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.

Top Ten Euphemisms for Death...

10. Kicked the chum bucket.
9. Bought the tobacco farm.
8. Gone to visit Yankee Stadium.
7. Riding the Dickie Dee bike to the sky.
6. Finally free of that *&#! Marineland song.
5. Called up by the Jays.
4. He can't has cheezburger.
3. Charming 'em like Harper.
2. Flying Zoom.
1. He chose Palin.

Mid-year wrap up...

I haven't blogged for several months so I thought I'd kick off my return with a mid-year wrap-up. And yes, I do know that August is a little past the mid-year mark. Thank you.

Jan - Aug 2008

Dents on my car from the Great Grimsby Hail Storm of '08: 1 million (approximate)
Scratches added to car by Bianchi Bros (the guys "fixing" my car): 4
Times I'll visit Bianchi Bros in the future: 0
Months spent looking for a house: 7
Months until I move into new house: 1 (woohoo!)
Time spent at other people's homes catching up on sleep I can't get at my current house: 1 month
Immediate neighbours I'll miss when I move: 0
Times I've seen my very fat, very hairy neighbour wear a shirt: 1
Torontonians who've responded "Dundas and what?" when I tell them I'm moving to Dundas: 1 million (approximate)
Times I've turned on my air conditioner this summer: 10
Times I turned on my air conditioner last summer: 60 (or thereabouts)
Average age of people helping me paint my new house: 73 (yeah, I do feel a bit guilty about that)
Number of times I've cursed at myself for swearing: too many *@&! times to count
Number of softball injuries: 0 (woohoo! a new record!)
Times I've heard the phrase "these days..." in radio promos: 1 million (approximate)
Days of vacation taken: 4
Days of vacation taken by my boss: 48
Days I've truly enjoyed at work: 48
Years I've thought about going to The Ex: 34
Years I've actually gone to The Ex: 0
Number of dead plants: 1, but is bamboo really a plant?
Pairs of shoes purchased: 8
Days left to pack entire shoe collection: 35

The Gap - Seeing(RED)

I'm going to be completely upfront and admit that, like millions of others, buy a lot of my clothes at The Gap. Yeah, that's right, I have no conscience. I also happen to be tall and have what Jane Farrow once referred to as "abnormally long legs," so, I shop at one of the few stores that make pants that fit me.

Anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion that the Chinese children, I mean well-paid labourers, making my jeans are being influenced by the church. My jeans are showing more and more signs of Papal intervention. There are so many buttons and clasps these days that wearing Gap pants is like wearing a chastity belt.

For example, the other day at work I went to the loo and two other women followed close after. They both beat me out of the loo, NOT because they finished first, but because it took me so bloody long to do my pants up again. My jeans had a great big button, a little buttonhole, two clasps, a zipper and then my belt. What is the need for so many buttons and clasps? Not to mention the tab fronts that go across and under the belt loop, and thus under the belt. Those pants are a bugger. If they included fastening Gap pants in military training, Al Qaeda and the Taliban could be defeated by now.

Fall into The Gap? Fall into a day of abstinence is more like it.

Wrap-up of 2007...

Broken bones: 1
Number of tree limbs on my car: 1 (with 2 close calls)
Countries visited: 5
Documentaries made: 0 (doh!)
Final Cafe editions recorded: 4
Number of times my fridge died: 3
Amount my landlord spent fixing 30 year-old fridge: $1000
Amount my landlord finally spent on a new fridge: $600
Pairs of socks purchased: 10
Pairs of shoes purchased: 8
Number of friends who had babies: 4
Times I've said "awesome" since working with Dan Misener: 5 million (approximate)

I'm back, with my favourite ad slogan o' the year (but not really...)

Use your period for good. And, so you don't have to go back and read that again, I'll retype it: use your period for good.

USE YOUR PERIOD FOR GOOD. What the? I'm sorry, have I been using my period for evil all these years?

