The Tale of Miss Bunny Jones

We Need to Talk About Zumba

2012-02-02T11:11:00.001-05:00

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.

Wednesday Morning Haiku

2012-01-18T10:58:00.002-05:00

white frost on the pane

pink hyacinth on the sill

springtime in winter

Productivity, Procrastination, and Pants

2012-01-08T00:35:00.002-05:00

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.

The "Indoor Pants"

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"

Niagara Falls, A Voyageur's Perspective

2012-01-05T10:27:00.002-05:00

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

The Sun Also Shines

2012-01-05T09:44:00.001-05:00

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.

It's June and I can see my breath, amongst other complaints.

2011-06-21T05:37:00.001-04:00

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.

Re-Design

2011-05-31T14:19:00.001-04:00

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

Dirty Bird

2011-05-21T12:01:00.002-04:00

I just ate "a KFC" as they say in Wales, or in Canadian, I had 'Kentucky Fried' for the first time in several years, and now I feel gross. This isn't some sort of ridiculous "I feel guilty for eating something fattening, gasp! Female shame!" thing. I feel gross for the following reasons:

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.

How Many Boxes?

2011-03-06T11:51:00.001-05:00

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.

OMG I CAN'T STOP KNITTING

2011-01-20T10:02:00.001-05:00

Note the essays and peanuts.

Is knitting too much a problem, do you think? Because I have been doing an awful lot of it. The thing is, I have known how to knit for about five years. I could do one stitch - the knit stitch - and I could cast on and off, and that was enough for me. I'd make a couple of scarves every winter and I actually felt no desire what-so-ever to improve my knitting skills. I'd never been so content with such a limited amount of knowledge or skill-level in one of my hobbies. And then, last week, I had a dream that I could knit anything! I made blankets in intricate cable-patterns, I made quilts and was known throughout the land as a master knitter. "She's a beautiful knitter," people said to each other with knowing nods. And so, when I woke up I thought, I must learn more! I read reviews of knitting books online and went to town and bought the best one. I went to Knitter's and Sewer's World and bought cable needles, new yarn, new sizes of needles. I stared at every person I passed wearing a knit sweater; I felt up various cableknits in stores, examining the backs, the seams, the patterns. And then, I learned three new stitches in one week AND I taught myself to cable-knit. I had three projects on the go at once. I made knitted flowers, squares, scarves, pom-poms, and my masterpiece - a sock for my mp3 player (oh, how cringingly hipster of me).

Some friends said this is amazing - I am so domestic, so clever! But I feared the real truth: I am the best procrastinator of all time. I should have been writing, marking, and reading. But knitting seemed like such a wholesome activity - surely there couldn't be anything wrong with it?

Anyways, I have calmed down and I have now gotten some actual work done and truthfully, as soon as the weather warms up, I'll probably get tired and put away my needles until the Fall. But one friend who has been knitting-not-writing as well said a lovely thing: We do it because we want to see something intricate and beautiful that we have created - and that is actually finished.

Bonne Année 2011!!!

2011-01-02T10:44:00.001-05:00

It's 2011 and I'm feelin' fine. How about you? Are you well? I had a fab New Year's Eve followed by a super New Year's Day when I barely had a hangover. Unreal!
In honour of this new year, I think a bout of fresh start fortune telling is in order. As I write this, I am conjuring a tarot reading to usher in the year ahead. Let's see what it says!

The important element of the past right now is Strength - I have overcome hardship and now stand on a strong, firm foundation. I am in possession of victorious forbearance! Hells, yeah!

The core issue here is Change! The chariot heralds rapid change and events already set into motion. Ooh, feel that forward momentum!

And finally, heading on into the future is the Ace of Pentacles - the happiest card in the deck! The seed of positive new beginnings has already been planted and advancement approaches on all fronts. Hurrah! I am a flurry of joy in this new year! And am I ever grateful for it. I hope this heralds good things for one and all!

Wrong Number

2010-12-05T15:36:00.001-05:00

Something fascinating is unfolding. It all began back in February time when I kept getting phonecalls for a chap named Michael. It seemed that Michael had gotten a new phone and had inadvertently given out the wrong number (my number!) to everyone he knows. This is a pretty honest mistake - and the first couple of times I was understanding. However, it started to get a bit, well, weird. You see, the callers did not have the usual sort of reaction to calling a wrong number. There was no embarrassment or apology, but rather some quite serious incredulity. "You don't know where Michael is?" one man said. "No," I replied, "I don't know Michael." This did not go down well. When I informed another caller that I had had the phone number for nearly two years, I could tell that I was seriously boggling this dude's mind. How was it possible, when this was Michael's number?! One person actually invited me out to the pub, but was very disappointed to learn that I was not in Birmingham, or wherever it was, and my being in Wales made the whole thing even more baffling. It even got so far as the person asking me where I was from because of my accent, and what I was doing in the U.K., at which point I obviously made my excuses and hung up. I had a message one day informing Michael that he had landed a job interview - no small feat in these perilous times - but he had to call back to confirm. Shame for Michael, I had thought at the time, and wondered briefly a week or so later if he ever made the interview or got the job. Then, these phonecalls stopped. There probably weren't more than ten in total and all in about a month's time. That is, until tonight! As usual, I didn't hear the phone ring until it was too late, and I was surprised to see an unknown number plus voicemail being announced by the little flashing green light on my tiny, beat-up pink flip phone. Curious, I listened to the message, and here is a rough paraphrase: "My name is Bernard, obviously Mike, you won't answer this, but before your arrest, I came by, Michael, to see about a book. So, if you can give us ring back..."
So, I guess Michael didn't get the job and turned to crime? And also, he deals in rare books which is now hampered by his presumed imprisonment, since he obviously doesn't have his phone. Anyways, if I get more of these phonecalls, I will keep you updated as to where Michael goes next!

Bounty: Colonialist Chocolate Bar?

2010-11-25T09:55:00.001-05:00

On my way home this afternoon, I fancied something sweet and popped into the shop to purchase a chocolate bar. After some speculation, I eventually settled on a dark chocolate Bounty - I was in the mood for something tropicale.
As I was tearing it open, I noticed a peculiar bit of text on the wrapper: "Zartherb - Dark - Puur", it said. That's weird, I thought, is this an import? Is it Dutch, like my father? This brought to mind certain former Dutch colonies in the Caribbean. That must be where they got their chocolate reputation from, thought I, not to mention wide access to sugar cane and the coconut itself.
As I chewed my sweetened, dessicated coconut coated in chocolate, I pondered further. "Bounty" is a rather funny name for a chocolate bar, isn't it? It doesn't have the whimsicality of, say, the Curlywurly, or the straight forward explanatory nature of the Coffee Crisp. But it does call to mind things like, The Mutiny on the Bounty, or perhaps a pirate's bounty of olden times. Then there are the pictures on the wrapping of palm fronds and a beach, with coconuts cracked open revealing shiny white flesh under the haze of a desert island sunset. There are even tiny palm tree imprints in the bottom of the chocolate bar itself, as if they are imposing their will upon the consumer.
I suddenly felt disheartened - it's like when I loved Jane Eyre and then read Wide Sargasso Sea and everything was sullied. I have just eaten the Heart of Darkness of confections! They're so subtle sometimes, those Colonialists, trying to make it all seem normal and natural, as if I am supposed to be eating this chocolate and coconut concoction with no thought to the sacrfices made to produce this so-called "bounty".
This doesn't mean I won't partake of a Bounty bar again - they're kind of nice from time to time (though I know a lot of people dislike them - as one should dislike Colonialism). But it does show the dangers that lie with close-reading your chocolate bars: they may never taste the same again.

Soap Operas: Hell on Earth.

2010-11-17T18:35:00.002-05:00

If you were to ask me if I am a lover of Soap Operas, I would probably scoff and deny it. In essence, I believe this is true - or, at least, I still agree with my mother that they are made for morons. However, certain facts of my viewership history might say otherwise: There was that one summer when I was about 10 or 11, when I got really into Days of our Lives and acted out scenes from it using my Barbies. Then there was my shameful of enjoyment of the short-lived Canadian evening soap, Riverdale, which my mother happened to enjoy with me. I also cannot deny those months in high school when my friends and I *ironically* (read: actually really relished) watched the now-defunct Passions.
But many years passed before I was sucked into another one of these veritable soaps. What changed, you might ask? I moved to Wales, acquired a television set, and realised that the British/Aussie model of soaps are kind of amazing. My flatmate who owned the telly, is a pretty regular watcher of Neighbours, Hollyoaks, AND EastEnders. During the gap of time between the former two, she was wont to cook her dinner in our tiny kitchen. Diplomatic as we were, I would often wait until she was done to cook my own food, passing the time in between with Home and Away, of which I have written on here somewhat extensively. Home and Away was my gateway-soap, if you will, though I abandoned it about a year ago when Geoff refused to bone Nicole because he'd rather go to the seminary, and Belle died of mysterious cancer two days after her tragic wedding day to Aidan. Sheesh.

Anyways, something about these shows has been weighing on my mind for quite some time, which no one else seems to have noticed: the places where these soaps are set, are literally Hell on Earth. Or, at least a form of purgatory filled with attractive people (well, maybe not EastEnders... sorry guys). The names of these places are somewhat unassuming, whimsical even: Ramsay Street; Hollyoaks; Summer Bay; Emmerdale; Albert Square in the Borough of Walford; Coronation Street; even flippin' Pobol-y-Cwm - they all sound so innocent and idyllic. And yet, were you to move to any of these places, your life would literally go right down the shitter and become HORRIBLE. Never committed adultery? You have now. Not been a victim of fraud/a murder plot/amnesia/mistaken identity/unsure-who-the-father-of-your-unborn-child-is? Just wait. Give it six months and you will have had all of the above.
And yet - the people who live in these places love it there. They never want to leave. It's the only home they can ever imagine. No matter what happens, they still believe that life there is good. They are in some sort of hellish vortex where they don't really notice how awful everyone and everything in their life is until it causes them to fall into a downward spiral of mental illness, resulting in something truly explosive happening, or a few untimely ends. Or maybe, they just drive away in a taxi crying, still completely unawares that they have just escaped from HELL.

Obviously, this model makes for popular viewing, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it too. But, from time to time, I give up on these shows for months, feeling overwhelmed by it all. Their lives are too hard - and rather than making me feel better about my own life, I simply become agitated. I mean, how many times can you hang up on a phonecall or walk away from someone *right before* they're about to give you the explanation that will clear all of this up? Why must you always make the most possible *worst choice* in every situation? Why can't you just resist the taboo incestuous urges - since no one ever leaves the street, or the square, or the village - Population: 20 sexed up and misguided people - and find the one person you are not related to to feel up?
Obviously, no one will give me answers to these questions. My only remedy for what ails me is to have Soap-Vacations until the agitation has gotten out of my system. Besides, taking 6 months off - I never miss anything anyways.

100 Posts! At it like Rabbits!

2010-11-15T11:01:00.001-05:00

So it would seem that this is my 100th post! This is an unexpected accomplishment on this Monday afternoon, I must say. Even if this is over a 3 year (2 and a half? I've lost track of time!) span, I think it deserves mentioning, like I just did two sentences ago. I'm sure there are more prolific bloggers, but I don't really consider myself a "blogger" as such, do you? It's more like, Bunny figured out how to use the internet machine to write some silly thoughts for your enjoyment. (Or, more likely, her enjoyment). Anyways, I discovered an interesting fact about my readership recently that I have somewhat mixed feelings about. It would seem that apart from the usual avenues of accessing my blog, like F-book or Google, two of the top sources of traffic come from the following internet searches: "Captain Highliner" (yes, of fishstick fame) and "Bunnies Health Club Swansea" (that is, one of Swansea's illustrious brothels).

There are two posts in my catalogue that mention both of these things, so I suppose that's fair enough. However, it would seem that many people are coming here not to read my witty and humorous observations on life (pardon my ego, sil vous plait), but rather to find information on a brand of frozen fish and, presumably, anything one would want to know about a certain Swansea brothel: opening times? location? prices? and, erm, "Menu"?

Obviously this changes nothing of my work here, and I have no idea where or who these people are - So, if those folks want to go a-whoring eating fishsticks and readin' my stuff, more power to them! Audience is audience, right?

SeX-Factor!

2010-11-13T18:36:00.001-05:00

Saturdays, at 8pm, and all night long.

In the last month, I have seen three different tabloids with the headline, "Sex-Factor!" in reference to escapades of the X-Factor contestants. I was going to comment on their lack of originality, but I believe one of them was actually "SeXy-Factor!", so perhaps my argument lacks, erm, weight, or something. Anyways, I've been trying to pinpoint why these headlines irk me so. It could be the aforementioned laziness/unoriginality, or perhaps the fact that the articles themselves are most likely based entirely on speculation. But I think I've pinned it down - they make me want to read the article to find out who in the X-Factor house (and it's always Matt Cardle) is having the Sex-Factor! I feel manipulated and cheapened by my own curiosity. One such article suggested Matt and Fakey-Katie were doin' it, and I was no less than incensed. He can do better!, I railed. Of course, I don't actually know these people. I just judge them each weekend from the comfort of my bed, watching the late night ITV catch-up on my laptop while wearing my comfy socks. But, it all irks me all the same. Why am I always so drawn in by mediocrity on television? I am the first to admit that I have bad taste in telly (by the way, have you been watching EastEnders, lately? It's absurd! And amazing!), but that's not the point. The point is - if there's going to be a Sex-Factor, have proof, let it improve their singing, and be done with the teasing. I can't handle the curiosity! The stupidity of it is melting my brain! Thank You, and Good Night.

Spoon Signs

2010-11-13T07:17:00.002-05:00

What do you make of signs? Do you think they're sign posts from the universe, telling you what you ought to do with your life? Or, do we see them because maybe that's what we want to see, and we want something to confirm our feelings?

A Case Study of Signs for the 2nd Week of November:

1. Reading in Swansea where Bunny meets some kind Canadians - she has not met any of her kind in Swansea in over two years. One of the kind Canadians steals an aesthetically pleasing spoon for Bunny as a gift.

2. Passing a travel agent's window in Mumbles, there is a mysterious journey advertised to "Borealis", the name of Bunny's hometown. No other details are mentioned, apart from that this is where one ought to go.

3. On the #2 Newton Bus from Oystermouth to the City Centre, a Welshman boards the bus wearing a sweatshirt that reads: CANADA ADVENTURE.

So, what do you think? Signs I ought to go back to my homeland, or coincidences of the highest order?

Time will tell, friends, time will tell.

A Tale of Neglect

2010-11-10T17:00:00.001-05:00

Alright, excuse (no excuse) time: I haven't posted in over three months. BUT there is good reason! I have been a very busy bunny, teaching and working and writing galore! (not to mention a bon vivant trip to Canada for a month somewhere in between). My novel is finally taking shape and I find myself aching to be at home writing when I am doing something less than titilating, like shopping for socks or making small talk with strangers. So, here's what you've missed:

I was shortlisted for the 2010 Impress Prize for New Writers!
http://www.impress-books.co.uk/prize.html
Unfortunately (for them, ha!) I didn't win, but fortunately for me, that means I have much more time to finish my novel, so I am a happy bunny anyways. As they say, it's an honour just to be nominated... blah blah, haha.

As well, last night I was part of a great event to close out this year's Dylan Thomas Festival in Swansea. I and three other local poets gave some great readings, followed by a fantastic musical show by Adrian Glynn and Ben Rogers, of the Canadian band, The Fugitives. Not only was it a treat for me to be among my countrymen, it was a tops night overall. So those of you who chose to go to the postponed fireworks on Swansea Bay, you missed out on some oral fireworks! (written down that sounds lame-o, but all of those performing agreed upon it being an awesome description last night...).

So this is Summer, and what have we done?

2010-07-30T13:37:00.001-04:00

Oh, Swansea, when will you stop teasing me? We were on a roll with the real live summertime weather, up until about a week ago, when you had clouds descend upon us, and I don't just mean in the sky. I mean that for the last week, or so, I have literally been walking through a cloud. My umbrella is ineffective in this misty embrace. Townhill has literally disappeared from view. I can only imagine that the people living up there have stayed in their houses, looking through the windows at a white and hazy world, wondering where July and the sun went. Perhaps, they are wondering, this is the apocalypse - this is how we're going to go; swallowed up in a slow-moving, seemingly inocuous, moist mass. My God, that sounds disgusting.

Imagine more mist.

You Know There's a Recession When One of Swansea's Brothels Closes Down...

