Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Giggle... but I'm just a girl



Think it would be a simple process, no?
It would be had I some testes.
But, alas, I do not, and therefore, in attempting to price out a set of snow tires and rims for my vehicle, I discovered that indeed, we have not come a long way, baby.
Four shops to call — three went without a hitch. And wouldn’t you know it, the only shop that I found difficulty dealing with was also the only shop at which a woman answered the phone.
Same question posed to all four shops: “I’m trying to price out a set of snow tires and wheels for my car. What have you got?”
All the answers came back, a marginal variation in price, but not much.
And then the final call, and the woman answering the phone sounded confused: “Do you want tires and wheels,” she asked.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Alright, I’ll call you back.”
About 10 minutes later, true to her word she calls and quotes a figure that is about half the cost of the other shops.
“That doesn’t include wheels, does it,” I ask her.
“That’s just tires,” she said.
“I need wheels,” I remind her.
“I’ll call you back with that,” and click, she hangs up.
Then, upon returning from lunch break I see the voicemail light flash, flash, flashing red.
Instead of the confused female voice, it is a male’s voice; Al’s to be exact.
And sitting down at the desk, phone perched against my ear, I listen to him dither on for a good four minutes, explaining to me that, indeed, wheels and rims are the same thing, and that I’ll need tires if I’m to purchase them. Do I have tires, he wondered.
Just another day in the life of a person without testes.
Now I can boast that A. I know the difference between tires and wheels, and B. I know the shop in which I’ll never spend money.
Thanks, tips.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

How much to lease a hankie?

Window-shopping rarely makes me cry.
Scratch that. The only time window-shopping makes me cry is if it is conducted in front of a bakery. That much delicious cake in one location can make the toughest grown woman weep, for shizzle.
But, for the most part, window-shopping is relatively harmless. Often one doesn’t even recognize they’re doing it. Like bum-looking. Apparently I have a problem. Apparently I am a compulsive bum looker. But that’s another story for another day.
Today, however, window-shopping became painful. A lump developed in the throat, the eyes started to cloud — similar to the reaction I have to every episode of Friday Night Lights. Good show.
Leaving the gym this morning I happened to peek into the porthole of easyhome. For those who are unaware, easyhome is a store in which you can lease furniture and appliances. The store’s motto explains it all: Easyhome — get exactly what you want, for as long as you want.
Treat the dining room set as a car, drive it for a while, spill spaghetti on the seat cushions, make sweet, sweet love on its top, whatever. And then, when the terms of the lease are through, you just bring it right on back, trade up so to speak, and get that new table, the fancy one. Maybe this time you can afford the pine instead of the particle board. Taking it back makes so much sense. Think of the cash you’ll save on Lysol wipes, for one.
So, that dining room set will cost you maybe 30-bucks a month and after 72 months you might actually be able to buy it out. Think of the savings!
The reason this wandering and sweaty journalist nearly began to weep in the window was because she spotted something so pathetic, more pathetic than the dining room table, the child’s bunk bed, the microfibre sectional. What this reporter saw was large and shiny, had giant speakers and a fancy, colourful display. It was a home stereo and you could lease it for the low, low price of $7 per month.
SEVEN DOLLARS!
You can’t even buy a foot long sub from subway for $7, but you could have your very own (leased) stereo, pumping the tunes through your leased apartment. But wait; do they lease the CDs too? Nope, but they lease computers so you can download tunes illegally and then listen to them on your leased stereo.
Who are these people who lease stereos? I don’t even understand the purpose of leasing a couch when you can just go to the Brick and buy one without making a payment on it UNTIL 2009!!! Why lease a couch when you can have one for free UNTIL 2009?
I do understand the need for a couch. It’s impossible to welcome couch surfers into your home without one, and it’s tough eating in front of the leased TV if you don’t have a place to park your butt. And speaking of butt, if you lease a couch and use it frequently, it’ll stop perverts like me from staring at your derrière.
But do you need the stereo? Really? Damn that shiznit makes me sad.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Tacky, as in sticky, as in I hate some people


Cat paw prints on a clean car.
Bullet holes.
A golf ball protruding through a rear window.
All of these things are, apparently, frigging hilarious.
Why are people spending thousands of dollars on their cars and then bedecking them with ridiculous adhesives? Wouldn’t the golf ball detract from the overall look of the pricy minivan? The bullet holes take away from the shine of the $70,000 diesel truck? The cat paws dim the glow on that glorious electric blue PT Cruiser?
What’s next? I’ll tell you what’s next. I’m in the process of designing a Wash Me sticker, it’ll be big and scribbly, and it will look like it has been authentically, digitally scrawled into equally authentic-looking grime.
Then, I’m going to get the patent for a bird crap sticker. And this won’t be any bird crap, this will be bald eagle-sized crap, maybe even great blue heron-sized, falling-from-about-3,000-feet crap. Oh, maybe I’ll also get the birds-eating-cherries crap, and you can buy dozens of the little suckers and coat your car with them. Hilarious.
Then, just for kicks, I’m going to get that drove-the-Coquihalla-mid-winter, rock chip for you to put right smack in the middle of the windshield.
I’m literally dying laughing.
Once I’ve perfected these stickers, I might move on up to the vomit sticker, you know, the night out with the buddies, and thank god I rolled down the window sticker.
And after that who knows. I’ve been discussing the idea of an overall road dust sticker. Trouble is, you actually need to wash the vehicle so the adhesive sticks properly.
There’s always the possibility of the parked-under-a-really-sappy-tree sticker, and the hit by the snowplow sticker, but those have to be worked on by a team of scientists. Ideally those add-ons would be texturized so as to give an authentic representation.
But before that, there might be the parked-too-close-to-the-buggy-rack-at-Superstore sticker — imagine this, a nice white streak of paint to strategically place along the front bumper. People will stop to look, they won’t even be able to stand straight it’ll be so funny. They’ll actually ache for four days after laughing at that sticker. What an ab workout.
Finally, as the piece de resistance there will be the ticked-off-some-guy’s-girlfriend-who-got-drunk-and-keyed-obsenities-into-the-hood-of-the-car sticker.
By the time I’m done, people will wonder why they ever bothered with the Garfield tails stuck in the closed car doors. They’ll marvel at the fact actually had the audacity to place the I Break For Bingo bumper stickers on their rears.
It’s all about stickers people, and since there’s no cure for tacky, I’ll likely make a mint.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

