I wrote a long expanse of text today

...on paper, and I'm not entirely sure I want to publish it to the world. At least, not yet.

It's about my plans for completing the tattoo on my back, and for another one after that. I'm not completely paranoid; it's simply that the topic is so intimate, I really want to take the time to get it down right. They're predicting rain this weekend; maybe I'll get a chance to work on it some more.

Today in seven: Find the words, find your wings. Imperfect.

And on to the dog watch update: no sightings today either, so I think she may have gone on to greener pastures. And I double-checked those signs: the missing springer spaniel is a male, so unless my colleague mistook a well-hung dog for a lactating bitch, we're not talking about the same pooch. Not that that settles my mind much about it.

(148)

in the company of presidents

Once upon a time, at a previous job...

Someone had slammed the fridge door shut, upending the milk carton in the fridge door in the process. The spill in the fridge had been cleaned up in short order; the milk that had dripped down the door seal, onto the front base, and onto the floor under the fridge was another matter. It crusted up nicely, maturing into a scent not experienced this side of the fourth level of hell. One afternoon, I decided I had had enough; with the help of a colleague, I budged the fridge and attacked the putrid culprit puddle with the meek tools available in your standard office kitchenette. There I was, scrubbing on all fours, my back, or rather my butt to the door, when who should walk in but the company president. He quickly recovered from the initial shock, barely acknowledged my presence, and made himself a cappuccino before retreating to the safe, sane, sanctity of his corner office.

Needless to say, in the year we were in those offices, that was the only time I ever saw him in that kitchenette - our formal break room was at the opposite end of the building and much closer to both his office and the executive boardroom than our little hole in the wall, which was probably set up merely for productivity's sake, to make sure groggy non-morning types like myself didn't spend half the morning trekking between desk and coffee pot.

Tuesday in six: Midterm, dictionaries and the electoral map.

Wednesday: Flat broke - uninspiring but cheap lunches.

(263)

wanderer

Right after lunch yesterday, a couple of colleagues of mine came to get me, saying there was a sorry-looking stray dog in the yard, would I come see? My reputation precedes me, I guess. A bunch of people saw this dog, but no two descriptions matched. Not quite the blind men describing the elephant, but close. All I got was fairly large, white with either black or dark brown, and droopy ears. After that, the picture disintegrates, with people tossing around words like Collie, Labernese, or Spaniel. By the time I found a window, she (I was also told she had dangling teats) was nowhere to be seen; she had disappeared into the wooded lot next door. I headed out after her. Up in a tree, a crow squawked excitedly; at the base of the tree, I saw a flash of white fur, semi-long coat, with a dash of black! As soon as I spotted it, it was gone again. I called in that direction, I whistled, to no avail.

Later in the afternoon, I went into the unoccupied executive conference room that looks out onto the yard. No luck. And I got caught by the company president. D'oh! He's really a nice gentleman, and I'm sure he doesn't think ill of me for standing there, but I have such a knack for silly things like that...see next post for confirmation.

Now I can't stop thinking about her, especially since someone mentioned a spaniel. There are posters on every hydro pole in town - a lost springer spaniel. Could it be her? The prospect of finding a lost dog and returning it to its family stirs something deep inside me. I guess I long to play the hero, the part no one stepped in to fill in my time of need. (Not that Pat didn't try.) Still, all I can do is glance out now and then to see whether she returns. Time will tell if she wants my help. (Update: no one saw her at lunch today.)

(330)

seven days to choose

The deadline for applying to the graduate diploma is June 1, which means I have seven days left to decide whether I want to go for it. I think I'm going to need them.

It was my dad's birthday yesterday. My father was always pushing me to learn; he didn't really mind what I chose, as long as I kept going. He thought I was a smart girl, and wanted me to do something with my life. I guess he wanted me to make sure to keep as many doors open as possible until I chose what was right for me.

In that sense, I partially failed him, in that in finding myself I started and stopped along a number of paths before figuring out my place, and he didn't get to see that. But I'm pretty sure he'd be proud now, and I'm sure he'd see it as fitting that I finally stumbled back to something my mother had herself once studied. I always did remind him of her.

I'm also sure he would have no doubt that I should apply. Unfortunately, doubt is all I have right now. I'm really starting to feel exhausted from coming home at ten o'clock twice a week; I also have to consider the cost, and the strain it puts on my relationship with Pat just never being there, or available...

My gut tells me to wait. Besides, I already work as a translator, and I freelance, so it's not like I'm wanting for work. But given the issues with this last class I'm taking, is my gut really reliable, or is it just my instinct of self-preservation saying I shouldn't sign up for more (even though this teacher does not teach at the graduate level)?

I have a few more days to think about it.

(303)

dreambit(s?)

I remember being in this office building. If I had to place it, it was in Laval, across from the Carrefour, but right behind it was a wooded area. I remember taking the elevators and running from somebody, or rather trying to escape notice, then being in the parking lot in the middle of a windstorm and watching the trees break and fall with my mom and dad.

