Last week some girl with a mega-flu arrived late to class, spilled her coffee all over her books, couldn’t stop her runny nose, became frantic, and proceeded to cough all over my stuff. Visibly unimpressed, I gave this girl a look that suggested she was the scum of the earth - a look that roughly translated as: “hey you there. Yeah you, with the cough that sounds like you’re a St. Bernard. You need to go the hell home and stop spewing germs on people. You’re the reason November sucks, now leave and take your runny nose with you!”
She looked back at me staring at her, as though she could read my thoughts, and seemed legitimately annoyed. Her eyes seemed to question my reaction, asking “what?!” As though she was completely entitled to hack up mucus over whomever she liked.
Now, before anyone gets too excited and proclaims that I’m some kind of horrible person, I mean, this girl was a legit mess, I’d like to note that when I see people that come to class clearly suffering, I recoil with memories of November 2009. I’ve been there, folks - and it wasn’t pretty.
I’m not sure I can even begin to describe the November 2009 sickness. I don’t quite remember how it all started. All I know for certain is that I woke up, did the whole “get-ready-for-work-because-you-have-to” half hour deal and then realized I was going to die.
I had the works: a heavy mucus-y feeling, a runny nose, a mad fever, sore throat, aches, hallucinations, and worst of all, I felt half deaf - like I was permanently underwater.
Most people admit they are sick then head home so they can be taken care of properly. Instead, I was determined that I’d recover all by myself. This super-sickness wasn’t going to last. My immune system would kick in and I’d continue on as an eager work-a-holic.
Wrong. Each time I woke up it was as though the sickness had amplified ten-fold. Additionally, based on my new sick-diet of toast, Nutella (out of the jar), and French Vanilla instant coffee, I was surely going to die.
Despite my parents begging me to come home so they could take care of me, Sickness- Insanity had begun. I was convinced that all day naps were the key to survival. However, I knew after day five that I needed a doctor’s note to take more days off work, so I made an appointment and bared the bone-shattering cold to get to Health Services. In order to even get to the building, I loaded up on daytime Benylin so I’d at least make it through the blizzard outside.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but within moments I realized everyone there looked awful. Noses were dripping, eyes were drooping, people were staring absentmindedly and wearing scary medical masks. It was Swine Flu season and all these snot factories definitely had it. I was offered a mask by the door but, considering my recent dosage of Benylin, I was on some sort of super-sickness high, so I declined and boldly took a seat with the other zombies (what the what?!)
After a few minutes I legitimately felt like I was in a horror movie. These kids were a mess. I wasn’t THAT sick. I mean, my nose might have been raw from all the tissues over the past week, I felt like passing out, and my brain felt like it was trying to swell outside of my skull, but these kids, now THEY were a mess.
So, in my highly medicated stupor, I stumbled out through the corridor where a nurse caught me trying to escape.
Nurse: where are you going? I just sent you to sit over there.
High Jpep: Umm, I’mma go now. This place is Grossville. Those people are dying back there!
Nurse (looking very concerned): You’ve got a fever. You really have to stay. It won’t be too much longer.
High Jpep (Hyperventilating in panic): I- I – I can’t. You can’t make me. I’m gonna cry. I need a Popsicle and a cheeseburger. This place smells like the opposite of Subway. I can’t sit there. That kid is gonna bite me.
(Let me assure you – in this moment, I was going to push this nurse over if she wasn’t going to let my high-as-a-kite-self leave).
Nurse (guiding me to a chair on the opposite side of the wall): You don’t have to sit over there. Try sitting here and wear this mask. It’ll be all right.
This new chair, where I didn’t have to physically look at other sick people, calmed me down. I was also very glad to be breathing like Darth Vader into the surprisingly soothing medical mask.
I finally got called into the office where I showed the doctor my sore throat and she assessed all the crazy. She asked when I’d noticed symptoms, how many days I’d been off work, and then, with one fluid motion, she waved her hand in front of me as if casting some sort of doctor spell and declared, “infection”.
High Jpep: You just motioned to all of me and then said infection.
Doctor: Yeah. All of it. Just a really really encompassing infection.
She didn’t go into very many details from there. She didn’t even write a freakin’ prescription. She said to continue doing what I was doing all week and then I had to trudge home in the freezing cold while the Benylin wore off. Cut to me freezing, half-high, and attempting to climb snow drifts that weren’t even directly in my way. I started mumbling that sad, sorry monologue sick people do in their heads when attempting any task: “this is the worst… mumble mumble…poor me…mumble mumble” and started humming the Indiana Jones theme song as a messed up sort of motivation. High-dosage-cough syrup me is interesting.
The moral of November 2009 is that when you’re sick you eventually reach that point where you can’t even remember what it feels like to be normal. You trudge around in your pajamas feeling like you’re head is a blimp while you wait for cold-medication to work and for your next pitiful nap. Heck, when Sickness-Insanity kicks in, you might even attempt to go to class.
But, memories of November 2009 ensure that each time I catch someone sneezing or coughing obnoxiously in class, I get an instant, Matrix-like flashback to me on my death bed. I picture the sickly zombies, the look on the nurse’s face, the piles of Kleenex, the tasteless bowls of soup, the instant French Vanilla I can’t even look at anymore, and I curse cold season with every fiber of my being.
So next time you wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a bus (contemplating the nutritious qualities of your eleventh dose of Nutella), quarantine your sick-self and don’t be that crazy who emerges in public only to get the death stare. Embrace your inner Vader, breathe some Vic’s Vapor, and remember that sharing is only caring when what you’ve got is candy or unicorns.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Fake it 'til ya Make it
A co-worker told an interesting story about a teacher who, after only one year with the school board, was fired because he failed to teach the curriculum to the third graders and instead made them put on a series of his favourite plays. Fourth grade came along and these poor kids’ tests revealed that they didn’t know how to multiply or divide, but they could damn well put on a show.
This story brought to mind some key questions for me:
1. What does a third grade Jean Val Jean look like, and can he be taken seriously in such an emotionally charged role?
2. How long was that teacher going to keep fakin’ his job for?
3. How long were those kids going to keep smiling and nodding like Kate’s 8 in their acceptance of enforced child stardom?
4. How many people go through life smiling and nodding or “fakin’ it til they make it” so to speak?
Naturally, this story made me think of times when I too have been caught in situations where I’d been smiling and nodding without ever having a clue of what was going on. These types of scenarios have often involved high school geography where my default answer to any question was “Winnipeg”, or any time I’ve heard a presentation that sounds like it’s being delivered by a Speak n’ Spell. It’s during these times I zone out, my eyes glaze over, yet I have a tricky look on my face that suggests you’re super interesting. Overall, it’s very easy to nod and smile and put on a show.
Sadly, the lesson seems to be that everyone gets caught when they exploit the nod and smile method of cruising through life especially when they have to answer questions. For instance, a friend of mine once provided the following answers on a French test:
Who’s your favourite popular French comic strip character? (Answer: Celine Dion).
When setting the table for a dinner party, what do you place beside each place setting? (Answer: jam and baguettes).
When we got our tests back my friend explained that she thought the first question was asking about who her favourite French celebrity was, while the second question was asking what she’d serve at a dinner party before it really got poppin’.
Point being, you can only smile and nod until someone calls you out, or your teacher has a laugh.
In a fairly recent situation however, I wasn’t being tested, I wasn’t selectively choosing where it might be appropriate if I simply inserted the default “Winnipeg”, rather, I was genuinely trying to do well.
At work, I’d shown up for our regular 3pm meeting in the same room we always met in. I was earlier than normal, had brought a laptop and a tonne of other unnecessary items, and entered the room to sit where I usually did.
My team was never especially early, so I started thumbing through my notes and making a bulleted list of things I’d do later that evening:
1. Make tacos
2. Do laundry
3. Enjoy copious amounts of television
4. Sleep
5. Repeat previous day
Wow. Busy evening.
After about five minutes, an older gentleman entered the room and sat across from me without saying a word. He placed his notebook in front of him, adjusted his glasses, scratched his head, then slowly lifted his eyes toward me.
I grinned without thinking it was odd I’d never seen this man or that he wasn’t on my team, and continued looking around the room, waiting.
There were now more people in the room, setting up granola bars and other snacks on a table to the side.
Two more older guys came in, sat at the table, greeted each other, looked at me, shrugged and looked at the snacks.
Everyone was moving very slowly and I got the feeling that this was going to be a long meeting. There’d be talk of acquisitions, mergers, synergy, team work, progress, I’d continue smiling at these nice new people and maybe even get one of those cool marshmellow date squares that looked – woah woah woah SHUT IT DOWN. MAYDAY MAYDAY YOU’RE IN THE WRONG MEETING AND THEY ALL KNOW!!!!!
Yes, all of these people, who were on their own team and likely met each week too, were sitting and smiling back at me and knew perfectly well I didn’t belong. They politely nodded and smiled at me until I realized that my nodding and smiling had gotten way out of hand. This was quite the production.
I knew I had to get up and leave, but the situation was very awkward at this point as the room was now filled with more old guys who didn’t want to explicitly tell me to leave.
So I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I collected my notebooks, laptop, coffee, and rather awkwardly stumbled to the other side of the table as the old men smiled and nodded politely. Everyone was staring so I added, “I forgot... a pen...” and fumbled with my key card at the door.
The moral of the story is that everyone at one point is that teacher puttin’ on a show and frankly, sometimes the show must go on. But at other times, you gotta call it. You can’t throw a gaggle of third graders out on stage because you don’t really want to teach math that day, and you can’t eat from the dessert tray in the meeting you don’t belong at (I know, bummer huh?). But, C’est la vie. That being said, for any of those who are now back in school and suffering through various speak and spell professors...break a leg bobble-head dolls!
This story brought to mind some key questions for me:
1. What does a third grade Jean Val Jean look like, and can he be taken seriously in such an emotionally charged role?
2. How long was that teacher going to keep fakin’ his job for?
3. How long were those kids going to keep smiling and nodding like Kate’s 8 in their acceptance of enforced child stardom?
4. How many people go through life smiling and nodding or “fakin’ it til they make it” so to speak?
Naturally, this story made me think of times when I too have been caught in situations where I’d been smiling and nodding without ever having a clue of what was going on. These types of scenarios have often involved high school geography where my default answer to any question was “Winnipeg”, or any time I’ve heard a presentation that sounds like it’s being delivered by a Speak n’ Spell. It’s during these times I zone out, my eyes glaze over, yet I have a tricky look on my face that suggests you’re super interesting. Overall, it’s very easy to nod and smile and put on a show.
Sadly, the lesson seems to be that everyone gets caught when they exploit the nod and smile method of cruising through life especially when they have to answer questions. For instance, a friend of mine once provided the following answers on a French test:
Who’s your favourite popular French comic strip character? (Answer: Celine Dion).
When setting the table for a dinner party, what do you place beside each place setting? (Answer: jam and baguettes).
When we got our tests back my friend explained that she thought the first question was asking about who her favourite French celebrity was, while the second question was asking what she’d serve at a dinner party before it really got poppin’.
Point being, you can only smile and nod until someone calls you out, or your teacher has a laugh.
