Whenever Marty and I go on long drives, he has to drive because I get bored and fall asleep at the wheel, and this is disrespectful towards other drivers trying to "get there alive".
His only other option is to let me drive after drinking 3 coffees, but since that entails singing Dixie Chicks at the top of my lungs (or rapping) for 5 hours straight, he tends to go with the former. I pretty much know all the words to every top 40 song for the last 15 years. It's a gift (...or is it a curse?) No, it's a gift.
We drove back to Ottawa recently to visit the fam, about a five hour drive.
For the first hour or two I'm pretty chatty, so this distracts from the unavoidable outward-bound traffic from Toronto, on a Friday evening. Then I start dozing off because Marty will only listen to old grendpa music, like Pink Floyd or Tupac. The kind of songs that no one under a 100 years old knows the words to, and when I get bored I sleep to pass the time.
Once I fall asleep, Marty will inevitably do something to wake me up: Indian sunburning (is that racist? Sorry, The Indians. I don’t know any other word for squeezing two hands on someone’s arm and rapidly moving back and forth in opposite directions in a painful manner.) or worse yet, filling his mouth up with one of those disgusting black licorice candies and breathing right in my face.
I. Hate. Black. Licorice.
Won’t let me sleep, ehhhhh? Nobody tells ME what to do! So now my new thing is whenever he pulls up beside a car, I start pretending like I’m running beside them. I’ll share this with you in case you are ever in my predicament. It’s not a happy, fun, “let’s-play-a-game run”. I mean like a balls-out race, pumping my arms as fast as I can and looking over my shoulder to see if they are gaining. Are they? Throw in a menacing look or snarl (but only for a second, keep your eyes on the prize)! Have a bottle of water or other drink handy? Chug it down like you’re dying of thirst (don’t stop pretend running with your other arm. If some rolls down your face, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT, stop and wipe it off. It adds to the intimidation.) Once in a while, make eye contact with your competitor, if you can. The key in Pretend Race is believability.
After two races, Marty will be begging me to go to sleep. But you know what? I’m PUMPED! I see you, The Girl in the Blue Hyundai. It’s on.
P.S. It has occurred to me that I should probably refer to Marty as something else, as he more than likely doesn't want any clients to know about his black licorice breath. Henceforth (don't mind me, I'm reading World Without End by Ken Follett right now, and also my friend is dating a prince, so I'm feeling very "days of yore" recently), Marty shall be known as The Boyfriend.
kthxbye.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Weather Patterns
Of course rain would ruin one of my favorite days to party out of the whole year: Cinco De Mayo.
The entire 25-degree work day was spent emailing mi amiga about the fun things we were going to do: walk around Kensington market and eat burritos, hit up a patio and order sangria in the sunshine, watch as the latino community came out and sell their wares in droves... It was a dream come true.
Anything that allows me to escape reality and pretend I'm somewhere spanish-speaking is a dream come true. Last weekend, I went to a communal Indian birthday party at the Liberty Grand, which looks like a resorty-palace. For a couple of hours, I pretended everyone was Mexican and I was in Cabos. ¡ARRIBA!¡ARRIBA!...and Namaste.
Pure bliss.
I'm pretty sure I just offended a huge percentage of the world but since I can't decide if its the Mexican population or the Indian population, I'm going to go with both, so they can cancel each other out. I'm very diplomatic, Méxindia.
Anyways, of course my arch-nemesis, The Rain, showed up the second I set foot out of the office and kept on for the rest of the evening, effectively destroying any chance of plan follow-through. We still went out for tapas, but it wasn't the same. In my mind, and I'm sure others will agree, "Down South" means endless sunny days, without a cloud in sight.
But that's total horseshit.
I lived Down South for about a year. Sunny days exist, that's for sure, but for a pretty good portion of it, at least in Honduras, rain ruined many a plan for me, and one time, my dear friends, it caused this unlucky girl to fall into a sewer.
Sewers in Puerto Cortés aren't the beautiful works of art you see here. There's no lid to cover the grossness that lies beneath, nor do the sewer contents run deep below the streets, hidden from view. They run about 3 feet below street level, under the sidewalks. And by sidewalks, I mean giant slabs of concrete strategically placed over the sewer drains. Some of the slabs are broken, or caved into the sewer, so the grossness can be clearly visible at times. And by grossness, I mean people use these holes as garbage cans, so on top of the crap that's already swimming through the drains, there's huge mounds of mushy decomposing garbage that never gets picked up. I hope I'm painting a vivid enough picture for you.
Moving on.
One day, there was so much rain that school was cancelled.
That's me in 2006!
We (being me and my friend/roommate Tamara) keep thinking it's going to stop, but it rains and rains and we are finally desperate enough to brave the waters and head to the grocery store to pick up emergency supplies.
