Fashion faux paw

This fashion nightmare was spotted shopping on Robson street earlier this month. Ignoring the fact that her relaxed perm clearly needs a brush-out, her warbrobe screams, "I'm trying to regain my puppy days" in a way that only highlights this bitch's (old) age. She's sporting hair clips and collar ornaments that only new-born pups or Harajuku dogs can pull off. She needs to trade those sneakers in for Aerosoles if she wants reality to throw her a bone...

Don't ruin a story for lack of embellishment

I've always thought of my dad as the answer man, the holder of all truths. When I was a kid I would inundate him with questions everywhere we went - and he always had an answer...and not just a canned or obviously fabricated answer, a legit one. He's a straight shooter, on whom you could count on for a no-nonsense anything. This was a sharp contrast to my mother, who, how do I say it, invented the hyperbole? I'm a pretty literal person, so I struggled sometimes not to call her out on her level of exaggeration, especially when I was around for the actual event that she was exaggerating about, and I would stand there thinking, "that wasn't what happened...." but somewhere along the way they seem to have rubbed off on one another, and I can no longer discern what is truth, and what is fabrication. And worse? They passed it on. I've found myself repeating stories or "facts" that they've told me and it is, quite frankly, whittling away my credibility.

My dad once told me that a bus-load of children on their way to a school event were buried in the Hope landslide. Years later, as my best friend and I were driving through Hope, BC, I shared this tidbit of information, passed on from the guru of information, my father. I even convinced her to stop at the landslide look-out point, so she could see the gravity of its devastation, as she had never heard of this slide. So there we are, standing at the look-out point, and I'm recounting the tearful story that my dad had told me as a child, and my friend is listening, but she's also concentrating on the info plaque that is in front of us.

"Bus-load of children, hey?" she says to me. "Because this plaque here says that four people were killed. And it doesn't sound like any of them were children."

In my dad's (and my own) defense, it was a devastating landslide, the biggest in Canada, in fact. This doesn't let him off the hook for giving me false information, though. Oh no, he ruined my random-fact-credibility factor, and I haven't let him live this down. We refer to the incident almost weekly in our household, using the phrase, "bus-load of children" as a sort of accusation to highlight any suspicion of exaggeration or inaccuracy.

I am now very careful to research any and all "facts" that my parents tell me before I pass them on.

First Class Mail and Shit my mom says pt 2

I came home last night to two very wonderful surprises: 1) a note from my mother, and 2) a summons for jury duty.

Now, I know that neither of these things may seem very "wonderful," but bear with me. Firstly, I must explain that I live at home, which has many downsides for a 27-yr old, but also many perks. Perks include: paying off the debt I accrued whilst obtaining two university degrees, allowing me to eke by on the poverty level wages that I earn from a job that required at least one of those degrees, having food in the fridge, living in a beautiful, nicely decorated home with a yard, having wicked parents that I call by their first names (makes 'em feel more like roommates), and getting notes like these from said parents/roommates:

(Okay, this probably needs some 'splaining. I had, ahem, a lady doctor appointment that day to talk about Mother Nature's lovely monthly gift to women. I had previously expressed strong concern and disappointment in being hurried through doctor's appointments, and being treated brisquely and with disinterest. This particular appointment had gone according to expectations, in that the doctor took the time to actually listen and answer questions...hence the note.)

Is it just me, or is this note particularly awesome? She could have said, "Glad the doctors appointment went well," or, she could have just left that part out altogether, but instead, regardless of who might see this note on the counter, she chose to use the words "gyno" and "attentive" in the same sentence. What a gem. This falls under the "shit my mom says" category for sure....

Secondly, next to the note, I had a stack of mail. Unless it's bills, mail is really exciting. The letter on top said,

"FIRST CLASS MAIL - OPEN IMMEDIATELY," and was from "Sheriff Services." So, my first thought was,

"we have sheriffs in Canada?"

I thought they only existed in America or on Halloween. Turns out, we do have sheriffs, and they dole out jury duty. Still failing to see how this is wonderful? Ya, me too actually. I was really only excited about it for the first ten minutes, because I hadn't really thought it through. I watch all kinds of crime dramas on tv and feel as if I'm an expert when it comes to the legal system now (ignoring the fact that most of those crime/courtroom dramas are American, and therefore irrelevant to the proceedings that I would be a part of as a juror, and also ignoring the fact that I didn't even know we had sheriffs. But seriously, don't you picture a western movie or the American midwest when you hear "sheriff"?) so naturally, I thought I would excel as a juror.

I have since smartened up, as I have done some light research and discovered that jurors are only provided $20/day for the first 10 days of their duty. Oh, and coffee and tea....those are provided.  Seriously?

