It's funny 'cause it's true

...At least if you're a dork like me.

I will confess to be being guilty of any number of typos if I feel hurried or somewhat agitated, but I read this passive aggressive revolution and giggled.

Why? Because I'm an effing dork, that's why.

From The Onion:
(http://www.theonion.com/content/node/45800)


"Copy Editor's Revenge Takes Form Of Unhyphenated Word

February 27, 2006 | Issue 42•09

BOSTON—Bruce Huntoon, a copy editor at Pilot magazine, intentionally did not correct the copy of columnist Justin Mann Monday. "I am tired of that insufferable asshole's mean-spirited jokes," Huntoon said. "So, when he described the carburetor warmer as a 'twentieth century' invention, I decided to leave the copy untouched and let him deal with the consequences of his actions. The fucker." Huntoon said the unhyphenated compound modifier is the most extreme step he has ever taken, adding that he drafted a resignation notice that he will hand in should his superiors notice the omission."

Canadian Music Week, bien sur!

The weekend is approaching -- with it comes one of two major annual music fests. Canadian Music Week, also known as CMW.

So within a few days, I will be exhausted, hauling aroung a notebook and aching feet and three-to-four days worth of hangovers, crazy late nights and clutching earplugs wherever I go.

Sounds horrifying, but it's actually pretty good fun. Am looking forward to it. Hope I can find enough cash to buy beer.

At my age, smuggling is just plain embarassing... though vastly more economical.


------------

(later)

My horoscope for today is funny. And true. Take heed, my little friends!

"Heaven help anyone who decides that it might be fun to see just how far you can be verbally pushed, because right about now, it won't be very far at all. If people came with warning labels, in fact, yours would say something like 'Danger. Do not test me.' Of course, as fiery as you are, this situation isn't all that rare, so the next best thing would be to have a t-shirt made up for occasions such as this."

"Come play with us, Danny..."

Anyone else greatly amused by the current slogan for the Vancouver 2010 winter Olympic games?

"Come Play With Us."

I mean, it smacks so much of The Shining. All it's missing is two fresh-faced twin girls, holding hands while inviting a little boy on a Big Wheel to join them. There might be flashes of a bloodied hallway and mutilated, chopped-up corpses.

"Come play with us, Danny," they say in eerie unison.

Oh, yes. A remarkable slogan indeed. Idiots.

The trouble with interviews

Well, interviews of any kind -- whether as the interviewer or interviewee -- tend to be rather irksome.

But fuck, do I ever hate transcribing. Listen, pause, type, rewind, double check, listen, pause, type...

Tedious, I say! Am currently in the midst of transcribing a particularly long in-person interview that's over 45 minutes long. Then must transcribe another phone conversation after that.

And then, I can transcribe my last interview for a completely unrelated story.

Transcribing + deadlines = great suckness

One day, digital voice recognition software for such purposes will be affordable, at which point I shall laugh delightfully as I skip through buttercup-laden fields a la Laura Ingalls.

Curses on you, M&Ms

Is anyone else getting vexed to find songs they like appearing in television commercials?

I support musicians who write music for commercials -- a mofo's gotta make money and all -- but for god's sake, someone should punch them in the head before allowing them to sell off released music.

The Postal Service sold off "Such Great Heights" to M&Ms. Makes me all surly, it does. Won't be able to listen to it without feeling violated by images of M&Ms... which are truly one of the very crappiest of chocolatey snacks.

Run run run, as fast as you can...

I'm not big on nostalgia. I can joke around about various things in my past, but long realized I would never be one of those people who look back with a wistful glimmer in their eye and say, "Weren't those the days?"

I never had a terrible time in grade school or high school, but things were less-than-rosy enough for me to never wax sentimental. I'm more of a things-are-fun-right-now, screw looking back. I haven't been back to my hometown since my parents moved six or so years ago.

Last night had my usual mode of bizarre, jumbled dream... and realized that there are certain streets and locations I unconsciously return to from my childhood.

