Flying High

You know what I love about airports? I love how they level the playing field for all human beings. An airport is a place where it is totally ok to give less than your best. 75% is aiming high. Pfff. Scratch that. More like 50%. No one tries in an airport. People just walk around sleep deprived, hungry, disheveled, pissed off by the unhelpful people at the help desk, and constantly being assaulted by the loud intercom message for "Mefrraggshdg Adhakawku to please meet the rest of his party at Gate 5."

In an airport it's pretty damn easy to feel good about yourself. There is an excellent chance that you are going to 1.) look better than someone else, 2.) smell better than someone else, 3.) be able to coherently string together more words that someone else and lastly, 4.) fly more under the radar than someone else. You know what I'm talking about. Who hasn't stood in that line-up where some poor Guatamalan dude is frantically trying to explain to the security guard in broken English why he has an entire carry-on bag stuffed with old toothbrushes (something is clearly amiss. DETAIN HIM!). And even though its not a nice thing to admit, we all breathe a little easier as we say to ourselves "well fuck, at least I'm not THAT guy."

And yes there is a lot of bullshit to deal with in an airport. I'm not discounting that. I think we've all been screwed over before by that stupid "100 ml max. for any liquids or gels in carry-on luggage" rule. Yes, like a 105 ml bottle of anthrax is going to be that much more dangerous than a 100 ml bottle. As a general rule, I think any amount of Anthrax is bad. And the flip side of that? A 65-gallon vat of conditioner, no matter how hard a terrorist tries, is not going to bring down a 500-ton plane. Hear that Westjet?! Stop making me fill up teeny-tiny bottles of shampoo every time I fly somewhere!

So we've established that airports are A-OK in my books. Mainly because of the ego boost they give my fragile sense of self. But there's another other reason I love them. Its childish. I admit that fully. Its a reason that appeals to my inner juvenile-delinquent (and by juvenile-delinquent I am referring to the one-time halfhearted attempt in grade two I made at bullying, which ended up with me being the one crying as my "victim" shoved saltine crackers down the back of my shirt and said the F-word over and over). So here's my secret delight - and I'm sure I'm not alone when I say.....

......what is it about being in an airport that really makes me want to make bomb jokes? I KNOW bomb jokes aren't funny. Of course I know bomb jokes aren't funny. Really, I do. But c'mon. There is just something about being in a high security area that makes bomb jokes a little bit funny. Right? And when I find something a little bit funny which I'm not supposed to laugh at, chances are its gonna become real funny, real fast.

Not only do I know that bombs aren't funny, as a mature 28 year-old I certainly know better than to try and make other people see how (my) bomb jokes are (kinda) funny. Especially people standing in the security line. I know better than that. I do. And yet.....

...and yet...

....and yet a tiny bomb joke still seems to sneak its way past my lips, just loud enough for the nearest security guard to hear. **Substantiated fact of the week kids: no matter what time of day, what country you're in, or what previous rapport you may have created with that security guard during the 30 seconds it took him to scan your crotch and pits for various types of metal, it always plays out the same. Smiles instantly fade, foreheads wrinkle in deep concern and the dark storm clouds of suspicion descend. The finger of DOOM gets pointed your way and before you know it, the once crowded line you stood in has dispersed. Crickets. No one wants to be lumped in with the smart-ass that made a bomb joke. No way. And then there's the awkward fumbling around for an explanation of said bomb joke in which you really do start sounding more and more like an asshole. Even to your own ears.

"Well you see sir, its not so much that I think bombs are funny per se, its just that well, you know, its more that we're not allowed to say the word bomb that makes it kinda funny when someone actually does say it, and you're right, i understand that there is a very good reason that we're not supposed to say bomb, you know, because I'm sure when someone actaully has a bomb that's also what they would say, of course in my defense I didn't scream the word implying that I had a bomb strapped to my chest or anything, I more just made an off-hand comment about how if I did have a bomb strapped to my chest it would be-------NO! I don't have a bomb strapped to my chest!! I was saying that if I DID have one....oh fuck. Those dogs are coming for me, yes?......."