In a fairly recent situation however, I wasn’t being tested, I wasn’t selectively choosing where it might be appropriate if I simply inserted the default “Winnipeg”, rather, I was genuinely trying to do well.
At work, I’d shown up for our regular 3pm meeting in the same room we always met in. I was earlier than normal, had brought a laptop and a tonne of other unnecessary items, and entered the room to sit where I usually did.
My team was never especially early, so I started thumbing through my notes and making a bulleted list of things I’d do later that evening:
1. Make tacos
2. Do laundry
3. Enjoy copious amounts of television
4. Sleep
5. Repeat previous day
Wow. Busy evening.
After about five minutes, an older gentleman entered the room and sat across from me without saying a word. He placed his notebook in front of him, adjusted his glasses, scratched his head, then slowly lifted his eyes toward me.
I grinned without thinking it was odd I’d never seen this man or that he wasn’t on my team, and continued looking around the room, waiting.
There were now more people in the room, setting up granola bars and other snacks on a table to the side.
Two more older guys came in, sat at the table, greeted each other, looked at me, shrugged and looked at the snacks.
Everyone was moving very slowly and I got the feeling that this was going to be a long meeting. There’d be talk of acquisitions, mergers, synergy, team work, progress, I’d continue smiling at these nice new people and maybe even get one of those cool marshmellow date squares that looked – woah woah woah SHUT IT DOWN. MAYDAY MAYDAY YOU’RE IN THE WRONG MEETING AND THEY ALL KNOW!!!!!
Yes, all of these people, who were on their own team and likely met each week too, were sitting and smiling back at me and knew perfectly well I didn’t belong. They politely nodded and smiled at me until I realized that my nodding and smiling had gotten way out of hand. This was quite the production.
I knew I had to get up and leave, but the situation was very awkward at this point as the room was now filled with more old guys who didn’t want to explicitly tell me to leave.
So I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I collected my notebooks, laptop, coffee, and rather awkwardly stumbled to the other side of the table as the old men smiled and nodded politely. Everyone was staring so I added, “I forgot... a pen...” and fumbled with my key card at the door.
The moral of the story is that everyone at one point is that teacher puttin’ on a show and frankly, sometimes the show must go on. But at other times, you gotta call it. You can’t throw a gaggle of third graders out on stage because you don’t really want to teach math that day, and you can’t eat from the dessert tray in the meeting you don’t belong at (I know, bummer huh?). But, C’est la vie. That being said, for any of those who are now back in school and suffering through various speak and spell professors...break a leg bobble-head dolls!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
All in a Day's Work
8:10am - Guy unicycles by me as I walk to work.
8:12am - Random is juggling on campus.
8:13am - I wonder if there is a circus I'm unaware of, or if this place is actually pretty weird.
8:25am - Solve office hangman puzzle for the fifth time in a row and maintain reputation as the champ (he lives!)
8:32am - Informed by a gentleman working in facilities that there was a report of a bat flying around the office. Went something like this:
Batman: Have you ladies seen a bat?
Me: uhhh...
Batman: Yeah, the guy who sits in this cube phoned in to tell us about it yesterday and that sucker could be anywhere.
Me: Oh, that's pretty odd. (I'm giving him the look that says, "I think you're kinda odd too and I'm gonna make a sneaky escape from what is sure to be an Bill Nye lecture attempt of some sort")
Batman: So...Bats...they are strange little creatures. This one's probably just little. I suppose all the construction in the building next door brought this one in. Probably disturbed his little house or something. It's sad really, because they need food every three hours, lots of mosquitoes, so he'll probably be dead around here.
Batman begins inspecting below the desks, still talking about the fascinating dietary restrictions of bats, while I slowly back away and head in the opposite direction. All the while I'm thinking that Batman should really meet my neighbour who also has a similar appreciation for wildlife.
8:35am - Tell coworker about bat situation.
8:42am - Batman returns because he's remembered to tell me not to tell other people about the bat.
8:42am - Lie about keeping bat a secret.
8:55am - Darth Vader mug takes a chip to the face. I sigh dramatically and explain to onlookers, "He was like a father to me..."
9am - Sit in a meeting (nod, smile, look competent and fake awareness of what's being discussed)
9:15am - Contemplate methods to destroy a bat during a potential attack.
10:20am - Informed that bat has been sighted flapping around by my cube. (unsightly squirm-dance commences).
11: 45am -"Hey Jpep, I think I"ll call you Peps from now on...or Pepper Pots. Or Jpop. Like you're one of the Rice Krispies elves or something."
me: Nope. Those don't get to happen.
1:20pm - Someone announces: "Mini blizzards are $2.99 at Dairy Queen!" Everyone then inevitably wonders why we are eating cookies when we could be having mini blizzards.
And there you have it. An account of a fraction of the strange/entertaining things that happened today. I suppose that's what I get for insisting nothing was "what the what worthy" for about a month.
8:12am - Random is juggling on campus.
8:13am - I wonder if there is a circus I'm unaware of, or if this place is actually pretty weird.
8:25am - Solve office hangman puzzle for the fifth time in a row and maintain reputation as the champ (he lives!)
8:32am - Informed by a gentleman working in facilities that there was a report of a bat flying around the office. Went something like this:
Batman: Have you ladies seen a bat?
Me: uhhh...
Batman: Yeah, the guy who sits in this cube phoned in to tell us about it yesterday and that sucker could be anywhere.
Me: Oh, that's pretty odd. (I'm giving him the look that says, "I think you're kinda odd too and I'm gonna make a sneaky escape from what is sure to be an Bill Nye lecture attempt of some sort")
Batman: So...Bats...they are strange little creatures. This one's probably just little. I suppose all the construction in the building next door brought this one in. Probably disturbed his little house or something. It's sad really, because they need food every three hours, lots of mosquitoes, so he'll probably be dead around here.
Batman begins inspecting below the desks, still talking about the fascinating dietary restrictions of bats, while I slowly back away and head in the opposite direction. All the while I'm thinking that Batman should really meet my neighbour who also has a similar appreciation for wildlife.
8:35am - Tell coworker about bat situation.
8:42am - Batman returns because he's remembered to tell me not to tell other people about the bat.
8:42am - Lie about keeping bat a secret.
8:55am - Darth Vader mug takes a chip to the face. I sigh dramatically and explain to onlookers, "He was like a father to me..."
9am - Sit in a meeting (nod, smile, look competent and fake awareness of what's being discussed)
9:15am - Contemplate methods to destroy a bat during a potential attack.
10:20am - Informed that bat has been sighted flapping around by my cube. (unsightly squirm-dance commences).
11: 45am -"Hey Jpep, I think I"ll call you Peps from now on...or Pepper Pots. Or Jpop. Like you're one of the Rice Krispies elves or something."
me: Nope. Those don't get to happen.
1:20pm - Someone announces: "Mini blizzards are $2.99 at Dairy Queen!" Everyone then inevitably wonders why we are eating cookies when we could be having mini blizzards.
And there you have it. An account of a fraction of the strange/entertaining things that happened today. I suppose that's what I get for insisting nothing was "what the what worthy" for about a month.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Hey Miley, Where’d you say that Party was?
America. You may be a country that shamelessly embodies the “go big or go home” principle when it comes to national pride, politics, and food, but I will simply never understand you.
I recently went to Florida and I must say, the American experience, for me, revolves around two important factors:
1. Ample opportunities to work on my American accent and alternate personas, as I’m interacting with the southern accent first hand and those who will likely never meet me again. (This is truly an entertaining pastime close to my heart.)
2. Chances to eat at the chain restaurants us Canucks only get to see in commercials.
Oh, and the one’s we can’t seem to get right (Burger King in the States is a whole other ballgame...a tasty, and truly worthwhile ballgame).
That said, this second visit to the states taught me some valuable lessons that I thought I should share here because they each caused varying degrees of "what the what"-reactions.
Lesson 1: You can get away with saying anything as long as you refer to people as “y’all”.
When picking up our rental car at the airport, my family approached a perfectly nice young woman who was very chipper considering the abandoned terminals and eeriness of the airport at the time. She welcomed us to the Sunshine state in a voice reserved for those auditioning to be Disney Princesses at the theme parks.
“Ya’ll here to see Mickey?” she chirped at my 19 year old brother and I.
Despite the mix of her overwhelming cheerfulness and our unbearable crankiness from the typical airport activities, we continued to joke with her while my dad provided signatures.
She mentioned her own kids, made small talk, then started asking if we’d like to sign up for additional insurance for the rental.
“No, ours is transferable. Thanks all the same though,” my dad nodded.
“I see,” she said in a tone no different from before.
Continuing with her sing-song voice and highly dramatized expressions she said, “Guess ya’ll haven’t heard about all the accidents around here on the radio...cars just totalled; entire families torn apart...and on vacation too... *pause for dramatic effect* That’s fine though, ya’ll look like y’all can take care of each other. Just remember that if ya’ll are in a horrible accident...we’ll I warned ya’ll now didn’t I?”
My brother elbowed me at each “ya’ll” while dad looked like he couldn't raise his one eyebrow any more incredulously. (Was this one for real?!)
“We’re good. Thanks.” (And thankfully, we were.)
Turns out it’s policy to speak like a chipmunk on speed when you talk about fatal car accidents and the horrors of vacation disasters to terrified-looking tourists. Oh, and be sure to talk about them collectively as “y’all” in all instances.
Lesson 2: Chocolate chip pancakes are, unfortunately, not a universal understanding
When I finally got tired of my newfound love affair with Burger King, we headed to IHOP for what was sure to be a wholesome family dining experience.
However, as I discovered, pancakes are a case of expectation versus reality.
If I were to survey a number of individuals, I expect that many would agree that chocolate chip pancakes look something like golden disks of buttermilk with evenly dispersed chocolate chips melting into the fluffy goodness. (right?!)
Well, perhaps you’d have been as surprised as I was upon finding that chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP are gigantic mounds of what I would describe as heavy cocoa-dough dyed brown using a granular, chocolate powder. These dry chocolate monsters are packed with crunchy chocolate chips that are not baked into the batter, but sit atop the mountain of whipped cream gracing the top of the pile; the cream melting in a heap towards a chocolate syrup river.
The waitress put down the plate of five pancakes, each of them the size of my face, and I truly wish I had a photo of my reaction.
How was I going to eat these steroid-enhanced sugar-coma inducers? (Honestly, the picture provided doesn't even do these pancakes justice).
It took all of three seconds for my entire family to come up with my new nicknames.
“Wow, just had to order something fun didn’t you, Count Chocula?”
“Hey Cocoa Puffs, you’re coo coo for ordering that”
---Insert many more chocolate-themed jokes---
I did my best (2.25 out of five) while my family laughed at me. But Hershey, well she just couldn’t stomach the chocolate extravaganza of death.
Lesson 3: Your GPS isn’t to be taken seriously...especially if it can’t pronounce certain letters
Suffice it to say that while our GPS could navigate roads with ease, it had trouble pronouncing the letter ‘T’. This electronic speech impediment was plenty of entertainment for me, as each time we arrived somewhere, the Elmer Fudd GPS would announce in a serious voice that we had arrived at “wendy woo wendwy waif”, for example.
