"For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it."
For as long as I can remember I have wanted to be a rock star. When I was a kid I made up this sweet song called, “You Left Me At the Taras” which was a classic, run-of-the-mill, broken-heart love song, set in a less than classy (think Moe’s Tavern) real-live establishment in my hometown. The song was more than vaguely spirited from a tune (which does have a name although it eludes me right now) by Connie Francis, who, given my time-warped childhood was like my version of Lady Ga Ga. The song told the sad tale of a lady who took her lover to the Taras and introduced him to her best friend…. Ahh what the hell, let me share some of my 8 year old lyrical genius with you, you’re clearly dying to hear it, but please don’t take advantage of the fact they have not been copyrighted (seriously, be prepared to be blown away):
“You left me at the Taras, at the Taras, at the Taras, You left me at the Taras, on a Sunday afternoon/
We were dancing, we were dancing, we were da-a-ancing, then I introduced you to my best friend./
Then you were dancing while I was crying, cry-y-ying. You didn’t love me anymore, so I walked out the door.”
Simple, straightforward and just speaks to you right?
I hope you realise my face is all hot and blushing just from writing that.
The (only) other ditty in my 8-year-old repertoire included the much more trivial song entitled: “When you’re Feeling Glum (Feeling Like a Plum)” which was directly inspired by the time my mum gave me vegetables for lunch (for lunch! I know! What was she thinking?).
Next weekend is my Grandma’s birthday. We lost her not that long ago and she was (to say the absolute least) the matriarchal queen of our family; I miss her infinitely. She encouraged all of us to love and enjoy music and was famous for holding concerts where we would perform a song or a dance for the eager and adoring audience of cousins, aunts and uncles.
So in honor of those awesome memories and of her, (of course) we are holding a family concert in ONE WEEK.
Yes I’m singing and yes I’m nervous.
I know what you’re thinking- how could someone with such raw, natural talent be nervous? Well, this may be hard to believe but other than the occasional drunken sing-along, this will be the first time I am to officially entertain people with my (what hopefully vaguely resembles a) singing voice.
The Canadian and I have teamed up to do a couple’a numbers, no big deal, but I have been practising the cake-walk from ‘Meet Me in St Louis’, just in case I chicken out.
I may or may not let you know how it goes.
Not too long ago, The Canadian had a dream. The dream, he describes, was about the both of us frolicking happily in a delicious, sunny meadow, with our very own, extremely well-behaved puppy. The dream was so vivid, said The Canadian, that we even had this in-depth discussion regarding the dog’s name in which I conceded to the idea of not calling him the name that I had always dreamed of naming a dog, (Atticus Finch) and instead we decided unanimously (in the dream) that we should call him Gretzky, after the great Canadian hockey player. Just to be clear, this all happened in the dream. I know. I’m also skeptical that this “dream” actually took place.
Anyway let me give you a little history lesson on my experience with dogs:
When I was a kid we had this buck-nut crazy kelpie called Scruffy. When Scruffy pooped outside, my sister and I were so repulsed that we used to wash his behind with a warm, damp face washer in a seemingly futile attempt to keep this animal as clean and domesticated (or Domestos-cated) as possible. One day Scruffy chewed the shit out of my Velcro Catch Ball set which, (circa 1992) was a.k.a The best friggin toy EVER. Anyway I was distraught and I remember staring into Scruffy’s eyes with a look of sheer and utter contempt thinking, “how could you Scruffy? I wiped your dirty dog’s bottom and this is how you repay me?”
Anyway let’s just say that after this, Scruffy and I had a somewhat strained relationship and that I was secretly pleased when Mum and Dad had to give him away to a farm (on account of his mental derangements).