Sigh. The day that bomb jokes in an airport stop being funny, is the day I've officially crossed the threshold into adulthood. And not the good kind of adulthood. Not the smoking, drinking, voting, and rental-car-abusing kind. I'm talking about the fiscal planning, Family Circus reading, cat-embossed-track-suit-wearing (because its so comfortable!) kind. So please, when this blog becomes a forum where I post pictures of my feline companion, Mr. Moustache, and talk about the racket kids these days call music, then you have my permission to come and dismantle my internet. Until then, send me any good bomb jokes you might know. I've got a flight to America coming up in the next month and I want to practice my delivery.....

Back in the Blog Saddle

It's happened. Years I have been waiting for the Universe to reveal my superpowers to me and the day has finally come. Granted, its not exactly as I had imagined it (Ability to Turn World’s Oceans Into Giant Dairy Queen Peanut Butter Cups Blizzards), but buggers can’t be choosers. What's that? Oh, apparently its BEGGERS can’t be choosers. Well in my opinion I don’t think buggers should really be choosers either. Just saying.

Right. Back to my superpowers. So here it is: if something has an electronic component to it, any at all, I can break it. With my mind. I don’t need to touch it or anything. All I have to do is have an expectation for it to work and BAM, broken. Crazy, right? And how did I find this out? Well let me tell you THAT fun story.

So, you know when you’re in the middle of a skype video chat and everything is going along swimmingly and then your computer does this?

*&$*$&*&OWHLDGEWFTWER@*#)%&@#*
^&#%@&%$@^#%$@FHUHEF%^^GFE&W^FT#@
FH@*R^TCWUGF@&TR^DWVEFG@*^%#@$@
EFWLKI@#R*@#$^@(^(#^#@(^@RNKIRFHEGEFGK

And then promptly craps itself and goes blank?

And then when you restart it, it does the initial load thing with the Apple icon and the little circle thingy that goes round and round while it thinks about all the things a computer has to think about when booting up but this time it goes on and on and on for a long enough time that you think to yourself “well fuck, this looks like its going to be expensive…..”

And then you get a moment's relief when it stops doing that round and round thingy and goes to the blue screen right before a Mac usually loads the desktop but this time it just sort of stops at the blue screen and then goes no further as if saying "Ha! Sure psyched you out, huh?! Oh man, you should have seen that hopeful look on your face when you thought you’d fixed the problem by merely pressing the restart button! When are you Apple users going to learn this hilarious fact: MACS CRASH TOO. And in horrific and catastrophic ways! Good times, good times.”

Are you with me so far? We’ve all been here, right?

So now not only do I have a dead computer (that btw isn’t even mine so add some guilt to that intense computer rage) but a person on the other end of a skype video call wondering “hey, where the heck did she go? Hmmm. I wonder if I went too far with that dead hooker joke….maybe. But she laughed at the one about the midget in the washing machine so that doesn’t make any sense…..”

While that person spends the next 45 minutes questioning their choice of inappropriate humour, I am busily restarting this computer over and over again trying to bring it back from the brink by making deals with God. “Ok. I know I havn’t been to church in a while. Ok, ok, more than a while. And I didn’t pay taxes last year. Or the year before that. And I steal a lot of movies from piratebay.org. And cheese whiz ISN’T really a food group. And when I “borrowed” that blind guy’s cane to get to the front of the line for Road Trip: Beer Pong Lord of the Rings, I knew it was wrong. And I totally felt bad about it. Throughout the whole movie. Credits and all. Except for the singing hotdog part at the beginning. “Lets all go to the lob-by!” Ha ha. A singing hotdog! That always makes me happy. Maybe that made the blind guy happy too. Although I suppose he wouldn’t be able to tell that it’s a hotdog who’s singing. What was a blind guy doing at the movies anyways?! Maybe I don’t feel so bad after all.

Where was I going with this? Oh right. God. Yeah, so I was telling God that although maybe I’m not PERFECT, that I would try harder in the future if he would just use some of his God Juice and make lucky reboot number 27 the magic one. No such luck. I guess God ISN’T all-powerful after all. Or maybe he’s just stingy with his technology miracles. I have now accepted Steve Jobs as my Lord and personal savior.

