We are thinking about getting a dog. We already have two cats, and thanks to two trips to the fish store in the same number of weeks, twelve fish. Oh, and a five year old who often spends her time meowing, chirping, and howling. Yet, now that we have a house, a dog seems like the logical progression. Or we are completely insane. You choose.
We have been searching the Petfinder website, looking for a dog that suits all of our requirements. This is a tricky proposition, since there are so many dogs in need of a family it makes you want to bring them all home. That would be a lot of dogs. Also, the dog has to be good with kids, and cats, and energetic, but not too energetic. And cute. Cuteness is important in something that will require you to carry poop around in plastic bags.
The conversations we've been having on IM tend to go something like this:
(Paul is Chopper Dave on IM - I don't know why. Well, I can guess, but the less said about Sealab 2021 the better.)
Chopper Dave says: YES! Delta Wire-haired Pointing Griffon
Chopper Dave says: yes yes yes
Chopper Dave says: hunting pointer
Chryse says: it is ugly
Chopper Dave says: WHAT?
Chryse says: UGLY
Chopper Dave says: who cares?
Chryse says: it looks like a muppet
Chryse says: i care!
Chopper Dave says: it's an awesome dog
Chryse says: is it snuggly?
Chryse says: it doesn't look snuggly!
Chopper Dave says: so snuggly
Chryse says: i think you lie
Chopper Dave says: no cats for the griffon
Chryse says: i'm sorry
Chryse says: i would have an ugly dog if it would make you happy
Chryse says: what about this one?
Chopper Dave says: no St. Bernards
Chryse says: why not?
Chryse says: SO CUTE AND CUDDLY
Chopper Dave says: St. Benards are uuuugly and smelly and drooly
Chryse says: St Bernards are cute and cuddly and will rescue you from a sinking boat
Chryse says: ...and drooly
Chopper Dave says: what would I need a dog that saves me from a boat?
Chryse says: just in case
Chryse says: what if you fall down a well?
Chopper Dave says: 116 pounds?
Chryse says: or need some Neo Citran?
Chryse says: it is 116 pounds of awesome!
Chopper Dave says: we should get that weimaraner
Chopper Dave says: totally
Chopper Dave says: seriously
Chopper Dave says: The Weimaraner is loyal and loving to his family, an incredible hunter, and a fearless guardian of his family and territory
Chryse says: i don't know if we should get a dog of better moral character than us
Chryse says: it might make us look bad
Showing posts with label it was funny in my head. Show all posts
Showing posts with label it was funny in my head. Show all posts
Friday, September 11, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
A Call To Reason
If I were to have to sum up my personal philosophy in one sentence or less it is probably "go big or go home." I like plans: big plans, grand plans. I can also be a little obsessive with a schooch of compulsive thrown in for good measure. Want mountains out of molehills? I am your gal. I swear I have "reach for the sky" or some other similar trite and inspirational saying ingrained into the deepest layers of my psyche. It is a compulsion, this desire to not only accomplish something but to also do it in the biggest, most insane way possible. This often leads to the spectacular collapse of the aforementioned plans when that little thing called reality sets in. Lucky for me, the results are usually amusing.
Take my attempts at gardening, for example. Please note, I live in an apartment - a small apartment with a small balcony. Last year - in the excitement of having a garden for the first time ever - I may have gone just the teeniest, tiniest bit overboard with the whole garden concept. I was so happy, buying lots of pretty pots and lots of cute little seedlings. The tiny plants in their tiny pots were so adorable! Four kinds of tomatoes, three kinds of peppers, cucumber, squash and cabbage, even rainbow swiss chard (whatever that tasted like) in their wee little pots. Once those tiny little seedlings started growing it became absolutely clear I hadn't considered that they would indeed do that whole growing thing, and keep on growing until the balcony was overrun with greenery. After about a month we pretty much had to abandon the idea of actually sitting down on the balcony and just let the plants have it. No one wants to risk injury fighting a seven foot tall cherry tomato tree, after all.
I am proud to say that I actually took some lessons away from last year's debacle. I am hoping this marks a milestone in my whole learning curve thing. I managed to buy plants this time around while practicing the admirable skills of moderation and restraint. (It helped that it started raining - hard - while I was standing outside choosing plants, but we will ignore that.) This year we might actually be able to sit and share the balcony with the plants. What a thought!
Orange & Green Peppers:
Cherry Tomatoes:
Dark Opal Basil and Oregano:
English Lavender:
Cucumbers:
Isn't it all lovely? I spared you all the photo of the pot of dirt that one day might sprout lettuce. It wasn't exciting.
I am also desperately trying to ignore the little voice in my head that thinks we really need a few more plants. I exerted such self control after all, there is room for a few more. Really, there is. I forgot some great plants we could really use, like thyme, and rosemary, and chives....
Take my attempts at gardening, for example. Please note, I live in an apartment - a small apartment with a small balcony. Last year - in the excitement of having a garden for the first time ever - I may have gone just the teeniest, tiniest bit overboard with the whole garden concept. I was so happy, buying lots of pretty pots and lots of cute little seedlings. The tiny plants in their tiny pots were so adorable! Four kinds of tomatoes, three kinds of peppers, cucumber, squash and cabbage, even rainbow swiss chard (whatever that tasted like) in their wee little pots. Once those tiny little seedlings started growing it became absolutely clear I hadn't considered that they would indeed do that whole growing thing, and keep on growing until the balcony was overrun with greenery. After about a month we pretty much had to abandon the idea of actually sitting down on the balcony and just let the plants have it. No one wants to risk injury fighting a seven foot tall cherry tomato tree, after all.
I am proud to say that I actually took some lessons away from last year's debacle. I am hoping this marks a milestone in my whole learning curve thing. I managed to buy plants this time around while practicing the admirable skills of moderation and restraint. (It helped that it started raining - hard - while I was standing outside choosing plants, but we will ignore that.) This year we might actually be able to sit and share the balcony with the plants. What a thought!
Orange & Green Peppers:
Cherry Tomatoes:
Dark Opal Basil and Oregano:
English Lavender:
Cucumbers:
Isn't it all lovely? I spared you all the photo of the pot of dirt that one day might sprout lettuce. It wasn't exciting.
I am also desperately trying to ignore the little voice in my head that thinks we really need a few more plants. I exerted such self control after all, there is room for a few more. Really, there is. I forgot some great plants we could really use, like thyme, and rosemary, and chives....
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Bread Spam
I recently received some Amish Friendship Bread starter from a friend of mine. If you have never heard of this stuff, it is like a food version of a chain letter. Essentially, you get a bit of starter in a ziploc bag, mush it around for a few days, and then make bread with it, saving some of the starter to then pass along to three of your friends. Of course, every time you make the bread, you end up with more starter to pass along, so your definition of "friend" might have to become more vague, like maybe your dentist, or that scary neighbour two doors down. The easy thing would be to not accept the bread starter in the first place, but the experienced friendship bread pusher knows how to get you hooked. They offer you just the tiniest slice of the most delicious bread - bread that tastes like cake baked in heaven by little adorable angels- and then tell you if you want more, you will have to make it yourself so you'd better take this bag of goo or else. Since I now have four bags of goo sitting on my counter, so I can attest to the effectiveness of this method.