With all due respect to my Proctor and Gamble-employed friends, this is one of the dumbest slogans I've ever heard. It's in the new Always and Tampax ads. You know, the ones that feature the poor South African girl who can't go to school because she has her period. While I feel for the girls who live through this unfortunate situation, and while I can appreciate the attempt to share the plight of these girls, the effort by P&G is downright offensive. Not to mention lame. Who would ever say "use your period for good?" Good God.

I know they're not always fun (no pun intended) but aren't periods and the subsequent ability to create life good things? Isn't giving birth a good thing? Because if they're not, the I mightn't bother with them anymore.

And, um, folks at P&G, just so you know, these women have had to endure missing school and much worse, and they've had to endure it for generation after generation. I'm glad you're finally interested. Oh, and incidentally, the problem goes well beyond having a period and no product. Perhaps when you have a product affected by female circumcision, you'll take notice of that issue too.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to plan a way to use my period for good. I wonder if it will be better if I wear a cape?

"Look Daddy! Teacher says, "every time P&G thinks, a pad gets its wings!"" - Zuzu

My KTS4 package has arrived!

Despite a few UPS headaches, my Knitters Tea Swap 4 package has arrived from Texas. I can't figure out how to add blogger links on my Mac, so here's the link to the swap site: http://knittersteaswap.blogspot.com/.

I've posted the pics on my new craft nerd blog: http://craftnerds.blogspot.com/.

Thanks to my swap partner BJE and to Suzie, Bridget and all the KTS4 organizers!

One of the worst sounds in the world...

... the sound of the furnace kicking in for the first time since winter. Sigh...

I live in the upstairs apartment of an old house, and on Friday morning I awoke to the alarming "thunk" of the furnace being turned on. This was almost immediately followed by that burning smell that accompanies turning on the furnace for the first time in the fall.

In my parents house, it was always a test to see how long we could go before turning on the furnace. It was a measure of our strength as Canadians - how cold did it have to get before we relied on central heating. We'd wear three layers of clothing before giving in. Alas, my landlords are made of much less, it seems. They gave in on the first cold day. It wasn't even winter coat weather for pete's sake.

But I'm still sticking with my annual tradition - no socks until the snow flies (or until frostbite is a threat.)

The human powered blow dryer...

So, tonight I voted. It's (ho-hum) election day here in Ontario and I did my civic duty and voted. For some reason, my polling station was much further away this time, at Hart House on the U of T campus.

The first thing beyond my comprehension? I received two voter cards in the mail, yeah for me, but when I went to vote I wasn't on any voting list. How is that possible? And can I trust the process after that experience?

The second thing beyond my comprehension? Because I wasn't on the voter list I had to fill out a registration form. Here's the thing - all the information I had to fill in on this form was already on the voter card I handed to them. No additional information whatsoever. And since the Returning Officer sent the voter card in the first place, one would think that card would be considered official. Not so. Somewhere a bureaucrat is smiling and a tree is crying.

As I left Hart House, which is, again, on the campus of the University of Toronto, I passed by a guy trying to dry his bicycle seat. It's a cold, misty fall evening here and his bicycle seat was wet, so I don't blame him for trying to keep his tushy dry. That said, he was trying to dry his seat by blowing on it. Yes, that's right, he was blowing on it. He was standing in the rain, his face about 10 cm from his seat, and he was blowing on it. And not just in one spot. He was moving his head all around the seat, I'm assuming in an attempt to dry the entire surface... while it was still raining... I chose to attend two better institutations (Go Marauders! Go Mustangs!) but I'm assuming U of T must have some eligibility requirements. Perhaps the course on how to dry wet vinyl isn't an option until 2nd year.

It's been awhile, but I'm back...

The summer proved too busy to keep up with my blog, for which I apologize. But I'm back and ready to give it another ol' college try.

#1 on my list of things beyond my comprehension today? My hair. I wasn't feeling well, and though I took a shower, I did absolutely nothing with my hair. I thought I'd look hideous but didn't much care. That said, I did have to go in to work for a few hours and naturally, on the day I put no effort into it, I received several compliments on my hair. Why is that? I mean, I'm happy for people to notice, but why does my cursed hair turn out better when left alone? I mean, what's the bloody point of putting any effort in in the mornings? Ah well, I now realize I have a few extra minutes to spare in my morning routine.