So now I am on a quest to become an "undesirable candidate." My friend, Darla, suggested that it might actually be a great idea to talk about all the crime dramas I watch on tv:

"I've got this one in the bag. I watch Law and Order religiously and I can't wait to put him behind bars."

"Ms. Taylor, we haven't told you what the case is about yet."

"Doesn't matter, he's going down."

I like this idea. Accepting other escape-jury-duty ideas, so feel free to make suggestions.

Christmas Carols, you may now commence.

It is December 1st, and therefore a perfectly reasonable day to start listening to Christmas carols. 25 days of the same 20 or so songs in various arrangements by various artists is doable. 55 days (factoring in the entire month of November), however, is unreasonable. Imagine my surprise and disdain at the cheerful merriment of "Jingle Bell Rock" drifting into my unsuspecting ears while I was shopping  the week after Halloween. Before I fully realized what was happening, I was singing along; but, I had sense enough to nip that in the bud (where the hell does that phrase come from?) quickly, as I couldn't risk the possible insanity that might ensue if I was to keep that up for 55 days straight.
Jingle bells, jingle sells, jagged smells, farmer's dells..... blahblahblahblahblah
So I've been practicing selective hearing, and have switched my morning radio-alarm station from the soft faves of QM/FM, to my day-time favourite, The Peak, as the latter is much less likely to inundate me with The First, or Five Millionth Noel.

Neverthless, Christmas carols - I love 'em because I love to sing along and I know (basically) all the lyrics. So, carolers, you may begin.

The Good Samaritan?

Don't you love that moment when you catch someone doing something really awkward, and you know that at that exact moment all they're hoping is that no one is catching them doing it? I was sitting with my best friend in her car outside of Starbucks. We were finishing our conversation before we got out of the vehicle because both of us are equally paranoid about people listening in on our conversation - not that it was particularly top-secret, or incriminating, but we tend to use colourful language and superbly timed sarcasm and exaggeration that some people may take the wrong way. So she's telling me a story and I become slightly distracted by a woman who is standing infront of my bf's car. We are parked in front of a bank, and this woman is trying to find the entrance to it. There is no door where she's looking, the door is around the corner, but she is staring and exploring this wall of windows in front of us like they are a magic eye painting that will reveal a door if she stares hard enough at them. She walks back and forth in front of these windows, looking for a door that she might have...overlooked? She is stumped. I'm watching this, and I'm squirming, because I know this exact feeling, emotions flooding back from that fateful day in Portland when I approached a crowded cafe, in the middle of a crowed square, all four of its walls made of glass, presenting no obvious door structure, and I panicked. Do I paw at the glass? Do I knock? Throw a rock through the glass? (I needed coffee, bad.) I did that extremely awkward move, when you approach the place where there logically should be a door, and stand there, waiting for something to happen, and when nothing does, you feebly push on the glass in a couple of different spots, making you appear sort of mime-like....
So I'm empathizing with this woman and her situation, and hesitating to help, only to see if she will figure it out on her own, although it doesn't look promising. We have paused our convo and are now watching her every move. She steps back, gives the windows the final once-over, and begins her retreat to her car. She's giving up and the door is less than 10 feet away around a corner, but not even a sharp corner.
     "Ooh, I should tell her where the door is," I say, as I reach for the door handle.
     "Let's just wait a sec," bf says, stopping me, "You know, survival of the fittest."

After almost dying laughing, this is the type of conversation that ensued in the car: swap the robbery for a door-search, and the overweight man for a stupid woman, and you'll pretty much get the idea.





This is why we keep our conversations in the car.
(Don't worry, I ended up telling her where the door was...)

What's really at the end of the rainbow and other lies exposed

 Remember those little lies that your parents told you to keep you innocent and naive and make you believe that the whole world was made of gumdrops and rainbow sparkle cupcakes? You know, like Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and you being really, really good at everything? Well hopefully you still believe in the latter, unless of course you're tone deaf and one of those people who continues to audition for talent competitions in the singing category, pay for voice lessons, and remain perplexed when you just aren't making it to Nashville...but I digress.

