always a possibility of extra shifts. Lower pay rate. A and I crunched the numbers last night, and if we stop ordering in or eating out four times a week we should be okay.
Working part-time will certainly help me out with going back to school, which I hope to do in the fall. I want to upgrade my three-year bachelor's degree to a four-year degree, preferably by upgrading my English minor to a second major.
The trap will be all the free time I will have. Last time I was unemployed (or partially employed), this translated to a lot of TV-watching and video game-playing. Now that we have a house, and not an apartment, this will give me lots of opportunities, which I dearly hope I'm smart enough to take, to clean, to decorate, and to learn to cook more than my current eight-dish repertoire allows.
Andrew and I celebrated last night by watching Juno and eating unhealthy cinema food. They're not kidding when they say they make their money of concessions. We went on cheap ticket night, so, 2 tickets = $8.40, concessions for two = $25. (!!!)
Juno is such a great movie. Ellen Page is a fantastic actress. One of my favorite scenes is when she's imitating "this girl who took too many behavioural meds and tore off all her clothes and dove into the fountain at the mall and was like, 'ARG, I'M A KRAKEN FROM THE SEA!'". Her expression is priceless. Highly recommended movie. Such funny dialogue in an otherwise poignant movie. Examples:
Juno: There are ads in the Pennysaver for parents?
Leah: Yeah! 'Desperately Seeking Spawn'! They're like, next to the ads for parakeets and lizards and shit.
Receptionist: Free condom? It's boysenberry.
Juno: Uh, thanks, I'm off sex right now.
Receptionist: My boyfriend wears one every time we have intercourse. It makes his junk smell like pie.
Juno: I went, but the receptionist kept talking about her boyfriend's pie junk...
Leah: Yummy!
Juno: And the place smelled like a dentist's office, and there were these weird water stains on all the magazines, and, and Su-Chin was there, you know, from school? And she was like, "Your baby has fingernails!" Fingernails!
Leah: Ooh, so you think the baby would, like, claw your vag on the way out?
In theaters now. Watch it!!!
I have resigned from the Service Canada Centre, and will be working as a page (read: shelver) at a local branch of the Ottawa Public Library. For considerably more money than I made at the same job in Halifax, but I digress. It will be part-time work; fewer hours than I'd like, to be honest, but there's always a possibility of extra shifts. Lower pay rate. A and I crunched the numbers last night, and if we stop ordering in or eating out four times a week we should be okay.
Working part-time will certainly help me out with going back to school, which I hope to do in the fall. I want to upgrade my three-year bachelor's degree to a four-year degree, preferably by upgrading my English minor to a second major.
The trap will be all the free time I will have. Last time I was unemployed (or partially employed), this translated to a lot of TV-watching and video game-playing. Now that we have a house, and not an apartment, this will give me lots of opportunities, which I dearly hope I'm smart enough to take, to clean, to decorate, and to learn to cook more than my current eight-dish repertoire allows.
Andrew and I celebrated last night by watching Juno and eating unhealthy cinema food. They're not kidding when they say they make their money of concessions. We went on cheap ticket night, so, 2 tickets = $8.40, concessions for two = $25. (!!!)
Juno is such a great movie. Ellen Page is a fantastic actress. One of my favorite scenes is when she's imitating "this girl who took too many behavioural meds and tore off all her clothes and dove into the fountain at the mall and was like, 'ARG, I'M A KRAKEN FROM THE SEA!'". Her expression is priceless. Highly recommended movie. Such funny dialogue in an otherwise poignant movie. Examples:
Juno: There are ads in the Pennysaver for parents?
Leah: Yeah! 'Desperately Seeking Spawn'! They're like, next to the ads for parakeets and lizards and shit.
Receptionist: Free condom? It's boysenberry.
Juno: Uh, thanks, I'm off sex right now.
Receptionist: My boyfriend wears one every time we have intercourse. It makes his junk smell like pie.
Juno: I went, but the receptionist kept talking about her boyfriend's pie junk...
Leah: Yummy!
Juno: And the place smelled like a dentist's office, and there were these weird water stains on all the magazines, and, and Su-Chin was there, you know, from school? And she was like, "Your baby has fingernails!" Fingernails!
Leah: Ooh, so you think the baby would, like, claw your vag on the way out?
In theaters now. Watch it!!!
Monday, January 14, 2008
Men can't be pregnant, last time I checked.
So I'm reading the Globe and Mail online just now. Get to the 'Life' section, and see the headline, "We're having a hard time getting pregnant". Presumably written by a guy.
I am so sick of men claiming that "we" are pregnant. No, "we" are not pregnant. She is pregnant. "We" do not have a swollen uterus. She has a swollen uterus. "We" do not get morning sickness (unless you're one of those men who gets sympathetically ill). She gets morning sickness. Yes, you are partly responsible for the creation of this beautiful miracle, but for the love of god, you are not pregnant too.
I understand you men want to be included; that it must be difficult to watch your significant other get attention lavished on her (whether the positive, gift-giving type, or the negative random strangers grabbing her belly type) and little on you; that your physical contribution to the process is ignored while people are in awe of your woman's changing form. But surely, there are better ways to announce your great fortune, like in the following examples:
(And for those reading this, this is not a hugely veiled post about me being pregnant. I'm not. I just watched Juno yesterday and have pregnancy on the brain. Fantastic movie, BTW. Everyone should watch it. Amazing. And funny!!! *wipes tears of laughter from her eyes*)
I am so sick of men claiming that "we" are pregnant. No, "we" are not pregnant. She is pregnant. "We" do not have a swollen uterus. She has a swollen uterus. "We" do not get morning sickness (unless you're one of those men who gets sympathetically ill). She gets morning sickness. Yes, you are partly responsible for the creation of this beautiful miracle, but for the love of god, you are not pregnant too.
I understand you men want to be included; that it must be difficult to watch your significant other get attention lavished on her (whether the positive, gift-giving type, or the negative random strangers grabbing her belly type) and little on you; that your physical contribution to the process is ignored while people are in awe of your woman's changing form. But surely, there are better ways to announce your great fortune, like in the following examples:
- We're expecting a baby!
- I'm going to be a dad! (or a mom! for gay couples)
- My wife/girlfriend/fiancée/life partner is pregnant!
- This is our new nursery! Ta-da!
(And for those reading this, this is not a hugely veiled post about me being pregnant. I'm not. I just watched Juno yesterday and have pregnancy on the brain. Fantastic movie, BTW. Everyone should watch it. Amazing. And funny!!! *wipes tears of laughter from her eyes*)
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Mmm...books...
There is something so satisfying about discussing books with someone, especially books you love. The expression "shared joy is increased" is totally true when it comes to sifting through the details of a story that someone else loves the book just as much as you do.
Even better, is when you have a book that you love and reread so often that the colors of the cover are duller than when you bought it new (because who uses dust jackets anyway; they just get torn!), the pages are softer, and you remember that time you were eating spaghetti while reading that left a tiny spot of sauce on the lower right corner of page 49. (Mmm, that was good spaghetti...)