All of a sudden (or is it a different dream?), I'm back inside, with co-workers, and we're lounging around a pool in these elevated deck chairs. The pool is kidney-shaped; I'm on the outside, near one of the ends. Across from me is Celine Dion (ack!). Someone wants to play a prank on her, and shoves her off her chair; she jumps forward, arms windmilling and legs flailing, and she completely misses the pool, overshooting by about six feet, and collapses face-down onto a pink fuzzy towel laid out on the deck, right beside me. I jump up and move back; there is no way I am going to help her. Other people slowly come to her aid.

(186)

"half a second away!"

That's the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Paul Heyman of (the original) ECW fame.

I stumbled onto his column for London's The Sun newspaper, and I've been watching his "Heyman Hustle" webisodes. His videos are all over the map, and a little too sloppy for my taste. Maybe I've just been spoiled by WWE over the years, as far as slick production goes. Once in a while, there'll be a good, solid bit, but it's too hit-or-miss so far for me. It is half a second away.

On the other hand, I find his written columns intelligent, articulated, and perfectly on-point. Perhaps the best example was his post on the Chris Benoit saga, in which he expresses the finality of the senselessness of it all, and how everyone has tried to come to terms with it, family, co-workers and fans alike. I myself have tried to wrap my mind around it, with no amount of success; the tribute shows are still on my DVD's hard drive, neither archived nor erased. I just can't watch them, but I don't want to gloss over the events and pretend they never happened.

I've wanted to write about it, too. But once my mind starts thinking that professional recognition should bear on professional achievements only, I start to think that three people were denied to right to have further professional achievements (or any, in the case of young Daniel), and that that cannot be honoured. All my thoughts string together with "Yes, but..."s. In that, Paul E. sums it up well: "I've no answers and I never will."

But I digress. Point is, Paul Heyman does a great job of analyzing the field of sports entertainment and MMA, particularly from a marketing standpoint, and he is quite enjoyable to read. Give him a try.

He has a particularly interesting viewpoint concerning the Joey Styles/Mike Adamle, um, debacle? Heck, it's the only thing that makes sense. Personally, I think they want to rebuild a "kickable" interviewer, like Coach was in the Rock's heyday. With Jonathan Coachman's rumoured departure for ESPN, they had the opportunity to juggle things around. I think the addition of Mick Foley was brilliant - he's not perfect yet, but give him time to settle in. Besides, he's already better than JBL ever was. Removing Joey Styles, to me, was a mistake for ECW, the weakest brand WWE has. But parachuting Adamle was a great way to turn him heel almost instantaneously - not that he's evil, just that his eagerness to impress and his incompetence are a perfect combination to get people to want him to get beat up. Check out this week's Dirt Sheet; I think that's the best clue to where WWE is trying to head with Adamle.

I just hope they haven't sacrificed a great voice (Styles, I hope you enjoy running the website), if not all of ECW, for the sake of a shortcut to building a minor character. Unless they name him GM of Raw, in which case I quit!

(509)

word exercises

Cue / Sacrifice / Monster / Resurrect / Detection

Detection would spell doom for them all, and possibly for civilization as they knew it. What they were about to engage in had long been deemed illegal, immoral and contrary to everything humanity strived for. But it was the only chance they had left. Cue the music. Somehow, they needed the music, something for their sanity to cling to. It was time for the sacrifice. It was time to resurrect the monster.

Thursday in six: Over the hump - woo hoo!

Friday: Overcoming an unusual desire for shoes.

(97)

another rant left over from last week

One of the local media outlets runs a "question of the day" survey on its website. On May 12 and 13, it ran questions dealing with the recent increase in gas prices. You can find the original (in French) here: the translation follows.

May 12, 2008

Do gas price fluctuations affect you?
68% Very much
24% A little
8% Not at all
Number of votes: 6,975

May 13, 2008

High gas prices: what are you doing to save?
11% Carpooling
18% Public transit
28% Walking
43% Nothing
Number of votes: 5,131

Those are telling numbers. They tell me we're a bunch of whiny SOBs - we love to complain about rising gas prices, but not enough to actually DO something about reducing our consumption.

I was originally going to pull that quote about loving the human race, but having issues with people, but I found this one, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, which will do nicely:

The end of the human race will be that it will eventually die of civilization.

(155)

confession

Since yesterday's post was on a serious topic, I failed to share this: I skipped class last night. And it felt great.

(22)

on dreams (bis)

I have a few more dreambits to share, even though they sound silly when I try to write them out.

I dreamt I was hanging out with a group of teenagers (why? who knows? I shouldn't ask these questions when I'm dreaming), on a bright summer day, somewhere on an abandoned construction site in Saint-Eustache. One of the teens, a tall, lanky dirty blonde with bangs growing into his eyes, wants to talk to me in private, and suggests we hide in the unhitched, unmarked trailer of an eighteen wheeler. We hop in, and stand to the front, where we're in the shade.