Do you remember the moment you stopped believing in Santa Claus? Personally, I was always a skeptic. My suspicions were confirmed early on by my grandmother, who ever-so-tactfully blurted out,

      "She doesn't still believe in Santa, does she? " to my shocked and infuriated mother, right in front of me at around age 6. I was unphased, although I gave an Oscar-worthy performance of "devastated" and "will likely need therapy later in life."  This only served to perpetuate what would come to be known as my "know-it-all" phase...which is on-going, btw. While other kids were peacefully dreaming of Santa landing on their roof, or the tooth fairy sprinkling them with sleep dust, I was plotting ways in which I could disprove their existence, so that the charade could be dropped. Come to think of it, I was kind of an asshole kid. I did the normal tests of course: I asked my parents a billion questions so they would have to provide some sort of semi-logical explanation for the wonderment of money appearing under my pillow when I placed a tooth under there, or how Santa managed to get presents under our tree when we didn't have a chimney. I wasn't placated by their answers, however, regardless of how creative they were. I believe my dad made the mistake of telling me that the tooth fairy just "knew" when to retrieve the tooth and pay up. Rookie move on his part; so, naturally, I had to test it. I recall having an every-so-slightly loose tooth, one that no-one would have expected or suspected of falling out for a while. That tooth didn't see what hit it - I gave it hell right before bed one night and slyly placed it under my pillow.

The next morning, no dough, just as I suspected.

Did I get up and tell my parents about the great injustice I had endured at the hands of the so-called "tooth fairy" and demand answers or sympathy? No, I was an asshole, remember? I didn't tell them, but I held them in silent and (to them) perplexing contempt, brooding and huffing and puffing for days, making outrageous claims, such as having never experienced a good day in my whole life...at 5. Worse than telling them the gig was up, I made them continue the charade, made them really work for the tooth fairy/ Santa Claus street cred for years to come. Sorry, mom and dad.

So here's what's really at the end of the rainbow:



End of the Rainbow



Rural America? Grain silos? Well, who knew? Maybe not the pot o' gold you were hoping for; but, technically, wheat is "Saskatchewan gold."

#100 of 100 things to do before I die: play DnD

Okay so I'm almost immediately regretting blog-admitting this, and am having cold-feet about whether I actually want to keep this in my top 100 list, since I just finished some light research on it, but before I really knew what it was all about, I wanted to partake in a DnD event, you know, just to say that I have, and to see what all the fuss is about.

What's DnD, you say? Well if you're wondering, you must not spend a lot of time in your parents' basement, glued to a computer screen. I'm talking about Dungeons and Dragons, my friends. Dungeons and freaking Dragons. It's one of those things that everyone's heard of, but that not many people actually know much about...myself included. For a long time when I heard "Dungeons and Dragons" I pictured "Snakes and Ladders" and still have difficulty not picturing that at the mention of DnD. Of course, I had also heard that there was a costume/role-playing aspect to DnD that was glaringly absent from SnL, which only led me to picture DnD as people dressed up as dragons, playing Snakes and Ladders, in dungeon-like places...obviously. This all seemed pretty weird, but somehow awesome, right? So, in the hopes of having my suspicions confirmed, I Wikipedia'd it. Having shed more light on the intricacies of DnD, I've come to realize that I was, in fact, wrong.
DnD is not SnL. Not even close.
And costumes? Not part of the game (although I'm pretty sure there are fanatics out there that make it part of the game...and I salute thee.)
Role playing? Check! So it's not a total wash....

I also found out that DnD is the best-known and best-selling fantasy role-playing game (according to Wikipedia), so I have left in my top 100 things to do...even though I was looking for something with mandatory costumes, and I always liked Snakes and Ladders.

Dragon playing Snakes and Ladders....but accidentally breathing fire on the board

So I'll be on the lookout for players...any takers?

Happy graffiti: my second favourite kind

Geneva, Switzerland

Geneva, Switzerland

Geneva, Switzerland

The key to feeling important.

Keys are the key to importance.

I have found that the amount of keys on my keychain is directly proportional to how important I feel. Less keys on your keychain doesn't say, "minimalist," it says "loser," and, "possibly untrustworthy." Sorry.

A field guide:

Two keys. A key chain with one or two keys is a sad and lonely sight. Two keys means you have access to your own home, and maybe a car, or a bike lock. You are not responsible enough at your place of employment to be trusted with keys.

Three keys. I think that it's essential to have at least three keys at any given time. Now you can get into your own house/apartment, drive a car or bike, and the mysterious third key could mean any number of things. It is most likely a work key, which is a start! But hey, it could be the key to someone else's apartment (wink wink), the key to a storage locker, the key to your diary, who cares! Each additional key makes you exponentially more important than the last.

Four keys. Now we're starting to feel a little important, right? When you whip your keys out of your purse or pocket in front of someone you've just met, don't think they don't do a quick count.

Five keys. You're in fairly safe standing here, but you could be much more important if you could open more locks.

Six +. Nice work, you are decently important. You can probably be trusted, or at the very least, you own lots of stuff that requires locking.

