The other night a friend and I were discussing the surprising saturation of "Safety"-based learning we experienced in the Canadian elementary school system. Both of us have lived abroad and we agreed that our non-Canadian friends were always surprised by our safety-knowledge, and also how many instructional films, videos, and assemblies we were subjected to at school. We learnt about: fire safety, forest safety, winter safety, train safety, bus safety, electrical safety, drug safety, stranger (Stranger Danger) safety, sex safety, and probably a few more that I can't remember. Now, obviously, this isn't a bad thing - for instance, I know that if I, or a friend, ever falls through ice into open water that I am to wet my scarf and throw it out onto the ice so that it sticks and creates a rope of sorts to haul myself or my friend out of the frigid water and that I am to lay flat on the ice to distribute my weight and then when on solid land one must take off all of their wet clothes to avoid hypothermia and then we should NOT eat snow because it will dehydrate us, but we can drink it if it's melted over a fire first, Okay? Now, that is some solid safety knowledge.
However, there is a downside to all of this instruction. Because you see, these lessons and films and assemblies were TERRIFYING and may have permanently scarred us and contributed to many adult anxieties and irrational fears. I will give you three examples that I believe produced actual childhood panic attacks and make me feel very tense even as I relay them to you now.
1. Bus Safety, 1988: At a time before our school had VCRs, we got our safety fear-mongering propaganda via film reels on projectors. We were encouraged to count along with the beginning of the film before the National Film Board of Canada or something similar would introduce, in white titles on grainy film, the safety lesson of the day. So, I was in kindergarten in 1988 (or thereabouts) and had just started riding the big yellow school bus - how exciting! So it's only natural that they begin teaching me of the ways in which riding the bus could kill me. This particular film was probably made at some point in the mid-70s and featured many shaggy haired adolescents in bell bottoms, with adults that had scary mustaches, hanging around unsafely by school buses that still had green leather seats. (Most of the buses had switched to brown by now). In this film, which we watched in the foyer sitting on brown carpeted steps, there was a scary-looking 1970s teenaged boy sitting on a kerb like a real rebel, who stuck out his Adidas-clad foot a little too far into the road so that it was subsequently flattened like a squashed banana by a passing school bus. I'm pretty sure I cried and they had to call my Mum. And, of course, when I wait for buses now, I stand as far back from the road as humanly possible while scrunching up my toes inside my shoes.
2. Train Safety, 1991: I think by this point we had moved on to VHS videos on televisions in our classroom, but sitting in silence at our desks with the lights turned off didn't help my fears. The train safety video featured more rebellious children of the 1970s who skulked and lurked on both abandoned and active railroad tracks with bowl-cut, burgundy corderoy bellbottomed abandon. One day they thought it would be fun to pull a lever on the tracks, which led a train to go onto an unused route where, as luck would have it, some other completely unrelated rebellious children were farting around in the box cars of an old train and having a great time playing on the tracks. One child managed to find himself stuck between the old train and the oncoming new train, so naturally as he tried to leap out of the way, the moving train tore off his limbs and we saw his rag-doll legs go flying before he was, of course, dead. Needless to say, standing on train platforms and going for walks on assuredly abandoned tracks doesn't exactly leave me feeling relaxed.
3. Drug Safety, V.I.P. Program, 1994: I was always a fairly innocent child, so the school's proactive insistence to teach us about drug safety in Grade 6 was really rather premature for me and instead of teaching me about the dangers of drug use, basically made me fear for my life. We had to endure a terrifying program for adolescents called "V.I.P." - I can't remember what it stood for, but they gave out t-shirts and made us watch After School Specials in school as well as fill out notebooks and perform plays about drugs, or something. In one particular video, a teenaged boy (who was from the 1980s, by this point, to stay current in the '90s) took some acid tabs and then, obviously, jumped off a balcony and died. Now, I am from the original Degrassi generation - we all knew what happened to Shane when he took acid and jumped off a bridge and was permanently retarded afterwards - warning enough. But this particular video filled me with so much dread, I almost threw up in the girls' bathroom. Plus, the Grade 7 boys thought it was great fun to rip up red construction paper and put it on their tongues to pretend they were doing acid so, evidently, this video was ineffective at its core.