The conversation never got started. Our weight tips the trailer off-balance and sends us careening down an embankment, flipping end over end, until we land in the yard behind a little restaurant Pat and I frequent in real life. As we walk around the restaurant to the sidewalk, we come across a sullen-looking Louis-José Houde (one of the hottest stand-up comics in Quebec), who's trying to find his manager. We tell him to come with us, since we're familiar with that part of town.

There's way too many people on the sidewalk; something's brewing. Over on the horizon, a blackened, decrepit silo starts to break apart and topple under darkening skies. People scream and start rushing about. A man to my left shouts and points to the Deux-Montagnes water tower that has somehow relocated about three and a half miles north-east as the crow flies. A cartoony crack starts from the bottom of the tower and rapidly expands up the side of the tower facing us. We break into a dead run in the opposite direction, over a wooden fence; we're hoping to make it to some guy's house, because he has plenty of inflatable pool toys that can save us from drowning.

Like I said, it made so much more sense at the time...

The next one occurred the very same night:

A small group of us were going to some kind of event dinner, maybe a graduation...and again, I wind us seated at a table with a waiter who doesn't want to serve us, or more specifically, me. I have no idea why. My presence is ruining everything for the group, so I wonder aloud to one of my friends if it wouldn't be better of I just switched groups. The end.

This one, at least, is my mind trying to make sense of the difficult time I'm currently having with the class dynamic, and deciding whether to pursue the graduate diploma after this semester.

The third happened a couple of nights ago, and isn't really much to talk about.

There's a deeply sloping street to my right - I mean, ski jump kind of pitch. Instead of a sidewalk, there are wooden stairs, painted dark forest green. About halfway down the slope, there's Pat sitting in the stairs. A few steps above, me. And a few more steps above, a weird hybrid between Chris Jericho and our good friend PeeWee. And we're just chatting away...

The weird thing is that this bit made me realize that I often remember either the characters very clearly, or the action, but rarely both. As well, I tend to merge people together, like in the example above; I wonder what that might mean. It's like a double-exposed film - both are there, at the same time, yet they are really together neither in space nor time. How odd.

Today, in six: I'm being invaded by strange students.

(589)

the toughest call

This time, I can't identify my teacher or the migraine I had this weekend as the cause of my silence. This time, it's grief. A friend of mine asked last week when it was time to have a dog put down. Her eleven year old German Shepherd mix had been having greater and greater difficulty navigating the stairs. It was fast becoming apparent that arthritis, that bane of large dogs everywhere, was winning the war. All kinds of things had been tried to ease her pain, and until recently, she fought valiantly, yelping only when her stiffened limbs missed a step, sending her tumbling awkwardly downstairs, or planting her muzzle into the stairs going up. But she would recover bravely, hoping no one had noticed. This past week, however, had seen her whimpering before even attempting the stairs, coaxing her owners back to her level. Just rising from a nap was laboured. And so the hardest call stood before them, silent, unavoidable.

I well up at the thought of making such a decision, before even putting a face to the subject. Life has been good to me, in that I have never been confronted with the prospect. My first cat ran away while we were away on vacation; there was no miracle reunion for us. The cat I received for my seventh birthday lived a good sixteen years, but I was at work when the time came, and it was my father who bore that burden. The rodents and reptiles and birds who left us over the years did so on their own terms, usually silently in the night. Everyone else, save for Lita, is still with us.

So, today was going to be the day. Then she bounded into the SUV, just like in the good old days, and instantly won a reprieve. So they sit, enjoying each other's company, for another evening, acutely aware of the ticking clock and of the toughest call, still sitting, waiting. I salute the courage of those who, when the time comes, for the right reasons, can stand beside their loved ones one last time, and make the call. I hope I have that strength when the day comes for me.

In six, then: Learning to let go - cruel fate.

(377)

typo of the day

Seen online, to describe a watercolour painting: “…blue sky with bellowing clouds.”

what does $35.08 buy you?

I never did get around to writing that post I alluded to earlier.

A man convicted of running a puppy mill was sentenced to a $2,000 fine. He is barred from owning a pet for two years, and owning animals for business purposes for three years (see article.)

If memory serves me correctly, 97 dogs, mostly fox terriers, were seized. Reported numbers vary as to what happened next: 18 were put in foster care, between 20 and 40 had to be euthanized, and the rest were rehabbed and adopted out by the SPCA. The highest count I saw reported for this last category was 57.

$2,000/57=$35.08 per dog. How does that compare to the costs of treating these poor animals. Heck, does it even cover the actual cost of the vaccines and flea/tick treatments, never mind the time, food and shelter?

Quebec has long held the title of puppy mill capital, due to a nasty combination of lax laws and virtually no enforcement. Tougher laws are definitely needed, and I believe that part of that reform is a minimum automatic sentence/fine upon conviction. I remember reading that Michael Vick was fined a six-figure amount specifically earmarked for the care and rehabilitation of his victims. That sounds fair to me. Yup, here it is: $18,275 per dog, 22 dogs. While this case was spectacular, in that the accused was a multi-millionaire, the principle is sound – pay for the damage you inflict.