I was on the bus this morning on my way to work, and saw the woman across from me reading The Giver by Lois Lowry. It's one of my favorite books, but one of the saddest I've ever read. She wasn't very far along in the book, maybe the first twenty pages, but I glanced at her between penning answers to the morning's Sudoku to see if her face revealed any hint of awe or puzzlement. I saw nothing but a slight frown as she digested what was happening to Jonas. I hope she enjoys the book.
I feel the same way when I read passages aloud to my husband from various Harry Potter books (he maintains that, between seeing the movies and hearing me recite pages upon pages, he doesn't need to actually read them now) or books written by one of my favorite authors, Diana Gabaldon. I just love watching the look on people's faces, or hearing their gasps, laughter or exclamations when they read a certain passage or hear it for the first time.
I speed read. I always have. My nickname in second grade was Speedy Reader (or Shorty, depending on who you talked to). It maybe stems from my unfailing need to know how something ends - I need to know right now! So I tear through a book, grabbing the essentials and missing out on some of the details. But I need the details. So I read it again.
And again.
And again.
Until I'm talking to someone about the book and say, "Oh, remember when this character said..." then I repeat the text word for word, and they look at me blankly and ask, "How many times have you read this?" "Um, thirty-five times, why?"
I get a lot of head shakes after this.
The thing is that I pick a book apart like it's a tangled ball of a hundred pieces of string; I ruthlessly pull and yank at story elements, stopping occasionally to unravel a knot of information, until I have a nice collection of straight, unknotted pieces of story, which I bundle carefully back up to make a nice tidy yarn again. It is so tremendously satisfying.
Anyone who knows me even a little bit know I'm a huge fan of the Harry Potter series. But it's because of the details. Seemingly innocuous tidbits play a huge part in later books. When talking about this to people, I frequently mention the example of the Vanishing Cabinet.
In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, the second book in the series, the caretaker's cat is Petrified. This makes the caretaker, Filch, dole out extra punishements in his misery. On his way back to the dorm after a rainy and muddy Quidditch practice, Harry is talking to a ghost, then gets caught by Filch for dirtying the floors. Just before assigning punishment, they are interrupted by a loud crash above them. The ghost convinced the school's poltergeist to topple over the Vanishing Cabinet on the second floor to distract the caretaker. The Cabinet is broken.
In the fifth book, the school is in the clutches of a maniacal Headmistress who creates the Inquisitorial Squad, students who have the same authority to punish students that teachers have. Friends of Harry's stop a member of the Inquisitorial Squad from taking points away by shoving him into the broken Vanishing Cabinet. The member of the Inquisitorial Squad reappears, disoriented and confused, after several weeks.
In the sixth book, Harry's school nemesis, Draco Malfoy, finds out that the Cabinet is actually one of a pair which, when fixed, would actually create a passageway between them. Harry, in the meantime, only comes across the Cabinet again in passing, finding it in a hidden room with other broken magical objects, where he needs to hide a book. Draco later fixes the Cabinet, and uses it to allow Death Eaters to take over the school.
See? Who would have thought (besides the author, natch) that a simple cabinet, mentioned casually as a tool to avoid detention, would turn out to be integral to the takeover of Hogwarts? Rowling does this over and over throughout the series. And I simply looooove reading them again and again to pick up on the little details that turn a simple story into a wonderful saga. And even better, is unraveling these threads with someone else.
Even better, is when you have a book that you love and reread so often that the colors of the cover are duller than when you bought it new (because who uses dust jackets anyway; they just get torn!), the pages are softer, and you remember that time you were eating spaghetti while reading that left a tiny spot of sauce on the lower right corner of page 49. (Mmm, that was good spaghetti...)
I was on the bus this morning on my way to work, and saw the woman across from me reading The Giver by Lois Lowry. It's one of my favorite books, but one of the saddest I've ever read. She wasn't very far along in the book, maybe the first twenty pages, but I glanced at her between penning answers to the morning's Sudoku to see if her face revealed any hint of awe or puzzlement. I saw nothing but a slight frown as she digested what was happening to Jonas. I hope she enjoys the book.
I feel the same way when I read passages aloud to my husband from various Harry Potter books (he maintains that, between seeing the movies and hearing me recite pages upon pages, he doesn't need to actually read them now) or books written by one of my favorite authors, Diana Gabaldon. I just love watching the look on people's faces, or hearing their gasps, laughter or exclamations when they read a certain passage or hear it for the first time.
I speed read. I always have. My nickname in second grade was Speedy Reader (or Shorty, depending on who you talked to). It maybe stems from my unfailing need to know how something ends - I need to know right now! So I tear through a book, grabbing the essentials and missing out on some of the details. But I need the details. So I read it again.
And again.
And again.
Until I'm talking to someone about the book and say, "Oh, remember when this character said..." then I repeat the text word for word, and they look at me blankly and ask, "How many times have you read this?" "Um, thirty-five times, why?"
I get a lot of head shakes after this.
The thing is that I pick a book apart like it's a tangled ball of a hundred pieces of string; I ruthlessly pull and yank at story elements, stopping occasionally to unravel a knot of information, until I have a nice collection of straight, unknotted pieces of story, which I bundle carefully back up to make a nice tidy yarn again. It is so tremendously satisfying.
Anyone who knows me even a little bit know I'm a huge fan of the Harry Potter series. But it's because of the details. Seemingly innocuous tidbits play a huge part in later books. When talking about this to people, I frequently mention the example of the Vanishing Cabinet.
In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, the second book in the series, the caretaker's cat is Petrified. This makes the caretaker, Filch, dole out extra punishements in his misery. On his way back to the dorm after a rainy and muddy Quidditch practice, Harry is talking to a ghost, then gets caught by Filch for dirtying the floors. Just before assigning punishment, they are interrupted by a loud crash above them. The ghost convinced the school's poltergeist to topple over the Vanishing Cabinet on the second floor to distract the caretaker. The Cabinet is broken.
In the fifth book, the school is in the clutches of a maniacal Headmistress who creates the Inquisitorial Squad, students who have the same authority to punish students that teachers have. Friends of Harry's stop a member of the Inquisitorial Squad from taking points away by shoving him into the broken Vanishing Cabinet. The member of the Inquisitorial Squad reappears, disoriented and confused, after several weeks.
In the sixth book, Harry's school nemesis, Draco Malfoy, finds out that the Cabinet is actually one of a pair which, when fixed, would actually create a passageway between them. Harry, in the meantime, only comes across the Cabinet again in passing, finding it in a hidden room with other broken magical objects, where he needs to hide a book. Draco later fixes the Cabinet, and uses it to allow Death Eaters to take over the school.
See? Who would have thought (besides the author, natch) that a simple cabinet, mentioned casually as a tool to avoid detention, would turn out to be integral to the takeover of Hogwarts? Rowling does this over and over throughout the series. And I simply looooove reading them again and again to pick up on the little details that turn a simple story into a wonderful saga. And even better, is unraveling these threads with someone else.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Reno woes, or "Cry Me a Ceramic Dust River"
My hubby and I are renovating our master bathroom. We started just before Christmas (what were we thinking!) and are technically half-way done. Thus far we have...