I didn't bother reading the directions on how to make the actual bread until I was about to start, when I discovered that the recipe calls for a box of pudding mix. Which seems odd, really. Do the Amish, with their disdain of modern technology such as zippers, really have boxes of instant pudding mix on their shelves? I soldiered on, and discovered a box of lemon pie filling in my cupboard, and used it to make lemon poppyseed cake. It is delicious. I am in danger of eating an entire lemon poppyseed cake all by myself, it is so good.
So, I must declare myself a convert. I will pass on the bags of goo far and wide, to all my closest and dearest friends! I will not question the pudding mix! The Amish Friendship Bread knows all! Now I just wonder if my hairdresser would find it strange if I brought her some bread starter today? Maybe if I bring her a slice of cake...
I didn't bother reading the directions on how to make the actual bread until I was about to start, when I discovered that the recipe calls for a box of pudding mix. Which seems odd, really. Do the Amish, with their disdain of modern technology such as zippers, really have boxes of instant pudding mix on their shelves? I soldiered on, and discovered a box of lemon pie filling in my cupboard, and used it to make lemon poppyseed cake. It is delicious. I am in danger of eating an entire lemon poppyseed cake all by myself, it is so good.
So, I must declare myself a convert. I will pass on the bags of goo far and wide, to all my closest and dearest friends! I will not question the pudding mix! The Amish Friendship Bread knows all! Now I just wonder if my hairdresser would find it strange if I brought her some bread starter today? Maybe if I bring her a slice of cake...
Friday, March 27, 2009
Now With More Swag!
This past Sunday Mr Man and I, along with another couple, decided to take a day trip to Montreal. Such live wires, we are. The day's agenda: a little smoked meat and shopping. We hit Schwartz's at lunchtime on a Sunday, because we are all about living on the edge. We were quickly ushered to four stools at the counter, where our orders were placed and executed with all the precision of a military campaign. There is no dallying here, no pondering the merits between medium fat and lean. You sit, you order, five seconds later you eat. But it is so, so good. Who cares if people waiting in line stare at you menacingly while you scarf down a sandwich in record time, your coat and purse bunched on your lap. Who cares if you have to eat with an elbow jammed in your back, and making it to the counter to pay is akin to Friday night roller derby. There is no caring when faced with the most perfect sandwich ever to grace a plate. Plus the pickles. And Cott's Black Cherry Soda. You just can't get that shit in Ottawa, people.
Then the menfolk went to the army surplus store to do manly men things - things that you can tell are very manly because they come from a store that smells somewhat funky and carries things in various shades of murky green. Everything. In. Green. Manly green. No chartreuse here. No lime. No celadon. Which made the the screaming pink camo pants seem even more out of place - unless someone was planning to do some late night maneuvers at the nearest Victoria's Secret outlet.
All that manliness had to be counteracted with a frothy latte with sprinkles, and then a detour to the yarn store. Can I just say right now how much I love the internet. Really. Type in "yarn stores montreal" and in minutes you are planning out a list of stores both within range and open on Sunday. How much awesomeness is that? We ended up at Effiloche, which is honestly the store I would own if I owned a yarn store. So fantastic. I wanted to pull up some yarn and just move right in, but that would have been even weirder than normal. Their fabric selection made me want to take up sewing, or quilting, or something, anything, as long as I could have an excuse to buy. Fabric with little adorable birds and quotes from 50's era children's books. Fantastic prints in fantastic colours: orange, teal, lime, raspberry. No murky green here. With monumental effort, I managed to resist - this time. I also managed to resist accosting anyone with a camera, which is an improvement (even if I would have so totally asked the woman working if she would consent to a picture with my sock in progress if it hadn't become really busy just as we were about to leave.) I like to pretend it was a win for normalcy, even so. I did come away with some fantastic yarn, and even stayed within my budget. Will wonders never cease?
swag-o-rama:
Then the menfolk went to the army surplus store to do manly men things - things that you can tell are very manly because they come from a store that smells somewhat funky and carries things in various shades of murky green. Everything. In. Green. Manly green. No chartreuse here. No lime. No celadon. Which made the the screaming pink camo pants seem even more out of place - unless someone was planning to do some late night maneuvers at the nearest Victoria's Secret outlet.
All that manliness had to be counteracted with a frothy latte with sprinkles, and then a detour to the yarn store. Can I just say right now how much I love the internet. Really. Type in "yarn stores montreal" and in minutes you are planning out a list of stores both within range and open on Sunday. How much awesomeness is that? We ended up at Effiloche, which is honestly the store I would own if I owned a yarn store. So fantastic. I wanted to pull up some yarn and just move right in, but that would have been even weirder than normal. Their fabric selection made me want to take up sewing, or quilting, or something, anything, as long as I could have an excuse to buy. Fabric with little adorable birds and quotes from 50's era children's books. Fantastic prints in fantastic colours: orange, teal, lime, raspberry. No murky green here. With monumental effort, I managed to resist - this time. I also managed to resist accosting anyone with a camera, which is an improvement (even if I would have so totally asked the woman working if she would consent to a picture with my sock in progress if it hadn't become really busy just as we were about to leave.) I like to pretend it was a win for normalcy, even so. I did come away with some fantastic yarn, and even stayed within my budget. Will wonders never cease?
swag-o-rama:
Friday, February 27, 2009
So I Knit a Hat
This hat.
Using absolutely gorgeous, soft, now discontinued, stupidly expensive yarn. I knit it, stuck it on my head, and Mr. Man promptly burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Someone on Ravelry mentioned that they had knit this particular hat in pink, and it made them look like Strawberry Shortcake - maybe I should have stored that little pearl of wisdom away somewhere.
Like in my brain.
My yarn is not pink, but rather a lovely blend of brown, purple, and dark pink (it makes sense in person, I swear) so instead of Strawberry Shortcake, I look like - in the words of one friend who witnessed the idiocy that was this headgear - a demented white girl rastafarian. Oddly enough, the look I was aiming for wasn't Strawberry Shortcake's little friend, Organic Hemp Brownie, so I unraveled it.
No, there are no pictures.
What amazes me is the power of the human brain to overlook the obvious. The pattern is for a giant, cabled beret, made of giant yarn. Odds are, it's going to be big. The comments of others who have made it all discuss how oversized it is, and how it makes them look like an extra from Strawberry Shortcake on Ice. The picture on the cover of the magazine itself, is that of a really, really big ass hat. I have a small head. I look overwhelmingly bad in a big hat, I always have. I know this fact to be true. I know this, I looked at the pictures, I saw a giant hat.
And I knit it anyway.
Using absolutely gorgeous, soft, now discontinued, stupidly expensive yarn. I knit it, stuck it on my head, and Mr. Man promptly burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Someone on Ravelry mentioned that they had knit this particular hat in pink, and it made them look like Strawberry Shortcake - maybe I should have stored that little pearl of wisdom away somewhere.
Like in my brain.