So we picked Gretzky up about 4 weeks ago when he was 8 weeks old. Let me give you his stats:
Breed: English Staffy
Color: Blue
Weight: 4 Kgs
Likes: Paper towel, socks, the taste of Achilles tendons
Dislikes: vacuum cleaners, hairdryers, storms, sleeping alone
We took Gretzky-pup to puppy pre-school for the first time last week and he was thee naughtiest pup in the entire class. He was the ONLY puppy that wasn’t allowed off his leash, the only pup that would bark profusely while the trainer was trying to speak and the only puppy that would try to bite the noses of the other owners when they picked him up. I spent most of the class with my face hidden in my hands. My pup was acting like one of those unruly kids at the supermarket who wants their mum to buy them a Kinder-surprise and throws a mass-tanty when mum says no. What made matters worse was that the most well behaved puppy in the class happened to be Gretzky’s sister, Taj. Taj was the model dog; always allowed off her leash first, always asked to demonstrate the trick before the rest of the class was to attempt and yes, I was a little jealous. I’ll admit it; just a minor case of puppy-envy. I felt like the helpless mother of an uncontrollable toddler, (probably the same one in the supermarket) I’m sure you know the one and have given her your fair share of disapproving, sideways glances too, whilst thinking, geez woman control that kid. Well, I was that woman, and my kid was uncontrollably rambunctious. What bugs me the most about this whole thing is that the cheeky little bugger is so well-behaved when we’re home alone. On command, he can, sit, come, lie down, shake, touch my foot when I say “foot”, lick my palm when I click my fingers and look me in the eye when I say “look”.
I don’t care what anyone says, or the fact that he has a rare but debilitating flatulent odor, he’s awesome and he’s all ours.
Ahh holidays! The great sigh of relief from the working world. Now let’s just get what I’m thinking out in the open right away; if you have EVER said or thought to yourself or are thinking it now for the first time- that teachers get it easy, well, I hope you choke on your toothbrush, yeh I mean it. I’ve thought about what I just said and I don’t take it back. This term was the most epic and unimaginably testing of my entire (3 year) career and I have just spent the first week and a half of this two week break feeling particularly and overwhelmingly sick, uninspired and completely lacking in any form of motivation.
All I’ve done so far is watch documentaries on the Mayans, participate in endless games of Cluedo and eat home-made pizza (quite literally- I am genuinely currently surviving on home-made pizza). I’ve learnt quite a lot of useless information and I’m almost convinced I missed my calling and was meant to be a detective or some kind of female renaissance version of Indiana Jones (den-den-den-den). Alas and regardless of all this, I am yet to tick a single task off the list that I so enthusiastically created pre-holidays; ignorant in my assumptions that I would actually achieve all of these things:
TO DO:
1. Clean and organize study
2. Cook a delicious dinner party for my friends
3. Learn a new song on the guitar for Grandma’s Birthday concert
4. Finish ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’
5. Complete my full teacher registration
6. Mark all my year 9’s English essays
BORING
If only my list had have looked more like the following I could have ticked the shit out of it:
TO DO
Duh ! The problem’s not in the list maker’s productivity levels, it’s in the list maker’s list making. There’s a lesson to be learned here… I can’t exactly put my finger on what it is, seeing I’m all relaxed, prostrate and switched off but it seems like there’s some moral to this story… or is this just the effect of vague remnants of a looming teacher’s hat??
I’m concerned.
A little while ago I was making my way to a class to you know, educate the leaders of tomorrow, and I overhead a girl exclaim to her companion, after (I’m assuming) the friend had just shared something funny, that she was, and I quote: “LOLing”.
LOLing?!?!?!
Now it has to be made clear that this girl was not actually in the act of laughing- audibly or otherwise, in fact she was not even smiling, she was simply exclaiming to her friend that she was “LOLing”.
Have people become so impervious to humor or any other stimuli that would normally manifest in a real active exhibition of their current sentiment, that they feel the need to not actually engage in the act of displaying emotion but prefer simply to describe it?
How (gasping for breath) can it seem logical that one exclaims they are in the act of doing something, when they are not, in fact, in the act, but simply declaring that they are?
Is this some kind of anti-tautology? (I sure do hope so as I haven’t had sound need to employ this term since studying Heidegger at university and if so I officially coin this term). Or could this phenomenon be described as a modern day preference for text jargon and description rather than action? I sure hope not as LOLing is an acronym so deprived of any vocabular* soundness that it’s almost embarrassing.
Like I said, if these are the leaders of tomorrow, I’m anxious about my future. I laugh. A lot. I’ll have you know that I quite enjoy indulging in a little giggle and I just can’t sleep easy at night knowing that the future could quite possibly see the cessation of emotional displays. I’m picturing the future like that of the novel “Children of Men” but instead of a world devoid of children, a world without emotional displays. Bah-LEAK !