- removed the old vanity
- removed the shower unit
- ripped up the old, peeling, cracking, vinyl floor and the crappy 1/4" plywood beneath it
- reoriented the sink drain and faucet supplies
- installed stop valves on the sink faucets (there were none; older house)
- ripped out tiles which were above and around the shower
- drywalled where we had to access the sink drain
- installed the new vanity
- installed cementboard, new tiles, and grouted
- installed a new faucet
What we have left to do...
- build a shower curb out of 2x4s
- custom build the shower floor (so many steps to this!!!!)
- tile said floor and curb, and tile shower walls
- install baseboard (should have done this before we installed the vanity, whoops)
- fix the drywalled hole *wince*
- wash aaaaaaalllllll the grout off the tiles, as it is very gritty
- prime and paint
We can at least use the toilet and sink again, but the shower has a ways yet to go.
Doing It Yourself certainly has its pitfalls, and a potentially steep learning curve. Lesson number one for bathroom projects: don't grind ceramic tiles in your bedroom, even if they are tiles for the on-suite bathroom. Just... *shakes her head* just do it in the basement or the garage or something. *brushes ceramic dust off her clothes for the millionth time in the last month* The shit just never goes away. Note to self: buy some TSP to wash down the walls, and the shelves, and the hangers, and the furnishings...
It was such a relief when, ceramic dust notwithstanding, our bedroom stopped looking like a construction zone: toilet on a plastic bag in a corner, tools next to it looking lonely, pieces of chipboard and cementboard lying against the wall, furniture crammed next to the bed to make way for the movable workbench, a clamp underfoot in a bed of crumbled cement, bits of tile and wood shavings. Oh, did I mention we slept in the guestroom while this was going on? ;-)
- removed the old vanity
- removed the shower unit
- ripped up the old, peeling, cracking, vinyl floor and the crappy 1/4" plywood beneath it
- reoriented the sink drain and faucet supplies
- installed stop valves on the sink faucets (there were none; older house)
- ripped out tiles which were above and around the shower
- drywalled where we had to access the sink drain
- installed the new vanity
- installed cementboard, new tiles, and grouted
- installed a new faucet
What we have left to do...
- build a shower curb out of 2x4s
- custom build the shower floor (so many steps to this!!!!)
- tile said floor and curb, and tile shower walls
- install baseboard (should have done this before we installed the vanity, whoops)
- fix the drywalled hole *wince*
- wash aaaaaaalllllll the grout off the tiles, as it is very gritty
- prime and paint
We can at least use the toilet and sink again, but the shower has a ways yet to go.
Doing It Yourself certainly has its pitfalls, and a potentially steep learning curve. Lesson number one for bathroom projects: don't grind ceramic tiles in your bedroom, even if they are tiles for the on-suite bathroom. Just... *shakes her head* just do it in the basement or the garage or something. *brushes ceramic dust off her clothes for the millionth time in the last month* The shit just never goes away. Note to self: buy some TSP to wash down the walls, and the shelves, and the hangers, and the furnishings...
It was such a relief when, ceramic dust notwithstanding, our bedroom stopped looking like a construction zone: toilet on a plastic bag in a corner, tools next to it looking lonely, pieces of chipboard and cementboard lying against the wall, furniture crammed next to the bed to make way for the movable workbench, a clamp underfoot in a bed of crumbled cement, bits of tile and wood shavings. Oh, did I mention we slept in the guestroom while this was going on? ;-)
Monday, December 17, 2007
Mannequin hate
We all know where nipples are located on the human body. It doesn't need to be grossly emphasized. We will safely assume that wherever the boob starts to slope inwards and downwards again is where the nipple should be, and we will extrapolate and apply that information to our perception of where that shirt will hang on our own bodies. Furthermore, being able to see that the nipple is clearly visible through the fabric is not necessarily a way to entice a woman to buy an article of clothing. Not all women care to be that cold, or invest in silicone nipple covers, or thick bras.
(I've been noticing this more and more as Christmas approaches. Who thinks a woman wants to wear a wee scrap of gauze and shimmeryness to a party when it's 20° below zero and her coat is doing nothing to keep the wind out?)
Similarly, guys, don't be intimidated/disappointed that the underwear mannequin has a huge package/flat frontpiece. When is everyone going to realize that mannequins are not an accurate reflection of reality, hello!!!
/end rant
(I've been noticing this more and more as Christmas approaches. Who thinks a woman wants to wear a wee scrap of gauze and shimmeryness to a party when it's 20° below zero and her coat is doing nothing to keep the wind out?)
Similarly, guys, don't be intimidated/disappointed that the underwear mannequin has a huge package/flat frontpiece. When is everyone going to realize that mannequins are not an accurate reflection of reality, hello!!!
/end rant
Friday, February 09, 2007
Galaxy Quest - The Perfect Movie
My husband (it still gives me such a thrill to write that!) and I watched one of our favorite movies this evening, Galaxy Quest . It literally has everything you could possibly want in a movie - a spaceship, Thermians from the Klatu Nebula, tons of hilarious lines (Tony Shalhoub's seemingly stoned character is a source of tremendous amusement), a bit of romance, not to mention a meaningful revelation about the true nature of entertainment. The sound is quite good, the digital effects great (though the makeup of Sarris and his crew could have been a little more form-fitting around the mouth, not looking so puppet-like), and the writing genius.
For those not familiar with the movie, it revolves around Tim Allen playing an actor named Jason Nesmith, whose claim to fame was a science fiction show in the 80s called Galaxy Quest, which he "commanded". Along with his faithful crew (Sigourney Weaver, Alan Rickman, Tony Shalhoub, and Daryl Mitchell), they are a passé passel whose only appearances are at sci-fi conventions. At one particular convention, Jason is approached by people, who he believes to be fans in costume, looking to hire him for a gig. They are in fact aliens (the aforementioned Thermians from the Klatu Nebula) seeking the help of "Commander Peter Quincy Taggert" to defeat their enemy. They know of all the Galaxy Quest missions from the "historical documents" which they received by satellite many years ago, the morals of which they have used to rebuild their society after a planetary cataclysm.
Some of my favorite lines:
JASON (Tim Allen): They were called Termites, or something... I don't really remember because I was hung over.
GWEN (Sigourney Weaver): At least you had a part. You had a character people loved! My TV Guide interview was six paragraphs about my boobs and how they fit into my suit. How did I perfect my trademark sidesaddle pose? Nobody ever bothered to ask what I do on the ship...
FRED (Tony Shalhoub): You were the, uh... Wait, I'll think of it...
GWEN: I repeated the computer. "It's getting hotter, Commander!" "The ship is disintegrating, Commander!" Nothing I did EVER affected the plot, not ONCE! Nothing I did was ever taken seriously!
JASON: You will go out there!
ALEXANDER: I won't, and nothing you say will make me.
JASON: [after a pause] The show must go on.
ALEXANDER: ... Damn you.
Those of you reading this probably know I never have a single favorite anything (color, song, book, actor), and it'll be no surprise that I don't have a favorite character from this movie. They're all amazing in their own way: Jason, particularly when he realizes the true damage that the show has done to the Thermian society; Gwen, when she patently refuses to accept the reasoning behind having "chompers" on a spaceship; Alex, when he is faced with the truth that continuing to play a role he despises has allowed his biggest fan to die happy; Fred, allowed to bring his natural mellowness to the rigidly disciplined Thermians, who find it strange but satisfying; Guy, who finds he is not the expendable crewman he has always believed he was; Tommy, who is brought down a notch when he discovers he has to fly a real-live spaceship; and finally Mathesar, who learns he can command his people.
