Thursday, September 28, 2006

Food Service Woes: The Continuing Saga

So, I go to the grocery store and I deal with Honey Girl.

I go to Subway and get stuck with Alternate Girl.

Today I went to Swiss Chalet for take out (long story which, in the end, led to "There's no way I'm going to go home and spend the time making something to eat; I have to eat NOW and I should avoid the McDonald's so, hey, the Swiss Chalet's right there across from McDonald's so why don't I go in there and grab something instead?")

And whom do I get to serve me? Inattentive Listener.

I sauntered up to the counter, waited a while ... and was finally approached by a young woman (who would later be identified as the aforementioned Inattentive Listener), who offered to take my order.

I ordered a Santa Fe chicken sandwich.

"With fries?"

"With a salad and a side of fries. And can I also get a dipping sauce?"

"Small or large?"

At this point I thought, "I had no idea it came in small and large," and so I said to the young woman (I still didn't realize it was Inattentive Listener) "I had no idea it came in small and large. I'm sure a small will be fine."

Then I asked, "And can I have a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?"


And off goes the as-yet-unidentified Inattentive Listener to deal with life, love, and chicken.

After a ridiculously long wait, she finally brought my order and, for some unknown reason, I asked, "And there's a dipping sauce in there?"

"No. That doesn't come with the meal."

Mildly confused, I responded, "I know. I asked for it extra."

Now Inattentive Listener's telltale signs start emerging.

"You asked for extra mayo."

"Yes, I know, but I also asked for dipping sauce."

Now, at this point, the correct answer would have been, "Oh, I'm so sorry, I must have missed that." or even "Sorry, I misunderstood." Instead, I got:

"No you didn't."

So I responded, "I asked for both. I don't really care. I'll pay for it. I just want it for my fries." As she rang me up for my $0.41, I probably should have said, "Remember how you asked if I wanted small or large and I said, 'I had no idea it came in small and large'?" but for some reason -- probably my complete bafflement at this Inattentive Listener -- I didn't.

In any case, she brought me some dip and off I went.

It wasn't until I was home that I realized how Inattentive a Listener she really was. Useless really.

Scroll back up there in this tirade of a transcript and reread my initial exchange with the Inattentive Listener. Go ahead, I'll wait while you do.


Okay, so did you notice that I asked for "...a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" Please note, also, that I did not ask for extra mayo on my sandwich. I did not even use the phrase extra mayo. No, I asked for "...a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" I do this EVERY TIME I EAT THIS MEAL, though if I'm in the restaurant, I ask for "...a little ramekin [gesture with hands showing little ramekin] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" because that's what they'd use if you're eating in. Why don't I just ask for extra mesquite mayo? Because I don't want extra mesquite mayo on my sandwich! I want to (and this is a little gross if you think too hard on it) dip my little corn chips in it. I don't know how that started.

You see where I'm going with this, right?

That's RIGHT! Inattentive Listener didn't pay attention to my very specific request for "...a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" and so I had no such little tub. Instead, I had a sandwich slathered in the stuff and nothing in which to dip my wee chips.

And that's why there should be an idiot screen for people going into food service.

Finally, and on a completely different subject, go here and have some fun!

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Anatomy for Dancers

Having had my first dance rehearsal last night, I'm now being reminded of some things. Namely muscle groups.

Today I am ... aware of the work done in some areas, but I know that tomorrow will be far worse. Why? Because let's be honest, doing the types of movements that I was doing last night aren't all that common in everyday life. How often do I have to go from being slumbed over forwards with my hands on the ground into an arch backwards to lay across somebody else who is also arching backwards? How regularly do I walk with my arms flung back behind me and my feet far ahead of me, requiring that my beleagured abs support my upper body in this crazy position? Not often, that's how often. Even when I went to the gym and actually worked out, I'm not sure I worked as many muscle groups as I did last night.

Still, the choreography is going to be great (I've already warned my parents to be ready for it). I've also discovered that I'm the oldest dancer in the show (so soon?) so I figure I'd better not let myself be shown up by them youngsters.

Mercifully, I've got until Friday to recover before I'm back at it again...

