31 July, 2007

peeing in the boys' room

i just had a two day weekend and i have to say that i don't, for the life of me, get how you people do it. a two. day. weekend. it was pathetic. it was here and then it was gone, faster than a lindsay lohan rehab stint. as much as i despise mr. m's work schedule, the 4 day weekend does have the advantage of actually being visible to the naked eye.

i'm not rubbing it in or anything (as you'd know, if you were living in this cultural and culinary wasteland of brainless overconsumption) but now that every second of my weekends will be quote unquote normal (imagine me waving my fingies in the air, ok?), i have a newfound appreciation for the life i have been living before moving here, and the life i aim to be living in vancouver soon. it will be a life of the 4-day workweek, the leisurely latte, the regular yoga class, the wine and sunset on english bay, the life, in other words, of actual living. how novel.

and hey, on a happy note - folk fest is coming up and i am the hostess with the mostest again (actually this is less happy making and more stress inducing due to my tendency to prepare 16 dips, 4 salads and a 12 cheese platter for my guests, a tendency i have been fighting in the last few years - however a total and complete lack of an actual kitchen will be a good excuse to put out a few bowls of chips and a watermelon, so i hope y'all forgive me). it does seem that we tend to buy houses that are close to the folk fest, and such are the consequences.*

i will be in edmonton until after the 13th, so it is unlikely i will be writing much. or at all, for that matter. in the meantime, stay out of the path of tornadoes, keep cool, and i'll yodel at you shortly.

*to all my guests-to-be: please don't take this as anything other than my typical panic-induced hyperventilating pre-party mode. i do want you there. i really really do. i just sometimes forget. and hopefully being without a kitchen and actually focusing on you instead of the quality of the homemade hummous will be a good thing.

28 July, 2007

you know the one about an insomniac dyslexic agnostic?

on my drive up to fort mac a couple of weeks back, i listened to cbc's brilliant tapestry show. the guest that particular sunday was sam harris, an author and philosopher who spoke out eloquently against religion. he made one statement that has been haunting me ever since - the more i think about it the more true it seems, and the scarier fundamentalism's firm grasp on our planet looks:

a deep seated belief in the tooth fairy or in the god zeus puts one firmly in the mental category; a belief in god/jesus/allah/yahweh, for whose existence we have the exact same amount of proof (i.e. none) is deemed perfectly reasonable simply because of a strong cultural bias.

before you start yelling at me, think about it. no, really. think about it.

all this is strangely liberating. i feel like i have been given permission to let go of god. because really, all god ever was for me was what i had made him, or what those around me made him, and isn't that kinda insulting to the whole concept of god?

in my youth i went through several years of serious christianity. i moved away from that path in an experimental fashion: i had heard so much about how non-christians are deeply unhappy, how there is an emptiness to a godless life that i, deeply unhappy at the time despite my close friendship with the big J, decided to test this out myself. that was a good decade and a half ago, and i am still here living la vida agnostica, doing just fine, thank you.

serious post? sure, but it's a saturday night, i am stuck here in the oil-slick northern wasteland, and what better time to question the very existence of god?

p.s. i think i am done with the harry potter posts, but i'd be VERY happy to discuss the book with you whenever we next shall meet.

fairy snotter and the chamber pot secrets

my first non-working weekend here in the northern wilds of oil country and i am sitting at the computer, unwashed, swollen-eyed (see previous post), unwilling to even contemplate doing yoga or going for a walk, because really, what's the point? bjork is singing her icelandic little heart out, i am sipping my morning protein laden berry beverage, and thinking about life. ok, i'm not actually thinking about life, just sort of lumpily looking at the screen. hi.

i am experiencing the same feeling i got after the last extended version of lord of the rings came out: now what? what do i have to look forward to now? oh sure, you say, you can re-read the deathly hallows. you can re-read the whole harry potter series! you can re-watch the lord of the rings movies too, but it just isn't the same as the first time (and no, i don't mean awkward and slightly painful, i mean thrilling and new).

i think i am going to dig deep in my library bag and take some barbara gowdy to get me over this slump. and if that doesn't work, i'll fall back on clive barker for some first class escapism.

all of this, though, seems like munching on a rice cake when what you really want is a big slice of triple fudge sour cream cake with nutella icing. but whatever. i'll live.

27 July, 2007

merry blotter and the grinding molars

i just finished The Book and have been sobbing off and on for two hours.

i refuse to believe that the evil bag killed off my favourite character.

i am considering giving up on books. perhaps i shall stick to the backs of cereal boxes from now on. fiction hurts.

hairy otter and the mule deer of death

i am roughly halfway through the last harry potter and i am really hoping that ron will die. ron and quidditch are the equivalent of the frodo-sam-gollum thread in lord of the rings - i.e. annoying and unnecessary.

now i know that the purists among you will clench your tiny little fists and holler that frodo and the ring was the Main Part Of The Plot. ok. yeah. whatever. it was also boring.

likewise: ron and quidditch? boring.

you can blame my dislike on the charmless, gormless, hapless ijit who plays ron in the movies (just like my snape lust is the direct result of the eternally yummy alan rickman) but having just gotten a large dose ron's whiny whininess (where he did a lot of whining, which got annoying, what with all the whining and stuff) i am oficially crossing my fingers and donning my DEATH FOR RON WEASLEY t-shirt. (it has I HEART SEVERUS SNAPE on the back. you want one?)