Rent Galaxy Quest today! :-)
For those not familiar with the movie, it revolves around Tim Allen playing an actor named Jason Nesmith, whose claim to fame was a science fiction show in the 80s called Galaxy Quest, which he "commanded". Along with his faithful crew (Sigourney Weaver, Alan Rickman, Tony Shalhoub, and Daryl Mitchell), they are a passé passel whose only appearances are at sci-fi conventions. At one particular convention, Jason is approached by people, who he believes to be fans in costume, looking to hire him for a gig. They are in fact aliens (the aforementioned Thermians from the Klatu Nebula) seeking the help of "Commander Peter Quincy Taggert" to defeat their enemy. They know of all the Galaxy Quest missions from the "historical documents" which they received by satellite many years ago, the morals of which they have used to rebuild their society after a planetary cataclysm.
Some of my favorite lines:
JASON (Tim Allen): They were called Termites, or something... I don't really remember because I was hung over.
GWEN (Sigourney Weaver): At least you had a part. You had a character people loved! My TV Guide interview was six paragraphs about my boobs and how they fit into my suit. How did I perfect my trademark sidesaddle pose? Nobody ever bothered to ask what I do on the ship...
FRED (Tony Shalhoub): You were the, uh... Wait, I'll think of it...
GWEN: I repeated the computer. "It's getting hotter, Commander!" "The ship is disintegrating, Commander!" Nothing I did EVER affected the plot, not ONCE! Nothing I did was ever taken seriously!
JASON: You will go out there!
ALEXANDER: I won't, and nothing you say will make me.
JASON: [after a pause] The show must go on.
ALEXANDER: ... Damn you.
Those of you reading this probably know I never have a single favorite anything (color, song, book, actor), and it'll be no surprise that I don't have a favorite character from this movie. They're all amazing in their own way: Jason, particularly when he realizes the true damage that the show has done to the Thermian society; Gwen, when she patently refuses to accept the reasoning behind having "chompers" on a spaceship; Alex, when he is faced with the truth that continuing to play a role he despises has allowed his biggest fan to die happy; Fred, allowed to bring his natural mellowness to the rigidly disciplined Thermians, who find it strange but satisfying; Guy, who finds he is not the expendable crewman he has always believed he was; Tommy, who is brought down a notch when he discovers he has to fly a real-live spaceship; and finally Mathesar, who learns he can command his people.
Rent Galaxy Quest today! :-)
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Voyage à Paris - Day 6
The return home. Ten hours of travelling when you're fevered, chilled, nauseated, achy and exhausted is really quite unpleasant.
I spent a pretty restless night, tossing, turning, and repeatedly crawling to the bathroom, though nothing came out. My whole body ached: I felt like I'd been pummelled. So I was very tired and not to steady on my pins packing in the morning for our afternoon flight.
Andrew slept a bit in the taxi on the way to the airport. I took in the few sights I could from the highways - Montmartre, in particular stood out on that grey morning. The cabbie encountered some strange roadblock near the airport, but still got us there in plenty of time for our flight. I tipped him ten euros for our 30 euro ride, and he actually protested that it was too much. I thanked him and told him he deserved it for being so patient at the roadblock.
The flight was hell. There was only one working bathroom, and the working one was about four feet away from me. The smells didn't help my rebellious stomach, and I was freezing cold. I did not once enter that bathroom, however. I saved everything for home.
Skipping over the details, I lost 13 pounds in the next three days. In the end, Pepto-Bismol was all I needed.
They say one in two people has a chance of becoming sick during a foreign holiday. I've been sick nearly every time we go somewhere. I love my new husband, but it's his turn next time.
I spent a pretty restless night, tossing, turning, and repeatedly crawling to the bathroom, though nothing came out. My whole body ached: I felt like I'd been pummelled. So I was very tired and not to steady on my pins packing in the morning for our afternoon flight.
Andrew slept a bit in the taxi on the way to the airport. I took in the few sights I could from the highways - Montmartre, in particular stood out on that grey morning. The cabbie encountered some strange roadblock near the airport, but still got us there in plenty of time for our flight. I tipped him ten euros for our 30 euro ride, and he actually protested that it was too much. I thanked him and told him he deserved it for being so patient at the roadblock.
The flight was hell. There was only one working bathroom, and the working one was about four feet away from me. The smells didn't help my rebellious stomach, and I was freezing cold. I did not once enter that bathroom, however. I saved everything for home.
Skipping over the details, I lost 13 pounds in the next three days. In the end, Pepto-Bismol was all I needed.
They say one in two people has a chance of becoming sick during a foreign holiday. I've been sick nearly every time we go somewhere. I love my new husband, but it's his turn next time.
Ghost towns of America
I have been to the shiny U.S. of A three times in the past three years, moving further out into New York state each time; Buffalo, Rochester, and the weekend before Easter past, Syracuse. But don't bother going yourself.
There is nobody there.
When we went to Buffalo a few years ago, we stayed at a hotel downtown. Besides the hotel staff and the members of the orchestra we watched, I think we saw about five people during the entire weekend. Even at the theater, I think we were the only two people in the room.
In Rochester, it wasn't as bad, but still pretty empty. We saw more people at the (then) soon-to-be-opening ferry terminal than in the downtown core. That was the exciting thing to do at the time, check on the progress of its construction. Still, there were more seagulls at the ferry terminal than people. Oh wait, we did go see a movie there too. All older people, though. (Not that we'd want to hang out with people our own age because we're both too shy to just walk up and start talking to someone.)
I don't get it. Do Americans have a statute of limitations on existence? They can only be in our dimension 9-5, Monday to Friday? Do they wear invisible clothes during the weekend? Or do they just do all their business in town and live in the outskirts?
Reason, of course, dictates that the latter is the most likely. Then it makes me think about how the whole mentality of city-building seems to be different in the US compared to Canada: here, we build and try to surround our homes with everything we need, within a short distance; in America they build their homes in one area, and businesses and entertainment in a completely separate area.
There are pros and cons to each type of design. Pro-Canada: less driving. Pro-America: more SUVs. (Yes, I know, this is a gross generalization.) Do you get more Whuffie from being environmentally friendly and walking to work, or from driving a big black monster with 23-inch black-on-black rims that looks shiny and impressive but is probably compensating for some lack in your life? Do you get more Whuffie if you leave your work at work and take the time to relax at home, or if you are diligent and live close to your work so you can go back at a moment's notice?
There is nobody there.
When we went to Buffalo a few years ago, we stayed at a hotel downtown. Besides the hotel staff and the members of the orchestra we watched, I think we saw about five people during the entire weekend. Even at the theater, I think we were the only two people in the room.
In Rochester, it wasn't as bad, but still pretty empty. We saw more people at the (then) soon-to-be-opening ferry terminal than in the downtown core. That was the exciting thing to do at the time, check on the progress of its construction. Still, there were more seagulls at the ferry terminal than people. Oh wait, we did go see a movie there too. All older people, though. (Not that we'd want to hang out with people our own age because we're both too shy to just walk up and start talking to someone.)