S-s-scaredy cat



Leaning over the knife block pondering which one to choose, I might have thought I was being ridiculous.
I might have considered the task I had set out for myself was a stupid one.
But that didn’t stop me from pawing at the handles, lifting one up, then another before carefully replacing them all and hefting out the sharpener. Good for impaling eyes, I thought, but iffy. Better off going with the butcher knife—wider handle and less persnickety when it comes to inflicting damage. I’ve seen what it can do to a turkey breast.
The butcher knife went back into the slotted block too, though, when I realized with a sigh that indeed, I could not gut a man. Not even if he was big, hairy and smelled bad.
Like the whimpering woman in the horror flick I would stand before him in my transparent cotton nightie chilled by his hulking shadow, and as I struck out with the knife my hand would tremor, belying my fear, my weakness. And he’d snatch the knife from my slick grip and laugh his awful, sand and gravel filled evil laugh.
And I would die there, humiliated, cold and predictable.
So the knife block remained well stocked as I hunted up another, less obvious weapon in the armory that is my parent’s kitchen.
Second drawer from the top I found it. I’ve used it to form the base for gingerbread men, I’ve used it to hammer bread into crumbs, I’ve used it as a makeshift microphone.
Alas, as I brought it to my nose and inhaled deeply, smelling the beginnings of a pie, I knew I might not be able to stab a man, but I could certainly rolling pin him to death. Back off, bastard, or I’ll flatten you.
And so, as I hefted that splinter-filled braining tool from its comfortable drawer, felt its familiar weight in my hands, I shrugged off the thought that, indeed, I was being ridiculous, that a girl is better off being safe and predictable than armed with only baking tools and an imagination, but that rolling pin found its way down the hall toward the bedroom in my white-knuckled grip.
But what led to this foray into the kitchen armory, you ask?
It was an unremarkable Wednesday, hump day for some, just a Wednesday for this married gal living single while house sitting her vacationing parent’s abode.
A long day at work complete she arrived in the family driveway tired and not a little sick at heart, knowing her beloved hubby was far from this place.
But she has belonged to this home since birth. Like a well-loved blankie, the sight of it is comfort; it is the mushroom soup and grilled cheese sandwich of real estate. Sweat pants, a tattered t-shirt and an hour with Oprah were in store for this working gal. Sounds sad and pathetic to some, idyllic to this plain Jane.
The cat rushed out to greet her as she strode, thoughtless up the walk. Her key went in the lock as usual; zombie like, she strode to the alarm panel to enter her code.
But wait. What’s that noise? The panel is beep, beep, beeping a strange tune. Something is wrong.
She enters her code and the beeping stops, but not before she glances at the panel and it reads: “Alarm triggered. Zone 4.”
Glancing around, the now alert plain Jane sucks in a breath, not knowing where the hell Zone 4 is, but knowing deep, deep, deep in her heart that it should not have been triggered.
She grabs for the phone, dials the alarm guy, is put on hold. All operators are busy. Wait your damn turn potential robbery victim.
Eventually the operator comes on and echoes that indeed Zone 4 has been breached. It happened about an hour ago, and no, she too is clueless about the mysterious location of this violated zone.
So, armed with nothing but a psychotic real life kitty, the fraidy cat winds through the house, checking windows, doors, glancing left, right, left, right again. Under beds she peaks, then behind shower curtains. Everything is locked, safe. Nothing touched, save the back garage door which is unlocked and partially ajar.
A scary place in the broad daylight without the fear of attackers lurking in the shadow of a dusty drill press, fraidy cat quickly slams the door, locks it, runs into the house, locks that door behind her, too.
Cat and phone in trembling hands she stops. She keeps hearing the same refrain: “The call’s coming from inside the house…”
She makes dinner undisturbed, watches a muted television, always listening for the creak of the steps, the heavy breathing, and her nose is tuned in to smell the evil before it bears down on her.
Then bedtime, and here I am, feet cold on the linoleum, eyes fixed on the knife block.
Rolling pin as my bedmate, I lay, carefully scrawl a journal entry — perhaps the last. Date it. Close the book.
And as I turn off the bedside lamp, I grip the alarm panic button to my chest and steady myself for a long, long night ahead.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

One red kazoo



I’ve never actually tasted it.
That said, Old English malt liquor, henceforth to be referred to as OE so as not to confuse those familiar with rap music, has made more than one appearance in my life.
According to Wikipedia, the source I tend to pilfer from for all my “accurate” information, malt liquor, “because of its relatively high alcohol content and low price, is popular among those on a tight budget wanting to become drunk quickly.”
And this is why malt liquor has never crossed my delicate palate. I don’t abstain because I am a sophisticate, rather, I am, perhaps, the only person you’ll ever know who can easily begin slurring after a half a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer.
But what if it tastes great, I wonder. What if Wikipedia has it all wrong, and what if the appeal isn’t the alcohol content, but rather, the exquisite bouquet, the alluring aftertaste, the hint of oak.
What if?
And though I don’t typically spend my day considering the potential of OE, I did today.
Why?
Because as I looked out my now famous window to the world, I spotted our usual working girl, getting ready for a long shift. She had showered and looked clean, her hair was braided and her clothes looked new, if not stylish.
As I sat, gazing out to space in her direction, I spotted a massive glass bottle in her hand, nearly drained.
About a half-inch of yellowish liquid rolled around in the bottle’s basement. Almost gone.
But then duty called, and, presumably needing both hands for the job, she looked left and right. Seeing no cup holder, no coaster, no travel mug, the lady of the night (and day) marched across to the bark mulch filled boulevard bordering the building and planted her bottle in the dirt. Wedged in there nice and tight, perhaps hoping it would sprout in the time it took to get the job done, she hopped in the waiting truck and was off.
And, seeing how she had not returned for the yellowish liquid, and curious to see if the OE had sprouted, I marched outside.
Down I looked toward the recyclable garden, and there it sat, proud and mostly empty.
And right beside is a red kazoo.
Perhaps the homeless and the drug addicted and the downtrodden have the right idea. Perhaps we don’t need the fancy drinks, the fancy toys, the gadgets and the gizmos.
Perhaps everything you need for a really good time was right in front of you all along.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Miss Congeniality



What a great morning. Every morning I play a little game called Count the Garbage Left by Homeless People/Working Girls.
It's fun to play, but really, no one wins.
Here’s a list I’ve developed so far, and keep in mind, I’ve only played the game for a week:
• One left ankle boot, brown
• One blood trail, ending at top of steps
• Half dozen tiny Ziploc bags
• Three broken Bic lighters
• One bloody t-shirt looks to be size small. Logo on front endorses Bulldog Boxing. Angry bulldog
• Eight large Slurpie cups
• One, six-inch long PVC tube. Well used.
Again, it’s only been a week. This morning, I spotted an actual homeless person/working girl under the awning, and no, I’m not cruel enough to add her to my list. She was carrying what looked to be a piece of metal from a kid’s swing set and had her hair done up like Anne of Green Gables in Anne of Green Gables, The Sequel — you know, all puffy on top. Quite becoming actually.
She was crouched behind some shrubbery near the front door, and I looked over, surprised to see her, and said “Hello,” with a smile.
“Well hello Miss America,” she grumbled in return.
What a great morning.
Indeed, in this game no one wins. Not even Miss America.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Quick thinking