I have been known to keep keys on my keychain that no longer unlock anything. Changing the locks at work doesn't mean that I replace the old ones on my keychain. No no, I just add 'em right on there with the old ones because no one needs to know that some of the keys on my keychain don't work, this will be our little secret;)  You'd think that since I know that they're not really "keys" anymore, that this would lower my feeling of importance, but nope, it doesn't. There's something very satisfying about having so many keys on my keychain that I have difficulty putting them in my pocket. I have ten keys right now, and I feel especially important. (Three of them are mystery keys that I no longer know the use of, but one of them is a key card, which is worth at least 3 regular keys in coolness, so I'm good to go.)

You're such a kittenhead...

Kittenhead: noun (ktn-hd)

 Everyone knows one of these, or is guilty at one time or another of being one themselves - folks, I introduce to you, the Kittenhead. The one who is vacantly staring at the wall while everyone else is engaged in conversation, or who absentmindedly interjects during said conversations with completely unrelated (and random) comments, the Kittenhead should not be confused with The Idiot, or The Simpleton, yet they may exhibit remarkably similar characteristics to both. The Kittenhead is, in fact, capable of intelligent thought and conversation, yet it slips easily in and out of social awareness, into a state which can only be likened to the type of distraction that a kitten experiences when confronted with a ball of yarn.

 The term originated over a dinner with six friends: five non-Kittenheads, and one Kittenhead (KH). The dinner conversation started off light, then moved to education, and even law-enforcement, at which point the KH disengaged and at several points made unrelated, even Tourrette's-like remarks. It has been speculated that the topics moved beyond the KH's realm of interest, and he, therefore, withdrew attention. As the five non-KH's observed their subject's behaviour, and speculated on what the subject of his thoughts were, they concluded that his brain was temporarily filled with kittens playing with balls of yarn.

You, or someone you know, may have experienced this condition before, but you needn't be alarmed, as it is, for the most part, harmless. Actually, at times it can be quite useful as it allows the subject to remain completely selfish throughout conversations, as the KH's friends will either reach a point of tolerance for, or even enjoyment of the KH's strange, seemingly idiotic trances, or they will follow specific conversational threads that are of interest to said KH, so as to keep him/her engaged.

Shit my mom says

In the line-up at Zara with my mom on the 27th birthday, I, foolishly, whisper to her that my stomach isn't feeling so hot, maybe it was lunch? She nods in acknowledgement, gives me the "Aww, I sympathize with you" look and we continue to wait in line. I should have known I wouldn't get off that easy though, as the woman whispers louder than I talk. A few minutes pass, and she lets the voice immodulation rip,

     "Honey, is your tummy okay? You think you can wait in the line-up, or do you need to get to the bathroom?" drawing stares from the women both in front of us and behind.

I wondered, then, if it was in fact my 5th birthday, and not my 27th.....

    "Really mom? My tummy? I'm gonna make it...thank you."

This makes her laugh hysterically, as she realizes how much of a mom she sounded like, then she has to mock-repeat herself whilst laughing, drawing further attention.

    "Bahah! How's the tumtum pumpkin? Ahaha!!" all in a pretend yell-whisper.

Happy birthday to me! At least my tummy held up through the line-up:)

I love this woman.

Jake Gyllenhaal, Swedish-American Jew, and the Prince of Persia?

Observation of the week: virtually no one in the movie The Prince of Persia, is Persian. Furthermore, everyone in the film has a British accent.

Hmmmm, I may have to dust up on my history of Persia, but something tells me that this was, in fact, wrong. Grossly inaccurate? Pretty ridiculous, if not downright absurd?  Are North Americans that simple that applying a British accent to characters that are set virtually anywhere outside of our continent will suffice in making us "believe" in the authenticity of their foreignness?

I guess so....because goddamn that Swedish-American Jew, Jake Gyllenhaal, makes for one hell of a prince o' Persia. He pretty much had me at "Allo, gov'na", which is "Disney Persian" for "Salam"

How to waste time

I consider myself a resident expert in time-wasting at work, having spent 6 months at a job that is neither interesting, nor stimulating. During my time at work, I have developed a profound skill for distracting myself with basically anything unrelated to my actual job.

Do you hate your job? Are you under stimulated and underpaid? Don't be predictable with your time-wasting by spending countless hours on facebook, creeping on your ex's status updates and looking at older, skinnier pictures of yourself, when you could be doing this:


1) Reading the news. Knowledge is power, so make sure that you're up to snuff on your current events. Be careful not to waste your time on slanted and biased rags such as CNN and The Globe and Mail, though. You can really never believe what you read in those sensationalist rants. I highly recommend visiting http://www.theonion.com/ for a reputable and credible source of a broad range in breaking news. For example, polls have suggested that Obama may, in fact, be a cactus. Who knew? Don't be in the dark any longer...