2010-07-04T18:30:00.004-04:00

Or, so I thought. You see, one of Swansea's three brothels appeared to be closing up shop and I wondered what the world was coming to when the world's oldest profession couldn't even weather this economy. The shutter was down on the door of the "Passion Place"; the tattered curtains removed from the windows with their peculiar stains. This particular brothel is right in the middle of town, near Swansea Mosque, and its door is in the centre of an Italian restaurant. I thought perhaps its lack of discretion was the problem. Then a few weeks passed and I realized that no, they had not closed down, they had expanded AND renovated! The other, more well known "Bunnies Health Club" of Mount Pleasant had taken over the space to create a second venue for "dinner lady handjobs", as I've heard them described, and added a lick of paint and shiny new sign to boot.
So what does this all mean? That amidst the sad, boarded up shop fronts of failed Mom&Pop businesses and the pigeons shitting on the once bustling Woolworths where South Wales' street preachers offer salvation from poverty, prostitution is booming? Apparently so. Is this significant? Or just a sign of the human condition?
I have read that since the recession began, chocolate sales have risen at a fast rate. People are treating themselves to sweeties instead of more expensive things like holidays and fancy dinners. But if chocolate produces similar chemicals in the body as sex does, perhaps it's not about money afterall, but rather that people want a bit of extra good feeling comfort when faced with a bleak economy. So, as they say, people pick their poison. Me, I'll stick to eating spoonfuls of Nutella at my desk and leave the whoring to the folks with more expendable cash and loose morals.
And be rest assured Swansea's brothels are going strong!

Quelle Suprise, Sneaky Ete!

2010-06-07T18:38:00.001-04:00

Summer has crept up on me this year. Obviously the earth is just going about its usual business and Fall, Winter, and Spring happened at the correct times and with roughly the weather that one would expect (except for a few Crazy Days! due to Climate Change, etc.). But for me, the advent of summer has been a bit of a shock and I didn't quite believe it had happened until I bought sandals today and noticed some bizarre, (but not unflattering!), tan lines on myself this morning.
Have you ever had a year when everything you expected to happen didn't, and all the things you never expected to happen did? So has been my life over the last 12-ish months. I generally count my years as beginning in summer, due to my Bunny birthday and the lead-up to the school year, so the fact that I've nearly come full circle already has come as a shock.
For me, winter began approximately just as summer was beginning to wane last year. And it was a long winter. Have you ever read The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder? They had a pretty tough time of it, living in their wagon with no heat, and Pa couldn't get no work, and the snow just REFUSED to melt. That was what my long winter was like, metaphorically speaking (or if you replace 'snow' with relentless Swansea rain).
Anyways, when I was still using my electric blanket in May, I had pretty much begun to believe that this winter would never end. Despite some genuinely balmy weather, I simply could not feel warm. I was surprised and bewildered by summer clothes in the shops, because I thought they had made a mistake. The other day I had some music playing a random selection on my computer, and some Christmas carols came on and I didn't turn them off, because somehow they seemed a propos. (Plus, Mariah Carey's "All I want for Christmas is You" is a really good song).
So now Summer is upon us, and my birthday nears and I can't believe a year has passed. Truthfully, I need it to be a new year, and I sense and hope for some sort of catharsis with it's full arrival in a few weeks' time. But when the long winter ends, what's next? As Garth said in Wayne's World, "We fear change." Wise words, Mr. Algar, but a fruitless fear, because change is constantly surrounding us.
So tomorrow, as long as it's not pouring rain again, I will wear my new sandals and face the oncoming year with the eyes and strength of a buffalo, plus a pretty decent tan for early June.

The Antagonist

2010-05-21T11:45:00.001-04:00

Hello Chickens!

I thought I'd let you know that your very own Bunny is a magazine covergirl this month on The Antagonist!

You can download a FREE copy here: http://filebeam.com/203877f924f1512b5af474bee780eff5

And the password is "emilyv" (Not bunnyj, as Emily is my alter-ego).

It's a really cool zine produced in Cardiff that has excellent articles on everything under the sun, plus interviews and reviews of gigs from some top notch artists!

Now check it out and look at all the pictures of me!!!!!! (Oh, and there is a Q&A with me too).

Paprikash Tears

2010-05-12T13:17:00.001-04:00

I'm making Chicken Paprikash and it's making me cry. It started with the onions, which is really to be expected and purely based on some sort of scientific property, or so they say. (Why, though, do they only make me cry occasionally? I think it's dependent on something more elusive). Then, when I added the paprika, I had a waft of spice and familiarity combined with the pleasantly sweating onions and again, my eyes watered - but this time, I felt a peculiar choke in my throat. Ignoring it, I added the green peppers, tomatoes, and chicken legs, and everything went smoothly as I happily poked and stirred with my wooden spoon; satisfied to see some splatter hit my red and white polka dot apron. But now that it's really getting going, simmering and steaming, and the smell is filling my tiny flat, I am struck by a deep sense of nostalgia and longing and I recognise this aroma as many things: the smell of my mother's kitchen on cold winter evenings after school; a vision of my grandmother's wrist flicking nokedli dumplings into boiling water with the skill of a deft surgeon; the first house I lived in when I went away to university and the first real, grown-up meal I'd cooked. I had wanted some comfort food, but instead it's making me desperately homesick. But it's worse than homesickness - it's missing something that no longer exists; that can't be returned to. I mean that as both a sad acceptance of the passage of time, and also literally: my mother is a vegetarian now, and Grandma has arthritis. But seriously, this Paprikash Csirke is making me cry and it's time to add the sour cream. I don't know how I'll handle the last step, but I do know that I can't wait to eat it.

Special Things About My Flat

2010-04-19T18:58:00.002-04:00

OMG - I haven't written a bloggy in ages, eh?!
Apologies, if you've felt deprived. There are a few reasons for my absence, however: 1. Laziness (obv.), 2. Busy-ness (not to be confused with business... though now I am confused as to whether there are two meanings of the word with the same spelling? Though, you know, not like 'Working Girl', starring Melanie Griffiths, kind of business). 3. I moved!

So, yes, I have moved house. I've been telling people that I moved because of Virginia Woolf - a Room of One's Own, and all that. It was all about needing a place of my own in which to write. Plus, it was time for a change and February seemed as good a time as any for a fresh start.

As for my new abode: It is all mine! I have decorated it in full Bunny style and just looking around the room (for it is, pretty much, one room) makes me smile with indulgent pleasure. I have been cooking and reading and relishing things more. Plus, I don't have a television, so I am thus liberated. Of course, now that I have the internet, I just watch t.v. on the computer all the time... but I am saved from watching the truly terrible television that sucks you in and makes you feel disgusted with yourself after wasting two hours of your life. These are special things about living on my own in my very own place.

Anyways, the weekend in mid-winter when I moved in was unseasonably warm. Inside the flat I thought, I bet I won't even need heat in here! Then the weekend ended and the thermometer dropped. Then I realised there were no radiators, but instead a lone, 35-year-old gas fire with an ignition I have now learned must be coaxed with very precise timing (12 seconds to let the gas out + another 14 seconds after the pilot light is lit before turning the dial while leaning to the left and pushing down with intense pressure *just so*) and positive thoughts (it does not respond well to frustrated cursing or kicking) before it will co-operate. The first couple of weeks here, I didn't get much writing done because I had to wear mittens indoors, tucked beneath a wool blanket. I tried heating the place up with cooking, but soon found myself sticking my own rump into the oven in a vain effort to lose the chill that had sunken into my bones (and backside). It got so bad that I would stand near the hand driers in public toilets a few times a day just to feel a bit of heat on my icy skin. Once I learned how to seduce the gas fire, and I was lent two electric space heaters, I thought the cold had been conquered. But after having a guest to stay, I discovered that my body has acclimatized itself and I now feel over-heated when my skin does not have goosebumps. So, my battle with the frigid indoor climate is something special about my new flat.

Another special thing are the friends I have made since moving in. Special visitors who appear in the night to say hello. Waking in the wee morning hours, I stumbled to the bathroom and plopped myself on the toilette for a pee, when I looked down and realised something was looking back at me. It moved it's little green tentacles on its head and we stared at each other and I said, half-asleep, "Who are you?"
I decided it's answer was, "Your Friend", but I was unconvinced with its assertion. We continued to stare at each other until I finished my business and then I opened the window and flung the little slug back to where it came from. The one I met the next night on the kitchen mat wasn't so lucky - he ended up on the bottom of my sock. Another friend I have made visited me in bed - I laid down and looked up at my mosquito netting bed canopy and again, someone looked back, though this time it was a friendly, if unwelcome, spider. He and another friend from another day both found new lives out the back door.

The most special thing though is the scientific marvel that I discovered last week. I happened to move my garbage bin (read: bag on the floor) when I noticed a green vine near the wall. That's strange, I thought, have I dropped a rogue potato? I reached down to where it was and gave it a little tug, shocked to discover that it was firmly fixed - and growing - from a space between the kitchen cupboard and the wall. Yes, I have a special indoor plant - that is WILD! I tried to convey my concern over this when I called the letting agency. "There's a plant growing in my kitchen."
"How do you mean? In a pot?"
"No, from the floor. There is unplanned vegetation growing indoors."
"Right, okay. We'll ring you back."
So far, no phone call.

There are many other special things about this place, but I will save them for another time. That said, I am enjoying this room of my own, even if I have ended up sharing it unexpectedly. I will keep you posted on the status of the plant and leave you now with a photograph - my new friend, immortalised in digital film (I guess?).

Silver Medal Threat to the Free World

2010-01-16T09:16:00.001-05:00

One of the things I miss most about Canada is being able to watch figure skating on snowy weekends in by the fire. I'm not interested in any other sports (yuck!), but I've always loved figure skating. I skated every winter of my childhood - and can still barely skate backwards. I'm really very awful at it. But to me it was just like dancing, only with ice and skates and thicker tights and more glitter on the costumes, so it was a sport I could actually get on board with. I could never understand why other competitve and professional sports didn't have the artistry and colourful pizazz of figure skating. Truthfully, I still don't understand it. Most sports could do with a bit more sparkle.

Anyways, with the Olympics fast approaching, and returning to my homeland after 22 years, I was feeling nostalgic and looked up Elizabeth Manley's Calgary '88 silver medal-winning performance. These are the things I was struck by: the length of her fuschia-painted finger nails (go Lee Press-On!), the delight in her performance + cheap looking graphics from the 1980s (aww), and that in the suggested videos next to the one I was watching (most of which were other figure skating routines) was one titled "Never before seen Video of WTC 9/11 attack".
Now, I know figure skating is not everyone's cup of tea, but surely it doesn't equate to terrorism and suicidal airplane hijacking, does it? Not to me, anyways. Poor Elizabeth - how could they sully her big moment with a comparison to that? Or, perhaps the bigger question is, who are all these terror-voyeur figure skating fans who are watching these videos in tandem?! Though, perhaps I shouldn't be that surprised. Think of Tonya Harding - figure skating can be a dirty sport, God love it.

And now, I leave you with this video of Elizabeth Manley's 1988 Silver Medal winning skate:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=724KxD8qakA

Frozen Landscape, Frozen Mouth

2010-01-07T11:50:00.001-05:00

Happy New Year! (Just to begin with) - it's a new decade and a new year and boy am I ever glad. I hope you are too - I feel good things are in the offing and I'm ever so happy to have had a snow-filled, Canadian start to the year.
On another note, I have just had my very first cavity filled this morning. Yesterday when the dentist told me I had a cavity, I briefly worried that I would get in trouble with my parents. I'm pretty surely convinced that the reason I have staved off getting a cavity until now is out of fear of my parents' disapproval. It's just not the sort of thing they'd stand for, even though they have plenty of fillings of their own. Their belief is that since they didn't have the benefit of flouride, if I get a cavity it is purely out of poor dental hygiene. However, my news was met mostly with indifference and "you can walk home from the dentist". Thanks. So I drank a can of Coke and ate some apple pie, just to show them and my tooth who's boss.

Anyways, now half of my face is frozen, but so far I haven't drooled. As I was walking home on the snow covered sidewalks, with my tuque pulled down on my head, breathing in the fresh, frosty January air, I wondered if my mouth was really still frozen, or if it just seemed that way because my face was cold. I started to gingerly bite my cheek, just to test it, but then I heard Dr. Andrews' voice ringing in my ears..."You'll bite right through and you'll be bleeding and swollen tomorrow", so I eased off. It was very tempting though... just like when you're a kid and you're hugging the metal soccer goal posts at recess, sticking your tongue out almost... but not quite touching it. We know what's going to happen, but as with most unpleasant things, we have to find out for ourselves. I never did chomp on my cheek OR stick my tongue to a metal pole, but I won't deny my desire to try. I guess having bitten my tongue the other day and also once seeing tastebuds leftover on that goal post has made me a cautious person. But still, I dare ya!

Human Interest Piece

2009-12-29T09:14:00.002-05:00

Why can't we be with those we love best all the time? It seems a cruel thing that we're only assembled in one place about once a year. Of course, you could say, "but Bunny! You chose to go live in the Wales! Your absenteeism from others is self-imposed!", and this is true, but really everyone is scattered and we're all trying our best with our individual pursuits. I am thoroughly enjoying visiting with all of my Canadian peoples right now (and I don't mean the country, or town, as a whole, but rather my favourites). It's comforting to be amongst those who have the same accent as me and who've known me since I was a just a little itty-bitty-bunny, or at least, since before I learned to wear attractive footwear. We've been talking nostalgicly about how in high school it wasn't 'cool' to look particularly feminine - we had flannel hangovers from the mid-90s and bizarre, brightly coloured, fleecy, cartoony Raver clothes, even though anyone I knew who did ectasy did it in their garage or basement on an old couch. We wore athletic running shoes, even though we avoided most sports, and while we wore them, we drank vodka coolers and rubbed glitter all over our skin. This is the story of my unfashionable youth - but this is actually a human interest piece about getting together with those we love at Christmastime, or "The Holidays" as they say to be politically correct on the news. Anyways, I'm trying to make the most of present company because they are sadly absent from me most the year and shortly we'll all return to our usual routines and scatter once again, like pieces on a chess board that's had a bouncy ball hit it. My goodness, what a simile! I think it's time I ate some Eggo waffles (ha! I typed "ego waffles" first - what would Freud say?) and chocolate for breakfast and feel some more profusions of love. So, a profusion of love to you!

Holy Christmas Decorations

2009-12-02T11:48:00.002-05:00

I went to Swansea Market the other day to get my weekly vegetables when I was met with an unexpected assault of Christmas decoration sensory overload. They decorate the market every year, but I had forgotten the intensity and magical feelings of joy that masses of sparkly felt snow and glittery multi-coloured tinsel can provide. I must admit, Christmas is pretty much my favourite time of year, so I'm probably overly open to being cheered, but I've become more recently mindful that my tastes fall a bit to the tacky wayside. When I look at my mother's beautiful and incredibly tasteful style of Christmas decorating, I find myself secretly wishing there was also an electric sparkly snowman on the front lawn. I love seeing shop windows that have spray-on snow and fake snowflakes on the glass. And while I am a purist and insist on a real Christmas tree (preferably spruce, cut down as a family with an argument and some hot cocoa at the tree farm), I also want a miniature aluminum (not 'aluminium', which is, I believe, the most hotly contested variation between British English and North American pronunciation) tree in a myriad of glittery colours - silver! gold! hot pink! + some flashing lights! My classy mother cringes when I mention these things, but I just can't suppress my enthusiasm when seeing a house decked out like it's going to the brightest, most exciting, cheer-filled Christmas party on earth, perhaps even hosting Santa himself. I've got plans for when I have a house of my own... I retain some of my mother's good taste, but it will be unironically interspersed with things that would make any old Christmas Special proud. I leave you with my favourite Christmas song sung by the ever-classy, Wham!: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3354flS1KJs&feature=fvst

Sunshine? Qu'est-ce que c'est?

2009-11-22T06:01:00.001-05:00

It's seriously sunny right now. This morning it was the usual grey with horizontal rain, so I was startled by the sudden need to squint. What be this sunshine? I was pretty sure it didn't exist in November in Wales. I'm not sure I like this sunny day though - I'm not used to it anymore and it feels like an intrusion. As I look out my window at the convent, (see older posts, re. guilt), I'm noticing things that I hadn't before this unusual appearance of the sun. The leaves have all fallen off the trees, but the fuschia still has pretty pink blooms hanging from it, even if they are a little tired looking. There is an enormous seagull swooping above the nunnery and far beyond the peaks of houses, I can see that the tide is in in Swansea Bay. This reminds me that I haven't actually been down to the beach for a walk for about two months. Madness! Mind you, it isn't terribly welcoming when gales pummel you along and sand/rain is whipped into your eye. Ooh, a nun just appeared! She has a cane and a white headscarf (obv., she can't pull off blue - she's no Mother Mary!) and has just gotten into a car and not driven anywhere. Yes, yes, I'm a creepy, blogging voyeur, sitting at my computer and watching old ladies... but what's her deal in the car? Just what is she doing? Anyways, I think I'll take a walk into town. The sun has been hidden by a comforting grey cloud and I've just had a vision of myself as the comic book guy from The Simpsons, getting fatter by the minute at a computer and having nothing better to do than watch old ladies for sport. Terrah!

