A summer patio thought...

Why do people get louder when they drink?

Update!

Headline on CBCNEWS.CA, morning of June 29, 2009:

"Apple yanks 1st porn app from iTunes."

... and I do love that they used the verb "yanks." So descriptive.

How to sell a product...

Headline on CBCNEWS.CA, morning of June 25, 2009:

"iTunes offers first porn app."

Headline on CBCNEWS.ca, afternoon of June 25, 2009:

"1st porn app on iTunes 'sold out.""

Commuter diary #1...

Every weekday I spend an hour taking a train to work, and generally another hour taking the train home from work. As a socially developed adult, I'm pretty good at amusing myself during that time. I read, I listen to podcasts, I work etc. But sometimes, some freak of a commuter catches my eye or ear (not literally, in case you're worried). So, I thought I'd start chronicling the commuter experience from time to time.

Today's entry: people who shouldn't be allowed outside.

I took the express train tonight, so it was a bit more crowded than my usual train. Across the aisle was a guy taking a 'nap.' I say nap, when really, it was more like a full-body, all out, sprawling sleep. He first caught my eye as his head lolled away from his seat and more into the mid-air of the aisle (mouth open, I might add). And after watching his head bounce and bob outside his dance space, I noticed his limbs. They were splayed everywhere. Legs were fully outstretched and forcing his quad seat mates to curl away from him. His arms flopped at his side as though not his own. It was a bit much really. And then, he woke up. And after wiping away the drool he picked up his blackberry and made a phone call. Now, if there's one thing that gets under my skin on the train it's people talking loudly on their phones. I'm a firm believer that we can all go without talking on the phone for an hour and survive. I'm also a firm believer in privacy. I want my life to be private. But also want your life to be private. I don't need to hear you fighting with your kids or hear about your colonoscopy. But I digress. Mr. Spreader called what I'm guessing was his partner and I heard him say "what station?" Then he yelled "WHAT STATION?!" Apparently, his partner was holding a can at the end of a long piece of string and was having a hard time hearing. But the fun didn't end there. Ten minutes later, with fewer passengers aboard and thus fewer people to muffle his noise, he called again, this time on speakerphone. Who the hell uses speakerphone on a commuter train?! Again, he was yelling about which bloody station to get off at. Now, maybe I'm just a keen organizer, but the destination is generally something I like to determine before I'm even on the train. I get on the train at one station in the morning, and return to that station at night. But that's just me. Evidently, Mr. Spreader likes to live on the edge. It was as he was yelling on speakerphone that I noticed his shoes - black loafers... untied. Now, when a grown man can't tie his shoes for work, well, he's just given up. He might as well being wearing sweatpants. I'd already noticed his wrinkled clothing, but assumed it was the result of his full contact nap earlier in the trip. Once I saw the shoes, I thought, "there are just some people to whom the rest of us should not be subjected." And if you're one of the most annoying and completely oblivious people on the planet, you fit into that category.

The thing that sucks about layoffs, aside from the actual layoffs...

Like many companies, my employer is about to announce huge cutbacks and layoffs. It's a scary time for all of us and puts everyone on edge. We'll know the details by the end of March, but for now, we must wait for an excruciating few weeks to hear the news.

As we anxiously wait to learn whether we'll have jobs in a month, we pass the time by speculating about the departments that will be cut. Essentially, we spend our days convincing ourselves of why our jobs should be saved, and why others could be cut. Our office has become the Canadian real-life version of Survivor. But this version isn't produced by CBS. It's the CBC version, sponsored by Air Canada and hosted by the cargo-pant wearing Strombo (do they make low-rise skinny cargoes?).

At a time when we need each other most and could do with the support of our colleagues, we instead eye each other with suspicion and superiority. The company could do without you. But me? Surely it would go to the dogs without me and my contributions.