Lesson 4: Your desire to win a prize from the claw arcade machine < the luck of a ruthless 7 year old
So maybe I’m far too old to attempt to win things out of a classic claw machine at the supermarket, but I was on holiday and I really thought I was destined to own the stuffed Dispicable Me doll for only fifty cents.
A slow motion montage played in my mind. I would take such pride in my win. I’d be a champion of champions. I’d tell of my victory and inspire future hopefuls that, yes, they too could be winners.
(In all likelihood, I’d have kept it for a short time, it would collect dust, I’d decide I was over nostalgia and chuck it in a donation box).
Unfortunately however, I played numerous times, convinced in a casino-mindset that I could be a champ, only to turn away for an instant while a three-foot Muppet in roller-shoes stole my doll with ease. Her nimble fingers and luck far exceeded my attempts at arcade glory.
She roller-shoed away too quickly for me to challenge her to a cage match, and perhaps it’s for the best.
I counted my losses and headed back to BK.
I recently went to Florida and I must say, the American experience, for me, revolves around two important factors:
1. Ample opportunities to work on my American accent and alternate personas, as I’m interacting with the southern accent first hand and those who will likely never meet me again. (This is truly an entertaining pastime close to my heart.)
2. Chances to eat at the chain restaurants us Canucks only get to see in commercials.
Oh, and the one’s we can’t seem to get right (Burger King in the States is a whole other ballgame...a tasty, and truly worthwhile ballgame).
That said, this second visit to the states taught me some valuable lessons that I thought I should share here because they each caused varying degrees of "what the what"-reactions.
Lesson 1: You can get away with saying anything as long as you refer to people as “y’all”.
When picking up our rental car at the airport, my family approached a perfectly nice young woman who was very chipper considering the abandoned terminals and eeriness of the airport at the time. She welcomed us to the Sunshine state in a voice reserved for those auditioning to be Disney Princesses at the theme parks.
“Ya’ll here to see Mickey?” she chirped at my 19 year old brother and I.
Despite the mix of her overwhelming cheerfulness and our unbearable crankiness from the typical airport activities, we continued to joke with her while my dad provided signatures.
She mentioned her own kids, made small talk, then started asking if we’d like to sign up for additional insurance for the rental.
“No, ours is transferable. Thanks all the same though,” my dad nodded.
“I see,” she said in a tone no different from before.
Continuing with her sing-song voice and highly dramatized expressions she said, “Guess ya’ll haven’t heard about all the accidents around here on the radio...cars just totalled; entire families torn apart...and on vacation too... *pause for dramatic effect* That’s fine though, ya’ll look like y’all can take care of each other. Just remember that if ya’ll are in a horrible accident...we’ll I warned ya’ll now didn’t I?”
My brother elbowed me at each “ya’ll” while dad looked like he couldn't raise his one eyebrow any more incredulously. (Was this one for real?!)
“We’re good. Thanks.” (And thankfully, we were.)
Turns out it’s policy to speak like a chipmunk on speed when you talk about fatal car accidents and the horrors of vacation disasters to terrified-looking tourists. Oh, and be sure to talk about them collectively as “y’all” in all instances.
Lesson 2: Chocolate chip pancakes are, unfortunately, not a universal understanding
When I finally got tired of my newfound love affair with Burger King, we headed to IHOP for what was sure to be a wholesome family dining experience.
However, as I discovered, pancakes are a case of expectation versus reality.
If I were to survey a number of individuals, I expect that many would agree that chocolate chip pancakes look something like golden disks of buttermilk with evenly dispersed chocolate chips melting into the fluffy goodness. (right?!)
Well, perhaps you’d have been as surprised as I was upon finding that chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP are gigantic mounds of what I would describe as heavy cocoa-dough dyed brown using a granular, chocolate powder. These dry chocolate monsters are packed with crunchy chocolate chips that are not baked into the batter, but sit atop the mountain of whipped cream gracing the top of the pile; the cream melting in a heap towards a chocolate syrup river.
The waitress put down the plate of five pancakes, each of them the size of my face, and I truly wish I had a photo of my reaction.
How was I going to eat these steroid-enhanced sugar-coma inducers? (Honestly, the picture provided doesn't even do these pancakes justice).
It took all of three seconds for my entire family to come up with my new nicknames.
“Wow, just had to order something fun didn’t you, Count Chocula?”
“Hey Cocoa Puffs, you’re coo coo for ordering that”
---Insert many more chocolate-themed jokes---
I did my best (2.25 out of five) while my family laughed at me. But Hershey, well she just couldn’t stomach the chocolate extravaganza of death.
Lesson 3: Your GPS isn’t to be taken seriously...especially if it can’t pronounce certain letters
Suffice it to say that while our GPS could navigate roads with ease, it had trouble pronouncing the letter ‘T’. This electronic speech impediment was plenty of entertainment for me, as each time we arrived somewhere, the Elmer Fudd GPS would announce in a serious voice that we had arrived at “wendy woo wendwy waif”, for example.
Lesson 4: Your desire to win a prize from the claw arcade machine < the luck of a ruthless 7 year old
So maybe I’m far too old to attempt to win things out of a classic claw machine at the supermarket, but I was on holiday and I really thought I was destined to own the stuffed Dispicable Me doll for only fifty cents.
A slow motion montage played in my mind. I would take such pride in my win. I’d be a champion of champions. I’d tell of my victory and inspire future hopefuls that, yes, they too could be winners.
(In all likelihood, I’d have kept it for a short time, it would collect dust, I’d decide I was over nostalgia and chuck it in a donation box).
Unfortunately however, I played numerous times, convinced in a casino-mindset that I could be a champ, only to turn away for an instant while a three-foot Muppet in roller-shoes stole my doll with ease. Her nimble fingers and luck far exceeded my attempts at arcade glory.
She roller-shoed away too quickly for me to challenge her to a cage match, and perhaps it’s for the best.
I counted my losses and headed back to BK.
Monday, June 14, 2010
This Post has been Brought to you by the Word Awareness
I recently watched a rather large three year old exclaim, “cats love me!” and then proceed to mount a murderous looking cat for a ride.
Yeah, sometimes it’s possible to be completely oblivious to the world.
Another example of this witnessed obliviousness occurred when I was at the library and some guy was sharing his terribly inappropriate dating strategies at a volume that suggested he was trying to contact the international space station to inform NASA of how he picks up, in his own words, “hot chicks, dude...like tens and twelve’s...even though I’m technically only an 8 or an 8.5 on a good day.” (Huston, we have an asshole).
Also notable was when I saw someone use an open laptop as a triangular-umbrella substitute in a heavy thunderstorm.
Alas, while I may be the witness to a lack of awareness in people, I’m certainly not immune, as the following examples will surely illustrate.
When the weather started to improve this season, I took an extended walk to work. My leisurely stroll included warm sunshine, chipmunks darting out on pebbled pathways, the smell of freshly cut grass, and I even got to stop for coffee and the paper. This is the kind of morning I dream of. Relaxing, refreshing, and a bit ridiculous considering it goes something like a Claritin commercial and I half expect people to begin prancing around in grass fields and literally stopping to smell roses.
My fairytale morning came to an abrupt end as I was hit by the frigid cold air conditioning when opening the door to the office. I wish my present-self could have told my past-self five things at this moment:
1. Your little leisurely morning, yeah...it ends now. Hope you enjoyed it.
2. You’ve forgotten something fairly significant.
3. You probably shouldn’t have stopped for the coffee which you’ll spill on your pants in ten minutes.
4. You should stop listening to Lady Gaga’s Alejandro. Seriously. Give it a rest.
5. You’ll regret that you took your sweet time to get here. (Wait for it...)
As I walked closer to my cubicle, it became very apparent that something wasn’t right. My desk phone was unplugged and it sounded like there was a deafening car alarm going off inside my desk.
Turns out I had completely forgotten about setting an alarm on a device which I had locked in my drawer. So, while I was off gallivanting with the woodland creatures, my coworkers had been suffering an intense loop of the worst sound on the planet every thirty seconds for an hour.
Awareness. It’s a very valuable feature which comes on most updated versions of human being.
This event in mind, it seems as though the working world is attempting to teach me about being aware. Unfortunately, I’m only clueing in now.
While I’ve been staring at my computer daily, cursing excel spreadsheets, I’ve also been mindlessly eating with my free hand. I’ve taken up eating junk food like it’s a professional sport. Like I’m training for the fatty-triathlon (which for the record would hypothetically take place at a Burger King and include corn-dog, cake, and pasta eating contests).
It was Thursday of the past week while opening the wrapper of a Wunderbar when I realized in an “ah-ha” moment that it was my third in the week (WHAT THE WHAT!!?!). At this point in the day (approximately 3pm) I’d also consumed 2 cafe mochas. These mochas are made from sugary syrup the consistency of 1 part Nesquik and 3 parts mud. It should also be noted that I am mildly addicted to the cheddar Crispy Minis from the vending machine.
I’d continue to effectively demonstrate my addiction with a list of what I’d eaten this past week, but i’m fairly embarrassed and I’m sure you’ve gotten the point. Suffice it to say it involved 2 A&W teen burger combo meals. (Don’t ask.)
In another act of ignorance, I nearly arrived that very day dressed in the exact uniform of a popular electronics retailer. I’d realized before I left the house that it looked as though I was about to sell someone a netbook they didn’t need, dressed as a replica of a Best Buy manager.
I think I may be improving in terms of my awareness, but I’d like to encourage you all to start clueing in those around you who may be about to cash in on their third mocha mud beverage. Seriously folks, you could save some cats.
Yeah, sometimes it’s possible to be completely oblivious to the world.
Another example of this witnessed obliviousness occurred when I was at the library and some guy was sharing his terribly inappropriate dating strategies at a volume that suggested he was trying to contact the international space station to inform NASA of how he picks up, in his own words, “hot chicks, dude...like tens and twelve’s...even though I’m technically only an 8 or an 8.5 on a good day.” (Huston, we have an asshole).
Also notable was when I saw someone use an open laptop as a triangular-umbrella substitute in a heavy thunderstorm.
Alas, while I may be the witness to a lack of awareness in people, I’m certainly not immune, as the following examples will surely illustrate.
When the weather started to improve this season, I took an extended walk to work. My leisurely stroll included warm sunshine, chipmunks darting out on pebbled pathways, the smell of freshly cut grass, and I even got to stop for coffee and the paper. This is the kind of morning I dream of. Relaxing, refreshing, and a bit ridiculous considering it goes something like a Claritin commercial and I half expect people to begin prancing around in grass fields and literally stopping to smell roses.
My fairytale morning came to an abrupt end as I was hit by the frigid cold air conditioning when opening the door to the office. I wish my present-self could have told my past-self five things at this moment:
1. Your little leisurely morning, yeah...it ends now. Hope you enjoyed it.
2. You’ve forgotten something fairly significant.
3. You probably shouldn’t have stopped for the coffee which you’ll spill on your pants in ten minutes.
4. You should stop listening to Lady Gaga’s Alejandro. Seriously. Give it a rest.
5. You’ll regret that you took your sweet time to get here. (Wait for it...)
As I walked closer to my cubicle, it became very apparent that something wasn’t right. My desk phone was unplugged and it sounded like there was a deafening car alarm going off inside my desk.