We have to walk one block north because we live on a slope and no cab is foolish enough to drive on these roads.
We end up picking up our emergency supplies and getting in a cab back. This cab is foolish enough to drive on those flooded roads. He drops us off right beside our house, where that picture above was taken.
The car starts to fill up with water in the back and we toss him the money casually, pretending like his car is not going to need thousands of dollars worth of work.
In our haste to leave and pretend we have no idea what is going on, Tamara hops out and I start handing grocery bags to her over my head. One step out of the car and I'm in floodland, baby.
So I try to step out carefully, as close as possible to the house, because that's where the most leverage is. The cab drives away, and in trying to avoid being splashed by the cab, I lose my footing.
And fall into a sewer.
The entire ground was covered in water and it was impossible to see where the sidewalk started, ended, or had cracks. I can still feel the soft, decomposing garbage on my nightmare feet.
I shriek to high heavens, because I am literally submersed in raw sewage. Try to imagine this happening to you. Just try. Yeah.
Clambering to safety as quickly as possible, I run into the house, yanking off all sewage clothes and screaming non-stop. It's all very cartoonish, but really happening. I head for the shower.
It does not work.
It. does. not. work.
Not having water was typical in Puerto, but this was basically the most awful time possible. I use some of the drinking water, but in a flood, there was virtually no way to get any more, and I couldn't really use all our drinking water to take a bath....Or could I? (no, I couldn't).
My genius mother had packed about 1000 wetnaps in my bag for just this type of emergency. How might she know I was going to trip and fall into a sewer, you might ask? Well, I have had a pretty long history with falling into things. You wouldn't have to be that intuitive.
After being almost disinfected (or rather, almost running out of supplies) by 893 wetnaps, that antibacterial stuff you don't need water for that I can't remember the name of right now, and my tears' water, guess who decides to show up for a visit?
Why, running tap water, of course!
Not a good day, friends, not a good day.
The entire 25-degree work day was spent emailing mi amiga about the fun things we were going to do: walk around Kensington market and eat burritos, hit up a patio and order sangria in the sunshine, watch as the latino community came out and sell their wares in droves... It was a dream come true.
Anything that allows me to escape reality and pretend I'm somewhere spanish-speaking is a dream come true. Last weekend, I went to a communal Indian birthday party at the Liberty Grand, which looks like a resorty-palace. For a couple of hours, I pretended everyone was Mexican and I was in Cabos. ¡ARRIBA!¡ARRIBA!...and Namaste.
Pure bliss.
I'm pretty sure I just offended a huge percentage of the world but since I can't decide if its the Mexican population or the Indian population, I'm going to go with both, so they can cancel each other out. I'm very diplomatic, Méxindia.
Anyways, of course my arch-nemesis, The Rain, showed up the second I set foot out of the office and kept on for the rest of the evening, effectively destroying any chance of plan follow-through. We still went out for tapas, but it wasn't the same. In my mind, and I'm sure others will agree, "Down South" means endless sunny days, without a cloud in sight.
But that's total horseshit.
I lived Down South for about a year. Sunny days exist, that's for sure, but for a pretty good portion of it, at least in Honduras, rain ruined many a plan for me, and one time, my dear friends, it caused this unlucky girl to fall into a sewer.
Sewers in Puerto Cortés aren't the beautiful works of art you see here. There's no lid to cover the grossness that lies beneath, nor do the sewer contents run deep below the streets, hidden from view. They run about 3 feet below street level, under the sidewalks. And by sidewalks, I mean giant slabs of concrete strategically placed over the sewer drains. Some of the slabs are broken, or caved into the sewer, so the grossness can be clearly visible at times. And by grossness, I mean people use these holes as garbage cans, so on top of the crap that's already swimming through the drains, there's huge mounds of mushy decomposing garbage that never gets picked up. I hope I'm painting a vivid enough picture for you.
Moving on.
One day, there was so much rain that school was cancelled.
That's me in 2006!
We (being me and my friend/roommate Tamara) keep thinking it's going to stop, but it rains and rains and we are finally desperate enough to brave the waters and head to the grocery store to pick up emergency supplies.
We have to walk one block north because we live on a slope and no cab is foolish enough to drive on these roads.
We end up picking up our emergency supplies and getting in a cab back. This cab is foolish enough to drive on those flooded roads. He drops us off right beside our house, where that picture above was taken.
The car starts to fill up with water in the back and we toss him the money casually, pretending like his car is not going to need thousands of dollars worth of work.
In our haste to leave and pretend we have no idea what is going on, Tamara hops out and I start handing grocery bags to her over my head. One step out of the car and I'm in floodland, baby.
