Moving to Ottawa was a BIG deal. Months and months of preparation, planning, list-making and list-items-crossing-off-of; packing and storing and travelling and then - there I was. All things considered, the move went farely well. And I was really only unprepared for two things:
Summer and winter.
I arrived in O-Town halfway through a typical August. What is a typical August? you might ask. Well, let's just say it's...how to put it...ummm...FREAKIN' HOT. Face-melting, hair-frizzing, skin-toasting, sweat-puddling HOT. And a humid hot, one where the air has substance, like you could just reach out and grab a handful and stick it in your pocket for, say, December. It was actually a little freaky at first - like that scene in The Abyss where the guy is demonstrating this breathable gel by trapping a rat in a tub of it, and the rat is all freakin' out and his owner is all "you're killing him, man!" and the guy is all chill, like "don't worry, don't worry" and meanwhile the rat is just going apeshit, flailing and choking and eyes-bulging and just generally making a scene in the airport, until finally she gets used to it and manages to get all her suitcases onto the bus for downtown.
Or something like that. See, there's this crazy little thing called a "humidex", wherein the temperature is, say, 30 degrees, but not really, see, it's really 45 because of the "humidex" even though the weatherman says its 30, but it's not, it's actually much, much hotter. I'd never heard of this before, despite the fact that I had many a person tell me that because I was from an island, surrounded by water (as opposed to those islands which are surrounded by land?), it must have been very very humid there. Oh right, it must have been. I just never noticed for 18 and a half years.
But it wasn't all bad - if you showered and changed three times a day and spent as much time as possible in air-conditioned buildings and only ventured outside at night when you could run around in just shorts and a tank top with a maragarita at 2 in the morning, which was actually pretty fun, come to think of it.
And the best part? Was that the humidity gradually lessened, the temperature eventually dropped to 30 (for real), then down to that perfect weather where you can wear jeans and t-shirt all day, and then throw on that gorgeous new sweater that you blew a day's pay on at Jacob and still sit on the patio of the local pub and admire your first real Fall.
Growing up on the coast, I'd never really seen fall before. I mean, sure, I'd technically lived through almost two decades worth, but fall in Victoria is a lot like summer, only with school. Okay, it's also wetter and greener. But my god...autumn in O-town? Like Mother Nature's Technicolour Dreamcoat. I couldn't get enough. I wanted to spend every day with Fall; we were soulmates and we were going to be together forever.
But if Fall is the charming romantic who sweeps you off your feet and makes sweet sweet colourful love to you, then Winter is the 5-month herpes outbreak that Fall so conveniently forgot to mention.
The warning signs were there, of course, but I was just an innocent Victorian, too blinded by the Autumn landscape to notice. People began packing away their summer clothes, but I didn't catch on. "Summer wardrobe"? "Winter wardrobe"? Where I was from, generally speaking, "winter wardrobe"="summer wardrobe + rain jacket".
It didn't start to sink in until I went winter jacket shopping with some friends, and picked out what I thought was a pretty heavy-duty coat, only to be told, "Yeah, that should do you - for now".
Shit.
So I began layering...thick tights and wool sweaters in November, a fleece under the winter coat, mittens and toques and scarves, oh my! until halfway through December when I fled back to greener pastures, where a constant damp wind made Victoria feel much much colder than Ottawa. Still, I was triumphant - I had made it through the worst, a real winter out East, and I wouldn't be back until January when it would surely start warming up in a month and we'd be into a glorious spring, right? RIGHT?
Oh, January. You dirty bitch. I slept that month under two blankets, with wool socks on and a sweatshirt worn over my pyjamas. By some bizarro circumstance, the side of residence on which I lived had faulty heating; a solid layer of ice formed on the inside of the windows. On my birthday it was -50 with the wind chill. My family sent me a lovely care package with gifts and cookies and cards and roses...fresh-picked from the garden. I cried for half an hour.
But, again, what can you do but adapt and survive? I went outside as little as possible, made easier by the tunnel and walkway system to which my rez was attached; my personal record is six days without stepping foot outdoors. When I did have to go out I wore every article of clothing I owned. It wasn't pretty, but neither is freezing to death in a snowbank. And then, of course, there's the warming properties of alcohol.
And so January faded into February, and February into March, and and then April brought spring with it, which in Ottawa is a sort of lurching back and forth between winter and summer, as opposed to a season all its own, and then by May the Heat Miser was finally claiming victory over the Snow Miser and you start getting all excited because by this point you've actually forgotten what it feels like to be warm, and then June hits and you remember that it's just like in like in AvP, whoever wins...we lose.