* new word, hooray!
When I questioned him about his disapproval:
“I don’t like it- are you writing a blog aboot that? You clearly are.. stop that.. Immediately eh?”
Then, he refused to divulge any further arguments for me not calling him ‘The Canadian’, and proceeded to watch his hockey game, drink from his favorite re-usable Tim Horton’s coffee cup and eat a fully cooked breakfast of bacon and pancakes smothered in a deluge of maple syrup. Yep, my nom de plume for this guy is so off the mark.
Have you ever had to convince another person that you weren’t a crazy stalker creep only to realise that your assertions on not being crazy incidentally indicate otherwise and (drawing breath), much to your sheer and utter dismay, the more you try to convince someone you aren’t crazy, the more crazy you seem? Oh really? Same. Yeh, me either.
Ok I’ll come clean:
Ok I’ll come clean:
This morning I woke up a little perturbed by the fact that the number of subscribers to my blog is dismal compared to the amount of hits I have. I read a blog on how to get more people to subscribe to your blog and it suggested to find a blog you like and comment on it in the hope that perhaps the subscribers to said, commented-on blog, would then, in turn subscribe and comment on my blog (blog, blog, blog).
I checked my email. In my inbox was a link to a blog called, “yes and yes” so I clicked it, not realizing that this ‘click’ would signify the genesis of a series of misfortunate and embarrassing events which would revolve around all that I have disclosed thus far.
I liked the blog, a whole lot actually. This particular post was on this girl’s idea of the perfect home. It seemed perfect for my agenda. So I commented:
“I enjoyed the pictorial representation of your idea of the quintessential abode. Although I must admit it does lack in one, most obvious and often over-looked, area... the spiral staircase ! 'Ahh of course', you're saying...'how could I have been so disregarding of such helicoidal goodness?' You're forgiven because your pictures and your writings are pretty and pleasing to my eyes and mind. P.s how under-rated and un-employed is the adjective helicoidal?”
I know, impressive right? Now if you know me, you’d think that was funny but if you didn’t know me, maybe a little odd-ball, arse-hat*?
Go on, you can say it.
Anyway then I saw on her blog that we could be friends on facebook. Let me clarify that I had zero disillusionment as to what this meant. I realised that this was just to her blog not to be personal friends, weird, don’t even know her, c’mon. So I went to facebook, typed in her name and…. hang on. Writer’s dilemma. I wrote her a message which I want you to see. But by me posting it here, now, will ruin the story which planned to culminate to the writing of this message. What they hey, posting it now:
Anyway then I saw on her blog that we could be friends on facebook. Let me clarify that I had zero disillusionment as to what this meant. I realised that this was just to her blog not to be personal friends, weird, don’t even know her, c’mon. So I went to facebook, typed in her name and…. hang on. Writer’s dilemma. I wrote her a message which I want you to see. But by me posting it here, now, will ruin the story which planned to culminate to the writing of this message. What they hey, posting it now:
**SEND**
Clearly. Clearly this girl will think I’m sure stir-crazy now. Ah well whatcha- gonna do? Anyone able to vouch for me here? Guys? Hello? Anyone? Not you mad hatter….
* I have absolutely no knowledge on what this term means I have merely seen it written before. Here I use it as an adjective but please excuse my ignorance if this is incorrect. It is a pretty effing funny word.
So it’s been about 4 weeks since we’ve moved into the new house and I LOVE IT. We have a super-dooper, re-constucted couch, a beautiful kitchen table and an uber comfy bed. We feel like we have everything we could ever need or want. BUT. Without fail, running on 100% success rate, no guest has entered this house without asking presumptuously “When are you getting a T.V?”
STOP.
Let me give you a little-bitta insight into my day: I often begin work (ing my ass off) before the sun rises and stop working well and truly into the dark-time hours. In the tiny window of time between the last essay marked or the last class planned, and bed time (how I love you bed) I either spend catching up with my boy, cleaning, or reading my awesome Jonathon Safron Foer book.
PLAY.
