The Lifespan of a Fly

Hold Your Questions Please!
September 22, 2011, 1:33 PM
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You know what bugs me? Ok, ok a lot of things bug me, but you know what really drives me batshit? Questions. Not questions like “What are you going to make for dinner?” or “Do you want to watch The Shining or Halloween?” but questions that just aren’t anyone’s damned business. For the first six years of our relationship, Mike and I dreaded going to weddings. Short of the booze and bad music, you just knew some distant family member was going to corner you and go “So, when are you two going to tie the knot?” *wink wink* and you’d have to smile and think of some lame excuse like “Oh, it’s not really a priority to us right now”, when what you’re truly thinking are things like “Get lost old bag” or “Who is this person talking to me?”

Well, it gets worse after you get married. People assume that now you’re married you’re just dying to procreate. As if you’ve really been waiting seven years until marriage, because a child out-of-wedlock is a sin…and other bullcrap.

They also assume you want lots and lots and lots of little you’s running around, screaming, eating candy and taking turns crying and pooping. Now, please don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike kids. But to be fair, I don’t like very many kids either. So this whole “kids” thing? Yeah, I’m thinking about it. It seems kind of cool. I’d like my life to have more meaning then the things we want to do, and well, to be honest, kids have cool toys.

So you answer something like, “Yeah, maybe in a few years we’ll have a baby. Just one though”. Well, that starts off this whole new thing. The family member (whose name you can’t remember and relation you’re skeptical of) starts in on the whole “Just one? Oh, wow. If it were me I would have just had oodles of little babies. I just love their little cheeks and the way they smell”.

Look, I’m thinking about it ok? I don’t really want to commit to a whole slew of kids. That’s like saying “You know, you may as well give me all the BMW’s in the lot, since I like luxury vehicles a whole bunch”. I’m ok with just the one. You know? See how it works out and stuff. Then maybe… maybe I’ll have another one.

Besides, babies are like these perfect, clean little people. They’re canvasses for parents to fill with colours and paint in little personalities. And guaranteed us adults are gonna fuck them up. So I wonder to myself, how many little people do I want to screw up? Cause I’m gonna. So if I only screw up one person, does that mean I’ve mitigated the damages?

I don’t know, this is a lot of pressure.

Is there anywhere I can rent a kid for a bit and see how I do?


What Harry Potter and LOST Have Given Me
July 18, 2011, 9:53 AM
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Harry Potter. Oh Harry, your books are over, your movies have played, your battle is won and now my heart is void. I had the same feeling when watching the final episode of LOST, a television show Mike and I watched (and will again) with a fervor that borders on zealous. It wasn’t the horribly sad ending (which both had) that brought tears to my eyes. No, what made me bawl and smear my make up was knowing that something I’ve loved, and has been in a part of my life for the last twelve years, is over.

Sure, I’ll still pick up the books, and each time I read them, the story will be like new to me (unlike many people, I can re-read stories hundreds of times and still enjoy every minute of it). But still, it’s over and I’m sad. Harry Potter’s my buddy, just like John Locke and Jack Sheppard were. I knew them intimately and rooted for them even during their most vulnerable moments.

Although I’m sad, the sort of sadness that you get when a good friend moves far away and you know you’ll probably never see them again, I’m also thankful. I’m thankful for books like Harry Potter and shows like LOST because they gave me something, and reminded me that my love for stories is too overwhelming to ignore. I became a writer because of epic tales that span years to tell. If you want to do the story justice that is. They reminded me that there is still magic in this world.

I don’t know how other writers feel, only how I feel, and I truly believe that to write, you must believe in magic. Not just the magic we possess to entrance readers, to pull them into a different world and introduce them to creatures and people of our imaginations, but real magic. I believe in magic. I believe that there are things out there that happen which are so strange, so impossible, so fantastical that magic has to be real.

I believe in magic because without it, we’re just moving around and living in a world which is so clearly laid out for us. We are born, we go to school, we finish school, we go to more school, we finish that one, then we get jobs, get married, have children, all that stuff. I choose to believe that there are places in our world where magic hides, where you can find it if you really listen to your heart and feel it.

I have to believe in magic because without it I’m only telling the same story again and again and again. Once a year, when the new Harry Potter would come out (book, movie, whatever) my belief was renewed, I was reminded of the magic that’s hidden away. Now that it’s done, the onus is on me. I get no more reminders, from now on, I have to find that magic for myself, and bring it to you with words and characters.

An Amicable Conversation with a Drunk and No Pants
June 27, 2011, 7:23 AM
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I still remember the first apartment Mike and I lived in together. It had peeling laminate and windows that could maybe save 1.5 legs if a fire occurred, which they did regularly. That would have to be due to The Gas Pump, a bar from the early seventies located at the bottom of our apartment building. It hasn’t changed since the seventies, including the patrons who have since grown harsher as the years have passed. Every night the shouts and screams of middle-aged drunks in the midst of their mating rituals floated up and into our bedroom, lulling us to sleep. The sounds of sirens would wake us up as yet another fire was started, either by the drunks of by the homeless people who would sleep in our stairwells and light fires to stay warm. Mike and I would look at each other, debate how much we wanted to stand outside in January weather, at 2 a.m., in our pajamas and instead decide to just go back to sleep. Six months later we moved.