Turns out I had completely forgotten about setting an alarm on a device which I had locked in my drawer. So, while I was off gallivanting with the woodland creatures, my coworkers had been suffering an intense loop of the worst sound on the planet every thirty seconds for an hour.
Awareness. It’s a very valuable feature which comes on most updated versions of human being.
This event in mind, it seems as though the working world is attempting to teach me about being aware. Unfortunately, I’m only clueing in now.
While I’ve been staring at my computer daily, cursing excel spreadsheets, I’ve also been mindlessly eating with my free hand. I’ve taken up eating junk food like it’s a professional sport. Like I’m training for the fatty-triathlon (which for the record would hypothetically take place at a Burger King and include corn-dog, cake, and pasta eating contests).
It was Thursday of the past week while opening the wrapper of a Wunderbar when I realized in an “ah-ha” moment that it was my third in the week (WHAT THE WHAT!!?!). At this point in the day (approximately 3pm) I’d also consumed 2 cafe mochas. These mochas are made from sugary syrup the consistency of 1 part Nesquik and 3 parts mud. It should also be noted that I am mildly addicted to the cheddar Crispy Minis from the vending machine.
I’d continue to effectively demonstrate my addiction with a list of what I’d eaten this past week, but i’m fairly embarrassed and I’m sure you’ve gotten the point. Suffice it to say it involved 2 A&W teen burger combo meals. (Don’t ask.)
In another act of ignorance, I nearly arrived that very day dressed in the exact uniform of a popular electronics retailer. I’d realized before I left the house that it looked as though I was about to sell someone a netbook they didn’t need, dressed as a replica of a Best Buy manager.
I think I may be improving in terms of my awareness, but I’d like to encourage you all to start clueing in those around you who may be about to cash in on their third mocha mud beverage. Seriously folks, you could save some cats.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Where the Wild Things Are
A friend once told me her mother keeps a baseball bat by the entrance of their house because she once opened the door to find an aggressive and self-assured flasher.
Random things can happen any time we open literal or figurative doors to the world and because of recent incidents, I believe it’s time to explore the various species that have appeared on my doorstep in the past few months.
Each time I open my door lately there seems to be an evolution of the kind of surprise waiting on the other side. That is to say, each subsequent instance, the item found on the doorstep is odder or more mysterious than the one before.
It began simply enough, as one evening my housemates and I noticed there were ducks on our front lawn. There is nothing particularly disturbing or interesting about ducks, and suffice it to say that we fed them in hopes of keeping them as endearing pets of the outdoor sort.
From that moment on, it was as though those ducks told all the other creatures of the city that our doorstep was awesome and we distributed the best bread around.
For instance, one night, when putting the garbage out by the curb, I walked two steps outside the front door and found myself frozen in fear as a skunk, barely visible in the dark, stared up at me as if to say, “go for it, make my day”.
Shaking and wide-eyed, I placed the garbage down slowly while talking to the skunk the way hostages speak to knife-wielding criminals; struggling to keep my voice as calm as possible.
“You don’t want to do this...I’m going to slowly back away from you...I’m going to ask that you stop twitching like that.”
It took a good twenty minutes of staring out from the front window, garbage in hand, and popping my head out the door while making, what I assumed to be, terrifying hissing noises to bore the skunk to the point where he figured he’d go annoy another crazy person instead.
In the pattern of the creatures at my front door becoming increasingly strange, my second encounter with our ducks occurred a few weeks after the skunk. This time I opened the door to find them waddling around in the grass looking up expectantly. As I locked the door behind me, a deep voice came out of nowhere:
“Don’t scare the ducks!”
“Bah! Holy shh- I’m the one being scared! Didn’t see you there.”
Our next-door neighbour, a lone 50 year old with whom we share a small front porch, was standing there staring at the ducks. I had started on my way to class when he stood in front of the steps and began with his philosophy on ducks.
“They mate for life you know, ducks.”
“wow, fascinating.”
“yes, there are always two, see.”
“yep, that’s nice.”
“They fall in love like humans. You’ll often find at the side of the road one duck will be pecking at the carcass of another duck. They don’t understand death, you see. They just wonder where their love has gone off to.”
While this may have been charming sentiment from any other elderly man, I was late
for class and, quite frankly, our neighbour is one of the species we are never thrilled to find at our doorstep.
Though he has an exceptional ability to yap away about ducks, our previous encounter with him was when he had come over to apologize.
There was a loud tap at the door and when I had answered he put on what he imagined was a pleasing nasal tone and said with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader, “Oh heyyyy girrrlllll!”
For the record, I nearly lost it right at that moment.
He proceeded to apologize profusely (without ever mentioning why) while flapping an envelope around. Turns out he had “accidentally” read our handwritten, personalized mail.
According to Snoopy, he got three quarters of the way through the mail addressed to a girl before realizing it wasn’t for him.
From ducks to more dangerous critters (skunks), to the downright strange (old dude), there have been many mysterious things outside our door, but none more mysterious than what we have deemed “the orphan”.
About two weeks ago my housemates woke to find a large potted plant placed strategically in front of our door. In a Herculean state, this indoor plant was orphaned and so we took it in as one of our own. We named him Oliver, Ollie for short, and now he graces the patio out back.
I like to think the gods have sent us the mystery plant. That, or the secret service has planted a nanny cam and we are now in an awkward situation.
While the items that appear on our doorstep are certainly strange and often begin uncomfortable interactions -- I’m not necessarily proud of speaking to that skunk -- at least there hasn’t been any reason to start keeping a blunt object by the door. Yet.
Random things can happen any time we open literal or figurative doors to the world and because of recent incidents, I believe it’s time to explore the various species that have appeared on my doorstep in the past few months.
Each time I open my door lately there seems to be an evolution of the kind of surprise waiting on the other side. That is to say, each subsequent instance, the item found on the doorstep is odder or more mysterious than the one before.
It began simply enough, as one evening my housemates and I noticed there were ducks on our front lawn. There is nothing particularly disturbing or interesting about ducks, and suffice it to say that we fed them in hopes of keeping them as endearing pets of the outdoor sort.
From that moment on, it was as though those ducks told all the other creatures of the city that our doorstep was awesome and we distributed the best bread around.
For instance, one night, when putting the garbage out by the curb, I walked two steps outside the front door and found myself frozen in fear as a skunk, barely visible in the dark, stared up at me as if to say, “go for it, make my day”.
Shaking and wide-eyed, I placed the garbage down slowly while talking to the skunk the way hostages speak to knife-wielding criminals; struggling to keep my voice as calm as possible.
“You don’t want to do this...I’m going to slowly back away from you...I’m going to ask that you stop twitching like that.”
It took a good twenty minutes of staring out from the front window, garbage in hand, and popping my head out the door while making, what I assumed to be, terrifying hissing noises to bore the skunk to the point where he figured he’d go annoy another crazy person instead.
In the pattern of the creatures at my front door becoming increasingly strange, my second encounter with our ducks occurred a few weeks after the skunk. This time I opened the door to find them waddling around in the grass looking up expectantly. As I locked the door behind me, a deep voice came out of nowhere:
“Don’t scare the ducks!”
“Bah! Holy shh- I’m the one being scared! Didn’t see you there.”
Our next-door neighbour, a lone 50 year old with whom we share a small front porch, was standing there staring at the ducks. I had started on my way to class when he stood in front of the steps and began with his philosophy on ducks.
“They mate for life you know, ducks.”
“wow, fascinating.”
“yes, there are always two, see.”
“yep, that’s nice.”
“They fall in love like humans. You’ll often find at the side of the road one duck will be pecking at the carcass of another duck. They don’t understand death, you see. They just wonder where their love has gone off to.”
While this may have been charming sentiment from any other elderly man, I was late
for class and, quite frankly, our neighbour is one of the species we are never thrilled to find at our doorstep.
Though he has an exceptional ability to yap away about ducks, our previous encounter with him was when he had come over to apologize.
There was a loud tap at the door and when I had answered he put on what he imagined was a pleasing nasal tone and said with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader, “Oh heyyyy girrrlllll!”
For the record, I nearly lost it right at that moment.
He proceeded to apologize profusely (without ever mentioning why) while flapping an envelope around. Turns out he had “accidentally” read our handwritten, personalized mail.
According to Snoopy, he got three quarters of the way through the mail addressed to a girl before realizing it wasn’t for him.
From ducks to more dangerous critters (skunks), to the downright strange (old dude), there have been many mysterious things outside our door, but none more mysterious than what we have deemed “the orphan”.
About two weeks ago my housemates woke to find a large potted plant placed strategically in front of our door. In a Herculean state, this indoor plant was orphaned and so we took it in as one of our own. We named him Oliver, Ollie for short, and now he graces the patio out back.
I like to think the gods have sent us the mystery plant. That, or the secret service has planted a nanny cam and we are now in an awkward situation.
While the items that appear on our doorstep are certainly strange and often begin uncomfortable interactions -- I’m not necessarily proud of speaking to that skunk -- at least there hasn’t been any reason to start keeping a blunt object by the door. Yet.
Friday, April 30, 2010
You Had Me at Hello
I have never understood why anyone would hypothetically choose invisibility for a superpower. In my books, invisibility does not qualify as a superpower because of the lame factor involved. Sure you could overhear conversations, or go just about anywhere you wanted, but you don’t necessarily have to be invisible to do these things. While going unnoticed may be tricky, stealth is the valuable skill involved not translucency.
Besides that, if you were invisible you’d feel weird. It would be like when you wave at someone you think is waving at you, only to find out that when you look carefully they’re waving at someone behind you. See - you’d feel dumb.
You have to trust me on this one because I have endured an awkward experience in which I was invisible. It occurred at my old part-time job when my manager asked if I would be the greeter at the front of the store.
“All you have to do is say hello to every person who walks in that door, do you understand?”
“Yeah, got it, thanks.”
Let me assure you, even though this job seems relatively harmless - heck you may even consider yourself a fairly friendly/approachable person - this is one of the weirdest jobs you can agree to do. If a troupe of reality television stars asked you to live for a week with them, do so and endure unfounded egos the size of Mars rather than be a greeter. Eat live lobsters or listen to James Blunt on repeat, just avoid being the greeter. Okay I may be exaggerating for effect here, but consider the following:
Unsuspecting, I went to the entrance of the store and stood waiting awkwardly. When the automatic doors opened to reveal an old man I immediately stood up straight and said, “hello there sir!” a bit too enthusiastically for 9am. Nothing would have been terribly wrong with this statement if the man had not been about 12 feet away and shuffling at a snail’s pace to where I stood.
While he made his way over and I aged 4 years I asked, “How are you today sir?”
“Toilets,” he grunted.
“Oh right, uhhh, those are at the other end of the store, all the way at the other side.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Pretty sure we’ll let you use them for free sir!” I laughed
“No not to use, to buy!”
“Ohhh I’m sorry, those are just toward the back, straight down that isle,” I pointed and felt adequately embarrassed.