I work in a union environment, so this would never happen, but I almost wish we could solve the company's economic woes in a Survivor-like way. Each person would get one vote and would pick one person they think should be laid off. Think of how therapeutic that would be. That person in my unit who shows up late, leaves two hours early and takes an hour-long lunch everyday would finally get her due. And that guy upstairs that is famously ornery, famously rude and the reason the rest of us had to endure 'respect in the workplace' workshops - he'd bite the dust in a second, and everyone around him would breathe a sigh of relief. Ideally, this would get rid of all the bastards that we've all had to put up with because the union won't let them be fired. This would be our chance. I'm a big believer in treating people with respect, no matter who you are. This would be the end of all the divas and pricks who've made our lives miserable. Good riddance. And those managers who treated themselves to a year-end bonus while the rest of us didn't enjoy so much as a Christmas cracker? Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. You are akin to the U.S. bank execs who still took bonuses while the public bailed them out. See ya.

But alas, this dream will never come true. Mostly because our union would never allow it. But also because half the people in our top-heavy company are managers who would vote us out before them. Sniff! It's sad, and true.

The fact is, the ballots are out of our hands and all we can do is hope for the best. So chin up, and let's try to get through this together. And when our fates our decided, we can raise a glass to our newly unemployed colleagues, and raise another glass of wine to those who cast the votes.

My eyes! My eyes!

Yes, I'm back. I have a lot on my mind these days, so I've revived the Knitted Bikini with the hope of providing more consistent entries.

I'm returning with the tale of a blinding white light. A shining beacon from the heavens above? No, not quite.

A few months ago, my workplace hosted a Wellness Fair. It was a handy little fair where employees could wander around and learn about things that might make them feel better, like massage therapy, naturopathy and that sort of thing. But the best part of the fair was the raffle. There were some great prizes handed out. Some people won weekends at a luxury hotels, others won awesome DVDs, sweatshirts and books. Me? I won two VIP tickets to The Hour.

So last week, I finally took them up on the prize and went to see a taping of The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos. The guests were Rick Mercer (yeah) and Brian Mulroney (not so yeah). It was fun to see how they do things in TV. And George is a great host. The only awful part of the show was Stombo's wardrobe: specifically, his pants. Now, I've seen him on TV and all over the CBC building and I'm well aware of his preference for low-rise jeans. However, last Thursday, there wasn't a whole lot of rise in the low. They were just low and super tight. And when he sat down in his iconic red pleather chair for his Rick Mercer chat, my front-row seats provided a little too much of a view. Yes, that's right, I was blinded by Strombo's glaring white ass crack. The image will never leave me. My retinas are permanently imprinted.

So, I have to ask: here's a national TV host wearing pants that are too tight and (my eyes! my eyes!) obviously too small - is there no one who works with him who could say, "dude, those pants don't fit." Or, "dude, the world doesn't need to see your butt crack." And Strombo is 36. I know this because he said so during the show (pre-butt crack). When I was 36 - a mere two years ago, sniff! - I had a pretty good idea of when my clothes didn't fit. If I could barely walk in jeans, they were too tight. If I couldn't hike 'em past my underwear, then I wasn't wearin' 'em. Surely, Georgie, you must have known. You fidgeted with your sweater, pulling it down. You tried, fruitlessly, to hike up your skinny jeans. What would possess you to wear them on national TV? It ain't cleavage honey. So please, for all humanity, find jeans that fit and cover your ass. No more plumber's butt. And no more adding to the One Million Acts of Scream.

It's that time of year again, when school bells are ringing...

...and my neighbourhood is splattered with the barf of many a weak-stomached frosh. Sigh...

As much as their spew grosses me out (on the sidewalk outside my house, on the road around the corner, in the shelter for the streetcar) I do actually sympathize. I, too, was once a weak-bellied frosh. Now, I'm a weak-bellied adult. Why must alcohol make us ill? There are so many other bad things for us out there that SHOULD make us ill - tobacco, hot dogs, pork rinds, haggis - why is it that alcohol is so hard to stomach? Oh, what a cruel, cruel earth.

So to my student neighbours, I say go forth and enjoy, but please spill your guts in someone else's neighbourhood. I don't need to know that you don't chew your mushrooms.