My yarn is not pink, but rather a lovely blend of brown, purple, and dark pink (it makes sense in person, I swear) so instead of Strawberry Shortcake, I look like - in the words of one friend who witnessed the idiocy that was this headgear - a demented white girl rastafarian. Oddly enough, the look I was aiming for wasn't Strawberry Shortcake's little friend, Organic Hemp Brownie, so I unraveled it.
No, there are no pictures.
What amazes me is the power of the human brain to overlook the obvious. The pattern is for a giant, cabled beret, made of giant yarn. Odds are, it's going to be big. The comments of others who have made it all discuss how oversized it is, and how it makes them look like an extra from Strawberry Shortcake on Ice. The picture on the cover of the magazine itself, is that of a really, really big ass hat. I have a small head. I look overwhelmingly bad in a big hat, I always have. I know this fact to be true. I know this, I looked at the pictures, I saw a giant hat.
And I knit it anyway.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
There Are No Words...
... to describe exactly how much trouble the washing machine is in. It is on the most wanted list of Appliances That Will Face The Wall When The Revolution Comes. Oh yes, it better watch it's back, I tell you.
Why, you ask?
Mr. Man's sock. Knit for Christmas. Worn less than half a dozen times. GIANT HOLES ripped out of the fabric. At first I thought it was my fault, that the ends were not woven in well enough. Then I inspected it closely, and realized that no, there are just huge holes ripped out of it in random spots. HOLES. In random spots. HOLES. I managed to blow through the seven stages of grief in about fifteen minutes:
I need a drink.
Why, you ask?
Mr. Man's sock. Knit for Christmas. Worn less than half a dozen times. GIANT HOLES ripped out of the fabric. At first I thought it was my fault, that the ends were not woven in well enough. Then I inspected it closely, and realized that no, there are just huge holes ripped out of it in random spots. HOLES. In random spots. HOLES. I managed to blow through the seven stages of grief in about fifteen minutes:
- Shock or Disbelief: What?! What is this?! A hole? Three holes? Three?!!!
- Denial: No, this can't be. I will look away, then slowly look again. Shit - they are still there.
- Bargaining: I skipped right over this one and went straight to profound and prolonged swearing.
- Guilt: I should have put it in a lingerie bag. It doesn't matter that I have washed socks in the machine without incident for years, I should have hand washed your preciousness.
- Anger: More swearing.
- Depression: I can't believe this happened. I need to go lie down and have a little cry.
- Acceptance: The washing machine must die.
I need a drink.
Monday, January 26, 2009
I Swear I am Not a Stalker (Much)
I went to Toronto this past weekend, for a very last minute girls gone wild kind of trip. Well, as wild as five moms in their thirties who knit and get sleepy by 11pm can get. (Actually, we did a pretty good job, as the 400$ bar tab could attest.) On the way back, we experimented with the sport of sprint shopping, as I had ten minutes to run in and out of Lettuce Knit to assuage my not so secret sock yarn addiction. It was a whirlwind of shopping, with the driver of our car waiting at the curb while I raced in to procure my swag. I don't think I even stopped long enough to get a bag. I did stop long enough to spy the (ohmigod) Yarn Harlot a few feet away and I had to get all fangirl on her and ask her to take a picture with my sock:
stalkery goodness:
She very graciously agreed, and we talked for a few moments. My friend and I said we were on a road trip from Ottawa, and I felt the need to confess that I had accosted her once before, when I saw a woman skating on the Rideau canal with fantastic handwarmers and realized it was the (ohmigod) Yarn Harlot and I once again got all fangirl-ish, but minus the camera (thankfully). At that point, she began to look nervous, and I think noticed that I was between her and the door, so I left before things got (more) uncomfortable.
I like to think that I manage through life with something like grace and aplomb, and then little moments like this happen to bring me back to my awkward reality.
The sock thought it was pretty cool, though.
swag!
stalkery goodness:
She very graciously agreed, and we talked for a few moments. My friend and I said we were on a road trip from Ottawa, and I felt the need to confess that I had accosted her once before, when I saw a woman skating on the Rideau canal with fantastic handwarmers and realized it was the (ohmigod) Yarn Harlot and I once again got all fangirl-ish, but minus the camera (thankfully). At that point, she began to look nervous, and I think noticed that I was between her and the door, so I left before things got (more) uncomfortable.
I like to think that I manage through life with something like grace and aplomb, and then little moments like this happen to bring me back to my awkward reality.
The sock thought it was pretty cool, though.
swag!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
No More Nachos Before Bedtime....
So I had this weird dream last night. Which isn't weird part, I have weird dreams all the time - my brain is a dangerous neighbourhood and shouldn't be explored alone after dark. Or in a car with really nice hub-cabs. (I once had a dream that blended Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds and The Wizard of Oz and the only thing in colour were the wings on those damn flying monkeys. They were purple. But I digress. )
This particular dream involved an old high school boyfriend, who according to my subconscious, was flying to Calgary to become a rodeo clown. A large group of us from high school had gathered in a pub for the going away party (I am still unsure why we had all traveled to this party - apparently he is a very popular guy.) While the party was in full swing, some drunken patrons decided to pick a fight with the guest of honour - because "clowns need a good beatin' ". Now that I am awake, I am not sure I disagree - but at the time it raised righteous ire in our group and the dream quickly degenerated into some sort of 80's video street gang rumble scene - bad bandanas, stilted choreography and all.
I know he did actually fly to Calgary recently, because Facebook told me so, and Facebook never lies. I sincerely doubt it was to become a rodeo clown. I hope not, at any rate, because clowns are seriously creepy. I am not the only one afraid of the crazy rainbow hair and too large shoes, either. A quick jaunt around Google comes up with dozens of sites devoted to the clown menace. Which made me wonder - were clowns always creepy, even before Stephen King? Did Mr. King tap into some deep seated clown fear that snaked through the North American subconscious or did he just ruin clowns for the rest of us?
(By the way, did you know if you plug subconscious - incorrectly - into the Merriam Webster online dictionary to get the correct spelling you get this as a suggestion. Really? Does that seem close at all?)
This particular dream involved an old high school boyfriend, who according to my subconscious, was flying to Calgary to become a rodeo clown. A large group of us from high school had gathered in a pub for the going away party (I am still unsure why we had all traveled to this party - apparently he is a very popular guy.) While the party was in full swing, some drunken patrons decided to pick a fight with the guest of honour - because "clowns need a good beatin' ". Now that I am awake, I am not sure I disagree - but at the time it raised righteous ire in our group and the dream quickly degenerated into some sort of 80's video street gang rumble scene - bad bandanas, stilted choreography and all.
I know he did actually fly to Calgary recently, because Facebook told me so, and Facebook never lies. I sincerely doubt it was to become a rodeo clown. I hope not, at any rate, because clowns are seriously creepy. I am not the only one afraid of the crazy rainbow hair and too large shoes, either. A quick jaunt around Google comes up with dozens of sites devoted to the clown menace. Which made me wonder - were clowns always creepy, even before Stephen King? Did Mr. King tap into some deep seated clown fear that snaked through the North American subconscious or did he just ruin clowns for the rest of us?