When, in the hours between me opening my eyes in the morning and then closing them again 17 hours later do I have the TIME (or the desire) to sit in front of a box that tells me to: eat lamb, lose weight, buy this magazine, shop at this store, bank at this institution and be concerned about who’s just died in Summer Bay?
REWIND.
Currently we have no plans or desire to purchase a t.v and despite popular belief we are ok. We are up on current events; the looming financial crisis in Greece for instance, the fact that interest rates are rising faster than …shit, currently out of humorous euphemisms… they’re rising fast ok and you get the point. Anyway the fact of the matter is, we have fun, we know stuff and all in the absence of a t.v-and the world needs to know that we are OK !
Friday. The greatest day of the week. The day you start to feel the life slowly resuscitate itself back into your cold, life-less body. Unfortunately on this particular Friday I had to venture into the supermarket to buy the Canadian the doughnuts he likes (the ones with the m & m’s sprinkled all over the top). When I had found what I needed to, I proceeded to the check-out and had to make the decision between the self-check-out aisle, where something always goes wrong and the fast-lane. Choose your own adventure. Seeing the fast-lane coincides with the way I live my life (ha) and maybe because it was free, I scooted over and proceeded to empty the contents of my basket onto the small space between me and “Sam”. BUM-BOM- Sam’s a chatter ! “How was your day?” “What are you up to this weekend?” “Where do you work?” “What is your take on Global Warming?” Christ Sam are you planning on stalking me? Does he really think he’s going to find some kind of affinity in my answers?: “No way! Me too! I think you are my long-lost sibling”. That’s far fetched.
I get really embarrassed; I don’t want to talk about my day with a total stranger. I don’t want to tell him what I’ve been up to but out of politeness I'm forced to share this information as the alternative would make me seem inappropriately rude and impudent:
Sam: “What have you been up to today?”
Me: “Nothing, leave me alone”
Or (in reality)
Sam (in annoying, keener voice): “What have you been up to today?
Me (in an extremely non-commital, nonchalant tone) : “oh just working” (rookie mistake)
Sam (perks up): “Where do you work?”
Me ( hiding epic groan): “Oh over in ****”
Sam : “Oh really what do you do there?”
Me (rubbing eyes in attempt to stop them rolling): “I teach”
Sam: “What do you teach?”
Me: “English”
Sam: “What are you up to this weekend?”
Me: “ Not much”
Sam: “that sounds a bit boring you must be doing something?”
Me: “actually my friends getting married”
Sam: “Oh wow, really? Where is the wedding?”
And so on and so forth until the eftpos machine gives its approval.
I’m not rude, I’m quite lovely, really, I pride myself on being so. But Sam, really why do you ask SO much of me? We’re strangers, we have no affinity, please just ask me how I am and move on; I’m ok with that. Really. I don’t want anything more from you, this is not a trick, deep down we both know where we stand. It’s not you, it’s me, I get shy in front of strangers and for some unknown reason I feel uncomfortable divulging any more than a, "good thanks" with people who I haven’t even been introduced to. Let’s not make this awkward Sam, I’ll just choose the self check-out aisle and we’ll pretend that this never happened. And one day, when I’m ready, maybe I’ll venture into someone else’s lane, and you’ll be ok with that, cos really, deep down you want me to be happy.
If any of you know my Dad you will agree that without solid evidence of who his parents were, one could be convinced he is the love child of McGyver and Napolean Dynamite. This man can make a computer out of nothing else but a paper clip and a magnet, bake a sponge cake of unmatched spongey-ness, ski bare-foot along the River and light a fire using only his mind. Ok that last one is not exactly true but you get the point; the guys’ an all round genius…. He’ll be taking up the hem of your new jeans whilst solving some kind of algebraic, geometric or trigonometric problem.
Once my sister and I were shocked to over-hear Dad confessing to himself, after examining a broken some-thing, that he had come to the infrequent conclusion that it could not be fixed: “I don’t think there’s too much Davy Sprocket can do about this one”. This self-proclamation earned for him, not only an eruption of fit-inducing laughter but also the self-asserted nickname: “Davy Sprocket”. Over the years, the interminable knowledge Davy so humbly and dorkishly beholds, has led others to have certain faith in any decisions he may make.