Ok. So the computer is definitely broken in some way. Could be hardware. Could be software. Could be on its period. I don’t know about such things as computer science OR computer menstruation.

So in an attempt to let Skype Video Call Person X know that it wasn’t anything they did that ended the conversation so abruptly, I dug out an old PC (*shudder*) laptop and began the process of booting IT up. So of course I was there for another 20 minutes as it tried to update every frigging application under the sun (thank you Bill Gates for kicking my puppy while he's already down and sad about his other broken computer)

I then got to go through the fun song and dance of searching for microphone capabilities to see if continuing on in sykpe fashion was even possible. Of course you can’t just use your handy Mac-based application “Spotlight” to look for where that information might be. No. This is Microsoft we’re talking about. So that piece of information is stuffed in a stupid little yellow folder somewhere with a million other stupid little yellow folders that all look the same and have the word “system” in the title. And its not like you can open them all up and look because you’re computer is running so goddamn slow from its desperate updating and desire for you to renew your Norton Antivirus software. “Hey, you know what Norton? The chances of me getting a virus are pretty low becuase you're never going to stop loading long enough for my computer to connect to the goddamn internet!"

Then I clicked on a button.

And it made this noise: whiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrr whooooooooosh whirrrrrry click click

At which point Skype Video Call Person X said (via gmail chat) “Hey, I have a crazy idea. Do you own one of those telephone contraptions? Let’s see if THAT works.”

And it did.

With some lovely static and feedback. BECAUSE OF MY FORMIDABLE SUPERPOWER THAT BRINGS ANY ELECTRONIC GADGET TO ITS KNEES, BEGGING FOR MERCY.

I have yet to see how this superpower can:

1.) be harnessed,

2.) be useful,

3.) not get me kicked out of every building I visit,

but I am very excited about the possibilities. Maybe I can go to a special school with a bunch of other freaky superpowery teenagers. And then Magneto will come and try and destroy me. But huzzah! I make his blackberry go all wonky, sending spam to his entire list of contacts. And then when he’s busy trying to write apology emails *WHAM* I spin-kick him in the throat. Awesome.

It feels really good to be blogging again. Contributing something noble and relevant to this world is really what it's all about people.

Birthday? I think not.

I have decided to forgo aging this year. 28 came too soon and with too many potential complications. I am staying at 27. Thanks anyway Universe - catch you around next year.

PS. Anyone who can help make this happen (by way of functioning time machine or pre-tested magic potions of the un-mushroom variety) please email.

Nailed.

I was Rusty Nailed yesterday. Not the drink. Or the sexual position. I mean a rusty nail pierced my virgin flesh. Made it BLEED. I'm actually surprised that I lived to blog the tale. They wanted to give me a total blood transfusion and stitch and staple it up the gaping wound with about a hundred or so stitches. And some industrial grade epoxy. And then a CAT scan to be safe. And put in one of those throat thingys Stephen Hawking has. But I declined. I'm tough like that. Tough as rusty nails. Maybe even tougher.

But just to make the 32 paramedics, 5 firemen and 1 trauma surgeon (who all rallied around me in my darkest hour) feel better I agreed to get a Tetanus shot. So off to doctors I went today. Apparently I was 3 years overdue for mine. Once every 10 years people. And you should have seen the needle! It took 2 nurses to bring it in. Left a hole the size of a grape in my arm. No problem - I stuffed my gum in there. Like a real hero.

So I'm topped up. Good to go. Tetanus proof. And you know what that means.........?

Irresponsible Drinking and Rusty Nail Throwing Party At Sarah's House! BYOB.....and nails.

Deadline looming. Time to blog about inane shit that I know is really important to you.

My plant hates me.

I don't know why and I didn't know that plants could, but my plant hates me.

I own am the proud angry owner of a generic tropical plant. Species unknown. The label that came with it said 2" Tropical Plant. A little red flag should have gone up right then and there. What plant doesn't have a name? I'll tell you which: the kind that will grow up to hate you. And slowly break you down. One defiant yellowish leaf at a time.