(By the way, did you know if you plug subconscious - incorrectly - into the Merriam Webster online dictionary to get the correct spelling you get this as a suggestion. Really? Does that seem close at all?)
Monday, September 4, 2006
Random Quotes From a Monday Night...
~ "If you start dating 23 year olds, won't it be confusing trying to decide if you should offer them a post-coital cigarette or cookies and milk?"
~ "That will be me, that girl over there. Drinking a pint alone and so earnestly writing in her journal. But I will wear much cuter shoes."
~ "These girls, they are so into money it is frightening. Does the Visa machine come out before or after sex? Or is it built in?"
~ "They have perfectly highlighted hair and are always tanned. What will they look like in twenty years? Albino raisins?"
~ "I can handle a certain amount of superficiality. Especially if it comes in a cute package."
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Navigation by Cake and Other Adventures
So we managed to make it back from the Gift Show safe and relatively sound, although my right shoulder might never be the same again. Oh well, I am certain I don't really need to be able to lift my arm above shoulder level that often, right?
Now, I am sure there are people who arrive at the show with an itinerary and a neatly mapped out plan - which booths they will visit when, how long they will spend in each hall and so on and so forth. We like to start out that way, with our neatly highlighted guide and a clear plan of where to go and what to see. This, of course, is totally blown to hell in the first minute after walking into the show. Because in the first minute, we revert to our real navigation system - Navigation By Cake. Because, the first thing you see when you walk in the door of Hall 1 is the Scantrade booth. Scantrade knows it's stuff - they have free coffee, and warm chocolate chip cookies. Thus, it begins - the rest of the show is navigated based purely on who is giving out what free food when. Samaco and Seagull give out candy, good to stock up in the morning, for a mid-afternoon sugar rush to get you to 7pm. Anyone giving out cookies and pastries and coffee is the morning tour, Abbott's sandwiches and ice cream are lunch, Amscan's assorted snacks and juice is a good mid afternoon snack, since it usually involves something with protein. The day you spend at the Congress Center is based around the free samples all the gourmet food companies are giving out. Cheese fondue for lunch, cake for dessert. Truffles, well, anytime you can find them, really. This year Upper Canada upped the ante - they installed a chocolate fountain. Do you have any idea how many marshmallows covered in warm chocolate you can eat before getting sick?
I do.
Now, I am sure there are people who arrive at the show with an itinerary and a neatly mapped out plan - which booths they will visit when, how long they will spend in each hall and so on and so forth. We like to start out that way, with our neatly highlighted guide and a clear plan of where to go and what to see. This, of course, is totally blown to hell in the first minute after walking into the show. Because in the first minute, we revert to our real navigation system - Navigation By Cake. Because, the first thing you see when you walk in the door of Hall 1 is the Scantrade booth. Scantrade knows it's stuff - they have free coffee, and warm chocolate chip cookies. Thus, it begins - the rest of the show is navigated based purely on who is giving out what free food when. Samaco and Seagull give out candy, good to stock up in the morning, for a mid-afternoon sugar rush to get you to 7pm. Anyone giving out cookies and pastries and coffee is the morning tour, Abbott's sandwiches and ice cream are lunch, Amscan's assorted snacks and juice is a good mid afternoon snack, since it usually involves something with protein. The day you spend at the Congress Center is based around the free samples all the gourmet food companies are giving out. Cheese fondue for lunch, cake for dessert. Truffles, well, anytime you can find them, really. This year Upper Canada upped the ante - they installed a chocolate fountain. Do you have any idea how many marshmallows covered in warm chocolate you can eat before getting sick?
I do.
Monday, August 7, 2006
Princess Leia is my Role Model and Other Musings...
I was recently asked if I had seen Star Wars. This question was quickly qualified, pointing out that the questioner meant the original. The first thing that ran through my head was, originals? You mean there is anything else? Oh yeah, there were those 2 1/2 pieces of crap the powers that be decided to torture us with. ( 1/2 of Revenge of the Sith is worthwhile, I will grant that, but no more.) I laughed when answering this question, because of course I had seen them. Hadn't everyone in this country? I often forget that the whole Star Wars deal isn't a universal experience, and that as a child of 1974, my perspective on their cultural impact might be a bit skewed.
So yeah, I've seen them. Several times. Probably several dozen, sadly enough. Okay, fine - I own them, actually. As a kid, we all lived and breathed Star Wars. We were the original brand loyalists - we had Star Wars sheets, trading cards, lunch boxes, t-shirts and action figures (with extra cool points for those with parents who would patiently cut out UPC codes for the limited edition 1979 Boba Fett.) I was so jealous of my friend Paul - while I had to be content with my dinky Landspeeder and TIE fighter, he had the Millenium Falcon with all it's eight million moveable parts!
The nice thing about being the lone girl in a circle of friends was that I always got to be Princess Leia. Which was fortunate, what with the dearth of female characters around. If you didn't fancy yourself spending an afternoon pretending to be tied to a rock or fainting a lot, the princesses were the way to go. Princess Leia and Princess from Battle of the Planets got to kick butt and be stylish. Other than that, you were pretty much out of luck. Wonder Woman seemed too far out of reach for a little girl, far too womanly with that sparkly bustier and bosom that could front the prow of a ship. The bionic woman was boring when you took away the sound effects. Charlie's Angels required more girls than we had around, and left the boys to be bad guys or a disembodied voice. Besides, unless they were blonde, they all dressed like Mom. We occasionally played Dukes of Hazzard, but that entire game just involved jumping in and out of the window of my Dad's car until he would catch us and tell us to knock it off.
Princess Leia had it all going on, though. She had attitude in spades and snappy dialogue to go with it, trading sassy banter with bad and good boys alike. She was handy with a blaster and tactical maps and could pilot a ship when the occasion called for it. All that, and pretty white dresses that didn't get dirty, like ever, and extremely complicated hairstyles. This is who I totally wanted to be when I grew up - I wanted to have adventures and face down unspeakable evil while moving through life with courage and grace, and an endless supply of smartass remarks. Of course, I also figured by the time I grew up, one could actually win an interstellar spacecraft in a card game and there would be plenty of evil aliens to do battle with behind the greater backdrop of intergalatic war - so take it for what it's worth.
So yeah, I've seen them. Several times. Probably several dozen, sadly enough. Okay, fine - I own them, actually. As a kid, we all lived and breathed Star Wars. We were the original brand loyalists - we had Star Wars sheets, trading cards, lunch boxes, t-shirts and action figures (with extra cool points for those with parents who would patiently cut out UPC codes for the limited edition 1979 Boba Fett.) I was so jealous of my friend Paul - while I had to be content with my dinky Landspeeder and TIE fighter, he had the Millenium Falcon with all it's eight million moveable parts!