Let’s say an “average” “pure-bred” (but paperless) puppy goes for $500 in pet shops; in fact, that’s really on the low end, but I’m feeling generous. That means that each puppy is sold for approximately $250 (yup, it’s 100% markup on puppies). Assuming that each dog in a breeding facility should produce at least one viable puppy, then the man stood to make 97x$250=$24,250. Let’s say that the profit from any “spare” puppies can pay for the costs of running the puppy mill. So, by my count at least, the fine should represent his "lost" profits, and it was off by a factor of ten. At a minimum.

Otherwise, you could just bill him for all incurred costs - at retail price - no bulk rate for him, and calculate the salaries volunteers would make.

But for the time being, $35.08 buys you the right to abuse a dog.

Also in the news, three young men, aged 19, 21 and 24, were arrested for allegedly beating four cats to death with a hammer. I would like to suggest we give the kids $35.08 worth of hammers, and entrust them with the puppy mill owner. Let's leave the cats and dogs out of this gruesome picture, and let karma work its magic.

With the much-needed overhaul of the Montreal SPCA on the horizon (wave bye-bye, Herr Barnotti), could it be the stars are aligning to help clean up this shameful mess? Cross your fingers, or your paws.

(487)

peripheral vision

OK, this needs to be recorded for posterity. Today, as I was looking up a definition on Merriam Webster online, there was an ad in the sidebar that read, “Upward Mobility – Make your move!” which, out of the corner of my eye, I read as “…Write your novel!”

Now, if that’s not a sign from the depths of my subconscious, I don’t know what is. I just have to find a way to work through my current frustration and keep writing. Nil carborundum illegitimi, don’t you know. November, and NaNoWriMo, are just around the corner, after all.

(97)

an inconvenient frog

I recently read something that boggled my mind. (I say that as though it was an unusual occurrence!)

Richard Martineau, a rogue journalist whose no-nonsense approach I find refreshing, posted this on his blog earlier this week. The one topic on which we consistently fail to see eye to eye: the environment. He says that most environmentalists are hysterical tree-huggers who cry wolf at every turn. He often refers to them as eco-terrorists, even the mild, mainstream ones like Al Gore et al.

To him, the equation is simple:

Comfort(Homo sapiens) > Health(Universe - Homo sapiens).

In his post, he states that stopping construction of bungalows and shopping malls is preposterous, following an article in La Presse about one of the Quebec wetlands' most rapidly declining inhabitants, the Western Chorus Frog (Pseudacris triseriata.) I can only call his approach nearsighted.

He mentions that his stance might be different if the argument was made that building these bungalows and shopping malls encourages urban sprawl and the unsustainable consumption that follows. Newsflash: the two are not mutually exclusive. He just can't seem to bear the thought of being perceived as one of the tree-huggers he consistently vilifies.

It was also said, "What's next? Worms? Bugs?" What exactly is the criteria for the worthiness of preserving wildlife, anyway? Kermit isn't cute enough? Demetan doesn't do it for you?

Please note that frogs, other than filling their ecological niche (which is indirectly useful to humans), are used as a simple indicator of the health of the ecosystem as a whole, as they tend to be among the first groups to show signs of environmental stress. So in that sense, they are a pre-alarm system - useful for humans.

Besides, I hate to break it to you, but nature is a package deal. Just because you can't immediately grasp the role/impact of a particular species does not make it useless. Let's say you lose a bolt on your car. Just because you don't know what it does doesn't mean you won't replace it, because you just don't know how often that can happen before the entire vehicle falls apart and kills you. Since we can't replace the cog/part/thingamabob once it's gone, we have to take steps to make sure it stays put and healthy. It really is that simple.

On a societal level, reducing your ecological footprint is an attempt to minimize the temporal version of the butterfly effect, because we just don't know how Mother Nature will re-establish balance once we throw it too far off. It may not include Homo sapiens at all.

How's this for an equation:

Health(Homo sapiens)/Health(Earth)=B(alance) (a dynamic constant)

(443)

a couple of dreambits

It's wrong to say I haven't written anything lately; it's just been little bits and pieces.

For example, I scribbled down a couple of dreambits. Dreambits are like timbits (Tim Horton doughnut holes, for those not in the know) - dreambits are to dreams like timbits are to doughnuts: made of the same basic ingredients, you only get a little bite, and it always seems you’re missing the larger picture. In this case, it refers to dreams with incomplete stories, sometimes just feelings or impressions.

• I dreamt I was at a birthday dinner (whose? I don’t know) with a slew of friends (this bit may have been inspired by Pat’s new quest for friends on Facebook.) We were at a restaurant (no relation to anything I’ve seen in real life), seating at a long L-shaped table. Pat was there, Voisine too… We were being served by three different waiters, including one really friendly and pleasant blonde girl, and one snarky young man who seemed to delight in telling us we couldn’t have what we ordered. She would sell us on this dessert, for example, and he’d come from behind and tell us there was none left, with a smile on his face, beaming.
  
