Menacing Unibrows and the Ugly Green Swirly of Truth

I looked down at the green swirly and sighed. Why does history repeat itself? I suppose because bad habits sometimes die hard.

Lately I have been contention with imperfection in my life.

As a part of the mosaic of humanity it is understanded that I will fail, but facing failure is hard to look straight in its’ one eye. It’s a rather ugly eye. It has a menacing perfectly arched unibrow overtop. I’m not sure which I am more fearful of – seeing the hairy catepillar of a brow or the eye itself.

Anyways point is, there I stood overtop of our toilet watching the mess in the toilet swirl around and around. Not only had I killed our herb garden due to lack of maintenance but I had decided it was time to do something about it and had given it a sever growth cutback. I thought, now where should I put the dried out basil leaves. I went straight to our toilet.

The logic should hopefully be more than self-explanatory. I would flush and the problem would be no more and shriveled up basil is small. Well I didn’t calculate the branches getting stuck. They were withered and completely small enough to go down that pipe but apparently not to cooperate. So there it swirled. This mass of droopy green and brown mess. Tangled much like the logic that had brought me to this predicament in the first place. Suddenly a flashback to a particular dinner party came to mind. I have a habit of thinking that the toilet can be used like a garborator.

I had been in a rush to clean some stuff out of the fridge before guests came. I had seen a bunch of containers that needed to be cleaned out. I rinsed them out, barely glancing to see what was inside them and rushed to the toilet to dispose of the nasty water. Went on my way cleaning the house and thought nothing of it. The guests arrived for a lovely dinner and just as we were cleaning up, someone emerged from our bathroom with a perplexed look on their face.

They directed me to find molding tortellini floating in the toilet bowl. The whole party gathered around to see what the kaffufel was all about. Embarassing moments are bad enough without an audience. Our rubber gloves had ripped recently and so not only did I have to wear a plastic bag over my hand to fish them out, it was captured on someone’s camera.

The roar of laughter was enough to even put me in a good mood. Even if it was happening to me, it was hilarious. We tried to flush after the tortellini was safely in the garbage.

Unfortunately it backed up again. I dove my bagged hand in again. This time to my horror I fished out a full piece of lotus root. The laughing subsided to questions of “what the heck is that?” and “how did that end up in there?” How I hadn’t noticed the lotus root go into the toilet bowl is beyond me. Even to this day I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Above and beyond that, I know eventually I’ll learn from my mistakes. The green swirly I think was enough of a reminder to hammer the last nail in that coffin of my memory on that.

What Would Captain Planet Do?

So my car has been on bed rest for the entire week. As a result I have been walking everywhere. The good weather during this wonderful fall has been a blessing despite the frustrations with a cantankerous automobile.

It's surprising what we miss when we're on the rat race of the congested autobahns of our cities. Today I was walking from the car shoppe to my work place and watched as a gentleman let his dog go to the washroom on a lawn that had not been properly maintained in a very long time.

He fished around for a few moments for a bag in his pocket and pretended to pull out an imaginary bag while I watched him. I'm not entirely sure how bad he truly thought my eyesight is. It's bad, but that's what the glasses are for. And if I remember correctly, they have been on my head all morning.

Then he quickly ran ahead of me with his dog. I looked over in the patch and his little Shitzu had made the number that I had predicted.

I sighed and walked past. It's funny how we are supposed to play by unspoken rules wherever we live. Who comes up with these rules other than the grumpy collective.

The man ran ahead and then when he realized he had to turn around he quickly scuffled past me with his head tilted down looking at his feet. I had to smile on the inside.

Yes. Dog poop is unsightly. Yes. It stinks. Yes. No one wants to step in it. But in a society so hung up on saving the planet, I am convinced that we should be a little more willing to let nature take its course and bio degrade and watch where we step more often. Cheers to Captain Planet.

In other countries it's your fault for not watching where you're going if you step in someone else's dogs remnants but that would interfere with our North American sense of self-entitlement.

So what would Captain Planet do? Save the planet, kiss David Suzuki, tell me I'm ridiculous for having a car. I think most of all he would draw the line at picking up after other people's dogs.

Reading Between the Adult Lines

Be back in 10 minutes.

I read the sign and took a sip of the stagnant pumpkin spice latte reproduction in my hand. There was something so comforting about those organic words scribbled on a taped piece of paper in cursive. Who uses cursive anymore?

