World's Wordiest Cyclist

I am a bike commuter. I like to think that I am a bike commuter by choice but I have a suspicion that it has more to do with the high cost of insuring a vehicle in the city (hey thanks all you crappy drivers out there who keep forcing the price up!) and the delusional and corrupt Translink that thinks making someone pay $2.50 to go 15 blocks (sure I'd love to hop on your stinky, lurchy bus where I get the pleasure of being pressed up against a belligerent wino on one side and a pervy businessman on the other) is somehow justifiable and sustainable. No matter the reasoning behind this fact, I am still a bike commuter. And most days I enjoy it immensely. I get to be out in the fresh air, working muscles that don't normally see action from steadfast blogging and hey, who doesn't love having the agility to outmaneuver cabbies and left-hand turners by darting up onto curbs and then recklessly back into traffic with the flick of a wrist? (this is inadvisable for those behind the wheel of a car - fire hydrants aren't nearly as easy to dodge when you're 5 feet wide.....which is exactly what the nice police officer told my elderly neighbor last week.)

Yes, most days I appreciate pedal power. Delight in it. Genuinely feel good to be alive and on my bike.

And then the first Fall shower arrives.

BAM! The repressed memories of previous winters' traumatic weather come screaming back to me the second the first drop of rain hits my horrified face.

Despite my seven winters in Vancouver as a cyclist I have yet to invest in any solid wet-weather gear. This is be because I am cheap fall into the "make-it-yourself-with-materials-you-can-find-in-your-kitchen" column. "No really! Duct tape and zip-lock bags are JUST as effective as your $300 Gore-Tex. Add in a few sheets of tinfoil and it's exactly the same thing that you're wearing at only a fraction of the cost. Hey can you hand me that spatula over there?..."

This low-budget, jury-rigged making-do never really bothered me before. I just embraced the fact that I was going to be very wet, very cold and probably very miserable. Which suited me fine. In fact, it served me pretty damn well. You see, I used to have this whole "life is pain" thing going on where I thought suffering was the bees knees. You know, that gritty middle-class Caucasian style of suffering whereby Roger's Video renting the last copy of The Notebook out from under your very nose sends you spiraling into the vortex of gloom and proves that a.) ALL the bad stuff happens to you b.) there is no God and c.) if there WERE a God, he certainly has your name on his "Humans to Torture" list. Some days I would forget to keep this ruse going and find myself seeing joy in a situation. A tingling would skitter down my spine and I'd feel my lips pull upwards (who knows, maybe it was just a neurological misfiring I was experiencing) but it didn't matter because soon enough that fleeting joy would be replaced with Vancouver's finest black clouds and it would begin to rain. I would get wet, cold and miserable and with complete predictability my inner CPU would be reset to its default of "pissed at the world." A commensalistic symbiotic relationship in action.

Here's the thing: I'm kinda over all that. No longer do the flamboyantly gay and lottery winners of the world corner the Happiness market. Maybe I'm finally ready to admit that we're all capable of being content with ourselves and our circumstances if we just drop the bullshit and stop acting like assholes (theory yet to be tested). Conundrum: winter is approaching. Which in Vancouver means "prepare thyself, the Biblical Floods are upon us." So if I want to keep this chipper persona alive for any length of time (don't worry, when I fall off my self-actualized high-horse we can go burn some Eckhart Tolle books and make fun of disfigured kittens), then I might need to upgrade from saran-wrap pants.

Proof of this point: I was riding to the West End from my house the other day (well across town) and found myself caught in the first spectacular downpour Vancouver has seen since the spring. We're talking 3 inches of standing water blanketing the roads and rain drops big enough to level Ant Metropolis. I wasn't anywhere near my destination so it was clear that I was going to be soaked (duct tape can only remain sticky for so long people!). Let's take a moment to imagine what being soaked looks like. Really let loose here. Think fishing boat in the Bering Sea meets Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls. Got that picture in your head? Ok, now throw an additional 15 buckets of water into that scene and you have ME on Wednesday. Seriously, there couldn't have been more water rushing UP my legs from the spray of my tires if some dude was laying on the pavement spraying my crotch with a fire hose......oh wow. Wait. That did not come out right at all. Fine fine, take it. That's What She Said. But don't expect anymore freebies from me....