According to my resume I’m a great “problem solver," I can “think on my feet.”
Not true.
This morning I found I am not a great problem solver. In fact, I cannot think on my feet at any point, as evidenced by a rather distressing morning commute through the Tim Hortons drive thru.
Sigh.
As a treat, one day each week I’ll make the point of setting aside a couple of toonies for a coffee and a bagel — or if I’m feeling like a real risk taker, I’ll go for a breakfast sandwich. Mmmm breakfast sandwich.
This morning was one of those mornings. I got to the drive thru, which was, shock of shocks, virtually empty.
“This would be a grand morning indeed,” my freshly showered self thought to my freshly showered self.
When I got to the order microphone I verbalized my request for a coffee, with two cream one sugar, and a toasted everything bagel with plain cream cheese.
Delish.
But that’s where the good part of the story ends, and the plot twist begins.
Arriving at the window to accept the goodies in exchange for the coins, the order-taker girl hesitated, and with a bit of a gap-toothed stammer, said: “We’re all out of everything bagels, will an onion bagel do?”
Gack! No, of course an onion bagel won’t do! And though I screwed up my face in response to her statement, could I think of any other bagel flavour as a substitute? As the cars piled up behind me, could I even consider saying “no, cinnamon raison, please,” or “cheese please,” or even, “plain please?”
No, of course I couldn’t think of any of those equally delicious flavours. I couldn’t think of anything except how poor a substitute an onion bagel would be for an everything bagel. In fact, all I could think of was the fact that the onion in the everything bagel was the weakest link.
And so I said, “yeah, sure,” took my foul smelling bagel and drove off.
So, no, I cannot think on my feet, and I am not an adept problem solver. And now I have to rush out to the store to buy gum because my onion breath is killing me.
Happy friggin Monday.

Friday, May 25, 2007

And in comes spring

Apparently spring isn’t the annual event I considered it to be.
As it happens, spring, which comes regularly enough in other parts of British Columbia, has never trod upon Maple Ridge.
Tucked along the Fraser River, nestled quaintly between Mission to the east, and other, larger cities to the west, this community has quietly and uncomplainingly gone without spring.
But in 2007 spring came knocking, and the citizens of this fair community were more than willing to answer the door.
This is the only possible scenario I can come up with to explain the phone calls that have been pouring in through the editor’s desk this week.
On Wednesday morning, I ambled into the office, and as like any morning, the first task is to drink coffee. The second? Check the voicemail.
No. 1 on the voicemail was a sweet sounding man who called with breaking news: “I’ve got a beautiful azalea bush blooming right against the side of my house. It’s just gorgeous. Someone ought to get here quick to take a photo,” he said, listing his address, phone number and name.
The following day, a Thursday and production day here at the paper another kindly sounding man called up.
This time it was a wisteria bush. And golly was it amazing.
“Come and see for yourself,” he urged, further warning that it might be difficult to shoot the brilliant petals, not because they’re bashful, but because they’re mauve. Mauve, the gentleman warned, is probably a difficult colour to capture on film.
Hmmm, never thought about it.
When I asked him to take the photo and send it in he declined. This one, he said, was better left to a professional.
Finally, on a brilliant Friday morning, I ambled in to the desk once more and this time opted to check the email prior to checking the voicemail. A girl’s got to switch things up.
There, staring back at me was a lovely picture (above), submitted by a very nice looking woman who is, as she ought to be, intensely proud of her bush.
Spring has sprung folks, and I can’t wait for harvest season, when the giant potatoes, tomatoes, watermelons and sunflowers will be pouring in.
Now if only a sow could deliver a two-aheaded piglet, my life would be complete.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Hey Brother




Brothers are gross.
It’s true.
All brothers must agree, that, indeed, they are gross.
A large portion of their lives has been devoted to perfecting their foulness. They’ve mastered the art of burping and blowing it into the faces of little girls.
At the dinner table.
When nobody’s looking.
They’ve mastered the art of farting on their little sister’s pillow. Perhaps not at the dinner table, but just as she’s set to go to bed, bear clutched in her shaking and useless fist.
Again, he does this when nobody looks on but the frustrated child who will forever remember the brother’s cruelty and wait, patiently, until she can use it against him as he grows older.
Being a sister I am familiar with the grossness of brothers. Comparing notes with friends, I realized I had it pretty good, all things considered.
While gross, my brother was also a fraidy cat. Petrified of the wrath of the father, he would torment, certainly, but with one shriek from the little sister, one cry of alarm or frustration, the parentals would come running to the defense.
He plotted his torture carefully.
He’d go for weeks without being gross at all, and would change up his tactics so as to drive one mad rather than make one physically ill.
For weeks he’d subsist on hovering over the sister, standing before her on the couch and daring her to stand up.
When she’d try, he’d push her back down. Try again, back down she goes. Having no patience for homework or mowing the lawn, this brother would stand before his sister for what seemed like days. Pleading with him never worked, nor did bribes. He stood with a menacing grin over her — his shadow making her shiver — but he would not budge. Up she stands, back down she goes.
Until dad came home.
For one whole summer the brother took up a new torture. Every time his sister would walk past, he would jab at her sides, right up in that tender spot right above the pelvic bone.
The sister became so conditioned to expect the abuse that, by summer’s end she was jerking away before even being accosted. To this day, she takes a wide berth from her brother, and jumps back whenever her husband stretches out his hands in the direction of her waist.
On comparing gross notes with a friend, however, it could have been worse.
Not only was this friend someone’s sister, but she had TWO brothers. And the oldest wasn’t afraid of anything.
She recalls being pinned down on the basement floor while her brother launched loogies out of his putrid mouth, dangling his snotty saliva milimetres from her upturned face. If she struggled too much she ran the risk of that pendulum of goo landing square on her forehead — or worse. He’d dangle it there, then suck it back up. Dangle it some more, suck it up.
It never ended well.
The same brother spent half an afternoon chasing his little sister around and around the house with a salamander skewered on a nail, threatening to make her eat it.
And, as a child, there’s really no differentiating between levels of gross — dead salamander or dripping gob of mucus. It’s all one and the same.
Another friend, another sister, recounted her story of a sweaty teenaged brother who trapped her in a sticky headlock for what seemed like hours.
Stuck there, years younger and several dozen pounds lighter, she had to endure his stench. The scars carry forward to this day.
Fact is, brothers are gross, and they don’t become any less so as they age. Sure, they stop blowing burp breath into people’s faces, and they begin farting at more appropriate times and in more appropriate places.
But memories of their grossness remain carefully chiseled into their sister’s minds.
So, when a woman steps up and says she plans to marry this aforementioned brother, willingly commits to living with him, farts and all, it seems bizarre, somewhat sad and not a little bit crazy.
This sister is befuddled. When the announcement was made, she shook her head in disbelief, and asked the sweet-mannered woman “Why?”
“You know he smells bad, right?”
While I’m happy for the loving couple, I’m still confused. Skeptical.
But then again, someone married the loogie brother. God help her.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Time to stop looking away

