Xkcd goodness:
Canada 4 teh win.
LeVar Burton lives in Nova Scotia.
That makes me oddly happy.
Why do something smart when you could do something stupid?
I’m an idiot.
I was at the gym on Tuesday, and I overextended my arms on one of the weight machines (<-this is my retrospective best guess). So my joints were a little achey yesterday. So what did I do today? Oh you betcha — I went to the gym and overextended my arms on one of the weight machines, again. Cuz if you’re not certain you’ve injured yourself, it’s best to go back, do exactly the same thing, and make sure you’re hurt.
I’m such a moron. And now I’m a moron with an arm that won’t straighten all the way. I’m stuck partway through an underarm pirate “ahoy matey” swing.*
*It’s important to frame your injuries so’s they amuse you.
A thing of beauty is a…
Since when did almost being hit by a car become mundane?
“I almost got hit by a car today” has become a regular phrase in our house. I say it, my everlovin’ fiance (EF) says it, our friends who live(d) in the building say it, friends who don’t live anywhere near me say it.
And so, with regards to that, I say:
W. T. F.
I mean, really. I am a careful pedestrian. The EF might say overly careful (“Sweetie, that car is stopped at a red light, five blocks away. I /think/ we can make it…”). I look both ways. I get eye contact. I move quickly and directly across the street. I respect traffic signals (even annoying, inconvenient, or ungodly slow ones).
So why in sweet flaming heck do I almost get hit by a car /at least/ once a week?
I’m not exaggerating the ‘almost’ of that either. I’m only talking about the “bumper-slappers” — the ones where the car catches itself within a foot or two of your leg. Or where you actually do end up smacking the car with your hand because they’ve almost slowly driven into you. Or where you flip a guy off as he almost nips off your toes, as he rips through a crosswalk.
I will be ever so pissed if I die because some jackass didn’t look right before making a right. Or didn’t check for pedestrians before making a left. Or had his head too far up his arse to notice the lights flashing at a crosswalk.
Ever. so.
So drivers are on notice. If you do manage to take me out one of these days, buckle up, cuz you’re in for a sumbitch of a haunting.
Conversational drift…
…is when you’re out for a meal, and you notice what the table next to you is talking about. And then someone at your table picks up on it, and moves your conversation in the same direction. It’s usually if the table next to you is talking about something universal, like travel or school or family. Conversational drift is less likely to happen if they’re talking about something extreme… that leads instead to ACP (Awkward Conversation Pause), when everyone at your table stops talking because you’re all listening in to the table next to you, because you can’t help yourselves cuz it’s so damn fascinating, but then you all become aware that your table has suddenly gone quiet, and somebody’s gotta say /something/ because the table next to you is becoming increasingly aware of your attentive pocket of quiet.
But of course, no one at your table can think of a thing to talk about now that’s unrelated to what you’re overhearing.
If you’re paying attention, you can sometimes notice two-way conversational drifts going on (sometimes if you’re at a ‘third’ table and are just observing the ebb and flow). Those are awesome. It’s like bartering topics. They give you travel, you go on travel for a while, then you give them organic, then they go on organic and add in heritage plants… and so on.
Communal conversation, all divided up, reserved-Canadian style.
Sometimes a pickle is just a pickle.
I like pickles.
(of the variety pictured above, you dirty, snarky…)
I have always liked pickles. I have liked them since I was little. I don’t know exactly what it is — but they are crunchy and sour and they make whatever you put them on taste alive.
So I didn’t realize that when I entered my childbearing years, that I would have to suddenly tread so carefully around my old friend the pickle.
Because if you are a woman, of a certain age, and you have been with a boy, for a certain amount of time — your love for pickles must become secret. To be safe, it must go underground. Because if you are in public, you mustn’t reach for the pickles. You mustn’t ask to be passed the pickles. You can /try/ and sneak some relish, but do it quickly, and make sure it is rapidly concealed by bun.
Because every. damn. person. will ask you if you’re pregnant.
Oh, and they don’t just ask me. They ask me /seriously/. They actually think that there is a very real chance that I’m preggers, and this is how I’m choosing to announce it. Via pickle.
If you are a woman, of a certain age, and you have been with a boy, for a certain amount of time, everyone around you goes on high baby alert. Baby fever sweeps through your social circles like the plague. Friends, family, co-workers, they’re all on bump-watch. (Actual bump watch, I’m not really packing much extra around the midsection, and yet I actually caught it getting scanned the other day. I’m not paranoid either, or at least I got my paranoia confirmed later by a friend who said “what was she, looking for the outline of an adorable onesie?”)
If I was dipping said pickle into a tub of ice cream, and eating it pointedly while lovingly patting my belly and gazing deep into my boy’s eyes, you might have a case. But if I’m just picking up a gherkin off the cheese tray..
I liked it better back before I was an incubator being watched to see when the light would turn green.
I suspect it would bother me less if I felt like people were more respectful of the choice not to have little’uns at all. I have nothing against babies, kiddies, and all their future incarnations, but I am certainly not chomping at the bit to make some of my own. But somewhere along the line the idea that some people choose not to have kids got diminished. Maybe it is the giant upswing in the cult of ‘Yummy Mummy’, or the offspring mad celebrities. But I could say, point blank, that we’re not even /thinking/ of having kids for at least the next 4-5 years, and still get a knowing smile and dismissive nod, often even an “that’s what you think now”.