I could go on, too - like the assembly where a man electrocuted a dill pickle to teach us a lesson, or when Smokey the Bear showed us the charred remains of forest fires, or when we had to watch those videos with animated rabbits that taught us how to avoid being abducted and subsequently molested. Of course in essence, children need to learn to be safe, but did we need to be inundated with fear?! I don't know how it's taught today, but I'm guessing it's worse than before. So, all I can say is, Stay Alert - Stay Safe (and good luck with your nightmares).
Monday, February 6, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
We Need to Talk About Zumba
Have you heard of the latest exercise dance "craze" Zumba? It has invaded ladies' workout schedules with a swift Latin flare. Now, those that know me know I am fairly hopeless when it comes to most sports, but I am a fairly decent dancer. Thus, the "Zumba Craze" has drawn me in and I do, I suppose, "join the party", as they say (I don't know why they say that... but that is the Zumba slogan). However, I'd like to share with you my Zumba experiences and you can judge for yourself if it is indeed a "party".
1. Zumba-ing in Penlan, Wales: Picture it - a school hall decorated with children's artwork and posters in Welsh on the walls. Chairs are shoved against the periphery of the room and crumbs and wrappers from the children's lunch litter the parquet floor. There is a stage with a broken, three-legged table in one corner and a tiny woman leading us in our cardio-dance workout with a skipping CD and barefeet. A firedoor is propped open at one end of the room, offering a glimpse of a schoolyard with grass growing through cracked pavement, a chainlink fence, and beyond that some grazing ponies belonging to gypsies below grey council flats rising behind. The room is filled with about 75 women, most of whom appear to have three left feet, or have lost the will to live, as they cannot bear to lift their arms with enough force to produce even a bead of sweat. They wear oversized t-shirts and take frequent water breaks and look suspiciously at those of us in the front row by the speakers as we Zumba until we're red in the face. Oh, and it's probably raining outside.
2. Zumba-ing in Toronto, Ontario: The scene - a dance studio on the 3rd floor of an old brick building with tall windows that look out on a city street. It smells of sweat and incense, due to the new age shop on the floor below that mostly sells pipes and bongs, which is next to a used book store. Below that, on the ground floor, there is a vintage clothing shop that sells things like fur stoles with the minks' heads and feet on them, Montreal Expos baseball hats, and high waisted, pleated pants for the discerning hipster. These items are displayed together on a mannequin in the window as a suggestion for a super-cool, super-unflattering outfit. In the studio, several women - some excellent dancers, some people who think they are excellent dancers - Zumba themselves into a frenzy of sweat dripping on the floor. The teacher wears a fascinating assortment of neon dancewear and her hair is loose and soaked from root to tip with sweat. She swings it as as she shouts out encouraging 'woos!". The dancers look like they'd like to lie down, or maybe engage in some sexy latin partner dancing (most are wearing sexy spandex yoga wear), but they are ultimately smug with their sweat.
3. Zumba-ing in the Southern Ontario suburbs: The setting - a gym in a strip-mall plaza. Nearly every car in the parking lot is some sort of S.U.V. and the people in the gym fall into the following categories - ginos/ginas, retired folks getting fit, and teenagers trying to bulk up/get sexy. Most of the men have the sleeves cut off of their t-shirts in order to better observe their growing biceps, and most of the women are wearing HUGE diamond rings and earrings with their workout gear. There are steam rooms and there is a cappucino/water bar. Inside the workout studio is a gaggle of older ladies (plus one older man) and a couple of younger women. One older lady says to the teacher, "I never break a sweat in your class, but I do in all the other ones." The teacher replies, "May I suggest you lift your feet more? And also, jump?" The woman frowns. Another woman says, "I don't jump! It makes me pee!" She is very smug about this fact and when the class commences, she indeed does not jump (thankfully).
I should also note that in all of these classes, I am wearing a t-shirt that I got for free at a club once that has the neck cut out and is emblazoned with, "Team Sambuca - I love Mondays", that invariably makes people frown at me. The music is also incredibly loud and causes ringing in the ears if you're too close to the speakers. Now, I don't want to be down on Zumba, per se - obviously, I enjoy it, or I wouldn't keep going to these classes. I just want to know though if it really is a "party" as they so emphatically suggest. I heard a radio show yesterday about how words are being misappropriated these days, usually for hyperbolic purposes - as in, not everything is "literally amazing" and people are not going to "die in a raging fire" if they can't wear the newest weird shoe trend. So, all I'm saying is, Zumba is many things - a form of exercise, a social experiment even - but it is not a party, okay? It's just not. But do tell me if you disagree.