Sunday, September 24, 2006


I am a person of contraditions. I know it, my friends know it, but there it is. I'm outgoing, friendly, I work in jobs with very high levels of human interaction, yet I have a shy streak when off of my own turf.

I also perform regularly in plays, musicals, and a dinner show. Slap me in a show in front of an audience and I'm fine. I've yet to have an episode of stage fright in my performance career. Ask me to sing in church, though, and the nerves appear.

And then there are auditions. I hate auditions. I'm fine before I go in. I'm fine when I come out. In between, though, I'm pretty much a freak.

On Saturday I had a vocal audition for Chicago and, although I felt good about the singing itself, my body was uncooperative and I was more than a bit noticeably quavery. Since it was a director with whom I've never worked, I was worried, of course, that he would believe I might be a wreck on stage.

Then this morning I had a dance audition. You want to talk stress? Picture me in a room packed with dancers (some of whom are dancers to the hilt), and ask me to learn the choregraphy (with no clear sightlines to the choreographer's feet) in a hurry. Yeesh! Still, I was doing reasonably well until the tap part. YIKES! Humiliation ran rampant. I have a little tap experience but there was NO WAY I was going to identify the sounds/steps/sequences/routines at full-speed on the fly. HUMILIATION, I say.

In the end, after a lengthy and nerve-wracking callback period, I've wound up as a dancer/ensemble member in the show, which should be wicked fun. Based on the short Fosse-esque routines we worked on as part of the audition today (do NOT include the horrendous tap segment in that), methinks it's going to be mighty pickin' fun to do.

Let's be honest, though. If you'd asked me a couple of years ago, "Do you expect to be cast as a dancer in a show anytime soon?" I probably would have responded, "No, no, no. Be not so very silly ... " (I spoke quite dramatically a few years ago, apparently) "... though I will likely be dancing in a show, I don't foresee being considered a dancer exactly."

All I can say is that I'm going to be Fosse-ing all over the place for the next while. Jazz hands in the produce aisle. Rolling shoulders while taking out the recycling. That sort of thing. I'll likely be unbearable.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Something Fishy

You need to know two things about me:

1. It took me a LONG time to psych myself up enough to get a tuna sub at Subway. To some that may sound like an unappealing sub to begin with, but tuna's almost the only seafood that I'll eat (in addition to fish-and-chips style fish with plenty of tartar sauce). Still, the point is that it took a great deal of self-talk and a bucketload of faith for me to trust that the tuna in that (slightly creepy) table would be suitable for consumption. So far I haven't died. Or broken my 20-year record for vomitlessness.

2. I'm notoriously easy-going and seldom speak up even when I should. When I was a gardener, I ate many, many, many sandwiches with tomatoes in them even though I loathe tomatoes. Why? I just didn't want to make the lovely woman who was making the aforementioned sandwiches feel bad.

That said, I reached a pivotal point (important to today's tale) a few days back when I stopped at ye olde Subway for my tuna sub. I approached that little glass-enclosed counter and saw it. What I didn't want to see. The tuna scoop resting on the lid of the tuna tub. Sitting there caked in tuna. Not caked in pleasant "Mmm. Doesn't that look tuna-rifically tasty" tuna, but in "Sweet Mother, I'd forgotten that mayonnaise turns into that creepy amber glass-like substance when left out and the tuna mixed in just makes it all the more unappealing" tuna that has been aged beyond appropriate.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat a sub which had come into contact with that. Besides, shouldn't there be some sort of submarine sandwich protocol to prevent that from ever happening?

So I did what I had to. I said, "Excuse me. I don't want to be a pain, but could you please wash that scoop before you use it?" The Sandwich Artist (though it's been some time, to be honest, since I had a sandwich there that resembled in any way a work of art) was very pleasant about it and even replaced the scoop entirely with a sparkling clean one. I felt good about the situation and about my choice to speak up in the name of my immune system.

Then today, I returned after a long day at work, knowing that I didn't have the patience to make anything. A sub it would be.

And there it was. The creepy scoop, just as before. Ack.