Cinnamumum Buns

2009-11-13T12:04:00.004-05:00

Evidently I have neglected the blog over the last 6 weeks. Deeply apologetic - would you like a cinnamon bun? Someone very dear to me, who is in her later middle age, still occasionally can't say cinnamon and calls it "cinnamumum". Bless (as they say in the UK). Today I was a feeling a bit bored and gloomy, but my day was brightened considerably when I turned on the lights in the house (obv.) and set down to some baking on this rainy afternoon. Judy Garland accompanied me with the A Star is Born soundtrack and I felt very contented kneading dough and swaying my hips to the old-timey showstoppers. However, I'm beginning to worry I have developed...an addiction. Earlier this week I made a pan of rice krispie squares (they were pink, too, due to pretty marshmallows!). Okay, you may say, so I like baking and making things. Fine. Except that within two days I had eaten all but one of those sticky pink squares! I concealed the fact that I'd made them from my flatmate and her boyfriend so that I could have them all to myself. (I am colouring with indulgent shame). Feeling guilty, with two left last night, I offered one to my flatmate, but I still ate the last one. Today I was planning on turning over a new leaf - no more sugar! The world is controlled by sugar and corn syrup hides in everything! But then I had a hankering for some cinnamon buns and all that went out the window. This isn't a matter of fearing I'll gain weight - if my pants get tight my cravings will cease for two reasons: 1. I'd rather not change shape and 2. I'm too cheap to buy new clothes (nor can I afford them). But I am afraid of these sugar cravings. What do they mean? Surely my body doesn't need all of these delectable sweets. Look, I'm salivating. And the truth is, I've always considered myself to not have much of sweet tooth - I'd pick a salty bag of chips over a chocolate bar any day. (Remember the Chocobot Hour on The Simpsons? ha!). Anyways, for now, I guess I'll just give up and give in - a warm cinnamon bun on a chilly November afternoon is ever so nice. I'd offer you a rice krispie square... but I ate them all. (shrug).

Sumacs in Autumn

2009-09-28T12:29:00.006-04:00

Laziness and its Friends: A Reflection

2009-09-28T11:36:00.006-04:00

Why am I so lazy for? As a child, I used to use this refrain daily, "I'm booooored". My mother would have to list nearly a dozen potential activities before my face would light up and I'd go, "Yeah!" and skip off merrily to fish for leaves in the backyard or give the Barbies new haircuts. Sadly, I don't presently have any sinkholes in which to poke around with dead twigs, nor do I have a collection of slutty dollies here aching for a make-over. But I miss those days when boredom gave way to rapt attention to a task. Do you remember a similar sense of intense focus while playing? Where has that gone? Today I felt particularly lazy/bored. I haven't worked for about two and a half months and I was due to start again today, but then unexpectedly got a day off. You'd think this would be exciting - but everyday is a day off these days and I hadn't planned anything to do today other than go to work. There are, of course, things I should be doing. I should be writing (non-bloggy writing); I should vacuum; I should leave the house. But unemployment + procrastination = lazy paralysis. I have written about this phenonmenon before on this here blog, about a year ago, I think. Nice to know my vices are going strong 12 months later, eh? Anyways, while I haven't done the things I ought to do today, I did manage to recapture the intense playing-style concentration I have so sorely missed for about an hour today. I drew a picture. I had bought a new sketchbook for this purpose, but today I sat down and happily drew a picture of a horsey among some sumac trees in oil pastel. As I drew, my mind was quiet. I was focused on selecting and blending the colours and watching my hand fly over the page. I didn't feel lazy, nor was I bored or plagued by repetitive thoughts. What bliss! It made me wonder if I am in fact a lazy person, or if I just need a bit of 'arts and crafts' time everyday? Maybe I should become an artist and spend my time drawing pictures for the masses!? Ah but therein lies the rub - if I became an artist, my joy would become work and I would avoid doing it, much like my other curricular writings. So, the question is, how do I trick myself out of this lazy/bored/procrastinatory loop?

The Manipulative Monk

2009-09-01T06:58:00.005-04:00

I met a monk in town today. This isn't an unusual occurrence - there is a group of monks who have a Buddhist centre here in Swansea who routinely parade through the town centre ringing bells and singing "Hare Krishna". I have met other monks from this monastery: There is the Fit Monk, who is always slightly flirtatious and looked upon with wonder and pity for leading a celibate existence, as far as we know. Then there is the Female Monk, who seems to attend the university and is always very pleasant and serene. There is a very Friendly Monk as well, who is always so enthusiastic about having people try Vegetarian food. All of them canvass in the city centre, trying to sell books on Buddhism or Vegetarian cooking, or donations for their community projects. Today I was stopped by a different monk, though. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere and was not willing to let me walk on without getting something from me. The first thing he said was, "Hello, are those your shoes?", which is an odd way to start a conversation with anyone. Once we'd established that they were definitely my shoes but that I didn't remember where I'd bought them, he then proceeded to ask me many questions and made uncomfortable comments about my answers. For instance, he asked me what part of Wales I'm from and when I replied, "Canada", he imitated my accent. Then he asked me if I am here because I own a small business (!?). When I replied that I am a student, he persisted to ask what I study, then said, "So, you're very intelligent then?"; it felt like a challenge. He wanted an answer; wanted to see if I was conceited or humble, perhaps to see if I was the right target for Buddhist teaching. It was like in the movie Mean Girls when Regina says, "So you think you're really pretty?" - and what can one say, but yes? Then he said I was very open-minded and on a spiritual path, right? I had to reply, "Well, yes" and he looked at me intensely. He wanted me to buy a book, but I had just bought my weekly vegetables AND purchased a novel to read, and so I was without money, or desire to purchase anything else. I said I had books like that already. He saw this as a challenge as well, "Oh yeah? Where did you get them?" I felt flustered. He was playing tricks with my mind, I could tell, but he wouldn't let me go. I said bookstores and my mum gives them to me. He then asked for a donation. I said I didn't have any money (not a lie). He said, "Got any change?" Of course, everyone has a little change. He said it was to feed the homeless, which I am happy to donate to, but I didn't want to give money to him. Still I handed over .52 pence, but I didn't enjoy it. He peered into my change purse too. He didn't have any of the serenity or joyfulness of the other local monks. He was aggressive. And a Close-Talker. And most of all, he was manipulative. I felt unnerved after I walked away from him. I felt he had talked me in circles; made me give him my .52 pence. He would have been more suited to working as a car salesman or one of those aggressive telemarketers who trick old ladies into getting mobile phone contracts. He may have had the monastic haircut (shaved head + mini pony-tail) and he may have been working on behalf of good intentions, but I do not think that man is anywhere near enlightenment. He spotted me from afar and sought to prey on my good nature. He was too focused on the material aspect of our conversation. What kind of monk cares where I got my shoes from anyways? Does he want a pair of brown loafers with polka-dotted bows? I don't regret giving my meager change away, but I do think the Manipulative Monk under-estimated my powers of perception and intuition. He also asked me if I knew what Karma was. I wonder if he does?

Rhubarb and Sleep-Blogging

2009-08-27T12:31:00.004-04:00

Have you ever known the pleasure of stewing fruit? Because if you haven't, you are missing out on a pleasure indeed. Today was a somewhat grey afternoon, so to lighten my mood, I set to work chopping up stalks of rhubarb, putting them in pot with some brown sugar, and setting them on a slow boil. I occasionally stirred the fruit with a wooden spoon until it became a soft and lovely sauce. As I stirred I thought about things and day-dreamed and then, quite suddenly had a frightful thought: What if I were to write a blog in my sleep!? What if I revealed all my secrets!? I know this is irrational, but I feel like it would be best to turn off the computer before I go to bed tonight. My dreams of late have been relentlessly vivid, so I don't want to take any chances. A better and sweeter outcome would be eating rhubarb stew for breakfast. So, fingers crossed! (for the stew, that is).

Cheaper by the Dozen 2

2009-08-27T10:14:00.003-04:00

Now the father's just died in the film and I found out this is based on a true story. I feel guilty. The 12th child is only a little baby. I feel for the mother, I really do. I could cry - this awful movie has taken a really sad turn. This is too much for a Thursday afternoon!

Cheaper by the Dozen

2009-08-27T09:54:00.003-04:00

I am currently watching "Cheaper by the Dozen" (1950). This movie was re-made a few years back, and was generally terrible, besides the fact that none of the twelve children looked even remotely alike. I was not aware that that film was a re-make until I happened upon the original today. This movie is awful. Seriously. I'm sure it's worse than the new one. The father is a know-it-all, control-freak who wants a menagerie in his own image, not a parcel of individuals as children. The daughters appear to flirt with their father to get what they want (including showing him their lingerie and begging him to let them wear it), while the sons simply call their father "The Chairman". There has been one classic scene in which a representative of Planned Parenthood comes to ask the mother to be a representative for birth control awareness. Looking smug and mirthful, these insane baby-machines whistle for their brood, who come within 14 seconds of his call. Then all fourteen members of the family laugh in the woman's face. Don't get me wrong, I think children are perfectly nice and having babies is a beautiful thing. But I can't stand it when people get so smug about their ability to procreate and then act like they're the first people to have ever been parents and performed this miracle of reproduction. I hope this doesn't make me sound bitter or disdainful. I just don't like this movie, or smug parents. Perhaps I should switch it off - but I am still feeling a bit groggy from jetlag and feel a bit unable to move. So, I will leave you with this amusing interchange from the film: "Look at Ann with the chaperone!" (referring to Ann's father accompanying her to the prom) - (Ann's beefcake admirer responds:) "The way that little cookie's looking tonight she needs a chaperone!"

Bunny of New Moon

2009-08-07T13:29:00.003-04:00

I have a theory, that may be impossible, but has some pretty concrete proof, I think. It goes like this: When my mother was in Grade 3 at her one-room school, she found a copy of Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery and it was the first "real book" she ever read. She said she cried and poured over it and seriously considered stealing it from the school's meager library shelf - a very serious thought for an extremely honest 8-year-old girl. In the end she didn't steal the book, but she did decide that if she ever had a daughter she would name her "Emily" because it was the prettiest name she'd ever seen, and that book deserved such an honour. Eventually she did have a daughter, and named her "Emily" (my pseudonym, of course, as Bunny is my real name), and in doing so she created that same character in real life; in me! Emily writes and constantly composes in her head; she day-dreams and is daily overcome by the beauty of things around her; she adores cats and kittens and considers them amongst her greatest friends; and she feels all things so keenly, even the smallest slights, crying over things every day and night. Of course, Emily of New Moon is an orphan, and she cries most often because her father recently died, but we all have our tragedies. My father is alive and well and currently making a rather stinky egg salad sandwich, whose odour is wafting up the stairs to my room, but that is neither here nor there. Do you think it's possible that my mother loved that book and that character so much that she wished her very own Emily and received her? Can someone want something so much they bring it to themselves by sheer force of feeling? If I had been named for a character I detested, like say, Daphne DuMaurier's Rebecca or her horrid housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, I would be appalled and think this theory was bunk! But the fact remains that Bunny and Emily are in many ways one and the same, and since I like Emily of New Moon ever so much, I'm merely grateful that at such a young age my mother had such fine taste in books. Besides, Anne of Green Gables is all well and good, but I'd rather have dark hair over red any day. No offense, my ginger friends. Emilys will be Emilys.

Things I Found in My Room Today:

2009-07-23T15:35:00.003-04:00

A bottomless box of scrunchies, in such beautiful styles as, "Northern Getaway" and "Flourescent colours in geometric patterns".
Hungarian leather "driving gloves" that once belonged to my swish Grandma.
A selection of funky earrings that I used to wear for special occasions, most notably: trolls dressed as Santa and Easter eggs, toucans, bunches of fruit, and eyeballs that blink.
Plastic Goody barrettes, last seen gracing my hair in the mid-80s, in a variety of colours and shapes.
A Canadian Tire nametag: "Bunny - Cashier" and red golf shirt emblazoned with, "Team Canadian Tire".
My high school yearbooks, next to the hardcover tome, "Real Life: Real Spice - The True Story of the Spice Girls".
2 pairs of sunglasses to represent two different decades: 1980s - orange and yellow triangles framing the lenses at intense angles, and 1990s - black frames with red lenses.
And finally, a picture of a cartoon pig cut from a newspaper with this printed below it in pink cursive font: "I want to pork you".

The Bi-Annual Purge

2009-07-23T13:41:00.003-04:00

Bunny is presently in the homeland, for one of her bi-annual visits of family, friends, and Canadian life. As generally happens whenever I arrive here and am once again settled into my childhood bedroom, I feel a deep urge to clean out all the possessions that seem to plague me by continuing to exist, even though I don't use them. Ever since I started university about 8 years ago, I have come home on breaks and filled garbage bags with clothes for the Salvation Army, made piles of books to sell to the used bookstore, and gathered things to be recycled and, though I hate to do it, throw away. Obviously, since I'm still doing this 8 years after I started, something in my method must be amiss. What that is, however, boils down to the following two things: I was a child pack-rat, and I hate to waste anything. Since moving across the sea, I have become very aware of the fact that all I really use and need can fit neatly into one suitcase. My hundreds of books and enjoyment of clothes don't really fit in with that, thus I have a large cache of both of those things in both of my homes. The things I have in Wales are generally of the newly-acquired type, and I try not to buy things that I can't take with me, should I ever decide to just up and leave. But, when I return here, to the place of my youth, I find myself looking lovingly at shelves and shelves of books, and then I open my closet and the drawers of my dresser and find clothes I haven't worn for 5 years (or more), but just can't bear to part with... until today! I was ruthless with my old clothes today. I even made a pile of old t-shirts to be turned into rags. I chose not to deliberate over whether I would "need" the curry-stained white shirts from my days at the Indian restaurant, or whether I would miss the skirt I haven't worn since I was 18, but is still pretty... (uh-oh... I should have written this after taking the stuff out of the house because now I'm tempted to re-evaluate!). Anyways, usually I feel much lightened by this act, but today I feel like it hasn't made much of a dent, even though my closet and dresser are both nearly empty. I have no need or desire to get rid of any books, so that's not the problem. I think it's the fact that, no matter what, there will always be things accumulating around me, seemingly without my control, and I will always feel burdened by my possessions, even the ones I love. It occurred to me the other day when I arrived home that my parents have a lot of stuff, despite the many garage sales they held during my childhood, and the fact that they're always trying to get rid of things. Then there are my grandparents, whose house is twice the size of my parents', but who never get rid of anything. Whenever my elders should pass away (not that I want them to! Please excuse my morbid thoughts of inheritance) all of their possessions become the responsibility of those left behind, and so the cycle continues, for as my dad likes to say, "You can't take it with you". So, I guess I should just accept this cycle and cease feeling guilty about it. Because the fact is, I will keep buying new things, that will eventually be old and I will give them away, so I am the cycle itself, which is kind of nice. Like the circle of life, from the Lion King, only with faded textiles and dust. Ah, creation.

"I Used to Speak Canadian" - Globe and Mail

2009-06-24T17:01:00.003-04:00

Bunny has been published in the newspaper! Please check out my Facts and Arguments essay in the Wednesday, June 24th edition of the Globe and Mail. It's written under my pseudonym, obviously, but is genuine Bunny quality. http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/facts-and-arguments/i-used-to-speak-canadian/article1194165/ You can also click on the title of this post to reach the webpage, or be nice and old fashioned and pick up today's paper, if you can.

Archie Comics: A Theory

2009-06-07T04:54:00.007-04:00

I'd like to share a theory with you that I developed many years ago in high school with a friend. The other day my mum told me that she read in the paper (and although she read it, did not deem it front page material) that Archie has proposed to Veronica in the latest Archie Comic. I do not know if this was in a Pals n' Gals Double Digest or just a classic Archie issue, but the fact is, outrage has ensued, mostly from people who believe that Archie should have proposed to Betty. As I said to my mum, but they're only in high school! Things could change! But apparently, the writers have gone ahead and aged our favourite teenagers in recent years and they have now graduated from college and are at prime marrying age. (Ack! Does that make me an old maid? Or am I prolonging my youth through post-graduate education? *chortle, chortle). Anyways, although I do take issue with Archie's proposal to Veronica, it is not because I think he ought to marry Betty. It is because, I think Archie is... Gay. Before you shout and rail and make stars float around your head about my pronouncement, let me propose a few ideas to you: Archie has been flip-flopping between Betty and Veronica since 1939. In 70 years, Archie has been unable to SEAL the DEAL. While he spent all that time dating those two, long-suffering girls, going to the beach with them in scanty bikinis; going out in the old jalopy late at night; getting stuck in caves on splunking expeditions (okay, I don't know if that last one happened, but I like the word 'splunking' and it seems like a likely scenario for one of their "adventure" 3-parters), Archie never actually goes all the way with either of those obviously willing and aching for it chicks. (And I don't mean that in an anti-feminist way - I truly feel for Betty and Veronica in their individual and shared predicaments - and in the end, they are women with needs). Archie is always far more interested in Jughead's companionship, and often seems to vent his aggressions on the always handsome and devilish, Reggie. Then there is Archie's clothing style - now there is a man who has chosen the preppy look and seriously stuck with it. Also, even when Reggie moved on from speedos to trunks at Riverdale beach, Archie stuck steadfastly with his tiny pants, which he wore while engaging in beach gymnastics with some of the more buff fellows on the sands (which were trucked in from Riverdale marsh, in fact). I could also propose that Archie has an usual attachment to Mr. Weatherbee, but I'll let you decide that one for yourself. Now that I have laid out my reasoning for why I think Archie Andrews is in fact a homosexual in denial, I would like to propose an alternative future for the rest of the Archie gang: Ronnie and Reggie - a match made with perfection! Their hair matches; they're both so rich and beautiful and mean - I don't know why they haven't been together for years! Then, of course, there's Betty and Jughead. I know that Jughead tends to show very little interest in women, apart from his enforced and endured attachment to Big Ethel, but I would like to argue that this is in fact due to a secret love he holds for his best pal Archie's (now forsaken) girl, Betty Cooper. There have also been numerous occasions when Betty and Jughead have come quite close, but never quite realised where their feelings could take them. We all know Betty is domestic, and Jughead likes to eat, and due to their equally kind and compassionate natures, I think Betty + Jughead could be a solid match. Now, of course, after all this conjecture, our playboy Archie Andrews is left single and alone. I'm not trying to punish him here - in fact, I think there is a wonderful man out there for him (Moose? Dilton Doily? ...no, perhaps not, but someone, a new character). I think Archie needs to take a bit of time to find himself and then, when all the other matches are made, Archie will have his triumphant marriage (in Canada and the Netherlands) or civil partnership (in the UK or California). But then again, it's all just a theory *sigh.