Blatant subversiveness is the name of this plants game. I prop it up, it grows down. I put it near light, it leans toward shade. I put it in shade, it strains towards light. I have suspicions that its not a plant at all, but a willful 2 year old child (theory yet to be proved).

It has decided that instead of having its leaves grow out at its side like other plants, instead it will have its leaves point straight downwards. Hell bent on making me look like a really bad and negligent plant owner. This plant is the toddler that stands in aisle 4 of the grocery store and screams bloody murder after you've taken out their addition to the cart and said "no sweetie, we aren't going to buy ribbed condoms today" making everyone wonder if you secretly beat your child at home and/or if you are a sexual deviant who shops for condoms in the presence of their 4-year old (I just heard a Republican somewhere gasp in horror). Side note: Both kids and plants collaborative mission = humiliate adults at any chance.

Nothing I do makes this plant happy. A more esoteric person might make a clever analogy here about how this plant is like life and blah blah blah *snooooooooooore* That person has a very different blog than me:

itakemyselfveryseriouslyandsoshouldyou.blogspot.com

I'll just continue bitching about my plant.

That hates me.

I have other plants you know. Alive, flourishing, happy. Its not ME. Its the plant. Who is an asshole. Yes. I just called my plant an asshole.

I am going to surround my asshole plant with all my other happy plants. In the hopes that their goodwill and ability to be normal rubs off on it. I take a risk in doing this though - come the morning I might end up with 7 asshole plants where before there was only one. In which case I will gleefully regretfully pull them up by the roots and start over with better plants. Plants that will DO what plants are meant to do. WHY CAN'T THINGS JUST DO WHAT THEY'RE MEANT TO DO!

Stuck.

So I am starting to get the hang of this blogging thing: basically, if you have something else to be doing, ANYTHING at all, that's when you'll feel the urge to blog most. Compelled, Impelled, PROPELLED! It becomes all you can think about. Your fingertips flying over the keys, your heart racing, your pupils dilating. Yes, blogging is the drug of choice for computer-literate lickspittles straddling the Generation X/Y cusp.

So that being said, here is my entry for today. 20 bonus points for today's theme being:

How to Solve a Problem About the Task I Am ACTUALLY Supposed To Be Doing Right Now
(or HTSAPATTIAASTBDRN for short).

So you know how when you're writing a piece of music and everything is going along tickitty-boo? The moody, broody harmonies reflecting the ever-so damaged soul of a tortured musician are practically writing themselves (except not really. I'm writing them. ME. In case future royalty collections are up for dispute...) and then out of nowhere it all takes a horribly bizarre turn and ends up morphing into that really catchy song from "Beauty and The Beast"? And you're like, "what the fuck? did that just come out of me?" and then you get worried because maybe a blue bird is about to follow. And some woodland nymphs. And a singing mouse. [Note: singing mice are the harbingers of death to a music career. Next stop: pet food jingles. On RADIO].

So yeah, that's happened to you, right? Great. What do I do about it? What makes Belle stop singing: "Newwwww and a bit a-larming, who'd have ev-er thought that this could beeeeeee, truuuuue that he's no prince charm-ing, but she won't dis-co-ver that its him! 'till chap-ter threeeeee!"

Ahhhhh!! MAKE IT STOP!!!


Things I Have Already Tried:

1. a walk
2. eating swiss chard
3. yelling at the squirrels who live in my roof and feast on our electrical cables
4. reading the superficial.com (can you BELIEVE that Heidi and Spencer are still the word's biggest douche bags? Yeah, me too. But Ashton Kutcher sure gave them a run for their money....)
5. watching "Beauty and the Bea-" oh shit! Damn you Alan Menken and your conformist Disney melodies!

Any offers to buy me beer suggestions would be much appreciated.

Dockside Diatribe

So, you know how when you're at a cabin and all you want to do is delve into a really good book while laying naked on a dock? (although you may not find Naked Reading listed under 'interests' on my Facebook page, I assure you it's only because Facebook has a 300% higher readership than this blog and thus wields more power to tarnish my exemplary image).