Cooperative Subway Worker was in back. I had Alternate Girl.

Having had such a positive and productive experience last time, I made my request again. Unlike C.S.W. (who was in back), A.G. (who was serving me) didn't seem to appreciate my request. She went and gave it a quick wash and my (perhaps irrational) faith came back into play. It appeared clean, but the scoop didn't actually travel in back to the official dish washing area, just to the up front sink. For the rest of my journey down the line ("Lettuce, cucumbers, and pickles, please. Just one little squooge of mayo and some salt and pepper.") A.G. seemed unwilling to converse with me more than absolutely necessary, as if my request somehow personally affronted her.

If that little window counter wasn't there, would she have done my sandwich harm? That's always my concern when making even the slightest stink when it comes to food. If they think you're being petty (though in no way do I think asking for non-yack utensils to be used is petty), will they take it out on you in secret and horrible ways? Will they spit on it or, worse, immerd* it in the unspeakable?

I need to grocery shop more often. Of course, as we already know, grocery shopping has proven to have its own risks.

Incidentally, I'm doing laundry. In my own home. Woohoo!


* immerd (im-MURD): to cover in dung, as in "Do wee..see some eminent professor..immerd himselfe in the dung of worldly wickednesse.." (spake by William Ames in 1652).

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Attempted Murder

Today I (with Mike's assistance) moved the washer and dryer I was lucky to get hold of into the basement. Washers = heavy and cumbersome. To so so, we had to move the stove, but luckily it went off without a hitch. Or so it seemed.

Allow me to now pause to extol the virtuous prospects of being able to do laundry in my own home. That's a luxury I have not enjoyed for over a decade and I'm greatly looking forward to it. Just think: no more trying to schedule the trips to the laundromat; no more loud/bratty/scampering children underfoot whilst at the laundromat; no more getting to the laundromat only to discover the change machine is empty/out of order; no more spending $20 or more per visit at the laundromat ... smell the spring fresh freedom!

Back to the scandalous events of the day.

It was quite a bit later that I returned home after a jaunt out in the real world, but it took mere moments to realize that something was up. Someone had plotted to kill me. To do me in. To bump me off. To deal with me once and for all.

You see, I turned the key in my back door, heard the familiar click, and swung the door open, stepping casually over the threshold. As I reached for the light switch, my nose sent a warning to my head. There was a strong smell of natural gas in the air. I withdrew my hand to my side and sniffed again. Definitely a smell of blow-the-house-sky-high gas. I immediately went downstairs (in the half-light of dusk) and turned off the gas supply to the stove. Returning upstairs, I went to move the stove out from the wall, theorizing that we may have loosened the seal to the gas supply hose in back when we moved it in order to make room for the laundry machines (which, incidentally, will make trips to the laundromat a thing of the past). That's when I saw it. Evidence that someone was out to get me. To do me in. To bump me off, etc., etc.

The gas supply to the front right-hand burner was on.

Now, I won't mention the name of my attemped killer (murderer, hit man, assassin), but his name starts with M and rhymes with IKE. (He's also married to Betsy and the father of her three children.) Oh, he denies it, but I'm not convinced.

Still, he did offer to drop by while I'm at work tomorrow (since I'll be gone from about 7:30 in the morning and won't get in until about 10:00ish) to pop all the hoses and such on the machines so I don't need to. I guess that means I'll forgive him his homicidal tendencies.

But I will check the gas before I leave and again when I return.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Dubble Dubble Toil and Trubble

Know what I hate? Commercials in which there has been clear (and poorly executed) rerecording of voices. They've been around forever. Some seem to have been dubbed from the get-go, as though they'd accidentally cast some beautiful face with a voice like sandpaper and had to replace the sound, not unlike Singin' in the Rain

The latest offenders include a commercial for Bam cleaner, in which it appears the name of the product has been changed. The spokesman is ranting along about the product and all seems well until he names the cleaner and then *Bam!* it's like watching a kung fu movie. I know, I know, it would cost a lot to reshoot the commercial, but it drives me nuts. Are we not supposed to notice? Could they not have settled on the name before shooting?