2) Googling yourself.    Knowledge is power, and self-awareness is empowering, so you should get to know your Internet self.

*Disclaimer* - this may not take up too much of your time, depending on how accessible you are to the world wide web, so don't rely on this as a primary time-waster, and don't use this as a popularity gage because you may be disappointed. (On the other hand, though, if you get lots of hits, go ahead and use that as a gage for not only your popularity, but your importance as a human being, as well as your all around awesomeness.)

3) Writing letters.  I don't mean the obligatory type, like to Aunt Millie, asking how her hip is healing and how many cats she has these days, I mean the kind where you respond exactly the way you would if you had no social filter whatsoever, and, therefore, no concern for how the recipient will react.

So your boss emails you and he's all, "You know that spreadsheet that I asked you to make 20 minutes ago that tracked our expenditure and calculated all kinds of crazy stuff, dating back to the start up the company 6 years ago? Yaa, is that ready yet?" Which can be translated into him barely understanding how to open the spreadsheet, let alone read and understand it, since he obviously has no concept of what it takes to produce it....which is a perfect moment for you to respond using the succinctness of the written word:

"Dear shitiot (this is a shitty idiot),


It's been twenty minutes, so OF COURSE I have that spreadsheet that you asked me for out of nowhere when I was already elbow deep in other shit for your stupid company that you don't know how to run. It was a snap, thanks to all the speed-reading and wizardry I've been mastering over the years. To the normal human, going through six years of poorly-documented accounting for a company they've just started at and recording it into a database so that it can be graphed and analyzed might take longer; but, I take Gingko biloba daily and am a really positive person, which I'm told helps get the job done right, so I finished early.


Just so you know, the part of the spreadsheet that says "I'm drunk" was just a computer error, Excel sometimes does that. I didn't type that, because it's 9:30 and I don't start drinking until at least 11.


Here's the spreadsheet, let me know what you think!

                          - Leigh :) "

(I don't actually drink at work, but I really am (basically) a wizard.)

For great examples of how to do this, you should visit David Thorne's blog (that should also take up a block of time, it's a goodie) to see how he responds to everything from permission slips from his son's school, to noise complaints from his landlord.

http://www.27bslash6.com/    unreal.

Now, I'm not suggested you SEND these letters, but writing them wastes a lot of time, is therapeutic, and is worth a few laughs.


4) Keeping hydrated. *Hiccough*. 

It's after 11 now and I'm pretty sure it's 5 o'clock somewhere. You see where I'm going with this...






Okay so those a just a few ways to occupy yourself in the workplace. Get back to work...?

The Golden Girls, the better Sex and the City

One of the few joys and pleasures I get out of having cable is not watching CNN, or Jersey Shore , it's the ability to rush home and catch re-runs of the smash 80's sitcom, The Golden Girls. A good dose of Blanche, Dorothy, Rose and Sophia never fails to have me laughing out loud. And I have to admit, I love to play the "which Golden Girl am I?" game. These grandmas give Carrie Bradshaw et al. a run for their money when it comes to portraying "women in their element."

Rather than a bunch of aging, lonely women who use sex as a distraction from their unhappiness, and a tool to appear "empowered" as women, The GG's are a bunch of aged, wise women, who know a thing or two about sex, but don't use it to define their existence. Unless you're a true Blanche or Samantha, chances are you aren't into meaningless encounters, and you likely feel more shamed than empowered when you tip-toe out of what's-his-name's boudoir. So ladies, let's stop likening ourselves to the Carries, Charlottes, Mirandas and Samanthas out there, and if you must compare, let's go with a throw-back to Dorothy, Blanche, Rose and Sophia. These women were from an era when women weren't ashamed to be....women. Which GG are you?

Blanche Devereau versus Samantha Jones.

Blanche is the quintessential southern belle, who is not shy about using her feminine guile to get what she wants...but what she wants happens to be, well, a little southern lovin... not dissimilar to Samantha, sassy New Yorker, whose passion is passion. But if the gloves are on, who wins the battle of the sex goddess? Age before beauty, folks. Blanche and Samantha both portray strong, independent women, but Samantha lacks the ability to commit - a quality that undoubtedly makes her popular with the women who are unable to find someone to commit to, and are desperately looking for someone to relate more positively to, while Blanche has been there, done that. She's been married, she's had kids, and now, she's found time for a few dozen test drives before she settles down again, yet, she always acts the lady...

Dorothy Zbornak versus Miranda Hobbes

Every group of girlfriends has one of these, the know-it-all.
Arguably the least attractive out of each group, these two share a penchance for sarcasm and slight negativity. Dorothy, the substitute teacher, and Miranda, the lawyer both mean business and tell it like it is. Yet, somehow Dorothy maintains an essence of femininity and realism that Miranda lacks (despite being 6' tall and having a man voice).