The vacant treed lot beside the high school. The street leading up to my grade school best friend's house (amusingly, last night I explained to someone in my subconscious state why I kept returning to this location -- and it was a surprisingly satisfying conclusion). My parent's basement. Glasgow Street. The hill behind the ice rink.

You can't go home again. You can't even try to ignore it. Because somewhere in your mind, it's still there.

Therapy soon, I think.

:)

It's funny 'cause it's true....

"The hag of winter is upon us all."

This was the line solemnly delivered by a friend this evening. After which, we started laughing.
I had been griping about feeling horrible and old -- one of those miserable days where you feel you like you're 10 years older than you are ... and you suspect people looking at you would agree.

Worse still was listening to an enthusiastic publicist who is leaving early in the morning to sail in the Caribbean.

Jealousy.

When the wind hits, the thermostat drops and the glittering snow starts swirling on your front porch, nothing makes you more envious than the knowledge that others are heading for warmer climes. Not that the winter has been terribly horrendous... but you do long for a day or three where you can step outside in flip-flops and an old T-shirt without concerns of hypothermia or frostbite.

The hag of winter has us indeed in her miserly old grip.

Bloody Canadian weather.

On red hair...

I cracked today.

After enjoying my first ever pedicure (gratis -- product promotion), I decided I couldn't take it any more. I went and had my hair done.

Over a year ago, I decided that I would stop dying my hair -- a guilty indulgence I've enjoyed for the last oh, 15-odd years. Plenty of lovely colours and bizarre styles. As part of a new year's resolution (and as part of my penance for living a vain and shallow life for several years), I decided that not only would I grow my hair, but that I would grow it out. I would enjoy my natural hair colour before it became littered with silver.

This was last January. My last hair dye was December 30, 2004.

Until today.

I realized that while being yourself is a noble, wonderful thing, genetics do not always provide one with optimum parts. Some you can't fix. Some you can. I've decided that some malicious god in charge of my genes decided to bless me with all the characteristics of a redhead -- greeny (lakewater) eyes, whitey-pink skin... and the dullest of mouse brown hair.

Today, I re-embraced my life as a redhead. I look a fuck of a lot better.

And I feel less like I look 40. Which is nice, because I'm only 31.

Of course, I had it done a slightly cheaper place, which means the hair is not quite as I envisioned, but is a damn sight better than it was this morning.

Vanity be damned.

A truly wonderful blog...

One of very few blogs I wish I had made myself, and an endless source of fascination.

People write anonymous secrets on postcards, send them and they are subsequently posted on the blog. Some are hilarious, some are incredibly creative and others are heartbreaking. Check it out if you haven't already. Or send one yourself...

PostSecret.blogspot.com

Why wait until your deathbed?

Was saddened by the news of a woman in Toronto who has mere weeks to live (cancer, of course) and was desperately trying to locate the long-lost daughter she gave up 18 years ago, leaving the child with her father. (story here)

But the part that bothers me is while this woman claims to have thought about her lost child (she has three other children now as well) every day for nearly two decades, it took the threat of death to force her to start looking.

Maybe she'll find her daughter. Maybe she won't. But I still don't understand it -- how people can carry these monster-sized regrets for so long? Why would you torment yourself and wait for death before actively doing something about it?

Or perhaps this merely is a classic case of guilt? The old "I'm going to die and now I must make amends..." (Which, of course, is always more about soothing one's own conscience than making things right.)

Still... it saddens me. And a lesson for the rest of us lumps, too.

Dim sum, baby!

Oh, yeah.
That's right.
I'm coming to you, Rol San.

It's gonna be good.
So good.
You won't know what you hit you, but I'll leave in an unsteady haze of dumpling delights.



But damn, I wish it wasn't so bloody cold and windy out.

Me? ...Intense?

One day I will have to sit down and update this blog properly. I've been meaning to move it for ages, but... well, there's always something else to do, isn't there?