The other offender I've noticed is an ad for Toronto's 104.5 CHUM FM. The original version of the commercial featured some fine fellow looking out his window across to a facing building. He notices people dancing, singing into a brush, and the like. His female companion (I don't wish to make assumptions about their relationship) enters, turns on the radio (to CHUM FM, of course) and he realizes that everyone across the way is listening to CHUM, too. How does he know? Because their dancing and lipsynching match the music! Now that they've substituted more current music in the commercial, it just doesn't make sense. "Hey! It's Toronto's most popular station, but judging from their actions, those people over there are listening to something else!"

What's that all about? It causeth me distress.


I came across this a while back. Maybe it's because I'm getting older and discovering that the trite thing everyone says about time flying faster the older you get turns out to be true, but I found it so affecting that I've decided to share it for those who haven't yet seen it.


This evening I was at a banquet and was faced with one of my aversions. Well, two of them, to be honest.

Most of those who know me well know that I have a thing about public eating. I can eat in restaurants and such without problem, although I do have strong seating preferences -- do not seat me at a table in the middle of the dining room if there's a wall table or booth available -- but in banquet / wedding reception / gathering-style eating situations, I am not at my best. I just don't like it. I think it has to do with the whole "behaving oneself" thing. Oi. The pressure.

That said, the food was good and the company was pleasant, so I certainly can't complain. And, of course, my aversion doesn't keep me from just dealing with it and eating anyway.

The second thing I faced was being forced (which is italicized for a reason, not for sensationalism) to put in an appearance on the dance floor by my dear friend Satan, er, Alison, that is. I dance when I'm performing. I don't really just ... you know ... dance. I just don't do it and I don't particularly like to do it. That said, slap me in a show and ask me to dance and I'm there. Needless to say, I was cursing Alison most of the time, while putting on my best Travolta. Then, to make matters worse, I was hot afterwards. Oh, the sacrifices I make for my friends....

So there you have it. My evening really was very enjoyable, seeing all kinds of friends and acquaintences many of whom I haven't seen in a while. Still, people, I have some issues! Can't you accept them as I have?

Have a nice evening.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

I'm Such a Spaz

All day long, I've been having tiny muscle spasms on the inside of my right arm, just below my elbow. It's that strange mix of creepy and intriguing. The kids were fascinated by watching it quiver now and then. (Right now it's going nuts.) It's been happening on and off now for more than 12 hours. Why do you suppose that is?

Well, according to Medline Plus, this could be "common and normal" nerve firing, which is kind of vague, or it could be a nuerological disorder, which is kind of alarming. WHAT?!?!

So, let's go down the list of potential causes, shall we?

Benign twitches (not caused by disease or disorders)
Often affecting the eyelids, calf, or thumb
Normal and quite common, often triggered by stress or anxiety

Hmmm. Nope. Not my eyelids, calf, or thumb. It's my arm. And let's be honest, wouldn't my years upon years of stress and anxiety have produced something by now? My entire body from tip to toe should be twitching!

A diet deficiency

Okay, I won't lie. I suppose that's a possibility, although another site specifically identified a potassium deficiency as a cause and I ate plenty of bananas in the past week.

Which brings us to:

Drug overdose (caffeine)

Curiously enough, I think I've had less caffeine than usual lately. Could I have a drug underdose?

Drug side effect (such as diuretics, corticosteroids and estrogens)

Again, I'm not thinknig this is an explanation. As far as I can tell, I'm not hopped up on estrogen, unless I'm starting to absorb it from the all-female staff I work with every day!



Maybe that leaves "neurological disorder", but I still have my suspicions that it's really best explained by "hmmm, isn't that odd?"

I'll let you know if it continues or grows out of control.

Finally, and basically for Keltie and her hair-fixation, here's a wee link.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

A Day at the Races, A Night at the Opera

After a long and reasonably productive day at work, I was off to Shaw for a rousing musical performance of High Society.

Have you ever noticed that the senior members of our community (whom I love, adore, and duly respect both as a whole and, where merited, as individuals) can be ever-so-very disquieting in large groups? Oh, the mass of humanity!