"Prayer Made My Leg Grow" - South Wales Evening Post

2009-05-20T18:23:00.003-04:00

Apparently there are some people of strong faith in South Wales - Burry Port, to be exact, where a woman claims her leg grew - when it was formerly shorter than the other - only after she began some presumably pretty fervent praying. The above headline was on the front page of the paper today and it reminded me of the resident manic street preachers in Swansea (where do you think the Welsh band got their name?) and evidently around the rest of South Wales. It's like this is the Welsh Bible Belt - so, what is it about this area that inspires such intense Christian belief? I'm wondering if perhaps I'm missing out on something while living here... why haven't I been feeling these evangelistic feelings when it seems like the thing to feel around here these days? Maybe it's because I'm a foreigner... I can't quite relate to their faith in a cultural context. Or maybe I haven't been drinking the tap water long enough, and soon I'll find myself standing on a milk crate next to the jacket potato stand, proselytizing into a microphone about Jesus' presence in bonny Wales. I'll get my hair cut like my grandma's and wear only tweed. And one of my legs will shrink to confirm my faith. Yes, this is the future.....?

A Post Script to Poor Memory

2009-05-13T12:33:00.002-04:00

Guess what else I forgot as I composed my last post? This morning I participated in a Memory experiment for the Psychology department at the university. I had to look at objects and remember them later, and also make lists of countries, boys and girls names, and animals for each letter of the alphabet in 1-2 minutes each. They paid me £4. And while I wrote about memory, I totally forgot that just a couple of hours before I helped some scientists with a study about memory. Wouldn't that have been a propos within the theme of my last blog? I also forgot yesterday was garbage day. Luckily my flatmate remembered. Maybe all I need are a team of Rememberers around me at all times to fill in my blanks.

Memory of an Elephant

2009-05-13T10:08:00.003-04:00

When I was a child, my parents used to say these two phrases frequently to me: "You have the memory of an elephant," and "You have a good memory, it's just short." I never really understood the elephant thing, and still don't... are elephants known for having poor memories? I know they are highly emotional and anyone who is highly emotional knows how to hold a grudge which, presumably would mean that they are remembering some grievances pretty well? Anyways, the point is, I had a bad memory for selective things. I was good with useless trivia and birthdays, but, I forgot about tasks that I had to do, especially of the chore variety. I never meant to disobey my parents when they would go out for the afternoon and tell me to vacuum while they were gone. It was just that when they left the house and the garage door closed, all their instructions flew out of my head like a wisp on the wind and 3 hours later they would return home to find me painting a birdhouse or playing "I.Q. 2000" (do you know that game? It's amazing! And takes like 10 hours to play) with my big bro. Then the following would ensue, "For Christ's sake, child, why didn't you vacuum like I told you to?!" (you could also insert 'dust' 'wash the dishes' or 'clean your room' for 'vacuum') and I would go, "Oh yeah! I'll do it now," as I ran to get the necessary cleaning supplies, but even though I'd do the chore then, it was never quite good enough as remembering to do it in the first place. I think for a while my parents suspected me of wilfull disobedience, and I'm not sure they don't still suspect me of it, but I honestly did forget. Anyways, I thought that as I got older, this forgetfulness had waned, until this past week, that is. I forgot I had a huge meeting next week and tried to schedule a different one at the same time with someone who is also attending the meeting. I forgot that I am reading at a poetry night on Friday... and apparently I'm even in the program and will be videotaped (?!) and today I sent the organiser the following message: "Hey, am I supposed to read at some thing on Friday? I might have to work... but I dunno... let me know, eh?" Which may have resulted in him having a mild panic and also thinking that I am a MORON. Thirdly, I FORGOT TO GO TO WORK YESTERDAY. Okay, I made that sound way more dramatic than it actually was. There might have been an extra lecture yesterday to take notes at, but both I and my student for whom I take notes, forgot all about it. But, the fact that it didn't even cross my mind was disturbing to me! What else have I forgotten about? And why am I so spacey lately? I have 3 diaries to help me remember things! I write myself notes and make To-Do lists! Is my brain short-circuiting? The truth is, I think I'm a bit run-down and what I really want to do is spend a week on the couch, dozing in my trackpants and eating pizza and drinking chocolate milk, so my memory is shorting out in order to facillitate that dream.

Job Centre Plus

2009-05-02T08:25:00.003-04:00

I got a new job yesterday. It's at a restaurant, doing my old waitressing tricks, though I'm out of the Indian food game this time. On the whole I'm pretty pleased about it, since I've been job-hunting for about 2 months and I get to wear a cute little apron. My note-taking took a month-long hiatus over Easter time and has now resumed with only 2 days(!) to go. During my break, I had hoped to begin a new job and thus have a month of being incredibly rich, seeing as I'd have my note-taking pay as well as the "new job" money coming in. My greed seems to have prevented me from finding said job, so I spent a leisurely month spending money irresponsibly, stressing about my impending poverty, and having debates with CL about fishsticks (a debate that still rages). Anyone who has been unemployed for more than 3 weeks will understand that it soon becomes a lifestyle. You get used to being penniless and then as social plans begin to crop up for the next few months you start to wonder if you can afford to get a job at all, because it will seriously interfere with all the fun you have coming up. For instance, I am going to see a ballet next Thursday, AND I plan on playing on the beach in North Wales come June, followed by visits from 2 different friends in July (not to mention my birthday), all culminating in possible trips to visit the familio in August and then to Korea in September. So really, how could I fit in a part-time job? How will I watch re-runs of Gilmore Girls everyday at noon? How will I find the time to sleep in til 10 and drink cans of beer in my bedroom on a Tuesday night with CL? I am not the only person who has sussed this out. If you happen to walk past the Job Centre on Swansea's High Street, you might mistake it for a community centre or a really large tavern. There are always tons of people milling about outside, sometimes holding cans of 'Special Brew', and they all know each other. They show up under the pretence of employment seeking, when really they know what's what. If they get a job, when will they get to socialise with everyone down at the Job Centre Plus? What will they have in common with their friends? While it's true that the jobless rate in the UK, and especially Wales, is incredibly low due to this recession (apparently the job seekers to jobs ratio in Wales is 12:1), I would argue that unless truly pressed (as I was 2 days ago, frantically searching the internet at the library for bursaries and interest-free loans), people will bask in the leisure unemployment affords them. However, I am pleased about my new job because I get to eat the broken pieces of cake and leftover roasted potatoes, and frankly I'd prefer that any day to a Special Brew outside the Job Centre.

A Toast to Toast!

2009-04-24T08:46:00.003-04:00

Last night I was at the local late-night haunt, Mozart's, having a few (too many) beers, when the proprietress came round suddenly with a huge plate of buttered toast, cut into triangles. She offered it around, no charge, and let me tell you, it was one of the most satisfying pieces of toast I have ever eaten! Everyone loves some salty food when they've been drinking for a few hours, so of course this was a welcome treat. But the idea of white, buttered toast is just so comforting; so reminiscent of sunny Saturday mornings and ideal breakfasts, that I think offering toast to a room full of drunks is frankly a stroke of brilliance. Also, its appearance last night caused us all to clink classes and we gave a hearty toast to toast! (Feel free to join in as you read this).

Captain Highliner vs. Captain Birdseye

2009-04-19T06:01:00.005-04:00

The other day, CL and I were talking about fishsticks, or as he calls them, fishfingers. You may have seen the Kanye West "Fishdicks" South Park episode, which kickstarted our conversation and went something like this:

CL -"Fishfinger sandwiches are amazing." BJ (OMG, I just realised my pseudonym's initials are BJ!...) - "Wha? You put fishsticks on a sandwich?" CL - "Yeah! On that white, squishy bread with ketchup. They're so good." BJ - "I want to eat one." CL - "You should. But do you have Captain Birdseye fishfingers? Captain Birdseye is well good."

BJ - "No, we have Captain Highliner."

Which led us to discuss who was superior, Captain Highliner, or Captain Birdseye? We googled both of them and agreed that they both have their strongpoints: Cap'n Highliner seems to have a more refined, almost regal look about him. I think in a movie he could be played by, say, Sean Connery. But Cap'n Birdseye is ever so jovial! Always with a twinkle in his eye, as well as a superior growth of beard. It's a very tough one to call. As far as I know though, only Captain Birdseye was modelled on a real person, whom the nation here loved dearly til he died. Then they introduced a younger Captain on the boxes of fish and there was a public outcry. Now, I don't want to put down Canada's Captain, but would he inspire the same affection? Anyways, in the end we just went out for fish and chips and they were delectable.

The Sweet Life of an Imposter

2009-04-19T05:37:00.003-04:00

So, I was just reading a "humorous" list called, "You might be a Grad Student if..." and I realised that while I am a Grad Student, as it were, I couldn't identify with a lot of the more painful things on the list. For instance, I do not feel chained to my desk, nor do I live at the library or subsist on a diet of caffeine and instant noodles. I do scoff at undergrads, but that is a right afforded to anyone who has a degree and is over the age of 24. As well, I concur with the point that it feels like this degree will last forever and that I am in Grade 20, but I think the person who compiled this list is missing out on the point of Graduate School: You get to place all your brain power on a usually marginal subject; people think you're clever for doing so; and you get to retain the irresponsibility of student-hood, while having the maturity of an adult. Personally, I have tonnes of free time, because I only work part-time for actual money and I'm a natural procrastinator, meaning I do my school work in feverish short bursts just prior to "due dates" (which have no consequences if I am late). As well, since my degree is of a more artistic persuasion, I read novels and stories and if I'm seeking some inspiration, I'll take some time out to paint a picture, bake a cake, or watch crappy television. All these grad students researching themselves into the grave need to learn to embrace the Imposter Lifestyle that I have nearly perfected. If you do any work at all in a day, consider that day a success! Also, reward oneself for leaving the house when it's sunny and also for staying home when it's rainy, because these are logical and beneficial actions to perform. Eat and cook well! Because one needs brain food and a happy tummy, as well as an accompanying glass of wine. Go to literary events - at bars, or that serve free drinks! These are more lucrative, as they often also have snacks, as well as more opportunities to speak to the resident literati under the influence of a cocktail. Take plenty of time out to play with friends and spend plenty of time in bed with your lover - these are invaluable for research purposes and general serenity, as they inspire ideas and centre your "chi". There are many more ways to coast along with the Imposter Lifestyle, provided you actually get your work done when it needs to be done. There is the danger of sinking too deep into lethargy and forgetting that you are actually paying thousands of dollars/pounds in tuition and that there's a bigger reason for your life of leisure. But, if a balance is struck, you will soon find that this is in many ways an ideal life - just don't give away the secret ;)

Easter Tuesday

2009-04-14T08:48:00.002-04:00

A little late, I know, but...

Oceana: The World in One Night

2009-04-06T04:17:00.007-04:00

There is a nightclub in Swansea called "Oceana" (not to be confused with the geographic area in the South Pacific known as Oceania). They generally have ridiculous posters advertising various events, such as a character from Eastenders making an appearance with the caption "Easter-Enders at Oceana!". As I was passing by the other day (because I've yet to venture inside, shockingly enough) I noticed two other posters advertising good times on the holy weekend. Now, I don't know about you, but Page 3 topless girls and a very intense-looking EASTER rave involving a trio of Jiminy Crickets don't exactly call to mind the crucifixion of Christ, or even the Easter Bunny. Perhaps, though, they are looking to re-invent the holiday.

Encino Man

2009-04-04T05:14:00.005-04:00

Last night at about 1 a.m. I was flipping channels and I came across "California Man", the movie. If, like me, you grew up in North America, you will know this film by the name of "Encino Man" - a Pauly Shore vehicle also starring Brendan Fraser and one of the hobbits from Lord of the Rings. Anyways, I realised a few things as I watched this movie in the wee hours of the morning... for one thing, when my brother and I were kids, we thought this movie was HILARIOUS, and so I sat down to watch it with pleasant nostalgia, like when I watch Wayne's World (though that film is a stroke of brilliance). But as I watched it I realised that Encino Man is possibly one of the worst movies ever made. Then I wondered where Pauly Shore is now... and also what a strange, strange man he is... as well as the fact that perhaps he's hiding out somewhere because his brand of humour can really only be carried off by a young man and he must be old by now and an old man eating burritos and wearing purple bell bottoms and frightening adults with incomprensible, sexual ramblings would be deeply disconcerting. (And that's another thing - Pauly Shore is 41! - I checked on IMdB!) I also used to wonder why Brendan Fraser wasn't in better roles now because I'd remembered him being so talented in the 1990s... now I know my childhood radar for talent was deeply skewed, and those Mummy movies he keeps making are starting to make sense. Also, that hobbit guy has really done well for himself. I like him; he's in The Goonies and 50 First Dates (don't judge me) and it would appear that being a child star didn't ruin his life. So, good for him! As well, remember Robin Tunney? From The Craft and Empire Records (ahhhh, high schoollll!)? She's in this movie too, only I don't know what happened to her either. Anyways, one thing that actually really excited me about Encino Man was that one of the camera men from Wayne's World, whose only line is, "Do I scare you?" ("No" - Noah Vanderhoff's wife) "Do you want me to?", is the "bad cool guy" in Encino Man! His evil is characterized by a Vanilla Ice haircut and dangerous hockey skills - because the teenagers like to hang out at "Blades" the ice rink, obviously, since they're in California. He also calls someone a "fag" at the prom as he tries to expose the fact that Brendan Fraser is a cave man. This film also left me with a pretty deep desire to eat salsa, since they cavort with some Mexicans at a Mexicano bar and eat salsa. Broken down actually, this movie sounds amazing, don't you think? Then again, I also watched 13 Going on 30 yesterday and really liked it, (okay, I own it... and I watched it on TV too...), so I guess there's no accounting for taste. Ahhh!!! I just noticed that on the poster it says, "If you liked Wayne's World, you'll love Encino Man!" ...Synchronicity.

Catholic Guilt

2009-03-26T14:07:00.004-04:00

Have I mentioned that my bedroom overlooks a convent? It also has views of Swansea Bay and some trees and pastel-coloured houses beyond the covent grounds, but the primary view is of a nunnery. I see the nuns most days - they seem to enjoy puttering around or walking around their garden (one even uses the ride-on mower in her blue skirt). Those with cars all drive tiny, economical ones that they drive zippily in and out all afternoon and their lights in the main house are always out by a sensible hour (usually no later than 10:30 p.m.). When I first moved in here, I felt a bit strange having so many nuns in such close proximity. I felt somewhat unclean and guilty when I'd go to bed drunk or have sexy thoughts. I considered going to confession, but then I remembered that after lying in confession as a child, seeing as I was a good little girl who was basically sin-free and had to make up some vices, I had sworn to myself that the whole "Bless me father, for I have sinned..." method was ineffectual for me. There came a time when I felt rebellious and would leave the blinds open when I got dressed and when my boyfriend and I were in compromising positions, but I realised that I was the only one playing that game, for there was never any evidence of an audience. Plus, the main reason I left the blinds open was simply because I like the sunshine from that South-facing window. Eventually, the convent became a comforting thing for me... if I was alone in the house on a creepy night, I could look out the window and see the giant crucifix with Jesus hanging on it and think, at least no one could break in from the back; those convent grounds are locked shut! At the same time though, this constant reminder of Catholicism has made me mindful of the fact that I feel guilty most of the time about most things. It's like it's gotten worse even, after leaving Catholic school and ceasing to attend mass and all that jazz years ago. I don't know what it is that infected me with the guilt-syndrome, but there it is. I even feel guilty right now for writing about the nuns in a humorous way and for blaming my upbringing for my guilt problems. Ahhh the guilt is unrelenting! I feel guilty for eating too much bread before dinner so that now I'm not even hungry and I feel guilty for leaving my shoes by the door because I suspect it might irritate my flatmate and I feel guilty for feeling guilty and oh my God, will it just give me a rest?! One day I saw a woman who was decidedly not a nun (because she was under 60, had long hair, and was not wearing a knee-length navy blue A-line skirt), kneeling in front of the giant crucifix in the covent yard. (If you squint, you might spy it in the centre of the driveway on a round pallette of grass). She was obviously praying and looked, to me, to be shiftily looking over her shoulder lest some nuns come out and turf her off the premises, but she left some flowers at the foot of the cross and blessed herself fervently and, I thought, made a success of a pious act that afternoon. When I saw this little scene unfold, I began to feel less guilty (for that day, at least) since I figured, whatever was on her mind must be a lot heavier than what's on mine, since I have not yet felt the urge to jump the locked convent gates and kneel dramatically in front of J.C. on the (carefully manicured - thank you, John Deer!) lawn. I also considered that the nuns are living a pretty cushy life over there in their rent-free garden oasis, and I started wondering if they felt guilty for that? Then I thought that with all this guilt and thoughts of guilt floating around, maybe it's time I stopped spying on the convent and confessed to you via this blog. So, bless me readers, for I have sinned... it has been 12 years since my last confession (to Father Don in the lamination room at St. Joe's)... and I am still feeling inexplicably guilty for my minor infractions and also once I stole a 30 cent freezie from Canadian Tire when I worked there and suspected they were cheating me out of overtime pay. I will accept thinking about saying 3 Hail Marys and 1 Our Father as penance. Thank you and Amen.