That was seven years ago, and finally, the patrons of the Gas Pump have found us. Actually, it was the ghetto that found us. Sure, it’s unlikely you’re going to be pumped full of ammunition in my neighbourhood (although it has happened), but try to cross the street without meeting a gangster (15 years old and pissed off that Mom took his PS3 away), or having your bottles stolen by the multitudes of bottle people.

I have a bat, and it has pointy edges, and I practiced hitting intruders with it. I don’t want to kill someone, just maim them.

So anyhow, we’ve got new neighbours. That’s right, the Crackheads next door moved out (and by moved out I mean trashed the place and abandoned it), but it’s all good because they’ve been replaced by drunks. I sorta miss the Crackheads though. At least they hid out in their condo and smoked crack and I could only hear them yelling and screaming through the vents. The drunks have taken this to a whole new level.

I have to give them some credit though, they are more apt at yard work then the prisoners on day release whose only job it is to cut our lawn, when they come, which is next to never. The drunks are all about keeping a nice and tidy lawn. So much so that they’ve decided that 4 a.m. is a wonderful time to mow their 8’x10′ lawn with one of those push mowers from before electricity became a household item.

Granted it is nice and cool out at 4 a.m., but none the less, we needed to have a chat. I explained to one of the drunks (and I believe I’ll have to explain it to the other 10 that seems to sort of live there) that 4 a.m. isn’t exactly a “neighbourly” time to be shouting and boozing it up. I think our chat went very well, it definitely progressed after I asked him “You are drunk right now, aren’t you?” A question he could not deny, only confirm with a sad nod of his head.

Regardless, I think he and I may have reached an understanding: He shuts up after midnight, we get along wonderfully. He makes noise after midnight, I phone the police, his landlord and the condo board until they eventually remove him and he’s got to move back into his mother’s nursing home.

I think we’ve reached an agreement, but I wasn’t wearing any pants during this heart-to-heart. That may have had something to do with it.

My Fanny Pack Can Beat Up Your Fanny Pack
June 15, 2011, 8:33 AM
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That’s right, I have a fanny pack. Now before you start snickering behind your hand, please understand that this is no ordinary fanny pack. J accused me of fanny-packing and began comparing me to her father who regularly dressed up to meet her looking like a redneck janitor (this is Alberta, we’ve seen our share of them). I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly clear the air about my fanny pack vs. regular lame fanny packs.

First, let’s get a few things straight.

The Fanny Pack was carefully created by Tibetan monks to be used in all sorts of survival situations. It boasts a front pocket, which many would think should be used to house credit cards and a few bucks for beach time fun. This is wrong! Seemingly innocent, the pocket is meant to house things like grappling hooks, trail mix, pointy knives, extra ammunition and garlic (vampires), for those times when you just have to go out and kick nature in her sharp, pointy teeth. There is no beach time fun involved here.

The Fanny Pack also has a holder for your water bottle. Many would assume this is so you can hike with ease and delicately finger wildflowers while feeding chipmunks your trail mix. This is also wrong! The true purpose is to keep your hands free for Yeti fights, which one regularly runs into out in the wilderness. Yetis are impermeable, surviving against even the strongest blade. Their only weakness is their eyes, where your fingers must jab and jab until they explode in a cloud of purple smoke (this is science, don’t argue with me).

Last, but not least….

STFU J. I’m not gonna carry your goddamn chapstick if you make fun of my fanny pack again.

The Anti-Bucket List
June 10, 2011, 7:39 AM
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A few years ago, on our flight home from Italy, Mike and I watched the Bucket List. Not together, cause that would be sort of weird with those little headphones they used to supply you with (Air Canada is a bunch of pricks) and you just know the person before you had some contagious ear disease and for three hours all you can think of is “I can feel it crawling into my brains… oh God my brains”. Anyhow, we took bets on who among our fellow passengers would start crying. Mike cried, proving he has the soul of a lamb. I didn’t, proving I have the soul of the lion who would destroy that lamb.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Wait, shit, where was I? Ah yes, the spawning of the Anti-Bucket List. Since I’m never going to die (and if by some change I do, it will be in a fiery spectacular form which will awe all the little children out of their candy), having a bucket list seems pretty pointless. So I’ve created a list of thing I never want to do before my inevitable immortal reign (with Skynet’s help of course).