We’ve all seen them. And we’ve all walked away, given a wide berth, crossed the street.
We’ve all shut our eyes.
Sometimes they’re smelly, and passing by would offend our senses. Sometimes they’re loud, loquacious, offending our sense of propriety.
Sometimes they do nothing but sit, looking vacantly ahead. We know something is wrong with them, so we turn our gaze, glance beyond them, and then forget about it, forget about them.
Or at least, that’s usually how it works.
Sometimes, however, one grabs your attention
The other morning a colleague walked in, mentioning that she had seen one of them. She hadn’t turned her head away from the sight, she’d looked straight on.
And what she saw upset her.
On her way to work, traveling east on the Lougheed Highway this colleague saw a woman who had planted herself in the dirt, in the boulevard outside the Salvation Army’s Caring Place shelter.
That woman looked to be about 40, but she could have been so much younger — it’s not always easy to gauge, as life comes and goes rather quickly for some, and the years mark themselves on their faces more readily than it does on yours and mine.
Planted there, in this boulevard, rather than sink into the muck, the woman riled against it. Grabbing handfuls of soil, she chucked it heartily toward the roadway, cursing it, giving it hell.
There was no one on the sidewalk to bear the brunt of the attack. The only ones to see were those held safe inside the confines of their vehicles, stopped at the nearby traffic light. There was no one listening to her cry out, no one to take offense to her mudslinging.
But she threw on regardless of a lack of audience. And nobody noticed, perhaps, save one.
And that one who saw came to work feeling heavier, one would think, feeling upset by the incident. She did not look away as so many others had, and as a result she couldn’t help but feel sad.
If she hadn’t seen, if she hadn’t heard, she might still be ignorant to the woman’s plight, and she’d feel better.
But feeling better comes at such a cost.
Was this woman throwing dirt a drug addict?
Maybe.
Are drugs — meth, crack — her biggest challenges?
Hardly.
This woman is mentally ill. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to make this diagnosis. Watching her rail against an invisible enemy, toss dirt into the street in disgust — there’s really no other explanation.
Is this mental illness a result of drug use? Could be.
Did this woman turn to illegal drugs to escape her mental illness? Possibly.
Does it matter why she sits here, what brought her to this place?
I don’t think so.
There are so many in this community from whom it is easier to turn away, and we assuage our own guilt in doing so by making excuses; that’s if we notice at all, if we even take a moment to register the fact that one of our own suffers.
I am just as guilty as the next person. I drove past this woman and remembered spotting her only when a colleague pointed it out.
I walk past a man who, when it rains, uses the awning at this very newspaper office as his temporary shelter. I watch out the window as he picks up the garbage in the parking lot — garbage dropped not by himself, but by those who look through him, those who don’t even honour him with a glance.
He cleans up after people like me, and I can't even spare him a glance, a "good morning," or a couple of bucks — not that he's ever asked.
It's just so much easier to avert the eyes.
It’s just so much easier to make the excuses.
Druggie.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Today people irritate me because....


I know most people are less intelligent than myself. This allows me to comment on the behaviour of those around me with little fear of reproach.
That said here’s what bothers me on this day, Wednesday March 28, 2007. Let it stand on the record that I, Danna Bach, take issue with my fellow human beings.
Often parents tell their children to use their words — instead of their fists — to solve disputes.
I suppose parents ought to be a little clearer on which words, and when it’s appropriate to use them.
For example, while it might be totally acceptable to throw down a dirty word in the comfort of your own vehicle, while situated in front of your own television set during a hockey game, or after you stub your toe on your bed frame when you get up to use the loo in the middle of the night, there are other locales where those F-bombs are about as desirable as a pimple on prom night. A mouse in your Milk Duds. A hair in your hot dog, etc.
Case in point — as I was leaving a packed movie theatre Sunday night, a man began shouting about how “F-----g hot!” it was in there, it was so “f-----g hot, man.”
Indeed, it was so “f-----g hot,” the man nearly “lost his s—t!”
That’s a shame. I hate losing anything, chapstick, socks, eyelash curlers. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose your s—t, especially in a crowded movie theatre. How embarrassing.
There’s nothing really wrong with cussing, the best of us have done it in the worst of times; there is something therapeutic about putting all your frustrations into a single syllable.
But there’s a time and a place to lose your s—t.
The time to do so isn’t while you’re exiting the movie theatre, and it’s not while you’re standing in line at Wal Mart, though so many of us have wanted to lose our s—t in this exact location. It’s not during a loud conversation in a family restaurant, and it’s not while you’re chatting on your cellphone while working out at the gym.
(Yeah, that’s another irritant — who are these people that call people while working out? I understand eating Gummy Bears while working out, they’re delicious, but talking on your cellphone? Come on! Get off the treadmill and go buy a sweater for your Chihuahua or something. I hate you.)
But back to the blasphemy. There are other words that are less aggressive and work well. Good substitutes that I’ve found include “Balls!,” “Jeebus!,” and “Dirty Mother!” Any or all will suffice.
And, keep in mind that the frequency with which you cuss heightens or weakens the impact of the word. Think about it, if Courtney Love throws down, you wouldn’t bat an eye, but if, say, the child from Little Miss Sunshine started cursing up a storm, you’d all stop and look.
And really, even after the plastic surgery, who wants to be Courtney Love?
Nobody.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Dangerous but delicious


This letter was forwarded to me today from a friend who was, decidedly, a loser in the Timmy lottery.
I felt that not only does this letter provide a good warning to those who are also rolling the rim, but might also spawn some discussion around appropriate rim rolling methods.
The letter writer did not wish to be named. You can call her Jennifer Garner — get it, Alias, get it?

Dear Tim Hortons,

Although I do thoroughly enjoy your delicious caffeine beverages and assortment of baked goods, I feel that, in light of recent events, I must send you this letter of concern.
On the morning of March 20, 2007, I purchased a medium coffee from one of your Kamloops, B.C. locations. Having almost finished the coffee, I decided to "Roll up the Rim" to see if perhaps I had won one of a variety of prizes. I first read the disclaimer written on the paper cup: Aucune obligation d'achat. Chances de gagner un prix: 1 sur 9. Response a une question subsidiare exigee pour les residents du Canada. Vour tous les details dans les restaurants participants et a deroulelebordpourgagner.com.
After realizing that I, in fact, do not speak French, I began the arduous task of rolling up the rim using my lower teeth to begin the rolling process. Before I could finish, however, the cup slipped under the pressure of the combination hand-mouth motion and spilled all over my white blouse with particular concentration in the left breastal area. Alarmed, I immediately stopped, dropped and rolled, but this did nothing. Sadly, I was forced to work the remainder of the day wearing a giant coffee stain.
I am not certain if I shall ever recover from the many stares and comments said stain drew from my male co-workers. I would like to think they were simply checking out my left breastal area, however, the accompanying comments led me to believe otherwise. My rack has been forever disgraced by an unruly Double-Double.
As a loyal patron of your coffee houses across British Columbia for many years now, I feel I must send you this letter with the hope that similar tragedies may be avoided in the future.
In 1974 had Tim Horton not gotten smashed and bravely taken his Pantera sports car for an ill-fated drive at 160 km/hour, perhaps he would still be with us. If he were, I ask you, would he stand idly by as people like myself suffer needlessly at the hands of poorly designed corporate contests? I think not.
Déshonorer sur vous Tim Hortons! Yes that's right, I do speak French after all. Doesn't feel good to be misled by those you trust, now does it?
Regards,
Jennifer Garner (get it, Alias, get it?)
Coffee Consumer & Seeker of Free Doughnuts