Rose Nyland versus Charlotte York


Aaaah, the innocent simpleton. The frustratingly naive and perpetually perky - every gaggle has one of these, right? Rose and Charlotte are the friends that you have to tell to put the ear muffs on when you're discussing anything that happens in either the bathroom or the bedroom. Yet, we still manage to see Charlotte get busy on the show...and some things are better left to the imagination. Rose's image? Pristine.

Sophia Petrillo versus Carrie Bradshaw

Okay, it's a stretch. And I would really rather not compare anyone to Sophia, because she's in an awesomeness league of her own, but here goes...

Sophia is the story-teller that Carrie wishes she could be. Sure, the real Bradshaw's writing has led to a couple of movies and a smutty show that rakes in the ratings, but can anyone conjure up an image like a fiesty Sicilian who begins every story with, "Picture it...."?

The Fall of Humanity...sideways. Didn't you notice??

Dear Humanity,

Please take a moment to put down your Starbucks coffee, your iPhone (or *gasp*, Blackberry) and your hand-held mirror, and use your now free hand to slap yourself in your self-absorbed face. Then, hop on a ferry and get the hell off your personal island, and realize that you, alone, are not the only person that matters. Relax, I took the ferry last night, it wasn't that bad - in fact, I feel great...aside from the now nagging sense of dissatisfaction with the world and those who inhabit it. Oh wait...yep, that was there before. It's okay, my hand-held mirror's probably just fogged up...

Don't get me wrong, I love a good, long personal island visit as much as the next gal, but there are limits to these sorts of indulgences, limits which prevent, for lack of a better word, chaos. I met my limit last night, and made an emergency ferry ride off the island, back to reality, where the world I live in is full of all kinds of shit. Love, hate, hurt, happiness, needs, hopes, fears and dreams.

I was on the bus, happily day-dreaming, or lamenting over something unimportant (it's usually one of those two things). I was standing near the back door, facing the front of the bus. On my way on, I noticed a few things: a lady sitting near the front, facing forward, asleep, with several bags piled onto the seat next to her, one man sitting across the aisle from her, also facing forward, and two woman sitting in front of her, facing inward. No one was talking to one another, they were all safe on their islands. As the bus started moving, I noticed from my back-of-the-bus vantage point that sleepy lady was falling off her chair. Not yet concerned, as I have on many occasions fallen asleep on the bus, I keep an eye on her, but don't move. Levels of "concern" at the front of the bus, however, were obviously higher, because one by one, the three non-sleepy passengers from the keener end of the bus move to seats toward the back, quite obviously escaping the inconvenience of having to look out for a fellow human. The lady is now hanging so far sideways off of her chair that her arm and pony-tail are dangling on the ground. Now, I don't want to claim I'm an expert on bus-sleeping, but...I am - and I know this is neither natural nor comfortable, because as soon as you start falling forward or sideways in bus-sleep, you wake up. (Digression: the head-bob, fallover-bus-wakeup is my favourite thing to witness....this wasn't that.) Alarm bells in my head. I bee-line to sleepy lady, who will now be referred to as passed-out lady, and pick her upper body up and reposition it into an upright position. She does not wake up, but seems to respond slightly to being re-positioned, as it wasn't that hard to move her.  I stay there, wearily, as if she would wake up at any moment to find me staring intently at her while standing over her and she would find this very odd and creepy. But she's not about to wake up, she's falling over again and now I'm worried. I have made several observations in the meantime, and decide that the situation is serious. She is wearing a hospital bracelet, her arm is heavily bandaged, and she is not responding to me shaking her to wake her up.  I prop her up, run to the bus driver to alert him whilst dialing 911, and run back to hold her up and check for breathing. The driver pulls over the bus, and at this point, and only at this point, someone else decides to help. I am receiving instructions from the paramedic that I can't carry out while holding the phone, so the help is needed. We have to lift this lady onto the ground and into the recovery position, and call for help, and in total, including myself, three people come to her aid. Three out of thirty, and it was with hesitance and reluctance that two of them helped. As I'm on the phone with the 911 operator, I take a quick scan of the people around me, and in the most appalling display of apathy and selfishness, a lady who had been sitting closest to passed-out lady actually signalled to me that I should hang up with 911, because the bus driver was on the phone with someone, he should deal with it. In her mind, not only should she have no part in this, but I shouldn't either - which made me so angry, but also so puzzled. How come this perfect stranger was more concerned about me being inconvenienced by having to call 911, than she was for the welfare of passed-out lady? She seemed disgusted that she was having any part of this ordeal, and was that look of disgust and attempt to dissuade me from calling 911 directed at me because she was being inconvenienced by all of this? Would she have rather that no one pay any attention to this lady, so that the bus could make its scheduled stops and she could go on with her extremely important Monday night? I was fairly certain that nothing that was happening right then and there on that woman's personal island was so goddamn important that it superseded the LIFE of another, but hey, that was just a guess on my part.
I have no time for this devil woman, as I am busy clearing airways and actually giving a shit.


