26 April, 2010

the asshole maneouvre

i put that on the title because i love the sheer globbering pile of vowels in that word. i mean, come on, if you were writing it, wouldn't you just write manoover and be done with it? but what would be the fun in that?!

so, what i wanted to tell you, to announce to the glittering world at large, was that sunday was Official Asshole Day. ok, it wasn't official, it sort of just happened, and i really didn't want it to be, but hell, it was, and i might just as well face it.

here's what happened (readers' digest version: saturday i froze my tookus off on a boat* so i could capture and eat crustaceans, and that made me cold and cranky and gave me residual asshole...could also have been pms, what the hell do i know?). on sunday morning, as per usual, i got on my computer and proceeded to write all manner of stuff: fb updates, fb comments, blog comments etc, and every single thing i wrote, no matter how nicely i meant it, turned into Asshole. every. single. goddamn. thing. Asshole, Asshole, Asshole. all over the bloody place. so instead of learning my lesson like a good girl and signing off with minimum collateral damage, i continued to write myself into an Asshole corner, Assholing all over the place.

so, if i wrote anything at all on your blog or fb or any other electronic writey thingie, i am sorry. deeply and profoundly sorry. i did not mean to tell you (essentially) that you need to find a hobby and shut the hell up. i did not mean to suggest that you were a lousy speller. i did not mean to imply that i was a fancy bitch buying up property all over the west coast. i most certainly did not mean to call your mama a crack ho, and kicking that little old lady? that was an accident, pure and simple. just so you know, hours later, while engaging in whatever random non-electronic writey related activity, i suddenly realised that i had Assholed and i felt very terrible. and then i'd go and Asshole again. oops.

i hope it's over and i won't wake up at 3 in the goddamn a.m. only to realise that in writing this here post i have inadvertently Assholed again. if so, i hope you forgive me.

*the bad news: bloody goddamn COLD. the good news: no seaskickness whatsoever despite large and wavey waves that wove the boat all over the place.

21 April, 2010

moderation is the new excess

i wanted for a long time now to write you a poem featuring moose singing of love. just now, i attempted a traditional haiku format but was unsuccessful in finding a good solid filler of 7 syllables. you'll have to wait longer, my loves, but i can promise you* that it will be worth it.

*hell, i can promise you whatever i please. i can promise to stop drinking and swearing so much, but we all know the likelihood of that; a girl has her blog persona to think of, you know.

* * *

much later (like, 12 minutes or thereabouts):

derivative text
that old post modern curse
the moose sing of love

so, what'd you think?

what's it all mean, baby duckling? what's it all mean?

after an eight hour day of working on truly fabulous individuals (excepting the ex-teacher who told me to talk AND work as she had places to be. happy retirement, bitch!), i followed this glorious and eventful workday with some sweating and weight-training only to come home to shower, unpack the dishwasher,* cook a kale and goat cheese quiche, pack mr. monkey's lunch,** set out mr. monkey's daily dose of antipsychotics, drink two glasses of wine (for the flavonoids, yo!), eat failed leftover gnudi (don't ask, not worth the effort. i tried. twice.), boil some eggs (hell, why not?), read my blogs, wash a sinkful of dishes, and then crash on the couch. i now lack the emotional and physical wherewithal to get up and brush my teeth (where is a personal valet with a posh british accent and a quirky sense of humour when you need one? goddamn you all for the destruction of the class system!!! goddamn you***!!!!!!)

that, my poultries, was a hard sentence to construct. try smoking up some of bc's finest and then knitting. (i think. what do i know? i don't knit.) you won't know whether you are coming or going and that is what it felt like to write the above paragraph. i had to go back repeatedly to see what in the hell i was talking about and what tense i was talking about it in. if i've failed, forgive: mommy's having the kind of day normal working mothers have every single day of their lives and mommy don't like it. mommy is particularly thankful that her dirty twenties did not accidentally produce a high maintenance bundle of joy that would have her doing all of the above PLUS hockey practice. god. it's all love and fucking sunshine, they tell me, desperation gleaming in their eyes.

and now that i've offended a world of breeders, let me take the sting out of the bitch slap by saying that today i saw the cutest little 3 year old red head in for a cleaning and she made me want to dip her in mayonnaise and eat her all up. a. do. rab. le. or something.

can i just get someone to tip me over so i can spend the night in my fluffy orange bathrobe cuddled up to my couch sheep? please? anyone?

that's it then.

*it's times like these i wish i had a minion. fuck. i fucking hate unloading the dishwasher. hate, hate, hate it. i think i almost prefer washing dishes by hand. then again, when i start to feel too sorry for myself, i just remember how much i despise vacuuming (a lot) and i feel better worse thirsty.