Went out with some friends for an evening of boozing and dancing -- felt like celebrating after receiving a big fat cheque. Finally, I can buy a round of drinks, and pay cab fare while airily waving off protests. Naturally, this isn't something I'll be able to do regularly, but for this one time... well, it's nice to treat people.

But the unsettling part of the evenign wasn't Mad Max Woman (seriously, she belonged in the Thunderdome chanting, "Two men enter, one man leaves.") or the Kate Beckinsale wannabe-playing-latex-clad vampire. It came from a simple discussion.

During the evening, a friend admitted, "I usually tend to hang out with people who are intense... though I never believed I was particularly intense."

I looked at him and said cheerfully, "Well, fortunately for you, I'm not even remotely intense."

He looked at me for a moment, considering.
"Of course you're intense," he said simply. "You speak your mind. That makes people uncomfortable."

I looked at him skeptically. While I do speak my mind -- I've never been one to hold much back (I can hear snorts of amused agreement coming from a number of parties) -- I find it hard to reconcile my bluntness with making people uncomfortable.

Does this constitute being intense?

Because yes, once upon a time, I was a rather intense young lady. I took things very seriously. I loved the darker side of things. But in my older and more current days, I've endeavoured to cultivate and maintain an air of superficiality. Hard work, but I find the pay-off is enormous.

Although I will admit that I occasionally fear that some folks may mistake my newly-acquired silliness/shallowness for actually being me -- when the truth is that I find it so much easier to relate to people this way. Rarely are people interested in you being yourself... warts, darkness, depression and all. No one likes to know exactly how dark and how deep other people go.

So hence the fluffy attitude. So you can imagine my surprise -- after years of careful superficial cultivation -- I'm accused of being intense.

I dunno. This requires some pondering. While I don't truly believe, I'm willing to at least consider. If true, I will certainly need to realign things.

What's in a nickname?

One of my friends (male) refers to another friend (female) as "Hooker Boots."

Does it make me a bad friend if I find this really funny?

The Days of Annoying-ness

Do you ever have these?

Those irritating days where things are exactly bad, they're just... annoying. Things that should be good aren't really. Things that are negative aren't as bad as they could be.

For instance, I was owed a very large cheque that I had waiting on for ages. Finally received it today -- only to discover it's only for part of the work (a third of what's owed), and was written over a month and a half ago.

Or that I've been working steadily for hours now (minus a brief period where I composed a long email to a friend)... only to find that I haven't actually achieved anything. (So naturally, this is righted by distracting myself with Blogger.)

Or when sending anti-valentine's day cards to numerous friends, I re-read one that -- while meant to be sorta self-deprecating and breezy -- ended up reading kind of not very nice. Sarcasm and goofiness just don't travel well over the internet.

Or that my mother has sent me a package (I can only guess it's for Valentine's Day as she does every year -- my mummy loves me, she does) but it's sitting in some postal never-neverland.

Bah.
Of course I realize today could be far, far worse -- and yes, Ro, I am indeed being petulant and sulky -- but sometimes these niggling stupid things just start prickling under your skin until you want to throw things out the window.

Come out, come out, wherever you are...

On the way home from replacing our faulty TV remote control (hooray, no more squeezing it until our thumbs go numb), I announced to Chris that I needed more secret admirers.

Isn't VD the time for your secret stalkers and those who repress their hidden urges for your body parts to come forth and bashfully admit -- through anonymous gifts (no burning bags of dog poo, please) -- they care?

Today... nothing. Well, maybe I got love from TD Canada Trust who called to remind me my bill payment was overdue.

Have decided that my secret admirers -- if they actually exist -- are too secret.

Celebrating VD

After finding a wonderful site with nasty VD cards (Be My Anti Valentine... whose site has apparently crashed due to all the requests) and sending a pile of them off to various friends, I am feeling curiously cheery about Valentine's Day.

Perhaps also due to the fact that in protest of this sinister day, Chris and I have decided to celebrate by having the least romantic meal we can think of... McDonald's takeaway.

