A few years ago, everyone I knew was getting married. Even though people are still getting married (see: the eight weddings I went to this summer besides my own), it seems like now the thing to do is have babies. Except Robyn. She's not having a baby. I asked her tonight, because hey, who knows? But she's not.
And neither am I. It's hard not to catch the baby fever, when all of my friends are such adorable pregnant ladies, and I think that I, too, will be adorable when I am pregnant, because even a sasquatch, I think, would be adorable pregnant. The only things not adorable pregnant are spiders, and they are not adorable ever. Or even tolerable.
I cannot have babies now. Joel and I just got married, and we're still working through married things. We aren't ready to work through baby things yet. Also, I have things to do that you can't do after you have a baby. Like finish school in peace. And eat a cookie without someone eyeing you, following it from the box to your mouth, and asking if they, too, can please have one. And wear a bikini to the beach. I have some very cute bikinis.
I hope we have boys. My biggest fear is having all girls, and ending up with, like, eight, because we keep trying for a boy. My second biggest fear is having both boys and girls, but having the girls take after Joel, and the boys take after me, all thin and afraid of spiders and not good at sports. Or if they're all an equal blend: Joel's chisled jaw and my rounded nose...uggers.
I hope we have boys, and they all look like Joel. What with his profusion of dominant traits (brown hair, brown eyes, etc.) I figure my recessive traits (green eyes, reddish hair, freckle-pox) will all get stomped out anyways. I do hope for one girl at the end, one that looks like me. I'd like some proof that I was present at the moment of delivery. To look at my family, you'd think my parents had just stepped out for a jug of milk when the three of us were born. Dark-haired, olive-skinned, blue-eyed brother; tall, blonde, fabulously fair sister; me. We don't even look like second cousins.
In the end, I guess that's the fun of it. Seeing which bits of my DNA and which bits of Joel's survive the selection process. It'll be like a game, and a fun game, but a game that I can totally wait to play.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
An excellent source of fiber and Vitamin A
I roasted pumpkin seeds the other day. They are cajun-spiced and delicious. They are my new favorite snack, and were essentially free (since we were going to buy the pumpkins they came in anyways). Free pumpkin seeds are, however, highly seasonal. Whatever will I do when I run out? Probably stop eating them. Alas.
PS. Nothing interesting has happened to me today.
PS. Nothing interesting has happened to me today.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
You gotta know when to hold 'em...know when to fold 'em...
Our landlords are the social-est people I know. In May they had a Pop Star Party (I went as Avril...remember? I wore sock-chucks?) and we all sang kareoke (they have their own kareoke machine). They frequently invite us to come camping/to the States/to Costco with them. They have three tenants (five if you count Joel and me in the basement, six if you count the foetus [Shari's, not mine]) taking up their personal space. If anyone has ever had the gift of hospitality, it is Dave and Shari.
Every year, around this time, they whip their house up into a casino. People get tricked out in their fancy best to come and gamble their fake money away.
Seriously, they should set this up as a community service so that people can come see what its like to go up against the house. I lost loads of fake money, and in real life there's no Baron von Dave strolling around, saying 'Hey, I'll give you $10 000 but you have to lay it all on one bet. If you win, it's yours, but if you lose, I can't help you.' No actual casino owner walks up to a poker table and says 'For the next hand, the minimum bet is $25 000 but the odds are 5 to 1.' If you go broke in the real world, you can't just deal a table for half an hour and make $50 000 so you can keep playing.
Some people were kind enough to work tables the whole night, and were paid handsomely for their pains.
Melissa and her giant foetus-belly (seems to be contagious) spinning the wheel.
Poker...always a hot game.
Andrea deals a mean blackjack.
The color-wheel is no one's friend, but it's so hard to walk away.
It goes perfectly with the ninja mask and throwing stars Joel won for me last year.
Every year, around this time, they whip their house up into a casino. People get tricked out in their fancy best to come and gamble their fake money away.
Seriously, they should set this up as a community service so that people can come see what its like to go up against the house. I lost loads of fake money, and in real life there's no Baron von Dave strolling around, saying 'Hey, I'll give you $10 000 but you have to lay it all on one bet. If you win, it's yours, but if you lose, I can't help you.' No actual casino owner walks up to a poker table and says 'For the next hand, the minimum bet is $25 000 but the odds are 5 to 1.' If you go broke in the real world, you can't just deal a table for half an hour and make $50 000 so you can keep playing.Some people were kind enough to work tables the whole night, and were paid handsomely for their pains.
Melissa and her giant foetus-belly (seems to be contagious) spinning the wheel.
Poker...always a hot game.
Andrea deals a mean blackjack. The color-wheel is no one's friend, but it's so hard to walk away. What does one do, in the end, with thousands of fake dollars? Why, one bids with it! What's this? A gift card to the Olive Garden? Going once...going twice...SOLD for three hundred thousand dollars!!!
Joel and I turned out to be (perhaps unsurprisingly) poor gamblers, but with our deep Mennonite roots we are sharp and shrewd bidders. With our mere hundred and fifty thousand dollars, we walked away with the second Austin Powers movie, six chocolate bars, and nunchucks and a beating-stick!
It goes perfectly with the ninja mask and throwing stars Joel won for me last year.Saturday, October 27, 2007
Garbage day
Whenever there's a long weekend, garbage day shifts back a day. I know that this is no problem for ordinary, responsible people, but we're still struggling to not put plates on top of the computer or use the bookshelf as a coffee table.
Now, I know it could be worse (remember when I lived in the Mt Waddington house? We'd fill the full-sized garbage can in the kitchen every two days or so, and then just toss in into the garage to wait for garbage day, which we would inevitably forget until we had thirty or forty garbage bags in there, and then we'd have to cast around for someone who owned a truck, but not a nice one, because we didn't want to throw our rotting detritus in a nice truck, and not the last person who helped us out, because we couldn't stomach telling someone that yes, we'd done it again and could we please borrow their truck again. Side story: there was a pool table taking up the middle of the garage, and the mail slot was in the door on the far side, but you couldn't just open that door to get the mail because we'd accidentally jammed it shut, so you had to go in through the house/garage door and down the Walk of Terror between the pool table and the Temple of Refuse in order to get the mail. Usually, two people would come to the door and holler 'RAT' because then the rat would move, and we would know that it was across the garage - in the pile of old coffee makers, say - and not in the garbage, and then one of us would proceed to fetch the mail while the other kept a wary eye out. So one time, Chels was keeping the eye out and I was fetching the mail and the rat was up in its ceiling hidey-hole and I turned to come back, and the garbage bags rustled. They rustled, people! Rat-rustled! That meant we had two or more rats! We both stood there and screeched until I could summon the courage to dash up the Walk of Terror and back into the house. The mail was just junk and bills. return-to-story-sum-up after ridiculously long tangent - Joel, me, garbage day) and I know that, relatively speaking, two people make very little garbage at all, but we've missed every garbage day since ours moved to Friday (that's two, if you're counting) because who thinks of garbage on a Friday? Fridays, you're thinking about the things you have to get done so you an enjoy your weekend, you're thinking about sleeping in, and Halloween, and whatever. You aren't thinking about taking out the garbage.
Yesterday, I was hanging out with the A-A-A-Team, and because of the strike we couldn't make our annual trip to the Stanley Park Spooky Train so we opted to go out for dinner and then carve pumpkins instead. I asked for the pumpkin seeds, because I'm convinced I'm going to roast them and then munch them as a healthy snack, and four pumpkins is a lot of pumpkin seeds. I would have loved to have taken the whole bag of flesh home with me, spread it out somewhere, and picked the seeds out that way, but then I'd be left with this bag of seedless flesh and, as previously mentioned, Joel and I have forgotted garbage day twice. That is to say, we have no room for unnecessary bags of flesh. So I had to go through the bucket while the boys were dumping their pumpkin-face-parts into it, picking out slippery seeds and generally getting slimed. It was both hilarious and nasty.
My pumpkin looks awesome. I will post a picture for you later.
Now, I know it could be worse (remember when I lived in the Mt Waddington house? We'd fill the full-sized garbage can in the kitchen every two days or so, and then just toss in into the garage to wait for garbage day, which we would inevitably forget until we had thirty or forty garbage bags in there, and then we'd have to cast around for someone who owned a truck, but not a nice one, because we didn't want to throw our rotting detritus in a nice truck, and not the last person who helped us out, because we couldn't stomach telling someone that yes, we'd done it again and could we please borrow their truck again. Side story: there was a pool table taking up the middle of the garage, and the mail slot was in the door on the far side, but you couldn't just open that door to get the mail because we'd accidentally jammed it shut, so you had to go in through the house/garage door and down the Walk of Terror between the pool table and the Temple of Refuse in order to get the mail. Usually, two people would come to the door and holler 'RAT' because then the rat would move, and we would know that it was across the garage - in the pile of old coffee makers, say - and not in the garbage, and then one of us would proceed to fetch the mail while the other kept a wary eye out. So one time, Chels was keeping the eye out and I was fetching the mail and the rat was up in its ceiling hidey-hole and I turned to come back, and the garbage bags rustled. They rustled, people! Rat-rustled! That meant we had two or more rats! We both stood there and screeched until I could summon the courage to dash up the Walk of Terror and back into the house. The mail was just junk and bills. return-to-story-sum-up after ridiculously long tangent - Joel, me, garbage day) and I know that, relatively speaking, two people make very little garbage at all, but we've missed every garbage day since ours moved to Friday (that's two, if you're counting) because who thinks of garbage on a Friday? Fridays, you're thinking about the things you have to get done so you an enjoy your weekend, you're thinking about sleeping in, and Halloween, and whatever. You aren't thinking about taking out the garbage.
Yesterday, I was hanging out with the A-A-A-Team, and because of the strike we couldn't make our annual trip to the Stanley Park Spooky Train so we opted to go out for dinner and then carve pumpkins instead. I asked for the pumpkin seeds, because I'm convinced I'm going to roast them and then munch them as a healthy snack, and four pumpkins is a lot of pumpkin seeds. I would have loved to have taken the whole bag of flesh home with me, spread it out somewhere, and picked the seeds out that way, but then I'd be left with this bag of seedless flesh and, as previously mentioned, Joel and I have forgotted garbage day twice. That is to say, we have no room for unnecessary bags of flesh. So I had to go through the bucket while the boys were dumping their pumpkin-face-parts into it, picking out slippery seeds and generally getting slimed. It was both hilarious and nasty.
My pumpkin looks awesome. I will post a picture for you later.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Rime of the Ancient Three-Hour Tour
A few weeks ago, a girl in my Vic Lit class pipes up with 'Did you know that you can sing The Rime of the Ancient Mariner to the tune of the Gilligan's Island theme song?' This being precisely the sort of useless trivia we book-nerds love, I filed that away for future use.
This morning I phoned my sister on the way to school to tell her how I was reading The Rime for my Brit Lit class, and how I couldn't not read it to the tune of Gilligan's Island, and how that made it much less ominous.
'I never thought it was all that ominous,' she says. 'I always thought it was kind of funny.'
'Not that ominous?' I say. 'His entire crew drops soundlessly dead! They are re-animated by spirits not their own, and the ship is manned by a zombie crew! How is that not ominous?'
Oh, you haven't read? Please, read the thing in its entirety here, or allow me to paraphrase.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner: A Cautionary Tale - By Samuel Coleridge (paraphrase by Rachel Krueger)
A man, lets call him Billiam, is heading into a wedding with two of his friends when he is grabbed by a ragged old sailor. 'There was a ship,' begins the old man without any preamble. Billiam does exactly what I would do in this situation, that is, hollar 'hold off! Unhand me, grey-beard loon!' and so the mariner lets him go, but he voodoos him with his eye, and Billiam is forced to sit on a rock and listen to his tale of woe.
'We were in a ship, and we sailed to the equator' says the mariner in about eight times as many words. Billiam can see that this is going to take a while, and he hears the music and splashing of beer from inside the hall, so he raises a bit of a fuss. As old people are wont to do, the mariner talks right over him, carrying on about his ship, and how a storm blew them to the South Pole. From the equator. Likely.
So they're in the South Pole, with ice and snow and mist, and there's no wind and they're stuck. This is before radios. All of a sudden, an albatross appears out of the fog, and they turn it into a pet, and hey presto! Wind. The wind begins blowing them back north and the albatross frolicks with them daily, and things are hunky dory.
'Then how come you look like death warmed over?' asks Billiam.
'I cross-bowed the albatross.'
For NO reason! It was their pet! It brought them wind! And look! Albatrosses! Cute!