He rolled his eyes and started shuffling away from me just as an elderly woman approached holding the hand of a young girl.
“Where are the shopping carts shaped like race cars? I’ve been walking around forever looking for one of those things”
“I think you can find those just outside the front...not sure how many there are though, they may all be taken”
“pshhht,” she said, and I experienced the second eye-roll of the morning while she waddled away toddler in toe.
During the next few minutes I imagined the little girl pushing the old lady in a shopping cart into the side of a parked car at full speed.
The automatic doors were flooded with people at around 9:20am and I said hello around 15 times and felt like a bobble head nodding and smiling like a goon. This is when you start feeling invisible. People walk by and do one, or a combo, of the following things. They glance at you sideways and glare, they laugh, they stare straight ahead, or they glance at you and then look up at a spot on the ceiling to avoid having to reply in any way. In other words, they feel as awkward as you do.
There are exceptions who may mock your enthusiasm, stare you down, or look scared to death, but my favourites are the ones that can’t stop checking themselves out in the television monitor above as they strut in. Overall, you just feel like a class-A moron saying hi to people who are making clear effort to get their fifteen seconds of fame on a security video.
The last family to walk through the doors passed me as I said “good morning” and the wife smiled and nodded while the family was led toward the light bulbs. Just as I thought the stampede was over I heard someone ask aggressively, “did she say hello to you?”
The man with an entire Nascar themed outfit turned around and asked, “Aren’t you the greeter?”
“Uhh, ye–“
“Well you didn’t say hello”
I thought he was joking (seriously – who does this?) so I smiled and laughed a bit.
“You think this is funny? What do you get paid to do, just stand here?”
I had just started to think about complimenting his Nascar travel mug when his wife insisted with a “z-snap”-like gesture, “Craig, she said hey okay! What is the issue?”
“oh, she did?...oh okay,” and Craig turned around and walked away leaving me to stand and await another surprise attack. Thanks guy.
It wasn’t long before the old cranky was back. This time she had the little girl sitting in the front of the race car cart. She rolled toward me and got right up in my personal space.
“I see you found a race car! Lucky you’ve got a great little driver!” I said as though I was auditioning to be world’s spunkiest student.
In her smoker’s voice she grumbled, “are you kidding? there isn’t a steering wheel on this one and I had to wipe it down myself because it was soaked outside! UGH!” while she rolled away in a coughing fit.
I wanted to say in the most condescending tone known to man, “you know, those steering wheels are just pretend...they don’t ACTUALLY steer the cart right?” but instead i mumbled, “yeah life’s rough.”
Ten o’ clock finally arrived and some poor soul with an unknowing grin came to assume my post and while walking away I noticed that when saying hello to people when in another part of the store, people always say hello back. Why is it then that the greeter is treated like they are holding anthrax?
That fateful day taught me a lesson; I learned that if granted a superpower I would perhaps chose teleportation. This power would zap an individual away from any awkward situation and place them in their destination of choice. I for one would use this power to avoid certain interactions at all costs. Although, on second thought, concussion beams or telekinesis would also be useful abilities.
Besides that, if you were invisible you’d feel weird. It would be like when you wave at someone you think is waving at you, only to find out that when you look carefully they’re waving at someone behind you. See - you’d feel dumb.
You have to trust me on this one because I have endured an awkward experience in which I was invisible. It occurred at my old part-time job when my manager asked if I would be the greeter at the front of the store.
“All you have to do is say hello to every person who walks in that door, do you understand?”
“Yeah, got it, thanks.”
Let me assure you, even though this job seems relatively harmless - heck you may even consider yourself a fairly friendly/approachable person - this is one of the weirdest jobs you can agree to do. If a troupe of reality television stars asked you to live for a week with them, do so and endure unfounded egos the size of Mars rather than be a greeter. Eat live lobsters or listen to James Blunt on repeat, just avoid being the greeter. Okay I may be exaggerating for effect here, but consider the following:
Unsuspecting, I went to the entrance of the store and stood waiting awkwardly. When the automatic doors opened to reveal an old man I immediately stood up straight and said, “hello there sir!” a bit too enthusiastically for 9am. Nothing would have been terribly wrong with this statement if the man had not been about 12 feet away and shuffling at a snail’s pace to where I stood.
While he made his way over and I aged 4 years I asked, “How are you today sir?”
“Toilets,” he grunted.
“Oh right, uhhh, those are at the other end of the store, all the way at the other side.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Pretty sure we’ll let you use them for free sir!” I laughed
“No not to use, to buy!”
“Ohhh I’m sorry, those are just toward the back, straight down that isle,” I pointed and felt adequately embarrassed.
He rolled his eyes and started shuffling away from me just as an elderly woman approached holding the hand of a young girl.
“Where are the shopping carts shaped like race cars? I’ve been walking around forever looking for one of those things”
“I think you can find those just outside the front...not sure how many there are though, they may all be taken”
“pshhht,” she said, and I experienced the second eye-roll of the morning while she waddled away toddler in toe.
During the next few minutes I imagined the little girl pushing the old lady in a shopping cart into the side of a parked car at full speed.
The automatic doors were flooded with people at around 9:20am and I said hello around 15 times and felt like a bobble head nodding and smiling like a goon. This is when you start feeling invisible. People walk by and do one, or a combo, of the following things. They glance at you sideways and glare, they laugh, they stare straight ahead, or they glance at you and then look up at a spot on the ceiling to avoid having to reply in any way. In other words, they feel as awkward as you do.
There are exceptions who may mock your enthusiasm, stare you down, or look scared to death, but my favourites are the ones that can’t stop checking themselves out in the television monitor above as they strut in. Overall, you just feel like a class-A moron saying hi to people who are making clear effort to get their fifteen seconds of fame on a security video.
The last family to walk through the doors passed me as I said “good morning” and the wife smiled and nodded while the family was led toward the light bulbs. Just as I thought the stampede was over I heard someone ask aggressively, “did she say hello to you?”
The man with an entire Nascar themed outfit turned around and asked, “Aren’t you the greeter?”
“Uhh, ye–“
“Well you didn’t say hello”
I thought he was joking (seriously – who does this?) so I smiled and laughed a bit.
“You think this is funny? What do you get paid to do, just stand here?”
I had just started to think about complimenting his Nascar travel mug when his wife insisted with a “z-snap”-like gesture, “Craig, she said hey okay! What is the issue?”
“oh, she did?...oh okay,” and Craig turned around and walked away leaving me to stand and await another surprise attack. Thanks guy.
It wasn’t long before the old cranky was back. This time she had the little girl sitting in the front of the race car cart. She rolled toward me and got right up in my personal space.
“I see you found a race car! Lucky you’ve got a great little driver!” I said as though I was auditioning to be world’s spunkiest student.
In her smoker’s voice she grumbled, “are you kidding? there isn’t a steering wheel on this one and I had to wipe it down myself because it was soaked outside! UGH!” while she rolled away in a coughing fit.
I wanted to say in the most condescending tone known to man, “you know, those steering wheels are just pretend...they don’t ACTUALLY steer the cart right?” but instead i mumbled, “yeah life’s rough.”
Ten o’ clock finally arrived and some poor soul with an unknowing grin came to assume my post and while walking away I noticed that when saying hello to people when in another part of the store, people always say hello back. Why is it then that the greeter is treated like they are holding anthrax?
That fateful day taught me a lesson; I learned that if granted a superpower I would perhaps chose teleportation. This power would zap an individual away from any awkward situation and place them in their destination of choice. I for one would use this power to avoid certain interactions at all costs. Although, on second thought, concussion beams or telekinesis would also be useful abilities.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Ain't No Party like an S-Club Party
As you grow up there is an implied rationality you must adopt to function normally; no jumping on couches, no tantrums, and no odd costumes at work. Although celebrities can get away with these things (Cruise, kanye, and Bejork), the average individual has to leave childhood behind.
We may not be children anymore, but the amygdala (the part of the brain connected with fear and emotional response) technically never develops or changes. This is why, even though we are older and (arguably) wiser, we are still susceptible to acting like children in situations where emotions run high.
As exams approach each term I go through a nostalgic phase. Although I should be cramming and stressed out like most other students, I only have to hear the words “Mighty Morphing Power Rangers” and childhood comes flooding back. I de-stress by imagining how great it would be to have a reading week where instead of a vacation, I could have a week of classic YTV programming, Skip-It at recess, Pogs, Goosebump books, Backstreet Boys, and Happy Meals.
Growing up in the 90’s was glorious. For instance, the single greatest day of the summer when I was 7 was when I got the Spice Girls Cassette for my Walkman. Singing “Wannabe” at the top of your lungs while rollerblading until the sun went down - those were the days.
Needless to say, television was a big part of life for any child of the 90’s because it provided expectations for the future. For instance, I imagined I’d have a teacher just like Mr. Feeny when I got to high school. All my future best friends and I would hang out at the Sugar Bowl from Arthur and we’d sip Chug-O-Freezes and go on crazy impossible field trips with an Arnold dude no one liked much. We'd also finally discover the true identity of Ghost Writer and where Carmen Sandiego was hiding.
My brother and I would imitate the Sailor Scouts and Tuxedo Mask, we would watch Miss Frizzle get stuck in cakes and teach about bats, and we would fight so much during the commercials for Power Rangers that eventually my mum had to shut that one down (turns out I’d make a fine pink ranger...sorry, Gary).
If we weren’t watching television, we were outside riding our bikes or replicating what we saw on TV. My favourite enactments were when we’d rearrange clothes, furniture, and household items on the floor and when asked, “what the heck is this?” we’d enthusiastically reply (in English accents no less) “THIS IS AN ART ATTACK!” To our parents’ dismay, any time was craft time and we were always looking for “loo roll and PVA glue” as I suspect many other 90’s kids were simply because Neil convinced all of us that we were born to create sticky messes worthy of the Louvre.
Overall, the 90’s was a time when pizza was still a thing at McDonalds. A time when I would choose a Barbie for my Happy Meal while the rest of my cousins chose Hot Wheels with which to run over McBarbie. It was a time of Dr. Lipschitz and Reptor on Ice. A time when grocery store visits were packed with questions like, “can I PLEASE have gushers, dunkaroos, and a Lunchable JUST THIS ONE TIME?!” (always no for the record, although I did manage a yes on Fruit Roll Ups one time...one sweet, sweet time).
Alas, childhood technically came to an end a while ago and there are few times when you can truly get it back. I find I come closest to it when the spring comes around and all you want to do is play outside. Even though trying to get your childhood back is about as practical as the name Topenga, I do hope that every once in a while you take a break from studying and think of the days when wearing your Northern Getaway sweatshirt with kittens and popsicles on it was totally rad.
We may not be children anymore, but the amygdala (the part of the brain connected with fear and emotional response) technically never develops or changes. This is why, even though we are older and (arguably) wiser, we are still susceptible to acting like children in situations where emotions run high.
As exams approach each term I go through a nostalgic phase. Although I should be cramming and stressed out like most other students, I only have to hear the words “Mighty Morphing Power Rangers” and childhood comes flooding back. I de-stress by imagining how great it would be to have a reading week where instead of a vacation, I could have a week of classic YTV programming, Skip-It at recess, Pogs, Goosebump books, Backstreet Boys, and Happy Meals.