1. Zumba-ing in Penlan, Wales: Picture it - a school hall decorated with children's artwork and posters in Welsh on the walls. Chairs are shoved against the periphery of the room and crumbs and wrappers from the children's lunch litter the parquet floor. There is a stage with a broken, three-legged table in one corner and a tiny woman leading us in our cardio-dance workout with a skipping CD and barefeet. A firedoor is propped open at one end of the room, offering a glimpse of a schoolyard with grass growing through cracked pavement, a chainlink fence, and beyond that some grazing ponies belonging to gypsies below grey council flats rising behind. The room is filled with about 75 women, most of whom appear to have three left feet, or have lost the will to live, as they cannot bear to lift their arms with enough force to produce even a bead of sweat. They wear oversized t-shirts and take frequent water breaks and look suspiciously at those of us in the front row by the speakers as we Zumba until we're red in the face. Oh, and it's probably raining outside.
2. Zumba-ing in Toronto, Ontario: The scene - a dance studio on the 3rd floor of an old brick building with tall windows that look out on a city street. It smells of sweat and incense, due to the new age shop on the floor below that mostly sells pipes and bongs, which is next to a used book store. Below that, on the ground floor, there is a vintage clothing shop that sells things like fur stoles with the minks' heads and feet on them, Montreal Expos baseball hats, and high waisted, pleated pants for the discerning hipster. These items are displayed together on a mannequin in the window as a suggestion for a super-cool, super-unflattering outfit. In the studio, several women - some excellent dancers, some people who think they are excellent dancers - Zumba themselves into a frenzy of sweat dripping on the floor. The teacher wears a fascinating assortment of neon dancewear and her hair is loose and soaked from root to tip with sweat. She swings it as as she shouts out encouraging 'woos!". The dancers look like they'd like to lie down, or maybe engage in some sexy latin partner dancing (most are wearing sexy spandex yoga wear), but they are ultimately smug with their sweat.
3. Zumba-ing in the Southern Ontario suburbs: The setting - a gym in a strip-mall plaza. Nearly every car in the parking lot is some sort of S.U.V. and the people in the gym fall into the following categories - ginos/ginas, retired folks getting fit, and teenagers trying to bulk up/get sexy. Most of the men have the sleeves cut off of their t-shirts in order to better observe their growing biceps, and most of the women are wearing HUGE diamond rings and earrings with their workout gear. There are steam rooms and there is a cappucino/water bar. Inside the workout studio is a gaggle of older ladies (plus one older man) and a couple of younger women. One older lady says to the teacher, "I never break a sweat in your class, but I do in all the other ones." The teacher replies, "May I suggest you lift your feet more? And also, jump?" The woman frowns. Another woman says, "I don't jump! It makes me pee!" She is very smug about this fact and when the class commences, she indeed does not jump (thankfully).
I should also note that in all of these classes, I am wearing a t-shirt that I got for free at a club once that has the neck cut out and is emblazoned with, "Team Sambuca - I love Mondays", that invariably makes people frown at me. The music is also incredibly loud and causes ringing in the ears if you're too close to the speakers. Now, I don't want to be down on Zumba, per se - obviously, I enjoy it, or I wouldn't keep going to these classes. I just want to know though if it really is a "party" as they so emphatically suggest. I heard a radio show yesterday about how words are being misappropriated these days, usually for hyperbolic purposes - as in, not everything is "literally amazing" and people are not going to "die in a raging fire" if they can't wear the newest weird shoe trend. So, all I'm saying is, Zumba is many things - a form of exercise, a social experiment even - but it is not a party, okay? It's just not. But do tell me if you disagree.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Productivity, Procrastination, and Pants
On this Saturday evening just past midnight, I am in a hyper productive mood. I finished editing a chapter of my book today, prepared a writing submission, read half a book, cooked a healthy dinner AND washed the dishes (which I often neglect), and had a stellar dance party in my room that is continuing even as I write this. I'm starting out this new year in a great way, you see, getting stuff done with no time to waste! As I was getting down to work this evening though, or more likely, 'getting down' to a funky beat, I had a rather shocking revelation.