On this evening, a significant portion of the audience was of the aged (and, presumably, honourable and beloved) set. Upon the end of the performance, however, I very nearly feared for my life. In large numbers, their group movements become unpredictable unless, like a flock of birds, you happen to be one of them, in which case you seem to instinctively react and respond to modifications in the group's bearing. On this occasion, while being funneled out of the theatre through a much-too-narrow set of doors (much like sheep exiting a fold), I was bounced around between two disorienting movement patterns.

The first was what I call "On A Mission" in which the aforementioned seniors (whom, as I've said before, I love and respect regardless of their exiting behaviours) pick a goal -- such as the door, their car, or one of several large tour buses -- and head there, ready to bodycheck anyone who should stand in between them and their goal. Now, that's not quite right. They didn't even seem to register that their could be someone between them and their goal.

The second was the "Stick the Landing" in which someone walking in front of you stops without a nanosecond's notice, going from sixty to a standstill with no apparent slowing. Then you're left dodging, a precarious endeavour thanks to everyone else being On A Mission to both the left and right, as well as behind you. You're left doing a sort of athletic Pick and Turn to swing past them and back into the flow. Yeesh!

I'm thinking of proposing that the esteemed aged equip themselves with a set of indicator lights which will alert us to such things. Or maybe at least a brake light on the backs of their hats.

Monday, September 11, 2006


Dona nobis pacem.

Give us peace.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Hitchcock Goes Awry

Alright, so the weirdest and spookiest thing happened today.

Because I hadn't cut my lawn since before my trip out west, I knew that one way or the other I had to get it cut this weekend. Yesterday it rained, so my options were limited; therefore, I was up and cutting my lawn this morning shortly after eight, a Sunday morning crime if ever there was one.

Now, before you start to curse me on behalf of my sleeping-in neighbours, know that I have a chicka-chicka-chicka, not a power mower of any kind, so it's quiet and polite. But that really has nothing to do with my story, apart from setting the scene.

In any case, I was in the back, mowing away, when there's this thud on my little deck to my left. I look over and it's a bird and it's not moving. At first I'm thinking it's done the old fly into a window trick, even though there are few windows and they're not big on that side of the house, but it's looking really ... um ... well ... dead. Its wings are tight against its body and its legs are all jutting out.

So I'm just thinking a combination of "That's kind of sad if it's dead" and "Great, where am I going to put a dead bird?" when there's another thud, this time on the grass behind me. I turn and, sure enough, it's another little bird gone all legs up. Now I know that one didn't hit any window, because at this point I'm paying attention, and not mowing (with my ever-so quietly operating mower). In any case, I have to move that one, or I can't even finish mowint, so I go into my little shed to get a garden trowel to scoop the little tweeter-no-more up.

And that's when things got completely freaky.

No sooner had I stepped over the threshold of the shed than they started dropping like rain. Thud. Thud thud. Thud. Thud. Thud thud thud. They were falling all over my backyard, on the shed's roof, and on my car. At this point, I'm pretty much creeped out and my mind starts going, "Are they dropping only on my house? Is this like something from The Witches of Eastwick*? Have the neighbours put a curse on my household for some reason?"

Then comes the real decision. What the heck am I supposed to do? Stay in the shed? Make a run for the back door? The idea of having a dead bird drop directly onto me is NOT appealing.

Luckily, almost before I can even think to make a decision, it stops. I stick my head out, trusty trowel in hand and ready for some indeterminate action, should the need arise, and look up at the sky (which is clear blue with no sign of a bird-cloud of any kind). Nothing else appeared.

In the end, I scooped fifteen birds (mostly robins and chickadees) and bagged them for Friday's garbage scoop. I don't really have anywhere to bury that many. I'll tell you this, though, I felt a bit like an Egyptian during the plagues. It was CREEPY!

Alright, so none of that really happened, apart from me cutting the lawn, but it is sure a heck of a lot more interesting than the actual events of the day.

* I've included the link to information about the movie The Witches of Eastwick, but I think I'd be remiss if I did that to the exclusion of the original novel by John Updike.