The nice thing about being the lone girl in a circle of friends was that I always got to be Princess Leia. Which was fortunate, what with the dearth of female characters around. If you didn't fancy yourself spending an afternoon pretending to be tied to a rock or fainting a lot, the princesses were the way to go. Princess Leia and Princess from Battle of the Planets got to kick butt and be stylish. Other than that, you were pretty much out of luck. Wonder Woman seemed too far out of reach for a little girl, far too womanly with that sparkly bustier and bosom that could front the prow of a ship. The bionic woman was boring when you took away the sound effects. Charlie's Angels required more girls than we had around, and left the boys to be bad guys or a disembodied voice. Besides, unless they were blonde, they all dressed like Mom. We occasionally played Dukes of Hazzard, but that entire game just involved jumping in and out of the window of my Dad's car until he would catch us and tell us to knock it off.
Princess Leia had it all going on, though. She had attitude in spades and snappy dialogue to go with it, trading sassy banter with bad and good boys alike. She was handy with a blaster and tactical maps and could pilot a ship when the occasion called for it. All that, and pretty white dresses that didn't get dirty, like ever, and extremely complicated hairstyles. This is who I totally wanted to be when I grew up - I wanted to have adventures and face down unspeakable evil while moving through life with courage and grace, and an endless supply of smartass remarks. Of course, I also figured by the time I grew up, one could actually win an interstellar spacecraft in a card game and there would be plenty of evil aliens to do battle with behind the greater backdrop of intergalatic war - so take it for what it's worth.
Friday, October 7, 2005
Things I Never Thought I Would Say...
"That diet cat food must really suck, even the baby won't eat it."
Monday, May 31, 2004
The Power of The Belly
Although I whine and moan and bitch a lot, there is a certain power that comes with the pregnant belly. I liken it to the power of a phaser to to stun (not kill). It's as though an invisible force emanates from the belly, cutting a swath through crowds and silencing the unworthy. It's really good for getting through bunches of people milling about - I just point the belly and a path is cleared as though by magic.
It's amazing, really. I can be waiting in line for the bus, and all I have to do is point the belly and blam - I am in the front of the line. Then I just have to point it again, and no matter how crowded it is, someone gives me a seat. Sometimes I will be sitting at the front of the bus, and someone will give me, young thing that I am, a dirty look, and all I have to do is casually pat the belly (much the way a police officer will oh so casually rest their hand on their gun) to shame them into going away.
I've noticed that this nochalant belly rubbing has a multitude of uses. It works really well on the men delivering my groceries as they swear their way up my apartments three flights of stairs. By the time they hit my door and the shadow of the belly falls across the floor, they are turned into the most solicitous delivery people ever. My groceries no longer get dropped in an unceremonious heap on the hallway floor and actually get carried all the way into my kitchen. It's even made my job more pleasant. Not that customers aren't still obsessed with asking me personal questions, but no one is mean to me anymore. It's fascinating how much nicer people are now that no one wants to be the evil person who yelled at the pregnant woman.
Of course, it may seem a little wrong to shamelessly bask in the glory of such a power, but I figure that soon enough I will be stuck with that annoying "breeder" label, and will have to fend off eye rolling and angry mutterings as I struggle with a stroller up the steps of the bus, or my poor child dares to make a sound in public. Pregnant women may be revered and get to cut in line at the grocery store, but mothers just get dirty looks and well meaning "advice" as to how they are doing it all wrong. So I think I can be forgiven a little, as I take full advantage of this newfound power, fleeting though it may be.
It's amazing, really. I can be waiting in line for the bus, and all I have to do is point the belly and blam - I am in the front of the line. Then I just have to point it again, and no matter how crowded it is, someone gives me a seat. Sometimes I will be sitting at the front of the bus, and someone will give me, young thing that I am, a dirty look, and all I have to do is casually pat the belly (much the way a police officer will oh so casually rest their hand on their gun) to shame them into going away.
I've noticed that this nochalant belly rubbing has a multitude of uses. It works really well on the men delivering my groceries as they swear their way up my apartments three flights of stairs. By the time they hit my door and the shadow of the belly falls across the floor, they are turned into the most solicitous delivery people ever. My groceries no longer get dropped in an unceremonious heap on the hallway floor and actually get carried all the way into my kitchen. It's even made my job more pleasant. Not that customers aren't still obsessed with asking me personal questions, but no one is mean to me anymore. It's fascinating how much nicer people are now that no one wants to be the evil person who yelled at the pregnant woman.
Of course, it may seem a little wrong to shamelessly bask in the glory of such a power, but I figure that soon enough I will be stuck with that annoying "breeder" label, and will have to fend off eye rolling and angry mutterings as I struggle with a stroller up the steps of the bus, or my poor child dares to make a sound in public. Pregnant women may be revered and get to cut in line at the grocery store, but mothers just get dirty looks and well meaning "advice" as to how they are doing it all wrong. So I think I can be forgiven a little, as I take full advantage of this newfound power, fleeting though it may be.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
I'm Not So Sure About This Pregnancy Thing
It has occurred to me that this whole pregnancy thing is completely illogical.
Seriously.
Never mind the absolute stupidity of how they come out - they barely fit in the first place. There simply isn't enough room in here. My stomach, my bladder, my lungs and various other organs have all been pushed aside to make room for little baby head and hands and feet. My yoga teacher has had to teach us techniques to help us breath around the baby pressing into our lungs. When else would you have to learn how to breath?! Breathing is supposed to just happen, and the only time we humans have to relearn how to do it is when we are doing incredibly unnatural things like floating deep in space or leagues under the sea.
Then there is my poor stomach, and the indignities inflicted on it. Stretch marks, itchy skin, amazing reversible belly buttons and stomach muscles that might never meet again are just the start. What no one ever mentions is how this giantly protruding stomach is an accident waiting to happen. This month alone, I have acquired a scar from where I scraped my belly on the edge of the bathroom counter, a gash from the tape dispenser at work, and am constantly knocking it into walls, chairs, tables, and people.
Now, my high school biology classes were long ago, but it just doesn't seem like nature planned the allocation of this particular space very well. Pre-baby, there seemed to be just enough room to fit everything - all my organs snuggled in together without a whole lot of wiggle room. My skin fit quite nicely over the whole deal, and everything seemed happy. Now my organs are all squished up and my skin is stretched so tightly I keep having nightmares that you can see the baby through my translucent belly. You would think they could have planned this whole baby making thing a little better and just started out with enough room to begin with. Maybe then I would stop getting kicked in the pancreas. You know, I'm not entirely sure what the pancreas does, but I am pretty sure it's important, and shouldn't be kicked.
The more I think about this, the more I am convinced that marsupials have it all figured out. This is what we need - a conveniently located pouch, not only allowing enough room for the baby to lounge comfortably without using any important organs as a pillow, but also allowing for a much more civilized delivery. Post baby, we would be lift with a nifty pocket for spare keys and loose change. We would never have to match a purse to our shoes again!
Seriously.
Never mind the absolute stupidity of how they come out - they barely fit in the first place. There simply isn't enough room in here. My stomach, my bladder, my lungs and various other organs have all been pushed aside to make room for little baby head and hands and feet. My yoga teacher has had to teach us techniques to help us breath around the baby pressing into our lungs. When else would you have to learn how to breath?! Breathing is supposed to just happen, and the only time we humans have to relearn how to do it is when we are doing incredibly unnatural things like floating deep in space or leagues under the sea.