I could have cared less for the drink in my hand. Sustenance for the immediate and not necessarily something that produced longterm comfort.

The house in front of me exuded a welcoming atmosphere despite being confined by lock and bolt. I was standing on one of the more sleepy busy streets of Port Moody. I say that because the busy portion of that oxymoron comes from the rushes of traffic that plague the commuter corridor onto the highway. The sleepiness comes from all the quaint treasures that await finding in the forgotten houses turned into businesses. Yep, this would be my neighbourhood.

Few stop to look and pay attention. The used bookstores, a forgotten place tell a story of their own: stories of people taking home library books and being too embarrassed to turn them into the library so they sell them to a used book collector; stories of university students burning the oils of the midnight hour furiously trying to figure out what Shakespeare meant in his witty quips in olde English; stories of those who pride themselves of having a collection of classics that never get read; stories of young children eager to learn to use their budding artistic talents, loaded with more potential and less confined by the conventions of drawing within the adult lines.

Lately I have found that the adult lines is an interesting concept. Ones that we fit within not necessarily by choice but by necessity of survival and the nature of how old our physical beings are. I had a really interesting conversation with one of my friends recently and we were talking about the concept of being a teenager. They pointed out that being a teenager was a concept that didn’t exist in previous timeframes in history.

I thought about it for a while and realized just how accurate this observation is. Many different cultures have rites of passage to define being young and old but that’s just it: what defines a teenager. It’s a moderate adaptation to the fact that we don’t want to grow up and we don’t necessarily have to if someone else is going to do the adult thing for us.

Some will live as forever young at heart and grow up. Some will live as forever young in every aspect of life and choose to never grow up. Others were born grown up and there was no going back. The old souls and the fresh souls; we all make up the orchestra of life.

The choice is ours to step up and embrace age. To age gracefully is a beautiful thing. I hope that I can accept the wisdom with the tides of time yet still honour my memory of what it was like to be young, just so that I don’t pigeon hole my relational dialogue with others. But as I stood there in front of that monumental home turned business with the chipped paint, partially sealed windows with the warped glass and the worn stoop and the wood framed door with the bell hanging over head, the comfort washed over me.

The comfort of knowing that despite the fact that at one point this store was brimming full of people and was something different at one point in time, it wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t. It wasn’t trying too hard. The character was ingrained into the wood. It was a used bookstore and it was just exactly that. It would always be simple and I now know the gravitational pull of that.

A book will always be a book. And although the denouement occurs, it stops when you close the cover and you can come back to it another day. So, yes, I will resume perusing with the hardcovered classics section in 10 minutes.

I turned on my heel and headed on my way knowing I wouldn't be able to resist coming back.

To Fan a Fan

I have a little bit of a shout out to make.

When I originally started this blog, it was solely came with the intention of keeping my good girlfriends laughing. That was my only aim. When we get together we essentially pick situations apart and over analyze and do what girls do best. But with the mandate of the bond of sisterly love at the true heart of why I wrote, the purpose didn't go much further beyond that.

My roommate's mom recently updated her status on facebook -- an account that she really doesn't use all that often and to her surprise -- people actually responded. I believe her actual words were, "I didn't think people would actually read it."

I sit here, amused by my rommate's mother but very much in agreement. When I set out to air my thoughts to the world, I didn't think they would get read. Or that I truly had anything beneficial to say. More or less, I don't but I got an interesting facebook message from one of my facebook friends that took me by surprise.

The person had added me because they had read my blog. I realized that I need to do a little more research before I add randoms on facebook. I had added someone that I didn't know at all. But at the same time, the person had the courage to write me to let me know that they really liked what I had to say. This really was flattering because I truly thought that the only people that would want to hear the verbal diahrea that came out on paper would be people like mom and dad. Ya know, the ones with the camerecorder in the front row at the recital - even if you aren't good at what you are attempting to do but by the very nature that you're trying, they think you're the best for doing so. Those were who I thought read my blog.

So here's to the imaginary, the incognito fans as well as my two known fans out there. You're part of the reason I keep writing. Plus, it's a great stress reliever.

The Real, The Plastic: Needing a Swift Kick to the Feet.