Airway clear - check.

Breathing steady - check.

Paramedics en route - check.

Passed-out lady going to make it - check.

Bus full of total assholes - check.


The paramedics arrive and wade their way through the aforementioned assholes, and manage to regain the consciousness of passed-out lady, and carry her safely to the waiting ambulance. The bus, just as if nothing had happened, resumes it's route and no one says a word.

How is it that we have become so desensitized to humanity, that we are willing and able to ignore life happening around us? Life, living, surviving, BEING - what does it mean, if we are in it alone?

Cerveza, please

This here is a pretty lovely afternoon...

We're used to things falling from the sky in the rainy city...

Attention all west-end Vancouver hipster, cruiser bike-riding folks: on your next ride around the seawall, you might be struck with a little piece of Vancouver history, literally, as shoe-sized chunks of the Burrard Street bridge are falling off at random.


Vancouver Bridge drops chunks of concrete on bike path

An Intellectual Crush on Dave Eggers

It all started about five years ago when I was working as a bartender in a casual dining establishment. A thirty-something yr old man sat at my bar and ordered a glass of wine and took out a book to read (one of my favourite pastimes, I might add...) and, by way of making light conversation, I asked him what book he was reading. He answered with zeal, and was all too happy to recommend it highly, even taking a moment to read me a few notable sentences. He succeeded in selling me on the book, which was soon to become one of my favourites, and also exposing me to what would become my fixation on the brain of one, Dave Eggers, author (among many things) of "A Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius," the book in question.

Okay, so he wrote this really fantastic book that I couldn't put down...and a whole bunch of others that I cherished for their raw, candid and un-selfconscious descriptions of the inner workings of his brilliant mind, as well as their startling witticisms, but it doesn't end there, folks. Good ol' Dave started a little publishing house (McSweeney's) that included a slough of young, innovative individuals who were as equally brilliant and quirky in their writing styles as he was. As if that wasn't enough, he really won my heart when he was 2008's TED Prize winner for his amazing talk on his amazing accomplishments with 826 Valencia, his publishing house-turned-after school tutoring centre and pirate supply store. Watch the TED talk and you'll see what I mean...



Brain-crush worthy? Heck yes...

Amazon.com: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (9781400032716): Mark Haddon: Books

Amazon.com: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (9781400032716): Mark Haddon: Books

A must-read.
A book from the perspective of a 15 year old boy with Asperger Syndrome (Autism) that will change the way you view not only those who suffer from this, but the world in general. The protagonist, Christopher, really gave the word, "observant" a new meaning for me.

Assumptions

I went to get my taxes done 2 days ago. For no particular reason I was in a bad mood; the kind that takes control over your face, making it sneer or appear perpetually bored without you even knowing it. I had a 3 o'clock appointment at H&R Block, and I was early, as I always am. I sat down next to an old man, neither of us initially seeming pleased by the company of one another...maybe he was in a bad mood too.

He made a quick recovery from his bad mood and asked me if I had tried to do my taxes on my own before I came to see the accountant. I hadn't, and I told him so. My first sentence to him was a little louder than I normally talk (I am a quiet talker) because I am not sure if his hearing is still in tact, an assumption I make based on his age. (Assumption # 1 - Dude is old and probably can't hear shit. Or in a nicer way: Old people are often hard-of-hearing)

We continue talking and, in response to his questions, I provide vague details of my job and what about it made my taxes difficult enough to forgo attempting to do my taxes on my own. I realize that I am being vague because I'm not sure if he'll know what I'm talking about if I'm slightly more specific, and I don't feel like being very specific. (Assumption #2: Old people have no idea what young people are talking about...they can't keep up....brutal assumption, I know)

I don't reciprocate the question asking, which is very uncharacteristic of me, as I generally dislike people who are unaware of proper conversation etiquette and omit the reciprocity. (I blame this on my aforementioned "bad mood")

Example:
normal person: "Hey, how was your weekend?"
socially awkward/inept person: "My weekend was awesome.."

(awkward pause where normal person waits for awkward person to ask how her/his weekend was....still waiting, still waiting...nope. Conversation over.)