Then there is my poor stomach, and the indignities inflicted on it. Stretch marks, itchy skin, amazing reversible belly buttons and stomach muscles that might never meet again are just the start. What no one ever mentions is how this giantly protruding stomach is an accident waiting to happen. This month alone, I have acquired a scar from where I scraped my belly on the edge of the bathroom counter, a gash from the tape dispenser at work, and am constantly knocking it into walls, chairs, tables, and people.
Now, my high school biology classes were long ago, but it just doesn't seem like nature planned the allocation of this particular space very well. Pre-baby, there seemed to be just enough room to fit everything - all my organs snuggled in together without a whole lot of wiggle room. My skin fit quite nicely over the whole deal, and everything seemed happy. Now my organs are all squished up and my skin is stretched so tightly I keep having nightmares that you can see the baby through my translucent belly. You would think they could have planned this whole baby making thing a little better and just started out with enough room to begin with. Maybe then I would stop getting kicked in the pancreas. You know, I'm not entirely sure what the pancreas does, but I am pretty sure it's important, and shouldn't be kicked.
The more I think about this, the more I am convinced that marsupials have it all figured out. This is what we need - a conveniently located pouch, not only allowing enough room for the baby to lounge comfortably without using any important organs as a pillow, but also allowing for a much more civilized delivery. Post baby, we would be lift with a nifty pocket for spare keys and loose change. We would never have to match a purse to our shoes again!
Sunday, April 25, 2004
To Friends, Coworkers, Random Strangers on the Street...
Appropriate things to say to a pregnant woman:
Wow, you look great!
How are you feeling?
Oooohhh your belly is so cute. (Best attempted if you are blonde and bouncy.)
How are you?
Inappropriate things to say:
Are you sure you aren't carrying twins/triplets?
You are HUGE!
My friend/sister/daughter is due six weeks before you and is way smaller.
I am at a loss as to how to respond to some of the comments that I get on a seemingly daily basis. Don't people realize how rude they sound? I'm afraid I became a little shrill yesterday when responding to the co-owner of the store with: "My midwife measured me two days ago and I am perfect. Perfect! Totally and completely average, do you hear me?!"
Of course, my first reaction was to kick her in the shin, so a little shrill was probably the way to go.
Wow, you look great!
How are you feeling?
Oooohhh your belly is so cute. (Best attempted if you are blonde and bouncy.)
How are you?
Inappropriate things to say:
Are you sure you aren't carrying twins/triplets?
You are HUGE!
My friend/sister/daughter is due six weeks before you and is way smaller.
I am at a loss as to how to respond to some of the comments that I get on a seemingly daily basis. Don't people realize how rude they sound? I'm afraid I became a little shrill yesterday when responding to the co-owner of the store with: "My midwife measured me two days ago and I am perfect. Perfect! Totally and completely average, do you hear me?!"
Of course, my first reaction was to kick her in the shin, so a little shrill was probably the way to go.
Thursday, April 1, 2004
So, I have been taking suggestions...
On ways to discourage the belly touching I bitched about earlier this week. I am thinking anything involving barbed wire/electric fencing is a little inconvenient.
So far I have:
Wearing a sign that says: You realize that you're not actually touching the baby, don't you?
Ripping open a moist disinfectant towellette and wiping down my belly each time a stranger touches it. Although that could result in dry skin.
Touching their belly back - although it might get the point across, it does have the downside of involving more contact with strangers, instead of less.
Yelling: "Oh yeah, rub the buddha baby."
Hitting.
So far I have:
Wearing a sign that says: You realize that you're not actually touching the baby, don't you?
Ripping open a moist disinfectant towellette and wiping down my belly each time a stranger touches it. Although that could result in dry skin.
Touching their belly back - although it might get the point across, it does have the downside of involving more contact with strangers, instead of less.
Yelling: "Oh yeah, rub the buddha baby."
Hitting.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Touch the Belly and Die
The problem with working retail while pregnant is that your belly is in the public domain. It never ceases to amaze me how every rule of social etiquette falls completely to the wayside when people are faced with a pregnant woman, particularly when part of their job description involves being pleasant and most specifically not hitting people. So, I have resigned myself to spending at least eight hours a day, every day answering the same damn questions and nimbly trying to avoid those who would touch the belly.
I was thinking - in the interest of simplifying my life - that I could make a couple of signs that I could prop up on the counter at work. I thought I could make two; one for the generally polite yet insanely curious crowd, and one for the rest of the world.
Sign #1
Yes, I am indeed pregnant, and you successfully avoided a serious social gaffe. Yes, this is is my first baby, and I am due in early July. No, I don't know if it is a boy or a girl. No, I don't plan on finding out. Yes, my husband and I are excited (and how clever you were to slip that question in while pointedly looking for the wedding rings that no longer fit on my fingers.) Thank you for your well wishes and please, please, please don't start telling me about your friend's, cousin's, neighbour's housekeeper who had a horrible, awful labour that resulted in the death of everyone involved, including innocent bystanders.
Sign #2
No, I really am not huge/small for 4/5/6 months along and yes, I am sure it is really just one baby, ha ha ha. Yes, I am stunned and impressed with your ability to tell that I am carrying a boy/girl based merely on the sight of my Old Navy Maternity clad belly. No, I really don't need to sit down right this instant and in fact, if I spent the next 5/4/3 months sitting down my ass would expand to the size of a small city. No, that isn't a cup of coffee it is herbal tea, and my lunch is my bag if you would like to inspect that for soft cheeses and other contraband. Yes, I know it's shocking but pregnancy hasn't turned me into a total invalid, and I can still perform the duties of my job (which isn't exactly rocket science to begin with) and even lift that six ounce knick knack and place it in a box without assistance. No, I will not give you - you total and complete stranger - fertility advice, and does your wife know you are running around town telling people all about her fertility woes? Yes, I am a goddess, thanks for noticing, now go away you are creeping me out. NO, YOU MAY NOT TOUCH THE BELLY!
I was thinking - in the interest of simplifying my life - that I could make a couple of signs that I could prop up on the counter at work. I thought I could make two; one for the generally polite yet insanely curious crowd, and one for the rest of the world.
Sign #1
Yes, I am indeed pregnant, and you successfully avoided a serious social gaffe. Yes, this is is my first baby, and I am due in early July. No, I don't know if it is a boy or a girl. No, I don't plan on finding out. Yes, my husband and I are excited (and how clever you were to slip that question in while pointedly looking for the wedding rings that no longer fit on my fingers.) Thank you for your well wishes and please, please, please don't start telling me about your friend's, cousin's, neighbour's housekeeper who had a horrible, awful labour that resulted in the death of everyone involved, including innocent bystanders.
