*The Cheerleader I’m Married To comes into the kitchen after a long day, and finds me cooking dinner*

Him: Hey babe, that smells great!

Me: Thanks! It was supposed to have broccoli in it.

Him: But it doesn’t.

Me: No.

Him: …and this is because?

Me: Because I went to the store and bought broccoli, and brought it home, and when I was chopping it up I noticed that there were bugs all over it.

Him: ewwwww…

Me: Yeah. But when you buy organic produce, you can expect some bugs here and there, you know?

Him: True.

Me: But the issue was that these bugs were still alive.

Him: Gross!

Me: No, no! Not gross – this broccoli is their home! They were just chilling at home, having a nice meal of home-broccoli. I can’t eat their home! I couldn’t be that person, and I couldn’t allow you to be that person, either. We have morals, you know.

Him: Oh god, what did you do?

Me: I took all the broccoli and put it in the backyard.

Him: So, we’re not having broccoli.

Me: No. Because it didn’t belong to us.

Him: Of course. *pats me on the shoulder, and then walks away shaking his head*

Happy Thursday all!

xo

Last night as I was driving home from work, I began thinking about the word ‘legacy’. It popped into my head because I had overheard a woman earlier in the day talking about her newborn son, and how he is the legacy that she and her husband will leave the world. The anti-kid in me immediately thought, “but what if things go sideways, and he goes full Hitler or something?!“, which was quickly replaced with, “…but then again, he could be a scientist that cures cancer, or a doctor who creates a nice new way to administer pap smears!“… you just never know, I guess. But really, no one likes a speculum so I’ll cross my fingers that the kid will be an OB/GYN and not a despot. 

I’m not having children (we can all breathe a sigh of relief with that statement, I’d say), so I won’t have the “joy” of popping out my own legacy.

A couple of years ago, I read Malcom Gladwell’s book The Tipping Point, and he described something that made me think that I may actually be a good person: The Connector. As per Wiki: Connectors are the people in a community who know large numbers of people and who are in the habit of making introductions. They usually know people across an array of social, cultural, professional, and economic circles, and make a habit of introducing people who work or live in different circles. They are people who “link us up with the world…people with a special gift for bringing the world together”.They are “a handful of people with a truly extraordinary knack [… for] making friends and acquaintances”. I think that’s me!

I don’t want to leave a boring old “regular” legacy. I want something different. I decided long ago that I want MY legacy to be other people’s legacies. I want to be that anonymous background person who helps others achieve their own dreams, and leave their own mark in the name of goodness. I love ‘connecting’ people in an effort to help them achieve goals and realize dreams! I’m lucky in that I know a boatload of people from a huge variety of backgrounds; from roadies, to chefs, authors, dog rescue operators, bagpipe players, educators, lawyers, tattoo artists, non-profit project creators, skateboard park designers, and beyond. And if I can find a way to bring any of these people together in a positive way, I’ll do it. It’s like the best game EVER!

Uhhh… before I go any further here, I need to set the record straight about one thing: I absolutely suck at setting people up in an effort to create a romantic relationship. I also suck at guessing people’s ages and their weight. Please don’t ask me for help in those departments unless you want to wind up with a broken heart, or a healthy sense of dejection. But if you’ve got a good idea, a keen interest in helping the world, or a dream that could make a positive impact, I probably know someone who can help you get it off the ground.

I want to leave the world a better place, and I know I can’t do that on my own, so I’m content to go around and introduce awesome people to other awesome people. Making people happy, seeing dreams actualized, having the world be a bit better, a bit brighter, and bit more fun… Now THAT’S a legacy I’m ok with leaving.

Happy Tuesday, awesome people!

xo

PS – Fuck you, speculums!

While walking my dog in the early morning hours, my mind tends to wander to far and fantastic places, as I’m not yet awake nor fully caffeinated. I ponder pygymy hippos (those exist!) and pocket giraffes (those do not exist), and all manner of what foods I’d like to eat during the course of the upcoming day (usually settling on popcorn, and Happy Planet ‘Extreme Green’ juice). I shuffle along in my own little world while my dog sniffs her way through everyone else’s worlds, oblivious to thoughts on the day, and of the future beyond. Lucky dog.