So, this week the Canadian and I finally moved into our new place. FINALLY. And we have spent the best part of the last few months (so the weekends) traipsing about the country going through the grueling (and expensive) process of deciding on furniture and other necessities that would fill our new house. On more than one occasion we spent beyond our means but seeing we are from the age of the credit card we clearly don’t mind. The only time we did mind was with the new couch. The beautiful new couch that we had purchased on lay-by. When the day finally arrived to pick it up, Davy offered to borrow his friends trailer and drive us to the place about an hour away to help out. Perfect. Nothing could go wrong with Sprocket on board.
We pick up the couch and it fits snug into the back of the trailer so Davy makes the un-disputed decision that the couch does not need to be tied down (I realise that the following is inevitably obvious given the build up, but I feel it deserves to be re-counted; stick with me) So we’re whistling along the highway at 100 clicks and Dad, glances for what must have been the first time into the rear-vision mirror and cries out in dismay: “WHAT’S HAPPENED HERE?” In slow motion I turn my head 180 degrees to discover an EMPTY TRAILER. The couch had done what no one had expected it to do- it had been flung from the trailer, suicided itself in some form of fatal protest against being purchased. Didn’t it think we were going to treat it well? Take care of it, not put our feet up on it, give it a nice warm home? Gone.
We turn the car around and at this stage I’m in tears; the credit card bill that had previously evaded my conscience had crept into my head in stark realisation that A) we couldn’t afford this couch anyway and B) If we couldn’t afford it in the first place how the fuck* could we pay for another one? Finally we spot the couch upside-down in the distance, having back-tracked about 4 kms. The couch is strewn in the bushes off to the side of the road. Like some kind of tragic accident, people are slowing their cars down to take a look, mesmerized, unable to look away. Me in tears, certain of death but full of hope, slowly and cautiously, with the delicate treatment a real car crash victim would receive, we turn the couch over to examine the damage.
RUINED.
Each end torn to shreds, the fabric utterly devastated from the impact and everyone trying to come to terms with the shock of what had just occurred. We delicately place the couch back on to the trailer, tie it down and make the solemn and slow trip home, in what seemed to be a sort of furniture-funeral procession sans flowers or other mourners.
After what seemed like eons, Davy finally made the declaration that he would admit full responsibility for the tragedy that had just occurred. That he would fix the couch. We were skeptical I have to tell you, could this man’s talents really stretch to re-upholstering furniture? Yes. And let it be known that I sit here today, typing this, comfortably snug with my feet up, on the my beautifully resurrected, re-upholstered, scar-less couch.
You’ve done it again Davy Sprocket. You really are the greatest, most intelligent, chivalrous, self-less, un-intentionally hilarious and over-all loving person I have ever met, and I sure am lucky to be your kid.
Does anyone else find the phenomena of the male urinal as enigmatic and puzzling as I do? How is it that strangers feel comfortable getting their private parts out in front of others and, further to that, being ok with participating in a simultaneous excretion of human bodily waste?
I asked my Dad and the Canadian to give their take on all of this and all they could reveal was a vaguely enthusiastic: “It’s a little awkward”. Now if you know me, you’ll know I love a good conspiracy and I believe there is one to be found here within the cold, dank and probably rank, porcelain trough that is the male urinal*. I think men all over the world are secretly shit scared of the concept but participate because they don’t want to seem odd (said in a progressively higher-pitched matter-of-fact tone).
Men all over the world! I implore you to revolt ! Sit down! Relax!…. Literally. There is an option! Exercise your right to sit, in private, if that is what you wish.
I just find it hard to believe that in a communal urinating situation:
a) Anyone would be able to fight the desire to check how anatomically blessed their neighbor is.
or
b) Anyone would be ok with their neighbor checking how anatomically blessed they themselves are.
In effect, presuming my assumptions are correct, what this means is there is a universe of males out there uncomfortable with the current washroom arrangements. I just find it hard to believe that some men can be so homophobic they don’t feel comfortable hugging another (fully clothed) male, yet they find it perfectly normal to stand next to each other, genitals in hand, exchanging pleasantries.
On that note, I bid you good day.