I have a pair of track pants that I purchased shortly after starting university approximately 10 years ago. Any of my past and present housemates will likely recognize them as my "indoor pants", because I can often be seen wearing them on Saturdays about the house, cold evenings, and during horrendous hangovers. These pants have rarely ventured outdoors for two reasons: 1. I bought them extra large for maximum comfort, which also means that they are so long they can entirely cover my feet (which outdoors would result in being dragged in snow or dust), and 2. They have a very large crotch hole.
Now, I know you'd think they have acquired this rent in the fabric due to frequent wear over the last ten years, but here is a secret: They had a crotch hole when I bought them and I never bothered to take them back or mend the hole.
Another thing my friends will know is that I love mending things. I do it all the time for myself and others. In fact, do you have anything that needs mending? I bet I can fix it! And I have been meaning to mend the crotch hole in my "indoor pants" for 10 YEARS. Every single time I've worn them I have thought, I should fix that hole... later.
I've written extensively on here about my propensity to procrastinate. In the end though, with everything else, I always get it done - I have written a book and I am almost finished my 3rd university degree, after all! But I haven't mended my "indoor pants"!
So, what does this mean? Am I the best procrastinator of all time? Or is it just that I haven't noticed that ten years have passed? I'm guessing it's both. But also, I have a theory: perhaps by letting that one thing slide, by putting off this tiny task, I have tricked my brain into finishing everything else I've ever had to do because regardless I am still avoiding something.
As it is though, I think I'm going to leave the crotch hole alone. It's simply a part of my "indoor pants" and a good reminder of the passage of time and our own mortality.
And now, dance party! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuFJmf2DIfM Robyn - "Time Machine"
 |
| The "Indoor Pants" |
Now, I know you'd think they have acquired this rent in the fabric due to frequent wear over the last ten years, but here is a secret: They had a crotch hole when I bought them and I never bothered to take them back or mend the hole.
Another thing my friends will know is that I love mending things. I do it all the time for myself and others. In fact, do you have anything that needs mending? I bet I can fix it! And I have been meaning to mend the crotch hole in my "indoor pants" for 10 YEARS. Every single time I've worn them I have thought, I should fix that hole... later.
I've written extensively on here about my propensity to procrastinate. In the end though, with everything else, I always get it done - I have written a book and I am almost finished my 3rd university degree, after all! But I haven't mended my "indoor pants"!
So, what does this mean? Am I the best procrastinator of all time? Or is it just that I haven't noticed that ten years have passed? I'm guessing it's both. But also, I have a theory: perhaps by letting that one thing slide, by putting off this tiny task, I have tricked my brain into finishing everything else I've ever had to do because regardless I am still avoiding something.
As it is though, I think I'm going to leave the crotch hole alone. It's simply a part of my "indoor pants" and a good reminder of the passage of time and our own mortality.
And now, dance party! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuFJmf2DIfM Robyn - "Time Machine"
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Niagara Falls, A Voyageur's Perspective
About a month ago, some of my lovely Welsh friends came to Canada to see the sights, visit with me, and cheer on some roller derby and we made a little Swansea sojourn to one of my favourite places, Niagara Falls. We boarded our Greyhound bus with a group of Amish people, all of whom were wearing the traditional garb of shirts and suspenders and hats and beards and bonnets and long skirts, and I won't deny that many of them had that fresh-faced, country air look about them which I sort of envied, being a city dweller now and all. This especially benefitted "The Fit One", as my friend and I lustily referred to one with a particularly thick beard and sparkly eyes. This was our first cultural lesson of the day though, because we did not know that Amish people took coach buses...or went on tourist trips to The Falls...or drank Canada Dry ginger ale and listened to iPods. But apparently, they do! Strike one against our ignorant notions.
When we arrived at the Niagara Falls coach station, we discovered some unexpected things there too: It was apparently frozen in time back in 1982 and has no plans to thaw for the 21st century. We were particularly taken with the old Coke sign above the snack bar and the surly man behind the information desk. We were less taken with the toilet facilities.