**yes, i don't have children. yes, i make my husband's lunch and i like it. up yours. my husband is way more entertaining than all the children in the world so he deserves a delicious and nutritionally balanced meal. if i didn't do it, he'd subsist on canned tuna and swedish rye crisps and we all know the world's running out of tuna.

***why'd you have to go and do it? huh? equality, my ass! we all know some of us are better than others. it's only bloody obvious! jesus!

20 April, 2010

there once was a girl from nantucket and other inappropriate poetry for the young and impressionable

lord, how quickly time flies. and yes, yes, yes, as far as cliches go, this one's been done to death by a million crepe-faced octogenarians, middle aged mothers of precocious tweens, and other people who make you uncomfortable by talking to you on the bus. still, 'tis true, and all that jazz.

and speaking of inappropriate public transit conversations, it is more than likely, statistically speaking and all, that i have, at one point or another, initiated random contact with less-than-willing participants. for that, i heartily apologize. there were, granted, times in my life where i was in dire need of human contact. those times, i am happy to announce, are over. the bubbling spring of conversation that began at a baseball game in new york city in the summer of my eleventh year is slowly drying up.

i hope, in ten years or less, to become so unbecomingly uncommunicative as to alienate all of my friends and family members. mr. monkey will either join me in this endeavour, or will be quietly decomposing in a shallow grave in an undisclosed location in the pacific northwest (because it's pretty and the soil is soft). just kidding. likely he'll snap first, despite his saintly qualities. and i really will not blame the man. i mean, enough is enough.

but of course, those of you who know me, have every right to snicker into your freshly starched sleeves. who am i kidding? the art of Shut The Fuck Up is ever an elusive dream, shimmering like a mirage of gleaming topless vixens and fruit laden tables to some desiccated horny soul crawling through the unforgiving sands of the sahara.

over and out on yet another pointless blathering of one who really ought to be in bed, getting her beauty rest in preparation for a "working interview" on the morrow. hopefully, as i drive the mighty highway to my destination, i stay on the correct side of the meridian. if not, well, it'll save mr. monkey the digging.

19 April, 2010

not long for this world

not an hour ago, i was coming back from exercising, driving calmly and somewhat tiredly down the residential streets of my 'hood. at one point a woman in a glossy automobile, of the type favoured by wealthy old people and pimps, pulled in front of me. she turned left and i followed. as soon as i did, i noticed with much chagrin, glaring, and eye rolling, that she was driving down the wrong side of the street.

"where the fuck is she from?" thought i, "australia? britain? hong kong? bermuda? and really, what the fuck, lady?"

in the 37 leisurely seconds it took me to formulate a list of insults and possible places of origin, the realisation suddenly hit me: she was driving on the right side of the road. i was not.


18 April, 2010

dental convention! oh yeah!

i have just spent several* days at a big dental convention in vancouver. this was my first time. in prior years, when i lived far far away, i thought it beyond stupid to pay money to fly to vancouver only to spend precious time inside a convention centre filled with all manner of plastic smiley conventionally dull dental zombies. now that we live but a ferry ride away, i get my fill of vancouver and feel perfectly happy to pop in on occasion for reasons other than plain old fun. of course fun was also on the menu: with every registration package, came four (4!) free drinks!

the convention, for those of you unfamiliar with the world of teeth**, comprised a series of lectures of varying mind-numbing dullness and a large floor show filled with all the glamour and glitz expected of brand new impression materials, latex-free gloves, dental chairs, digital x-ray programs, retirement opportunities featuring golf in various exotic locales, anti-sensitivity toothpaste, investment advice, implant screws and biodegradable flosspiks. yes, very very exciting.

there were people everywhere. people who, with every smile, declared to the world their unwavering allegiance to the world of cosmetic dentistry. scores and scores of girls with perfect glossy hair, giggling maniacally in small groups. besuited company reps exuding professional "friendliness" and a slight whiff of desperation. elderly dentists on the cusp of retirement dragged from booth to booth by their youthful and invariably busty staff. old school chums with receding hairlines revisiting their past alcoholic and sexual glories. serious and passionate dental professionals with incomprehensible political agendas. i could go on, but the list bores me almost as much as the people. the air was periodically rent by the high pitched squeals of girlish delight at the proudly produced obligatory 1 carat engagement rings or poorly lit photos of drooling offspring and what i really really wanted was to get my free wine and get the fuck out.