Friday, March 16, 2007

Cold hearted indeed


Sneriously, look into his eyes.
Uh oh, he’s been tellin’ lies.
Ah, Paula, how well you compose. Those were the glory days, before the painkillers, before Emilio ditched your ass.
But while life is full of riches and devoid of happiness for some, my life is quite the opposite these days.
This week, for example, was full of stories. As the rain came down, I giggled with glee. As backyards flooded, were washed wholly away, my fingers sailed along the keyboard, typey-type-type-type.
Is there another job that revels so much in the misery of others?
I can’t be happy standing in back of somebody’s dream home — a home I’ll never be able to afford — and snapping shots at the devastation caused by a river that opted to switch courses and traverse through the decadent landscaping, and sail right on through the back windows.
No, I can’t be happy.
But how boring it would be if all I managed to do was write forgettable missives about 100th birthday parties, school plays and new businesses.
Why, I think I’d shoot myself.
So this week was one to rejoice in my career choice. And now it’s raining once more, and because of this next week is looking up as well.
Also on the agenda this week was a trip to the local veterinarian — no, not for me, I get my teeth cleaned at the mechanics.
A reptile enthusiast, this local vet was asked by the Vancouver SPCA to care for a seized albino Burmese Python. The snake had been left alone for a month in a Vancouver storefront, with no food and no water.
Apparently, however, these constrictors can last eons without nourishment, but it’s not recommended they go without water. So, while it’s not fairing too badly, the beast is still under observation locally, and on Wednesday I got a chance to visit the scaly thing’s temporary digs.
The python weighs in at 70 pounds or so, and stretches out a mere nine and a half feet.
And, according to the vet, “it’s pissed.” Snakes don’t like commotion, it turns out, and, being much like myself, don’t enjoy being bandied about from place to place.
They’re homebodies, really.
It was actually growling, and at points sounded more like a kettle blithering about on a hot stove than the clichéd hissing one would expect. I had no idea snakes were such noisy creatures.
At one point it coiled back and the vet asked politely for me to move. I stepped back immediately, and as I did so it lunged toward the camera.
Very cool in retrospect, but I nearly wet myself at the time.
At the end of the day I’m a bit girly. I didn’t mind getting close to the coiler, but I didn’t attempt to touch or hold the beast.

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Hips don't lie



One dark and stormy night at a Greek restaurant in Burnaby, the writer sat, nibbling at pita bread, chatting amiably with the five other newswomen who had gathered to gossip, enjoy a meal, share some laughs.
Giggling, moaning about men, bosses, co-workers and pregnancy (not the writer’s, rest assured), the women barely noticed the slight Greek pop music playing through tinny speakers.
But wait!
Suddenly, as a flash of lightning punctuates a really scary movie, the volume soared, the lights dimmed, and all at once the women turned to see what had caused the fuss.
No! It couldn’t be!
But it was, it really, really was.
Glancing to the left, to the main dining area, the women caught a flash of blue, and then, before they knew what happened, the shining blueness turned.
This was not an apparition, not a dazzling genie here to grant their demands.
This was a shocking beast, more ferocious than Robert Deniro in Raging Bull, more frightening than Queen Latifah in Chicago.
A male belly dancer.
“No!” they shouted.
“Yes!” his hips seemed to reply.
“Egads!” The women shouted in unison, knowing the exclamation would only bring the beast closer didn’t help to contain their shock.
Upon spying the women he approached, mistaking their cry of alarm for a shout of pleasure, misunderstanding their looks of astonishment for appreciative glances.
Sequins glimmering, oiled body glistening in the candle light, hips swaying back, forth, jutting with each slap of the finger cymbal he carried as his weapon, he grew ever nearer.
Closer he got until the stench of his cologne overpowered, until the reek of hairspray and cosmetics made the women nearly cough up the recently ingested hummus.
“Don’t make eye contact,” the writer whispered to her colleagues. “Just look away.”
“I hate white rabbits, I hate white rabbits, I hate white rabbits,” was being mumbled by the woman to the writer’s right.
But, like videos portraying pregnant ladies dressed up as clowns and high on hallucinogens, the women couldn’t look away, no matter the consequence.
Just then, the writer glanced up in time to see the beast, the bangle-bedecked man place himself behind the chair of the woman directly across the table, and with a few quick slaps of the cymbals, he juts his hips into her chair, forcing her head forward, once, twice, three times — NO MORE!
He stops, spent, turns away, and from beneath fake lashes, the writer can see his eyes dart about the room, looking for the next victim.
There are so many to choose from. Will you be next?

Friday, March 2, 2007

Sorta see the resemblance




Did you know?
Did you know that the leading cause of blindness is — wait for it — battery explosions?
That’s right. Sitting in the line up at the Albion Ferry on Thursday night, one of the attendants busted out some gigantic Motomaster battery charger machine to give some juice to a stalled vehicle when I overheard her impart this bit of wisdom.
And here I though masturbation was behind all the bumping into walls. Sheesh, learn something from a ferry every day.
And then I arrived at work the next day to this: “Did you know the guy who plays David Bowie’s assistant in The Prestige is the same guy who played Gollum?”
Now, I could have, as one member of the work crew did, pretended to know this little bit of tripe, this smidgen of non-important information, but I didn’t.
I’m not averse to displaying my ignorance. Heck, I know a lot of things, but no, I had no idea the guy who played David Bowie’s assistant in The Prestige was the same guy who played Gollum.
I should have known, considering I’m a huge Gollum fan myself, have posters, life-size plush toys, the lunchbox/thermos set, and the telephone shaped like him that says “My precious” when it rings…get it, rings, in like Lord of the Rings. Gawd I’m hilarious.
It’s funny the things a person recalls through life, the things we will never forget. The things that stick with us and pop up randomly, whether it is through some obscure Jeopardy! question, or while watching a much edited version of Joe Dirt on TBS.
Did you know that raccoons don’t have salivary glands? That’s why they wash their food before they eat it.
That little bit of trivia comes straight from Mrs. Marples Grade 1 class at Fraserview Elementary School, circa 1984.
Did you know that the really popular girls from high school will invariably end up skinny, sporting low self-esteem and drug abusing ex-husbands 10 years later? That little bit of info comes courtesy of the class of 1996 Mission Secondary Grad Reunion.
Did you know that, I, Danna Bach, know more about random celebrities than I do my closest friends?
For instance, I know that the other day Paris Hilton was found driving with a suspended licence, I know that Jessica Biel had to leave a Stella McCartney fashion show because she was hung-over from a raging party the night before, and I know that Jennifer Garner is staying in White Rock as she films in Vancouver.
I don’t know what my friends are doing this weekend, if they’re having relationship problems or if they’ve seen any good movies lately.
But I know that Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams are on the rocks.
Why do I know these things, and does knowing them make me a bad person, or just a shallow one?