Soon we hopped on a city bus to take us to The Falls themselves! This was the most horrific bus ride of our entire collective lives. I hate to kick a place when it is already, very obviously down, but the town of Niagara Falls is BLEAK. Our bus included no less than three bonafide crazy people, plus an amazing assortment of odours, both human and unidentified, as well as views of a crumbling town of 40-year-old Chinese buffets, tacky, run-down motels, and houses with peeling paint just barely holding them together. It was enough to break the heart, but also boggle the mind... surely a place with so many tourists would have more money than this? But I digress - when we hopped off the bus, to my delight we had reached Clifton Hill, the most wonderful, disgustingly tacky assortment of haunted houses, celebrity wax museums, and fast food outlets in the world. Of course, it being the beginning of December, this was a veritable ghost town with half of the establishments shut for the season, which made it all both more terrifying and more amazing to see.
When we finally reached the gorge, my dear pals were a bit in shock! Having visited Niagara Falls countless times, I sort of knew what to expect (although, I think in the past I've always arrived in a car via Niagara-on-the-Lake, so I was a little surprised myself...) however, my friends had apparently always pictured The Falls within some sort of remote forest that one had to hike through, only to be surprised by the majestic waterfall in all its natural glory - therefore, finding the wilderness we passed through was actually a devastatingly tacky display of wax figures and ads for casinos, I fear they felt a bit let down. Not unlike our tech savvy Amish friends, Niagara Falls did not prove to maintain the purity of our expectations.
Still though, The Falls never cease to amaze me, and we saw not one, but three rainbows! Plus, the sun came out just in time for us, even if it was bloody freezing. So, we marvelled at the sublime view, bought some tacky magnets, ate some crap at Wendy's and took the bus home!
And that is the story of Niagara Falls, children. THE END
When we arrived at the Niagara Falls coach station, we discovered some unexpected things there too: It was apparently frozen in time back in 1982 and has no plans to thaw for the 21st century. We were particularly taken with the old Coke sign above the snack bar and the surly man behind the information desk. We were less taken with the toilet facilities.Soon we hopped on a city bus to take us to The Falls themselves! This was the most horrific bus ride of our entire collective lives. I hate to kick a place when it is already, very obviously down, but the town of Niagara Falls is BLEAK. Our bus included no less than three bonafide crazy people, plus an amazing assortment of odours, both human and unidentified, as well as views of a crumbling town of 40-year-old Chinese buffets, tacky, run-down motels, and houses with peeling paint just barely holding them together. It was enough to break the heart, but also boggle the mind... surely a place with so many tourists would have more money than this? But I digress - when we hopped off the bus, to my delight we had reached Clifton Hill, the most wonderful, disgustingly tacky assortment of haunted houses, celebrity wax museums, and fast food outlets in the world. Of course, it being the beginning of December, this was a veritable ghost town with half of the establishments shut for the season, which made it all both more terrifying and more amazing to see.
When we finally reached the gorge, my dear pals were a bit in shock! Having visited Niagara Falls countless times, I sort of knew what to expect (although, I think in the past I've always arrived in a car via Niagara-on-the-Lake, so I was a little surprised myself...) however, my friends had apparently always pictured The Falls within some sort of remote forest that one had to hike through, only to be surprised by the majestic waterfall in all its natural glory - therefore, finding the wilderness we passed through was actually a devastatingly tacky display of wax figures and ads for casinos, I fear they felt a bit let down. Not unlike our tech savvy Amish friends, Niagara Falls did not prove to maintain the purity of our expectations.
Still though, The Falls never cease to amaze me, and we saw not one, but three rainbows! Plus, the sun came out just in time for us, even if it was bloody freezing. So, we marvelled at the sublime view, bought some tacky magnets, ate some crap at Wendy's and took the bus home!
And that is the story of Niagara Falls, children. THE END
The Sun Also Shines
If we are to trust the last blog I wrote in June, it would appear that the sun has not shone for over 6 months since I vowed to write again when the sun came out. I could turn this into some sort of bleak metaphor about life itself, but the truth is there has been loads of sunshine all this time that I have enjoyed immensely and that's probably why I haven't even noticed how much time has passed since my last entry! [possible run-on sentence, Bunny - please revise...]
I've been busy doing all sorts of things like learning the art of burlesque, going on a whirlwind trip to Spain, moving from my beloved Wales to my beloved Canada, and most importantly, finishing the first draft of my novel! I'm currently in the editing stage, which means 3 things: 1. I am almost finished Draft #2! 2. I have discovered new and wonderful and horrendous modes of procrastination, and 3. I find myself editing all things at all times in my head (see above).