And so I trade in my woolly underthings for halter tops, pack away the winter wardrobe and unpack the fans and prepare myself for being sweaty all the freakin’ time. At least I’ll get to see Fall again soon...
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
Keep the Blogs Running on Time
Alright, folks, I'm gonna try a new thing...random little posts here and there when I stumble across new fun things online or when random weird things happen like, say, the bus I'm taking to work starts rocking back and forth dramatically while going 110km/h on the highway and then when it turns sharply there's a large grinding sound coming out of the back to the extent that I turn to another passenger and we both give each other equally puzzled looks which turn to serious concern when the bus driver goes "Hey, that's funny...I wonder what's causing that!"
And so forth.
But I'm also going to start posting longer essays on Tuesdays - I'll try to have them up by noon, EST.
Alright, that's all I've got for today...um...I can't just leave it like this...er, check out this and this.
And so forth.
But I'm also going to start posting longer essays on Tuesdays - I'll try to have them up by noon, EST.
Alright, that's all I've got for today...um...I can't just leave it like this...er, check out this and this.
Monday, May 30, 2005
In the Suburbs, Everyone Can Hear You Scream
Or so I imagined, when I let out the girliest shriek of surprise and delight at the end of the season finale of Alias, not unlike the ones you'd hear coming from the Zipper at the Saanich Fair. What can I say? The last two minutes of the show rocked. The rest of the year - well, it's been a little stinky, mainly because a) they showed certain episodes out of order, completely screwing up certain plotlines and character developments, and b) instead of phasing out the tired, unbelievable story of "Sidney dresses up and seduces bad guy (even though bad guy is rich enough to go to bed with dozens of hot women every night; but Sidney is a really special kind of hot that no guy can resist, ever, especially when she's in a wig and has a bad accent)", they actually managed to incorporate it into, like, every single episode, not just counting the credits which is basically some 11th grade AV geek's Video Essay entitled Jennifer Garner is Hott.
Which she is, I'm not disputing that, and it's nice to see a woman on TV who actually looks like she could kick ass in real life, unlike, say, Sarah Michelle Gellar ('cause even though Buffy rocks my world, SMG looks like she could get whupped by a particularly strong breeze); it's just that, really rich and powerful men? Probably not so much suffering a pussy-shortage, and having them drool all over Sid like they just got out a ten-year prison sentence in solitary confinement is just a little unbelievable, especially when it happens for the four-hundredth time. By this point, you'd think they'd have some sort of bad guy APB out on her, like, with her picture and a caption that says "Warning - Does not actually find your bald, scarred mug attractive. Is CIA. Don't let the cleavage fool you - she will kick your ass."
Anyway - all this to say that at the very last moment the show was actually kind of cool again, and I shrieked, but the patio door was open and I didn't the neighbors to be concerned to the point of 911, so I followed up the shriek with a shout of "I'm okay! Just watching TV! No problems here!", because it's important, after all, to keep the lines of communication open with your fellow suburbians.
After all, living in the suburbs isn't quite the same as living downtown. There's the sameness and conformity of row houses and endless strip malls with big-box stores, true, but there's also the ability to leave the garage door open in the morning, and have all your stuff there when you get home from work. As opposed to, say, sleeping with your bike in the room for the first five nights you own it, then, on the first night you lock it up outside overnight, finding out that some shiteating-asswipe smashed your porch to steal it. Not that I'm still bitter about something that happened two and a half years ago.
Or there's collection day, with rolling cans and the blue or black boxes (depend on pickup day!) all stacked down at the end of the driveways, which is a nice break from the recycle bins at my last apartment complex, where eventually I just had to stop going out to them because of the damage done to my blood pressure whenever I'd lift the lid marked "plastic, glass and metal" and find banana peels and bloody styrofoam meat packaging. What I don't get is that there was a huge dumpster right next to the recycle bins; an open one so you didn't even have to lift the lid, you could just chuck your crap straight in, and yet still certain people were possessed with the need to cram their dirty diapers in with my carefully sorted and cleaned recyclables because THEY ARE ALL FUCKHEADED ASS-MONKEYS.
And I think that's what I like about the 'burbs - how the exaggerated evil of the non-conforming neighbors effectively skewers our paranoia when the worst fears of an average Joe...oops, that's what I like about The 'Burbs.