i attended some* courses and picked up a handful of samples, as well as piles and piles of informative reading material handed to me by the ├╝ber-friendly reps. i hadn't the heart to tell them that i would toss that toothpaste into my travel bag and breathe not a word of its astonishing therapeutic properties, as outlined by the glossy and (i think) excessive brochure, to my patients. it's off to recycling with you, my pretties!

the courses on offer ranged from the practical (fiber post selection and clinical use for restoring endodontically treated teeth***), to the interesting (the nutrition prescription), to the usual greedy business bullshit (leadership challenge: playing your A game). i spent hours i will never get back listening to a dental hygiene forum wherein audience members hopped up on their overinflated sense of self-importance asked the same questions over and over. you care about patients. i get it. you want the government's stance on dental hygiene self regulation to change. i get it. you think our association needs to do more. i get it. now shut the fuck up, so we can have our delicious free lunch, ok? i may have made my peace with my profession, but i will never find it either fascinating or worthy of a more than a tepid emotional response. it's a job, people, get over it.

i went out for lovely boozy dinners with various peoples, i bought myself a pair of swiss army pants (16 different combinations, will take you from the top of mount everest to cocktails with the queen, yo!)(not really), i sat in the sun and looked at dogs, i talked to an old man about politics, i gave myself blisters from cheap socks, and eventually came home earlyish* because i could no longer remain upright and coherent.

glad that's over.

*it was based on the honour system, so i will not tell you how many days i actually attended. i want you to respect me a little bit.

**you lucky, lucky buggers!

***no, i don't really know what it means either. nor do i care.

09 April, 2010

let's git some colchoor into dat der girl!

have i ever told you that i hate museums? no, not the ones with actual art in them, those i love more or less depending on the quality of their early 20th century permanent exhibits.
i love the NAG, i love the chicago art institute, i love MOMA and the guggenheim (not least because i believe that in one of the last two i saw two petrified turds in a big glass box - ART!). i even have high hopes for edmonton's gorgeous new art gallery.

what i despise is the kind of museum that stuffs animals and puts them into a realistically painted natural habitat complete with dusty grasses. or makes me look at bugs. or has teeny tiny pictures of historical events interspersed with guns and old furniture and lots of small print explanations. or small scale recreations of life in a certain time or place. or, as it turns out, guitars and mr, spock's uniform. ok, so the uniform was cool, i am a nerd after all. still, the seattle music museum was just more of the same. oh look, it's kurt cobain's last deodorant! and a pair of athletic socks once worn by etta james! and buddy holly's tooth brush! le yawn.

of course we made it fun: we banged repeatedly in a belligerently arrhythmic manner on a communal drum; we entered the "recording studio" where we rocked out until we were asked to leave, on account of the toplessness of the men in the group more than the sheer shittiness of our musical stylings; to top it all off, we had rock star pictures taken (the boys kept their shirts on for this one (as did the girls)).

still, i found it dull, dull, dull. but do not take it personally, seattle. i was also bored stiff at the museum of civilization. things were marginally better, though still rather boring, at the war museum. i dislocated my jaw yawning at the royal alberta museum. i prayed for swift extinction at the royal tyrrell museum. in fact, i think i shall give up entirely on this whole museum thing, and just stick to art. especially if it's dessicated poop in a glass box.

07 April, 2010


for the last few months, mr. monkey and i have been lost in LOST. we have become veritable addicts whose bedtime routine is performed with shaking hands, eyes glazed, minds already on the treat that is to come as we throw ourselves under the covers and set up the laptop for the night's viewing.

it's a good show, though it's no dexter and it certainly is no battlestar galactica, but hey, it is addictive in a way that frightens me a little.

what is LOST, you ask? let me tell you!

a bunch of people survive a plane crash on a mysterious tropical island and proceed to get angry at each other. as the seasons progress, there is more and more anger. each episode features angry people lying, yelling, snarling and running, and pointing guns at each other's heads. then they briefly get over it, only to be angered by the next thing that comes along and the cycle continues. nobody ever tells anybody else the truth, until the truth comes out and makes more people angry. mr. monkey and i spend a lot of time yelling at the screen, "JUST TELL HER THE TRUTH ALREADY!!!!" this doesn't seem to work.

meet jack, he's the (self-appointed) head honcho, who happens to be a (brilliant, natch!) doctor. he also suffers from (obviously) a messianic complex and (boringly) daddy issues. he is the angriest of them all. he even pushes around a tiny thai tattoo artist who dares to tell him she is unwilling to tattoo his "true self" on his arm because it is against her cultural mores. he doesn't care and forces her to. i suspect the ink says "UPTIGHT ASSHOLE" but i could be wrong. perhaps it says "MISOGYNISTIC DICKWAD."