The sailors, being superstitious like they are, immediately think that this will bring them bad luck, and damn the mariner's eyes. Oddly, the wind continues to blow, and the fog dissipates. Clearly now, it was the albatross that brought the fog, and the sailors hoist the mariner on their shoulders and mumble 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' into their grog.
Except whoops. The breeze dies again, and now they're far from real land and ice-land. Not a word of a lie, this was a question on my English Lit 12 final:
Fill in the blank.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to .
You get an A+.
Ok, so there's no water. Everyone is drying up and parching, and they hang the albatross' carcass (why do they still have it?) around the mariner's neck as punishment. Days and days go by, until one day they spot a speck in the distance. No one can call out 'Ship, ho!' or whatever, presumably because their mouths are so dry, but what with everyone staring in the same direction, you'd think no one needed to. The mariner needs to, apparently, so he bites his arm and sucks his blood to moisten his mouth enough to tell them all what they already know. Awesome.
Unfortunately, this ship is helmed by Nightmare Life-In-Death (who I think taught one of my classes), and within moments the entire crew has dropped dead on the deck. Except the mariner.
Here, Billiam pipes in again, saying that the mariner is gross-looking and he (Billiam) is afraid of him (the gross-looking mariner). The mariner seeks to reassure him by insisting that he's not a ghost. I think the problem was just his sea-salty breath, but whatever.
H'anyways, for seven days the mariner is stuck on this motionless ship while the corpses of his comrades stare bloody vengeance at him. This goes creepily on for about twelve stanzas, and then he loses the albatross necklace. They are so 1844.
Some sleeping and some raining and some other uneventful happenings take up more than their fair share of lines, and then the corpses (presumably rotting, what with all this unbearable heat and then rain and then more heat) get up and man their posts and go on sailing as though nothing much had happened.
Again, Billiam pipes up with his 'I fear thee, ancient mariner!'
'Calm down,' says the ancient mariner. 'It wasn't their own spirits come back to animate them, it was a whole new batch of ghosts.' Well, I'm relieved.
Ok, zombie crew, unknown spirits, but at least the ship is moving and now there are birds chirping and flitting through the air. This is, as Ancient Mariner scenes go, a pleasant little picture. And then there is a bunch of foolishness, because we find out that it is the Spirit of the South Pole that has been moving the ship this whole time, and not the albatross or the wind, and so the ship stops at the equator (because the Spirit of the South Pole can't go past into the North, see), but then lurches forward again for no discernable reason. The mariner swoons so that this whole part doesn't have to be explained, and when he comes to, he hears voices.
'Is this the guy that shot the albatross? Why would he do that? Albatrosses are cute!'
'Don't worry, he'll get his. By the bye, it's the moon that's making the ship go now.'
Ok, what? The moon? There is no sense in this.
So, the mariner comes fully to, and the ship is sailing merrily, and the sailor-zombies are still standing and staring at him, and what with one description of breeze and another, the ship sails into shore. A boat containing a hermit and a man and a boy comes out to meet it and the ship sinks, but everyone knows that ancient mariners float, so the hermit et al. scoop up the mariner and the boy goes instantly mad and the mariner rows the boat ashore. Whew, yes? No.
The mariner asks the hermit to absolve him of his albatrosscide. The hermit wants to know what his deal is, and the mariner feels this sudden, burning compulsion to tell all. Since then, from time to time he has been possessed with this same drive and is in agony until he finds the person he has to tell his story to, the person to whom he must teach the 'Don't kill things for no reason' moral. Fair penance, I'd say.
This brings us back to our fair Billiam, who has by now missed the entire wedding. He goes home and to bed, a much sadder man, but having learned a valuable lesson.
And that concludes your literature lesson for the day. Class dismissed.
This morning I phoned my sister on the way to school to tell her how I was reading The Rime for my Brit Lit class, and how I couldn't not read it to the tune of Gilligan's Island, and how that made it much less ominous.
'I never thought it was all that ominous,' she says. 'I always thought it was kind of funny.'
'Not that ominous?' I say. 'His entire crew drops soundlessly dead! They are re-animated by spirits not their own, and the ship is manned by a zombie crew! How is that not ominous?'
Oh, you haven't read? Please, read the thing in its entirety here, or allow me to paraphrase.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner: A Cautionary Tale - By Samuel Coleridge (paraphrase by Rachel Krueger)
A man, lets call him Billiam, is heading into a wedding with two of his friends when he is grabbed by a ragged old sailor. 'There was a ship,' begins the old man without any preamble. Billiam does exactly what I would do in this situation, that is, hollar 'hold off! Unhand me, grey-beard loon!' and so the mariner lets him go, but he voodoos him with his eye, and Billiam is forced to sit on a rock and listen to his tale of woe.
'We were in a ship, and we sailed to the equator' says the mariner in about eight times as many words. Billiam can see that this is going to take a while, and he hears the music and splashing of beer from inside the hall, so he raises a bit of a fuss. As old people are wont to do, the mariner talks right over him, carrying on about his ship, and how a storm blew them to the South Pole. From the equator. Likely.
So they're in the South Pole, with ice and snow and mist, and there's no wind and they're stuck. This is before radios. All of a sudden, an albatross appears out of the fog, and they turn it into a pet, and hey presto! Wind. The wind begins blowing them back north and the albatross frolicks with them daily, and things are hunky dory.
'Then how come you look like death warmed over?' asks Billiam.
'I cross-bowed the albatross.'
For NO reason! It was their pet! It brought them wind! And look! Albatrosses! Cute!
The sailors, being superstitious like they are, immediately think that this will bring them bad luck, and damn the mariner's eyes. Oddly, the wind continues to blow, and the fog dissipates. Clearly now, it was the albatross that brought the fog, and the sailors hoist the mariner on their shoulders and mumble 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' into their grog.Except whoops. The breeze dies again, and now they're far from real land and ice-land. Not a word of a lie, this was a question on my English Lit 12 final:
Fill in the blank.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to .
You get an A+.
Ok, so there's no water. Everyone is drying up and parching, and they hang the albatross' carcass (why do they still have it?) around the mariner's neck as punishment. Days and days go by, until one day they spot a speck in the distance. No one can call out 'Ship, ho!' or whatever, presumably because their mouths are so dry, but what with everyone staring in the same direction, you'd think no one needed to. The mariner needs to, apparently, so he bites his arm and sucks his blood to moisten his mouth enough to tell them all what they already know. Awesome.
Unfortunately, this ship is helmed by Nightmare Life-In-Death (who I think taught one of my classes), and within moments the entire crew has dropped dead on the deck. Except the mariner.
Here, Billiam pipes in again, saying that the mariner is gross-looking and he (Billiam) is afraid of him (the gross-looking mariner). The mariner seeks to reassure him by insisting that he's not a ghost. I think the problem was just his sea-salty breath, but whatever.
H'anyways, for seven days the mariner is stuck on this motionless ship while the corpses of his comrades stare bloody vengeance at him. This goes creepily on for about twelve stanzas, and then he loses the albatross necklace. They are so 1844.
Some sleeping and some raining and some other uneventful happenings take up more than their fair share of lines, and then the corpses (presumably rotting, what with all this unbearable heat and then rain and then more heat) get up and man their posts and go on sailing as though nothing much had happened.
Again, Billiam pipes up with his 'I fear thee, ancient mariner!'
'Calm down,' says the ancient mariner. 'It wasn't their own spirits come back to animate them, it was a whole new batch of ghosts.' Well, I'm relieved.
Ok, zombie crew, unknown spirits, but at least the ship is moving and now there are birds chirping and flitting through the air. This is, as Ancient Mariner scenes go, a pleasant little picture. And then there is a bunch of foolishness, because we find out that it is the Spirit of the South Pole that has been moving the ship this whole time, and not the albatross or the wind, and so the ship stops at the equator (because the Spirit of the South Pole can't go past into the North, see), but then lurches forward again for no discernable reason. The mariner swoons so that this whole part doesn't have to be explained, and when he comes to, he hears voices.
'Is this the guy that shot the albatross? Why would he do that? Albatrosses are cute!'
'Don't worry, he'll get his. By the bye, it's the moon that's making the ship go now.'
Ok, what? The moon? There is no sense in this.
So, the mariner comes fully to, and the ship is sailing merrily, and the sailor-zombies are still standing and staring at him, and what with one description of breeze and another, the ship sails into shore. A boat containing a hermit and a man and a boy comes out to meet it and the ship sinks, but everyone knows that ancient mariners float, so the hermit et al. scoop up the mariner and the boy goes instantly mad and the mariner rows the boat ashore. Whew, yes? No.
The mariner asks the hermit to absolve him of his albatrosscide. The hermit wants to know what his deal is, and the mariner feels this sudden, burning compulsion to tell all. Since then, from time to time he has been possessed with this same drive and is in agony until he finds the person he has to tell his story to, the person to whom he must teach the 'Don't kill things for no reason' moral. Fair penance, I'd say.
This brings us back to our fair Billiam, who has by now missed the entire wedding. He goes home and to bed, a much sadder man, but having learned a valuable lesson.
And that concludes your literature lesson for the day. Class dismissed.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Books are delicious
Ok folks, I have a paper to write and several mad headaches, so something something something, this is a list of books I got third-hand off Jane's blog, and you have to:
Bold the ones you've read, italicize the ones you started but couldn't finish, use red text on the ones you really sort of hated, put an asterisk* next to the ones you've read more than once, and use blue text on the ones on your own personal To Be Read list.
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Anna Karenina
Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Wuthering Heights
The Silmarillion*
Life of Pi
The Name of the Rose
Don Quixote
Moby Dick
Ulysses
Madame Bovary
The Odyssey
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre*****
A Tale of Two Cities*
The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
War and Peace
Vanity Fair
The Time Traveller’s Wife
The Iliad
Emma
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs Dalloway
Great Expectations
American Gods
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Atlas Shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran: a memoir in books
Memoirs of a Geisha*
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West*
The Canterbury Tales
The Historian : a novel
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Love in the Time of Cholera
Brave New World*
The Fountainhead
Foucault’s Pendulum
Middlemarch
Frankenstein
The Count of Monte Cristo*
Dracula
A Clockwork Orange
Anansi Boys
The Once and Future King*
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible*
1984*
Angels & Demons
The Inferno
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest*
To the Lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Oliver Twist*
Gulliver’s Travels
Les Misérables
The Corrections
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime
Dune
The Prince
The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes*
The God of Small Things
A people’s history of the United States : 1492-present
Cryptonomicon
Confederacy of Dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything*
Dubliners
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-five
The Scarlet Letter*
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake
Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed
Cloud Atlas
The Confusion
Lolita
Persuasion
Northanger Abbey
The Catcher in the Rye*
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics : a Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
The Aeneid
Watership Down*
Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit*
In Cold Blood
White teeth
Treasure Island
David Copperfield
The Three Musketeers
Loads of books that I loved. A surprising number of books that I sort of hated, and I don't hate a lot of books. Come, play along, friends.
Bold the ones you've read, italicize the ones you started but couldn't finish, use red text on the ones you really sort of hated, put an asterisk* next to the ones you've read more than once, and use blue text on the ones on your own personal To Be Read list.
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Anna Karenina
Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Wuthering Heights
The Silmarillion*
Life of Pi
The Name of the Rose
Don Quixote
Moby Dick
Ulysses
Madame Bovary
The Odyssey
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre*****
A Tale of Two Cities*
The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
War and Peace
Vanity Fair
The Time Traveller’s Wife
The Iliad
Emma
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs Dalloway
Great Expectations
American Gods
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Atlas Shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran: a memoir in books
Memoirs of a Geisha*
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West*
The Canterbury Tales
The Historian : a novel
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Love in the Time of Cholera
Brave New World*
The Fountainhead
Foucault’s Pendulum
Middlemarch
Frankenstein
The Count of Monte Cristo*
Dracula
A Clockwork Orange
Anansi Boys
The Once and Future King*
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible*
1984*
Angels & Demons
The Inferno
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest*
To the Lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Oliver Twist*
Gulliver’s Travels
Les Misérables
The Corrections
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime
Dune
The Prince
The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes*
The God of Small Things
A people’s history of the United States : 1492-present
Cryptonomicon
Confederacy of Dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything*
Dubliners
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-five
The Scarlet Letter*
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake
Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed
Cloud Atlas
The Confusion
Lolita
Persuasion
Northanger Abbey
The Catcher in the Rye*
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics : a Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
The Aeneid
Watership Down*
Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit*
In Cold Blood
White teeth
Treasure Island
David Copperfield
The Three Musketeers
Loads of books that I loved. A surprising number of books that I sort of hated, and I don't hate a lot of books. Come, play along, friends.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
My dollar can beat up your dollar
Remember when you'd get an American quarter back in your change, and you'd think, sweet, I just made, like, an eighth of a cent! And how now when you get an American quarter back in your change, you feel ripped off?