  
• I dreamt we were going for a spa day with the girls at work (except in real life, I am nowhere near enough to these people for such an outing.) But then, my house has to be evacuated, and neither my mom, nor Tante Lise will leave the house. But the Inspectors are coming. And it will all be my fault. (Who the hell are the Inspectors? Not a clue.)

(275)

forgive me blogosphere, for i have sinned

It has been four days since my last post. Ongoing frustrations at work at school have stunted my inspiration; however, that is not an excuse for failing myself. At the urging of friends, and to honour the commitment I made to myself when I began this writing journey, I resolve to post with renewed vigour and consistency.

Today: New lenses for a new outlook.

(64)

a life ruined?

There was some brouhaha this week when it was discovered that the ex-girlfriend of the Conservative federal minister of foreign affairs had previously been involved with two Hells Angels, one of whom had been murdered. Once identified, she was quoted in the paper as saying that the media had ruined her life.

Her life is ruined because her affairs with three past boyfriends have been made public? I'm confused. It does not appear she is still involved with the biker world, and in any case, she has no criminal record. At this point, I will also refrain from making comment as to whether she has really stopped cavorting with members of organized crime, or just moved on to better dressed ones.

But has this really ruined her life? I'm thinking she's a little thin-skinned. She might have a tough time finding a date for a few weeks, or longer among the "Google your new girlfriend" crowd, but otherwise, the world will have forgotten about her quickly enough.

As for me, I pondered whether revealing my past relationships would "ruin my life." I thought back, and I Googled, since I'm no longer in contact with any of them. Let's see:

Throughout my teenage years, I was involved on and off with R, a young rebel who dropped out of school, played in a punk band and did and sold drugs. Not the kind to bring home to daddy. I eventually grew up enough to walk away unscathed. Something I'm proud of? Absolutely not. Ruin my life? Not in a million years. And today? Surprisingly, still alive. Not so surprisingly, still rebelling, still in a nowhere punk band.

Moving on to S, whom I met in cegep. Well-mannered, clean cut, slight mama's boy tendencies (but don't tell him that.) Lasted a bit over a year, ended because, well, we were still teenagers and I was having a hard time dealing with his jealous streak. Ruin my life? Nope. Today? Masters in geology, working as an analyst. Sounds square enough.

Then C, one of the kindest souls I've met. Still not entirely sure why I broke up with him, apart from maybe sheer boredom, needing to explore the world some more. He's got a terribly common name which makes him hard to track down online; in fact, I never found him. I did stay in touch with him for a few years afterwards, so by my count, he is probably some kind of entrepreneur, like his dad, and living in the house he built with his wife in suburbia. Maybe a kid or two. Ruin my life? No way. Made it better, in fact.

Then G, which may have been an attempt to recapture what was lost with R. Best body I ever dated, though. Found him on Facebook; he's still in contact with quite a few of his high school buddies. My guess is he still jams on weekends with his pals, and he works some nondescript job that pays the bills. He was never the ambitious type. Ruin my life? Don't think so.

Then L, the most conventional guy I ever dated. I still can't figure out how our relationship ever got off the ground. Only time I ever got dumped. After a SF (sympathy @#$%) too, which I still haven't forgiven (him or me.) Another one with a common name; couldn't find him online, which is odd, 'cause he used to work in computer systems. Ruin my life? Nope. Today? Probably the ex-wife, house, kid every other weekend. Standard suburbia again.

And lastly Pat, with whom I have been for ten years. I believe my current relationship deserves more privacy than my past, so I won't go on about us too much, except to say he's had my back through a lot, for which I am grateful.

All of this to say that I can't imagine how past relationships can ruin your life. Break your heart, yup, make you stronger, for sure, but to ruin your life requires your consent. Live and learn.

(674)

food, animation and childhood

Sometimes, not getting what you want reveals lovely surprises. Now, most people who know me realize I am an avowed dessert junkie. After lunch today, I returned to the cafeteria for a little sweet to get me through the afternoon on a day when the warm sunny outside world beckons and work is tough going. I looked at the oatmeal cookies – overbaked. (I like mine light and chewy.) The other cookies? Ditto. No chocolate pudding. Not in the mood for Jell-O. So that left me with a single option: butterscotch pudding. The prospect didn’t immediately thrill my mind, but my taste buds sang from the moment the first spoonful touched my tongue. Songs of childhood and days gone by, of mother’s love and after-school snacks. Yummy. Its creamy smoothness contrasts nicely with a cup of strong hot coffee, too.

I guess I’m just feeling a little nostalgic these days, what with translating a text about how marketing can bank on nostalgia, and mother’s day being just around the corner. Also, there’s a new release out on DVD this week: a double-disk compilation of episodes of La Linea, Italian animated shorts from the seventies.