Thankfully, cute, chatty old man isn't phased and he tells me about his taxes and work anyway. He tells me that he is retired, but still does some publications of things that he likes to write about. I think this is awesome, but it surprises me slightly, and I am now intensely curious both about what he writes about, and about what his profession was. I assess the situation for clues:

1) He has a thick European accent (which may or may not be Italian, Greek, or Croatian. The fact that I have no idea and all of these accents are quite different makes my thoughts digress slightly while I'm listening to him and I wonder, briefly, what it would be like to be a linguistics expert..."Excuse me sir, I couldn't help but notice that you draw out your long A sounds and curl your R's. You wouldn't happen to be from the east-side of Zadar, Croatia, would you? Hmm, yes, I thought so....")

2) He is short and stout, with a very kind face and demeanor

3) His warm smile shows two gold teeth on the upper right side of his mouth, the side that I am looking at from where I am sitting.

4) He's dressed casually, in a fleecy jacket and baseball cap and cotton slacks.

Sooo, certainly not an accountant, given that he was getting his taxes done at H&R Block. He's a retired cobbler? He ran a bakery? A tradesman? His hobby writing is about the old country? I had no clue, but I'll tell you that he did not strike me as a banker, doctor, lawyer or the likes. I don't know why, something about the kind, down-to-earth demeanor, and some compartment of my mind connecting that to simplicity of mind? (Assumption # 3: He is an immigrant to Canada, so possibly worked as a labourer and is not likely university educated)

We continue talking, and I'm sure about one thing: I like this man. I really don't care what he did for a living or what he writes about, because it won't change the fact that he's a nice man, but I'm still curious. I won't lie to you, I was nothing short of shocked when I discovered that his "hobby" writing is about tectonic plate movement and seismic activity and how it relates to building and engineering, and that he still gives guest lectures at local universities who study one of this three books on the subject. PhD. Energy efficient urban research and design, and green architecture.


Cobbler? Baker? Skimping on specifics of my job at the university because I wasn't sure he'd get it? Egg on my face...

This man was a class-act: obviously intelligent, but didn't need to flaunt it or condescend you with it. His profession didn't define who he was, which was a kind man who turned my bad mood into a good one.

To think, or not to think?

Sometimes I wonder why people worry so much about how they sound. About how their words are strung together, about how it sounds to be brilliant.

But this is my worry - my worry for myself, not for anyone else. I don't really wonder why "people" worry about this, I wonder why I worry about it. Starting a sentence is like jumping out of an airplane sometimes. I feel like it's never quite the right wording - I'm not certain where and how I will land, so I just stay in the doorway of the airplane with my typewriter laying silently on my lap. I consider whether or not I will bring the typewriter when I finally jump, but decide against it because I don't want anything impeding my ability to open the chute, nor do I want to lose the typewriter, obviously....
So maybe I'll stay on the plane and write about how I could have jumped, and how it might have felt. Or maybe I'll jump and hope that I don't break my arms so I can still type after I land - but that's not a valid worry, is it? No, there are dictiphones and scribes to do those sorts of things for me these days...


I just think too much. Thinking is great, don't get me wrong, I am a huge proponent of thinking. But too much thinking leads to inaction. I can think myself into and out of something ten or fifteen times, and then think myself around and above it too. All this in, out, around, above, through and across thinking and you'd think that I would be all thought out...or through, or above, in, or around, I suppose. But there is no end to thought, or at least there shouldn't be, because there is nothing around us that is certain. There is always something to learn or question or ponder. That is also why I should stop thinking so much - if nothing is ever certain, then there is no end to how much I could think, and therefore, no possibility of being able to "think something through". Maybe I just need to do. So, here I am. I am writing. I am doing.

The Art of Blogging

Where does one begin? I guess it all starts with an idea, something that is itching to jump out of your brain, through your fingertips, and onto the screen. Or perhaps it takes a lot of prodding and coercing to get that reluctant (yet brilliant of course) idea out of your head. Should it have a purpose, incite action or passion in others, or answer age-old questions? Ideas aren't always as brilliant as one thinks they are, they are usually, if not always, much more brilliant than we give ourselves credit for. Yes, I said it - ideas, mine and yours alike, are brilliant.


We must not get bogged down in the "it's been done/said before" rut; rather, we must understand that we can shed new and glorious light on remarks of the past, bringing forth new meaning and/or re-popularize ideas. The thoughts that run through our heads all day long are ordinary to us, because we are used to them, but they have the potential of being far from ordinary for anybody else. They even have the potential to be so "ordinary" that they become extraordinary when expressed.

The Beginning...

Here's where we begin. A nice, wide-open, solid path leading to what remains to be discovered. I like this image as an image of beginnings because it's not a path that strikes me as one you would be in a hurry on. I believe that some people need to slow down, while others need to hurry up. Let's start with the slowing down...