I've been going over my old posts today and discovered a trend - after periods of blog-inactivity, I tend to write mildly guilty posts about how I haven't written for a while and I'm not sure if I will anymore and then I go on and write about ten feverish posts about soap operas and Archie comics. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I've decided to start 2012 differently and say, without guilt, that I have not written in a while, but I will write more here in the future, especially as my book nears completion and I start having separation anxiety about my baby going off to university (literally... I have to submit it soon, PhD style).
Another trend I noticed as I perused the ol' blog here is that still, after all this time, the people that frequent my blog most often are those searching for Swansea Brothels, so I guess it's nice to know that some things never change.
I've been busy doing all sorts of things like learning the art of burlesque, going on a whirlwind trip to Spain, moving from my beloved Wales to my beloved Canada, and most importantly, finishing the first draft of my novel! I'm currently in the editing stage, which means 3 things: 1. I am almost finished Draft #2! 2. I have discovered new and wonderful and horrendous modes of procrastination, and 3. I find myself editing all things at all times in my head (see above).
I've been going over my old posts today and discovered a trend - after periods of blog-inactivity, I tend to write mildly guilty posts about how I haven't written for a while and I'm not sure if I will anymore and then I go on and write about ten feverish posts about soap operas and Archie comics. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I've decided to start 2012 differently and say, without guilt, that I have not written in a while, but I will write more here in the future, especially as my book nears completion and I start having separation anxiety about my baby going off to university (literally... I have to submit it soon, PhD style).
Another trend I noticed as I perused the ol' blog here is that still, after all this time, the people that frequent my blog most often are those searching for Swansea Brothels, so I guess it's nice to know that some things never change.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
It's June and I can see my breath, amongst other complaints.
I'm sitting in my bed right now wearing a curmudgeonly scowl and a really cute blue dress. I am not unhappy, because there are several nice things in my periphery at the moment: the chocolate, cream-filled choux bun I ate for breakfast; the cup of tea I plan on making soon; the fact that I washed my hair yesterday and so didn't have to bathe today - all of these things bring me joy. And yet, it is June and I can't quite reconcile the view outside my window with the June of my imagination. Here is June in my mind: it's so bright and sunny you must constantly squint with joy, while waves of heat shimmer off the pavement and ice cream must be eaten everyday, and the cute dresses I wear are actually summer dresses (and not a cool-weather dress re-adapted for un-summery summer weather) that have diaphanous effects, and everything is coloured pink and yellow and green and blue and I am tanned, Lord love me! And yet, currently, it is cold and grey and threatening more of yesterday's torrential rain, while builders are hacking the facade off the house with hand-held jackhammers that fill my environment with dust and noise pollution - all of which I was not adequately informed of prior to commencement. Also, I'm hungry, and I do not have a personal chef at hand, nor do I want to cook in my dust-filled kitchen. Waaah! Grumpy Bunny. It's just occurred to me that readers most likely do not want to hear my grumpy gripes, so I apologise if you find this post tedious and I promise to write a joyful one just as soon as the sun comes out. Deal? Deal.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Re-Design
You may have noticed that my bloggy is purple now (among other small changes). I've leapt into the new decade with hip style and pastel colours! How about that. I might have just been farting around on the computer in between games of Snood and avoiding the stack of essays I have to mark, but look at what spoils this has achieved!
The term re-design makes me think of one thing, and one thing only: Remember in the film 13 Going On 30 when Jenna Rink is working at Poise magazine and her unknown other self was selling out JLo covers to the competition ladymag and then they were told that Poise needed a "Re-design" and everyone FREAKED OUT because in the magazine world "Re-design" is synonymous with "Death Sentence"? I know, scary, eh? So, as I was re-designing my own blog today, I thought, is this a death sentence for my online ramblings? I had some momentary fear until I remembered that like Jenna Rink, I too am a plucky gal with a lush brown ponytail and idealistic enthusiasm! So, just as she came up with the clever yearbook theme, played with balloons, ate an ice cream in an adorable dress, and got to kiss Mark Ruffalo by the swing-set at the park, I expect to be similarly victorious. And if not, I can always go back to 1996 and relive my entire adolescence (now that sounds more like a death sentence...). So, if you don't see me for a while, I'm probably sitting on the floor of my room in flannel pants and a Cow's Ice Cream t-shirt, alternating between my Oasis and Spice Girls tapes, and painting my nails with blue glitter polish while really wishing I'd just grow some boobs already.