So, I went into the bank today with my sixty Canadian dollars, and came out with sixty American dollars and seventy-one American cents. What did I buy with those American dollars and cents? I bought three books (David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas and his Black Swan Green, which are both amazing books, and Stiff: The Curious Life of Human Cadavers, which is about what happens to bodies when they die) because books are fabulous and cheap down south, and I bought a shirt at Old Navy for four dollars, because if you are extra-small or extra-large, you can shop in the discount section, and I bought a taco on the way down, and a Sourdough Jack on the way back, and we stopped at Edaleen Dairy where a cone is a dollar and a child's cone is thirty-five cents, and yes I did get two child's cones because then your two flavors aren't touching. And I coated myself in various hand creams from the Bath & Body Works, and now I'm horribly fragrant.
So, I went into the bank today with my sixty Canadian dollars, and came out with sixty American dollars and seventy-one American cents. What did I buy with those American dollars and cents? I bought three books (David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas and his Black Swan Green, which are both amazing books, and Stiff: The Curious Life of Human Cadavers, which is about what happens to bodies when they die) because books are fabulous and cheap down south, and I bought a shirt at Old Navy for four dollars, because if you are extra-small or extra-large, you can shop in the discount section, and I bought a taco on the way down, and a Sourdough Jack on the way back, and we stopped at Edaleen Dairy where a cone is a dollar and a child's cone is thirty-five cents, and yes I did get two child's cones because then your two flavors aren't touching. And I coated myself in various hand creams from the Bath & Body Works, and now I'm horribly fragrant.
A handful of updates
Greets, all. Sorry for the three-day silence over on this end, but I've had things to do. Things that rhyme with ridterms and pesearch mapers, and aren't very interesting. A few things of note have happened, and you may read about them below.
Remember this guy? The guy who painted the curb yellow so that people wouldn't park across the street from his house? Remember the mushroom manure truck? Shocking new development, people. The mushroom manure truck BELONGS TO THIS GUY!!! Yes, let me reiterate: he is using up ALL of the road-parking-space that isn't across from his house, and then chewing people out for parking across from his house. It's like if I ate half of the communal pie, and then when Joel went to get a piece, I was all 'Hey, don't eat that! That's my half of the pie!'
Also, remember when that woman asked me if I could turn the volume of my laptop's fan down? So, I didn't bring the laptop to class the following week because I don't need that kind of antagonism, and the week after was Thanksgiving, so, no class, and then this past Monday I bring old Ahsley to class because she's quieter(ish), and I sit down and pull her out and the woman says to me, in all seriousness...'Is that thing going to make noise again? Because if it is, I'm going to beat it.' Going...to...beat it? With a hammer? Your fists? Your really bad attitude? For real.
Nothing else exciting is going on, except that my one eyebrow is molting again. And I have chronic headaches from all the computer-screen-staring that I do. And two more of Joel's fish died, but ever since Father William passed, I can't bring myself to care. And I drove to Walmart.
Remember this guy? The guy who painted the curb yellow so that people wouldn't park across the street from his house? Remember the mushroom manure truck? Shocking new development, people. The mushroom manure truck BELONGS TO THIS GUY!!! Yes, let me reiterate: he is using up ALL of the road-parking-space that isn't across from his house, and then chewing people out for parking across from his house. It's like if I ate half of the communal pie, and then when Joel went to get a piece, I was all 'Hey, don't eat that! That's my half of the pie!'
Also, remember when that woman asked me if I could turn the volume of my laptop's fan down? So, I didn't bring the laptop to class the following week because I don't need that kind of antagonism, and the week after was Thanksgiving, so, no class, and then this past Monday I bring old Ahsley to class because she's quieter(ish), and I sit down and pull her out and the woman says to me, in all seriousness...'Is that thing going to make noise again? Because if it is, I'm going to beat it.' Going...to...beat it? With a hammer? Your fists? Your really bad attitude? For real.
Nothing else exciting is going on, except that my one eyebrow is molting again. And I have chronic headaches from all the computer-screen-staring that I do. And two more of Joel's fish died, but ever since Father William passed, I can't bring myself to care. And I drove to Walmart.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Great Hip Debacle of 2002
'People. For months I have had very limited mobility and shooting pains in that leg. And all I needed to do was get it stretched and thumbed?
Am I the dumbest blonde that ever lived?'
No, Jane, as long as Paris Hilton walks the earth, and Lindsay Lo keeps bleaching her hair, you will not be the dumbest blonde that ever lived. And as far as hip-things go...
In my first year of college, I developed a bit of a hip problem. When I woke up in the morning, I'd be fine, and then by the end of the day I could barely walk. The area just inside my hip bone would feel like wasabi tastes, and I would actually make people carry me from...the cafeteria to dorms, say. It seemed the more steps I took in a day, the sooner I'd be incapacitated and, since I had no car, I took a lot of steps. I learned to take fewer steps. I spent a lot of time in my room, but I was also seeing this guy, and since he couldn't very well come up to my room (dorms, remember), he was usually the one carrying me home from the park, or the coffee shop, or what have you. Fun, but also embarassing, and also my hip hurt.
This went on for over a month.
Since I was becoming less mobile as days went on, and it was becoming a matter of some distress simply to make it to class and to meals and back, I finally caved and went to the clinic. 'Now what you have here,' said the doctor, after poking around at my thigh-crease for a while (no peppy 22-yr-old guys for me, Jane. This was a middle-aged lady, and I almost cried with relief), 'you have yourself an inflamed lymph node, and every time you step, the muscles are pinching it, and that's why it hurts so much by the end of the day. That's not supposed to happen. Take two ibuprophen, three times a day, and the problem should go away pretty quickly.'
Two days. I was right as rain in two days!!! I had been in unbelievable pain for over a month, and all I needed was some Advil and two days!!!!!!!
Jane, I hope this makes you feel better.
Am I the dumbest blonde that ever lived?'
No, Jane, as long as Paris Hilton walks the earth, and Lindsay Lo keeps bleaching her hair, you will not be the dumbest blonde that ever lived. And as far as hip-things go...
In my first year of college, I developed a bit of a hip problem. When I woke up in the morning, I'd be fine, and then by the end of the day I could barely walk. The area just inside my hip bone would feel like wasabi tastes, and I would actually make people carry me from...the cafeteria to dorms, say. It seemed the more steps I took in a day, the sooner I'd be incapacitated and, since I had no car, I took a lot of steps. I learned to take fewer steps. I spent a lot of time in my room, but I was also seeing this guy, and since he couldn't very well come up to my room (dorms, remember), he was usually the one carrying me home from the park, or the coffee shop, or what have you. Fun, but also embarassing, and also my hip hurt.
This went on for over a month.
Since I was becoming less mobile as days went on, and it was becoming a matter of some distress simply to make it to class and to meals and back, I finally caved and went to the clinic. 'Now what you have here,' said the doctor, after poking around at my thigh-crease for a while (no peppy 22-yr-old guys for me, Jane. This was a middle-aged lady, and I almost cried with relief), 'you have yourself an inflamed lymph node, and every time you step, the muscles are pinching it, and that's why it hurts so much by the end of the day. That's not supposed to happen. Take two ibuprophen, three times a day, and the problem should go away pretty quickly.'
Two days. I was right as rain in two days!!! I had been in unbelievable pain for over a month, and all I needed was some Advil and two days!!!!!!!
Jane, I hope this makes you feel better.
Monday, October 15, 2007
It's as though I'd forgotten about one of my children.
Hey there, folken. So, over the weekend I remembered that I have a second blog! One where I talk about books! I know, crazy, hey? So I spent a few hours that I should have spent writing papers fiddling around over there. You should go check it out, link's on the right. There's this awesome widget full of books that I want to read, and if you click the 'Good Reads' at the bottom of that, it'll take you to my bookshelf (i.e. every book I've ever read or am reading or want to read) and then you should make your own bookshelf, and then we should be book-friends. It's quite fun.
Other things I did this weekend, when I should have been comparing and contrasting the thoughts of Carlyle, Mill, and Arnold on personal freedom, include helping the landlords build the Great Wall of Saysomsack (they're landscaping their backyard, I wish I'd taken before-and-after pictures because it's coming along exHAUSTingly. I mean...radly) and partaking in a fabulous steak dinner. For reals, any of you want me to come help you landscape, and then to feed me steak? You just gotta come pick me up first, because I still don't drive.
Also, I spent more time than is natural in my pink bathrobe and slippers, shaking my fist and telling kids to get off my lawn.
Other things I did this weekend, when I should have been comparing and contrasting the thoughts of Carlyle, Mill, and Arnold on personal freedom, include helping the landlords build the Great Wall of Saysomsack (they're landscaping their backyard, I wish I'd taken before-and-after pictures because it's coming along exHAUSTingly. I mean...radly) and partaking in a fabulous steak dinner. For reals, any of you want me to come help you landscape, and then to feed me steak? You just gotta come pick me up first, because I still don't drive.
Also, I spent more time than is natural in my pink bathrobe and slippers, shaking my fist and telling kids to get off my lawn.
Friday, October 12, 2007
When snacks attack
Joel just opened a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips which, as we all know, are Satan's snacks. However, since I need salt and grease to live, I took three and only three from the bag. However also, since I burned the roof of my mouth yesterday and it is all raw and tender, the first bite of Satan-chip gave me a little taste of hell. However the third, since I had these three chips in my hand I felt compelled to eat them, despite the severe and intense agony doing so brought me.
You understand how it is. I know you.
You understand how it is. I know you.
Little known fact
Dear Internet,
Did you know that Bekah and I are twins? It's ok. We only just discovered it ourselves. Fraternal twins, obviously. She is blonde. AND she was crazy late (about a year-and-a-half), while I was mad early (also about a year-and-a-half), but that, I think, only accentuates our twinness. Like how Ashley Olsen is all chic and kind of fabulous, and Mary-Kate is a bit of a scruffy rag-bag who can't be convinced to eat food. Different, see? Likewise, we (being twins) are different. But similar. Because we are twins. I present, for your examination, some of our twin-features.
Exhibit A: Squinty eyes and double-chins
Exhibit B: Troll-doll hair
Exhibit C: Deep nostrils
Exhibit D: This is a re-enactment of our womb-phase. See how her enlongated nose fits neatly against my truncated one? Like puzzle pieces.
Now, I know what you're saying, Internet. Similar features (as evidenced above) can be found amongst siblings (see: Joel's entire family), and re-enactments can be falsified. However, all doubt has been removed with this, Exhibit E: An ultra-sound of us actually IN THE WOMB, still in our aquarius state.
Undeniable, no?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Someday, when we're rich, this'll all just be a hazy memory
Joel has been spending every stray second of the past month applying for med school. No jokes.
UBC? They want to know everything about you. They want to know every experience you've ever had, and they want a contact name, number, and email address to verify that experience. Took guitar lessons when you were eighteen? Track down that mid-twenties Bible-school student who taught you, because you'll need his contact info. Hiked up Mount Cheam and want to put it under Outdoor Activities? It best not have been with a sibling, because family members aren't legitimate contacts. Don't remember the name, course number, and grade you received in every post-secondary education class you've ever taken? You'd better unearth that information, friend, because they need to know.
The University of Alberta is the application Nazi. You must complete the application within seventy-two hours of having begun. If you make a mistake, it is irreparable, and you must start a new application. The application will time out after ten minutes, so you must log out every nine-and-a-half minutes, and log back in, which severly cuts into your seventy-two hours.
The Dalhousie (Halifax) application can't be filled out online. You have to copy it onto a sheet of papyrus, put the completed form into a wineskin, and dangle it from the post-hook outside the general store. The CN Rail will grab it on their way by.
The University of Toronto...well...it's in Toronto, and we're not applying there.
UBC? They want to know everything about you. They want to know every experience you've ever had, and they want a contact name, number, and email address to verify that experience. Took guitar lessons when you were eighteen? Track down that mid-twenties Bible-school student who taught you, because you'll need his contact info. Hiked up Mount Cheam and want to put it under Outdoor Activities? It best not have been with a sibling, because family members aren't legitimate contacts. Don't remember the name, course number, and grade you received in every post-secondary education class you've ever taken? You'd better unearth that information, friend, because they need to know.