The Anti-Bucket List
1. I never want to go to Australia – There are spiders that eat birds, which are the size of your face. Therefore, able to eat your face.
2. I never want to watch an episode of The Big Bang Theory and laugh.
3. Play hide-n-seek with God (that bastard cheats).
4. Be the middleman in the Human Centipede.
5. Own a cat.
6. Eat real Chinese food – not this ginger beef shit.
7. Move back to Ontario.
8. Admit that I know how to fix almost any photocopier.
9. Listen to WSPA people who stand on corners and try to convince me hunting is bad – at least that’s what I think they want.
10. Plummet to the Earth at top speed and hope my parachute opens – commonly known as Sky Diving.
11. Buy a Coach purse.
12. Pretend that golf, tennis or bowling is an actual sport.
13. Watch golf, tennis or bowling on television and be interested.
14. Stop brushing my teeth.
15. Cheer for a hockey team just because they’re “Canadian”, although most of their players are European. Yes Vancouver, I’m looking at you.
16. Go camping with the Donner Party.
17. Watch another Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
18. Be a “Furry” – whatever the fuck that is, it sounds pretty weird.
19. Pretend CSI is deeply insightful and actually has a legitimate story line.
20. Give up on finding the Island in LOST – it exists, and I will find it.
21. Care about MSG and how much water I’m drinking in a day.
22. Take myself too seriously.
23. Spend more time worrying about the people who will never like me then I do with the ones who love me.
24. Give up the belief that magic is real and so is Harry Potter.
25. Stop dancing like I don’t care who is watching.

The New Black?

This is why I refuse to get a chaise lounge. Naked people....

So I’ve been seeing this advertisement posted all over the Internet, particularly Facebook, in the past 24 hours or so. I wanted to talk about this today because I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. On one hand, my inner-feminist and outer-chubby girl are all like “F*CK YEAH!” Bust down conventional beauty standards, portray women as they really are and not as the fashion and beauty industry tell us we should look like! You know, all that socialist-female-jazz. I feel proud to be a woman when I see an image that shocks people. And besides, Ruby’s one hot tamale!

But then there’s this little voice in my head that also wants to have a say in this. It whispers words like: diabetes, heart disease, cancer, cholesterol, eating disorders, and other creepy things that have been proven to be associated with a little junk in da trunk.

While I’m not trying to criticize an advertisement that is meant to empower women, I wonder what will be accomplished by this. I had one Facebook friend post this image up and mention Marilyn Monroe. I’ve heard Ms. Monroe was anywhere from a size 12 to a size 16, and her beauty and her curves were renown across the globe. And yet, this woman boozed and drugged herself into an early grave. So is she really a role model for women striving to break down conventional beauty standards? Perhaps there are some other strong women we can take a look at as role models for ourselves, and the generation of women that will follow us. Women such as Jan Arden and Queen Latifa who are beautiful, strong, ambitious, outspoken, and curvy.

So I suppose where I’m confused here is this: are we trying to become healthier, not only as women, but as a nation in crisis? Or are we trying to make excuses for ourselves and guilt others into agreeing with us? Are diabetes and heart disease the new black?

Adieu Humans, Bonjour Zombie/Robot/Natural Uprisings

Have you ever felt like a little red ant, tramped beneath a magnifying glass while some grand cosmic force pulls your legs off and watches you burn?

No, me neither.

But apparently we’re all wrong because tomorrow the world is supposed to end. For reals this time, yo. This is nothing like Y2K wherein Skynet did not become self-aware and when the clock ticked to midnight on that fateful day, many of us went “Meh” and continued drinking. How is this different, you may be asking. Because this dude said so and he’s got billboards backing his story up. So if you aren’t too busy at 6 p.m. on May 21, 2011, why not come out, grab some smokies and burgers and let’s watch the rapture together.

I’ll be there, while the sky burns and the people run around screaming, with a Bellini in my hand. Perhaps during that time we could all discuss what we regret most in our meaningless, fragile little lives. The Robot Overlords, fuelled by their army of zombies aren’t expected until about 6 p.m., so until then, let’s get some nostalgia on.

I regret not drinking more bellinis. They are yummy, fruity, and you don’t even realize how drunk you are until you stand up and start trying to dance to Boney M.’s Rasputin.

I regret not getting involved in Wicca. Maybe if I had gotten involved with worshiping Mother Gaia she wouldn’t be so intent on wiping me out. Everyone else is cool, but I need to kick around so that I can provide the Robot Overlords with a human perspective on the world they destroyed.

I regret not finishing that book. Oh, and that other book too. I do, however, regret finishing Catcher in the Rye. The only good parts came when Holden Caulfield got the shit kicked out of him repeatedly, sometimes by pimps. I regret him not being a real person for me to beat up too.

Finally, I regret not taking Terminator more seriously and never learning how to shoot a shotgun. Skynet finally became self-aware on April 19, 2011 and I still can’t blow up zombies.

Just wondering, if I end up having my neck ripped out by a member of the Great Zombie Army and become infected, thus ensuring my passion to eat the flesh of my brethren, was my years as a vegetarian for naught?