And now, Thriller! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWIicd4iOV0
And now, Thriller! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWIicd4iOV0
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Dirty Bird
1. The grease is churning in my belly in a vaguely threatening manner.
2. £3.86 is rather pricey for the portion size, but given that it was once the leg of a living thing, maybe our perception of cost of food is sadly skewed.
3. In an admirable effort to reduce packaging, they no longer serve the chicken in a box, but rather just toss it in a bag with the fries, which I found strangely disconcerting.
4. I couldn't help but think of the poor chickens who are destined to become Kentucky Fried, versus their Free Range Organic brethren, which made the enjoyment of my greasy lunch somewhat less satisfying.
So, why did I eat it in the first place, you might ask? Well, they recently opened a KFC in my neighbourhood, which I was generally opposed to, but considering I expressed that opposition with an annoyed shrug, they went ahead and opened it anyways about 6 weeks ago. Ever since this happened, I have seen Kentucky Fried Rubbish on the sidewalks and in peoples' gardens; cups with straws in them sitting on stone walls, and half-crushed buckets tossed against curbs. On principle, I avoided the place until today, since they have polluted my viscinity these past weeks. But also, ever since it opened, the place has been hopping. I've read Facebook Status updates detailing peoples' excitement over this food. I've seen people walking down the street and tucking into drumsticks with the relish of King Henry VIII at a royal feast. And when I woke up around noon, hungry and tired from working last night, I thought, 'I could really go for some fried chicken', and so I did. In a way, I wanted to see if perhaps my memory was incorrect, and it was in fact a delicacy I've been shunning all these years. I loved it as a child, so surely there must be some joy in it still. And the first bite of my drumstick was nostalgically satisfying, until it quickly ebbed away into a gross-ness that I can't quite shake.
When my brother was in university, he and his friends used to have "Dirty Bird" contests, that involved racing to eat an entire bucket of chicken, with the winner wearing their bucket as a hat. The name they gave it seems to convey the after-effect of eating this greasy concoction of 11 herbs and spices. And similarly, when I was in university, my friends and I had an over-sized novelty plastic cup from KFC with a picture of Colonel Sanders on it that we used to put rum and Coke in and drink on the way to bars, then hide it somewhere outside (like next to a dumpster), and pick it up on the way home to use for next time. And again, that too is wrapped up with a heavy measure of gross shame.
Do you think the Colonel intended for his chicken recipe to have this prolonged side effect on people? Other fast foods might produce a similar feeling, but I do think that with KFC it's unique. I don't plan on repeating this experience anytime soon, and yet, you can bet that I (and probably you), will falter and forget again, and repeat the process of craving-eating-churning-gross-shame in a few years time, and on and on for eternity, or until the Dirty Bird finally dies in Vegetarian recession of the future.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
How Many Boxes?
Today I was thinking about how many boxes I would need to send all of the books I have accumulated in Wales over the last 3-ish years to Canada. Guess how many? I have ascertained (ha! Remember that Kids in the Hall sketch? "I ascertain...", anyways...) that I would need approximately six serious (yes, serious) boxes to transport only my books across the sea. I have also noted that I pretty much only own books and clothes, though probably more books. How has this happened? Books stick to me like lint! And I can only imagine how many more I will acquire over the next year and, let's face it, my lifetime. I could build a mausoleum out of books for when I die. That's a bit morose, but perhaps some would find it poetic. And yet, even though it sounds like I'm complaining, I actually relish my book-hoarding. I don't care how many people tell me the "future" (whatever that is) is in e-books. I love the feel of the paper on my fingertips, the weight in my hands, the somtimes musty smell of the spine and the inscriptions left in used books by lovers and ingrates long ago. By digitizing our lives, are we losing our history? I fear this most days, so I am very good about printing out old emails and keeping them like letters, and developing pictures, and being fairly certain that few people read this blog (ha). The other day someone said to me that "depression lives in the past, while anxiety lives in the future". I'd say I probably suffer from a good bout of each (cases in point - fearing a move that is a year away, and fearing that the future is ruining the past). So what does it all mean? What does anything mean? If I think about these questions too much, I inevitably feel like I'm losing my mind, so instead I shall turn to the warm comfort of a fictional world - and press on with Far From the Madding Crowd, where things are getting rather sexy, Mr. Hardy - or at least, so I hope.
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