*Given the fact that I am a woman please realise that this is purely conjecture and I have no real knowledge of the happenings behind the door bearing the non-triangular-dress wearing silhouette.
So it’s happened. I’m not naïve, I knew this was an inevitable part of life, I guess I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon…. I’m old. Passed it. Long in the tooth.
Happened last Friday, during our after work drinks at the Bowlo- Someone ridiculously close to my age was shocked at the revelation of how old I was. “Shocked”! That’s a quote mind you. Said: “thought you were way older”. WAY??? I’M 24 YEARS OLD ! Not only that, I’ve just turned 24!
Outraged and horrified I ran straight to the bar, ordered 5 tequila slammers, slammed them (naturally), then disco pashed a hot guy wearing a pink, pop-collared shirt on the d-floor while screaming out the words to Khe Sahn as part of a drunken chorus of one-night-only-bff’s. Ok, that didn’t happen. Nor did I call my grandmother’s hairdresser and book myself in for a blue rinse. I copped it sweet. It wasn’t until right now that the weight of what happened on that fateful night has truly hit me. You know, I really thought becoming “old” would be something that clicked on after a birthday like oop you’re 30 that’s it…old. Not something that would occur now !
Anyway after Mr Foot-In-Mouth left on Friday night, my friend and I (who had also fallen prey to the wicked tongue and outrageously insulting assertions of Mr FIM) were listening to the lame crooning of the Bowlo’s back-up entertainment and noticed two not-so-young gentlemen looking eagerly out at the other older couples on the dance floor, so we asked them to dance. My old guy was so flattered that he kissed me on the cheek and thanked me for making his night. He even found his wife and brought her over to meet me and they asked me why such a young thing like me would want to dance with an old grandpa like him. A-HA ! YOUNG THING !!
Take that Mr Foot-In-Mouth. Guess it’s about perspective eh? I’m going to say this; which is to be a rare proclamation of my own ability. Yep, I’m going to say it- you think I’m older because I am ridiculously more mature, smarter and wiser than you.
Wow that felt good.
On that note I’m off to finish knitting that sweater and discuss my ailments with anyone who’ll listen…. I mean, go clubbing and drink cruisers and boxed wine.
One of my work pals went to a PD during the week & was so excited to tell me that she had met someone that I was “friends” with. I believe her exact words were “GUESS who I ran into at my PD? You will NEVER guess!” Boy was I excited at this point. Who doesn’t Iove a good coincidence? The simple thought that dear Barty, from my regular day job had ran into one of my closest bosom buddies, from my other life, was almost unbearably exciting….
What happened next is what makes this so interesting.
When Barty finally released the name of my presumed amigo, I was so disappointed at my lack of every having heard of them, that I let out a resounding and despondent sigh, matched only by Barty’s sheer disappointment of having been led to believe that this person was somewhat of a kindred spirit to my own.
So I thought about it, then I thought about some more and came up with what will from this day forth be known as the Insignificance Factor- No wait, scrap that, a little too harsh for the point I’m trying to make. The Memorable Factor? Still harsh… perhaps it will come to me.
What I’m trying to explain is the fact that you meet a copious amount of people throughout your lifetime, yet only a few of them “stick” in your long term memory. And, quite clearly this “sticking” is not always reciprocated, as is with the curious case of the mystery pal. Now at this point you may be making assumptions about the opinion I have of myself being a “sticker” but believe me, I too have been one of the unstuck..(? Unstickable? Instickable?).... Anyway this year I am teaching year 12’s for the first time ever in my compact career as a teacher and at the end of last year, I met with them to run a day-long introductory session. I was so nervous about meeting this class because I desperately wanted them to have faith in me and hopefully see me as the most profound and memorable teacher of their entire schooling careers… Well, let me tell you, I left that first class believing that in the preceding 3 hours we had just spent together, I had inspired every single one of those darn kids, reaching them on some level never before achieved by any other teacher in the history of the whole wide world. (Cocky?)
5 weeks later, I am calling them all to make sure they have read the text. The silence that emerged from the other end of the receiver when I made my introductory “ Good morning XXXXXXXX, It’s Miss XXXXXXXXX here, just calling to see how you were doing with the holiday homework”, was completely and utterly heart-wrenchingly disheartening that I began interrogating my own memories of that first day. I was on the receiving end of a desperate case of the insignificance factor !