So yeah. Wet-weather gear, a priority. But you know what? As drenched as I was, it was still a lovely ride. Maybe it was the warmish temperature or the string of 5 green lights I managed to hit on Burrard Street, but all I know is that I, Sarah Jane Macnabb, stopped for a pedestrian. It doesn't matter that it was a stop sign to me and he was halfway into the intersection demonstrating his clear right-of-way (when has this ever stopped me in the past? My thoughts? If I'm on a bike and you're in a car/truck/van/bus, on foot/rollerblades or riding any sort of animal, get out of my way. That's just how it is. I don't write the rules¹). Yes, I must be a changed person because in addition to my following basic traffic laws benevolence I even smiled at him. True, I came really close to not stopping for him so in return his face was less "smile-like" and more "extreme terror-like" but we both had a good chuckle about it afterward. And by "we" I mean me. Although I'm sure once the adrenaline wore off later that night he was laughing too.

Hey and since I'm sharing, I just wanted to take this opportunity to give a shout out to the lady in the car I was biking behind. Yes, I'm aware that I cut you off. It was my intention to cut you off. And no I don't feel bad about it because quite frankly, when cyclists are passing you (keep in mind that you are in the giant motorized contraption capable of speeds 10 times that of a bike) it's because you're not keeping up with the flow of traffic. And by traffic I mean the gang of angry cyclists being held up by your negligent driving-while-cell-phoning shenanigans which forced them to dangerously weave out in front of your car before succumbing to the temptation of smashing in your tail lights with their kyrptonite bike locks. And yes I'm sure that the text message you were sending to Cheryl in regards to your dinner party was very important but 1.) if i could READ what you were texting, you were driving too slow and 2.) Cheryl is only saying that she can't come to your dinner party. I heard that she's actually planning to go see that new Meryl Streep movie with Debbie instead. Apparently your dinner parties suck. Pot roasts are so last year and plus at the last one you seated her next to Roy, that creepy accountant you work with, and all he did was stare at her left nipple the entire time. What's up with that?!

Wow. Do my posts ever have a point? I'd settle for a beginning, middle and end. Perhaps in the years to come that I maintain this website, I'll acquire such skills. Sink or swim. Although that's kinda of like saying "I'm sure I could land a plane if the need REALLY came up. I mean, I'm pretty confident I'd be able to dig deep and find that complex knowledge and experience somewhere inside of me...." We'll see. At least my blog won't be the cause any fiery deaths if I completely fail at it, so that's something. I think.

¹Except for when I do. Like this one. But don't think that just because you're my friend I'm going to to make exceptions for you. Rules are there for a reason people....

Spread the Word

Temporarily breaking away from the long-winded rant tradition of this blog, I have but a quick post tonight:

If you only see one movie this year, please let it be Sam Mendes' Away We Go. I can't remember the last film I watched where I was so impressed with the writing. I guess that's what happens when you hire a real author like Dave Eggers to write your film. Actually he co-wrote this charming story of young couple looking for their place in the world, with his wife Vendela Vida, which is probably why the writing is so goddamn true to life. I had almost given up believing that anything this smart could come out of Hollywood. It is a rare occasion when I'm pleasantly surprised by the very same industry that brought us such abysmal tragedies as Howard the Duck, Glitter and Freddy Got Fingered........

Into The Core Of My Movie-Watching Soul

So I was recently accused of having bad taste in movies. I believe the person stated it like this: “hey you really like all those really bad B-rate movies, right?” and I was like “what’s B-rate about the Patrick Swayze/Keanu Reeves smash-hit Point Break?” And I meant it. Wait, hear me out!! The tag-line for the movie? "100% PURE ADRENALINE." How rad is that?? (this just in: only dorks and teenage mutant ninja turtles still use the word radical to imply awesomeness...) And to pacify the anticipated barrage of comments from annoying fault-finders out there, let me beat you to the punch. I know that pure adrenaline is the only type of adrenaline the human body produces. Its not like I think there's a "watered-down-with-orange-juice variety" or something. It just sounds cool. Way cooler than "COMING SOON TO A THEATRE NEAR YOU, POINT BREAK: "100% NORMAL ADRENAL GLAND SECRETION." Besides, that may trick audiences into thinking they are seeing some sort of medical drama. So please keep your smart ass comments to yourself. I don't enjoy competition....