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Behold the Devil


Now I’m not necessarily a fan of conspiracy theories, although I’ve long believed that if you get paid for providing a service, then it’s in your best interest to make sure you don’t do your job too well.
Case in point — therapists.
My own personal preference if I needed some mind work done, would be to find a therapist who had oodles of time on her hands.
And yes, I doubt I’d ever see a male therapist, because everybody knows men don’t have feelings, and certainly don’t know how to discuss them.
And they’re always wrong. And they can be easily distracted by a decent set, or a shoddy set, or any set, come to think of it.
Anyway, I would likely find a therapist who had plenty of time to spare.
“I need to see you now,” I would say.
“Sure, come on over, I’m just polishing the leaves on my rubber plant. It’s shiny!” she would reply.
Why does she have so much time? Because she’s so damn successful, that’s why.
Her patients come in broken, leave fixed, and unless they get caught in a vortex that is Vulcan, AB., they never have to return.
Done and done.
Journalists work in much the same manner. First, write a story, but don’t write it too well or else you’ll never have a reason to do the second, follow up story, followed by the third. And judging by trilogies, the first is always acclaimed, the second is tripe, crap, offering just enough to keep people interested, but not nearly enough to remember, and the third is the Pulitzer.
Although I don’t know how they’re going to best Shrek 2. I just don’t know how they’ll do it. Puss In Boots was hilarious. Antonio, you’re such a card!
But back to conspiracies, I think I have found one and I need to share it with the world.
It comes in a tube, it smells delish, it’s greasy and it’s blue.
That’s right, you guessed it.
Lip balm, or rather Blistex Complete Moisture Lip Balm.
The product comes in a cool, blue tube, and the packaging proclaims it “Penetrates to quench dry lips.”
Now, I did indeed sense some penetration when the balm was applied, but quench dry lips? No siree bob did it quench dry lips, rather, it created dry lips.
Shocked?
I’m not. I’m rather impressed by the folks at the lip balm factory for having the nerve to concoct this witches brew, this devil stick.
Both myself and a friend, I’ll call him Ken, smothered our lips with Complete Moisture, only to notice the very next day that we had developed an insatiable appetite for it. It seemed the more we used the worse our poor, dried out faces required.
Clever, you Blistex charlatans. Very clever.

Bigger and better seizures


Pamela Fayerman, Vancouver Sun
Published: Tuesday, February 27, 2007
B.C. doctors are being put on alert that the most commonly prescribed antidepressant in B.C. is increasingly being observed to have toxic overdose consequences like seizures and even deaths.
"We are alerting doctors about our concerns to give them a heads-up that it is a potential concern because it appears it is more toxic than it was originally hoped it would be," Derek Daws, managing director of the B.C. Drug and Poison Information Centre said in an interview Monday, referring to the medication called venlafaxine, whose brand name is Effexor.

Talk about spinning a sentence to make something terribly frightening sound actually kind of positive.
“It appears it is more toxic than it was originally hoped it would be.”
Wow! You guys did it. You’d figured it would be a little toxic, and now it’s even more toxic than you’d hoped!
Kudos.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Can't you smell the popcorn



Don’t know whether or not it’s because I’m a sheep, I am the marketing person’s dream come true or because I can’t get enough of those giant posters advertising Norbitt, but I found myself at the theatre this weekend, desperate to see what all the hype was about.
I could have checked out Babel, but I hear it’s el terriblay, disjointed and bleak, or I might have stopped in on The Queen if I could have found any soul willing to accompany. Not even a glimpse of Helen Mirren’s ample bosom could entice the hubby. Maybe he’s gay.
So, along with a friend I grabbed a ticket to Dreamgirls to see what all the fuss was about.
And Gack! So much singing. Why didn’t someone tell me this was a musical?
The film was fun to watch and mostly fun to listen to. It was really an attractive movie — I found myself more interested in what Beyonce would wear next than what the plot happened to drop in my lap.
Overall, a decent pick if you’re out this weekend. But take note — Jennifer Hudson has an amazing voice, truly, but sometimes you just want to cover your ears.
It’s just too much.

Other hits and misses both on video and on the big screen:

Pan’s Labyrinth: Brilliant. Loved it. Didn’t even realize I was reading subtitles it was so good. Very bleak, very scary, very brutal. Not a movie for kids, but a film that will stay with you for ages after you’ve watched it. It’s also one that I want to see again and again. I know that when I go back to this movie I’ll notice things that I missed during the first go round.

Children of Men: Clive Owen drew me to this film. He’s a very handsome man if I do say so, and an accent always gets me. That’s what I’m always telling Ken, but then I have to remind him that Peter Griffin is not an accent, he’s a cartoon character, and not a particularly sexy one at that. But back to the film — very dark, very bleak, a really interesting concept about what would become of a childless world. Interesting, violent and fast paced. It’s also not an epic film — so many movies fail these days because they’re just too damn long.

The Illusionist: Edward Norton drew me to this film. He’s a very handsome man if I do say so, but I don’t like his accent in this film. Is it Dutch? Dunno, but don’t like. Do like the film, though. It’s dark and moody. The plot isn’t difficult to figure out. If you are clapping the side of your head when it’s all said and done, shouting “I never would have guessed it!” Alex Trebeck won’t be calling you anytime soon. It’s a gooder, may as well rent it.

Crank: Ken’s choice. Both of us hated it, but then again, when I hate something I manage to make everyone else who is in the room hate it as well. I don’t mind Jason Statham, and I don’t mind Amy Smart. But this movie, which did have a sort of interesting plot, went haywire. By the end I wasn’t even laughing. Granted it’s not a comedy, but if you can’t laugh at the stupidity of the film, then you’re just left shaking your head and wondering how difficult it would be to murder yourself with a fat, red crochet hook.

Once a cheetah, always a cheetah


Associated Press
Published: Tuesday, February 13, 2007
BRUSSELS, Belgium -- An animal lover was mauled to death by cheetahs after entering their cage at a zoo in northern Belgium, authorities and zoo officials said Monday. Karen Aerts, 37, of Antwerp, was found dead in the cage, Olmense Zoo spokesman Jan Libot said. Police said they ruled out any foul play. Authorities believe Aerts, a regular visitor to the zoo, hid in the park late Sunday until it closed and managed to find the keys to the cheetah cage. "Karen loved animals. Unfortunately the cheetahs betrayed her trust," Libot said. One of the cats that killed Aerts was named Bongo, whom the woman had adopted under a special program. She paid for Bongo's food, Libot said. Animal rights group GAIA called for the immediate closure of the zoo, located 90 km northeast of Brussels, saying it was unsafe for both visitors and the cats. Rudy Demotte, the Belgian minister responsible for animal welfare, sent a team to investigate.