I started thinking about my retirement this morning. Yes, provided I don’t win the lottery in the next 10-15 years, I’ve still got some time to work and save, but it’s a thought that pops up from time to time. I’m grateful that it doesn’t weigh too heavily on me, because when I actually do put some energy into thinking about my retirement, I get a black, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Yes, I have some RRSPs hanging around doing their RRSP thing, and at the rate I’m going if I retired at 65 years of age, I could live almost comfortably for a solid year or so before I went completely broke. I’m not a big believer that there will be any form of pension available to me when I hit retirement age, even though I’ve been stuffing money into that invisible account for 20 years now. I just don’t think there will be anything left over for my generation once the Baby Boomers take their share. I mean really, it’s a Scrooge McDuck silo of cash managed by the government, so I don’t think I’m being pessimistic when I say that it’ll be bone dry by the time I walk up the hill with my bucket to collect.

So, this morning I came up with the perfect retirement plan: When I turn 65, I’m going to rob a bank. Not for the money, but for the jail time. If I play my cards right, I can get myself situated in a cushy minimum security prison with food and bed taken care of. I just have to put some thought into it, because I don’t want to screw up and accidently murder someone, which would totally land me in maximum security. So maybe I don’t use a gun – just my finger in my jacket pocket. And maybe I’ll write a threatening note or something. That might not be enough to get me a life sentence though, so I’d need to make the note REALLY threatening. And maybe I’d need to wear a ski mask, and shout a lot.

I was thinking about starting a ponzi scheme, but I’m neither financially savvy, nor nearly charismatic enough for that (I’m also kind of lazy, and that ponzi shit takes dedication and a lot of paperwork). I also thought about just writing a series of bad cheques, but I’d feel guilty screwing over any poor saps who took the bait. I thought about dumping a shitload of oil into an ocean, but those people never get prosecuted, so that’s a bust. I also had the idea of selling weed to glaucoma patients, but that would most certainly wind me up in a Supermax prison with a 400 year sentence.

So I figured that robbing a bank in a half-assed way would be the most lucrative of plans. I wouldn’t actually take any money, as I’m certain I’d be tackled by a good samaritan before I managed to score any cash, and I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone because I’d only be armed with a note, some scripted shouting (“Alright everybody be cool this is a robbery! If any of you f*cking pricks MOVE, I’ll execute every motherf*ckin’ last one of you!”), and maybe a couple of those awesome canvas bags with the dollar signs on them.

It’s flawless, really. If I manage to get myself even a 25 year prison sentence, I’d be set until the end of my days! They wouldn’t be allowed to boot me out, so I’d have meals, a bed, medical care, access to education, a job in the laundry room, and hey, maybe even a girlfriend! I’m sure by that time in my life I’d have started to become a crotchety old bitch, so no one would really want to come and visit me, so I wouldn’t really miss out on a social life. And I’ve heard there’s mini golf.

And hey, if I screw up somehow and only get myself a 10 year sentence, I’d still have all the above perks, but after my release I’d have access to a number of resources and post-prison-life programs that would help ease me back into society. If I do it right, I could totally milk that for months! Sadly, I’d relapse right before my release, and dammit, I’d have to go back to prison. Shoot. Of all the luck, eh?

So that’s my retirement plan. I feel confident that I’ve thought this out well, and that there’s no possibility that it could end badly in any way whatsoever. I’m looking forward to my prison jump suit (orange is a good colour for me), and I just know I’m going to love the library. Maybe I can even squirrel away my $4/week laundry room salary, and have something to leave behind to donate to some animal-related charity. I’d just need to use some self-restraint and stay away from the Commissary while I was doing my time. But if they sell Peanut Butter M&Ms, those animals won’t be getting a dime. Just being honest.

Have a happy Wednesday everyone!

xo

I took a month-long hiatus from Facebook and Twitter recently, and this past weekend I made a drunken decision to hop back onto social media, and catch up with everything weird and wonderful. And after three days, I can firmly say this: I’m not sure it’s for me anymore.