Whoops, off topic already. Let's back the truck up. I can certainly see how someone might think I have bad taste in movies. I did voluntarily watch Marley and Me (ooooh so bad). And Blacula (racial twist on a classic horror anyone?). Let's see, there was also Snakes on a Plane, Punch Drunk Love and (oh dear god this stays between you and I) Nights in Rondanthe. In my defense, I didn't go looking for that one. A mislabeled torrent I downloaded dropped it into my thieving lap(top). But yes, I continued watching once the main titles confirmed that is wasn't Knights In Rhonda:4 Nights of Cabiria. And I admittedly didn't turn it off when Richard Gere made his cliched entrance as the Man With A Troubled Past. Even more appalling, I kept watching through the terribly awkward intercourse scene between him and Diane Lane (I'm all for elderly people having sex, but please not on my computer. PLEASE not on my computer). And the nail in the coffin? I waited it out to the bitter end to see if Diane Lane went back to her douche ex-husband or if she stayed with Richard Gere. Ugh, I am so ashamed....

So yeah. I guess when you start adding them up, the list looks a little damning. But to outright label me as a Bad Movie Liker is harsh. Before you feel too bad for me, I got this person back by securing a promise from them to watch any cheesy 80’s movie of my choosing. 'Cheesy' was his terminology. Personally, I don’t find anything cheesy about musical montages in which a do-good neighborhood bands together to clean up a refuse site, transforming it into some sort of community garden within the 1:23 it takes for Journey to get to the chorus of "Don't Stop Believing." Said montage of course includes the obligatory paint-fight scene: cute girl sneaks up behind cute boy to adorably dab paint on his nose and him responding in true barftastic lovey-dovey fashion with an equally pathetic dab on her nose resulting in a nauseating paint/love fest making you question the romance in your own relationship throw up in your mouth; the hose-spraying scene: cute topless boy sprays pack of cute bikini-topped girls with a garden hose, sending them into an estrogen-fueled squealing fit of delight/horror ("Aaaah! Now I'm all wet you jerk! But you're so cute and hey, I am wearing a bathing suit so I guess getting wet isn't the end of the world. But you're still a jerk! That I secretly have a crush on and make out to my pillow thinking of.....jerk.") in their cutoff jean-shorts and scrunchied side-ponies; and of course we can’t forget the post-work party self-congratulations culminating in a giant high-five that freeze frames mid clap.

Nothing cheesy about that.

But I digress.

Whoa. I'm realizing mid-typage that what's about to follow isn't the previously planned clamorous argument convincing the world of my excellent cinematic taste but instead a revelation to you of yet another atrocious box-office blunder I recently made. (Hey, remember in university when you'd be writing a term paper at the last minute and get halfway through only to realize that the body of your essay in no way resembles your outline or introduction? And you'd be left sitting there, scratching your head thinking "Oh wow. I have strayed. I have strayed far. In fact, I am dangerously close to being on a completely different subject matter here. Huh. Hmmmm. Crap...oh well, let's slap a conclusion on this baby and go play some frisbee!")

Wait, where was I going with this?

Right. Back to the topic at hand. Or one of them at least (we seem to have covered considerable ground in this post already). SO, ever hear of an actress named Hillary Swank? Accomplished Academy Award-winner who starred in some of Hollywood's most ridiculously successful flicks such as Boys Don’t Cry and Million Dollar Baby? Well, have you by chance seen the less critically-acclaimed 2003 non-hit The Core? Let me jog your memory. This Epic Fail Of A Movie tells the tale of Swank saving the planet by piloting a ship deep into the centre of the earth to jumpstart the molten core (which has stopped spinning and thus deactivated the earth's electromagnetic field, obviously) by setting off nuclear bombs to induce a rotational force. Ringing any bells? No? That’s a shame. Its not that I’m asking for those 2 hours of my life back. Really. I probably would have just spent them on thesuperficial.com curing cancer or something.....oh wait, in that case I am asking for my 2 hours back. I'm fairly confident that during those painful 135 minutes, I'd have been able to make a pretty serious dent in prostate cancer---THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID! Ooooh. Yes? No? I have lost all sense of appropriate That's-What-She-Said placement. Forgive me.