Ah, romance.

Damn The Man...

Why bother with professional scruples?

They don't pay my bills.
They don't put food in my belly.
They keep me poor.
They attract The Man's attention... and The Man always gets me down.
Fighting -- or even avoiding -- The Man is exhausting.

I mean, I struggle to keep the ragged remains of my soul intact... but for what? A sense of righteousness?
Righteousness does not pay one's student loans, my friend.

In a world where things are valued according to marketability and profit, trying to keep from joining Satan's Army Of Corporate Whores seems to be a losing battle. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just to slowly give in. To just allow the shit-laced tide to take me.

What would be even nicer is being stupid enough not to notice. Not to care.
And then I could ease myself into the world of cozy suburban bubbles, white picket fences, and hide -- in the most egocentric way possible -- from the reality of my senseless existence... and the world in general.

----
(later)

Life seems to be much less bleak and unforgiving when one can be amused by spam from TheOldestLadiesInPorn.

Sniffing snow...

Not the blow kind. (Y'know, drugs? Have strict policy of no chemically manufactured substances of that nature. Makes life likely less dull, but also less poor and less inclined to give $5 blowjobs in Parkdale -- though would likely be able to pay off student loan much more quickly.)

The cold wet kind that falls from the sky in winter.

Was enjoying my walk and the snow began falling more heavily in big, lazy clumps. One particularly insidious group formed a large mass... and went right up my nose.

Bless winter. Truly. Without it, we'd never know how much we truly love spring, summer and fall.

And a brief non-sequitur

After an argument earlier today (good-humoured), we measured our height.

Seems I am, in fact, 5'9. Last time I was measured was about 10 years ago and I was just over 5'8 -- dare I hope to keep growing?

I could be six feet tall when I've retired. That would be awesome. Then I would wear tall heels and scowl at the puny youngsters and whack them in their bums with my cane.

Who's going to yell at a scary-tall, crazy old woman?

Thoughts on the Olympics

Am somewhat apathetic this year... as evidenced by my outrage that The Bay (HBC) emblazoned their shitty-assed logo all over the Canadian gear at the opening ceremonies.

Tacky. Give the account back to Roots.

Chris and I watched the opening ceremonies critiquing all the outfits -- best was his pronouncement that that coats the Chinese team was wearing made them look like sticks of gum.

Somehow, I just don't have any sporty Olympic spirit. Was far more engaged and fascinated by One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, which was on last night. "Don't make me get Nurse Ratched on your ass" is now my new threat. Or when people are being excessively manipulative, "Easy there, Nurse Ratched."

Feeling restless this weekend.
And hungry. Am craving Rol San's tai chin chicken and wonton soup in the worst way. Normally am not a fan of the wonton, but their soup is just so freaking tasty. Bastards.

How old is too old?

...Or too young?

A friend of mine (who reads this, so fully expect some kind of horrible email or comment arriving due to the post) is currently contemplating dating a younger man.

Having met the fellow, I can vouch for him being a charming (if rather insecure) lad. Yet, for his tender years, he is a person. Aware of himself, his failings and with that sort of endearing optimism that has yet to be tried and tested by life and all its vicious offerings.

She fears -- and I can understand why. Dating someone of the younger persuasion can offer both positive and negative factors. On one hand, they are sorely lacking the painful cynicism and experience that we old'ish (though some may even argue with me on this -- though I maintain, once you hit your 30s, you should have had at least a taste of mature life) have thus enountered. Life experiences tend to make a big difference when one is attracted to someone who is at least a decade younger than ourselves.

On the other hand, you find yourself introduced to someone who is somewhat fresh -- unburdened by years of unfortunate and sometimes debilitating past relationships, history and trials to one's ego. Or the unfortunate reality that indeed, you aren't particularly special and will only contribute to the ant hill.