Look, I’ll admit it, I like Twitter because there’s always the slim chance that someone I don’t know will find me funny, and for a brief moment, I will feel validated. Usually when I say something completely asinine (perhaps something about LL Cool J, or snack foods) I get a ‘retweet’ or a ‘favourite’, or holy of holies, a ‘reply’. That sets me flying all day! And holy hellballs, look out if I get a retweet or a comment from a celebrity – I all but lose my tiny mind! What a weird world I live in.

And I like Facebook because it connects me with people, and helps me remember their birthdays and stuff. But it takes away my desire to physically interact with people. “Go to Jeff’s birthday party? But why? I already posted an abbreviated birthday wish to his wall AND sent him an Instagram photo of a balloon with his name on it. I don’t want to go overboard here!”

During my hiatus, I realized just how much time I wasted on social media, and just how out of touch I was after NOT being on it for almost a month. Life happens, days move forward, time goes on, and if you’re not glued to the screen, you miss all these changes in people’s lives. However, in all that eagle-eyed allowable snooping, what we have failed to notice is that while we’re hanging onto every word that our friends (and ‘friends‘) say, we forget to experience our own reality. To quote from the genius that is Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it”.

I don’t want to miss my life, especially not for pictures of brunch, or updates on some random infant’s bowel movements. I’m missing time out snuzzing with my dog and laughing with my husband because I don’t want to miss that photo of a Georgia gas station that Norman Reedus posts to Twitter. I’m skipping out on drunk baking with friends because I’m just too damn exhausted after scrolling through wedding photos and vacation snaps of someone I haven’t actually spoken to in fourteen years. I’m feeling depressed and ruined because of the endless posts about the viscerally stupid thing some government has done now, how the Religious Right is destroying Human Rights, and the comments from people who think it’s all a-ok. I ‘block’, I ‘hide’, I ‘ignore’, but that doesn’t stop the litany of posts about animal abuse, apathy, environmental destruction, and goddamn Sarah Palin. Why are we subjecting ourselves to this? I don’t want my friends to tell me about Michelle Bachmann or Wal*Mart – I prefer to leave that delivery system to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. I’d rather you show me your eggs benedict.

I like being connected with people, but I’m not sure that I have the capacity to not care about stuff. Sometimes I enjoy my ignorance, and sometimes I like knowing about someone’s new tattoo, or a phenomenal cookie recipe that actually works. I also like telling people about how odd my life is sometimes, and how much of a freakshow weirdo I am. There’s a strange brand of comfort in that narcissism, you know?

All that being said, I’ll probably stick around for a while. Maybe I won’t be as interested or as interesting, but I’ll be there… lurking in the background, posting stupid things I find while skimming Reddit, and showing off photos of my beleaguered dog dressed as Spartacus, or Carmen Miranda, or cone-boob Madonna. Because in my mind, that’s what Social Media is all about.

Happy Tuesday, all!

xo

I lost one of my gloves. It’s far more devastating than it should be.

It was chilly out when I went to walk the dog to my mom’s house at 5:30 this morning, and so I put on my comfy gloves in an effort to combat the cold. About 15 minutes into the walk, I realized that my hands were a tad too toasty, so I slipped off the gloves, clipped them together, and stuffed them in my back pocket. However, because I have a fat bum, I could only fit one glove in my pocket, and left the other one dangling out. No worries, I thought, they’re clipped together.

I dropped off the dog, walked back home, and it was only when I got in the door did I see that one of my gloves was gone. Did I drop it? Did it escape? What should I do?! I carried out my morning routine, and on the way into work I did a quick drive of my earlier walking route, to see if I could find my missing glove. No luck.

Is my glove laying on a cold sidewalk somewhere, lost in sadness because it thinks I abandoned it? Is it calling for me? Is it calling for its fellow glove? When it dropped off its little hook, did its fellow glove cry out, desperate to get my attention as I was walking along obliviously, just drinking my mocha and watching the sky turn from black to navy? Is it shivering? Is it lonely? Has a dog stolen it off the ground, mistaking it for a chew toy? Has it been rolled over by a stroller wheel?