I don't get it. Do Americans have a statute of limitations on existence? They can only be in our dimension 9-5, Monday to Friday? Do they wear invisible clothes during the weekend? Or do they just do all their business in town and live in the outskirts?
Reason, of course, dictates that the latter is the most likely. Then it makes me think about how the whole mentality of city-building seems to be different in the US compared to Canada: here, we build and try to surround our homes with everything we need, within a short distance; in America they build their homes in one area, and businesses and entertainment in a completely separate area.
There are pros and cons to each type of design. Pro-Canada: less driving. Pro-America: more SUVs. (Yes, I know, this is a gross generalization.) Do you get more Whuffie from being environmentally friendly and walking to work, or from driving a big black monster with 23-inch black-on-black rims that looks shiny and impressive but is probably compensating for some lack in your life? Do you get more Whuffie if you leave your work at work and take the time to relax at home, or if you are diligent and live close to your work so you can go back at a moment's notice?
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Cats and Canals
I went skating today with Andrew. We tried to go skating on the Rideau Canal during the historic First Visit in university (gosh, what was that, February 1999?), but it was tremendously slushy and pitted, and I was wearing Andrew's mom's skates, which were too big. My feet were also very cold. We only made it to the first turn before I begged off.
This time, the weather couldn't have been better. It was only a few degrees below zero, just a breeze, and it was snowing lightly. I had bought myself a pair of thick skates at Canadian Tire using one of the gift cards we got as a wedding present, and they fit perfectly. Best part? They're insulated. Oooh. Aaah. It was a completely beautiful day.
During the course of the day, I only fell four times, all four times on the same side. It was only by lucky happenstance that each time I fell, I was wearing my glasses; most of the time they were so fogged up I put them in my left pocket. But each time I put them back on I fell a few minutes later. One time I even fell as I was saying, "It's a good thing I'm wearing my glasses, otherwise they'd break in my--argh!"
By the third fall my kiester was really starting to hurt, and by the fourth my fingers and toes were quite chilled. Apple cider can only do so much. Near the end, though, this really nice girl walked up (she was leaving) and asked me if my hands were cold. She handed me two disposable warming pads, about the size of teabags. Oooh, they were nice.
A couple of weeks ago, my friend V. sent a picture out of her mother's kitten. Kitten wanted to play one night and mother kicked her...and broke the kitten's leg. She felt horrendous, and the photo shows a teensy kitten with a huge cast.
Well, we got home from skating, had a wonderful spaghetti dinner, and trekked upstairs to bed. Our kitten was lying on top of a clothes hamper, the kind with a lid. (He stands on it during the day to look out our bedroom window.) I pushed at the kitten, to try to get him off the hamper. Wouldn't budge. So, I started to tip the hamper over to get him to slide off. Well, doesn't the little bugger get his paw stuck in the handle of the lid and start making the most gawdawful noise. He manages to extricate himself after writhing frantically, and runs out of the room down the stairs. I already feel horrendous and I don't know if he's actually hurt or not. Andrew calls out, "What the hell happened?" And then I hear, "Oh, that's not good."
I am paralyzed in our room, afraid to come out lest I petrify the poor thing, the words "abusive cat-mommy" ringing through my head. "Is he bleeding?" I ask. "Is he okay?" He was apparently curled up on the stairs, protecting the leg that had gotten stuck. We were afraid for a while he'd broken his leg too, but after a bit he was running around again (away from me). I felt absolutely terrible. He got lots of treats and pets after that incident, for which he has since forgiven and forgotten.
This time, the weather couldn't have been better. It was only a few degrees below zero, just a breeze, and it was snowing lightly. I had bought myself a pair of thick skates at Canadian Tire using one of the gift cards we got as a wedding present, and they fit perfectly. Best part? They're insulated. Oooh. Aaah. It was a completely beautiful day.
During the course of the day, I only fell four times, all four times on the same side. It was only by lucky happenstance that each time I fell, I was wearing my glasses; most of the time they were so fogged up I put them in my left pocket. But each time I put them back on I fell a few minutes later. One time I even fell as I was saying, "It's a good thing I'm wearing my glasses, otherwise they'd break in my--argh!"
By the third fall my kiester was really starting to hurt, and by the fourth my fingers and toes were quite chilled. Apple cider can only do so much. Near the end, though, this really nice girl walked up (she was leaving) and asked me if my hands were cold. She handed me two disposable warming pads, about the size of teabags. Oooh, they were nice.
A couple of weeks ago, my friend V. sent a picture out of her mother's kitten. Kitten wanted to play one night and mother kicked her...and broke the kitten's leg. She felt horrendous, and the photo shows a teensy kitten with a huge cast.
Well, we got home from skating, had a wonderful spaghetti dinner, and trekked upstairs to bed. Our kitten was lying on top of a clothes hamper, the kind with a lid. (He stands on it during the day to look out our bedroom window.) I pushed at the kitten, to try to get him off the hamper. Wouldn't budge. So, I started to tip the hamper over to get him to slide off. Well, doesn't the little bugger get his paw stuck in the handle of the lid and start making the most gawdawful noise. He manages to extricate himself after writhing frantically, and runs out of the room down the stairs. I already feel horrendous and I don't know if he's actually hurt or not. Andrew calls out, "What the hell happened?" And then I hear, "Oh, that's not good."
I am paralyzed in our room, afraid to come out lest I petrify the poor thing, the words "abusive cat-mommy" ringing through my head. "Is he bleeding?" I ask. "Is he okay?" He was apparently curled up on the stairs, protecting the leg that had gotten stuck. We were afraid for a while he'd broken his leg too, but after a bit he was running around again (away from me). I felt absolutely terrible. He got lots of treats and pets after that incident, for which he has since forgiven and forgotten.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Words to ban from my vocabulary
I've been working at this job for three and half years, and have realized that giving five months' notice that I am quitting was probably a bad idea. I have had five months to come to terms with the fact that I am leaving, and part of me just doesn't want to make the effort anymore. I'm getting sick and tired of it - as if my previous posts about "Things I'd love to tell a customer someday" wasn't enough of a hint for you all! - and at this point I can't wait to leave.
When I finish, there are two words in particular that I truly hope I can successfully wipe from my brain.
"inconvenience" : I detest this word. It demeans the person's experience until it is merely a triviality, but what else can you say? You don't want to inflate the situation, but you don't want to make it seem like it's barely worth your time.
AND...
"marketing" : This is such a broad f*cking term that can mean anything from donations and sponsorship to corporate buyers to advertising to who knows what else. So when someone says, "the marketing department", I wish to god people would remember that there are about seventeen different uses for that word in today's business world, and to specify what the hell they're talking about.
When I finish, there are two words in particular that I truly hope I can successfully wipe from my brain.
"inconvenience" : I detest this word. It demeans the person's experience until it is merely a triviality, but what else can you say? You don't want to inflate the situation, but you don't want to make it seem like it's barely worth your time.
AND...