Growing up in the 90’s was glorious. For instance, the single greatest day of the summer when I was 7 was when I got the Spice Girls Cassette for my Walkman. Singing “Wannabe” at the top of your lungs while rollerblading until the sun went down - those were the days.
Needless to say, television was a big part of life for any child of the 90’s because it provided expectations for the future. For instance, I imagined I’d have a teacher just like Mr. Feeny when I got to high school. All my future best friends and I would hang out at the Sugar Bowl from Arthur and we’d sip Chug-O-Freezes and go on crazy impossible field trips with an Arnold dude no one liked much. We'd also finally discover the true identity of Ghost Writer and where Carmen Sandiego was hiding.
My brother and I would imitate the Sailor Scouts and Tuxedo Mask, we would watch Miss Frizzle get stuck in cakes and teach about bats, and we would fight so much during the commercials for Power Rangers that eventually my mum had to shut that one down (turns out I’d make a fine pink ranger...sorry, Gary).
If we weren’t watching television, we were outside riding our bikes or replicating what we saw on TV. My favourite enactments were when we’d rearrange clothes, furniture, and household items on the floor and when asked, “what the heck is this?” we’d enthusiastically reply (in English accents no less) “THIS IS AN ART ATTACK!” To our parents’ dismay, any time was craft time and we were always looking for “loo roll and PVA glue” as I suspect many other 90’s kids were simply because Neil convinced all of us that we were born to create sticky messes worthy of the Louvre.
Overall, the 90’s was a time when pizza was still a thing at McDonalds. A time when I would choose a Barbie for my Happy Meal while the rest of my cousins chose Hot Wheels with which to run over McBarbie. It was a time of Dr. Lipschitz and Reptor on Ice. A time when grocery store visits were packed with questions like, “can I PLEASE have gushers, dunkaroos, and a Lunchable JUST THIS ONE TIME?!” (always no for the record, although I did manage a yes on Fruit Roll Ups one time...one sweet, sweet time).
Alas, childhood technically came to an end a while ago and there are few times when you can truly get it back. I find I come closest to it when the spring comes around and all you want to do is play outside. Even though trying to get your childhood back is about as practical as the name Topenga, I do hope that every once in a while you take a break from studying and think of the days when wearing your Northern Getaway sweatshirt with kittens and popsicles on it was totally rad.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Happy Eas...whoa what is that!?
Most people have a novelty childhood photo with a mascot and these photos are never very good, but in retrospect very hilarious. Be it a photo with the Santa at the mall or (in my case) Tommy Pickles at Canada's Wonderland, it is inevitable that the kid's face in the photo is expressing complete horror at having to sit beside something so large and ultimately, terrifying.
Well, this week the front page of my local paper featured the following picture of the Easter Bunny with some hyperventilating children whose expressions said "please don't eat us!"
While I can't publish these kids' faces, I'm sure this picture tells you all you need to know. I mean, for real? All I could think while looking at the paper was, "why would you expect anybody to be pleased about taking a photo with this...thing?"
Needless to say, this Easter season resulted in some hardcore childhood phobias. I'm sure someone on a committee somewhere suggested a petting zoo or baby chicks for kids to play with, but no - let's get a fuzzy psycho suit instead. Kids love that stuff.
Happy Easter folks!
Well, this week the front page of my local paper featured the following picture of the Easter Bunny with some hyperventilating children whose expressions said "please don't eat us!"
While I can't publish these kids' faces, I'm sure this picture tells you all you need to know. I mean, for real? All I could think while looking at the paper was, "why would you expect anybody to be pleased about taking a photo with this...thing?"
Needless to say, this Easter season resulted in some hardcore childhood phobias. I'm sure someone on a committee somewhere suggested a petting zoo or baby chicks for kids to play with, but no - let's get a fuzzy psycho suit instead. Kids love that stuff.
Happy Easter folks!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Lookin’ Fly
One of the many perks of being a co-op student is the opportunity to suit up every once in a while and look like a million bucks on the outside; all the while, crumbling like a stale donut on the inside. Co-op makes you nuts, but there are moments after you suit up when you think to yourself, “Damn, today you look like a pro.”
Although over-thinking is involved in the pre-interview process, (i.e. how to get to the office? Which bus route is fastest? How do you spell this dude’s name?) there are always things you never consider until the morning of. Things such as:
“Are these dress socks black or navy? If these are navy they don’t match and now I’m gonna look like a moron. Awesome.”
And inevitably, after spending more time and hairspray than normal to ensure you look nothing like Mickey Rourke, it is always a windy day.
FACT: interview days are the windiest.
I had to walk quite a distance to get to the office from the bus stop and it was a significantly breezy spring day. By significantly breezy, I mean it was so windy I felt like I was in the movie Twister and was imagining that any moment a cow was going to fly by.
After signing in early at the reception desk in the shiny glass lobby I headed to the washroom to freshen up from my walk through the windy parking lot. A few deep breaths and a panic attack later, I headed back to the lobby where my interviewer had just come out to get me.
I was led to a lounge where we discussed the job description and qualifications. The interview was going well and the interviewer (let’s call her Janet) was all smiles, nods, and laughs. She seemed pleased with my past experience, but after about 20 minutes the little voice in the back of my head started to sabotage the interview.
You know the one, the interior narrative that goes on in your head and freaks you out while your outside voice is yapping away about your skill set and volunteer experience. It went something like this:
Janet: Well the successful candidate would be performing various tasks including…blah blah blah
Little voice in head: “oh crap, what is this lady’s name again?”
Me: Yes, I’m glad that the position involves so much creative freedom.
Little voice in head: just don’t say her name when you say goodbye, it won’t matter...Why isn’t she wearing a name tag, argh! Oh great, that sock IS navy…way to go genius.”
Me: I think the job aligns nicely with my core competencies.
And that’s when things got weird…
Janet (squinting): ummm, could you do me a favour?
Me: uh, sure.
Janet (motioning with her hands): could you just flick your hair like this (she began demonstrating).
I brushed my hair with my hand, confused.
Janet: yeah…okay, if you could just do that again, this time a little more forcefully…
At this point I am flicking my hair around and getting that terrible feeling that suggests something embarrassing is about to happen.
I hear her mumble something like, “I think you’ve got a fly or something in your…” and I am truly beyond mortified when she rises out of her chair to brush away whatever it is she sees out of my hair.
“You had a fly in your hair,” she said with a laugh.
Little voice in head: OH MY GOD!!!!!! IT’S OVER! IT IS TOTALLY OVER! A FLY? WHAT THE WHAT?”
Me: oh my - - that’s super embarrassing…wow. I’m…I’m really, sorry about that. It was ultra-windy outside and I walked here and now I’m…yep. Shut it down”. *insert nervous laugh*
(I mean really, what the heck do you say?!)
Janet laughed and told me not to worry about it. Despite myself, I did laugh. I mean, come on, who does that? In the history of interviews I’m sure there have been some weird ones, but a random fly in your hair that the interviewer flicks out for you? Unbelievable.
The interview went on and, oddly enough, I left the office feeling pretty good about my answers and terrible about the horrifying moment. But, it was now out of my hands. It was over. She either liked me or didn’t, but it was done and life could go back to normal-sauce now.
A few days later I received notice that Janet wanted to hire me. Let’s face it - must have been the suit.
Although over-thinking is involved in the pre-interview process, (i.e. how to get to the office? Which bus route is fastest? How do you spell this dude’s name?) there are always things you never consider until the morning of. Things such as:
“Are these dress socks black or navy? If these are navy they don’t match and now I’m gonna look like a moron. Awesome.”
And inevitably, after spending more time and hairspray than normal to ensure you look nothing like Mickey Rourke, it is always a windy day.
FACT: interview days are the windiest.
I had to walk quite a distance to get to the office from the bus stop and it was a significantly breezy spring day. By significantly breezy, I mean it was so windy I felt like I was in the movie Twister and was imagining that any moment a cow was going to fly by.
After signing in early at the reception desk in the shiny glass lobby I headed to the washroom to freshen up from my walk through the windy parking lot. A few deep breaths and a panic attack later, I headed back to the lobby where my interviewer had just come out to get me.
I was led to a lounge where we discussed the job description and qualifications. The interview was going well and the interviewer (let’s call her Janet) was all smiles, nods, and laughs. She seemed pleased with my past experience, but after about 20 minutes the little voice in the back of my head started to sabotage the interview.
You know the one, the interior narrative that goes on in your head and freaks you out while your outside voice is yapping away about your skill set and volunteer experience. It went something like this:
Janet: Well the successful candidate would be performing various tasks including…blah blah blah
Little voice in head: “oh crap, what is this lady’s name again?”
Me: Yes, I’m glad that the position involves so much creative freedom.
Little voice in head: just don’t say her name when you say goodbye, it won’t matter...Why isn’t she wearing a name tag, argh! Oh great, that sock IS navy…way to go genius.”
Me: I think the job aligns nicely with my core competencies.
And that’s when things got weird…
Janet (squinting): ummm, could you do me a favour?
Me: uh, sure.
Janet (motioning with her hands): could you just flick your hair like this (she began demonstrating).
I brushed my hair with my hand, confused.
Janet: yeah…okay, if you could just do that again, this time a little more forcefully…
At this point I am flicking my hair around and getting that terrible feeling that suggests something embarrassing is about to happen.
I hear her mumble something like, “I think you’ve got a fly or something in your…” and I am truly beyond mortified when she rises out of her chair to brush away whatever it is she sees out of my hair.
“You had a fly in your hair,” she said with a laugh.
Little voice in head: OH MY GOD!!!!!! IT’S OVER! IT IS TOTALLY OVER! A FLY? WHAT THE WHAT?”
Me: oh my - - that’s super embarrassing…wow. I’m…I’m really, sorry about that. It was ultra-windy outside and I walked here and now I’m…yep. Shut it down”. *insert nervous laugh*
(I mean really, what the heck do you say?!)
Janet laughed and told me not to worry about it. Despite myself, I did laugh. I mean, come on, who does that? In the history of interviews I’m sure there have been some weird ones, but a random fly in your hair that the interviewer flicks out for you? Unbelievable.
The interview went on and, oddly enough, I left the office feeling pretty good about my answers and terrible about the horrifying moment. But, it was now out of my hands. It was over. She either liked me or didn’t, but it was done and life could go back to normal-sauce now.
A few days later I received notice that Janet wanted to hire me. Let’s face it - must have been the suit.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Preparation is Key: The Checker's Nightmare
Everyone has a functional quirk. Some people are excessively neat or untidy, some are collectors or hoarders, some are list-makers, and the qualities seem to get stranger and stranger. I am a compulsive checker. Certainly not to the point where the impulse is debilitating, but I check to ensure I’ve got my keys, wallet, cell phone, and other items of importance in their designated places and pockets.