It took until last year to figure out what the show was actually called; I had always referred to it as “monsieur Bayou Badou”, after the first seconds of the theme music. I still imitated how he would stretch once the pencil had completed his outline, before taking off down the line. Funny, then, to learn that he was called “Balou” in some parts of Europe and “Badum Badum” in Slovenia – without words, a lot of us naturally converged on the same principle!

Once I had figured it out, it was right over to YouTube for a session of concentrated linearity. (Isn’t it marvelous how easy it becomes to find something online once you know what it’s actually called?) But I’m still going to invest in the DVD. Or splurge, whatever. Besides, it’s a healthier form of nostalgia than butterscotch pudding!

(334)

gaggle gaggle gaggle

Haven’t seen any geese fly by in the past week or so, even though I’ve been walking more often. Tuesday morning, I must have seen close to three hundred, by my count. Some low-flying, others high in the sky, some silent, some honking steadily, perhaps to encourage their followers to flap in sync…some in such perfect formation, they looked like a dotted line across the morning sky…some in multi-branching structures, like scruffy bushes. Or most bureaucracies, lacking the overall vision to streamline effectively. But I digress.

I thought that was probably the last bunch I'd see, but no, a couple more flew by this morning. But not enough to constitute a gaggle. I don't know how many geese constitute a gaggle, but in my mind a gaggle is more than I saw this morning. That was an extended family, at best.

I like the word "gaggle."

(146)

annoying ads

I probably watch too much TV. Once in a while, there are ads that, for one reason or another, drive me up the wall. For the purposes of this discussion, I will avoid the interminable Subway ads that come on at every WWE commercial break.

First, the latest Bowflex ad is driving me up the wall. To Brian Alvarez, the cocky @#$% who says he gave his fat clothes to his fat friends, and that his wife gives him a little wink now and then, I say this:

1. I hope one of your fat friends sits on you until you say uncle. Then sits on you some more anyway.
2. Your wife only gives you a wink now and then because she’s probably @#$%ing one of your fat friends…you now, one of those nice guys, not one of those arrogant know-it-alls that probably now watches every calorie she ingests.

Another ad I need to comment on is GM Canada’s “Cars Gone Wild/Trucks Gone Wild” event. This one aggravates me, not by how unbelievably bad it is, but how unbelievably boring it is considering the material they were working with.

Now, I don’t know about you, but merely seeing cars and trucks taking curves on closed streets and hearing about the great deals GM has for consumers doesn’t do it for me. That’s not in the spirit of “Gone Wild” by any stretch of the imagination.

I want to see flashing headlights, open hoods, open trunks, preferably with shock absorber action, maybe some “come hither” wheel spinning…and, of course, airbags! What a missed opportunity.

(260)

feeling much better now

It would appear that my recent upset and frustration and general yuckiness is actually quite widespread amongst my peers. So I can now take a deep breath and at least find solace in the fact that we all share the same pain.

Unfortunately, I still haven't had time to sit down and really pull together the material for that post that's been simmering on my back burner; since I really want to do the subject justice, it will have to wait a little bit longer.

Funny how frustration, in this case, really dried the well up.

Wednesday in six, then: Margaritas and friends make things better.

Thursday, in eight: At least we're good for a laugh.

grrrrrrrrrrr

There I was, all psyched up to come home from school and write up a great post. Then I had words with the teacher and I'm still seething. Seeing as one of the reasons I'm so pissed is that I fell into the trap of arguing with her when I had sworn to myself I would remain quiet, it has completely taken the speech (or writing) out of me.

So, for today: Shut up. Repeat eleven more times.

the cats

I said I would start doodling again, and here are the results of last night's The Ultimate Fighter and TNA Impact, so about 3 hours of highly interrupted work:

They are all portraits of the same cat (Rey Rey, or Timmy) sleeping on my lap, except the one on the bottom left, which is of another cat (Big Red, or Orange) sleeping flat on top of the sofa.

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more art

I've been perusing the "blogs of note" archive, and I've found two more that struck my fancy. Both are art-based. They also sent me scrambling back to the Sketchbook Month blog, too. Mmmmmmm, yummy graphic goodness.

The Post-It Project

Papiers Collés

They also make me think my blog, even though it was started as a tool to help me develop discipline in writing, could stand a little more of my own art. I tend to be a really jill-of-all-trades-kinda-have-my-nose-in-all-kinds-of-different-things kind of person, and my blog doesn't really reflect that. Yet.

Something I have learned from the Post-It Project, though, is that I do actually suffer from "blank page syndrome"...not in writing, but in graphic arts. (I do mostly drawing, with some painting/multimedia stuff thrown in for variety.) And I am convinced it is a question of confidence. My drawings, when they do escape my brain, are small and timid. Now that that has reached my conscious mind, though, I'll try to work on it. Post-Its beware :D

As with my bio, more to come.

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my feather header

I got to talking with Pat about the header of my blog earlier today. I had been slightly annoyed that the first time I had showed it to him, he had been fairly dismissive about it. But it turns out he went back to it and thought it was pretty cool.