I, for one, would never have thought a cheetah could have betrayed the trust of a friend.
What does this tell you?
Never trust a cheetah. I personally think that’d make a great t-shirt. Maybe with a little lamé animal print?
And on a side note, if cheetahs are so damned dangerous and unpredictable, then why aren’t they locked in a secure cage?
Oh, wait….
I would have figured she’d be totally safe, that is, unless she doused herself with antelope urine beforehand.
I hear cheetahs go crazy for that stuff.

Tuesday, February 6, 2007

Sure they're real


If I were rich.
The plan has always been well established. I’d learn to speak Spanish, invest heavily in dark chocolate and take up the harp — and not one of those lame, child-could hold onto ‘em harps, one of those really big celestial ones.
Anyone can learn the guitar or the flute, and don’t get me started on the piano, but so few have the means to purchase and store a gigantic harp. And fewer still, I imagine, would be able to procure harp lessons from a harp virtuoso.
Nothing quite says ostentatious like a giant harp in the living room. You can take your saxophone and shove it Kenny G, I’ve got me a damn harp!
Along with my language skills and my harp-playing skills, I’d also take up another skill, one that I’ve always wanted to master.
Hairdressing. Or styling. Or whatever they’re calling it these days.
I want to pump all the colour around in the weird, flat-bottomed, handle-having bowls; I want to wield that trimmer with verve. I want to flip those little foil pieces to the ground with gusto and I want to shout “Voila!” as I turn my once ugly duckling toward the mirror, revealing the masterpiece I have created.
I think I’d be great at it. Have always thought so.
Until recently, however, when my view of hair stylists, and women in general, came tumbling, tumbling, down, down, down.
A profound feminist, I was reminded of late why it is that we’re still not where we need to be. Reminded, as Sandra Bullock was in Hope Floats, that oftentimes members of our own sex are out there, lurking in the shadows, ready to betray us.
Ah, good show.
I recently found myself sitting poised in one of my favourite places — the uppy-downy chair at a hair salon. I love the smells, the lighting, the regalness that is getting your every follicle tended to by a skilled professional.
The woman tending to my much-maligned coif shampooed and scrubbed, toweled and tousled.
And then she began to speak.
That was the end of my great salon experience.
The woman was younger than myself, a mother, and en route to becoming a wife.
Having recently got over the ridiculousness that is wedding planning, I offered her a few tips. I kept the “Don’t do it,” tip to myself, I’ll have you know.
And then she said:
“Yeah, weddings are a lot of work. My boyfriend said he’d buy me a boob job if I agreed to go to Vegas and get married.”
She went on: “I said, ‘Whatever, you’ll buy me a boob job anyways,’ snorkel, snorkel.” (I used the term “snorkel” to linguistically describe the sound her laugh made. It wasn’t so much as a laugh as a grunt/snort/giggle. Or maybe I’m lying and her snorkel sounds just make for a better story.
But back to the boobs.
What does she get out of it other than a really painful surgery and maybe a few casual glances cast her way by pervy men with whom she doesn’t intend to begin a relationship?
And what does the guy get? Well, he gets it all, now, doesn’t he? He gets the wedding in Vegas and the fake boobs to match.
If this were just one instance of a near stranger confessing to me that her boyfriend had offered to buy her a boob job, I might let it go, take it under advisement and assume that she’s just one escapee from the idiot farm.
But I’ve heard this “buy me a boob job” comment from several women of late.
Boob jobs, it seems, have become the latest craze, replacing ear piercing, perms and acrylic nails.
Sure, it might be a bit painful, but could you imagine how great they’ll look in a sweater?
They are no longer random body parts, rather, they’re accessories, purchased with no more thought than a really great purse.
And another thing — can you play the harp with a set of really big ones?
And P.S. if you do have a harp, and carry it along with you, nobody’s going to be looking at your girls.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

A shot to the nuts — now that's funny


Nobody can stand her.
You know her, she’s that girl.
She’s the one who never went through the ugly phase. She’s the one who, at 13, never spent hours looking in front of a mirror and wondering if anyone was ever going to love her, if she was going to end up like her solitary aunt, in her solitary town home, lounging on a wicker recliner and reading the real romance novels, you know the ones, the ones with the long-haired Fabio’s on the front, the ones that don’t even try to disguise their genre through a cleverly worked cover and a half-assed attempt at plot.
Rather, she was the only one who actually looked cool with a side-crimped ponytail. Should she become famous, there won’t be any ugly teenager photos in her albums. She never had crooked teeth, never had to wear headgear, and never had to pay attention to the warning: “if you pop it, it’ll leave a scar.”
No little girl can stand up to the horror that is the face of Bryan Adams.
Nobody can stand her, but at least she’s honest. At least she is awesome.
There’s someone on this earth that I actually dislike more than that girl, however, and I figured it out while conducting an interview the other day.
The man I interviewed was a humor columnist — award-winning even.
He has just finished his fifth book and was headed for a tour of the States.
I called him up expecting to be laughing and loe, what was this?
The man is not funny.
Like a really frothy-mouthed, lispy, can’t seem to remember to wash my hair and change out of my food-crusted shirt person thinking he or she is the next Giselle Bundchen, this man believes he is humorous, bills himself as a funny guy, and is the most unfunny individual I have come across in yonks.
And it upset me.
Growing up there was a little girl who lived down the street and she wasn’t very bright. She wanted everybody to like her, but nobody really did because she was annoying as hell. She’d show up and want to play, and sometimes, if nobody else were available, you’d let her, but by the end of the day you’d be ready to claw your eyes out because she was so eager to please she’d laugh at anything.
In Grade 2 she actually claimed responsibility for farts she didn’t commit in a desperate attempt to get laughs.
Her name was Tara. And forever after, whenever I watch a really stupid commercial on television, or read a really stupid bumper sticker I think: “Tara’d laugh.”
And she’d be in hysterics for this humor columnist.
At one point in the interview I asked him what inspired him lately.
He said his dog. His dog is funny when it watches the squirrels play.
And this guy actually makes a living on being funny.
I want my money back and I haven’t even bought his book.

