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.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
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!
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