The Angry Cake and the Hungover Soup

2009-03-19T05:49:00.008-04:00

There is a theory that one's mood can be manifested in whatever it is they're cooking or baking. On the weekend I had to make a cake. Not because it was for any occasion, or that I even particularly wanted to eat it, I just felt like I needed to make a cake, and also I didn't want my pears to go bad. So I made a Pear Upside-Down Gingerbread Cake, but I will admit I was not in the happiest state of mind as I made it. When it came out of the oven, I was shocked by its blackness and overall looming essence. It had risen to twice the height of the sides of the pan and the light brown batter had turned black from the warmed molasses. It was a hulking, angry cake, and I couldn't help but think it reflected my mood. The only "serving plate" I had to fit it was an old, blackened cookie sheet. I chose not to use the electric mixer simply because I wanted to beat it, vigorously, by hand. The recipe called for light brown sugar and light molasses, but all I had was dark sugar and the blackest treacle you've ever seen. It'll be fine, I figured. And it did taste fine. It was light and sweet and moist and might have recalled a winter evening of my childhood, sitting by the fire, eating a piece with some vanilla ice cream as my parents watched CFTO news. And yet, the undertone of my irritation was so clearly visible in its appearance, I couldn't enjoy it. CL flatly refused to eat it because he was afraid my earlier angrier mood would infect him through the cake. I gave some of it away and the recipients seemed unaffected, but now I have half a cake sitting in the kitchen, looking at me, and it's too much to throw away without guilt, and yet no one, not even myself, will eat it.

The second food debacle was my hungover attempt to make chicken soup. The chicken itself, which was roasted and consumed pleasantly the afternoon before with 3 bottles of wine (shared between two people, when really 2 glasses is more than enough for me), was cooked perfectly and tasted divine. However, the next day I was feeling a bit rough and, confused by the difference between making chicken soup and chicken stock, threw the entire carcass in the pot with some chopped up vegetables, leftover gravy, and about a gallon of water, and left it to boil for an hour, expecting to be rewarded with a clear-brothed soup. CL tried to save it by taking out half of the water and adding some stock cubes since, as he pointed out, I was making flavourless chicken-water filled with bones, but in the end we both felt worse for having eaten a bowl of it. It even looked hungover... as though it kind of wanted to feed people, but thought it might (be) barf, and really just didn't have the energy or concentration to turn into soup. Of course, this whole phenomenon has been expressed many times before, most notably in Laura Esquivel's novel, Like Water for Chocolate, it which all the guests at a wedding vomit after eating the cake that had tears in the batter, as well as another character stripping naked and riding off into the sunset with a revolutionary after eating a meal cooked with so much love, and rose petal sauce, that the lust couldn't be contained. With that though, let's hope my next cooking ventures follow along the lines of the latter, because I'm getting hungry and my mood is now much improved.

Costume Comparison: Wales vs. Hungary

2009-03-07T06:45:00.008-05:00

Happy St.David's Day! (A Belated Reflection)

2009-03-07T05:57:00.007-05:00

As you may, or may not know, March 1st is St. David's Day, and St. David (or, Dewi Sant) is the patron saint of Wales, so the Welsh are allll over this saint day. It's kind of like Canada Day, only without the barbecues and fireworks. People carry daffodils and you might see folks wearing red rugby shirts and carrying the red dragon flag. But my favourite practices on St. David's Day are these: the tradition of wearing leeks on lapels and also, of dressing up small children in "traditional" Welsh costume (which is mostly non-historical and results in little girls wearing tiny black hats on their heads with giant white pinafores on over red and black plaid dresses). Occasionally you see an old woman dressed like this, which is even more entertaining. The whole effect and subsequent parade of the children around the market square reminds me of when my grandmother used to dress me in traditional Hungarian clothing in the summertime. She and Grandpa would take my brother and me down to the Hungarian House Caravan in Toronto, where we would feast on deliciously fattening Hungarian food and watch the dancers in their red leather boots (which I COVETED). With all of this, I endured Hungarian people speaking to me in Hungarian and pinching my cheeks. Have you ever heard Hungarian spoken? It sounds like one massive and aggressive argument with everyone about to slap each other. However, the gist of what they said to me was, "Ohh, what a sweet little Hungarian girl!!!" and then they'd give me more food, so I submitted willingly. But let me get back to the leeks - One of my first experiences of Welsh culture happened when I was in high school and my brother, who is awfully fond of British military history, showed me an etching in one of his books, of a Victorian soldier in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers wearing a full sized wild leek (yes, the vegetable of the onion family) tucked into his lapel. The caption read, "St. David's Day, when leeks are worn." We thought this hilarious, not knowing at the time that the leek is Wales' national symbol, and thus totally logical to pin them to their clothing. When I eventually moved to Wales, I was thrilled to find tiny felt effigies of leeks, with a safety pin attached, sold at the grocery store next to the children's costumes and bunches of daffodils. I mailed one to my brother immediately, of course. And yet, I have discovered but recently, it doesn't stop there! Just yesterday, I saw a giant inflatable plastic leek that was the size of my leg, and printed upon it was a deeply patriotic "CYMRU" (Wales in Welsh). I know that getting this much amusement over the Welsh fondness for leeks is a little strange, but I look at it in a much larger perspective. It is this unusualness that I love about Wales so much! Where else would a vegetable be so revered? And I'll tell you this, I have never eaten leeks as tasty as the ones here. Perhaps we should all think a little more about what a little collective love could do for our produce.

The view from my front window

2009-02-27T05:20:00.003-05:00

Lent

2009-02-26T08:51:00.004-05:00

So as you may know, Lent started yesterday. It's one of the few things from my Roman Catholic upbringing that I've held onto, strangely enough, since when I was a kid I never gave up anything. But children are more guiltlessly hedonistic, I think, since their vices are generally so innocent and enjoyable. Anyways, in the past I've given up things like chips, chocolate, or fear (that one was a toughy, and was only a little bit successful, since some fear is inevitable and necessary in life, but I did alright with dispensing with the unnecessary ones for 40 days). This year though, I decided to go all out. I have given up: wine, refined sugar, and Facebook! The first two are kind of cheats though... I've discovered that I might be a bit allergic to the sulphites in wine, so I wanted to stop drinking it anyways because it made me all stuffed up, sneezy, headached, and hungover after 1 glass, so it's not really a hardship to give up any of that! Also, I'd already stopped buying sweets, so by eliminating that, I don't really eat much sugar anyways. Plus, I ate brown sugar on my crepes yesterday (I postponed the pancakes to the day of ash) because brown sugar is not refined. (But still sweet!) However, I de-activated my Facebook account on Tuesday night and I am going to see if I want to go back on it when Lent is done! I've had Facebook for about 2 and a 1/2 years, and it's dawned on me that I was wasting vast amounts of my time on that website (and for what? Do I really care that someone from my class in Grade 9 who I haven't seen in 10 years missed the bus last Tuesday and is sooo mad about it?). I've noticed a few symptoms of withdrawl... fears that people will either forget about me or, worse! NOT miss me! As well as wondering what to do with my idle hands and realising that I use my computer about half as much already after only a day of being Facebook-free. However, I also feel liberated and have been thinking of more fun ways to occupy my time already. Also, before I left Facebook, I realised how truly creepy that website is... I clicked on "Deactivate" and before I could leave it picked 5 of my friends and suddenly pictures of us appeared and it said things like, "But Jenna will miss you, Anne will miss you, are you sure you want to go??" and then I had to give a reason for my departure and when I selected "I use Facebook too much", another message appeared saying, "You know, you can limit the number of emails we send you... maybe that would help..." I was horrified by the way they tried to get their claws into me! Trying to scare me and manipulate me into staying on a silly website?! I can only think my Facebook vacation is a good thing, and should I decide to return to it, I will most definitely cut down my use of it severely. I don't mean to sound paranoid, but the Facebook people are clearly spying on our lives! (and I read, also selling our information). Anyways, I'm looking forward to this time of freedom from the constraints of indulgence and voyeurism, but I'm sure on Easter Sunday I'll happily tuck into a chocolate bunny, drink some sacrificial wine, and there's a good chance I'll indulge in a good stalking session on the Facebook. *Sigh

Perjury

2009-02-26T08:29:00.006-05:00

One of the many ways I occupy my time is as a notetaker at the university. I spend about 10 hours a week taking feverish (or interesting, or boring) notes in 1st Year English literature classes. As jobs go, it's one of the best I've had. I don't really have to talk to anyone, I can slip in unnoticed, and I learn for free/have a paid refresher course. It's tops! Then again, this week when I "studied" Hamlet for 10th time in my life, and also learned "How to write an essay", I thought I might die of repetitive boredom. Every so often, however, one of the students says something that tickles my brain, either for its surprising insight, or amusing ignorance. This morning, as a tutorial group discussed the presence of God and Christian-Patriarchal imagery in Robinson Crusoe, one sweet young guy said, "Don't he go to that place where you gotta wait to get over your sins before they'll let you into heaven? What's it called, Perjury?" He was swiftly and deftly set straight by the tutorial leader who told him he meant Purgatory, to which he said, "Oh yeah, that's the one." Perjury! I don't know why, but his Freudian-ish slip really stuck in my brain. The official legal definition of 'perjury' is: "An intentional lie given while under oath or in a sworn affidavit." Surely telling some intentional lies could send you purgatory. But then I thought of how Robinson Crusoe was originally published not as a novel, but as a true account, because people hadn't really encountered any novels yet in the 18th century. So then, was Daniel Defoe committing a form of perjury by misleading his readers with sensational, and intentionally concealed fiction? Perhaps. But really, I just like the image of Purgatory as a land of intentional lies.

Found Poem, in the style of Haiku

2009-02-26T08:06:00.007-05:00

Do not leave

windows open, pigeons

are coming in!

Father's Little Dividend

2009-02-11T15:29:00.009-05:00

I was at a charity shop today and as I perused the shelf of used and generally strange movies, I spotted "Father's Little Dividend", starring Spencer Tracy and my personal favourite, Elizabeth Taylor. I snapped it up for £1.50 and trotted straight home with it.

I love a good old movie in the afternoon, and I remember watching this one as a child on TVO (remember Saturday Night at the Movies with Elwy Yost?), but I can't believe how shockingly, and hilariously dated this one is!

For instance, to celebrate the news that Kay (Elizabeth T.) is expecting, they bring out a pitcher of martinis, and mother-to-be is the first to receive a drink. Hooray!

And then, you soon realise, this movie is not about the mother, or the couple having the baby, or even the baby itself. This movie is about the grandfather - Stanley (Spencer T.) - who can't get over the following facts: He is going to be a grandfather and is, therefore, OLD; his daughter is not a little girl; his daughter has sex; his daughter potentially loves her husband more than him; his daughter has a brain (though not in her "condition" when she is quote, "not rational, not herself"); and finally, his daughter is not his possession. He resents the young bride's husband, Bentley, for basically existing (and, I think, poking his daughter). He resents the baby itself, for making him feel old and for taking away the love and attention of his wife (the grandmother) and his daughter (the possession). The whole thing is so shockingly patriarchal, it started to make me sick. Spencer T. and wife sleep in separate twin beds. At one point, before he hears of his daughter's pregnancy, he comes on to his wife, who then looks at him, coolly horrified, as though he is some lewd stranger. "Stanley! What's gotten into you?" There isn't even a hint of mirth in her eyes, and then of course, Stanley replies aggressively, "Whatsa matter? Can't a man kiss his wife?!" On a side note, they also have a "Coloured" housekeeper and the other grandmother is played by Glinda the Good Witch, of the Wizard of Oz, (who was married to Florenz Zeigfeld in real life!). Oh, and Stanley also leaves the baby alone in a park for half an hour while he plays footy with the neighbourhood boys and it's all brushed off as a little misunderstanding. And, of course, the baby is... a boy! And what do they christen him in the end? Why, Stanley, of course.

I...killed the Cat?!

2009-01-21T05:20:00.006-05:00

I started writing a story the other day about people who eat a cat. As you may know, I love cats. I mean, I really love cats... they follow me down the street and I've raised kittens and hidden strays in my bedroom and I really, honestly do think that kittens are cuter than babies. They just are. (Do babies have soft fur? Can they feed and toilet themselves? Do they go mental over balls of aluminum foil? Exactly). So anyways, a few nights ago I woke up after having a bad dream and said to CL in my dreamy, fearful haze, "I was at a party and they ate a cat!", to which he replied, "Don't worry, muppet, it was just a bad dream." This settled me, and we laughed about it in the morning, but then he asked me why I don't write about the fucked up stuff that's actually in my brain, like people eating cats? At first I was appalled! I could never write such a heinous thing about a beloved feline! But then, a plot crept into my mind and I couldn't help it... it was so good, so juicy, so succulent a plot, I just had to write it. I've been feeling a bit guilty ever since, even though it's fictional and I would rather die than harm a pussycat. But, am I putting the idea of feline violence out into the world by writing this story? Let me tell you a true story, upon which I suspect my original dream was based: During the war (WWII, that is), in a desolate and meatless Miskolc, Hungary, my Grandpa was invited over to his friend's house for a feast of goulash soup. Grandpa and another friend brought some wine that they had found in the cellar of a bombed restaurant a few days before, and the three young men ate better than they had in months. "Where did you get meat?!" Grandpa asked his friend, the cook. "Don't worry about it," his friend said, "Just eat." "Is it veal?" Grandpa asked? "Just eat," said his friend. When they were finished the meal, and their bellies were full and the wine was drunk, the cook said with a twinkle in his eye, "Have a look at the fire escape." Grandpa and the other guest opened the back door, and there, hanging on the clothesline, were the skins of 3 cats. Apparently, Grandpa retched, but then felt disappointed that he'd lost the first meat he'd eaten in 4 months. However, that was during the horrors of war! It's regular folks who can afford to buy chicken legs who go ahead and cook the cat in my story. To all felines, I apologize for my current creative enterprise! But I hope you, dear readers, will remember that I am first and foremost a lover of cats, and that half the time I don't even eat meat.

I can't believe they killed off Jack!

2009-01-20T16:26:00.010-05:00

Recently, when I was laid up with the lurgy, I spent an admittedly gross amount of time watching episodes of "Home and Away" on YouTube. Since Australia is about three weeks ahead of the UK, I got a sneak peak of what's to come and, well, they killed off Summer Bay's favourite good cop, Jack Holden! Oddly, I have mentioned Jack Holden before on this blog, namely in my past post, "Home and Away: I'm over it". (Let's ignore the fact that I reportedly gave up this insipid family soap, and then spent several hours watching it last week). In that post, I proselityzed that so much had happened to Jack's wife Martha, that maybe she should just die. Ahh, but no, that was not to be. These soap writers are crafty devils; they always kill the one you least expect. For example, on the night Jack was shot in the dark by Angelo, a cop gone bad (!), the whole town was at the school dance (because that makes sense...) and someone had locked all the doors and then Melody, who smoked a joint that night (!) walked in front of a car that then crashed into the school dance venue! And in all of that, no one died, even though the building blew up and people had smoke inhalation and were impaled, etc. . So Jack's dead, and Martha is probably pregnant with his child because they had sex for the first time since her mastectomy just the other day, and she bought him a boat and they were really happy, and everyone knows people aren't allowed to be happy on soap operas. It's pretty much akin to waiting to be struck by the wrath of God. Anyways, I have a theory that the show's producers are trying to say that the true cause of Jack's death is marijuana. I'm no proponent of drug use, but let me paint a ridiculous picture for you: Jack's cousin Xavier came to town and started dealing pot in the surf club. Other youths would sidle up to the Billabong-clad blondie and say things like, "You got the stuff?" and "Is it pure?" before slipping it into each other's hands with a quick exchange of dollar bills. Jack got wind of this and gave Xavier a stern lecture about how pot causes psychosis and a lack of ambition (true) and also DEATH (because Xavier ran in front of Jack's police cruiser while high), but Jack never turned his little cousin in to the cops, as he wanted to keep it in the family, deeming a reprimand in uniform sufficient. Unfortunately, Matthew Lyons (who is ALWAYS referred to with his full name; I guess he's just one of those full-name people?) had already bought some "stuff" from Xavier and on the night of the dance he peer-pressured Melody to smoke up, which made her MENTAL! (though, to be fair, she was already mental), and she showed up at the dance, even though she was grounded, and proclaimed that she and Geoff were meant to be together (they're not), then later, as she wandered around in her narcotized haze, she walked in front of a car (filled with people who were looking for her) and caused it to crash! Now, if marijuana had never come to Summer Bay, the accident at the dance would never have happened, and Angelo would never have left Jack bleeding to death, because he wouldn't have been called to the scene of the dance inferno. Geez, I bet you never knew one joint could be so deadly! Also, did you know it invariably causes teenagers to walk in front of moving cars? R.I.P. Jack - may the actor who portrayed you go on to act in better things.