I have a pair of boots. I love wearing them. I am aware that the more I wear them, the more I’m wrecking my feet. Sometimes I just wish my feet came in plastic molds like Barbie just so that I would have an excuse for the orthopedic surgeon when I have to explain why my feet are so screwed up someday.

I had to go to court yesterday and I was brilliant and decided to take public transit in the described boots. For some reason, when I put these boots on weird things happen. Or standard Kelsey thought process happens and I end up having to walk all over town in 6 inch heels. So smart and yet so not.

So there I was, getting off the skytrain at the Granville station passing and weaving in and out of foot passenger waves of traffic. Whenever I get downtown, my living out east in downtown Ottawa and having-to-play-dodging-games-to-stay-warm-in-40-below kicks in. I turn into someone that belongs in New York. I am irritable, crabby and downright rude to others. And yesterday was just proof of it. Not proud of it, it’s just an observation I made about myself and realized it’s something that is a work in progress.

So I came flying out of the underground and charged up the sidewalk. Two men were hogging the sidewalk, walking about as relaxed as you could be. One of the gentleman took notice of the click click click of my heels right behind him and gestured to his friend to get out of the way. I don’t even think I muttered thank you as I breezed on past.

The man that got out of my way, had that charmed nature about him. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. The guy that walks as if he’s discovered the secret as to how to treat woman and masters the art of not looking overly arrogant about having figured out this secret. The dashing looks and the polite nature made me pause. It was as if he belonged in the movies. He had an Australian accent and reminded me a lot of the lead male role in The Devil Wears Prada. But he was too short to possibly be him.

So I sailed on past without giving it much more thought and literally passed everyone else to reach the corner of Georgia and Hornby. The light was red and I had to join everyone at the corner. I was freaking out. I had to be at the court in 10 minutes and I wanted to grab lunch. Being caught at the light with every other business person on their lunch break made me realize it just wasn’t going to happen.

Out of the corner of my left eye I saw the two gentleman that I had passed saunter up at their snail pace to stand right behind the crowd gathered at the corner of the busy downtown Vancouver spot. They had to cross there as well. The Charmer took one look at me and threw his head back in a deep laugh.

Somehow that relaxed my nerves slightly. I went on my way, got to the hearing and went home still plagued by the memory of that man. It was rather amusing that I had made all that effort to get somewhere faster and it just didn’t happen. You had to give him that.

I was talking to my roommate upon getting home and realized that perhaps it could have been that actor. We looked him up. Such a stalkerish thing to do. Sure enough, he is 5’10. Sure enough he is Australian and I found out his name is Simon Baker.

Whether or not it truly was Simon Baker, it’s too humorous that he stars in The Devil Wears Prada. I am a Personal Assistant in everyday life and after having read the book, I always did feel like I could totally relate to Anne Hathaway’s character as an EA. It was an uncanny moment to run into Simon Baker. It just goes to show you what the movies can do to ordinary looking people. I always thought that he would be taller. Makes him more likeable for being a normal height.

Not that I care all that much other than the fact that I totally acted like Meryl Streep rather than Anne Hathaway. That’s more embarrassing than anything. I know, I’ll blame it on the boots. There is a song that talks about boots that are made for walking. And that’s just what I did.

A Comedy of Errors

Family. You can't live with them and you can't live without them.

I moved out recently and this adage came to mind when my folks arrived for a feast of Italian excellence put together by my roommate and me. The older I get, the more evident the role reversals with my parents are that seem to play out in the theatre called life. This night was a prime example of this observation.

Upon the arrival of said blood relatives, a sudden vibrant sense of energy filled the room. Something to do with the prospect of payback for all those years of free loading from my end. They entered the room excited and talking over one another. Not even paying attention to what the other was saying.

My mother immediately sauntered over to talk to my roommate while my dad came into the kitchen to show me something. With gusto my dad started wild exclamations over a really hilarious song he heard. I smiled politely trying to verify if the spaghetti noodles were ready to join our digestive systems.

Suddenly an all too familiar blaring sound filled the kitchen. Country music has a place in the world but I would never have made the suggestion of my father's iPhone.

What's that? I asked knowing very well what it was.

He fiddled on his PDA and paced the kitchen - actions more commonly associated with this man - while crooning "honey, I'm still a guy," somewhat less familiar.

Meanwhile my mother looked at me and asked,"Is supper ready?"
I shook my head and returned to tending the corn.