The habitual checking is a fairly handy trait and I assume it is something embedded in my psyche from early on. As a kid I seldom lost items because each item had a “home” and before leaving anywhere I always performed the typical three second check for these accessories (Keys, check. Wallet, check. Phone, check. Etc.). This organizational system gets more challenging in the winter season because you have mittens, scarves, and hats to keep track of; not to mention, winter jackets usually have more pockets granting you more potential places to carry random things. Overall, your skills as a checker are significantly tested in the winter.
So what happens when a checker encounters a dilemma where they are at a loss for items? Well from experience, I’ll tell ya - it’s not pretty. I’ll forewarn you that the following situation involved a cheesecake, a bicycle, and a rodent; it also ended with the question, “Jen, why aren’t wearing any shoes?”
It began as I set out for the shops on a sunny, but chilly, mid-fall Saturday. I ran a few errands and was feeling pretty adventurous, so I purchased a random cheesecake. After a quick pocket check, I returned home with everything in order.
I went into the kitchen, removed my shoes and jacket, and started putting things away. While unpacking, I noticed that the garbage needed to be taken out so I brought it down to the garage.
Now, quirks may be universal, but there is another strange phenomenon of human behaviour which occurs when one returns to a door (a garage door, let’s say) only to find it has automatically locked upon closing. This individual inevitably goes mad trying to open the door despite what is understood as a losing battle. Naturally, I adopted this behaviour and was banging on the door of my empty house as though by some miracle it would swing open.
After about six minutes of yelling at inanimate objects and cursing the universe, I began sizing up my situation. I reached for my pockets...nothing. No keys, no cell phone, no money; and because I had not expected to end up locked in a garage, no shoes. Welcome to the checker’s nightmare.
The garage full of old furniture, bicycles, and huge spiders was cold, so I opened the garage door and ran up the hill to the front steps to try my luck at what I already assumed would be a locked front door. Yeah, no luck there either.
It also didn’t help that I had no sense of time, because the battery in my watch had stopped - my procrastination over getting a new battery made time stand still at 11:35 since the beginning of the summer. For the record, the oven clock read 1:47pm when I was in the kitchen unpacking mere moments ago.
In any case, if I didn’t get creative soon, I was going to end up sitting on the front steps of the house for hours waiting for someone to come home.
As my hunger increased, my crazy did too and I considered the following plan: step 1: use the bike in the garage to go to the library, step 2: get a donut, step 3: use internet to alert roommate of situation and have her come home and save me.
This plan was initially appealing until I returned to the garage and realized two things. One – riding a bike with spiders all over it with no shoes was bound to be a horrible experience, and two – There was a long, brown creature chewing its way through the garbage I had set down earlier!
After sufficient screaming and what looked like a twitchy dance-seizure, I realized the bike-to-library plan was out and I was unable to escape the beady-eyed rodent now darting around the garage. I stared at him for a while, and then started issuing threats. I named him Ricardo.
I’m not sure how long I was out there, but the sun was setting and I was shivering on the front steps again. Some guy on a bike went by and I called out to him asking for the time. He looked at me, laughed, and pedalled on (thanks, guy).
I imagine at this point I looked like a mumbling cave person staring through the kitchen window at my now melty cheesecake. This was when my mind kept echoing what my roommate said that morning:
“I’m not going to be home until about 5, and I can’t find my keys...You’ll be home right?”
The habitual checking is a fairly handy trait and I assume it is something embedded in my psyche from early on. As a kid I seldom lost items because each item had a “home” and before leaving anywhere I always performed the typical three second check for these accessories (Keys, check. Wallet, check. Phone, check. Etc.). This organizational system gets more challenging in the winter season because you have mittens, scarves, and hats to keep track of; not to mention, winter jackets usually have more pockets granting you more potential places to carry random things. Overall, your skills as a checker are significantly tested in the winter.
So what happens when a checker encounters a dilemma where they are at a loss for items? Well from experience, I’ll tell ya - it’s not pretty. I’ll forewarn you that the following situation involved a cheesecake, a bicycle, and a rodent; it also ended with the question, “Jen, why aren’t wearing any shoes?”
It began as I set out for the shops on a sunny, but chilly, mid-fall Saturday. I ran a few errands and was feeling pretty adventurous, so I purchased a random cheesecake. After a quick pocket check, I returned home with everything in order.
I went into the kitchen, removed my shoes and jacket, and started putting things away. While unpacking, I noticed that the garbage needed to be taken out so I brought it down to the garage.
Now, quirks may be universal, but there is another strange phenomenon of human behaviour which occurs when one returns to a door (a garage door, let’s say) only to find it has automatically locked upon closing. This individual inevitably goes mad trying to open the door despite what is understood as a losing battle. Naturally, I adopted this behaviour and was banging on the door of my empty house as though by some miracle it would swing open.
After about six minutes of yelling at inanimate objects and cursing the universe, I began sizing up my situation. I reached for my pockets...nothing. No keys, no cell phone, no money; and because I had not expected to end up locked in a garage, no shoes. Welcome to the checker’s nightmare.
The garage full of old furniture, bicycles, and huge spiders was cold, so I opened the garage door and ran up the hill to the front steps to try my luck at what I already assumed would be a locked front door. Yeah, no luck there either.
It also didn’t help that I had no sense of time, because the battery in my watch had stopped - my procrastination over getting a new battery made time stand still at 11:35 since the beginning of the summer. For the record, the oven clock read 1:47pm when I was in the kitchen unpacking mere moments ago.
In any case, if I didn’t get creative soon, I was going to end up sitting on the front steps of the house for hours waiting for someone to come home.
As my hunger increased, my crazy did too and I considered the following plan: step 1: use the bike in the garage to go to the library, step 2: get a donut, step 3: use internet to alert roommate of situation and have her come home and save me.
This plan was initially appealing until I returned to the garage and realized two things. One – riding a bike with spiders all over it with no shoes was bound to be a horrible experience, and two – There was a long, brown creature chewing its way through the garbage I had set down earlier!
After sufficient screaming and what looked like a twitchy dance-seizure, I realized the bike-to-library plan was out and I was unable to escape the beady-eyed rodent now darting around the garage. I stared at him for a while, and then started issuing threats. I named him Ricardo.
I’m not sure how long I was out there, but the sun was setting and I was shivering on the front steps again. Some guy on a bike went by and I called out to him asking for the time. He looked at me, laughed, and pedalled on (thanks, guy).
I imagine at this point I looked like a mumbling cave person staring through the kitchen window at my now melty cheesecake. This was when my mind kept echoing what my roommate said that morning:
“I’m not going to be home until about 5, and I can’t find my keys...You’ll be home right?”
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Go with Your Gut
The plot of any horror film is driven by the characters’ irrational impulses to pursue anything that provokes their curiosity. As we all know, the flat characters typical of these films inevitably face odd scenarios and we can always predict whether they will engage in something ridiculous. For instance, would you like to provoke a psychotic clown? (YES!) Delve into a sticky ghost situation? (YES!), enter an abandoned theme park full of zombie carnies? (YOU KNOW IT!) These options all seem like a picnic, right? Maybe there’s some ice cream down in the poorly lit basement, who knows?!
On a whole, horror film choices make you think, “who in their right mind would keep talking to that creepy old lady with the weird eyeball?”, or even, “don’t leave the body there! He’s not dead! I repeat, he’s not dead!”
But, regardless of whether these films have any merit, we all do things we know we shouldn’t. For instance, I know I should technically avoid certain things, such as:
- Mathematics
- Airplane food
- The random French guy at the coffee shop who talks for too long
- Zoning out in the kitchen and eating a whole row of cookies out of the box (yeah, it happened. No judging.)
For the most part, I do avoid these things; however, there are times when you don’t see any harm. (The in-flight pasta seemed safe.)
If it were not for these lapses in judgement that last throughout a narrative or your daily life, things wouldn’t be very interesting. But, these instances get you thinking: where are all of the gut feelings or the first impressions of impending doom? Why follow the bodiless whispers down the dark alley when you know you probably shouldn’t?
In fact, as I am writing this two perfect examples of just-because- you-can-doesn’t-mean-you-should walked by. The first guy is wearing a shiny leather suit (for serious!). I should note that the temperature today is an unseasonal high of 15 degrees. If life were a horror film, this dude would be outta the game first. The second guy appears to be meeting someone for an interview of some sort. He’s wearing a shirt and tie, and decided that, because it is St. Patrick’s Day, he’d sport an oversized glittery shamrock necklace to meet with his potential employer. Memorable, or a metaphoric leap into a pit of flesh eating bugs?
That’s the thing – how do you know? You really don’t. And that’s the beauty of watching people live life like it’s a horror film. That’s not to say people literally wander around aimlessly in empty warehouses or hang out by the swamp for some fun times, but sometimes you see stuff and wonder if, for even an instant, the random dude with the fanny pack thought, “nah, maybe this could be weird”. Yet, no matter how many road signs along the way warn of dead ends or danger, we all make “horror film” choices every once in a while because we just can’t help it.
On a whole, horror film choices make you think, “who in their right mind would keep talking to that creepy old lady with the weird eyeball?”, or even, “don’t leave the body there! He’s not dead! I repeat, he’s not dead!”
But, regardless of whether these films have any merit, we all do things we know we shouldn’t. For instance, I know I should technically avoid certain things, such as:
- Mathematics
- Airplane food
- The random French guy at the coffee shop who talks for too long
- Zoning out in the kitchen and eating a whole row of cookies out of the box (yeah, it happened. No judging.)
For the most part, I do avoid these things; however, there are times when you don’t see any harm. (The in-flight pasta seemed safe.)
If it were not for these lapses in judgement that last throughout a narrative or your daily life, things wouldn’t be very interesting. But, these instances get you thinking: where are all of the gut feelings or the first impressions of impending doom? Why follow the bodiless whispers down the dark alley when you know you probably shouldn’t?
In fact, as I am writing this two perfect examples of just-because- you-can-doesn’t-mean-you-should walked by. The first guy is wearing a shiny leather suit (for serious!). I should note that the temperature today is an unseasonal high of 15 degrees. If life were a horror film, this dude would be outta the game first. The second guy appears to be meeting someone for an interview of some sort. He’s wearing a shirt and tie, and decided that, because it is St. Patrick’s Day, he’d sport an oversized glittery shamrock necklace to meet with his potential employer. Memorable, or a metaphoric leap into a pit of flesh eating bugs?
That’s the thing – how do you know? You really don’t. And that’s the beauty of watching people live life like it’s a horror film. That’s not to say people literally wander around aimlessly in empty warehouses or hang out by the swamp for some fun times, but sometimes you see stuff and wonder if, for even an instant, the random dude with the fanny pack thought, “nah, maybe this could be weird”. Yet, no matter how many road signs along the way warn of dead ends or danger, we all make “horror film” choices every once in a while because we just can’t help it.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Assurances
I think I speak for most people when I say that when in a vulnerable position where I am at the mercy of an alleged expert such as a dentist, doctor, or some other specialist, I like to feel assured of their competence and professionalism. It is nice to be able to relax, kick back, and know you are in good hands. There is just something very valuable in being able to be sure.