And down came the rain!

2009-01-12T05:26:00.003-05:00

It's raining in Swansea today, for the first time in what seems like months. It used to be the opposite, and Swansea was known as the rainiest city in Britain, but something has gone awry with the weather patterns this Fall and Winter, and we've had dry days and blue skies. I used to complain all the time about the rain. I would lament, "I just can't get used to this wet! In Canada, you know it's going to rain for a day and you are prepared with your umbrella, but here you have to carry it around allll the time and it rains horizontally and upside down and up your skirt and in your shoes. I'd rather be buried in snow!" And while snow is often preferable, in the pretty white crisp bright day sense, when I'm in Wales I expect rain, damnit! And so today Swansea looks like Swansea again and I feel quite happy with this rainy day. When summer comes, I will welcome any dry, clear days, but rain reminds me that Spring is on its way, so as I breathe in the perfume from my hyacinth and look at the grey outside, I feel optimistic and shrouded in a sense that a change is on its way.

Ahoy-hoy! I'm back.

2009-01-11T10:46:00.005-05:00

Did you know that when the telephone first gained popularity, there was some confusion as to what to say when one picked up the receiver? If a woman was telephoning, it was especially difficult, as she was not permitted to address someone to whom she had not yet been formally introduced, so she would hang silently on the receiver, hoping the other person might speak first, but being unable to discern who was on the other end, was generally left up a creek of silence and had to just hang up without ever speaking to their desired conversation partner. As a way to get around this, they started having servants, whose reputations were deemed unimportant, dial the telephone and procure the correct person on the other end for their master. But before this became simple, the poor servants realised they didn't know what to say on the phone either. Thus, the debate between "Hello" and "Ahoy-hoy" was borne. Folks sort of waited for either one to take off in popularity after sending them out into the vernacular as appropriate telephone greetings. Both were generally sort of new words, and I imagine it was a thrilling wait, watching the race between them. Evidently, Ahoy-hoy dropped out sooner rather than later, and Hello has hung on to this day. I rather look at my blog-writing of late in a similar way. The battle of words was more of a "Should I write a new post?" vs. "I don't know if I want to write a new post..." argument, which is decidedly boring and obviously resulted in no new real posts. For this, I am sorry. But, having had a bit of encouragment, I foresee wild and wonderful posts for months to come! I must say though, don't you think life would be more interesting if "Ahoy-hoy" had stuck? Imagine it, some thugs meeting in an alleyway saying, "Ahoy-hoy bra, word up?" Or an excited greeting on the street when you meet a long-lost acquaintance, "Ahoy-hoy! Long time no see, eh? How the heck are ya?! You should say ahoy-hoy more often!" And so on and so forth. Anyways, if you're bored one day, consider joining me in bringing this greeting back and making all of our language just a little more flowery and enjoyably bizarre.

Farewell?

2009-01-09T13:43:00.003-05:00

I was thinking today of making this a farewell-post. That is, I often forget I have a blog, and you, dear reader(s?) may or may not exist, so it's not like this would be an especially sad ending. And yet, here I am not writing "Goodbye! The End! Post Script!" etcetera, but rather I'm thinking about other things I might like to write on here. And so the blog continues.

November: The Cruelest Month

2008-12-12T16:47:00.006-05:00

So I had a blog-free November, (Obv.). That's not to say it wasn't a blog-worthy month. But that is to say, I guess I was not in a blog-writing mood. Here is a list of possible things I could have written about, but didn't:

-The best Chinese restaurant in Manchester (and of all time - yes, even in China. No, I haven't been to China. But, I KNOW).

-The soothing effects of watercolour painting.

-Olives stuffed with pickled lemon peel VS. Olives stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes.

-29 days straight of rain - November 2006!

-Pagan mayhem on Swansea Bay beach on Bonfire Night!

Do you feel like you've missed out on these titilating titles? If so, let me know, and I'll bang out a blog especially for you. Blog on Demand!

Basking in the Blush of Burnt Food

2008-10-29T15:39:00.004-04:00

Something has gone awry with my cookery. I keep burning things. Apart from toast, which I sometimes burn on purpose because I like the taste of it, I never burn things when I cook. But this week, I have burnt the roux for my cheese sauce, a batch of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, some toast (and not on purpose... it went beyond tasty), and lastly, some soup. How did I burn soup, you ask? Well, it was really more of a vegetarian chili, rather than a proper soup, and so since it was rather thick and hearty, some of it burnt to the bottom of the pot. Of course, I scraped the black off the toast and the soup was fine if didn't hit the bottom with the ladle. The cookies are definitely too crunchy, and that sauce was a bit naff, but that is not the point. What has happened to my perfect cooking timing?! At first I was concerned, until I remembered a scene from the movie, "Sabrina" (and I mean the classic, Hepburn-Bogart-Holden version, not that travesty with, who was it, Indiana Jones?!) when the Baron says to Sabrina in their class at the Cordon Bleu: "A girl who is happily in love, she burns the souffle! A girl who is unhappily in love, she forgets to turn on the oven". Of course, Sabrina had forgotten to turn on the oven, due to her unrequited love for David. But, if the Baron's theory is correct, the number of things I've burnt this week must be an awfully good sign!

And the Lord said, thou will careth not about the Credit Crunch

2008-10-17T15:46:00.004-04:00

Today as I strolled through the bustling city centre my attention was drawn to a man shouting loudly and maniacally at the crowds. As I got a little closer I realised he was holding a bible and trying to convert the masses. Pretty much everyone was ignoring him, unless you count mildly scared looks as interest, apart from one little old lady who stood near him in a plastic rain-cap and long puffy purple jacket, nodding pleasantly in agreement with his preaching. Despite his gusto, it wasn't until he hit a nerve with the town that people began paying actual attention. "I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE CREDIT CRUNCH!" he shouted, and people turned slightly. "I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE ECONOMY, OR THE COST OF GAS, OR ELECTRICITY, OR FOOD, BECAUSE THEY WILL ALL BURRRRNNNN!!!! GOD SAYS THAT IN THE END WE WILL ALL BURRRRNNNN!!!" I exchanged a "wtf?" look with another pedestrian and continued on my way to the market. But the would-be preacher's words did make me think a little. For one thing, I thought that my disinterest in the above news issues was worrisome because I don't want to be in the same thought camp as Mr. 1 Fan Oxford Street Preacher. Secondly, I think that everyone listening to him was hoping, if only for a split second, that he had some words of wisdom to help the world economy through these tough times, and then he just said we and our crunchy finances are all just going to burn in hell anyways. Now, I don't think it's very appropriate of a God-fearing man to be a) so apathetic about reality (he buys his bread too!), and b) so gosh-darn pessimistic. Plus, if he really wanted to win people over to his side, that is not the most persuasive and savvy way to do so. Give out free bibles! Try rapping like the young, hip-hop style preacher I saw outside of Lloyd's bank last week! 'Cause seriously, he could have had the crowd at his hatred of the credit crunch - imagine the throngs getting all worked up and saying, "Yeah! Me too! Show us the way! We'll stop shopping or something!", but no... he had to turn to the old, burny-burny-hell-fires route. I suppose what I'm trying to say here is, I'm glad I'm back into reading the news a little and also, I think that if people are going to loudly proclaim their beliefs in the middle of the town shopping centre, they should at least have to clear their oratory skills with the council first, because they could scare children and attract old ladies. I mean it - that old woman was into him.

"Canadian Consumer Confidence Retreats to 1982 Level"

2008-10-17T15:43:00.003-04:00

1982?! That IS low! (I think the headline-maker and statistician are being a little harsh on 1982, don't you?)

Bridget Jones: Mentalist? Or just immature?

2008-10-17T08:04:00.005-04:00

When I was 18, I loved Bridget Jones. I read the two Helen Fielding books about that wacky character, and I watched Bridget Jones' Diary the Movie again and again. I relished the idea of having sexy affairs with sexy British men and of finding my very own Modern Day Mr. Darcy. (I was also really into the BBC Pride and Prejudice at the time...) I imagined myself working in publishing, eating chocolate croissants, wearing nice shoes and short skirts, and having office flirtations, and cocktails with saucy single friends, and living in the UK. And, I identified with her mentalist diaries about many things--granted, I have never smoked nor bothered myself much about my weight, but I did often over-analyse situations with the opposite sex and dread family Christmas parties in which old relatives would ask me "the question dreaded by all singletons" - how's your love life? Followed by either pitying or suspicious looks. As years passed, I still thought those books and movie and characters funny and amusing, but I generally ceased identifying with that character as I grew older and wiser and reached my *gasp!* mid-20s. So, the realisation I had the other day was, if I grew out of Ms. Jones' mental behaviour by the age of, say, 22, is Bridget Jones simply so popular because, seeing as she is in her mid-30s and self-obsessed and making grand faux-pas all the time, are people simply glad they're not her? There is a particularly funny passage in the 2nd book, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (note the title) in which Bridget says to Mark Darcy, "Mark, am I re-tread?" to which Mark replies, "A retard? No, you're not retarded. A little strange maybe, but not retarded" followed by a reassuring pat on the bum. I think that Chick-Lit in general is irritating because it perpetuates the idea that females are inwardly blundering, shallow, insane, and deeply immature. I tried to read one of those "Shopaholic" books once because people kept telling me they were ever so funny. All I could discern was that the Shopaholic in question was a superficial, consumerist addict who was ruining her life with said addiction. Sure, her blunders were mildly comical, but I soon became so incensed I slammed the book shut after 2 chapters and vowed never to read the Chick-Lit genre again. To be fair, I still defended the two Bridget Jones books, and haven't finished one other book in that genre. (I couldn't stand any of Helen Fielding's other books). But still, just the candy-floss coloured covers of those paperbacks says it all. There is nothing wrong with reading books that make you laugh or are not fine literature; however, it is worrisome to think that publishers have reduced the female reading population to being attracted by shiny, pastel colours and attractive, slutty morons within the pages. And while I do live in the UK and have cocktails with saucy friends and love affairs with sexy Englishmen, eat French pastries, wear short skirts, etc. etc., I believe my blind esteem of Ms. Jones has come to an end. Actually it's sort of weird now that I realised I did attain a lot of the things I imagined when I was 18... luckily though, I have matured some over the last 7 or so years and I don't foresee myself getting stuck in a Thai prison or breaking up with my boyfriend for finding a young, naked, Asian man in his bed holding a rabbit. (I hope... did you read that, CL?) So, this Ms. Jones is thankfully Chick-Lit free and on the war path against sexist publishers. Hurrah! v.g.

There is a mouse in the kitchen.

2008-09-24T08:30:00.006-04:00

It's true. I saw it slink slowly under the washing machine as I walked past the kitchen door. I yelped and haven't put the ironing board away for fear of rousing it. Unnerved as I was at the sight, I began a fury of text messaging - to my flatmate and my friends. After much debate we agreed that the mouse was weird because it moved slowly and so I set out to the hardware store to buy a mousetrap. As I walked down to Brynmill D.I.Y., I stopped at three bakeries in search of a fruit and custard tart. My head felt scattered and I couldn't see straight. None of the bakeries had the confection I desired and so I left each of them with a shrug and a weird look from the ladies in smocks behind the counters. The fellow at the hardware store was very helpful - he even showed me how to set the "Little Nipper", the name burned into the wood on the trap. "We live on the 2nd Floor!" I said, bewildered. "They climb up through the cracks," he said with a smile. "Use peanut butter." "Yes," I replied. "I've heard they prefer it to cheese." He nodded. At home again, I put the glob of crunchy-smooth peanut butter on the trap and nearly took my fingers off about ten times as I tried to set it. I've kept my shoes on since I came home... I know that mice are not known for scurrying around on peoples feet, but you can't be too safe. As a child I found a dead mouse in the grass beside the driveway of our house. I picked it up in a dried maple leaf and, with glassy eyes of sympathy, showed it to my mum. "Don't touch that, Bunny! Mice have diseases!" Mummy shouted. I yelped in the same way as I did today and dropped the grey little corpse on the gravel drive. "Well, don't leave it there, Bunny! For Heaven's Sake!" But I couldn't bear to pick it up again. Right now, I am tense as I fear the sound of the trap snapping. Will the mouse squeal? Will it enjoy the peanut butter as its last meal? I am wracked with guilt and fear about this impending rodent homicide. If I kick the trap out of the way "accidentally" will the mouse just go away? It's Fall. I should know better. Mice always came into our house at this time of year when I was growing up. They had a passage-way under the sink in the kitchen where we kept the onions, potatoes, and dish detergent. It has only now occurred to me that it might be weird that my mother kept food with cleaning supplies and garbage. The thing is, I always had a nice little feline hunter in the house back then... as well as a very brave Daddy who took care of any unsightly messes. And I've never been squeamish about taking care of any other casualties caused my cats - I can't count the bird, chipmunk, mouse, vole, and even bunny corpses I've disposed of without batting an eye. But here is the difference: right now, I know that the death of this mouse will be caused by me and my peanut butter trickery, and I think when I hear that snap, I'll become a little older and a little harder and a little sadder today.

"Circus Clowns Face Trumpet Ban"

2008-09-23T04:01:00.003-04:00

'A circus said that its clowns had been silenced by licensing regulations which banned them from playing their trumpets. Zippos Circus said it was told by council officials that the show could not go on unless the clowns dropped the musical part of their act. The circus, which is performing in Birmingham, fell foul of the Licensing Act 2003 which forbids the playing of live music without a licence.' How Unjust!

De-Fogged!

2008-09-16T05:33:00.002-04:00

The alcohol did the trick on the de-fogging front. Huzzah! Although, last night a man at the bar tried to attract me by whistling through his teeth and saying, "Hey! Brownie! Hey, hey you, Scratchy! Brownie, over here, a'right? Scratchy!" Needless to say I went home with him right then and we had a night of passionate love-making.

Away with the faeries...

2008-09-15T13:09:00.003-04:00

Today has been a very cloudy and misty day in South Wales and I feel like my head has been in some sort of state of pathetic fallacy. Even as I write this, I feel like I am looking at the computer screen through a grey haze. I can't see it clearly and I'm not even totally sure of what I'm writing, though I'm fairly certain I've avoided typos so far. I also hung out with a baby today. Or I suppose I was babysitting, but since we played with toys and enjoyed each other's company, it didn't really feel like a chore. The thing is, when you spend time talking to someone who can't speak - like when you make a lot of conversation with your cat or dog or something - sometimes it feels like your intelligence or mental sharpness has become a little dull. My thoughts have been rather muddled and non-sensical today and right now Home and Away is on t.v. and I admit that can't be helping this dim-headed situation. This afternoon my Irish friend and I walked around in the mist and as she would say, I was 'away with the faeries'. Tonight we plan on drinking alcohol - I am not so muddy-headed as to think that that will help my head situation but it might make it at least a little more interesting, because at present hazy-head Bunny is a boring bunny. Hoppity-hop.

And so I says to myself, I says...