meet kate. she flirts with every man on the island. she killed her father for, what seems to me, not a particularly great reason. she runs away a lot. she is shown to be Good. we are meant to like her, and like her i do, until she starts with the uncontrollable flirting.

meet john. he is Mystical. he is Miraculous. he has an intense blue gaze and i really like him even though he occasionally does stupid things. at least he isn't angry all the time.

then there are the rest of the people, all of whom are gorgeous, slim, buff and very very well proportioned (except for hurley who provides comic relief, and rose & the dentist who, perhaps are meant to as well, although they come across more as a boring ad for divorce lawyers). there are the core survivors, and then there are the background survivors, who play the same role as the red shirted crew members on star trek. if a bunch of people are running and being shot at, the background survivors provide fodder for the bullets, thus sparing our stars the ignominy of death. of course, sometimes good people must also die, but if that is the case, we are forewarned by so many clues that in the end we pray for a swift and sure ending to stop all the hints already.

there are tropical fruit, there are mysterious creatures, there is a smoke monster, and so many coincidences that you just Know that there is Something More to this. we're hoping that unlike battlestar galactica, the writers of lost will actually take all of the hints and clues and built a nice reasonable conclusion out of them. and until they do, we'll just continue to feed our little habit. check it out, dude!

06 April, 2010

bees, buskers and bad coffee, or: a weekend in seattle

we spent the cold rainy easter weekend in seattle with friends. the hotel we stayed in made us feel like rock stars. i have never, ever, ever stayed somewhere where the staff were so uniformly wonderful. it made me a little nervous. was i supposed to give them wads of cash? i didn't. i sort of wanted to but my natural cheapness outweighed my desire to compensate them all for their abundant friendliness.

seattle was ok. i mean, as far as cities go i didn't hate it, but it was far far down the list of my favourite cities, easily taken and pounded into a pulp by vancouver, chicago, new york, san francisco, montreal, toronto, quebec city or london. it felt small and it had very bad coffee. also, it had ubiquitous buskers who were so terrible, i wanted nothing more than to wrench their guitars from their hands and beat them into sweet silent unconsciousness, every last one. pike place market was alright, though i prefer granville island hands down. they only tossed a couple of oysters while i was watching, so perhaps that explains my lack of enthusiasm.

so, seattle - your waterfront leaves a lot to be desired, and i really really wish your thai restaurants would not serve bees inside the curry. granted, it only happened to me and we got a free lunch out of the deal, but still, biting into something which i initially thought was a basil stem, and very quickly realised was NOT, was the low point of the trip. spitting it up in front of L's plate was not particularly polite, but there comes a point where the sudden realisation that you are chewing on something you should most definitely not be chewing on is swift and uncontrollable. i let the boys examine and identify the culprit. i could not have faced life had it been a cockroach.

the high point was being asked to "keep it down and wrap it up" during our private jam session at the museum of music. granted, we were going nuts on the guitars and drums, but i think the authorities might have most strenuously objected to my husband taking off his shirt and B following suit. but, oh, we had fun. so much better than the family before us who looked like a church band. yawn.

overall, fun, fun and more fun. comfy beds, much alcohol, yummy food and lots and lots of wind and rain as well as very friendly drunken bums explaining how canada got its name (drawing letters from a bag: "C, eh? N, eh? D, eh?"). good times.

01 April, 2010

dude, happy egg!

having been pinched by a less than charitable comment on a post i have since erased (kids, don't drink and write! it is not good!) i am stewing and fomenting Deep Thoughts on selfhood, public opinion and the art of Embracing Who You Are. as you can see from all those capital letters, this is Important Shit and i am not yet ready to share. to be perfectly honest, i may never be ready. who the hell knows. all i can say is that there are very very few people who pay more than voluble lip service to the idea of thumbing their noses at the opinion of others. oh sure, many of us say we don't care, but really, everyone (with a few notable* exceptions) wants to be loved, liked or at least not actively despised. and that's that.

we are off to rainy seattle for the easter weekend. no, we will not carve a ham and sit around with family members meditating on the sacrifice of our lord jebus christ. mainly because we are uncouth barbarians and we don't particularly care. also, we'd rather watch fish being tossed and drink overpriced caffeinated beverages at the world's first starbucks, not to mention shopping at the world's best store ever, where they have $1.99 wine. yes. $1.99 wine. who needs salvation when you have cheap alcoholic beverages within the reach of your hand? i think even jebus himself would agree with me there. (leave a comment in the comments section, jebus).

have a joyous egg'n bunny day, everyone, and i'll talk to you later.

*and by notable i mean a range of slightly-to-moderately sociopathic all the way to all out genocidal