The University of Alberta is the application Nazi. You must complete the application within seventy-two hours of having begun. If you make a mistake, it is irreparable, and you must start a new application. The application will time out after ten minutes, so you must log out every nine-and-a-half minutes, and log back in, which severly cuts into your seventy-two hours.
The Dalhousie (Halifax) application can't be filled out online. You have to copy it onto a sheet of papyrus, put the completed form into a wineskin, and dangle it from the post-hook outside the general store. The CN Rail will grab it on their way by.
The University of Toronto...well...it's in Toronto, and we're not applying there.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Happy sandwich
Happy thing:
Casey and Lara got married! That's the last wedding now until February (rad), and it was lurvly despite having been reassembled in a few days. Also, check out the bridesmaids.
Cute, no? So much less than hideous. This is something I would strut the town in (the skirts are, in real life, grey and matte, not green and shiny. Cameras are funny). Check the teeny lace gloves.Sad thing:
Father William passed on. Here he is, while he still lived, gazing at himself in the glass. Rest in peace, you white, whiskery, narcissistic darling.
Happy thing:
My dad disassembled the laptop to clean out the fan so that it would stop making that whirring, grinding noise. It now whirrs maybe half as loud, and kicks in about a quarter as often. No one in my class today sat up and looked around as if to say 'What is that noise? Do you hear that?' every five minutes. It was awesome. Also, a new version of Microsoft Office is on its way to my house RIGHT NOW! It will replace my fabulous Office 2000. I am in the lap of luxury.
Monday, October 08, 2007
I'd rather be a hyena
My family's ideal holiday celebration is to eat a large meal and then to gather around the television and watch Planet of the Apes or Ben Hur (one of which is, oddly, always on TV on Christmas), or a nature documentary.
So today, we're watching the fabulous Planet Earth series and there's this one segment on these African elephants, and they're making their yearly pilgramage towards water and they get caught in a dust storm and their only hope is a copse of trees some hundreds of meters away, but what with the dust and all it's difficult for the pack to stay together and to keep its sense of direction and then the camera cuts to a baby elephant and its mother. The baby elephant is struggling to stay close and then it bonks into a tree, isn't it cute and don't we hope it'll survive? Most of the herd has reached the trees by now, but the mama-lephant and the baby are still wandering in the dust, and hands are clenched and hearts are racing and then phew! They reach safety and join the remainder of the herd, and a sigh of relief is heard around the world.
But what's this? The camera pans back to show another elephant, staggering and clearly near the end of its rope, but doggedly following the tracks of its fellows. As the camera pans back still further, you see that it is following them in the wrong direction, that the trees lie so close behind it, could it but see through the dust, and that for miles and miles in the way that it is headed, there is nothing but dry, barren dirt.
It was the most hopeless thing I think I've ever seen. I am thankful that I am not that elephant.
So today, we're watching the fabulous Planet Earth series and there's this one segment on these African elephants, and they're making their yearly pilgramage towards water and they get caught in a dust storm and their only hope is a copse of trees some hundreds of meters away, but what with the dust and all it's difficult for the pack to stay together and to keep its sense of direction and then the camera cuts to a baby elephant and its mother. The baby elephant is struggling to stay close and then it bonks into a tree, isn't it cute and don't we hope it'll survive? Most of the herd has reached the trees by now, but the mama-lephant and the baby are still wandering in the dust, and hands are clenched and hearts are racing and then phew! They reach safety and join the remainder of the herd, and a sigh of relief is heard around the world.
But what's this? The camera pans back to show another elephant, staggering and clearly near the end of its rope, but doggedly following the tracks of its fellows. As the camera pans back still further, you see that it is following them in the wrong direction, that the trees lie so close behind it, could it but see through the dust, and that for miles and miles in the way that it is headed, there is nothing but dry, barren dirt.
It was the most hopeless thing I think I've ever seen. I am thankful that I am not that elephant.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
In which I conduct an experiment
So this one time, when I was living up by Blueridge (again, nowheresville, substantial walk to the bus stop) and working at Red Robin (15 minute bus ride OR an hour's walk away), I was waiting for the bus so I could go in and work a Sunday night shift. I liked to catch the bus that came a half hour before my shift, so that I could get to work 15 minutes early, and not have to walk straight up to my three new tables. So I'm waiting, and waiting, and the bus isn't coming, and it's ten minutes late now, now fifteen, now twenty. So I phone in with 5 minutes to spare to let Rich know that my bus didn't come, and I'm going to catch the next one, and I'll be probably twenty minutes late. So I'm waiting, and waiting, and ten minutes go by, and the next bus doesn't come either.
By this time, I'm pacing like mad, because I know that if I walk, I'll be over an hour late and have screwed everyone over, because it's that initial dinner rush where you need all your hands on deck, but if I continue to wait for the bus, I just might not make it into work at all. This guy who has been washing his van in his driveway for the past half hour finally hollers across the street to me, 'You waiting for the bus?' 'Yeah, the last two didn't come, and now I'm late for work.' 'Where you work?' 'Red Robin.' 'You want a ride?'
Now, I've never before accepted a ride from a stranger, and probably never would have, except for the aforementioned dire straits, but I say yes, and he tells his son to get in the van, and the two of them come and snag me and drive me to work. Firstly, I think having his son there convinced me that they weren't going to steal me, because it's hard to conceive of a rapist who'd bring his kid along for the ride. Secondly, I know I said yesterday that if a white guy offered me a ride, I'd say no, but the truth is, who knows what I'd say? I've never gotten the chance, because no white stranger has ever offered me a ride anywhere! Is it because we're too busy? Too weirded out by the idea of someone else in our car? Too sure they'd be suspicious and say no? Too mean and self-centered? I tried a Google search just now to see if people of certain races are more prone to pick up hitchhikers, but I got nothing. So I'll conduct a survey of my own.
How many times have I been given rides to places I need to go by East Indian people?
Handfuls.
How many times have I been given rides to places I need to go by anyone else?
Zeroes.
There you have it, folks. East Indians are more likely to pick up a 5'4" brunette hitchhiker than any other race. Science at its finest.
By this time, I'm pacing like mad, because I know that if I walk, I'll be over an hour late and have screwed everyone over, because it's that initial dinner rush where you need all your hands on deck, but if I continue to wait for the bus, I just might not make it into work at all. This guy who has been washing his van in his driveway for the past half hour finally hollers across the street to me, 'You waiting for the bus?' 'Yeah, the last two didn't come, and now I'm late for work.' 'Where you work?' 'Red Robin.' 'You want a ride?'
Now, I've never before accepted a ride from a stranger, and probably never would have, except for the aforementioned dire straits, but I say yes, and he tells his son to get in the van, and the two of them come and snag me and drive me to work. Firstly, I think having his son there convinced me that they weren't going to steal me, because it's hard to conceive of a rapist who'd bring his kid along for the ride. Secondly, I know I said yesterday that if a white guy offered me a ride, I'd say no, but the truth is, who knows what I'd say? I've never gotten the chance, because no white stranger has ever offered me a ride anywhere! Is it because we're too busy? Too weirded out by the idea of someone else in our car? Too sure they'd be suspicious and say no? Too mean and self-centered? I tried a Google search just now to see if people of certain races are more prone to pick up hitchhikers, but I got nothing. So I'll conduct a survey of my own.
How many times have I been given rides to places I need to go by East Indian people?
Handfuls.
How many times have I been given rides to places I need to go by anyone else?
Zeroes.
There you have it, folks. East Indians are more likely to pick up a 5'4" brunette hitchhiker than any other race. Science at its finest.
Friday, October 05, 2007
I am a hairy beast. And potentially a little bit racist.
I have caterpillar-eyebrows. They are amazing. They grow like rain forests. If I had a picture of my self, pre-tenth-grade, I would show them to you. Count yourself lucky I do not.
Since that most auspicious year, when I discovered tweezers, I have devoted much time and care to grooming the brows. My biggest fear is that, when we get to heaven, God will have a pie chart denoting how we spent the time given to us on this earth. My biggest slice will be something like 'Sleeping' or 'Dicking Around on the Computer' or 'Arguing Unecessarily with Self,' but just a little lower down will be 'Removing Body Hair: Subsection - Eyebrows.'
Once, in high school, a bunch of us went to Ecotique in the mall to get our eyebrows waxed. Jacki, I think you were there. It was a waste of my pie slice. Some girl a little older than me shmeared hot wax just above my eyelid and then ripped it off. I think she took out about four hairs. It cost $14.
About four years ago, I discovered eyebrow threading. I was downtown with...probably Jacki again...and we pulled over to get our eyebrows threaded at this little out-of-the-way place across from the Safeway. I came out with thin (but not too thin), perfectly-arched (but not pointy) eyebrows. I think it cost $4.
For those of you not in the know, eyebrow threading is the latest and greatest hair-removal technique the white person has seen. East Indians have been practicing it for hundreds of generations. They put one end of the threads in their mouths, hold the spool in one hand and a twisted corner of the thread in the other, and that's all I can tell you, because then they tell you to 'hold please' and you have to hold your eyelid shut and your forehead skin out of the way. It's like voodoo.
When I lived up near Blueridge (in what is practically a gated community, it's so affluent and inaccessible and I had to walk fifteen minutes to catch the bus to school and work but everyone there has SUV's and millions of dollars so they don't care), we got a flyer on our doorstep one day for a hair-and-nails opening up in the basement of the house next door to us. This is something that a lot of East Indian women do, set up a beauty salon in their basements to bring in a little extra cash. I think they're born with the ability to French manicure. I phoned her to ask if she did eyebrows, and of course she did, she thought it went without saying so she didn't put it on the flyer. I visited Sarb every two weeks until I moved away from there. She charged $3.
I moved to just off of Clearbrook Rd, and immediately set about looking for an Eyebrow Artist. Down the street about four blocks is a little place called Arvi's Hair and Something. They charge an unheard of $7, but man are they worth it. They all knew my name, but I couldn't ever keep them straight, and never figured out which one was Arvi.
The year I spent in Burnaby was a long and hairy one. Burnaby has a dearth of East Indians. Asians are great at math and food, but they suck and grooming your eyebrows for you. We've been back in Abbotsford for almost six months now, and I've visited Arvi's twice. It's clear across town, and yes, I still don't drive, and the Abbotsford bussing system...let's not touch that. ANYways, a little sign appeared down the road one day advertising a Hair Salon up my street about ten houses. I phoned in this morning, and they fit me in right away. Pawan, you are my new best friend. For a measly $3, my eyebrows look aMAzing, and she totally gave me a temple massage afterwards. When she wants me to let go of my eyelid and forehead, she says 'leave it.' I feel like a puppy.
I am going to live in East Indian neighborhoods for the rest of my life, and never pluck my eyebrows again. Or walk to school. Have I mentioned this? At least two separate families regularly pull up beside me while I'm walking to school and say 'College? Sit.' and then drive me up the hill. If a white guy pulled over and offered me a ride, I'd be all like 'Huh uh, buddy' and then I'd call the cops. Is that racist? I just thought of a story, but it might end up being long (look how long THIS post turned out to be), so I'll tell it to you tomorrow. It involves me accepting rides from strangers.
Since that most auspicious year, when I discovered tweezers, I have devoted much time and care to grooming the brows. My biggest fear is that, when we get to heaven, God will have a pie chart denoting how we spent the time given to us on this earth. My biggest slice will be something like 'Sleeping' or 'Dicking Around on the Computer' or 'Arguing Unecessarily with Self,' but just a little lower down will be 'Removing Body Hair: Subsection - Eyebrows.'
Once, in high school, a bunch of us went to Ecotique in the mall to get our eyebrows waxed. Jacki, I think you were there. It was a waste of my pie slice. Some girl a little older than me shmeared hot wax just above my eyelid and then ripped it off. I think she took out about four hairs. It cost $14.
About four years ago, I discovered eyebrow threading. I was downtown with...probably Jacki again...and we pulled over to get our eyebrows threaded at this little out-of-the-way place across from the Safeway. I came out with thin (but not too thin), perfectly-arched (but not pointy) eyebrows. I think it cost $4.
For those of you not in the know, eyebrow threading is the latest and greatest hair-removal technique the white person has seen. East Indians have been practicing it for hundreds of generations. They put one end of the threads in their mouths, hold the spool in one hand and a twisted corner of the thread in the other, and that's all I can tell you, because then they tell you to 'hold please' and you have to hold your eyelid shut and your forehead skin out of the way. It's like voodoo.