Where was I? Oh right, Naked Reading. So there I was down on the dock, blissfully soaking up some destructive UVA/B rays, my epidermis cheerfully mutating at the cellular level, when I was rudely interrupted by a boatload, yes I said a boatload, of yahoos (listen well children: a long time ago in a far off land, there existed a world without the internet. In this magical place, access to porn was scarce and the bastardization of the English language had yet to begin; yahoo = redneck, oaf, boor). A boatload of yahoos cruising into the bay for an annoying looky-loo. You know, a slow drive-by rife with obnoxious music, macho tales of hook-ups past (purposely uttered a little too loud), the sound of Kokanee beers being cracked open and of course, the subsequent sound of empty Kokanee cans being smashed against hollow, spray-tanned foreheads. *sigh* well if that don't just set a girls heart aflutter...

Now first things first: if you own a speed boat, one of those souped-up, godawful, fueled-by-machismo speed boats, fuck off. Just fuck right off. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $100. Don't even read to the end of this post. Close your browser window, shut off your computer and fuck off. I'll wait.

Secondly: if you are a self-respecting late-20-something male in a speed boat (see above) and are looking to improve your masculine appeal, here's a tip: only prepubescent girls think Ashlee Simpson is cool. FACT. So, why then, was she blasting from your over-priced (but, like, totally bitchin') sound system in your even more over-priced speed boat? I am confused. You LOOKED like a guy. When the words "Boo Ya!" fell across your lips you SOUNDED like a tool guy. When your buddy farted, you HIGH-FIVED him like a guy. But the music selection du jour pointed in another direction...what was the artsy Chinese girl named in the Baby Sitters Club again....? Ah ha! Gotcha!

Although my nakedness had me rather restricted in the immediate actions I could take (think: Crazy Cat Lady from the Simpsons. But naked. And minus the cats. On a lake. But not in Springfield. Whoa, this analogy is rapidly slipping away from me......aaand its gone. As you were.) against your offensive assault on my nude reverie, it was irrelevant in the end as my intense anger dissipated the second Ashlee started singing "l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e." I'll give you this - it is a catchy song. But c'mon. Seriously? The song "L.O.V.E."? Did you forget you had a penis? (If that happens often, may I suggest tying a string to it and the other end to your hand - so every time you give another "bro" a high-five, you will be reminded that you are in fact a Y-chromosome-toting neanderthal). There are so many other amazing tolerable Ashlee Simpson songs out there you could have picked. How about that song she got busted for lip syncing on SNL for? Or the one where she whines about living in the shadow of her big (bosomed) sister Jessica. Or even th- no wait. Those are really her only songs. So basically out of a possible 3 to choose from, you picked the least bad-ass (did I just refer to Ashlee Simpson as bad-ass? Oh man, I really have to stop drinking expired orange juice....) So to recap: Me=angry, You=12 year-old girl.

So instead of screaming at you losers to take a fucking hike and hurling any available projectiles at your boat (Fun Fact: pinecones and empty sunscreen bottles are really not enough to do significant and un-repairable skull boat damage) I just sort of sat there clutching my towel to my chest (while maintaining a cool and calm iciness) in dumbfounded bewilderment and shook my head wondering what planet you people come from? And if you can you please go back? And maybe take with you the borax and icing sugar I left out for the ants. Trust me, we'll all rest easier tonight. Well, I'll rest easier. You'll be dead conscious-challenged.

P.S. You weren't any more charming when you came back at 10:30 that night just as I was falling asleep, blaring your Goldilocks Rap (not too Black, not too White, but juuuuust right) and screaming (with great eloquence) "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" I can only hope that you awoke in a half sunken boat sporting a large hole in the hull from your buddy thinking it would be "dope" to set fireworks off in the cockpit. And please God, let there be a little (entire stomach contents worth of) puke on the new leather seat you special ordered from assholeswithtoomuchmoney.com. You know, the one with the naked lady hand stitched on it to let the rest of the world know that you like women (that extra $250 really WAS worth it!) even though you spend your days in a speed boat with 3 half-naked men. And I pray so very much that the stereo system is in a few (thousand) pieces after your juice-monkey friend went all roid-ragey on it when it wouldn't automatically skip to track 3 (c'mon Chad, not "Sk8tr Boi" again!) no matter how loud he screamed expletives at it.