Irony is still not dead...

I have an update on the Blarney Woollen Mills saga. A quick recap: most of my order with this Irish shop weren't received. I paid twice as much in duties and taxes as I should have, and they sent me a four-leaf clover charm by mistake.

I sent an e-mail to the Blarney folk and was very impressed with how quickly they got back to me. They apologized for the duty error, which, it turns out, was their fault. They've paid half of my duty costs, which was nice. Most of my order has now arrived, including my two sweaters that I absolutely love. They even sent me a sterling silver necklace that was either a nice peace offering or a complete mistake, but a nice mistake.

And yesterday, I was excited to receive another small Blarney package containing the proper charm for my mother. I eagerly opened the package only to find, yes, you guessed it, another four-leaf clover charm. I've been sent four-leaf clover charms twice, both by accident. I'm not sure if this is doubly good luck, or doubly bad luck. I'll buy a lottery ticket this weekend just to try them out.

Do you remember Old Yeller?

At the hands of Mr. Disney, children of the fifties, sixties and seventies were taught many life lessons in harsh, abeit entertaining ways. We went into theatres excited to see Old Yeller, the story of a nice frontier family and their pet dog. But all too soon our warm, fuzzy jaunt to the theatre became a bath of ice cold water as we tearfully watched Travis shoot his beloved dog. There was no warning. This was Walt Disney. A nice little film that ends with a kid having to shoot his own pet. Nice. A life lesson.

This film was, of course, preceded 15 years earlier by Bambi. Another lovely little cartoon story about a deer and his cute little friends living in the forest. Again, ends in a rather harsh death. Another life lesson.

Don't even get me started on The Yearling.

My point is that, I'm guessing in an effort to teach us about life, adults liked to surprise us with lovely little stories that ended in death. Such is life. For better or for worse, we learned these life lessons and I don't know anyone who's needed therapy as a result. In fact, Travis was the person on my mind when, as a teenager, I had to hand over my beloved pet cat to be euthanised. I still resent my parents for this, but hey, I survived and may have learned something from the experience.

So, it was with mixed emotion that I read on the wires Friday that the Kids Help phone centre in the UK was adding extra staff to help kids deal with the deaths in the new Harry Potter book. I haven't finished the book, but since the world has not fallen into a deep period of mourning, I'm guessing that Harry doesn't die. Good, neither did Travis or Bambi. And although I think the Kids Help Phone is great and am thankful it's there for kids who need it, I couldn't help but feel disappointed that such a big deal was being made of the two deaths in the book. Death happens. Kids need to learn that. And it's never easy. Maybe I'm just a big meany, but would it be so bad for the kids to just deal with it, and maybe talk to their parents about it?

It may sound silly, but watching Old Yeller and Bambi made me feel tougher. I was proud to have watched them. They were a badge of honour, like I'd just learned something about the adult world. And I can't help but feel that we're taking those opportunities away from our children, almost as though we have no faith that they can handle life lessons. Shit happens. That's a lesson better learned sooner than later.

Irony is not dead...

As practically no one who reads this blog will know, I recently returned from a lovely trip to the UK and Ireland. One of the places we visited was the Blarney Woollen Mill in Dublin. If you visit http://www.blarney.com and click on the "Customer Comments" link, you'll see photos of Bill and Hilary Clinton shopping in said store. Bill, incidentallly, is in the women's section.

At the Blarney Woollen Mill, they sell lots of jewellry, including charms for bracelets. My mother is a charm bracelet kind o' gal, but they were all sold out of the charm she wanted when we were there. So, good daughter that I am, I thought I'd go online and order the charm for her as a surprise. The other part of this story is that I, too, saw something I wanted at the Blarney Woollen Mill. Here's a hint: it was woollen. Well, THEY were woollen. I saw a couple of sweaters that I absolutely loved but didn't have room for in my luggage. And we'd already been accused of carrying dead bodies in our luggage by a mannerless taxi driver in Belfast. So, while online, I thought I'd throw a few more things in the basket in addition to the charm. Though the charm, of course, was always the most important item in the basket. I ordered the Trinity Knot charm, which matches earrings my Mom bought on the trip.