Or did my glove make a break for it? Did it seize an opportunity for freedom, and work its way off the hook as its fellow glove cheered it on in support? Is my glove now hiding in doorways and bushes, making its way south to live out the rest of its days with all the other escapee gloves, on the tropical Island of Free Gloves? Should I think twice about going to find it after work today?

I’m so confused. I hate it when I lose things, because I’m never quite sure how to feel.

Glove, I miss you.

Please come home.

Happy Thursday, all.

xo

Look, I understand the importance of spiders. I rest semi-comfortably in a state of “you leave me alone, I leave you alone” type of existence with spiders, and that mutual respect between us helps me to be able to go through life not being haunted by the thought of a million eyes watching my every move, just waiting for me to be alone and defenselss, perfectly suspectible for a swarming bite-fest. The rule is this: If I am outside, I am in the spiders’ home, so I can’t be dickish to them. If a spider is inside, it is in my home, and so I’m allowed to be dickish to it. I don’t have the bravery required to trap a spider under a mug, as that requires me getting close to it, and for the love of Christ, it might MOVE, and that completely skeeves me out, so I’d scream, and the spider would run under the couch, or into a hole in the wall, and then I’d have to burn the house down. Usually the closest I get to a spider is book-throwing distance. But hey, all they need to do is stay out of my sight, and I’ll happily live in spider ignorance. Hide and let live, I always say.

I came to this understanding with spiders many years ago when I was bad person, and had let power go to my head in one terrible instance of brutality. That one moment in time has changed the way I view my responsibility to the icky-crawlies of the world, and I’m grateful for it. Sort of. What follows is that story. A true story…

When I was about 17 years old, I was house-sitting for a friend of mine while he was away in Philadelphia. I was there to water the plants, collect the mail, and make sure no one broke in and stole the Super Nintendo. On the third day I was there, I set about watering the plants. I located a watering can and took it to the kitchen to fill up in the sink. There, in the sink, was the mother of all fat, hairy, fuzzy, brown, disgusting BIG spiders. As someone who has had a life-long fear of spiders, I reacted much like you would expect: I screamed, I cried, I felt vomit rise in my throat.

I wanted to run, but I knew I had to take care of the spider or else it would disappear, and I’d never be able to set foot in the house ever again. But how do I deal with it? I had the idea to run the water and wash it down the drain, but the thought of the spider running around the basin to try and escape the water was enough to kick that idea far, far away. So I did what any self-respecting girl would do; I thought to myself, “what would my older brothers do?”

Biggest mistake I’ve made in my entire life.

Unfortunately, the first idea that popped into my mind was, “they’d set it on fire!”, and once it was in there, that idea wasn’t going anywhere. To make matters worse, I REALLY started to think like my brothers… “You’re going to need a flamethrower! Go get hairspray.” I ran upstairs and rifled through the bathroom, finding hairspray and matches (the only room in the house where one can find both items), and then ran back to the kitchen, and faced off with the sink. I peered over the edge – the spider was still there. Good.

I stepped back, and then sprayed the hairspray (liberally) into the sink. A full 10-second spray, just to make sure I coated it well. I put the hairspray down, I pulled out the matches. I lit a match, and I threw it in the sink.

*WHOOF!*

Up the sink goes in flames, (how they missed the lace curtains, I do not know), and I watched as the fire grew to a hopefully toasty spider-y crescendo before slowly dying out in a quiet flicker. There is no way anything could have survived that, and so with ridiculous confidence I walked toward the sink and looked in. I had impeccable timing. In the flame-browned sink I saw the spider. He was dead, but he looked odd, and so, with brilliant reasoning, I leaned in for a closer look. The spider’s body was boiling on the inside, and right when I closed in, it exploded. The spider reached critical mass, and it burst. In my face.