So, The Core. The moment they showed a woman co-piloting a NASA shuttle mission in the opening 10 minutes, I knew that the believability of this movie was going to be squat. Women can barely drive cars, was I really supposed to believe that one could make it into the exosphere without accidentally reversing into a Hubble Space Station? Let's not be ridiculous.

At least I was set with low expectations for the remainder of the film. But here's the thing: its really not about how much the producers made me reach for some semblance of scientific plausibility during these painful 2 hours. It's more about how insulted I felt the entire time. Let's just lay it out there: this movie was meant to be watched by babies, monkeys and inanimate objects. Those are the only demographics that could possibly buy the load of crap this movie throws at you.

Let's begin.

A secret special ship that shoots green lasers (x-rays? who the fuck knows) which basically makes anything it points at a giant smoking hole. That's the method of transportation they use to GET to the centre of the earth. Some questions you may have? Like what about the massive crushing pressure that increases as one moves towards the earth's core? Sure no problem. The secret special ship gets more indestructible with increasing pressure. Okaaay. I didn't see the chalkboard schematic of that one with the corresponding mathematics to prove it, but ok.

Well, what about the giant underground diamond field they run into that badly damages their ship's hull and kills one of their crew members? You made a ship that's drilling down through the earth, out of special super strong material that will go through everything BUT diamonds? Dude, where do you think diamonds live?? Chances are, you're going to run into a few...And its not like you didn't have the money. The US Government said "we'll give you 50 billion dollars" and you took that to mean "well we could build an everlasting ship out of solid diamonds seeing as how money is no issue AND the fate of the world relies on the success of this mission buuuuut...it just seems a bit wasteful. Hmmm. Nope, I'm just not comfortable spending that kind of money. Let's use only half of it and build an inferior ship out of something stupid that will get us all killed." I would have SO fired that guy (don't worry, he dies).

Moving on.

Ooh ooh this is fun! Ok, my personal favourite was the special skin-tight space suits they wore at the centre of the earth when they stepped outside of the ship (you know, to stretch out the ole legs and have another crew member conveniently kick the bucket in order to keep the plot tension high - trust me, the dialogue wasn't doing it). So there they are. The Earth's core. 100 millions tons of pressure on them. And you know what's keeping them from being pulverized into dust? Synthetic stretchy nylon with a shiny finish. I LOVE IT. They go to the trouble of making the ship out of a mythical substance that will withstand the weight of the world due to some fictitious inverse pressure-to-strength ratio, but the suits they wear end up doing the exact same thing! The US Government spent 25 billion dollars on an industrial strength, ship-worthy material that they could have got for $70 in the FabricLand bargain bin. No wonder America is in a recession.

Of course it ends with the classic "oh well, we did everything we could but it still wasn't enough. I guess we'll just sit hear and die while that really sad music plays in the background. But wait! I have an idea! A totally far-fetched idea that I was only just able to think of at this very moment. There is a 0.1% chance of it working but we've gotta try. For the United States of America. For God. For Freedom!!" Pan camera to complex scene where plan gets put into action, world gets saved, yadda, yadda, yadda and end with a one-liner joke to make the viewer "think" about what it all means. Aaaaaand CUT!

Please do not watch this movie. Consider this my Personal Service Announcement of the year. Do all the other things PSA's tell you not to do before you watch this movie. Go do some drugs. Start a few forest fires. Pirate a few movies (did you know its no different than stealing a car?). Definitely spend some time with low self-esteem where you act out in self-destructive and sexually deviant ways. Do it all! Just please don't watch this movie.

So Pumped About Pumps (of the non-penis-enhancing variety)

Like most people who are too poor to own a car commute by bike, I own a bike pump. Its not a great pump or anything but its certainly not a hunk of junk - in fact 95% of the parts are made of steel and other non-hunk-o-junk sounding alloys (that my limited chemistry background prevents me from listing). Now I'm not saying that Lance Armstrong would be excited to use my bike pump or anything, I am just merely stating that this bike pump should be given numerous chances at resuscitation should the need every arise.

Consider the need arisen. My pump has stopped working. Upon dismantling it and calling on some Grade 3 physics, I was able to determine that the rubber plunger washer that creates pressure in the tube was no longer in the spot that it should be at. Nope. Instead it was stuck at the bottom of the column, sitting in its dark, greasy grave with no way for me to retrieve it.