When I lived up near Blueridge (in what is practically a gated community, it's so affluent and inaccessible and I had to walk fifteen minutes to catch the bus to school and work but everyone there has SUV's and millions of dollars so they don't care), we got a flyer on our doorstep one day for a hair-and-nails opening up in the basement of the house next door to us. This is something that a lot of East Indian women do, set up a beauty salon in their basements to bring in a little extra cash. I think they're born with the ability to French manicure. I phoned her to ask if she did eyebrows, and of course she did, she thought it went without saying so she didn't put it on the flyer. I visited Sarb every two weeks until I moved away from there. She charged $3.
I moved to just off of Clearbrook Rd, and immediately set about looking for an Eyebrow Artist. Down the street about four blocks is a little place called Arvi's Hair and Something. They charge an unheard of $7, but man are they worth it. They all knew my name, but I couldn't ever keep them straight, and never figured out which one was Arvi.
The year I spent in Burnaby was a long and hairy one. Burnaby has a dearth of East Indians. Asians are great at math and food, but they suck and grooming your eyebrows for you. We've been back in Abbotsford for almost six months now, and I've visited Arvi's twice. It's clear across town, and yes, I still don't drive, and the Abbotsford bussing system...let's not touch that. ANYways, a little sign appeared down the road one day advertising a Hair Salon up my street about ten houses. I phoned in this morning, and they fit me in right away. Pawan, you are my new best friend. For a measly $3, my eyebrows look aMAzing, and she totally gave me a temple massage afterwards. When she wants me to let go of my eyelid and forehead, she says 'leave it.' I feel like a puppy.
I am going to live in East Indian neighborhoods for the rest of my life, and never pluck my eyebrows again. Or walk to school. Have I mentioned this? At least two separate families regularly pull up beside me while I'm walking to school and say 'College? Sit.' and then drive me up the hill. If a white guy pulled over and offered me a ride, I'd be all like 'Huh uh, buddy' and then I'd call the cops. Is that racist? I just thought of a story, but it might end up being long (look how long THIS post turned out to be), so I'll tell it to you tomorrow. It involves me accepting rides from strangers.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
What you call a 'train wreck'
Ok, so we have this group presentation due last night, yes? On...progress...in the Victorian era...very boring. I have class until 5:20, so we meet at 5:21 sharp to pull things together, slap up a power point, eat some dinner, etc. and Tyler has to print off his notes but he has no money on his card. So he emails it to himself, and we dash across campus because we're under time constraints, and when we get to the library the email hasn't come through. So we dash back to the cafeteria and save it to a flash drive, and dash back to the library and print it off and dash back to the cafeteria just in time to miss the 5-minute barrage of hail. HAIL, people.
The other group presents first, and they are boring, and long, but they've brought cookies. We have no cookies. All we have is power point, and the unbreakable conviction that what we are saying is neither interesting nor worth prolonging. The class goes to break, and we rig up the laptop to the projector, except that none of us knows how, and we have to log on to the main computer, and our professor doesn't know the password (?) and so we dash (again with the dashing) to the library to ask the I-T guy, but he's gone home for the night, so we find the librarian, but she's engaged, and we hang around trying to look like we just have a quick question, but she remains engaged for ten minutes, and by the time we pry her away, we have sweaty palms. She won't tell us the password, because why would she? So she comes with us back to class and by the time we get there, Nikki (bless her ballsy heart) has launched into the presentation without any technological back-up. She rattles on and on, trying to stall for time while we fidget and tinker with the cords. Eventually, we transfer the presentation from the laptop to the desktop and hey presto! We have an image of Queen Victoria and the slogan 'Shit was happening' scrolling across the bottom. Nikki wraps her business up, and Tyler steps up to the plate, but he's forgotten his notes in his backpack. By the time I'm taking the stage, we've worked out most of the kinks, but I need Tyler to press the 'Enter' key while I talk. He can't distinguish between my 'next-slide' motion and the spastic hand gestures that take over when I'm speaking in front of people, so I start throwing karate kicks and judo chops his way when I want him to move along one. Janelle presents with almost no catastrophes, and Tyler insists on scrolling through the slides for Nikki's presentation, because there's this awesome slide where an ear of corn comes flying in and screeches to a halt.
A+ material, for sures.
The other group presents first, and they are boring, and long, but they've brought cookies. We have no cookies. All we have is power point, and the unbreakable conviction that what we are saying is neither interesting nor worth prolonging. The class goes to break, and we rig up the laptop to the projector, except that none of us knows how, and we have to log on to the main computer, and our professor doesn't know the password (?) and so we dash (again with the dashing) to the library to ask the I-T guy, but he's gone home for the night, so we find the librarian, but she's engaged, and we hang around trying to look like we just have a quick question, but she remains engaged for ten minutes, and by the time we pry her away, we have sweaty palms. She won't tell us the password, because why would she? So she comes with us back to class and by the time we get there, Nikki (bless her ballsy heart) has launched into the presentation without any technological back-up. She rattles on and on, trying to stall for time while we fidget and tinker with the cords. Eventually, we transfer the presentation from the laptop to the desktop and hey presto! We have an image of Queen Victoria and the slogan 'Shit was happening' scrolling across the bottom. Nikki wraps her business up, and Tyler steps up to the plate, but he's forgotten his notes in his backpack. By the time I'm taking the stage, we've worked out most of the kinks, but I need Tyler to press the 'Enter' key while I talk. He can't distinguish between my 'next-slide' motion and the spastic hand gestures that take over when I'm speaking in front of people, so I start throwing karate kicks and judo chops his way when I want him to move along one. Janelle presents with almost no catastrophes, and Tyler insists on scrolling through the slides for Nikki's presentation, because there's this awesome slide where an ear of corn comes flying in and screeches to a halt.
A+ material, for sures.
Nine white horses on a red hill...now they champ...now they stamp...now they stand still
I grind my teeths. I've always grinded my teeths. I grind them to the beat of the song stuck in my head. I have little under-shelves on the backs of two of my top teeths where the bottom teeths fit into them. I thought that everyone had these until about two years ago, when I asked Joel. He doesn't. His teeths meet perfectly in the middle.
When I'm really stressed out, I grind them constantly, and I clench my jaw in my sleeps. It becomes an addiction, and even when I'm consciously thinking about not doing it, I want to do it. It's like leaving a knuckle half-cracked all the time. I will sometimes put my tongue in between my teeths, just so I don't start grinding them as soon as I stop thinking about not grinding them. I also eat too mucg, same reason. Popcorn has become both my mouth guard and my crack cocaine.
My teeths feel like chalk.
When I'm really stressed out, I grind them constantly, and I clench my jaw in my sleeps. It becomes an addiction, and even when I'm consciously thinking about not doing it, I want to do it. It's like leaving a knuckle half-cracked all the time. I will sometimes put my tongue in between my teeths, just so I don't start grinding them as soon as I stop thinking about not grinding them. I also eat too mucg, same reason. Popcorn has become both my mouth guard and my crack cocaine.
My teeths feel like chalk.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Tedious
Except for the hour I spent at home for lunch, I've been at school since 8:30 this morning.
The best and only good thing about cafeteria coffee is that it comes out of the chute at the perfect drinking temperature. There is none of this waiting and scalding of tongues, nor this tepid luke-warminess.
The best and only good thing about cafeteria coffee is that it comes out of the chute at the perfect drinking temperature. There is none of this waiting and scalding of tongues, nor this tepid luke-warminess.
News Flash!
I have loads of homework! I am drownding! It is raining!
In other news, Joel and I got new fish: Big Tuna, and Father William. Father William is an albino catfish.
In other news, Joel and I got new fish: Big Tuna, and Father William. Father William is an albino catfish.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Little Orphan Update
On this, my 300th post, I thought I'd share with you folks a little inspiring story. Remember these guys? 
If not, read about them here and following, but regardless, they are now these guys...
If not, read about them here and following, but regardless, they are now these guys...and that's them...well...I'll just copy and paste. This is from Karen:
Last November I hired a break dancing teacher for our Abundant Life Home boys. His name is "Bank" and he is 18 years old. He loves our boys and recommitted his life to Christ at Christmas. He had fallen away from the Lord for a few years and was so glad to be introduced to our TLC family and be back with Jesus.
A little while ago, Bank asked me if the boys could miss school for one day, because he had gotten them an audition for our Thai version of American Idol, a show called "Game Panaan", very famous with Thai people. The boys and Bank passed the audition and the next week we all piled in our "A.L.H." van and headed to Studio 7 for the big day of filming. We bought matching outfits and prayed and practiced our interviews....confident we were going to win the big one!
Throughout the morning at Studio 7, the boys practiced, had show-make up applied for under the lights, and we prayed. Anticipation was high...we were all nervous giggles and butterflies.
At about noon, P' Ganiga pulled me aside and talked to me. She had remembered from the files of our boys, that one of our boys, Mac, had an aunt who worked at a large Thai newspaper. She noticed when we drove into Studio 7, that this newspaper had a factory right next door. They have factories all over Thailand....but what if the aunt still works there, we wondered? Mac had lost contact with her and all extended family members about 9 years earlier, and could not remember her name. We did not have the file with us.
"Let's call the boys' old orphanage and see if they have copies of his file," I said on a whim.
We called Sister Jinda at the Lorenzo Home and she said she'd look and call us back.
A few minutes later at noon, P' Ganiga and I were sneaking out of Studio 7 with the Aunt's name and praying as we hurried next door.
At the factory gate, we met a security guard and explained the whole story. He said we were nuts...that there were thousands of employees, and that nobody stayed working there for years on end. We begged him to let us go in or to check with the office staff. He said he would call us if he found out anything. We walked home dejected and ate some lunch with the Thai celebrities who were there to judge the show.
At 1 p.m., P' Ganiga got a call from the security guard who said that Mac's aunt still worked there, and would be in for her shift at 3 pm. He gave us her number, but as we called and called, we found her number was disconnected.
The sky turned black then and a big rain storm was imminent. The boys were now in the room finishing up their make up and waiting to be called on stage for their big performance.
At 2 p.m., a lady walked through the door and P' Ganiga noticed she had on the uniform of the Thai newspaper next door. P' Ganiga walked up to her and asked if she was related to Mac. The woman began to cry immediately and asked P'Ganiga if it was true....Was Mac still alive? "I thought he had died years ago for sure....I never dared to hope that he would live...I never come in early for work, but the rain was coming...."
P' Ganiga started to cry too and called me over. She introduced Mac's aunt and I started to cry too. We called Mac out of the make up room and with my arm around him, I explained to him that this woman was the aunt that had raised him when his parents died of AIDS, until Mac was 5 years old.
Mac was smilling and speechless, and his aunt hugged him and cried and cried. Pretty soon the boys all gathered around and everyone wanted to know what was happening.
Just then, the studio workers called us onto the stage. Mac's aunt came with us and sat with us as they introduced us. Mac kept stealing sideway glances at his aunt as we waited, and was beaming with pride as the M.C. talked about our children's home and how amazing our boys were. Mac really wanted his aunt towatch him perform, but her shift started at 3 pm and it was now 2:50. She wasjust getting up to leave when the M.C. called the A. L.H. dancers on stage and she was able to watch the whole show and cheer for Mac.
The boys ended up getting a score of 100 out of a possible 100 for their breakdance! They were asked what prize they wanted, and they asked for a computer for the new girl's home we had just opened. The studio rolled out a beautiful computer right there and called up the three girls from our children's home and gave it to them on stage.
Mac's aunt came to Chonburi that weekend and stayed for night at A.L.H. with Mac. Mac was able to share the story of Jesus with her and P' Ganiga was able to read some scriptures to her and answer some of her questions about God.
Today, Mac is taking a baptism class and preparing to be baptized in October with our church family and his new family at A.L.H.. Mac had asked P' Ganiga and me many times over the last year to help him track down his aunt, and this day at Studio 7, profoundly impacted Mac and showed him how much God loved him.
Only God can orchestrate a miracle at a T.V. studio that plays out more exciting than any box office hit!
*sniffle* I hope you're all a little bit weepy now. I am.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Computer ha ha
We received an e-vite to a party held just upstairs and, thinking that I'm hilarious, I checked off 'I am interested in carpooling' because hey, funny joke. Five minutes later, I got an email from e-vite telling me to enter in my carpooling information.
'Come, on e-vite,' I say, 'I was just joking. We live downstairs.'
'It's an algorithm,' Joel says, 'that is, a well-ordered collection of unambiguous and effectively computable steps that lead to a result and stop in a finite amount of time, and as such, has no sense of humor.'