In a final act of revenge, the spider blew its fat, bubbling body up right when his murderer was gloating over its carcass. I was so shocked, I couldn’t even scream. I just looked down and saw bits of spider on my shirt, and realized that I had to get that shirt off, but wouldn’t be able to because that would mean that I would have to drag the spider guts across my face as I removed it. I had only one choice. I silently backed away from the sink, and without looking, pulled the scissors from the drawer, and started to cut my t-shirt off from the bottom up. I pulled it off like a button-up, dropped it on the floor, grabbed my coat, and walked out of the house.

It took me an entire day to work up the courage to go back in, and when I did, the scene of my idiocy stared me in the face as I saw the crumpled shirt beside the scissors, and the hairspray can on the counter beside the sink. The sink that I would now have to scrub in an effort to remove the fire stains. The sink with spider remnants and vicious, vicious memories. I sobbed as I scrubbed that sink, terrified that a vengent spider would crawl up the drain, or drop from the curtains. I scrubbed, I cleaned, I opened the window to air the kitchen out. I watered the plants, walked out the front door, and slid the key through the mailslot because I was never, ever going back there again.

I learned a lesson that day: “Never look a boiling spider in the mouth” (or something), and from then on I have chosen to respect spiders, and let them do their spider-thing. No more hair spray, no more flames, no more false feeling of superiority. I got my ass kicked by a spider, and I’m not ashamed to admit that.

Well, I’m a little ashamed. But in my defense, it was a really BIG spider.

Happy Tuesday, all.

xo

This morning as I was driving to work, I passed a Haagen Dazs delivery truck and immediately started thinking of the best way to knock it over, like it were a Brinks truck. Can I do it on my own, or will I need a partner in crime? (Ice crime! HAHahahaaaah… shut up). Should I wait until the driver goes in to make a delivery, or just jump in the truck at a red light, haul the driver out, and drive off? Should I politely ask the driver if he would like a cut of the deal (that’s the Canadian way, I guess), and enlist his help? What capacity do I have to store an entire truck full of ice cream bars? Do I even need to store it, or do I just need to find a parking lot and call my friends up?

Oddly, this all reminded me of a question a co-worker asked me yesterday: “What class are you?” Obviously plotting ways to steal an ice cream truck secures my exclusion from the Upper Class, but it’s an interesting question. What class am I? The choices were High, Middle, and Low… but, I would think that I’m all of them, and yet none of them at the same time.

Are we speaking financially? Then I’d say I’m embedded pretty solidly in the Middle class. If we’re speaking of lifestyle, then perhaps I’m both Low and High class – I like to drink a lot of beer, but I drink that thar’ expensive-like beer! I may wear Manolo Blahnik shoes every so often, but in all honesty, I bought them on Ebay, man.  

I don’t think I even know how to define those classes. In my mind, there are no definitive borders when it comes to class, and I can’t say I’ve ever really thought of myself in terms of “class”. It feels dirty somehow, an awkward and uncomfortable way to think of oneself, as though you’re admitting to being better than one group of people, and yet not as good as another group of people. Worse, you’re allowing yourself to think that there are people who aren’t as good as you. To me, that’s just a dangerous way to think. That’s some ‘Rich Kids of Instagram’ reasoning right there, and no one wants to be lumped in with those douche canoes.

What class am I? I have no idea. It’s just not the way I think about myself, I guess. And even if it were, I really can’t say it’s a set idea – my “class” has varied throughout my life, as I’m sure everyone’s has. As a society we tend to place importance on income; the higher the better! However, I think the only thing that really matters is how you treat other people, and how others treat you in return. In that sense, some of the wealthiest people are the lowest class cock-knobblers out there, and some of the poorest people are the kind of people that the world needs more of.

I guess I’m the class of person that contemplates stealing an ice cream truck, but I’m also the class of person who would call my friends up afterward to share in the spoils. I’m the class of person who would consider tossing a truck driver onto the road at a red light, but I’m also the class of person who would totally apologize to the driver, and would check to make sure he wasn’t hurt before I drove off. Because if he was hurt, that ice cream would taste like guilt, and guilt tastes terrible.

Anyway, I truly don’t know what class I belong in. But I’ll tell you one thing, it’s fine by me if I’m completely classless.

Happy Thursday all!

xo