A recent trip to the dentist however had me nervous. It began in the waiting room where I was welcomed by a mumbling receptionist and a television featuring the Tyra Banks Show. I took my seat and a random six year old and I waited while watching Tyra who told us about the negative effects of “Bromances.” It was 11am and Tyra had said the words “sexual relations”, and “booty” approximately 8 times. The six year old and I sat transfixed until I was approached by a young hygienist who looked like Jackie from “that 70’s show”, she said, “kay so it’s your turn...wait...ya it is” and batted her heavily make-upped eyelids at me.
I followed her to the chair where she seemed to struggle reading the questions listed on her papers. “Are you e-x-per-i-encing....I mean are you taking any medi-ca-tions?”
“No.”
“kay...ummm. Have you any al-er-gies?”
“Just penicillin.”
“Can you spell that please?”
And so I spent the next few moments spelling out the common allergy to the hygienist whose brow was furrowed.
Above the chair there was a small television and Rachelle Ray was on, presumably because Tyra had just finished trying to be the next Oprah.
“Oh do you ever watch this lady?” she asked with a clear note of excitement in her voice while nodding at the cook.
“Umm yeah, sometimes.”
“Oh I watch it all the time here, it’s on everyday and this lady is crazy! She puts like four sticks of butter in everything. She’s gonna get so fat”.
I laughed politely while she proceeded to take x-rays and jammed impossibly huge metal tongs into my mouth and I wondered if the familiar sound of an msn instant message was coming from the computer behind me. Sure enough it was and while I don’t like to admit to being nosey, I couldn’t help reading the exchange.
Leo: how has your day been?
Lil_ang3l_285: pshhht
Leo: ha, what does pshht even mean?
She had abandoned the online conversation at this point and now told me that even though it looked like my mouth was big enough to fit these metal things, it wasn’t.
“Wait...I didn’t mean to just tell you that you have a big mouth!”
“Zzats s’ok” I said with tears in my eyes.
“Phew haha, that would have been so bad!” she laughed.
It was odd to have to laugh to assure her that I didn’t take her words to heart, odd because I had hoped she was going to take the tongs out of my mouth quickly rather than take her time and stare at me for reassurance. I don’t blame her though, as I likely looked pained at her remark.
“Those x-ray things really hurt, you’d think someone would have invented like a gel one or something by now, make them more comfortable” I said to fill the silence.
“Yeah, in school they made us do a project where we had to re-design dental tools. I got stuck with these x-ray things...and I didn’t really know how to make them better...I tried making them out of like Styrofoam that could be replaced each time but it costs too much money. Ugh they always made us do stuff like that there...you know how school is.”
Needless to say, the more I tried to make small talk with this hygienist the more I wished I hadn’t.
She asked if I had experienced anything odd in terms of pain recently and I said that I was concerned about a slight throbbing in my lower jaw.
“Could you describe the pain?” the hygienist asked.
“Sure, well I wouldn’t say its pain so much as discomfort. And it is just in this spot right here.”
“On a scale of one to ten, one being not painful and ten being super bad how would you rate it?”
“Probably a three.”
“Just a three?” she squinted, sceptically.
“Maybe a four at most, as I said, it’s just a bit of a nuisance.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, thanks, I’m sure.”
“Hmmm...a three” she said and left the room without an explanation.
I sat there alone and slightly confused for about 20 minutes while Rachelle Ray showed me how to make some sort of noodle meal using a strange orange vegetable that would “fool the kids into believing it was cheese”. She called it a “fake out”. All I thought about for those 20 minutes was how bummed I’d be if I sat down to eat something that looked like it was made out of 4 layers off delicious cheese all to realize it was a fake out.
“Hmmm...a three” is not the sort of reassuring thing you want to hear when you tell someone about a concern you have, especially in a dental office. However, upon her return she went back to conducting the exam as if she never left. Didn’t say much anymore and there were too many things in my mouth to ask any decent questions.
She left to find the dentist and returned 15-20 minutes later. During this time I had texted 4 of my friends and City TV was now broadcasting news about the City of Toronto’s Garbage Strike.
The dentist came in, slid into the chair and shone the light in my face. From behind his mask he asked, “Where throbbing pain?” in a thick Russian accent.
I pointed and he probed around for about five seconds.
“Can’t happen.”
“Huh?”
“No, can’t happen there...no pain there.”
“But it throbs right there, like sometimes.”
Within two seconds of deliberation he said quickly, “no. Can’t happen. Not possible.”
“Oh...well I guess I am wrong...” I replied hesitatingly.
“You had work done there before, yes...you see. And yes, no there cannot be pain in that space. Impossible.” He said in a tone that dared me to ask further questions.
“Okay. Well. Thank you,” I said as he got up to leave and shook my hand.
I thanked the hygienist who watched the exam and she pleasantly said it was lovely to have met me. I told her likewise and made for the door.
On the ride home my mum asked what the dentist said and I told her he recommended Colgate total just like 4 out of 5 other dentists and that he’d see me in six months.
It just goes to show I suppose that even when you think you know something, maybe you don’t. Maybe your feelings are impossible or not to be trusted. Perhaps your instincts are just fluff and you shouldn’t feel nervous around the pros. They know what they are doing and we should all just calm down and stop looking for the sealed diplomas that usually line the walls of any respected institution. In any case, it was a trip for the books and for the most part I experienced only minor pain. I did learn however, that being assured is something everyone seems to enjoy. There is something about peace of mind that is sought after and its absence makes the even the best of us wonder if Rachelle Ray really will get fat one day, or if perhaps Tyra could be the next Oprah, or if dental hygienists resembling popular television characters are truly certified. Perhaps what was most significant is that in being unsure of others, we begin being unsure of ourselves.
A recent trip to the dentist however had me nervous. It began in the waiting room where I was welcomed by a mumbling receptionist and a television featuring the Tyra Banks Show. I took my seat and a random six year old and I waited while watching Tyra who told us about the negative effects of “Bromances.” It was 11am and Tyra had said the words “sexual relations”, and “booty” approximately 8 times. The six year old and I sat transfixed until I was approached by a young hygienist who looked like Jackie from “that 70’s show”, she said, “kay so it’s your turn...wait...ya it is” and batted her heavily make-upped eyelids at me.
I followed her to the chair where she seemed to struggle reading the questions listed on her papers. “Are you e-x-per-i-encing....I mean are you taking any medi-ca-tions?”
“No.”
“kay...ummm. Have you any al-er-gies?”
“Just penicillin.”
“Can you spell that please?”
And so I spent the next few moments spelling out the common allergy to the hygienist whose brow was furrowed.
Above the chair there was a small television and Rachelle Ray was on, presumably because Tyra had just finished trying to be the next Oprah.
“Oh do you ever watch this lady?” she asked with a clear note of excitement in her voice while nodding at the cook.
“Umm yeah, sometimes.”
“Oh I watch it all the time here, it’s on everyday and this lady is crazy! She puts like four sticks of butter in everything. She’s gonna get so fat”.
I laughed politely while she proceeded to take x-rays and jammed impossibly huge metal tongs into my mouth and I wondered if the familiar sound of an msn instant message was coming from the computer behind me. Sure enough it was and while I don’t like to admit to being nosey, I couldn’t help reading the exchange.
Leo: how has your day been?
Lil_ang3l_285: pshhht
Leo: ha, what does pshht even mean?
She had abandoned the online conversation at this point and now told me that even though it looked like my mouth was big enough to fit these metal things, it wasn’t.
“Wait...I didn’t mean to just tell you that you have a big mouth!”
“Zzats s’ok” I said with tears in my eyes.
“Phew haha, that would have been so bad!” she laughed.
It was odd to have to laugh to assure her that I didn’t take her words to heart, odd because I had hoped she was going to take the tongs out of my mouth quickly rather than take her time and stare at me for reassurance. I don’t blame her though, as I likely looked pained at her remark.
“Those x-ray things really hurt, you’d think someone would have invented like a gel one or something by now, make them more comfortable” I said to fill the silence.
“Yeah, in school they made us do a project where we had to re-design dental tools. I got stuck with these x-ray things...and I didn’t really know how to make them better...I tried making them out of like Styrofoam that could be replaced each time but it costs too much money. Ugh they always made us do stuff like that there...you know how school is.”
Needless to say, the more I tried to make small talk with this hygienist the more I wished I hadn’t.
She asked if I had experienced anything odd in terms of pain recently and I said that I was concerned about a slight throbbing in my lower jaw.
“Could you describe the pain?” the hygienist asked.
“Sure, well I wouldn’t say its pain so much as discomfort. And it is just in this spot right here.”
“On a scale of one to ten, one being not painful and ten being super bad how would you rate it?”
“Probably a three.”
“Just a three?” she squinted, sceptically.
“Maybe a four at most, as I said, it’s just a bit of a nuisance.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, thanks, I’m sure.”
“Hmmm...a three” she said and left the room without an explanation.
I sat there alone and slightly confused for about 20 minutes while Rachelle Ray showed me how to make some sort of noodle meal using a strange orange vegetable that would “fool the kids into believing it was cheese”. She called it a “fake out”. All I thought about for those 20 minutes was how bummed I’d be if I sat down to eat something that looked like it was made out of 4 layers off delicious cheese all to realize it was a fake out.
“Hmmm...a three” is not the sort of reassuring thing you want to hear when you tell someone about a concern you have, especially in a dental office. However, upon her return she went back to conducting the exam as if she never left. Didn’t say much anymore and there were too many things in my mouth to ask any decent questions.
She left to find the dentist and returned 15-20 minutes later. During this time I had texted 4 of my friends and City TV was now broadcasting news about the City of Toronto’s Garbage Strike.
The dentist came in, slid into the chair and shone the light in my face. From behind his mask he asked, “Where throbbing pain?” in a thick Russian accent.
I pointed and he probed around for about five seconds.
“Can’t happen.”
“Huh?”
“No, can’t happen there...no pain there.”
“But it throbs right there, like sometimes.”
Within two seconds of deliberation he said quickly, “no. Can’t happen. Not possible.”
“Oh...well I guess I am wrong...” I replied hesitatingly.
“You had work done there before, yes...you see. And yes, no there cannot be pain in that space. Impossible.” He said in a tone that dared me to ask further questions.
“Okay. Well. Thank you,” I said as he got up to leave and shook my hand.
I thanked the hygienist who watched the exam and she pleasantly said it was lovely to have met me. I told her likewise and made for the door.
On the ride home my mum asked what the dentist said and I told her he recommended Colgate total just like 4 out of 5 other dentists and that he’d see me in six months.
It just goes to show I suppose that even when you think you know something, maybe you don’t. Maybe your feelings are impossible or not to be trusted. Perhaps your instincts are just fluff and you shouldn’t feel nervous around the pros. They know what they are doing and we should all just calm down and stop looking for the sealed diplomas that usually line the walls of any respected institution. In any case, it was a trip for the books and for the most part I experienced only minor pain. I did learn however, that being assured is something everyone seems to enjoy. There is something about peace of mind that is sought after and its absence makes the even the best of us wonder if Rachelle Ray really will get fat one day, or if perhaps Tyra could be the next Oprah, or if dental hygienists resembling popular television characters are truly certified. Perhaps what was most significant is that in being unsure of others, we begin being unsure of ourselves.
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