I bet you're already thinking "pfff. Why doesn't she just use a coat hanger to fish it out?" And I bet you're also thinking how much more clever you are than me. Before you go feeling all good about yourself, I'm going stop you right there. I DID use a coat hanger to try and fish it out but there was just no way to get enough leverage to pull it up. Sorry to get your hopes up - please continue sinking into that low self-esteem while I proceed with my trivial bike pump story.

Off to the bike mechanics. There are many on Main street. I really shouldn't have needed more than one....

[That last sentence? That's known as a literary device called "foreshadowing." It's when the author drops subtle hints about plot developments to come later in the story. Now see, when I (the author) said "I really shouldn't have needed more than one," what you (the reader) should infer from that is how I will end up visiting more than one shop as the story progresses. Just thought I'd clarify that for anyone who was sick the day they taught foreshadowing in Grade 9 English].

To protect my ass from getting sued over slander the identity of the stores I visited, I'll just number them.

Store 1 - Run by hippies and anarchists
"Hi there. I have a broken bike pump that I was hoping you could help with. The rubber plunger washer is stuck at the bottom of the column and I'm having troubles retrieving it. Any ideas?"

To which the very young and very high bike mechanic said. "Whoa. Hang on. Show me that again. Where is the rubber plunger washer thingy supposed to go again? Oh right. I forgot. Yeah. Where is it now? Hey its missing! Did you know your rubber plunger washer thing is missing? I bet that's what the problem is."

Once Jamie and I had gone over and over (and over) that I DID in fact know that the rubber plunger washer was not where it was supposed to be, and that NO it wasn't missing, just stuck at the bottom of the bike pump (which he thought was hilARious), we were able to come to these conclusions:

Me to Jamie "You are too high to help me."
Jamie to Me "You have a weird looking face."

Awesome. NEXT!

Store 2 - Run by upscale yuppie know-it-alls
"Hi there. I have a broken bike pump that I was hoping you could help with. The rubber plunger washer is stuck at the bottom of the column and I'm having troubles retrieving it. Any ideas?"

To which a very clean (never trust a bike mechanic who has no grease anywhere on his body) Chad said "No there's definitely no way to fix this. How much did you pay for it? Because if you didn't pay at least $150 then there's no way to fix it. I can sell you one if you like. And hey, I'll give it to you for $125 - at that point I'm not even making any money on it but I like you and I'm a pretty amazing generous guy. Have I ever run into this problem before you ask? Well I'm not sure. Usually when anything I own stops working I just throw it away and buy myself a brand new one. Oh yeah I do that all the time. TV's, cell phones, dirty laundry, a few kittens I once forgot to feed, you name it. That's what money is for, right? Why are you trying to fix this pump? I mean, I'm practically GIVING you a brand new one (for $125). Just throw that one in the trash and get on the Lets All Consume More wagon!"

Conclusions:

Chad to Me: "Hey lady, you living in the Depression or something? NOW is the time to buy, buy, buy and waste, waste, waste!!
Me to Chad: "You are a douche bag. Please take you hands off my bike pump."

Store 3 and 4 were a nice blend of column A and column B.

I was pretty much done for the day when I passed by one last bike shop run by a old smiling Chinese man who greeted me 4 times in under 2 seconds. This had potential.

Store 5 - A WINNER
Once more I explained what was wrong with my pump and within 30 seconds this little Asian man procured a coat hanger and a pair of pliers. It turns out I had the right IDEA but my execution of Proper Coat Hanger-Bending left little to be desired. His coat hanger was just so much better than mine (I could have sworn it resembled an origami swan)..... And before I could say anything, he was handing me my greasy plunger washer rescued from the bottom of my pump, with a giant beaming grin on his face and lots of head nodding. I nodded back. With a giant beaming grin on MY face. He laughed. I laughed. We both laughed. Not sure what we were laughing about but it felt good.

I have no idea what the moral of this story is. Have I ever offered a moral before? I guess I could say some stuff about the evils of drugs and consumerism but that doesn't feel right. How about this:

**Little Asian men who smile a lot and wield coat hangers are probably more able to solve your problems than you think.**

Sarahism © 2009. You heard it here first folks! Go forth and spread the message. And while you're at it, tell more people about my blog. I'm sure if Jesus had a blogger account, he'd have asked the same thing.......

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.