What I like about the suburbs is the familiarity. There's a certain comfort in the sameness, a sort of natural tranquilizer that comes with knowing the routine. After almost 6 years and a dozen addresses, living in a house in the 'burbs is...well, it's like a vacation. From the sirens, the graffiti, the garbage - well, not that Ottawa's that bad, but you move out to the 'burbs and you remember what it's like to sleep through the night without being woken up by random loud drunk people.
Except when D and I throw a housewarming and bust out the karaoke - 'cause in the suburbs, everyone can also hear you sing.
Which she is, I'm not disputing that, and it's nice to see a woman on TV who actually looks like she could kick ass in real life, unlike, say, Sarah Michelle Gellar ('cause even though Buffy rocks my world, SMG looks like she could get whupped by a particularly strong breeze); it's just that, really rich and powerful men? Probably not so much suffering a pussy-shortage, and having them drool all over Sid like they just got out a ten-year prison sentence in solitary confinement is just a little unbelievable, especially when it happens for the four-hundredth time. By this point, you'd think they'd have some sort of bad guy APB out on her, like, with her picture and a caption that says "Warning - Does not actually find your bald, scarred mug attractive. Is CIA. Don't let the cleavage fool you - she will kick your ass."
Anyway - all this to say that at the very last moment the show was actually kind of cool again, and I shrieked, but the patio door was open and I didn't the neighbors to be concerned to the point of 911, so I followed up the shriek with a shout of "I'm okay! Just watching TV! No problems here!", because it's important, after all, to keep the lines of communication open with your fellow suburbians.
After all, living in the suburbs isn't quite the same as living downtown. There's the sameness and conformity of row houses and endless strip malls with big-box stores, true, but there's also the ability to leave the garage door open in the morning, and have all your stuff there when you get home from work. As opposed to, say, sleeping with your bike in the room for the first five nights you own it, then, on the first night you lock it up outside overnight, finding out that some shiteating-asswipe smashed your porch to steal it. Not that I'm still bitter about something that happened two and a half years ago.
Or there's collection day, with rolling cans and the blue or black boxes (depend on pickup day!) all stacked down at the end of the driveways, which is a nice break from the recycle bins at my last apartment complex, where eventually I just had to stop going out to them because of the damage done to my blood pressure whenever I'd lift the lid marked "plastic, glass and metal" and find banana peels and bloody styrofoam meat packaging. What I don't get is that there was a huge dumpster right next to the recycle bins; an open one so you didn't even have to lift the lid, you could just chuck your crap straight in, and yet still certain people were possessed with the need to cram their dirty diapers in with my carefully sorted and cleaned recyclables because THEY ARE ALL FUCKHEADED ASS-MONKEYS.
And I think that's what I like about the 'burbs - how the exaggerated evil of the non-conforming neighbors effectively skewers our paranoia when the worst fears of an average Joe...oops, that's what I like about The 'Burbs.
What I like about the suburbs is the familiarity. There's a certain comfort in the sameness, a sort of natural tranquilizer that comes with knowing the routine. After almost 6 years and a dozen addresses, living in a house in the 'burbs is...well, it's like a vacation. From the sirens, the graffiti, the garbage - well, not that Ottawa's that bad, but you move out to the 'burbs and you remember what it's like to sleep through the night without being woken up by random loud drunk people.
Except when D and I throw a housewarming and bust out the karaoke - 'cause in the suburbs, everyone can also hear you sing.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Insert Star Wars Pun Here
Like "Revenge of the Pith(y comment)" or some crap like that. Whatever, come up with your own. I'm not made out of sarcasm.
Well, not entirely.
Anyway, this post is actually only about a small part of Revenge of the Sith, and though it does quote verbatim (or as close to it as I can remember) from one of the characters, it doesn't contain any spoilers unless you don't know that Darth Vader is Luke's father. In which case, you do now. Also, it's not an in-depth analysis of this film, and the role that it and its predecessors, play in our cultural identity - you can get that here, in all its spoilerrificness.
Let me just say that I liked the film overall, but of all the random crapalicious and head-scratchingly bad dialogue that made me go "whuh?" in this or any other of the Star Wars films, this gem definitely made me go "whuh?" the loudest:
Padme: "This baby will change both our lives. The Queen probably not let me be a Senator after it's born. "
Laura and Dan: "Whuh?"
In the crowded theatre, so that the effect was 400 heads facing forward, two facing each other with raised hands going "whuh?". I don't know what the next line was, and neither does Dan, because both of us were so caught off guard by that line that we, well, turned to each other and went "whuh?" And seriously, if anyone out there has any idea what the hell that line's all about, then please please write me or something because I just don't get it. I mean, Naboo elects a Queen, but doesn't think mothers should work? WHUH?? Seriously, what is the point of this line? It doesn't advance the plot, it doesn't provide exposition, it's in every way unnecessary and it's totally creepy in a "Nice women don't want the vote" way.