So here’s the giant sekkrit — what I think correlates directly to what I /do/. As a smart, savvy, organized young woman with a stable partner, I am in absolute and complete control of when the babies do and do not arrive. So here’s the schedule – posted on the interwebs for all to see and take note: the light on the incubator will be remaining in the unblinking red off position for at least the next 4-5 years, at which point there is still a solid 60:40 chance that it will remain that way, in perpetuity.
In the meantime, I may print a shirt for myself, and all the other happily non-expectant women out there, which reads “Yup, still bump-free (and lovin’ it)” across the lower belly.
Blocked Tequila Receptors.
I don’t especially like booze. Though that’s not to say that I don’t especially /not/ like booze (I love you triple negative).
I just get more out of the idea of a drink more than I get out of it in practice. So I really only have a drink if it plugs some empty conceptual or flavour space. Like a cold beer on a hot day; that same beer with indian food; wine with cheese. And so on. But I’m not prone to seeking out a drink, to get drunk. Stay with me on this.
I’m not prone to seeking out a drink to get drunk, because it would just be too damn expensive. I don’t know how far back the family tree you have to go before you find either: a) professional distillers; or b) boozehounds; or c) professional distilling boozehounds. But somewhere in my genes I inherited ‘booze blockers’.
It takes /a lot/ to get me drunk. There are some forms of alcohol I’m more susceptible to — wine and beer are the most likely to get me warm-cheeked. But the hard stuff, spirits? I can put that away like a sailor. Whisky, rum, vodka, gin, and, importantly, tequila. I don’t know what the ‘average’ is, but I think I’m well above it. Something in the order of 10 or so hard drinks, and I’m still fine. Lay down a straight line lawman, and I’ll walk it.
Which is, I don’t know, good? It means that I can appreciate the qualities of the booze, because well, if you’re sober at the bar, it’s nice to have something to do… ; )
And speaking of appreciating the qualities of the booze, allow me to introduce you to Patrón:
Patrón is a high-end tequila that the everlovin’ fiance (EF) brought me back from LA. a couple of years ago, and I still hadn’t dented it. So we broke into it last night (the tiny little sticker didn’t pose much of a security challenge).
I love tequila. It has been my favourite drink since my first taste. Which is a little unfortunate, since, well, it’s not so much socially acceptable to be the guy doing the shots. Certainly not during a 6pm after-work drink with coworkers.
Nuts.
Fortunately my family and friends are becoming aware of my soft-spot for tequila, which led to the background and foreground of the photo above — the tequila from the EF, and the shot glasses and salt shaker courtesy of my dear old dad and Mexico. And last night we took all of the above for a test drive.
zomg, so good.
Patrón is incredibly, noticeably tastier than your average tequila (the average ones being the reason that tequila is drunk with lime and salt to kill the “flavour”). You could sip it as an after dinner drink. It really is quite… delightful.
Just don’t try the regular stuff afterwards. Because yeargh. All you can think is “gasoline”.
Skimming the pond of work.
Y’know when you have approximately one quatrillion projects you want to work on, and you can’t quite seem to get stuck in any of them?
I feel like that. I think it’s because when I do get stuck in a project, I get stuck /way/ in, and can’t really get out again. So I tend to dip my toe in, over and over and over again, until one of the dips results in getting sucked, stretched out and wormhole-like, into the guts of it.
:takes off her sock and approaches the edge…
John Cusack + pre-adolescent years == ’80s clothes now.
Many people are disturbed by the current revival of ’80s fashion. I am also disturbed by it, but I will attempt to deal with it by understanding it. I take my fear, and I conquer it.
The easy theory is that it is simply the ’80s turn in this merry-go-round that is fashion. We just finished the ’70s with peasant blouses and hippie skirts, and fashion, while cyclical, is also linear. As unpleasant as ’80s fashion was the first time around, the fashion ferris wheel must load up the carts in order, and lo, the ’80s are here again. (Oh mixed amusement park metaphors…)
But that’s too pat. Too easy. Too Fashion Television.
/I/ think that while the sequentiality of fashion might dictate the /arrival/ of the ’80s, it doesn’t account for it’s popularity. And it’s the popularity that makes a trend stick to the backs of the young fashion forwards (instead of grinning and bearing it for the shortest season they can manage). And the popularity is the part I think I can explain.
Y’see, the age cohort of your current fashionista is mid-to-late-20s. Juuuust old enough to have seen the ’80s happen, not quite old enough have experienced it in their teenaged prime. Old enough to have watched John Hughes’ movies from their sibling’s collection, not quite old enough have seen them in theatres. Old enough to feel funny when they saw John Cusack standing onscreen in the rain, not quite old enough to understand exactly why (though really, do any of us ever understand /exactly/ why?). Old enough to want to wear a trenchcoat, sneakers and English band t-shirts, not old enough to pull it off. Old enough to want a cut-off off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, not old enough to get one of your own and not a hand-me down.
So that’s what I think it is. I think it’s grown-ups playing dressup. They’ve somehow lucked out and are matching up their hipster first flush of cash years with the fashion looks of their early idols. You can see it in their shiny eyes, glinting beneath their Ducky hairdos. They’re /excited/ about dressing this way. Every day is “wear your older cooler brother/sister/cousin’s clothes” day, and it’s socially acceptable. They’re living the dream. For a few brief seasons, they /are/ the cast of Fame.
Or at least that’s the “aw, that’s cute” story I’m telling myself so I don’t yack all over their hi-tops.