So I showed him the original I had drawn, then scanned and Photoshopped into the result you see above. He was actually quite enthusiastic about my drawing, not even really believing I had drawn it. So, let the record show here, the original scanned version of my feather:

It was just a rapid sketch, really, just black Sharpie on the bottom of an already used page in a full sketchbook. I wasn't entirely thrilled with it, especially the text, so I figured I'd clean it up with Photoshop a little. Now, those skills being what they are, I fiddled around with the filters until I found something I thought was pretty neat, the "angled strokes" version:

It was only once I uploaded it that I realized a black feather on a white background on a black blog background was just, well, iffy; it didn't flow with the rest. So that's when I further investigated the funkier aspects of Photoshop filters to come up with the more or less final version you see above.

I'm not saying it's a final final; I may have more ideas down the line.

I've looked at a lot of templates and backgrounds, only to always come back to the concept that I want my blog to be totally unique; this is not the greatest art out there, by any stretch of the imagination, but it is mine.

BTW, every time I open Photoshop CS2 (at home) or CS3 (at work), there's always a list of credits on the opening screen, which alternate from one time to the next. I can't help but smile every time I find the name of MeMe Rasmussen pop up; I can't help it, it's a great name! I'm not even sure if it's mister or missus! So, wherever you are, MeMe, hats off to you for making my day...

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on candy

On one of the “blogs of note”, Scribbit, there was an entry on candy. It was a delightdul little bit that brought back memories and showed some nifty stuff too (check out that gummy bear candelabra!) Overall, however, I can’t say I share the author’s tastes in candy, apart from a few notable exceptions, such as RPBC and Twix bars (but I wouldn’t go as far as she does in my appreciation of the latter.)

On candy, then:

My memories connect candy and chocolates to events and to people. Grandmas always have candy at the ready, don’t they? And I've left behind a lot of candy that I've "outgrown", like the phases in my life.

My first independent shopping experiences involved candy. And cigarettes. Yep, you read that right, smokes. Back in the day, when minors were allowed to do a whole bunch of stuff that is verboten today, there were no age restrictions on buying cigarettes. Every other weekend, my aunt would come over for the weekend. (Inversely, we went to her place the weekends in between.) She smoked Peter Jackson cigarettes; as soon as I was old enough to walk to the corner store on my own, she would give me money to run that particular errand for her. I clearly remember that a pack of Peter Jackson’s was $2.50. She would always give me $3.00, which meant a 50-cent tip every time.

Now, we often had chocolate at our house, so this money usually went to hardcore sugar concoctions. I occasionally strayed to those little sprinkle-coated chocolate “pennies” (that were actually 2 cents a pop), or those powder-filled fruit thingies, or banana-flavoured popsicles when the weather was right, but my habitual shopping list went as follows:

- 1 pack of Fun-Dip – grape and orange flavours – price 15 cents
- 1 pack of Fun-Dip – lime and cherry flavours – price 15 cents
- 1 pack of Sweet Tarts – grape flavour – price 10 cents
- 1 pack of Sweet Tarts – cherry flavour – price 10 cents

Thank goodness for O-Pee-Chee!

Which brings me to celebrate another great creation, this one from Wonka, of which I have written about before: I love Nerds! Just about any flavour, too…and it’s even better when they clump together into mega-Nerds that are tough to shake out of the little square opening in the top of the box! They used to be a luxury item at 35 cents a pop, and that price has since more than doubled…but I still splurge once in a while, usually in the summer, when you think back to days of youth when keeping busy throughout your vacation was your biggest challenge.

I developed a taste for raspberries and gummy bears in high school. Then I tasted gummy bears in Germany, where each colour actually tastes something different, and I haven’t been able to have regular, indistinguishable North American gummy bears since.

I don’t really like jelly beans. Never have. But one of my best “coaches” (he refused to let us call him “boss”) had a Jelly Belly dispenser on his desk, so it became a staple during meetings. Every one on the team had favourite flavours, and there was very little overlap – another sure sign we were a great team.

Then they fired the boss (he took his dispenser with him) and broke up the team, and I don’t think I’ve had jelly beans since (this was 2006.) But I still think of him when I see Jelly Bellys, particularly the Orange Sorbet ones. They were his favourite.

I have fond memories of splitting tins of Quality Street chocolates and toffees with my mom and dad around Xmas time. Like three kids at Halloween, we called dibs on our favourites; again, there was little overlap – or was someone just being nice to their kid?

Here was the breakdown: Dad had the flavoured chocolates (orange creme, strawberry creme), no contest. Mom had all the light green triangles; looking it up, they were chocolate noisette pâté…I had the toffee pennies, the toffee fingers…those are the ones that stand out: I think a combination of who stayed up late and sheer gluttony determined who got the other kinds!

I just read that Quality Street were among Saddam Hussein’s favourites. Well, that’s just…ugh. I haven’t had Quality Streets since my mom passed away anyhow, and now, I really don’t think I will again.