25 July, 2007

albino skunks: fact or fiction?

where do YOU weigh in on this age-old question?

24 July, 2007

four litres of organic yoghurt and two bananas

1. men have been flirting with me again lately: either i am entering a new level of hotness or they (young men, all) find me non-threatening, kind of like when i flirt with the octogenarian patient as a gesture of kindness. i prefer the former explanation, though heaven knows i rarely look my best at home depot and the tool rental guy really laid it on thick, comparing my admittedly decent driver's licence photo to catherine zeta jones in "entrapment." so, ok, nice, but do they not sense the latent cougarness just seething beneath my placid plumbing tool renting facade? or is that the attraction?

2. one of the flirting young men was a very pretty italian canadian, a combination known as panty remover in some quarters, though it generally does nothing for me*. i simply do not like my boys pretty. i like goofy grins, grotesquely large heads and funny square toes. in fact, if you brought forth a combination of the above, i might just marry you. oh wait, i already did.

3. i had a patient today who smelled of boiled potatoes, which is a very strange smell to have emanating from you. eau de pomme de terre? for the earthy guy?

4. i flipped off a hummer in edmonton over the weekend and the wack job followed us for many blocks, cut us off in the middle of an intersection and screeched to a halt right in front of us before taking off without once using his signal light, thereby proving me right: me, relatively sane though bitter, him: egomaniacal sociopath with a swollen wallet and exactly three brain cells.

5. we drove a company chevy impala to edmonton, and returned in a pontiac minivan. it is actually pretty funny how embarassed i am getting in and out of american made automobiles. no such problems with either japanese or european cars, but this weekend i wanted to wave a banner proclaiming this Not Really My Car.

6. came home really late last night and was thrilled to discover i had to work at 7am this morning. got up, stumbled into the shower, consumed my morning protein fibre shake and drove to the office where i spent the next hour sitting in the parking lot slowly realising that i wasn't actually scheduled to work till 8. tired.

7. i am thinking about life. why are we here? what are we here for? (subtly different questions, you dig?) what is the damn point? this morning i was definitely overwhelmed by the whole getting-up-every-day-for-the-rest-of-my-foreseeable-future-and-going-to-work-so-i-can-make-money-to-finance-the-house-i-really-do-not-want-and-having-no-time-to-do-the-things-that-really-matter-like-not-working-and-staring-at-clouds. i hate mornings like this. i just want to curl up and cry and i feel deeply bereaved by the lack of mister monkey who has a far more level head in these kinds of situations.



*the only way italians turn me on is when they talk cheese to me at the italian centre deli. the more explicit the better.

18 July, 2007

hit me baby one more time

mister monkey is talking babies again. he seems to think that we are such a genetic goldmine that we should do our duty to the world and procreate. mind you, he doesn't say it with much enthusiasm...more of a theoretical statement.


i had a patient last week who, at 37, had three teenage kids. i could do that. what i really don't want to do is have the teenagers at 50, but there seems no way around that particular bit of arithmetic.


can we not do like other animals and let our young do their thing a couple of years after birth? why the big hoopla? why the full 18 years? isn't it exhausting?


a good friend is now in the midst of dealing with his teenagers, while several bloggers whom i read regularly, are in the midst of toddler trauma. neither seems particularly palatable, not when you must, as a parent, have your kid's best interest at heart. i particularly find the toddler trauma troubling ("troubling toddler trauma: tonight on FOX news!") because why would you not enforce your will when you are so much bigger than they are? is it because their little will is so much bigger than your own? and that is scary.

i have seen enough of childrearing in north america to find it largely neauseating. all this catering to little precious, teaching them that they are the centre of the universe, which produces cocky backward baseball cap wearing assholes and smug trixies with fake tans. i think north america is overflowing with a sense of entitlement and i think that it would do it good to maybe live for a while in a place where there are bullet holes in the buildings, where people still remember the war, where hunger is more than some nebulous concept used to force you to eat unpalatable things like broccoli or spinach.


and while it would be all nice to think that we would certainly buck the trend (god knows, we'd try), how do you raise a kid immune to the cocaine of froot loops, dinosaur shaped fake food and the ubiquitous barbie? how do you raise your kid in a decent normal way without your neighbours calling in social services because you don't have a TV, SUV or cable, because you don't stop your conversation in midflow as little precious has something to communicate right this very second, because you let your kids run around naked in the yard on a hot day (and jesus murphy, ain't that PORNOGRAPHY?!?!?)?

okay, okay, i am going off the deep end right now, because just last weekend i witnessed our friends' naked little ones running around the yard and no police was called. these friends are doing a fine job raising their kids in a way that is based on that uncommon element: common sense.


still, even with that, you have to contend with the contest of wills with a 2 year old over what they will or will not eat, and i am just not up to that because, baby, it's my way or the highway. or so i say now.


and all of this bellyaching, all of this blah blah blah, all of it comes down to one very simple truth which is that i am not interested in having children.


if i change my mind, you'll be the first to know, but until then, i want to continue my lazy wine-soaked lifestyle.