But having seen April-August relationships at play in the past, there is no precendent. There are always moments where the elder half scoffs lightly and thinks indulgently, "Ah well, we shall see what becomes of you over the next while." Yet there is sometimes a certain solidity in some relationships that comes from the younger half having a perspective of one who is years older.

So when does young become too young? It's hard to say. Some people are born old. Other people (such as myself) are perpetually immature and revel in it.

It seems to become only a problem when lack of life experiences clash with those who have graduated with honours from the School Of Hard Knocks. Or when one half of a relationship becomes far more serious than the other is prepared for -- where the younger is either prepared for vows of eternity... or has suddenly realized that the world holds far more promise than they ever expected, and find themselves unready for the serious relationship they find themselves in.

But these always seem to be a case-by-case situation. I've known full-grown adults who have kept themselves so in check that they live restrained lives. Or younger folks who have the cunning and wisdom to be comfortable in an older peer group.

I've always thought of age as immaterial. Love works for some relationships... and not for others. Age only becomes an issue when you want it to be -- or one is looking to put the other in their place (the age-old cry of "I'm older, therefore I am your superior").

Age is in your head. Some people hit middle age before they're 30. Others hit puberty when they're in their 60s.

It's relative... isn't it?

Mother Nature's little reminder...

All the mild weather recently must've made me forget that it's still winter and that I am, in fact, living in Canada... however southern.

Got carried away during my late-night walk along the boardwalk along Ashbridge's Bay, walked a little longer than usual (well over an hour) and received a lovely case of frostnip on the upper front half of both legs. It's pretty and red with whitish splotches.

Oops.

Frostnip, for those unuaware, is a mild form of frostbite that occurs when exposed to cold temperatures for extended periods of time. No permanent damage -- just some redness, some whiteness and some prickly pain (not serious).

I'd best invest in some tights or long underwear if I'm going to keep this up.

The countdown to Cuba is on...

Absence gives perspective... sometimes

When I was about four years old, my favourite cartoon in the world was Battle Of The Planets, commonly known as G-Force.

Oh, how I loved it -- Mark, Jason, Princess, Tiny and Geeyup (sp?).

About a month or two ago, Chris signed us up for Anime On Demand... which is showing the original (with bad English-dubbed voices). It's called Gatchaman and it is fucking hilarious. There's definitely some translation weirdness, but it just adds to the humour.

The team calls itself the Science Ninja team -- which we've re-dubbed as the Science Ninja Incest team, since all the characters refer to each other in the Japanese "little brother, big sister" sense. As the cartoon was created in the '70s, the technical stuff is pretty outdated and amusing. And both Chris and I are still able to recall and hum along with all the theme music. That's talent, my friends.

And thanks to Anime On Demand, we can also enjoy our weekly fixes of Elfen Lied, about pink-haired girls with horns who violently rip people apart in great sprays of blood. A little too much boob in the credits for my taste, but am enjoying the gratuitous violence.

Punishment for the absent-minded...

Woke up this morning to the radio playing Depeche Mode's "Precious."

As I sprawled in my mess of warm duvet and quilt (and duckie pajamas, bien sur!), I thought, "Why don't I own this song yet?" I have a pretty light workload today, so after dressing, I hopped onto Limewire and started downloading tracks for my digital player (almost 200 songs, yet am already unsatisfied with most of them).

Then I realized I had a fantastic mixed DM CD a friend made years ago. I thought, well, why don't I just rip some of the songs from that? Found the case (all the while congratulating myself on locating it so quickly) and opened it.

Horror.

It was gone. Disappeared. Poof!

And it's not in my portable CD case. This is a bad sign.

My first instinct when things disappear is that someone else has taken it. I will confess to immediately blaming family ... who have an alarming tending for stealthily adopting items without me noticing -- by the time I do, I realize it'll take about a year to argue the item back into my hands. Provided, of course, someone admits they have it. It usually requires me snatching whatever stolen merchandise out of closets/drawers/whichever and shouting, "This is mine!" and running away with it.