Speaking of Xmas chocolate, I hate mint, but once a year, at some holiday party or other, I will have After Eight squares, or their later stick form, just because it’s the holidays. And I will enjoy them thoroughly.

My mom always used to buy those little boxes of Neilsen’s chocolates – rosebuds and macaroons. I used to empty the former when I was really young, but my taste migrated to the latter by the end of grade school. I don’t think I’ve had rosebuds since…at least, not when there are macaroons to be had.

I remember MacIntosh toffee, how hard it was and how it stuck to your teeth and how yummy it all was. Haven’t had that in ages, either.

I discovered Turtles in late adolescence and haven’t looked back. It may be the only kind of widely-available chocolates that still truly thrill me at Valentine’s Day.

OK, enough for now…I’ll post on chocolate bars at a later date.

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gods and godesses and high school, oh my

I think I’ve pretty much settled on which story I will develop into my NaNoWriMo novel. The next step is to collect all the scrap pieces of paper on which I wrote down story arcs, character names, relationships, and other plot twists, and begin to pull them into a slightly more formalized structure. Maybe this weekend, depending on the weather, the progress of my homework and whether I’m still being left in the lurch for more entertaining pastimes. Or pastures. Whatever.

Of course, the weather seems to be cooperating, but I still have homework to do, as well as a little freelance assignment that just popped up. We’ll see.

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now imagine my brain on drugs

I had my first class of the spring term this evening.

Our professor came in, wearing a beige blouse, with a floral pattern of darker gold, pastel yellow, dusty rose and two shades of green. Which perfectly matches the dusty rose wall behind her, the chalkboard, the beige walls, the corkboard, the yellow notice on the bulletin board and the chair backs. It was really all I could focus on for the first half hour or so. I tell you, it's been rough going at the office lately!

By the end of class, all I was thinking was, "One down, twelve to go." And then my Buddha chant flooded my mind: shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up. I will try real hard to apply that wisdom next class.

On the other hand, I had a few really good ideas about my NaNoWriMo story on the train home. I guess being tired lets the good kind of weird ideas float to the surface...

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brain exercises

I've been having a tough time at work this week, so I did a few little "random word" exercises to loosen up over lunch. Yes, playing with words and being creative is actually more helpful than say, stepping away from the computer, as sad as that may seem. For the uninitiated, I try to string together five words picked at random from the dictionary into a mini-story. So here's the fruit of today's calisthenics:

ochre / soundman / constitutional / huddle / leafage

The policy makers and national leaders converged on the upscale secluded retreat for a series of scheming thinly disguised as constitutional debate. They huddled in small groups in the mansion’s many rooms, hatching plans and conspiring against the other liberal cliques and conservative factions, oblivious to everything around them, as the surrounding thicket’s leafage burst into autumnal colour, from the mildest ochre to the deepest red, and as an undercover CBC soundman, posing as a humble, tuxedoed waiter, recorded every word that was uttered.

crossbreed / hulk / jurisdiction / pistol / sliver

The hulk of a man pounced on him and they tumbled to the ground. The youngster
quickly realized he would be on the losing end of this particular fight. He regained a sliver of hope when he managed to free his right arm and quickly drew his 9mm semi-automatic pistol. Startled, the big guy rolled off him and stood up, unsure how to restore the balance of power that had just tipped in his disfavour. He wasn’t in his jurisdiction anymore; in fact, he’d been stripped of his turf for introducing a new crossbred variety of weed that enhanced both the buzz and the ensuing physical addiction; its popularity left all other suppliers in the dust, and even a couple of dealers of the harder shit complained. He’d always been radical, even among the ranks of organized crime. And now, he’d made a lot of people real angry.

bureaucratic / cattle call / converse / mellow / pen

It was a cattle call, to put it mildly. Anyone and everyone who had ever even given a thought to acting were lined up, in the hopes of being the next big thing. People conversed uneasily in line, wondering if the person before them would rob them of their dream. The closer you got to the front of the line, the more palpable the tension became; the bureaucratic system set up to register the auditioning slowed things to a crawl, and generally just made things worse. But there she stood, calm, mellow even, almost in a trance, in the midst of increasingly jittery blondes, fake and real; someone had finally penned the screenplay for Anna Nicole Smoth’s biopic and, damnit, that role was hers.

busybody / Dictaphone / Samoyed / twenty / instinctive

She had always been on the go, barely even slowing down to sleep; meals were always consumed while doing something else. She had also always been a busybody, and half the things she did in a day weren’t hers to handle to begin with. But she would never admit to such an outrageous claim; she simply did what needed to be done for the good of the company. That she was slowly killing herself in the process was irrelevant. That she needed to keep a digital Dictaphone handy to keep track of her endless to-do lists was merely a fact of life. That, some twenty years on, she would adopt a Samoyed from the local pound was an aberration, unless one considers how his deep instinctive drive to run and pull and herd perfectly matched her own.

Wednesday in six: Walked twelve point three kilometres today.

Thursday: Translating without understanding is utterly painful.

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