Well, STUCK YOU MAN !
Guess we can’t all be memorable to every memory… sorry anonymous friend! Call me ?
A week or so so ago, I talked the Canadian into buying me this visco-latex pillow with the hope that it would cure me of all my ailments. The pillow was expensive but I was so sure that it held the secret key to the complete cure of all my prostration frustration… Anyway I carried that pillow around the store, nagging the Canadian in some kind of possessed childhood “tanty”-like state, saying things like: “look at the way the foam remembers the shape of my hand, it’s so wonderful” or, “this pillow is like the hand of God, shake it, shaaaaaake it”. Clearly my feminine charms prevailed in the end and I carried that pillow out of the store, above my head in a triumphant and glorious non-verbal communiqué to the world, that my neck pain would now be a thing of the past.
Boy was I mis-lead.
That pillow is thee hardest, most dense piece of foam I have ever come across in my entire existence. I’m going to go as far as to assume it’s the type of pillow you would get in a maximum security prison. Honestly, you could safely stand on this pillow to change a light bulb it’s so big and dense. But because I made this terrible hoo-hah in the store about the assumed wonders of this thing, I just know that the Canadian will give me such a hard time if I go back to my original pillow. Thus, the charade continues and every morning, when I wake with a neck stiffer than the party punch at Drew Barrymore’s 8th birthday party, I have to smile and contort my neck about, in what I’m hoping is perceived as a blatant display of some kind of new-found flexibility, born of a perfect, ethereal pillow and thank him for the role he played in all of this.
Today I went on this epic, Betty Crocker cooking rampage. I don’t think I really know who Betty Crocker is or was (I’m assuming she was married to Barry Crocker, which again could be a wild guesstimation). It felt like a last hurrah in cooking in Dad’s familiar kitchen which I cleaned out of anything remotely edible or within its used by date. It can’t be long now. Every night I go to bed with the exact same feeling I used to get on Christmas Eve, when my sister and I used to rig up some elaborate contraption that would decipher whether Santa had been or not, without us actually having to open the door and check ourselves, inevitably catching Santa in the act, which would of course have been so devastating for all parties involved that Santa would put our names on the naughty list next year. Like I was saying, I go to bed so excited that tomorrow might just be the day… I keep making excuses to go out there. Yesterday I told a little porky pie about leaving a light switch on which my Dad totally bought so we had to swing by:
What I said: “I guess I did remember, at least my mind is at ease”
What I was thinking: “SUCKER!”
I think I wracked up 9 hours playing Trivial Pursuit this weekend. I bought it at a garage sale for $3.00 at 7am on Saturday morning. Dad was really proud that I knew Bangladesh used to be East Pakistan.
Phrase Phase
Howdy
-
This is my blog. There are many like it but this one is my own. Within it I make (debatably) witty observations about life or something like it. During the day I teach teenagers things about the world and the English language. I read philosophy books and classics and I have an impressive vinyl collection. I appreciate the small things and I try to make the world better everyday. I love to write and take photos of pretty things using my Diana. I'd loan you my toothbrush...
About Me
- Corianda
- Vic, Australia
- I'm a 24 year old, stuck in the body of a 24 year old. I like you if you like me, If you screw up I can't look you in the eye. I wish I knew who made up that thing that kids say about sneezing being a 1/4 of an orgasm as I think they've made a pretty wild connection between two different ends of the human body. Sometimes I'll employ the use of sarcasm even though I know what they say about sarcasm being the lowest form of wit-but does anyone else think that statement could be sarcastic itself? When I was a kid the dentist told me I'd grow into my mouth and I'm still waiting. I walk a seesaw between extro and intro (verted that is). I'm convinced RnB music is the bane of my existence (the very fact the middle letter 'n' stands for 'and' should really be enough to call the whole thing off). I hate prejudiced on all levels of the word. I think I was either born in the wrong era or grew up with people who had not yet grown out of theirs. I hate it when people use words like "asap" or phrases such as "24/7" but at least there's a record that i love to play......
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