The bill came to just over $300. Fair enough. When I got home from work yesterday, in a gross, sweaty, heat wave state, I found a note in my mail saying the package had arrived. Yippee! And ahead of schedule too! It was then that I noticed the fee to pick up the parcel - the fee for duties and taxes - $137.93! Holy sheep! That's a lot of money for a few little things and two bigger things.

Expecting it to be a large package for that price, I drove to the post office. However, the unsympathetic staff person emerged from the back with a box about the size of a Mac Mini. Wha? I thought perhaps the Irish were very good at packing things into little boxes. But when I got home I found that neither of my sweaters was in the box, and that the charm, the start of it all, was the wrong charm. And the irony of it all? They'd sent a four leaf clover charm, clearly, by mistake.

Now is the summer of my discontent, made less glorious by this sun of York...

The heat! My God, the heat!

Baby, it's hot outside and I'm feeling queazy. No, not from the heat, but from the painful sights I've had to endure by poorly dressed people. Yes, it's warm and yes it's humid and we're all suffering for it. But do we have to suffer even more by looking at mass amounts of cleavage and ass?

I don't care how hot it is, there's no need to dress like a skank (male or female) and burn a hole in my retinas in the process. So, in an effort to do my best for the greater good, here is a list of how not to dress no matter the temperature.

WOMEN

- If I can see your cheeks, they're too short. Find bottoms that fit OVER your bottom. Whether your buns are like steel or are dimpled like jelly, this is real life and not a Snoop Dog video, I don't want to see your booty.

- Dress appropriately for work. Even if you have a casual workplace, what you wear on the weekend isn't necessarily proper work attire. Remember: you want to be a PROfessional, not a HOfessional.

- If I can see the muffin top, your pants don't fit. And what's with the fatties in lowrise? Hello! It's OK to be a little overweight, but sometimes you can't squeeze all the cheese back in the tube. I don't need to see the excess oozing overtop. Wear clothes that fit, and that fit above the flab.

- if it looks like you've sprouted a baby's ass on your chest, you're showing WAY too much cleavage. And honey, don't worry, if they're big enough to look like ass, they're big enough to be noticed under a shirt that isn't from the tween deptartment.

- If you're bigger than a B cup, skip the spaghetti straps. Oh honey, do your boobs hang low? Can you tie 'em in a knot? Can you tie 'em in a bow? Can you throw 'em over your shoulder like a continental soldier? Do your boobs hang low? Don't let them swing low sweet chariot. Enrol the girls in a 12 step program and give them the support they need.

- I fully admit that I have ugly feet. However, your toes should not hang over the front of your shoes, nor should the heel hang over the back of the shoes. Act your age and get your shoe size mama! Also, let's try to baby our feet and buff and moisturize once in awhile. This goes for the men too. Gross, callused feet are just icky.

MEN

- see note above about being bigger than a B cup - insert "please wear a shirt" in place of "spaghetti straps". Same rule applies if your back or chest look like a Brillo pad.

- Don't wear shorts so high or so tight that we can see your b'niz. Your bits are your bits. Let's keep the mystery alive, shall we?

- Don't wear shorts and boxers so loose that we can see your b'niz. We want to see no wiggling or bulges of any kind. And please be sure to wear underwear and keep the mouse in the house.

- Never, under any circumstance, do you wear socks with sandals. We all get sweaty feet. Deal with it.

- Unless you're a competitive swimmer, and perhaps not even then, never, EVER wear a Speedo.

- Keep the shirt on, Tarzan. Women don't go whipping their shirts off when it gets hot (though you may prefer it if we did.) There's something to be said for modesty. Try it. You'll like it.

Now, go forth and dress with a little class. Not with a lot o' ass.