"marketing" : This is such a broad f*cking term that can mean anything from donations and sponsorship to corporate buyers to advertising to who knows what else. So when someone says, "the marketing department", I wish to god people would remember that there are about seventeen different uses for that word in today's business world, and to specify what the hell they're talking about.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Pepto-Brainwash
"Take it every half-hour or so," the doctor who showed up around 5:30 said, "as long as you need to. Should clear things up in no time." After he left, I promptly called up my husband (!) and asked him to pick up some on his way home from work.
I've heard people say how yummy Pepto-Bismol is. "It's like pink marshmallow stuff," they say, "or cinnamon hearts or something." And other such insipid commentary.
All said with a fond smile - which I can only assume is caused by the memory of the relief it brought more than of the taste of the noxious, gooey, mouth-coating slime. Pepto-Bismol tastes vile. I almost spat it out. *bleagh* My husband couldn't believe I didn't lick the inside of the little measuring cup to get the rest of the medicine, and almost looked a little disappointed that he couldn't since he wasn't sick.
I have to give the stuff credit, though. Other than witnessing a variety of rumbles and noises emanating from my entire torso over the past 16 hours, (rumbles and noises which have ranged from the interesting to hilarious to highly embarrassing, I might add), I have only had to visit the necessary once since then. I am finally able to slowly replenish my body's fluids and slowly eat some food, of which I have had almost none over the past few days.
So if anyone tells you liquid Pepto-Bismol tastes good, they're lying. It just makes you feel better. Go with the pills or the chewables instead.
I've heard people say how yummy Pepto-Bismol is. "It's like pink marshmallow stuff," they say, "or cinnamon hearts or something." And other such insipid commentary.
All said with a fond smile - which I can only assume is caused by the memory of the relief it brought more than of the taste of the noxious, gooey, mouth-coating slime. Pepto-Bismol tastes vile. I almost spat it out. *bleagh* My husband couldn't believe I didn't lick the inside of the little measuring cup to get the rest of the medicine, and almost looked a little disappointed that he couldn't since he wasn't sick.
I have to give the stuff credit, though. Other than witnessing a variety of rumbles and noises emanating from my entire torso over the past 16 hours, (rumbles and noises which have ranged from the interesting to hilarious to highly embarrassing, I might add), I have only had to visit the necessary once since then. I am finally able to slowly replenish my body's fluids and slowly eat some food, of which I have had almost none over the past few days.
So if anyone tells you liquid Pepto-Bismol tastes good, they're lying. It just makes you feel better. Go with the pills or the chewables instead.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
L'eau bonne de France (WARNING: CONTAINS HINTS OF UNPLEASANTNESS)
Well, all it took was one glass of Parisian tap water to cause me to be violently ill since Saturday. As I unfortunately cannot stray far from the facilities long enough to get to a clinic, I was forced this morning at 8:24 to call the Doctors House Call service, where the receptionist told me in a bored voice, "The doctor will be there anytime between now and seven."
"Seven?" I replied, in as disbelieving tone as I could weakly muster.
"Seven." (After we hung up I realized my health card expired two weeks ago. Oops. Well, I have a credit card.)
So it's nearly eleven AM and I've just escaped for the seventh time since midnight and I honestly don't know if I'm going to survive the day. I'm so dehydrated and I can't keep any fluid in me long enough to make up what seems to be the gallon or so of water I've left behind since we arrived back in Toronto Sunday night. I really hope the doctor arrives with an IV drip or something, because as my friends and family know, I am not good at drinking anything fast, much less water. It's just so...boring. And yet I find myself vastly interested once I'm missing about 10% of it from my body.
"Seven?" I replied, in as disbelieving tone as I could weakly muster.
"Seven." (After we hung up I realized my health card expired two weeks ago. Oops. Well, I have a credit card.)
So it's nearly eleven AM and I've just escaped for the seventh time since midnight and I honestly don't know if I'm going to survive the day. I'm so dehydrated and I can't keep any fluid in me long enough to make up what seems to be the gallon or so of water I've left behind since we arrived back in Toronto Sunday night. I really hope the doctor arrives with an IV drip or something, because as my friends and family know, I am not good at drinking anything fast, much less water. It's just so...boring. And yet I find myself vastly interested once I'm missing about 10% of it from my body.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Voyage à Paris - Day 3
Nine hours of sleep. We slept in like lazy sacks of turd. The hotel room's curtains, when fully drawn, completely blocked the light and my internal chronometer is all dizzy so we ended up scratching plans for the Louvre since it would be close to noon by the time we got there. We decided instead to hit the Musée de la Marine.
Learning from yesterday, we bought 2 demi baguettes for breakfast (total cost 1/10th of yesterday's meagre breakfast and caustic service) and ate them as we walked. We walked across the Pont de Bir Hakeim, which has a giant statue of someone on a raging horse, I think. The bridge was built to commemorate a ridiculous number of soldiers who either triumphed or perished, I don't recall, when marching across a desert or a city, I'm not certain which, named Bir Hakeim. Don't know what that has to do with horses. Then again, maybe it was a giant goddesse on a sea creature. My memory is kind of foggy.
The Musée de la Marine and the adjoining building, which together form the old Palais de Chaillon, are very white and extremely bright when one has left one's sunglasses at the hotel. It was very hot and very uphill. I was not in the best of moods. But, the sight of the Eiffel Tower from across the river, what a sight worthy of many photos. It really does lean away from the sun, it's weird!
The Musée de la Marine was stupendous. HUGE models of monster square-rigged warships at 1:18 or even 1:12 scale! Nadine composed some wicked pictures of the models.
One model described how some Egyptian decided to give France an obelisk, leaving it up to the French to get it to Paris. So the French built a special barge, sailed over, cut down the obelisk, levered and pullied it over to the barge which they had pulled up onto a beach, sawed the end off the barge, pulled the obelisk in, sewed the boat back up, and took it home. This is the big spike that sits in the middle of Place Concorde, and inspired us to check it out later that day.
Next up, the Arc de Triomphe - but lunch first. We had pasta and a burger and a demi bouteille of red wine that went straight to our heads as we looked out over the sidewalk patio. With a lot of giggling we continued to the Arc de Triomphe. We were first struck by the madcap traffic circle around the Arc. I can see that the rule is for traffic in the circle to yield to traffic entering, and the policy is to do so begrudgingly. I counted about two near misses in a handful of seconds as cars and scooters threw themselves across multiple lanes. Lanes that were of course only perceived, not painted.
Nadine found a bench and wrote a postcard (a drunken postcard, I might add, to my dear friend and maid of honor Stephanie) while I gaped at the traffic. Two people came to ask us where the tunnel was to go underneath, but we hadn't found it at that point. I began to wonder how many Frenchmen were actually in Paris.
Good great view from the top of the Arc, man, oh man. We reversed Nadine's trick of taking photos through the pay telescope by getting ultra-close pics of the Eiffel Tower.
We picture-bombed the underside and outside of the Arc, and then decided we would walk down the Champs Elysées straight to the Place Concorde to marvel at the spike. ("Real Egyptian sh**!" Nadine enthused.)
We finally found some shade and liquids along the Champs Elysées, photo-noting the Louis Vuitton store with a long line-up.
The spike was very Egyptian, and like the Arc de Triomphe, ringed by a Paris-style accolade of madcap motorists.