Keltie has told me that I must not give in to my procrastinatious* tendencies and that, instead, I must write SOMETHING tonight in this FOWLO** and therefore I shall.

Have you ever noticed that children can get away with a much wider range of locomotor styles than adults? Think about it.

Ever notice that some kids skip here and there? I know one girl, in particular, who skips most of the time she's outside and going further than a few feet. It's really quite fun and enjoyable to watch. "I'm outside! Weeee!"

Now imagine it with an adult. Pick someone. Anyone. Maybe someone you work with. Maybe a family member. Maybe that mall cop that saunters around without really making eye contact with anyone who isn't also in a uniform.

Picture that person skipping down the street, across the parking lot, or as they step off the bus. I'm not talking about your colleague/loved one/mall cop goofing off for a lark (or any other songbird), but just doing it in the course of his or her day, not even caring if anyone's watching. Heehee!

Or what about those kids who run with absolute abandon, arms and legs flailing madly all about every which way. I think the world would likely be a less stressful place if we just ran like that everywhere we went. Okay, some people would get eyes poked out, and others would be hit frequently by moving vehicles, but at least we'd all be having fun.

Aaaah. Fun.

* I hope you've all started working "procrastinatious" into your regular vocabulary. I want to see this sucker in the dictionary by New Year's Eve, 2010!

** Fount of Wisdom Located Online

Thursday, September 07, 2006

One Who Legs Boots

Know what would be great? If you went to Bootlegger and voted for my friend, Sarah Stunt, in their "Generation B" contest. A more lovely young woman could not win. (And she didn't even ask me to drum up support!)

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Dee da dee da day

Pressure! O! I feel like I must write something (and something inspiring, witty, or otherwise worthwhile, at that) even though it was a rather uneventful day.

SO ...

I went to the grocery store (yes, it's the second in a fourteen-part series on the grocery store experience ... don't judge me) today to pick up supplies to make dip. Yes, dip. It happens to be very tasty.

In any case, I made the mistake (arguably) to pop in at the Great Canadian Superstore (a rather vague and none-too-descriptive name, might I add). Know what my problem was there? Not only do their aisles go in the wrong direction, as far as I'm concerned, by running perpendicular to the checkout lanes, but I had to embark on a near-epic quest for rice crackers. Say it with me: rice crackers. Yes, crackers. Where would one expect something which contains the word crackers in its name? Perhaps in the cracker section with saltine crackers, whole wheat crackers, vegetable crackers, multigrain crackers, and Ritz-brand crackers? NO! That would make too much sense! Even Crispers, those "Is it a cracker or is it a chip?" snacks, were in the cracker section. But were the rice crackers? No! Instead, I had to roam like a grocery store urchin, pleading with the shelves to take pity on a lost soul. And where, pray tell, did I find them?

In the chip section.

Now, I don't know who they're deluding, but there's no way I'm going to be convinced that rice crackers (though tasty in their own right) are ever going to be chips.

Why must the world punish me so? I think there's a message here.

I should just eat out for every meal for the rest of my life.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Standards for Cashiers

On the way home from work, I decided to stop by ye olde grocery store. Like I often do, I talk myself out of doing "real" grocery shopping, instead convincing myself that I just need a few things to tide me over. Then I realize a few days later that I have nothing to eat.

In any case, among my purchases were two containers of honey. I bought a bottle of liquid honey and a tub of solid honey. Why? Well, I like each for different purposes. Runny honey is good for cooking or for using as a sweetener in tea (for guests -- I don't believe in sweetening hot tea) and such. Hard honey is my preference on things like hot toasted English muffins.

Then I went to the cashier.

Now, I should pause to say that I have nothing but respect for the grocery store cashier, so long as he or she is pleasant, capable, and chooses not to rant about politics using a great deal of foul language and without provocation. (Yes, that's another experience I've had.) In fact, as a youngster, I dreamed of being a grocery store cashier, though I think it had a lot to do with the apparent appeal of blipping things back when that was still a novelty reserved for the select few.