Addendum (Disclaimer: Joel badly wants me to blog the conversation following, and I do not do so of my own volition)
Joel: How many states begin with the letter 'B'?
Me: None. I used to know all the states and their capitals.
Joel: Oh yeah, you grew up in America. I shouldn't ask you America-themed questions. Ok, how many provinces begin with the letter 'B'?
Me: Also none.
'Come, on e-vite,' I say, 'I was just joking. We live downstairs.'
'It's an algorithm,' Joel says, 'that is, a well-ordered collection of unambiguous and effectively computable steps that lead to a result and stop in a finite amount of time, and as such, has no sense of humor.'
Addendum (Disclaimer: Joel badly wants me to blog the conversation following, and I do not do so of my own volition)
Joel: How many states begin with the letter 'B'?
Me: None. I used to know all the states and their capitals.
Joel: Oh yeah, you grew up in America. I shouldn't ask you America-themed questions. Ok, how many provinces begin with the letter 'B'?
Me: Also none.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Sauce
I love sauce. I feel that sauce makes a lot of tedious things infinitely more palatable (e.g. vegetables) and takes delicious things several steps further into flavor country (e.g. mashed potatoes, in which case by 'sauce' I mean 'chicken sauce,' i.e. 'gravy'). In the category of sauces, I include dressings, melted cheeses, and any sweet somethings one would drizzle over a dessert.
I knew three girls, each of whom I lived with at one time or another, who would argue about who loved sauce more. They finally established a hierarchy and had shirts made, which ran thusly from least to most: Fond of Sauce; Partial to Sauce; Obsessed with Sauce.
However, while I love sauce, I do not countenance the eating of sauce in itself. Sauce belongs on things. Sauce alone is too powerful of a flavor punch for my liking, and is also almost completely devoid of nutritional value. With one side of my family running to pudginess and diabetes, and the other side running to cancer, I'm pretty keen on nutritional value, and so I keep my sauce consumption to a relative minimum.
Joel, however, feels no such compulsion. The Kruegers, apparently, live forever, and never get fat. Not only will the man pour himself a lake of ranch to go with his pizza, but he will wipe up any excess with his finger and eat it alone!!! Grossness!
H'anyways, just now, I made some caramel sauce (i.e. I microwaved some Kraft caramels in a bowl) to dip apple slices in - waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay easier to eat than caramel apples, and none of that damned core to deal with - and I went a little overboard. We had probably twice as much caramel as we needed, and that's a lot of leftover deliciousness to toss in the trash. Luckily, Joel was there to swab up what he could with his finger. When that failed him, he scraped off the rest with the back of his pen. When the pen no longer sufficed, he licked the last lingering bits straight from the bowl.
Nothing in our house will ever go bad.
I knew three girls, each of whom I lived with at one time or another, who would argue about who loved sauce more. They finally established a hierarchy and had shirts made, which ran thusly from least to most: Fond of Sauce; Partial to Sauce; Obsessed with Sauce.
However, while I love sauce, I do not countenance the eating of sauce in itself. Sauce belongs on things. Sauce alone is too powerful of a flavor punch for my liking, and is also almost completely devoid of nutritional value. With one side of my family running to pudginess and diabetes, and the other side running to cancer, I'm pretty keen on nutritional value, and so I keep my sauce consumption to a relative minimum.
Joel, however, feels no such compulsion. The Kruegers, apparently, live forever, and never get fat. Not only will the man pour himself a lake of ranch to go with his pizza, but he will wipe up any excess with his finger and eat it alone!!! Grossness!
H'anyways, just now, I made some caramel sauce (i.e. I microwaved some Kraft caramels in a bowl) to dip apple slices in - waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay easier to eat than caramel apples, and none of that damned core to deal with - and I went a little overboard. We had probably twice as much caramel as we needed, and that's a lot of leftover deliciousness to toss in the trash. Luckily, Joel was there to swab up what he could with his finger. When that failed him, he scraped off the rest with the back of his pen. When the pen no longer sufficed, he licked the last lingering bits straight from the bowl.
Nothing in our house will ever go bad.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Because some stories can only be told with Paint
Our cul-de-sac is shaped less like a sac and more like a 'P'...thusly
And there are houses here, here, here and here...
And they are all very large houses with many vehicles. Many nice vehicles. These people have spoiled children. H'anyways, everyone has massive garages to house their sports cars and their wives' SUVs and their daughter's little Hondas, but they also have friends, so once in a while there will be a car or two parked on the street in the round part of the 'P.'
Now, we live here...
And there are houses here, here, here and here...
And they are all very large houses with many vehicles. Many nice vehicles. These people have spoiled children. H'anyways, everyone has massive garages to house their sports cars and their wives' SUVs and their daughter's little Hondas, but they also have friends, so once in a while there will be a car or two parked on the street in the round part of the 'P.'
Now, we live here...
And 'we' is our landlords (1 car), me and Joel (1 car), and the three tenents living upstairs (3 cars), and so we park here, here, and here...
And then someone's mushroom manure truck (???) is always parked here...
H'ANYways, a few weeks ago, this guy...
gets mad that people are always parking, not in front of his house, but ACROSS THE STREET from his house. His wife and daughter can't pull out of their massive driveway with cars parked there, he says. So he gets a can of paint, and paints the curb yellow...
thusly. This does three things: It looks trashy, because it is clearly an unprofessional job and yellow paint is dripping down the curb and pooling on the street; it encourages people to park there, because really, who ARE you? Are you the Mayor of Abbotsford and do you really think this is going to work? And, it prompted someone to phone the real City of Abbotsford, who then phoned this guy, and told him that he is not, in fact, the Mayor, which is probably why he is outside, pressure-washing the yellow right off that curb.
The moral of the story is something along the lines of 'know when you aren't the Mayor' and 'be content with your garage/driveway/front of house space and don't begrudge those of us who maybe have more vehicles and less space,' and did I mention that the road turns after this guy's house, thusly...
so that he actually has two sides of the house that he can park cars in front of? So, settle down there, tiger. 'Nuff said.
Update: The City of Abbotsford Bylaw Enforcer (for reals, it said so on her car) stopped by yesterday to make sure the deed was done.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
New compy uters!
Things had reached critical mass, computer-wise, here at the old Krueger house. This is my laptop...
Her name is Ahsley Spoonb II, and I've had her for years and love her dearly. That being said, she is beginning to resent the burden of two masters. Joel has a zillion computer assignments, due in no small part to his ghey computers class, and a med school application, and a batch of articles online that always need to be read. I have a zillion papers to write, my Facebook to check, and this blog to maintain, which I do three-quarters assedly. And SO, since we both always have to be on the computer, and since we have only the one, one of us always has to go to school (Joel) while the other one sits at home with the laptop and the cupboards full of snacks (me), and we never get to see each other and I get fat. And did I mention I've had her for years? That's years of Word documents, of pictures, of music files, and lately, of videos, cluttering up her teeny, lap-sized brain. So Ahsley's been, how you say, le sluggish of late.
Her name is Ahsley Spoonb II, and I've had her for years and love her dearly. That being said, she is beginning to resent the burden of two masters. Joel has a zillion computer assignments, due in no small part to his ghey computers class, and a med school application, and a batch of articles online that always need to be read. I have a zillion papers to write, my Facebook to check, and this blog to maintain, which I do three-quarters assedly. And SO, since we both always have to be on the computer, and since we have only the one, one of us always has to go to school (Joel) while the other one sits at home with the laptop and the cupboards full of snacks (me), and we never get to see each other and I get fat. And did I mention I've had her for years? That's years of Word documents, of pictures, of music files, and lately, of videos, cluttering up her teeny, lap-sized brain. So Ahsley's been, how you say, le sluggish of late. On TOP of that, she's developed this problem with her fan, so when the fan kicks in (which it does every five minutes or so), it makes this whirring, grinding, buzzing sound. Last night in class, this lady turns to me and says 'Can you turn the volume on that thing down!?!' to which I says, 'I'm sorry, it's the fan, it just started doing that and I haven't had time to get it looked at, it's dirty or busted or something' to which she says 'Well, it's really irritating' to which I says 'Well I can't do anything about it right now,' and then every time Ahsley kicks into buzzy fan gear, I silently cheer her on. But then this morning, in a class full of people I like, she was doing it all over again, and louder and oftener, and I'd apologized to the people on either side of me before class so that by the middle of the class, we're all kind of laughing every time it happens, and then my professor stops and says 'Is my fly open? Is there food on my face? Why is the back row laughing?' and I had to explain that we were laughing at Ahsley's death rattle.
H'anyways, all that to say that my dad built himself a new computer, and was so kind as to donate this...
to the cause of 'Let Joel and Rachel Spend More Time in the Same Room.' This will do nothing for Ahsley Spoonb II's tuberculosis, but will hopefully take some of the stress off and let her breathe, which may, in turn, keep both our heads from exploding.*
*By which I mean Ahsley and me...Joel has as little to do with the inner workings of the computers as possible, which just proves that he is smarter than I am.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Final time - 2:28:43
Come, friends, and join me as I blog through the Trail River Run 10K/Half-Marathon in real time space.
0 km: The gun goes off, and there are awkward fits and starts as everyone tries to leave at the same time and not crash into the people in front of them. The trail is all soft, dark dirt and trees on every side and everyone is chatty and fresh. It's 9:00 a.m. and freezing, but not raining, and there are breaks in the clouds.
2 km: The trees have fallen away on one side, and been replaced by a lazy river. One can see the path for miles ahead, dotted with the race's leaders. My right hip is starting to twang when I land, and I'm praying desperately for that to go away.
3 km: A smattering of long, lean people with ropy muscles are sprinting by me, heading the opposite direction. These are the 10-k runners. They have reached the half-way mark, and are heading for home. They are all moving very fast.
5 km: I pass through the 5-k mark. There is a water table and a batch of teenage volunteers shouting encouragements. The sun is peeking out.
6 km: I regret not having made use of the port-o-potty at the 5-k mark. I begin to encounter runners who have reached the first turn-around (the course is Y-shaped...the run goes from the bottom of the Y to the top right arm, back down to the crook, up the left arm, and back down to the base) and are heading back down. They are each of them very skinny people, and most of them have some combination of short shorts and spandex. Many of them shout some form of encouragement as they pass those of us still headed up. I am surprised by how these thumbs-upses and shouts of 'keep it up' affect me; after each one I am left grinning like an idiot and running like a ninja, buoyed up on the cameraderie of strangers.
7 km: I hit the first turn-around. My left hip is starting to ache. I head back down the path, shouting encouragements in my turn to those I pass (all, like, twenty of them).
8 km: After the surge of adrenaline brought on by the last two km, this one is the loneliest yet. We've begun to string out along the trail, and the nearest people are several hundred meters before and behind me. I take my first stop to stretch out my hips and knees.
10 km: I'm totally bored and my hips hurt.
12 km: I'm done the first leg. As I start the second leg, those same long, lean, ropy, spandex-ed people pass me again. This means that they are over 6 km ahead of me. This also means that for the next 3.5 km, we are passing each other and cheering each other on. The effects of this are somewhat less intoxicating, since I am having to stop at least once/km to stretch my knees and hips. A blond, weathered lady gives me a look of commiseration as she trots by on her tanned, skinny legs.
14 km: I am trying to follow Joel's advice, to run my own race, and not be bothered by the middle-aged women with their wide bums passing me to the right and the left. My hips are killing me.
15.5 km: The second turn-around. The water-station man high-fives me and tells me to get going, that this next is the easy part.
15.6 km: I realize just how much I hate running back over ground I've already covered.
16 km: The turn-around station is still in sight. A woman in yellow points and asks me, 'Is that our marker?' I nod, and say something encouraging about it not being long now, and then run on, expecting her to pass by me. Instead, she falls in behind me, cutting her overall run short by about a kilometer.
17 km: I'm stopping to walk for about 100m of every km now. The woman in yellow passes me. I'll be damned if I let her finish before me, because she CHEATED, but for now it's all I can do to keep her in sight.
19 km: I'm finished the second leg, and have only the stem of the Y left. The traffic guard yells at me that I'm 'so close to home now,' but I know she lies, because I've been doing the math in my head. I'm starving, and my shirt is soaked with sweat.
20 km: We're back on the wooded trail. This part is much shorter in my mind than in real life, and, drawing strength from how close to being done I think I am, I pass the woman in yellow. I hope she walks the rest of the way.
21 km: I don't remember the trail being this long. I become convinced that I missed a turn-off somewhere. I've left the woman in yellow far behind, and haven't seen a volunteer in ages. I think of how angry I'll be if I've run further than is necessary.