Our next stop was decided to be the Gardens around the Louvre (Jardin des Tuileries) as the sun settled and we strolled along eating sorbet cones. We took a whole photo-journal of our approach to the glass pyramid. We had a nice sit by the pyramid.
We took the bus home to save an hour's walk in the dark. Bought two bottles of wine at a corner market, and then struck another item off our list by getting dinner at duhn duhn daa... McDonalds. I had a Royale with bacon and got miffed when the silly wench at the counter wouldn't accept my French. I was saying, "Quoi?" because she was speaking at 2 decibels in a noisy environment, not because I don't know what "Coke? Coke? Coke? Coke?" means. I just kept forging ahead with my order but had to repeat it all because she never progressed to the subroutine after "Coke?". I have two bottles of wine and it's ten o'clock. No Coke! The McDonalds tasted funny. No diarrhea though, praise be.
I wanted more fries, though. I can never get enough of McDonald's fries. The wine wasn't the greatest; I guess our expectations of French standards were a little high. That, or just not the right meal to eat with it. ;-P Found two English channels - CNN and something else. Tried to watch French TV but they spoke way too fast, even for me. And so to bed..
Learning from yesterday, we bought 2 demi baguettes for breakfast (total cost 1/10th of yesterday's meagre breakfast and caustic service) and ate them as we walked. We walked across the Pont de Bir Hakeim, which has a giant statue of someone on a raging horse, I think. The bridge was built to commemorate a ridiculous number of soldiers who either triumphed or perished, I don't recall, when marching across a desert or a city, I'm not certain which, named Bir Hakeim. Don't know what that has to do with horses. Then again, maybe it was a giant goddesse on a sea creature. My memory is kind of foggy.
The Musée de la Marine and the adjoining building, which together form the old Palais de Chaillon, are very white and extremely bright when one has left one's sunglasses at the hotel. It was very hot and very uphill. I was not in the best of moods. But, the sight of the Eiffel Tower from across the river, what a sight worthy of many photos. It really does lean away from the sun, it's weird!
The Musée de la Marine was stupendous. HUGE models of monster square-rigged warships at 1:18 or even 1:12 scale! Nadine composed some wicked pictures of the models.
One model described how some Egyptian decided to give France an obelisk, leaving it up to the French to get it to Paris. So the French built a special barge, sailed over, cut down the obelisk, levered and pullied it over to the barge which they had pulled up onto a beach, sawed the end off the barge, pulled the obelisk in, sewed the boat back up, and took it home. This is the big spike that sits in the middle of Place Concorde, and inspired us to check it out later that day.
Next up, the Arc de Triomphe - but lunch first. We had pasta and a burger and a demi bouteille of red wine that went straight to our heads as we looked out over the sidewalk patio. With a lot of giggling we continued to the Arc de Triomphe. We were first struck by the madcap traffic circle around the Arc. I can see that the rule is for traffic in the circle to yield to traffic entering, and the policy is to do so begrudgingly. I counted about two near misses in a handful of seconds as cars and scooters threw themselves across multiple lanes. Lanes that were of course only perceived, not painted.
Nadine found a bench and wrote a postcard (a drunken postcard, I might add, to my dear friend and maid of honor Stephanie) while I gaped at the traffic. Two people came to ask us where the tunnel was to go underneath, but we hadn't found it at that point. I began to wonder how many Frenchmen were actually in Paris.
Good great view from the top of the Arc, man, oh man. We reversed Nadine's trick of taking photos through the pay telescope by getting ultra-close pics of the Eiffel Tower.
We picture-bombed the underside and outside of the Arc, and then decided we would walk down the Champs Elysées straight to the Place Concorde to marvel at the spike. ("Real Egyptian sh**!" Nadine enthused.)
We finally found some shade and liquids along the Champs Elysées, photo-noting the Louis Vuitton store with a long line-up.
The spike was very Egyptian, and like the Arc de Triomphe, ringed by a Paris-style accolade of madcap motorists.
Our next stop was decided to be the Gardens around the Louvre (Jardin des Tuileries) as the sun settled and we strolled along eating sorbet cones. We took a whole photo-journal of our approach to the glass pyramid. We had a nice sit by the pyramid.
We took the bus home to save an hour's walk in the dark. Bought two bottles of wine at a corner market, and then struck another item off our list by getting dinner at duhn duhn daa... McDonalds. I had a Royale with bacon and got miffed when the silly wench at the counter wouldn't accept my French. I was saying, "Quoi?" because she was speaking at 2 decibels in a noisy environment, not because I don't know what "Coke? Coke? Coke? Coke?" means. I just kept forging ahead with my order but had to repeat it all because she never progressed to the subroutine after "Coke?". I have two bottles of wine and it's ten o'clock. No Coke! The McDonalds tasted funny. No diarrhea though, praise be.
I wanted more fries, though. I can never get enough of McDonald's fries. The wine wasn't the greatest; I guess our expectations of French standards were a little high. That, or just not the right meal to eat with it. ;-P Found two English channels - CNN and something else. Tried to watch French TV but they spoke way too fast, even for me. And so to bed..
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Voyage à Paris - Day 2
Twelve. Hours. Of SLEEP. AWESOME. Reveille at 9:00AM and on the street by 10:00AM. Looking for a hearty breakfast we found only 2 fried eggs and 2 razor thin slices of ham and 4 pieces of toast for 20 euros!!! Holy Crap!
I decided I needed a new jacket as I felt very shabby in the city of fashion, so I kept my eye out as we headed toward Notre Dame, via Rue Sevres.
We sidetracked from our beeline to Notre Dame so we could check out Eglise Saint Sulpice. Very nice, as you'd expect. Lots of arches, lots of stones, pretty dark inside. Got lots of photos of the Rose Line featured in the Da Vinci Code, which is accompanied by several posters entitled: "The Danger of the Da Vinci Code: Lost Faith!" More savvy business practice would have been to have a stand of those cool spiked leg-torturing things that the albino monk wore. You mean the cilice.
I found my jacket in a little mall, and scored a complimentary gym bag and matching kit bag that may help us bring home lots of wine. Now when people ask where you got that awesome jacket, you can say you got it from "Somewhere", as that was the name of the store. Clever, no?
We had an emergency lunch at a pasta place. Grimbergen beer - nicht gut. I had a 7Up. I think it was the best 7Up I ever had. 25 centilitres of sugary goodness.
On to Notre Dame, at something like 2:30. We started our visit with the "crypts" underneath the spot were the Hotel Dieu stood before it burned down. Roman and medeival French sewers and cellars are intermingled, superimposed, and intertwined in something that now looks like Escher's staircases. It smells bad too. It smells like dried seaweed, like in my grandfather's basement, which is a smell I noticed first and immediately said it smelled familiar. It's because the docks of the Seine used to be further north of where they are now. On to the cathedral!
Many photo ops in front. Inside is very dark. Even on a really sunny day. We discovered the difficulties of taking pictures of dark things, and bright things, in the dark with a camera that automatically adjusts the shutter speed. No matter how steady you hold it your heart still has to beat, so it ends up fuzzy. Maybe it will make everything seem ghostly or bathed in a spiritual radiance.
Looked at the "treasures" of France and was not impressed. Everything was copies! Not so breathtaking with cubic zirconia, dudes.