Be that as it may, today's cashiering professional paused and said, "Wow. This honey's solid. That's different. Is it better or something?" I won't even get into the fact that I had both types of honey on the conveyor belt, leading one to believe that perhaps I considered them different but equal. Inside my head, I was thinking, "You've lived on this earth for somewhere around two decades and you work in a grocery store and you were unaware of solid honey?" Out loud, I explained that I like them for different purposes as outlined above. Sadly, I think my explanation was likely lost on her, since by this time, she was looking over my shoulder at the cashier two lanes over, completely ignoring me, and asking her colleague, "So, does my hair look really stupid? Like, the colour. Does it really look stupid?"

Your hair? No. Your hair does not look stupid.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Something Impressive

Since my day was once again uneventful, I'll share this link to the work of a crazy master of origami. Click here to see some impressive stuff. Sheesh. I'm happy I can make a flapping bird. Yep. A bird. That can flap its wings. That's my specialty.

Sunday, September 03, 2006


My CD player has a rewind button where the stop button should be.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

A Case for the X-Files

Whilst I was preparing my wee office at home in order that I might actually "move in", I came across a Papermate Comfortmate Stick pen which had been residing in silent patience on my desk. (Do you like how I inserted a link to Papermate's site, just like Keltie does?) It had been sitting there for some time, amidst all sorts of schnazzum and frazzum, for some time while I put together some Flarkes from IKEA and unloaded box after box of books and movies, took a trip or two, and was otherwise lazy and procrastinatious*.

Upon picking it up today, however, I immediately realized that something. was. not. right.

It was covered in some sort of mysterious sticky residue. My first instinct was to scream, flush my hands with water, induce vomiting (which would have broken my legendary record for vomitlessness), and call the centre for poison control. Instead (and, in retrospect, rather curiously) I decided to rinse the pen off. After all, these Papermate Comfortmate Stick pens aren't a dime a dozen. (Apparently they're $7.06 a dozen at Staples Online.) Upon washing and drying the pen (why on earth did I wash and dry the pen?) I noticed that most of the comfort had worn off. Yes, the slightly rubbery surface texture which makes the Comfortmate so darn Comfortmatable was reduced.

Which begs the question: Was the mysterious residue actually the comfort itself, having metamorphosized while basking in the summer heat of my upstairs, or did the mysterious residue somehow take up residence on my beloved pen and eat away at the comfort like an insidious parasite? If the latter, where did it come from?

Needless to say, I may have trouble sleeping tonight.


* procrastinatious (pro-kras-tin-A-shus): though not officially recognized as a word, it is my belief that this term, being an adjective to describe the state of mind in which one puts off some task until an indeterminate later time, should be. Consider its uses, such as "He was a rather procrastinatious individual." Or "As the demands of life began to overwhelm him, he grew more and more procrastinatious until at last he put off the one thing he couldn't afford to delay: the application of the brakes on his 1979 Chevy Nova." Please begin using this word immediately and in a variety of social and professional spheres until it gains in usage and becomes a recognized word.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Paper Sculpture Extraordinaire

I stumbled across this and thought I should share. It's amazing. The site's called A4 Paper Cut, which is a catchy title indeed.

In other news, there is no other news.

Fitting Words

In The Emerald City of Oz L. Frank Baum wrote, "The reason most people are bad is because they do not try to be good." Ponder that for a while, Keltie!

Yes, in a moment of acrasia*, I agreed to have this wee webloggy thing (which shall, from here on in, be called an Fount of Wisdom Located Online, FOWLO for short) and will strive to keep it going for all two of you who will read it from time to time. Bear with me (or, if you prefer, come down here and bare with me).

In other news, nothing noteable has happened since last night. Well, nothing noteable to anyone other than me. I came into work and had a lovely confab with the MOST DEAR and WONDERFUL secretary on Planet Earth. I also did some work (putter, putter, putter) to prepare for Tuesday. Ug. Thankfully, I've convinced myself that I've worked enough for now, so I'm off. Chip!


* acrasia (a-KRAY-zhuh): the state of mind in which one acts against one's own better judgement, as in, "Struck with an episode of acrasia, Keltie chose to begin an exceedingly challenging mask involving seagulls."