22 km: I hear voices. A woman and her two daughters have taken up positions at the very end of the trail, and are cheering the stragglers (yes, I straggled) on. I see Joel standing there with the camera, I see the Start/Finish line, I see bagels and oranges and coffee. I am a sweaty mess, and my hips are on fire, and I can hardly stand long enough to stretch out, and I groan all the way to the car. BUT I am finished, and now I can stop training and start going to the gym like ordinary people (that is, sporadically), and next year I can figure out a way to Novicaine my hips beforehand so that I can run the whole thing without stopping.
PS. Dear Body,
Thank you for your efforts on Sunday. Now, as promised, IOU one week in the bath, and rampant eating, and to walk much less than is necessary.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
As I march steadily towards the nursing home
This, my twenty-fifth summer on this earth, was the first time I had to deal with my body's aging. I mean, aside from the substantial laugh lines, and the teeny pooch of a belly that I'm sure wasn't there when I was 16, and my muffin tops, and so on. I spent the summer training for a half-marathon, and the more I ran, the older I felt. My right knee went first, cringing at the way I come down hard and flat-footed. Then I developed a problem with the tendon that runs from my left hip down past my left knee. Before long, I was cutting runs short, not because I was tired, but because my knees just wouldn't hold me up any longer. By adjusting my gait and stretching out that tendon before, during, and after each run, and by the grace of God, my knees stopped giving me trouble just in time for my hips to begin voicing their displeasure. Every run I've taken in the last month has left me pregnant-waddling afterwards to avoid using my hips. In addition, I've always suffered from abdominal cramping. It seems to go away if I just ignore it for long enough, but seriously, when you're running, what else is there to think about besides your abdominal cramping (and fiberglass hips and shifting kneecaps)?
Last week, I went for the longest, hardest 10-K run of my life. I used to run 10 K with such ease and delight! With every step, I felt the damage I was doing to my joints, and what was supposed to be my last long run before the Big One quickly turned into a dash for home in the interest of self-preservation.
So. A teensy bit of weekend-backstory. Joel got up at 4:15 on Saturday to catch the 6:00 ferry to the island to play in a volleyball tournament, and this concerns me not at all except that I told him to wake me up when he said goodbye, and then I used that early-morning-waking to justify sleeping in til 9:30 (which is waaaaaaaaaaaay late in this house). Saturday eve, I went to the wedding of two people I don't hardly know, and Joel and the other guys rushing back from the tournament missed the ceremony entirely, and we didn't have our car because we'd both gotten rides, and were stuck there until midnight (thanks, Anna, for abandoning your husband to drive us home, and thanks, Carl, for letting Anna abandon you and I'm sorry you were trapped there until the bitter end) and didn't get home until nearly 1:00, and then got up at 6:00 so we could drive into Port Coquitlam in time to pick up my race package.
All that to say, it was a beautiful trail run, and my hips felt like shards from about 5-K in and got steadily worse, and there were some lovely people and I had all sorts of deep, spiritual thoughts (what else is one to do when running for nearly 2 and a half hours?) which I may share with you tomorrow, and Joel and I definitely took a loooooooooong nap this afternoong, and I forsee many hot baths in the next day or two, and if you'll excuse me, I have to hobble upstairs for a date with the landlords.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
There's coffee in my sock
Some people can't function without a coffee in the morning. Me, I can function. I can make it all the way from my bed to the kitchen, I can measure out my water and grind my beans and stare at the machine until it's done, all without my morning coffee.
What I can't do is put on a jacket. It's been a long, hot summer, people, and the act of putting my arms through something that isn't a cotton tee is apparently more than I can handle. The upshot of all this is that this morning, while struggling with my light warming apparatus (one might call it a 'zip-up' or 'hoodie'), I knocked over my coffee mug. Now, I have demonstrated to many people the almighty power of this mug, how I can turn it upside-down and nothing will spill, and how this allows me to put it back into my backpack when I'm done and not worry about the last icy slurp dribbling out onto my crackers. I guess the Righteous Lid of Power was slightly askew, or the mug is out to get me, or something, because when it hit the ground, the lid flew off and waves of coffee drenched the carpet/the shoe rack/the wall/the shoes (including Joel's new[ish], [predominately] white shoes)/my pant leg.
What did one do before the Internet, when faced with such disaster? Fortunately, I don't have tobother with that question, because I have the Internet, and with this six-step cleansing ritual involving dish soap, vinegar, and every dish towel and wash cloth we own, I was able to remove the stain. Unfortunately, there are things the Internet can't give me, such as my coffee back, or wings to get to class on time, or something intelligent to say on Blake's 'The Marriage of Heaven and Hell' (which, I'm convinced, is just a literal description of some crazy, pepperoni-induced dreams he had and, as such, have little to no discernible meaning).
I can only hope that, one day, the Internet will evolve to this level of usefulness.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
When I'm a teacher....
One of the things that I miss about science or math classes is teachers saying 'you're wrong' when you're wrong. 9 is not 4 cubed no matter how badly you want to protect your student's tender feelings. In English classes, every idea is 'on the right track' or 'getting there,' even if it is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay out in left field.
This semester, refreshingly, I have not one but two professors who will tell you flat out that you are grasping at straws when you read the industrial revolution into each and every one of William Blake's poems. They will tell you that they don't quite see where you are going with that statement, instead of trying to finish it for you and legitimize it with some actual content. And then this morning, my one professor (who is dowdy and has bad hair and who I love) says, mid-lecture and without missing a beat, 'and if this isn't terribly interesting to you, there are plenty of other places you can go and chat,' at which point the two boobalicious brunettes apologize and put away their iPod and pretend to pay attention (for about fifteen minutes, and then one puts her head on the desk and takes a nap, and the other goes to the bathroom for half an hour, and this is a 300-level course! I hope she flunks them). I love that in a professor. I appreciate the need to nurture, to encourage, to gently guide young minds along the path of learning, but there are times when sternness is in order. And maybe a caning.
This semester, refreshingly, I have not one but two professors who will tell you flat out that you are grasping at straws when you read the industrial revolution into each and every one of William Blake's poems. They will tell you that they don't quite see where you are going with that statement, instead of trying to finish it for you and legitimize it with some actual content. And then this morning, my one professor (who is dowdy and has bad hair and who I love) says, mid-lecture and without missing a beat, 'and if this isn't terribly interesting to you, there are plenty of other places you can go and chat,' at which point the two boobalicious brunettes apologize and put away their iPod and pretend to pay attention (for about fifteen minutes, and then one puts her head on the desk and takes a nap, and the other goes to the bathroom for half an hour, and this is a 300-level course! I hope she flunks them). I love that in a professor. I appreciate the need to nurture, to encourage, to gently guide young minds along the path of learning, but there are times when sternness is in order. And maybe a caning.
Monday, September 17, 2007
And now back to your regularly-scheduled trivial pursuits
Joel and I spent Saturday applying for med school (him), idly reading Blake's 'The Marriage of Heaven and Hell' (me) and watching Season Three of The Office (us), periodically chanting 'Jim and Pam! Jim and Pam!' (me again). It did not disappoint. Before we knew it, it was 11:30 and we were surrounded by empty popcorn bowls and Burger King wrappers, staring at the end frame of the disk. In a way, it's intensely pleasing to have covered a whole season in one day. Whenever I re-watch an episode, it will bring me back to that long, luxurious morningafternoonevening in my sweatpants, methodically eating my way through the cupboards, with my chosen life-companion by my side alternately molting from the stress of med school applications and eyeing my double cheeseburger, telling me that so much meat this late at night is going to give me burger-mares, and that I'd better let him have a few bites (the fact that I did have a series of weird dreams involving piranhas is irrelevant). At the same time, there's something to be said for savoring a season one episode at a time (I don't mean watching it in syndication like a fool, because who does that? I mean an episode for lunch, and then another for dinner, and maybe one to fall asleep). I find it easier to remember key lines, and thus to quote them ad nauseum when I've only watched an episode or two. Perhaps it is the better way. Still, when you have nothing but day ahead of you, and such a tasty season, it's hard to say no.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Not your usual good times
I don't know what it's like out there for the rest of you married folk, but Joel and I have this thing we do where we take each other for granted. Like, the whole excitement of living in the same house after three years of living in different cities (and sometimes different countries) wore off about as quick as a Playland hand stamp, and now we're all thinking that we can just forget about doing nice things for each other or spending quality time together or that we can just up and get mad for no real reason (that last one's mostly me). I feel like, somehow, we're not supposed to feel this way, and the universe seems to agree.
One night, about two months after we got married, I had gone to bed angry (which everyone says you should never do), and I dreamed that Joel died. Not just that he had died and that was it, dream over, but that we were hanging out, and then he was diagnosed with leukemia, and then we had to go through treatment and it was long and drawn out and there was all this hope and then hope-crushing and finally, one day I was saying good-bye (because in my dream I still lived in Burnaby) and he said, well, this is good-bye forever, because I'm going to die before I see you next, and he did sure enough, and I grieved him for ages. I know that in real time, this probably only took five minutes, but in dream time, I lived the whole thing and it was awful. I woke up not mad at him at all.
About a month later, a guy Joel went to college with and who married a friend of mine was travelling through the mountains to go to a wedding in Alberta. A semi-truck flipped over and crushed the driver's side. Joel's friend was killed instantly. He and his wife had only been married about a year (I never blogged about this because of the trouble I had getting over this post, and because when someone dies for real, and not just in a dream, it seems irreverant to deal with it in the same flippant fashion, and impossible to deal with it in any way to do it justice).
This past weekend was supposed to be the next-to-last wedding in the flux. It was called off at the last minute because the bride's mother is dying.
So here I am again, taking a break from my usual complaining and making fun of people and blabbing about my business to think about what a waste it is of the very short time we have. Nothing is promised to you. My friend Katherine has a zillion tumors (give or take) and at least ninety other health issues completely unrelated to those tumors. Eight years ago, they gave her two years to live. I asked her if she feels like she's cheating death. She replied that we all cheat death every time we get up in the morning.
If you've cheated death by getting up this morning, make sure you appreciate it.
One night, about two months after we got married, I had gone to bed angry (which everyone says you should never do), and I dreamed that Joel died. Not just that he had died and that was it, dream over, but that we were hanging out, and then he was diagnosed with leukemia, and then we had to go through treatment and it was long and drawn out and there was all this hope and then hope-crushing and finally, one day I was saying good-bye (because in my dream I still lived in Burnaby) and he said, well, this is good-bye forever, because I'm going to die before I see you next, and he did sure enough, and I grieved him for ages. I know that in real time, this probably only took five minutes, but in dream time, I lived the whole thing and it was awful. I woke up not mad at him at all.
About a month later, a guy Joel went to college with and who married a friend of mine was travelling through the mountains to go to a wedding in Alberta. A semi-truck flipped over and crushed the driver's side. Joel's friend was killed instantly. He and his wife had only been married about a year (I never blogged about this because of the trouble I had getting over this post, and because when someone dies for real, and not just in a dream, it seems irreverant to deal with it in the same flippant fashion, and impossible to deal with it in any way to do it justice).
This past weekend was supposed to be the next-to-last wedding in the flux. It was called off at the last minute because the bride's mother is dying.
So here I am again, taking a break from my usual complaining and making fun of people and blabbing about my business to think about what a waste it is of the very short time we have. Nothing is promised to you. My friend Katherine has a zillion tumors (give or take) and at least ninety other health issues completely unrelated to those tumors. Eight years ago, they gave her two years to live. I asked her if she feels like she's cheating death. She replied that we all cheat death every time we get up in the morning.
If you've cheated death by getting up this morning, make sure you appreciate it.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
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Greets, friends. Long time no see, and all that. Weekend was MAD busy, Joel's sister got hitched. I'm studying literature circa French Revolution in two of my classes, I have begun referring to this barrage of weddings as the Reign of Terror. I don't mean it. I'm so terribly happy for all the people getting married, and the weddings are all lovely and eventful and calorie-laden, and I only complain because I am all funned out! The Terror was to have ended this coming weekend with Casey and Lara's wedding, but LESS THAN A WEEK AGO we got invited to another matrimonial hullabaloo for the weekend following. If this keeps up, we should have back-to-back weddings until February, when my brother gets married. On Groundhog Day. I maintain that, as some people release doves, Matt and Gillian should release groundhogs. Particularly this big fat one.
Yes?