She mumbled something to the effect of finding a couch to crash on and disappeared into the deep recesses of my basement suite.

Suddenly this vision of me flopping down on my mothers couch flooded my mind numerous times when she invited me over for dinner. I couldn't help but smile.

I turned to say to my dad, "since when have u liked Country???"

"Since I borrowed your car."

I rest my case.

Still trying to figure out what play I'm stuck in. Something Shakespearean perhaps? 5 ticks say tragedy 20 ticks say comedy. Perhaps Comedy of Errors??

Cellular Detoxification & the Real Harry Potter

Could the real Harry Potter please stand up? Please stand up! Please stand up!

So I recently did a cleanse-- not of Harry Potter. Not the kind of cleanse where you have to do anything incredibly strange such as stand on your head and drink milk through a straw up your nose or drink fruits and veggies only or meat only or well, you get the point.

This cleanse was quite satisfying. At first I was a frantic skeptic. I had the signs of being an avid junkie. My fingers itched for T9. I kept wondering what everyone was up to. Somehow meeting up with people seemed a lot harder all of a sudden.

What if they didn't see me next to the big clock in Gas Town?? Or what if I had a big contract coming through and no one could reach me.

About halfway through the second day of no cell phone service, most of these ridiculous questions subsided and I started to relax. All of a sudden I became almost invincible. To have a power to disappear in a crowd and no one know that I was there. Captain-Fly-On-The-Wall.

I started to like this newfound freedom. It detoxified my constant need to be in the know. To be available 24/7.

How this all came about was my cell phone no longer held a charge. And convenient too. I had been practically sanding the sidewalk with it when no one was looking, dropping that Motorola from such great heights but it was very much "the cat came back" the very next charge. I truly despised it because it was resilient. It had girth. All the sexy sleek machines all came out on the market right around the time that I had to settle for this craptastic piece of machinery called a phone.

Then it happened. The charger was shot just like that. Within minutes I was on the phone with my cellphone provider negotiating. Granted the iPhone 3GS is sold out across the country at the moment and I didn't want to pay the full price for it but I guess I could settle for the 3G considering what I had before this. Then the salesperson hacked my daydream with those dreaded little words. "That'll take 'bout 5 business days ma'am."

Excuse me? Me without phone for 5 days.

So there I was. Contemplating several options, none of which were rational -- I'm sure. I thanked her and got of the phone. Thus, started minute one of the cellph detoxification process.

Gradually I got used to it and came to terms. After a while I embraced it.

Finally the little package arrived in the mail and the front desk clerk at our office handed me the prize.

Startled I asked her, "What's this?" Almost a subconscious refusal of the anticipated goods.

I opened it. Shiny, sleek, and so much information at my fingertips. Oh no. I was available again. My heart sank. I was getting used to the solitude.

Today I took my baby down to the Apple store to get proper coverings for it so that I could protect every inch of equipment. I love these field trips because I finally feel at home with Mac users. It's like one big marketing cult. Not that I buy in completely but I've sure branded myself accordingly. It's not just the commercials I promise you. The interface is totally designed for me in mind. Hey it even rhymed. See how washed out my brain cells are?

I caught a sample conversation of what it was like in this wonderful abbyss of electronic goodness.

One Genius Bar employee was excitedly telling another genius bar employee that he was excited when the colour shuffles first came out. He quickly explained that it was his dream to collect every single colour in order to colour coordinate with his wardrobe. When the eavesdropping hit this high point I had to look over and at least get a load of the speaker's outfit.

And there you had him, could the real Harry Potter stand up? Oh wait, he was standing in front of me. Pen in hand, poised as if a true quidditch wizard. Somehow I felt like this was a telltale sign of home. The crisp and ripe conversation of geeks and genius side by side.

I have inaugurated the purchase of the iPhone - inspired by the Genius Mr. Harry Potter to name my phone. It has a name and I am intending to tend to it as if it were a child so that it will outlive my last phone. And in honour of a fine family tradition it shall be given a name. Not after a colour mind you -- as my close cousin has done for hers, but the most bizarre name that could come to mind first so that it fits in with the strange breed of apple marketing junkies such as Sir Harry. I introduce to you my Myrtle. She could be your crazy aunt thrice removed or she could be my phone, but crazy Aunt Myrtle is quicker than a turtle or quite a lovable phone at that.