Sign #2
No, I really am not huge/small for 4/5/6 months along and yes, I am sure it is really just one baby, ha ha ha. Yes, I am stunned and impressed with your ability to tell that I am carrying a boy/girl based merely on the sight of my Old Navy Maternity clad belly. No, I really don't need to sit down right this instant and in fact, if I spent the next 5/4/3 months sitting down my ass would expand to the size of a small city. No, that isn't a cup of coffee it is herbal tea, and my lunch is my bag if you would like to inspect that for soft cheeses and other contraband. Yes, I know it's shocking but pregnancy hasn't turned me into a total invalid, and I can still perform the duties of my job (which isn't exactly rocket science to begin with) and even lift that six ounce knick knack and place it in a box without assistance. No, I will not give you - you total and complete stranger - fertility advice, and does your wife know you are running around town telling people all about her fertility woes? Yes, I am a goddess, thanks for noticing, now go away you are creeping me out. NO, YOU MAY NOT TOUCH THE BELLY!
Sunday, April 21, 2002
I am Living A Hitchcock Movie
Across from my kitchen window is another building which houses a party supply store. The alley way between our buildings is fenced in on one end and a wall is on the other so it is cut off from the street. The windows in the building across the way are barred, and several pigeons have made nests on the windowsills.
Oddly enough, I like the pigeons. They aren't screechy, relatively clean, and they mate for life, so I have watched several generations of pigeons born and leave the nest. Actually, it's the baby pigeons that won me over, since like most baby animals, they are fluffy and cute.
My super doesn't feel so kindly disposed towards the pigeons. So one day a couple of months ago he decided to tie several soda cans together, and hang them from the bars of the windows. I suppose he thought the noise would scare them away, and it did - for about a half hour. Being city pigeons and all, they got used to it pretty quickly, and settled back in. He then took to going out at night and rattling the cans around. This little tactic didn't even get them to move, let alone leave permanently.
Little did my super know that this little plan would have an unexpected effect. Now, with their territory invaded, the pigeons have decided to wage a subtle war of dominance against our building. For instance: every once in a while you will see a pigeon perched on a soda can, staring defiantly at our building. The newest hatchling in particular, now in birdie adolescence, has taken to swooping down - barely missing my kitchen window -and proceeding to perch on the window ledge, and strutting back and forth while my cats go wild in frustration. Yesterday, the war escalated as no less than five pigeons swept down from the windowsills and roof and started marching back and forth in precise formation up and down the length of the alley. My cats don't know what to make of this new aggression. They have tried their usual tricks of sitting in the window and warbling their "don't mind me, I'm just a little bird" tunes, but the pigeons merely look at them, their beady eyes shining in mocking disdain.
I can't wait to see what is next. If my body is found, pecked to death and covered in feathers, you know what happened.
Oddly enough, I like the pigeons. They aren't screechy, relatively clean, and they mate for life, so I have watched several generations of pigeons born and leave the nest. Actually, it's the baby pigeons that won me over, since like most baby animals, they are fluffy and cute.
My super doesn't feel so kindly disposed towards the pigeons. So one day a couple of months ago he decided to tie several soda cans together, and hang them from the bars of the windows. I suppose he thought the noise would scare them away, and it did - for about a half hour. Being city pigeons and all, they got used to it pretty quickly, and settled back in. He then took to going out at night and rattling the cans around. This little tactic didn't even get them to move, let alone leave permanently.
Little did my super know that this little plan would have an unexpected effect. Now, with their territory invaded, the pigeons have decided to wage a subtle war of dominance against our building. For instance: every once in a while you will see a pigeon perched on a soda can, staring defiantly at our building. The newest hatchling in particular, now in birdie adolescence, has taken to swooping down - barely missing my kitchen window -and proceeding to perch on the window ledge, and strutting back and forth while my cats go wild in frustration. Yesterday, the war escalated as no less than five pigeons swept down from the windowsills and roof and started marching back and forth in precise formation up and down the length of the alley. My cats don't know what to make of this new aggression. They have tried their usual tricks of sitting in the window and warbling their "don't mind me, I'm just a little bird" tunes, but the pigeons merely look at them, their beady eyes shining in mocking disdain.
I can't wait to see what is next. If my body is found, pecked to death and covered in feathers, you know what happened.
Saturday, March 16, 2002
If I Ever Meet Steve, I Will Pass Along the Message
So last night we were at the pub, hanging out with some old friends and some new ones - always fun - when I discovered that someone had written "fuck you Steve" on one of the bathroom stalls. Which got me to thinking - what is the point? Will the mysterious Steve ever see this little message? It is unlikely, unless he spends inordinate amounts of time hanging out in the women's washroom, in which case, I guess I could understand the sentiment. I can't even understand how cathartic it could have possibly have been, as ballpoint pen flows so easily on a clean painted surface. So, I started wondering about who this Steve was, and the anonymous girl who was so upset with him she felt the need to vent her spleen on a bathroom wall. Did he break her heart? Irritate her with some intractable position on the literary importance of Tomson Highway? Skip out on his bar tab?
These thoughts skittered around my head until a half remembered story about a guy who was doing a travel book about public washrooms around the world vaguely came to the surface of my consciousness. If indeed, there ever was such a book, I would have liked it to include the women's washroom from Cafe Wim, during the mid 1990's. This washroom wasn't covered with the usual epithets and lovestuck declarations most washrooms are. This one, much to the chagrin of the owners I am sure, had every available inch of writable space covered with poetry, and long drawn out discussions about philosophy and the meaning of art, conducted entirely by strangers. People would write their poetry, others would deconstruct it, and long debates would be waged, all within the confines of this one small space, all happening between people who would perhaps pass each other in the hall, or sit next to each other in the small cafe, but never sign their names. A couple of years ago, Cafe Wim closed it's doors, and the space it used to gracefully occupy is now an aggressively upscale restaurant/martini bar. I met my husband at that cafe, so many years ago, and I must say, that although the menu was over priced, the owners kinda crazy, the service purposefully slow and the coffee really bad - I am so sad it is gone.
These thoughts skittered around my head until a half remembered story about a guy who was doing a travel book about public washrooms around the world vaguely came to the surface of my consciousness. If indeed, there ever was such a book, I would have liked it to include the women's washroom from Cafe Wim, during the mid 1990's. This washroom wasn't covered with the usual epithets and lovestuck declarations most washrooms are. This one, much to the chagrin of the owners I am sure, had every available inch of writable space covered with poetry, and long drawn out discussions about philosophy and the meaning of art, conducted entirely by strangers. People would write their poetry, others would deconstruct it, and long debates would be waged, all within the confines of this one small space, all happening between people who would perhaps pass each other in the hall, or sit next to each other in the small cafe, but never sign their names. A couple of years ago, Cafe Wim closed it's doors, and the space it used to gracefully occupy is now an aggressively upscale restaurant/martini bar. I met my husband at that cafe, so many years ago, and I must say, that although the menu was over priced, the owners kinda crazy, the service purposefully slow and the coffee really bad - I am so sad it is gone.
Sunday, March 10, 2002
The Top Five All Time Breakup List
1. J. was my first boyfriend, so by law must be ranked as number one. Before that first boy, your heart is all shiny and new, full of hope and too many teen movies. That first boy is so exciting, everything is all fresh and interesting, and cynicism has yet to unroll it's sleeping bag and take up camp in your head. When you get your first "real" boyfriend, everything is defined within this new reality - first "real" date, first "real" kiss, first "official" walk hand in hand to homeroom as a couple. The first boy doesn't have to compete with anyone else for space to etch their name on your psyche. So, for that, he gets the coveted top spot. Well, that and the fact he broke up with me during a school dance. Being dumped by your first boyfriend in public at the Spring Fling is asking too much for the teenaged heart to bear. On the upside, as he did dump me in public, it meant I got to cry in the girl's bathroom while girls who would normally never deign to speak to me offered me hugs and lip gloss. After all, crying in the girl's washroom is a rite of passage up there with sneaking out of your bedroom window to meet the boy who will eventually make you cry in the girl's washroom, right?