Even my hair hurts


It’s been three full days and I’m still in agony.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, I wasn’t riding the bull at Roosters, or practicing my dance moves, or honing up on my bow staff skills.
Rather, I was learning to snowboard. Learning, however, is being kind.
I spent my Sunday up at Mt. Seymour reacquainting myself with God.
Yes, that was me, throwing myself down an icy mountainside, shouting His name and hoping to hell He was paying attention to me and my husband who was busy doing the exact same thing, minus the “Oh, sweet Jesus. Sweet baby Jesus’s!”
Yes, I’m still sore, but my abs are likely as sore from laughing at hapless, but determined, Ken as they are from balancing on a narrow, fiberglass strip.
There’s nothing quite as hilarious as watching someone with absolutely no skill for the sport aspire to be the head of the class. When the instructor (I am being generous here, because the instructor was pretty much retarded) asked who wanted to be first, Ken got up (however briefly) and set the gold standard.
He must have bailed about 10 times on his way down the bunny hill, arms and legs flying. Each time he bailed, he got back up again, determined to best that blasted board.
Eventually he did, by gum.
I took it a little slower, fell a little more gracefully, but just as often.
And only once did I manage to vanquish the rope tow. Only once did it succumb to me, and in challenging it so many times and failing, I managed to rip the crap out of a pair of loaner gloves.
Little pieces of those mitts are now scattered across the mountainside.
I left myself on Mt. Seymour.
But I will go back.
I will triumph over this sport.
I’m also going back because I wrote a nasty letter to the ski school about our crummy instructor.
Turns out folks, if you want free stuff, just write a letter of complaint.
Works every time.

Friday, January 26, 2007

Trade you a shiny nickle for a hovercraft



Nowhere else in the province is there a radio station dedicated to covering traffic 24 hours per day.
And to be truthful, I no longer want to live in the only place in the province that boasts this amenity.
I want to go back to living somewhere where the biggest traffic jam is found at the entrance to the local liquor store on a Friday night.
I want to go back to living somewhere where the biggest traffic jam means waiting five minutes to cross the Overlander Bridge during “rush hour.”
That’s what I want, and I’ll tell you why.
Last night I left work at about 5:30 p.m. — keep in mind I don’t work in Downtown Vancouver, and I actually plotted my living/work arrangements so as to avoid traffic congestion.
Nevertheless, the quaint little boat known as the Albion Ferry always holds me hostage. It transports weary commuters back and forth between Maple Ridge and Fort Langley.
Last night, I arrived at the terminal shortly after 5:30 p.m. and was forced to park along the road because the parking lot was packed. Eventually I found my way into the parking lot where I proceeded to wait for more than an hour to catch a boat.
Finally, when I landed in Fort Langley, I trundled along Glover Road and spotted break lights ahead, snaking their way toward me, toward the ferry terminal.
After sitting, twiddling my fingers in my car for nearly half an hour, trying to use my telekinesis to get this line moving, I called the guy at AM 730 “All traffic, all the time,” to ask what’s up.
He told me there was a train stopped on the track blocking the entrance into Langley. That train had been sitting there for a half-hour at least, the wise traffic guru said.
One would think I’d just turn around, go another route, but the only route out of the situation would be to get in line at the ferry terminal and wait another hour, go back to where I came from and take the Port Mann bridge to Langley.
Ah, fun times.
Eventually the lineup got moving and I found myself traveling along a dirt road in a new housing development, winding along Fort Langley’s back roads, and finally getting home before the Office began at 8 p.m.
I live about 20 km from my work. It took me 2 ½ hours to get home.
I need a new job in a different part of the province.
You hiring?

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Must read



Am I the last one to get on this boat?
Although there is nothing about a boat in the book, there's nothing about a boat involved in my reading said book, and I don't really know what the term actually means, I am sure about one thing.
This novel, set in the 1940s Cajun country, was written in 1997 by Earnest J. Gaines and made the Oprah list so the writer is obviously a cabillionaire now.
A Lesson Before Dying was also made into a TV move or miniseries or some such featuring Don Cheadle. It got a couple of Emmys. I didn't see it, but whatever.
But it is amazing. I didn't want to read it, was reluctant, as I knew there could be no traditionally happy ending, but I plugged on.
Then, last night, as I'm laying in bed reading the end and sobbing like a retard I was so glad I had picked it up. I couldn't stop sniffling and eventually, Ken, who had to get up at 5 a.m. got a bit grumpy with me.
But it was worth it.
Brilliant book, astounding message. Ah, read it. Love it.

Monday, January 22, 2007

And the trial of the century gets underway



Apparently, Pickton, a 56-year-old Port Coquitlam pig farmer, confessed to killing 49 women and he wanted to go for the even 50.
I suppose even crazies have to have goals.
I'm just astonished by the fact that dozens of women had gone missing in the Downtown Eastside, and law enforcement only managed to find this guy, presuming he's guilty of course, because they had a weapons warrant. They found the severed heads, hands, feet, asthma medicine, all by accident.
And I'm going to be tuning in, reading about this, because I'm fascinated as to what Willy's defence is going to consist of. Sure he confessed, but only after a gruelling 11-hour interview. Sure body parts were found on his pig farm, but he'd never seen them before.
Hey, it's a big farm.
Looks like he might take the old Shaggy defence, but I doubt whether the "Wasn't me" refrain will convince the jury.
Even though it doesn't look like mr. Will has a hope of getting off on this one, man, if he did, what then? The guy's been in jail for five years. Aside from the cabillions we've already spent to house him, investigate him and ready the court for his trial, how much would he have to be paid if they couldn't make it stick?
Not that that'll happen, I'm just a wonderin'.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Welcome, friends

It would appear I have jumped on the blog bandwagon, or is a blogwagon, a little late.
Sitting on my couch on a Saturday afternoon watching a rerun of Gene Simmon's Family Jewels on A&E (yes, in order to know it for the rerun that it was, I had to have watched it before, sadly), and it dawned on me.
I must blog.
But I continued on, watching the show, laughing, Ha, Ha, he can't put down his cellphone, Ha, Ha!
Eventually, when I assumed bedsores were to be had if I sat much longer, and knowing I didn't want to go the way of Christopher Reeves, I got up and drove to the mall.
On the way home, stuck in traffic as is always the case in the Lower Mainland, I began peering around at my fellow motorists.
My eyes were darting, darting, and finally alighted on the rearview mirror, and to my horror, there was a woman there in a red car behind me. I know you're wondering what kind of car she was driving, but that, my friend, is immaterial. And no, I don't have a problem with red cars, that's not what caused my horror.
It's what she was doing that was cause for commotion.
This woman was staring up into her own rearview mirror, but she wasn't using it to look backwards, rather, she was using this spare moment in traffic to aggressively pop a pimple.
Her 14-year-old son, we'll call him Jaxson (as I hear folks these days think that's a cool name, and it's made even cooler by spelling with an 'x') sits, plugged into his iPod, every once in a while looking over at his pimple-popping mother and not saying a word.
Now I've spent a lot of time in traffic, and I've seen a lot of things, my friend. I have seen the classic makeup application, the tooth brushing, the shaving.
I had yet to see the pimple popping, and though it grossed me out somewhat, it also excited me. This was something new, something I needed to share with the world.
Because who knows how long it will be until this woman drives into your neighbourhood.
I'll be your window to the world if you let me.