H'anyways, the reason I'm only posting now (it is Tuesday, mind) is because, since the weekend, the Internet has been acting quirky and lovable (read: finicky and childish) and I haven't been able to do much of anything on it. Today I was finally able to get on to such treasures as Blogger, Wikipedia, and Google Images (see: groundhog) but I still can't get into Bloglines and Facebook. Alas.
Perhaps it's best. I have an assignment due Thursday that I just found out about today.
Tootles.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Dumber than your average college student?
A girl across the class upon being chastized for using her stir stick after she had placed it on the desk: 'You're such a germaphobe, just like Howie Mandela!'
...who?
Did she mean Howard Hughes, he of the Kleenex boxes and jars of urine?
Did she mean Howie Mandel, of Bobby's World fame? Did he have a predilection for Lysol, and I'm just not current on my washed-up-actors-turned-game-show-hosts' phobias?
Did Nelson Mandela have a brother that none of us knew about?
Is she just D-U-M, and I should go back to sailing my Facebook Pirate?
...who?
Did she mean Howard Hughes, he of the Kleenex boxes and jars of urine?
Did she mean Howie Mandel, of Bobby's World fame? Did he have a predilection for Lysol, and I'm just not current on my washed-up-actors-turned-game-show-hosts' phobias?
Did Nelson Mandela have a brother that none of us knew about?
Is she just D-U-M, and I should go back to sailing my Facebook Pirate?
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
I know you've all been waiting for it...
H'okay, first up, photos from the other day. I scammed them off of Alyson's Facebook, so hopefully the quality won't be too crappy.
The vertical stacker:
The pyramid:
The pyramid, top man standing:
The giant tower of death:
The vertical stacker:
The pyramid:
The pyramid, top man standing:The giant tower of death:I swear to you my hand is at least 15 feet in the air.
Monday, September 03, 2007
It's exHAUSting having so much fun
Man, I am weddinged OUT, y'all. And there're still two to go. Joel's best friend Steve got married yesterday, and the dance went super-late, and I was looking through my pictures trying to find a fabulous one or think of a funny story to tell you, but nothing really happened. Joel stabbed himself in the nipple with his boutenierre. One of the guests had a few too many and tried to kiss me, but I got my forearms up between us and hollered 'Stranger Danger!' until he realized that I actually wasn't going to kiss him back. The tailor who altered the boys' pants and made the girls' dresses made everything too tight, and so Joel ripped the seat of his pants sitting down and none of the girls could zip their dresses up, and they had to do them up with safety pins. Joel looked hot anyways (see far right).
Steve and Amber named the tables after things they like instead of numbering them, and we were table Mexico, so we made a Corona Man 
(I had to spell 'Corona' like, eight times before it looked right). The mashed potatoes tasted like Kraft Dinner, but totally in a good way. There was kareoke. Matt Street knows all the words to every song ever written. This baby looked like an old man, and I wanted to hold him, but he was fussy and I didn't know his parents and even at a wedding, that's kind of weird.
Weddings are exciting and all, but somehow after you go through the whole ordeal of planning your own wedding, and then you attend five more, with two more coming hard and fast, you start to lose that sense of wonder. Yay, married, awesome! I'm tired, and would like a nap and some chips. And maybe to hold that baby.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
If you tell them it can't be done, you can be sure they'll do it
What is it about swimming pools that tuckers you out? Is it because your metabolism has to work overtime to keep your body temperature above freezing? Is it because of the water resistance, because moving from here to there takes disproportionately more energy? Is it because entering a swimming pool turns you into a five-year-old, and children, by nature, sleep better and deeper than adults?
Last night we were at the dress rehearsal/BBQ/pool party for Joel's best friend Steve, who is getting married on Sunday to the lovely Amber (Steve + Amber = Stamber. Hilarious, no?). Because the pool belonged to Steve's parents' neighbors, and it was full of youth group for most of the evening, we didn't get in until around 8:30 and it hadn't been a warm day anyways, so the pool was freakin' freezing. H'anyways, the boys lost no time in making 'stackers,' ie. seeing how many bodies they could stack onto one pair of shoulders. It took about ten minutes of scrambling and re-arranging bodies and deeper-no-shallower-no-deeper-it'll-be-easier-no-shallower-it'll-look-awesomer before they got three-high. Boys have this innate bigger-and-better in them, so it wasn't long after their triumph that they were trying to figure out a way to stack four-high which, if you're just going one on top of the other, is stupid and impossible, but if you build a pyramid, is do-able, but you can't build the pyramid on all fours because that's an eighth-grade cheerleading squad, and it has to be in, like, the shallowest part of the pool because, awesome, but if you fall, fall forward or you'll die. So three guys get on their knees and link arms, and two guys hop up so they're sitting on the shoulder-shelves in between the three guys (this would be waaaaaaay easier if I had the pictures, but Alyson was taking them and she said she'd Facebook them but apparently not everyone is as keen as me), and then the three guys on the bottom stood up. Ok, picture this now. Not a one of Joel's friends is less than six feet tall, and we've got the three biggest on the bottom, standing now, and then two guys sitting on their shoulders, so this tower is one-and-a-half guys tall, and then Kurt gets on Kevin's shoulders (Kevin is the free-floating stabilizer and booster, and has arthritis and diabetes, which is kind of irrelevant except that he was always trying to be in on the bottom of things, and someone would invariably yell out 'You have arthritis and diabetes!' but he was the bottom of the first three-high stack, so I guess we can all eat our words), sorry, so Kurt is sitting on Kevin's shoulders and then he stands on Kevin's shoulders so that he can clamber up on top of the second-level's shoulders and sit there, and hey presto! We have a standing pyramid! And then everyone falls forwards because to fall backwards is death, and swims over to see the picture and it's awesome but you know what would be even awesomer? If Kurt STOOD UP on the top shoulders. RAD! So the guys on the bottom switch it up a bit, because being in the middle hurts most and it had taken at least three tries to get Kurt up in the first place, but now it's a science, and so this and that all happens again and Kurt shimmies up off of Kevin's shoulders and gets a foot-hold, and now he's STANDING on the shoulders of two guys who are sitting on the shoulders of three other guys, who are standing in the pool. Everyone falls in, and man, that was awesome. But you know what would be awesomer still? If Kurt sat back down, and someone else sat on his shoulders! But who is left? Kevin is the stabilizer, and everyone else is in the pyramid. As if with one mind, all eyes turn to where I'm huddled by the one warm jet, shivering and hooting and shouting encouragements. So the pyramid builds itself again, and then I'm standing on Kevin's shoulders, but this is at least twelve feet of body by now, and Kevin's only six foot, and I'm five-something, and from my perch on Kevin's shoulders I can just barely reach Kurt's shoulders, and so I'm clambering up but it's all slippery bodies and Kurt has nothing to hold on to and I have nothing to hold on to except him, and so we all go down in a mess of limbs, but this can totally be done, for reals, guys. So Joel, who's tallest, comes out from the bottom of the pyramid to act as my boost, and Kevin (of the arthritis and diabetes) takes his place and again with the pyramid, and this time I'm almost up but I slip on someone's arm and fall backwards and graze my back on the bottom of the pool and my boobs fall out of my top but I'm underwater so it's ok and I shove them back in, and we almost had it that time, but it's hard because even on Joel's shoulders, I'm only just as high as Kurt, and I can't use his body to climb up his body, because he's so precariously perched, and it's like I'm standing on a wall and trying to get my legs over another wall that's up by my shoulders but without touching that wall because it'll fall, and then I'm stepping on the shoulders of the guys on the second row, and Joel is shoving my feet from below, and the tower is wavering in the breeze and the guys on the bottom are grunting and suddenly I've got a leg over Kurt's shoulder and one arm in the air, and Alyson snaps the picture and we all fall into the water and I land with my knee on Ben's back and someone puts their fist in my eye and everyone surfaces groaning and cheering, because that's a four-tiered pyramid, and it's never been done.
It was about two-and-a-half minutes before they were searching around for something else that had never been done.
Last night we were at the dress rehearsal/BBQ/pool party for Joel's best friend Steve, who is getting married on Sunday to the lovely Amber (Steve + Amber = Stamber. Hilarious, no?). Because the pool belonged to Steve's parents' neighbors, and it was full of youth group for most of the evening, we didn't get in until around 8:30 and it hadn't been a warm day anyways, so the pool was freakin' freezing. H'anyways, the boys lost no time in making 'stackers,' ie. seeing how many bodies they could stack onto one pair of shoulders. It took about ten minutes of scrambling and re-arranging bodies and deeper-no-shallower-no-deeper-it'll-be-easier-no-shallower-it'll-look-awesomer before they got three-high. Boys have this innate bigger-and-better in them, so it wasn't long after their triumph that they were trying to figure out a way to stack four-high which, if you're just going one on top of the other, is stupid and impossible, but if you build a pyramid, is do-able, but you can't build the pyramid on all fours because that's an eighth-grade cheerleading squad, and it has to be in, like, the shallowest part of the pool because, awesome, but if you fall, fall forward or you'll die. So three guys get on their knees and link arms, and two guys hop up so they're sitting on the shoulder-shelves in between the three guys (this would be waaaaaaay easier if I had the pictures, but Alyson was taking them and she said she'd Facebook them but apparently not everyone is as keen as me), and then the three guys on the bottom stood up. Ok, picture this now. Not a one of Joel's friends is less than six feet tall, and we've got the three biggest on the bottom, standing now, and then two guys sitting on their shoulders, so this tower is one-and-a-half guys tall, and then Kurt gets on Kevin's shoulders (Kevin is the free-floating stabilizer and booster, and has arthritis and diabetes, which is kind of irrelevant except that he was always trying to be in on the bottom of things, and someone would invariably yell out 'You have arthritis and diabetes!' but he was the bottom of the first three-high stack, so I guess we can all eat our words), sorry, so Kurt is sitting on Kevin's shoulders and then he stands on Kevin's shoulders so that he can clamber up on top of the second-level's shoulders and sit there, and hey presto! We have a standing pyramid! And then everyone falls forwards because to fall backwards is death, and swims over to see the picture and it's awesome but you know what would be even awesomer? If Kurt STOOD UP on the top shoulders. RAD! So the guys on the bottom switch it up a bit, because being in the middle hurts most and it had taken at least three tries to get Kurt up in the first place, but now it's a science, and so this and that all happens again and Kurt shimmies up off of Kevin's shoulders and gets a foot-hold, and now he's STANDING on the shoulders of two guys who are sitting on the shoulders of three other guys, who are standing in the pool. Everyone falls in, and man, that was awesome. But you know what would be awesomer still? If Kurt sat back down, and someone else sat on his shoulders! But who is left? Kevin is the stabilizer, and everyone else is in the pyramid. As if with one mind, all eyes turn to where I'm huddled by the one warm jet, shivering and hooting and shouting encouragements. So the pyramid builds itself again, and then I'm standing on Kevin's shoulders, but this is at least twelve feet of body by now, and Kevin's only six foot, and I'm five-something, and from my perch on Kevin's shoulders I can just barely reach Kurt's shoulders, and so I'm clambering up but it's all slippery bodies and Kurt has nothing to hold on to and I have nothing to hold on to except him, and so we all go down in a mess of limbs, but this can totally be done, for reals, guys. So Joel, who's tallest, comes out from the bottom of the pyramid to act as my boost, and Kevin (of the arthritis and diabetes) takes his place and again with the pyramid, and this time I'm almost up but I slip on someone's arm and fall backwards and graze my back on the bottom of the pool and my boobs fall out of my top but I'm underwater so it's ok and I shove them back in, and we almost had it that time, but it's hard because even on Joel's shoulders, I'm only just as high as Kurt, and I can't use his body to climb up his body, because he's so precariously perched, and it's like I'm standing on a wall and trying to get my legs over another wall that's up by my shoulders but without touching that wall because it'll fall, and then I'm stepping on the shoulders of the guys on the second row, and Joel is shoving my feet from below, and the tower is wavering in the breeze and the guys on the bottom are grunting and suddenly I've got a leg over Kurt's shoulder and one arm in the air, and Alyson snaps the picture and we all fall into the water and I land with my knee on Ben's back and someone puts their fist in my eye and everyone surfaces groaning and cheering, because that's a four-tiered pyramid, and it's never been done.
It was about two-and-a-half minutes before they were searching around for something else that had never been done.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
PS: Because I am merciful
I will spare you pictures of my sunburnt, blistered, peeling lips, and the stye I developed yesterday and self-operated on this morning, and the piece of skin the kitchen counter took out of my back, and my jaundice-shin.
I do this because I love.
I do this because I love.
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