2008-09-14T10:29:00.007-04:00

The other day my friend CL told me that he imagines my head-voice to sound like my blog. He is not wrong, but my brain is slightly less ordered and more like a conversation that is sometimes titillating, sometimes sad (aww, ha), and generally strange and humorous - like most peoples' heads, I should think. Anyways, I thought I'd give an example of my head voice to sort of give things a broader scope. So, last week I was walking to the train station and I was feeling sort of nervous. Now, nervousness tends to sort of get on my tits, as they say over here. Before the age of 16, I cannot really say I ever felt truly nervous. In Grade 11, as I played Ado Annie in our high school production of "Oklahoma!" I forgot the lyrics to my solo "I Cain't Say No" half-way through the song. Luckily I managed to bluff and pick things up again, but ever after that I began to get stage fright and general nervousness before important things happened. Things waxed and waned, but I still remember with chagrin the good old days when I actually did not understand the concept of feeling nervous. Anyways, as I was walking to the train station, I thought I'd pump myself up to rid myself of the nervousness I was feeling. This is what I said to myself, in my head: "You know what? No! Picture this, Bunny - it is 1996, you are in Keswick, backstage at the Stephen Leacock Theatre, at the Georgina Festival of Dance, waiting to go on stage and dance the Mazurka in the aged 12-14 Intermediate Ballet Category and you are FEARLESS. The girl in front of you in line whispers to you in the dark, 'OMG I'm so nervous, are you? So and so is dancing right before us!', and you say, 'No. Why would I be nervous?'. She is shocked at my cavalier attitude. I am actually baffled by her admission. Stage Fright is something that is only written of and felt by Barbra Streisand, which seems implausible, thus making the concept of it seem even less credible to me. They call us: 'Summertime Dance Academy, dancing Mazurka' and I follow the others with light ballet runs onto the stage, putting on my ballet-smile - pleasant but not overly toothy, as would be required for jazz - and I dance flawlessly. I laugh in the face of nervousness! I refuse to be nervous now. I have been looking forward to going to the train station all week!" And thus, I found myself almost there and feeling much calmer than before. Granted, I think my head-voice was having a seriously spot-on day of encouragement, but nevertheless, that is an example worth noting, I think. I will write of another example when I deem it worthy of the blog. In the meantime, please continue reading the polished musings I publish here.

One Night of Sin

2008-09-14T10:04:00.003-04:00

So I was listening to some Elvis Presley - notably the song, "One Night of Sin", and I realised that I had both misheard and mis-sung the lyrics for quite some time. I had been singing, "One night of sin/ is what I'm praying for" when in fact he is singing, "One night of sin/ is what I'm paying for." Now, I think you will agree, that the lyric I heard was a lot more fun-sounding than the actual lyric. And quite frankly, now I'm a little disappointed. You see, I always thought that that song was a dirty version of "One Night With You", which is, as far as I can tell, pretty much the same song, just cleaned up (or so I thought). As well, don't you think Elvis would have prayed for a sinful night, as opposed to feeling some serious Catholic guilt about it? Or, I suppose in his case, probably Southern Baptist-style guilt. Have you ever heard of snake-charming Baptists? They sound like they'd throw some great parties, even though I'm a little afraid of snakes. That's un-related to the lyric discussion, but interesting nonetheless. Plus, since it's Sunday I think this little chat about theology is sort of a propos. Amen!

Knitting: Friend of Serenity

2008-09-06T18:07:00.003-04:00

I am knitting a scarf. Since my friend CL pointed out that I am not paralyzed, but rather just really lazy, I felt I needed an outlet for my idleness - hence, the knitting. (Ironically, I am knitting this particular scarf for CL). It's like that old-fashioned belief that women always needed to keep their hands busy when they sat around, for fear that the devil would take them or they'd think about sex or something. Funny thing is, what those allegedly wise-minded creators of such Christian beliefs didn't realise is that, when a woman (or, indeed, anyone) is sewing or embroidering or knitting, her mind will almost automatically wander to the exact opposite of knitting. That being crocheting, of course. Ha ha! I jest. But seriously, fantasies abound when one is entranced by the rhythmic motion and patterning of woven wool. That said though, as I was knitting today, my other friend R observed that it is quite comforting to see someone in a room just... knitting. It's soothing; like keeping the home-fires burning steadily on the hearth and all that jazz. As well, we agreed that I looked and felt quite serene as I knitted. I've experienced a similar kind of serenity when doing laps of the backstroke in the swimming pool. If I could knit and do the backstroke at the same time, I might actually achieve a level of bliss felt only by meditating yogis at the peak of nirvana. Unfortunately, I don't think that Penlan Council Estate Community Centre would look favourably upon bits of mohair floating atop the pool water during Aquacise. Plus, the logistics of ones arms and hands combining the two pursuits is just ridiculous. So, I will take my serenity as it comes.

Home and Away: I'm Over It

2008-09-05T05:42:00.004-04:00

The other day I forgot to watch 'Home and Away'. When I realised that, I knew it was the beginning of the end of my attachment to that show. This has happened to me before: Grey's Anatomy, Sex and the City, Desperate Housewives, The O.C. ... they all had me hooked! And then I got tired and I was all like, I'm over you, television program. The thought of watching Home and Away this evening feels tedious. I think I've figured out why this happens: The premise for all of these shows (but most especially the soap operas) is that there is a village of really immature and good-looking adults who stuff up their lives EVERYDAY and to whom fate just WILL NOT give a break. Here is a case in point: The characters, Jack and Martha on H & A. Before they met, when they were teenagers, both of their mothers died. Then Martha found out her dead mother was adopted, so she went to Summer Bay to find her long-lost family. Then she and Jack began a feisty relationship. Then they broke up and Martha began pole-dancing for money. Then they got married, only to have the barn in which they held the reception get BLOWN UP by the town Stalker, killing Martha's physically abusive younger brother whom she had JUST had a fight with (of course) and whom she was unable to apologize to. This killed a few other people too, including Jack's best friend, whose liver was then needed to save Jack's life. Then they got divorced. Then Jack married this other chick who turned out to be a lying former drug-dealer, who committed suicide WHILE she was pregnant. Then Martha dated Roman. Then she and Jack got back together and she discovered she was pregnant - hooray! But whose baby is it? And now Martha has breast cancer AND she has a miscarriage and should probably just die because HOW MUCH MORE CAN HAPPEN TO HER? And these characters are both only 22 years old! So I think I might give up Home and Away because I am tired of these fictional peoples' lives being so impossibly impossible and shitty. As well, it's on at a kind of inconvenient time of day.

Paralysis

2008-09-05T05:30:00.004-04:00

Lately I've been feeling sort of... paralysed. It's not like I'm lying catatonic on the floor, unable to move, slurring my words or whatever - because obviously I am writing this. But, it would seem that unless I have some sort of activity planned for my day, I end up doing, well, nothing. And that's not because I don't want to do something! It's just that I am stuck. Is this a rut? Am I stuck in a rut? All of a sudden I am concerned about myself. Although, I am not unhappy. In fact, I have been extraordinarily light-hearted lately - smiling at strangers on the street and letting myself get wet in the rain and thinking, "ahh, how misty! such a life is this!" (The strangers on the street do not join me in this. They mostly look at me strangely and walk on, unless they are men, when they look at my breasts and then walk on). Anyways, it's come to the point now when I consider just leaving the house a productive act of the day. Written down this sounds like depression. Like can't-get-out-of-bed-and-I-have-no-motivation-for-life, kind of depression. Which would make sense if I weren't so happy. Thoughts?

The Day Every Girl Turns Into Her Mother...

2008-08-14T03:56:00.005-04:00

The other day I had a hankering to do some baking. I made a darling little yellow sponge cake with a whipped cream and lemon curd icing. It tastes divine, I'll tell ya, and just right for summer, I think. As well, I decided to paint my fingernails yesterday - I chose a punchy bright red - something classic, yet bold! So, yesterday as I was cutting the cake with a silver cake-server, and watching my red nail-polished hands at work, I realised that I was looking at... my mother's hands!

You see, for as long as I can remember, my mum has painted her nails in classic red polish. She is also a master cake maker, having at one time even run her own wedding cake business. She's also ace at making birthday cakes for the family, similar to the one I made the other day. Of course, I made mine for no reason... but, my mother actually once made an entire 3-tiered raspberry-white chocolate buttercream wedding cake... just to try it out.

Another thing is that, genetically speaking, I have my mother's hands. They are smaller than hers, but still basically the same in shape, etc.. So, watching my nail-polished hands cutting into a cake sort of freaked me out, because it was like they weren't even mine... or rather, that I and my mother had become one person! It doesn't stop there, either. I was wearing yoga pants (the exact same ones owned by mummy) and am currently reading one of her books. Oh, and did I mention that some people think that I am her physical clone? (Though that is not true, of course. I have my father's nose and much nicer hair. It's true, she would agree).

Of course, there are worse things to have in common with one's mother. I fear, for example, that when I have children, I will develop her naggy voice when they, say, don't eat enough fruit or won't wash the dishes.

Despite all of this though, I'm actually mildly amused. For one thing, looking down at my mum's hands make me feel less homesick for Ontario. And also, she has taught me how to make seriously kick-ass cakes - and we all know that nothing wins friends like quality baked goods.

Arriva Trains Wales Service from Cardiff to Swansea - 2-8-08

2008-08-03T06:41:00.008-04:00

When people drink alcohol on Via Rail in Canada, it's usually a soothing Rye and Coke, or a mini bottle of Ontario or BC wine, that they sip from tiny glasses while peacefully looking out the window at the countryside as it rolls by. Things roll a little differently over here in Wales. A case in point is the trip I took last evening from Cardiff to Swansea, after (somewhat ironically) watching a Canadian film (My Winnipeg) with my English friend, M. A rowdy group of folks got on the train and seated themselves near me. They had been out celebrating someone's 40th birthday and were catching the last train back to Neath (or Castell Nedd, in Welsh) so that they could get a curry before heading home. Once the train got going, they quickly passed out plastic cups, a bottle of pop, and a mickey of vodka, while also swigging from tall-boy cans of Strongbow. Soon someone broke out into song, bellowing "Happy Birthday". They were joined by about 20 others and began modifying the lyrics when the ticketman came around, singing "Happy Ticket to youuu!" followed by a hearty performance of The Beatles' "Ticket to Ride". This was followed by a truly inspiring version of "Bohemian Rhapsody" that saw the lead singer unbutton his shirt and stand on a seat thrusting at his friends as he sang in falsetto, "Galileo! Galileo!". Soon one of his mates exited the toilet in only his underwear, with his trousers hanging around his neck. This fellow was cheered on by a few of their female companions who then began a song that I was unfamiliar with, but went something like this: "Thank the Lord I'm not ENGLISH! Stick a facking tenner up yer arse!" which was finally followed by the Welsh national anthem, sung in Cymreig, of course. This moving performance saw us all the way from Cardiff to Brigend, past Port Talbot Steelworks, and at last to Neath, where the group alighted, looking immensely proud of their performance. Also, another marked difference about trains in Britain is that there are no porters to help you with your bags.

Home and Away

2008-08-01T11:48:00.012-04:00

As many of my friends know, I have developed an odd attachment to the Australian daily soap opera, "Home and Away". This is ironic and not-so-ironic for several reasons: Firstly, the last time I lived in Wales, I did not have access to television for nearly a year. My flatmates and I would often spout self-righteously about how we did not miss t.v. at all, and that, in fact, thought t.v. to be disgusting and frankly, 'beneath' us. When I returned to Canada, I would roll my eyes and turn up my nose whenever the television reared its glowing head. Sometimes, when "Survivor" or "the News" was on, I would even cover my ears or my eyes and say to my parents with palpable animosity, "How can you stand that thing?!" (I've never liked watching the news though... it makes me too sad... I know its shameful and I should be "aware", but whatever. I don't read much of the newspaper, either.) Gradually, though, t.v. began to woo me with its radioactive properties. Late at night I'd find myself shamefully watching the worst of the worst: Hogan Knows Best and Gene Simmons' Family Jewels - horrid media vehicles for old celebrities to exploit their families and show off how rich they are. But finally, when I came back to Wales and discovered the gem that is Home and Away, I now proudly admit: I bloody love T.V.. Embarrassing? Oh Yes. Shameful? Not as much as not liking "The News", probably. But, considering I am both "Home" and "Away" in Wales, perhaps I have just found something to identify with and comfort me while I'm here. As well, the Australia-Canada Commonwealth commonality, brings a post-colonial element to my fixation, which is fortified by my residing in the United Kingdom. Home and Away is about to go on a summer break for a few weeks. At first I was distraught - how could I live without knowing what's happening between Aden and Belle for that long?! But then I realised that I am soon going on vacation to North Wales, and so I was comforted. I have also found the fact that I cannot watch Home and Away in Canada a comforting reason to be happy living in the UK. That, and I can watch it on the internet, and check the Aussie website to find out what's happening, because they are three months ahead of us. Oh, and the men on "Home and Away" are serious babes. 'Nuff said.

Things I Saw in South Wales Today

2008-07-21T09:02:00.005-04:00

It is a beautiful - and I mean BEAUTIFUL - day in South Wales today. There are few clouds in the sky and NONE of them have the least bit of the usual threatening grey; the sky is blue blue blue - cerulean, even - and it's warm and sunny, with a light breeze. I went to the market this morning to purchase some fresh fish (squid and smoked haddock, for a little variety) as well as some local produce, like muddy potatoes and a leek the size of my arm. While out and about today, I had a cheese and onion jacket potato for lunch (it's like a baked potato, but British... and they NEVER eat sour cream on them... seriously. Though it was delicious) and I also bought a Lindt chocolate bar at Poundland - it's like Dollarama, or Buck or Two, only more like Two because due to international exchange rates, it was actually twice as expensive... but still cheap! Because it was at Poundland! As well, I saw a man in the post office who did not have a neck - not that that was his fault, it's just it had never occurred to me how important necks are, beyond the obvious function of holding up the head. You see, following my observance today, I realised that your head can stay up just fine without a neck, but you cannot turn your head! It is fixed in the straight-on position, severely restricting one's room for scope. Although, I imagine the fella I saw today has wicked peripheral vision that is likely way better than most. Also, a bearded woman asked me if I wanted to buy any 'lucky charms' today... she wasn't talking about cereal, that I know, but I'm uncertain just what these 'charms' were. She did not show me her wares. Perhaps she was a gypsy? Or a 'pikey' of uncertain origin? I know not. But I do know that I couldn't be any luckier on such a beautiful day!

So now I live in another country.

2008-07-12T08:51:00.007-04:00

I have not written on this here interweb blogosphere for nearly a month, but I think my excuse is more than valid: I moved to Wales and didn't have internet in my "flat" until yesterday. For all those Canadians reading who just said, "Wales? You mean, like England?", let me explain. Wales is a separate country than England; a nation, if you will. It is like Scotland and Northern Ireland, which people rarely have difficulty designating as separate from England, though they are all part of the United Kingdom (which is actually a Queendom, if you think about it) and so they share currency and passports and t.v. channels and inside jokes. Wales, however, has it's own assembly government and it's own language - it is bi-lingual, don't ya know! And the Welsh peoples have very distinctive accents that one must carefully train one's ear to understand. For example, if someone said to you, "Ewer well-chuffed, inew, bach! I come by yere at quarter past an it were rainin' so hard I looked totlly mingin', like. No cwtch for me like, Innit!" What would you think that means? Since I made up a pretty random sentence, it doesn't mean much. But if you imagine someone who is rain-sodden and quite irrate, speaking to a drier counterpart whom they are visiting, the above sentence translates to something like this: "You are happy now, aren't you, my love? I came over here at quarter after (the hour) and it was raining so hard, I looked positively horrible. No hug for me now, eh?!" For those of you who are Welsh, I deeply apologize for my presumptuous attempt at writing your speech patterns on a silly blog. And for those of you who are not Canadian, the translation of "Innit!" to "Eh?!" is totally lost on you, and I cannot attempt to explain the nuances of either word here. Nevertheless, I have almost successfully trained my ear to understand the Welsh peoples. They, on the other hand, are often befuddled by my sweet little Southern Ontario twang. They say we "Americans" (a deeply irritating generic term that the, erm, "British" like to lump us in) are very twangy, indeed. They claim we do not pronouce our "t"s correctly and that there should be an "r" at the end of "idea" (the horror!). However, being Canadian, they like our spelling similarities (we love words with a "u" in it, don't we?!) and find us to be amusingly polite (apparently I say "sorry" a lot) and thus are sort of fond of us petite Canadiens. That is, of course, until you say you don't like Homo milk and they either laugh in your face or think you are blatantly rude homo-phobic foreigner.

Lovers and Other Strangers

2008-05-31T11:57:00.005-04:00

On weekend evenings, when the stars are high in the black sky and perhaps you're feeling a little lonely, do you ever switch on the radio and tune in to the easy listening sounds of "Lovers, and Other Strangers"? I don't. However, last night as I drove home from work, I was fiddling with the car radio and came across that particular program. I hadn't heard it in years! The creepily soothing voice, slowing speaking his bits of commonsense wisdom and depressing observations, interspersed with a little Roberta Flack, was thoroughly frightening. I've always wondered if that show was actually still current, or if the radio jockey is actually dead and they're just broadcasting old tapes from the 80s. I also always picture sad-looking folks sitting alone on brown couches in apartments with peach coloured ceramic lamps, sipping slowing from a glass of scotch with all the lights off, save for the glow of streetlamps filtering through the venetian blinds on the window. And they're listening to Lovers and Other Strangers and thinking about how, yeah, sometimes a lover is even stranger than a stranger, but wouldn't it be nice to have a lover, or even a stranger to talk to; to talk about how I am watching my life fade away... That's totally depressing, I know, but that is what that creepy radio show makes me think of. Also, in my imagination, there is a crescent moon visible outside. You know, the ones that almost look like they're made of cardboard or styrofoam, like on Sesame Street? Anyways, I really hope my vision doesn't exist because the thought is making me feel uncomfortable.