And while we're on the topic of movies - y'all should seriously run out and buy the Team America: World Police DVD right now, if only to see how foliage on a puppet-sized set can be realistically provided by pot plants. This movie rocks this world and the next. Watch it, then head over to my place for debriefing and cocktails.
Well, not entirely.
Anyway, this post is actually only about a small part of Revenge of the Sith, and though it does quote verbatim (or as close to it as I can remember) from one of the characters, it doesn't contain any spoilers unless you don't know that Darth Vader is Luke's father. In which case, you do now. Also, it's not an in-depth analysis of this film, and the role that it and its predecessors, play in our cultural identity - you can get that here, in all its spoilerrificness.
Let me just say that I liked the film overall, but of all the random crapalicious and head-scratchingly bad dialogue that made me go "whuh?" in this or any other of the Star Wars films, this gem definitely made me go "whuh?" the loudest:
Padme: "This baby will change both our lives. The Queen probably not let me be a Senator after it's born. "
Laura and Dan: "Whuh?"
In the crowded theatre, so that the effect was 400 heads facing forward, two facing each other with raised hands going "whuh?". I don't know what the next line was, and neither does Dan, because both of us were so caught off guard by that line that we, well, turned to each other and went "whuh?" And seriously, if anyone out there has any idea what the hell that line's all about, then please please write me or something because I just don't get it. I mean, Naboo elects a Queen, but doesn't think mothers should work? WHUH?? Seriously, what is the point of this line? It doesn't advance the plot, it doesn't provide exposition, it's in every way unnecessary and it's totally creepy in a "Nice women don't want the vote" way.
And while we're on the topic of movies - y'all should seriously run out and buy the Team America: World Police DVD right now, if only to see how foliage on a puppet-sized set can be realistically provided by pot plants. This movie rocks this world and the next. Watch it, then head over to my place for debriefing and cocktails.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Bear in mind that I have a cold right now
The March For Life was on the Hill today, and let me say that I have not seen that many bored Catholic schoolchildren since this. Seriously, they should just start calling these events "Gatherings of Woefully Misguided Fundamentalists and Their Passionnately Indifferent Children".
Anyway, I was waiting up underneath the Peace Tower for a guest and had to endure the musical stylings of the anti-choice movement, which apparently consists of one song with a chorus that goes like so:
Life is the only choice
Life is the only choice
Life is the only choice
Yeah, life is the only choice.
Plus, dude who was singing liked to hit the word "Life" in this wannabe rockstar-shriek, like he's the David Lee Roth of The Culture of Life.
Hey - I should totally start a band called "The Culture of Life" and we will sing songs about sex. And possibly binge-drinking. And poking stupid people in the eye. Who wants in? Megan, if we write a song about all those things plus organic vegetables, maybe we could play here.
Went out last night for a piece of ass,
Found it at the bottom of my seventh glass,
He gave me a smile, gave me his number,
Said "don't you wanna nibble my organic cucumber?"
Some guy says "You two are making Jesus cry!"
Now he's crying too, 'cause I poked him in the eye.
Everybody now!
Anyway, I was waiting up underneath the Peace Tower for a guest and had to endure the musical stylings of the anti-choice movement, which apparently consists of one song with a chorus that goes like so:
Life is the only choice
Life is the only choice
Life is the only choice
Yeah, life is the only choice.
Plus, dude who was singing liked to hit the word "Life" in this wannabe rockstar-shriek, like he's the David Lee Roth of The Culture of Life.
Hey - I should totally start a band called "The Culture of Life" and we will sing songs about sex. And possibly binge-drinking. And poking stupid people in the eye. Who wants in? Megan, if we write a song about all those things plus organic vegetables, maybe we could play here.
Went out last night for a piece of ass,
Found it at the bottom of my seventh glass,
He gave me a smile, gave me his number,
Said "don't you wanna nibble my organic cucumber?"
Some guy says "You two are making Jesus cry!"
Now he's crying too, 'cause I poked him in the eye.
Everybody now!
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
A tale of two couples:
One that makes reality TV and life in general a little sweeter, and another that makes it (and by "it" I mean me) tremendously bitter.
Also: Duceppe is clearly Iceman.
Also: Duceppe is clearly Iceman.
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