17 July, 2007

kippered snacks for everyone!

1. is it a coincidence that shortly after i post an entry questioning the desirability of the 72 virgin promise of islam, i get two skype calls from someone called "islam" from some unknown location written in arabic? do i smell a fatwa?

2. will the russian mafia be calling me next?

3. how about the Coalition for the Ethical Treatment of Newfies?

4. perhaps a quick call from the Stoopid Peeple Arr Poeple Two support group?

5. hey, or from the makers of the hummer?

6. perhaps, if i wait long enough, i will get a call from george w himself? no, wait, we took care of him at 4.

16 July, 2007

how i finally came into the fullness of my polish heritage and learned to hate russians

we have russian neighbours. we have loud russian neighbours. we have loud and obnoxious russian neighbours. getting the drift? every weekend from midnight to 6am, there is yelling, maniacal laughter, smoke, pot smoke, coughing, loud discussions, arguments, mid-sentence projectile vomiting (that impressed the hell out of me, considering that the guy in question went on with his diatribe as if nothing could stem the flow of words, as if the flow of vomit had been merely a comma, an emphatic semicolon perhaps, in the flow of his ideas.) right out on the balcony.

so, basically i hate them. and, because of the type of person that i am,* the only reason i hadn't yet called the cops on them is because i did not know for sure which suite they lived in. now i know.

lack of sleep, wine consumption, extreme heat, and using some of my ill-gotten oil money to buy art from starving artists, thereby assuaging the guilt of living here and making the aforementioned dirty dirty dough, were on the menu this weekend. coming back north sucked. i am this close to grabbing mister monkey by the collar, tossing him (gagged and bound, for verisimilitude. and for fun.) into the back of our little car and skedaddling the hell out of here.

somebody! buy our condo! cheap! free russian cultural exchange! free marijuana smoke every friday!

*the type that is willing to take stupid risks and yell at big scary people when woken up rudely in the middle of the night. that type.

15 July, 2007

instead of 72 virgins in paradise...

could i have 72 flavours of really well made gelato? or maybe 72 pairs of really gorgeous heels that are actually comfortable? or, if we're sticking with the sex thing, how about 72 experienced and able lovers?

who gets off on this 72 virgins thing anyway? 72 shy, sexually uninitiated, nervous people who are gonna have to be coaxed through it all? hmmmm, no thanks.

you want me to fly my ass into a building, you're gonna have to try a little harder.

11 July, 2007

oakleys, lesbians and recycling

this is a message to all the backwards baseball cap wearin', oakley lovin', shiny truck drivin' boys out there. yes, you, you with your massive egos, your attitude problems, your firm-titted lindsay lohan lookalike girlfriends. you. (who the hell am i kidding? none of these people read my blog. at least, in the name of the little baby jesus, i certainly hope not.)

you are my second favourite people around (right after republicans/conservatives, and, in the interest of something approaching fairness, excluding serious badasses like the trio of stab-happy pricks who killed a woman in calgary last night for no particular reason, and hitler and such).

but here it is: i find myself deeply thankful, when i see you driving around town, looking all cocky and listening to invariably very bad music, that i am nowhere near the dating game. now if it turns out that god is also an oakley wearing fratboy type, and i get punished for this sentiment by the firm and irreversible removal of mister monkey from my life (and if this happens, god, i swear i will hunt you down and chop you into tiny little pieces, divine or not, but i digress) then i will circumnavigate this circumstance by becoming either a necrophiliac, a lesbian* or overly fond of my pets.

no way in hell am i ever going to date your cheap beer swilling asses. just so we're clear on that.

in the unlikely event that you are in any way distraught over this announcement, worry not, for i am not the girl for you: i transport 2x4s and 14' lengths of baseboards in a toyota echo hatchback. i smirk when the price of gas goes up. i pay off my credit card every month. and i recycle. you wouldn't want me anyway.


*i am in no way insinuating that lesbianism and necrophilia are on a similar footing. i am merely enumerating my options. i am all for the hot lesbian lovin'** but we are talking highly specific (and highly theoretical) circumstances here.

**cause we know it's just like in the porn films, no? i welcome any lesbian comments*** gladly.

***no necrophiliac comments, please.

10 July, 2007

rehabilitating sociopaths, one loonie at a time

i am back.

all is well.

i promise to write more soon.

of course, i could well be lying.

but i'm not.

(of course that could very well be a lie too.)

(but it isn't.)

(then again you can't very well prove it, can you? you'll just have to take it on faith.)

(or not.)