"I am not being rude with you, I am just being Indian"

2008-05-31T11:45:00.010-04:00

Today is my last day of work at the Indian restaurant - huzzah! Though I'm sure I will have amusing anecdotes to write about for years to come, it's sort of too bad I won't have any fresh material on the subject. For instance, I doubt that random people will come up to me, say something abruptly rude and then say, "Look, I am not being rude with you, I am just being Indian", nor will people tease me by handing me a bowl of Vindaloo sauce when I ask for yogurt (which, truthfully, does make me laugh everytime!). However, if you think of that as a metaphor for life, such is often the case. As in, I really wasn't expecting such a Vindaloo of an evening when all I wanted was a Korma-type of night out! If you are not familiar with your Indian curries, that will be meaningless to you. If you are, it's a pretty corny joke. So tonight for the last time, I will listen to the same instrumental Hindu CD that has been the soundtrack of my life for the last six months. Put that in your hookah and smoke it! Farewell Indian, we have served each other well. Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Krishna, Hare Hare...

Thank You, But I'd Really Rather Not...

2008-05-27T20:22:00.007-04:00

I don't like "High Fives". When people exuberantly request one from me, I'm always mildly embarrassed and inwardly cringing and annoyed. In fact, sometimes I just refuse to even Five back. To some, this may make me seem like a humourless old lady who can't enjoy the innocent act of the "High 5!", and to be honest, when faced with a "High Five", I am essentially humourless and at the very least, sour-faced . I had never really meditated on this dislike of mine until my boss - a sixty-year-old, rather serious Indian man who favours three-piece suits - asked for a High Five in response to something clever I had done. He wasn't trying to be "cool", nor was he mocking - it was a serious request and I did not enjoy it. I mean, how do you say, "I'd really prefer a firm handshake..." when the High Fiver is so pumped to have your hand meet theirs in that instant? I think the main problem with the High Five today is that people don't do it hard enough, or someone has a clammy hand, or neither Fiver is co-ordinated enough and they kind of miss and just brush the sides of each other's palms awkwardly. As a child, I always assumed High Fives would be one of those things you'd talk about twenty years hence and say, "Remember when we used to High Five?! Wasn't that ridiculous?!", much like we now say, "Remember when the Running Man was a legitimately cool dance move and we wore flourescent coloured bicycle shorts and bathing suits with zippers?! hah hah ha!" And yet, the High Five has persisted in our culture. I know that my complaints are fruitless; the High Five will prevail. But if you agree with my dislike, High Five! ...NOT! (Remember when we used to say NOT! after everything for about two years after Wayne's World came out? And we were wearing the bike shorts? Think about it.)

Celebrity Sightings! - Canadian Opera Company Edition

2008-05-22T22:37:00.007-04:00

Guess who I saw at the Opera tonight!? Well, the performance was Pelleas et Melisande by Claude Debussy, BUT the big news is, Jeanne Beker totally eye-balled my outfit, and Margaret Atwood scarfed a sandwich right in front of mum and me in the lobby before the show. Now, I'm going to be frank here: I looked awesome tonight. Seriously. I wore this geometric patterned, brown, turquoise and white '60s-style shift dress with a brown cordoroy coat with covered buttons and white Italian leather sandals and I did my hair in an up-do and put on turquoise jewellery and I even had a pedicure. But Jeanne, of Fashion Television (FT, obv.) and Canada's Next Top Model fame, gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher. She caught my attention because she was staring at me. So I stared back, thinking, I know that lady! My, she has large feet that are accentuated by her clunky red shoes and incredibly skinny legs. Though, her hair is remarkably shiny! And then I realised, That's Jeanne Beker! But did she think my outfit Awesome? Or, Abysmal? I don't know... I can only surmise, since she saw me from afar, thus mayn't have noticed that my coat had a bit of cat hair on it, that she thought I looked fab, especially in contrast to the blue-haired old ladies who filled much of the auditorium. Anyways, I'll keep you posted as to my fashion future with Jeanne. So, after Mummy and I excitedly debated this topic, Mum said suddenly, "That woman looks like Margaret Atwood! But I'm not sure because she's stuffing a sandwich in her face..." So, we waited for her to swallow and we were confirmed! Margaret Atwood it was, indeed! She didn't look at us, though, so that story pretty much ends there. As for the opera itself, the singing was skilful and the conductor was very talented, but we didn't like the set design AT ALL, and it seems this opear by Monsieur Debussy is rarely performed for a reason - he neglected to write any actual arias or anything beyond sung dialogue, so the show was just so-so. We tended to concur with the person behind us who was talking about last night's entertaining American Idol final - go David Cook!

The paralysis of boredom and procrastination as it affects daily life:

2008-05-20T17:47:00.004-04:00

I was just chatting with my friend A, who got me to start this blog-thing a while ago, and we were discussing how we tend to waste time and then feel honestly shocked when time has actually passed. For instance, I have been working at the Indian restaurant for 6 months! Which means, I have been living at my parents' house for 9 months! I could have had a baby in that time! But what have I actually done all this time? Now, I have a lot of interests, as it were, and I often think about those interests. I'll think to myself... I should paint a picture today! Or perhaps I will sew myself a new skirt this week. Ooh, I know, I should look into taking piano lessons AND start taking a yoga class again! But the truth is, most of my time is passed by sitting on my bed reading, looking out the window, petting my cats, and farting around on the wireless internet that my computer so helpfully picks up when I sit cross-legged in the middle of the mattress. Yet, because I think about my interests, I feel like I still have them, you know?

Volleyball is not Delicious.

2008-05-19T12:16:00.009-04:00

My friend S hates it when non-food items are described as "delicious". I get that. It always irritated me when people would hiss "Nice!" during school volleyball games, because I think that volleyball is a detestable sport and getting red welts on your wrists is not "nice". A few weeks ago at work, some of my co-workers and I made a list of words that we especially enjoy, and those that we especially hate.

Horrid Words:

Dollop
Moist
Chunky

Delicious words (Sorry, S):

Splunking
Effervescent
Spacious

Mine are #1 and #1. Let's not talk about the first one (yuck!), but do let's go cave exploring, and remember to bring your headlamps and rubber boots!

Happy Victoria Day! The stores are closed.

2008-05-19T12:02:00.007-04:00

On principle, I rather like Victoria Day. Days like this make me feel like a bit of a wee monarchist, although I highly resent it when British people say that they "own" us - though I'm pretty sure it's said only to 'get my goat', as my mum would say. Anyways, I think it's great that we get a day off and people set off fireworks for 3 nights in a row to say Happy Birthday to a queen who died ages ago, but was one stalwart lady. Also, I know that Queen Victoria was a fairly conservative woman who likely would have highly disapproved of our practice of shopping on Sundays and spending this weekend getting plastered in various outdoor locales; however, I had to work on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday of this "long weekend" (read: weekend of Indian drudgery), and it would be nice if I could go to the bookstore or Winners today to buy things I don't need. Of course, I know that this is not Her Majesty's fault, but rather the government's, and I can't be bothered having beefs with the government. Plus, I don't want to make all the shopkeepers work on this royal holiday, so I have found a way around this foible. I have just made purchases on the internet! Impulsive, CD and literature-type purchases! Nice. Although, they probably won't arrive until Wednesday, or so, but isn't anticipation delicious?

Hey! Burger King's back!

2008-05-15T16:28:00.005-04:00

This past weekend, I was in Kingston, Ontario and I remarked to my friend JJ, "Hey! Burger King's back!" because, well, it was. When we used to live in that old lake town, Burger King mysteriously closed, despite it being a popular place for drunks to messily eat hamburgers and poutine at 3 a.m. ('cause it was cheaper than Bubba's, but not better. No, definitely not better). Anyways, it was back and there was a huge quarry-deep hole in the ground where one of my friend's rotting houses stood. Also gone was the barn that housed a most beloved feral cat colony, but we (JJ and I) are fairly confident that the kitties we had not rescued from the barn had moved on when they heard of the proposed construction. Speaking of Burger King, do you remember the scary King mascot they used to have? He had a really big head and wore a crown and may or may not have had plastic, ginger-coloured hair? Once when I was in high school (think: 1999-2000, Silver Jeans, 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack, scratch n' sniff Japanese anime t-shirts, and fluffy pink scrunchies in buns on the sides of our heads that were NOT copying Britney Spears... she just had the exact same ones in the Baby One More Time Video, gawd), my friends and I were walking down one of our suburban streets, past the identical brick houses, on our way to the Dairy Queen, when a car drove slowly past us and the Burger King King himself, stuck his head out of the window, silently, and looked at us. His head was the size of a boulder and it was so terrifyingly amazing that we all screamed and began rolling on the carefully cut grass of someone's lawn, laughing and hyperventillating, as teenagers are wont to do. Sometimes I wonder how that was even real, but it was. Though now, mostly, I wonder where those other teenagers had procured a giant plastic Burger King head that they could wear and drive around town with, scaring and delighting citizens with amused abandon.

Rendition?

2008-05-15T16:20:00.005-04:00

Yesterday I was at work at the Indian, when a customer drew a caricature of me. She gave me huge teeth and a huge chin and huge boobs - now, I know they're supposed to be exaggerated, or whatever, but this really didn't look like me. My chin is tiny, and my teeth are a little crooked and not exactly small, but not like horse teeth, and well, my boobs are on the small side of large, I'd say. Anyways, the artist is working the re-opening of the McDonald's this weekend, if anyone is interested in having a picture drawn of them. The only difference is that you will have to pay for yours, while I had mine handed to me after being unknowingly drawn as I swannied about serving curry and looking unbelievably tired of my job. Weird, I know.

I don't know much, but I know I love curry.

2008-04-29T00:05:00.007-04:00

The other night I was hard at work at the Indian restaurant, when four gal-pals of reproductive age came in for a girly dinner (do I dare have wine? Don't worry, we'll do extra pilates! p.s. I love your new hi-lites!). The restaurant wasn't busy, so I took the opportunity of relative quiet to eavesdrop on some of their conversation while I folded napkins nearby. They discussed which camps they were going to send their kids to in the summer - Muskoka Baptist Camp is so cheap! As long as you don't mind the praying..., and they effusively spoke of their love for Indian food and Oprah - Omigod, we HAVE to have the Vindaloo - I had it at Moxie's once and it was AMAZING! Have you read Eckhart Tolle, yet? What about Eat Pray Love? We just did it in book club! Anyways, as I walked over with my tray of Diet Cokes and half-litre of Chardonnay, the thin, blonde one was talking about how she and her hubby had recently attended a couples workshop up at Scanlon Creek. For those of you unfamiliar with Scanlon Creek, it is a conservation area in Southern Ontario with log houses, mud, and snow-shoeing, and is mostly frequented by Grade 6 class trips and Brownie and Guides camps (yes, I had to attend both in my youth; I don't want to talk about the snow shoeing OR the chocolate pudding). Anyways, Thin Blonde turned to Pregnant One next to her to demonstrate one of the AMAZING exercises they did. Okay, okay, hold my hands and look into my eyes - I KNOW! - and they were playing that song, you know... "I don't know much, but I know I love youuuu".... and ugh, it was just so powerful, we both had tears in our eyes, and I looked around at all the other couples and you could just see the love, and they were all teary too! Now, I consider myself to be a true romantic - I weep at Gone with the Wind and The Notebook and don't even get me started on when Satine dies in Moulin Rouge, or when Anne and Gilbert FINALLY get together in Anne of the Island. But, I draw the line at Dan Hill and his creepy castrato warblings of 70s Gold Compilations for "lovers". Barftastic.

Dwarf Tulips Curl My Toes with Delight

2008-04-23T19:39:00.006-04:00

This lovely little warm spell we are having is giving me Spring Fever. I have ceased wearing socks and have begun to let my hair grow long in earnest. As I take my daily stroll around the garden, with my cat Leopold following happily at my heels, I breathe in the sunlight; feel the grass tickle my feet and admire the now-wilting crocuses (croci? That looks like the plural of crotch in Italian...), the fragrant hyacinths, the cup-and-saucer daffodils, and yes - the dwarf tulips. These are new - Mummy and I picked them out in November, not knowing how they would look once grown. They are as tall as two thumbs, end to end, and some are shaped like stars; others like their larger, ruffled cousins. I tell you - these tulips are Spring's tease! The unfurling leaves on the Manitoba maples and the promising buds on the crabapple tree are almost too much for me. At night, I roll around naked on the glistening, dew covered grass, my sun-honeyed skin bathed in moonlight! I dance with the wild abandon of a vernal nymph! I converse with elves and faeries and make sweet carnal love to satyrs! That, or I watch Dancing with the Stars on the plaid couch, eating ice cream with the cat stalking my bowl nearby, feeling a faint breeze from the cracked open patio door. Regardless, le Printemps has arrived, and I like it.

"I smell burnt toast, Dr. Penfield"

2008-04-04T16:41:00.006-04:00

I haven't seen a Heritage Moment on t.v. lately, have you? I sure hope they haven't stopped airing them, because I think I'd instantly lose all sense of my Canadian Identity.

If a bunny writes a blog in the forest, and no one reads it, does anyone care?

2008-04-01T08:56:00.005-04:00

So it's, ah, April. And it's raining. And I'm sitting in my curry clothes writing on this computing machine again. So it is. I got all excited the other day and told everyone to read this here "blog", or what have you, and then I forgot to write anything for several days. In truth, apart from the writing bit, it's kind of ridiculous that I have a blog, because it's really quite proactive and technilogically advanced for me. I mean, managing Foolbook and e-mail is quite a big deal, considering I do not own a cell phone or an ipod. I also never had video games as a child (apart from this DOS computer game with tanks that my bro and I used to play on the old 486 that had captions like, "Eat Napalm, Bill!" and "You're shit, sucker!"); we didn't have a CD player in the house until I was 15, and only 2 years ago did my parents finally break down and replace our VCR from 1989 (yes, we didn't even have a VCR until 1989) with a DVD player --but, as my parents say, "This thing is so complicated! I finally figured out how to use the old one and then we got this!" So pretty much, if you are reading this, then you should congratulate me on my latest attempt to enter the modern world.

Have you met the Penis Cactus?

2008-03-30T13:03:00.005-04:00

I have had this cactus for 10 years. Initially it was just a little round fellow, but over time it has grown into, well, a penis cactus. (That is happily flowering for Spring, at the mo!) The testes grew one by one, and its flaccid appearance can be attributed to when it fell off my bookshelf a few years back. I sometimes worry about the Feng Shui inherent in having a prickly little penis in my bedroom, but what can I do? He works so hard to live in his tiny pink pot.

I just can't get enough of this bloggy business!

2008-03-30T10:58:00.006-04:00

I bought a CD on the internet yesterday; I don't know why. Not that I'm opposed to purchasing music on CD - in fact, I quite enjoy doing so, as I am a natural collector. (I also collect old books, 1950s mystery stories for children, figurines in the shape of bulls and horses, odd collectible plates, postcards, and vintage sewing patterns). But the reason I dunno why I bought that CD is that it wasn't particularly on the top of my list, and I hadn't even listened to this particular band - Bloc Party 'Silent Alarm' - since I was in 4th Year and I was big into dancing intensely to the song "Banquet" in front of the DJ booth at Alfie's on Friday Nights, while drinking Labatt 50. That was around this time of year in 2006, just before tapered pants, or "skinny jeans", had made their full mark on mainstream fashion again. A big bell or bootcut flare was not hard to come by at the Jean Machine, or similar-type store. Perhaps I was just feeling nostalgic for a time when I had numerous venues to dance and drink Labatt 50 in. There is not one bar in this one-man town that has either of those things, but such is my cross to bear, (she says ironically). I'm sort of excited to get my CD in the mail, though. It is apparently "Used - Like NEW" and being sent from somewhere in Ontario. Nice.

"When will the Snow Monsoon end?"

2008-03-30T10:04:00.009-04:00

Is what one of my co-workers at the Indian Restaurant asked me not too long ago. 'I wish I knew,' I replied, 'and oh, you can call it a blizzard, though I much prefer your new name for it.' I have been watching the slow melt for some time now, and apparently it's all going to thaw properly tomorrow or Tuesday, which will finally bring an end to this perpetual Winter. I hate to complain - I really do. I think it's a generally useless and negative act - but I am tired of the snow. I long for Spring and new flowers and phases in life. I'll even welcome the smell of thawing dog shit that always surfaces when the snowbanks recede. I will turn my face to the sun, feel the cold ripple of melt and sand and salt beneath my feet, and breathe in with satisfaction - ahhh, the smell of Spring in Canada. Have you ever read "The Long Winter" by Laura Ingalls Wilder? That is how I have felt these many months in the hometown. Only, my family and I have not run out of food or firewood and Ma isn't pregnant again with no milk for the baby. Rather, I'm just tired of the monotony of serving curry day-in, day-out, while living with my parents and looking forward to things like, say, independence. That and I'm really tired of wearing my brown coat.