We tried to get to the top of Notre Dame but the steps had been closed for the day. We made a solemn vow to return. We walked instead around the south side of the cathedral, snapping pictures of the flying buttresses. There's an awesome park with rows of trees trimmed into square hedges behind Notre Dame, filled with people sucking each other's tonsils out. Like those parks back home where people play chess, except for people who suck face. I think we have pictures.
We walked home, stopping for sushi at a place that only had pre-made maki in plastic trays. I was able to communicate my order entirely in French, though. It's nice having Nadine there, like a batter on deck, ready to jump in when the conversation goes badly for me.
Snapped some photos of L'Hotel des Invalides in the dark, and of the Eiffel Tower with epileptic strobes flashing all over it. The postcards can't really do it justice because the shutter speed is slower in the dark, so when you see a picture of the Eiffel tower all lit up--and I mean bright-white lit up--it's only because all the lights flashed once in the time it took for the shutter to close. Try to picture it with only about a quarter of the lights on, and that's what a half-second of that time is like.
I decided I needed a new jacket as I felt very shabby in the city of fashion, so I kept my eye out as we headed toward Notre Dame, via Rue Sevres.
We sidetracked from our beeline to Notre Dame so we could check out Eglise Saint Sulpice. Very nice, as you'd expect. Lots of arches, lots of stones, pretty dark inside. Got lots of photos of the Rose Line featured in the Da Vinci Code, which is accompanied by several posters entitled: "The Danger of the Da Vinci Code: Lost Faith!" More savvy business practice would have been to have a stand of those cool spiked leg-torturing things that the albino monk wore. You mean the cilice.
I found my jacket in a little mall, and scored a complimentary gym bag and matching kit bag that may help us bring home lots of wine. Now when people ask where you got that awesome jacket, you can say you got it from "Somewhere", as that was the name of the store. Clever, no?
We had an emergency lunch at a pasta place. Grimbergen beer - nicht gut. I had a 7Up. I think it was the best 7Up I ever had. 25 centilitres of sugary goodness.
On to Notre Dame, at something like 2:30. We started our visit with the "crypts" underneath the spot were the Hotel Dieu stood before it burned down. Roman and medeival French sewers and cellars are intermingled, superimposed, and intertwined in something that now looks like Escher's staircases. It smells bad too. It smells like dried seaweed, like in my grandfather's basement, which is a smell I noticed first and immediately said it smelled familiar. It's because the docks of the Seine used to be further north of where they are now. On to the cathedral!
Many photo ops in front. Inside is very dark. Even on a really sunny day. We discovered the difficulties of taking pictures of dark things, and bright things, in the dark with a camera that automatically adjusts the shutter speed. No matter how steady you hold it your heart still has to beat, so it ends up fuzzy. Maybe it will make everything seem ghostly or bathed in a spiritual radiance.
Looked at the "treasures" of France and was not impressed. Everything was copies! Not so breathtaking with cubic zirconia, dudes.
We tried to get to the top of Notre Dame but the steps had been closed for the day. We made a solemn vow to return. We walked instead around the south side of the cathedral, snapping pictures of the flying buttresses. There's an awesome park with rows of trees trimmed into square hedges behind Notre Dame, filled with people sucking each other's tonsils out. Like those parks back home where people play chess, except for people who suck face. I think we have pictures.
We walked home, stopping for sushi at a place that only had pre-made maki in plastic trays. I was able to communicate my order entirely in French, though. It's nice having Nadine there, like a batter on deck, ready to jump in when the conversation goes badly for me.
Snapped some photos of L'Hotel des Invalides in the dark, and of the Eiffel Tower with epileptic strobes flashing all over it. The postcards can't really do it justice because the shutter speed is slower in the dark, so when you see a picture of the Eiffel tower all lit up--and I mean bright-white lit up--it's only because all the lights flashed once in the time it took for the shutter to close. Try to picture it with only about a quarter of the lights on, and that's what a half-second of that time is like.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Voyage à Paris, Day/Night 1
[Note: Nadine's text in peach, Andrew's in blue.]
We have had about five hours between the two of us...oh, of sleep, I mean. See? Can't even string a sentence. Together. Arg.
Another five hour sleep stretched out on two plane seats. Felt refreshed for about twenty minutes. Not at all impressed with the subway system that was so lauded by our advisors. But I am just tired and very easily frustrated right now, so I hope to rebound tomorrow. I'm beginning to feat that I'm incapable of relaxing in foreign environments, that I can only function with routine life. It's just so demeaning to be standing in front of a multicolored wall map designed to be understood by preschoolers while native citizens jostle and zoom by with ease. I got chewed up by recalcitrant turnstiles, bleeped at by indifferent red LEDs, and trapped inside the subway system, unable to leave through the "Sortie". How can you call it a "Sortie" if you can't sort? It should be called a "Peut-être sortie".
It's much, much warmer than I expected it to be here. My legs swelled on the plane from the pressure in the cabin and the tiny amount of leg room. Now I'm wearing my wrap dress sans leggings, and my legs look fat.
We went out to dîner at this restaurant which served a teensy French steak with a heaping pile of fries (made with French potatoes) and a single leaf of lettuce. No veggies. We went to the Eiffel Tower after, which we found when we switched tables at the restaurant. Just behind me. Andrew took a picture. Then at the Tower we took about 50 more, including two from the telescope machines. Got our first glimpse of Notre Dame de Paris!!! It got cold so we went back to the hot3el. The elevator is more like a dubwaiter so we took the stairs. Did I mention we took the stairs down - and UP - the entire Tower???*
*Okay, up to the midpoint deck. Still, 668 feet!!!
We have had about five hours between the two of us...oh, of sleep, I mean. See? Can't even string a sentence. Together. Arg.
Another five hour sleep stretched out on two plane seats. Felt refreshed for about twenty minutes. Not at all impressed with the subway system that was so lauded by our advisors. But I am just tired and very easily frustrated right now, so I hope to rebound tomorrow. I'm beginning to feat that I'm incapable of relaxing in foreign environments, that I can only function with routine life. It's just so demeaning to be standing in front of a multicolored wall map designed to be understood by preschoolers while native citizens jostle and zoom by with ease. I got chewed up by recalcitrant turnstiles, bleeped at by indifferent red LEDs, and trapped inside the subway system, unable to leave through the "Sortie". How can you call it a "Sortie" if you can't sort? It should be called a "Peut-être sortie".
It's much, much warmer than I expected it to be here. My legs swelled on the plane from the pressure in the cabin and the tiny amount of leg room. Now I'm wearing my wrap dress sans leggings, and my legs look fat.
We went out to dîner at this restaurant which served a teensy French steak with a heaping pile of fries (made with French potatoes) and a single leaf of lettuce. No veggies. We went to the Eiffel Tower after, which we found when we switched tables at the restaurant. Just behind me. Andrew took a picture. Then at the Tower we took about 50 more, including two from the telescope machines. Got our first glimpse of Notre Dame de Paris!!! It got cold so we went back to the hot3el. The elevator is more like a dubwaiter so we took the stairs. Did I mention we took the stairs down - and UP - the entire Tower???*
*Okay, up to the midpoint deck. Still, 668 feet!!!
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