2. T. He thinks he should be listed first, as our break up was terribly sad and traumatic, and probably he should, but he loses points because we are now great friends and he was in my wedding party. This means I can't claim total emotional scarring and mental trauma while in the pub comparing war stories, because he is usually there to make sure I don't exaggerate too much, and what fun is that? We dated for about two years. Apparently, to this day, people persistently believe I broke up with him and shattered him forever, turning him into the bitter and twisted man he is today. Sorry folks, he was that way when I found him. For the record, he broke up with me. Not only that, but he woke me up at 2am so he could tell me he was breaking up with me, and walk out the door and out of my life five minutes later. Though, in all truth, the out of my life part didn't last that long. Funny thing is, it took twice as long as we actually spent dating to get our non-dating relationship to the point of friends who *don't* annoy the crap out of each other at every opportunity.
3. Third in the list is another T. Sigh. You know, it's probably a good thing he broke my heart, because I get to remember how fabulously cool he was before he grew up and became boring. So boring. White picket fence and goin' huntin' deer boring. So sad. In high school, he was the coolest. So very pretty, with a motorcycle and the aura of danger faintly clinging to his leather jacket. He was older, old enough to be interesting, but not too old, because that's just plain creepy. Sadly, we had nothing in common other than being attracted to one another - not politics, religion, movies, music or books - he liked hunting, and I was a vegetarian. Of course, when you are young, the "attracted to each other" part is the only one that matters. So our relationship progressed for several months, and then, one sunny afternoon on my parent's back porch, he broke up with me. I learned later that he was apparently afraid that he loved me more than I did him. This was my introduction to the "hurt someone else in order to save oneself from theoretical future hurt" concept of relationships.
4. D. has the distinction of having spawned an entire theory. The theory goes that every girl has to date a crazy person at some point in their lives, however brief, to understand what crazy truly is. This is preferably done before the girl is old enough to get married or something equally as permanent. At this point, the girl has a choice. To continue to date crazy people, and wonder why all men suck so much, or to decide that crazy is a lot more fun from behind a bag of popcorn at the theatre than it is when it is standing at your door at 7pm on a Friday night. D. holds that honour. He broke up with me on Christmas Day - he gave me my Christmas present and then said; "Oh, by the way...." How very sweet. The next week he was going to the movies with one of my best friends.
He was the person who made me realize that as much as I like a little delightful eccentricity, full stop insane wasn't my cup of tea. Sadly, I also chose him to learn another important dating truth: stupid on and off again relationships are like day old donuts - stale and crumbly, and never improve with age. Not only was there the Christmas Day breakup, there was the day before Valentine's Day break up and the long distance phone break up from England. That was expensive. About there it got boring, and I let him go and break up a couple of dozen times with his old girlfriend. Apparently she hadn't taken any little epiphanies out of the first ten times they dated.
I am sure you are amazed I actually dated this guy more than once. I admit, it took me a little longer to figure out the truth about crazy than it should have - I claim being sixteen as my excuse. Sixteen has far too many cultural connotations attached to it in our society, and I truly believe that it would have been best if I had spend that year buried in the backyard, and arranged to be dug up the day after my seventeenth birthday.
5. Brian wasn�t horribly traumatic, but rates as number five for the simple fact that he claimed he broke up with me because I had cut my hair. With an excuse like that, he deserves to be immortalized.
2. T. He thinks he should be listed first, as our break up was terribly sad and traumatic, and probably he should, but he loses points because we are now great friends and he was in my wedding party. This means I can't claim total emotional scarring and mental trauma while in the pub comparing war stories, because he is usually there to make sure I don't exaggerate too much, and what fun is that? We dated for about two years. Apparently, to this day, people persistently believe I broke up with him and shattered him forever, turning him into the bitter and twisted man he is today. Sorry folks, he was that way when I found him. For the record, he broke up with me. Not only that, but he woke me up at 2am so he could tell me he was breaking up with me, and walk out the door and out of my life five minutes later. Though, in all truth, the out of my life part didn't last that long. Funny thing is, it took twice as long as we actually spent dating to get our non-dating relationship to the point of friends who *don't* annoy the crap out of each other at every opportunity.
3. Third in the list is another T. Sigh. You know, it's probably a good thing he broke my heart, because I get to remember how fabulously cool he was before he grew up and became boring. So boring. White picket fence and goin' huntin' deer boring. So sad. In high school, he was the coolest. So very pretty, with a motorcycle and the aura of danger faintly clinging to his leather jacket. He was older, old enough to be interesting, but not too old, because that's just plain creepy. Sadly, we had nothing in common other than being attracted to one another - not politics, religion, movies, music or books - he liked hunting, and I was a vegetarian. Of course, when you are young, the "attracted to each other" part is the only one that matters. So our relationship progressed for several months, and then, one sunny afternoon on my parent's back porch, he broke up with me. I learned later that he was apparently afraid that he loved me more than I did him. This was my introduction to the "hurt someone else in order to save oneself from theoretical future hurt" concept of relationships.
4. D. has the distinction of having spawned an entire theory. The theory goes that every girl has to date a crazy person at some point in their lives, however brief, to understand what crazy truly is. This is preferably done before the girl is old enough to get married or something equally as permanent. At this point, the girl has a choice. To continue to date crazy people, and wonder why all men suck so much, or to decide that crazy is a lot more fun from behind a bag of popcorn at the theatre than it is when it is standing at your door at 7pm on a Friday night. D. holds that honour. He broke up with me on Christmas Day - he gave me my Christmas present and then said; "Oh, by the way...." How very sweet. The next week he was going to the movies with one of my best friends.
He was the person who made me realize that as much as I like a little delightful eccentricity, full stop insane wasn't my cup of tea. Sadly, I also chose him to learn another important dating truth: stupid on and off again relationships are like day old donuts - stale and crumbly, and never improve with age. Not only was there the Christmas Day breakup, there was the day before Valentine's Day break up and the long distance phone break up from England. That was expensive. About there it got boring, and I let him go and break up a couple of dozen times with his old girlfriend. Apparently she hadn't taken any little epiphanies out of the first ten times they dated.
I am sure you are amazed I actually dated this guy more than once. I admit, it took me a little longer to figure out the truth about crazy than it should have - I claim being sixteen as my excuse. Sixteen has far too many cultural connotations attached to it in our society, and I truly believe that it would have been best if I had spend that year buried in the backyard, and arranged to be dug up the day after my seventeenth birthday.
5. Brian wasn�t horribly traumatic, but rates as number five for the simple fact that he claimed he broke up with me because I had cut my hair. With an excuse like that, he deserves to be immortalized.
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