But more likely, I have misplaced it. Worse still, may have tucked it into another CD case for protection.

Fuckity fuck. My options are to go through my entire CD collection (which I should probably do as it needs to be culled, organized and checked for other missing CDS) or pretend I never realized teh CD is gone. Which won't work, as my mind tends to nag me about stupid tiny details like this. (More than 10 years ago, I borrowed $100 off my then-boyfriend. I always meant to pay him back, but where a normal person would write it off, I still intend to pay him. Not that he and his wife and family will particularly appreciate me popping back into his life waving a cheque, but these things happen.)

This is what comes of being mentally short-changed. Oh sure, I can read books, write mediocre stuff reasonably quickly and make outlandish general claims at the top of my lungs... but for the life of me, I'm always misplacing shit. And because the CD was mixed, it's not like I can call my friend up and ask for another copy.

Nuts and boo.

Forgive my fan-ish nature...

But the first new Morrissey single is available for listening. Hooray!

Am celebrating new single by listening to You Are The Quarry repeatedly. You know, sometimes my dorkishness even embarasses me.

Listen to "You Have Killed Me".

Action and consequence.

Have found myself oddly compelled to assess the overall goodness of my life recently.

Maybe it was the fact that Flatliners was on a few weeks ago -- an intended effect of the movie, of course, but one nevertheless examined -- and I spend days or even weeks trying to evaluate the various deeds and misdeeds of my life.

Some are easy to mend. Slights, letting people down -- these are all things easily apologized and forgiven. But then there are the more sinister errs -- the ones you did unknowingly.

Like when you were young. Did you inadvertently bully someone? Were your schoolyard fights justified? Was something that was completely forgettable to you completely humiliating for another?

I sometimes worry that I was somehow unfair, and mean. Were people I recall as being jerkish loudmouths (boys, of course -- girls rarely bothered me) were just trying to defend themselves? Did I inflict or contribute to long-term psychological damage?

Not that I was a nasty kid, or that I picked on kids who were different than I. Hell, I got my own form of regularly mockery from other people (and a bullying older girl while I was in ninth grade who didn't actually do anything but glare and jostle me -- for the life of me, to this day I don't even know why). But kids are incredibly insensitive and stupid. I couldn't possibly have been an exception.

It's a disturbing thing to ponder. If you died tomorrow, where would your biggest sins lie? What would be the things you would dread facing the most?

There are, of course, things I can't be forgiven for. Things that when my deeds are tallied up, I will be required to answer for. And for most of those, I readily accept my punishment.

There are some things that were unforgivable, though necessary. And people treated badly, though unintendedly.
And those are just things I have to live with.

But it'd be nice to know exactly which people I was horrible to. If it's you, let me know.

I can't pay you off or anything, but I do write very nice apologies.

Karaoke fun

...No, I didn't sing.

Would like to, but am missing the gene (or is hibernating) that permits drunken folly of getting up in front of friends and strangers while singing all manner of amusing and badly sung things. But cheered wildly for members of group who obviously had far more gumption than I.

There was a time when singing in public (or any such humiliation - dancing, shouting, cavorting madly) wasn't an issue. Thus old age -- and much hard-earned repression -- rears its ugly head.
But did imbibe reasonable almount of alcoholic fluids, had an amusing evening and wound up scarfing delicious Chinese food at Rol San. (Best wonton soup ever.)

Unfortunately, said combination of alcohol and delicious Chinese makes evening push-up/sit-up session much more difficult.

Funny that.

A happy day for sci-fi fantasy geeks...

...like me.

While I smile at the news that Harry Potter And The Order Of The Pheonix has started filming and will be released next year, other news has me both elated and worried.

There is to be a Dark Crystal sequel made -- The Power Of The Dark Crystal.
Oh please, don't let it suck. The Dark Crystal was one of my favourite movies when I was a kid.

In unrelated news, Royal Bank have just called to tell me that my student loan payment is exactly one day overdue. How nice.