So I try to step out carefully, as close as possible to the house, because that's where the most leverage is. The cab drives away, and in trying to avoid being splashed by the cab, I lose my footing.
And fall into a sewer.
The entire ground was covered in water and it was impossible to see where the sidewalk started, ended, or had cracks. I can still feel the soft, decomposing garbage on my nightmare feet.
I shriek to high heavens, because I am literally submersed in raw sewage. Try to imagine this happening to you. Just try. Yeah.
Clambering to safety as quickly as possible, I run into the house, yanking off all sewage clothes and screaming non-stop. It's all very cartoonish, but really happening. I head for the shower.
It does not work.
It. does. not. work.
Not having water was typical in Puerto, but this was basically the most awful time possible. I use some of the drinking water, but in a flood, there was virtually no way to get any more, and I couldn't really use all our drinking water to take a bath....Or could I? (no, I couldn't).
My genius mother had packed about 1000 wetnaps in my bag for just this type of emergency. How might she know I was going to trip and fall into a sewer, you might ask? Well, I have had a pretty long history with falling into things. You wouldn't have to be that intuitive.
After being almost disinfected (or rather, almost running out of supplies) by 893 wetnaps, that antibacterial stuff you don't need water for that I can't remember the name of right now, and my tears' water, guess who decides to show up for a visit?
Why, running tap water, of course!
Not a good day, friends, not a good day.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Train of Thoughts
People always think I'm either really crazy or really mad about something. Whether alone or not, I am constantly laughing to myself over some hilarious past happening, imagining some alternative reality where life is a musical, or a combination of the two.
If I'm not thinking about these things, then I have a Normal Face, much like yours, Reader. Because my general state-of-face looks like I'm about to barf laughter all over you, when I do have Normal Face, nearly every person I know asks me what's wrong.
How can I answer them? Nothing's wrong, this is just my face!
The worst is when people I don't really know ask me what's so funny when I'm biting my hand to stop laughing to myself.
Obviously, I don't have the time to go into major detail with people I don't know about how my life is littered with so many hilarious anecdotes, I can't even concentrate on any regular task at hand. I think about the most ridiculous things!
For example, this would be a typical train-o'-thoughts:
This morning, I had to walk by a construction site. I put my head phones on so I wouldn't have to deal with the hassles of gross old guys. This hasslin' business is a catch-22, because I shake my head in disdain at them if they do (I'm very fancy), and spend an hour in front of the mirror examining why I'm so hideous if they don't. And then I'll ask Marty like infinity times, which doesn't tend to make for good dinner conversation.
Well, while I was walking, my eyes were tearing up over the beautiful song "Hello", by Lionel Richie, that was playing. Except it was being sung by the Glee Cast, which makes it even more ridiculous, so right away I'm already a gaylord and it's like 8 AM. So then the guys start whistling at me, and my musical brain is like:
"Hello? Is it me you're looking for??
I can see it in your eyes.... I can see it in your smile. You're all I've ever wanted, (and) my arms are OPEN WIIIIDE...."
And then I can't stop thinking about how absurd this entire scenario is so I start cracking up.
And they have no idea! They think I'm giggling and blushing because they're whistling so they're high fiving each other, and I just want to bring my headphones to the tough guy leader so he can see he's not the one that made me laugh. It wasn't you, it was the Glee Cast, fool.
Then I'll imagine Marty singing the boy parts of this duet to me and this makes me laugh even more because Marty is trés serious.
Then this face that Marty makes will pop in out of nowhere. It kind of looks like this:
Which brings me then to the most hilarious skit on snl of all time
Please watch it. I think about this skit often, and make Debbie Downer or better yet, CLIFFORD (!!!!) faces to myself in passing mirrors, windows...anything with a reflective surface, really and that makes me laugh even harder.
Like I just watched those two videos right now and I'm going to pass out from laughing so much.
By this time, I've rolled into work laughing my head off and everyone thinks this is totally normal. It's a good day.
If I'm not thinking about these things, then I have a Normal Face, much like yours, Reader. Because my general state-of-face looks like I'm about to barf laughter all over you, when I do have Normal Face, nearly every person I know asks me what's wrong.
How can I answer them? Nothing's wrong, this is just my face!
The worst is when people I don't really know ask me what's so funny when I'm biting my hand to stop laughing to myself.
Obviously, I don't have the time to go into major detail with people I don't know about how my life is littered with so many hilarious anecdotes, I can't even concentrate on any regular task at hand. I think about the most ridiculous things!
For example, this would be a typical train-o'-thoughts:
This morning, I had to walk by a construction site. I put my head phones on so I wouldn't have to deal with the hassles of gross old guys. This hasslin' business is a catch-22, because I shake my head in disdain at them if they do (I'm very fancy), and spend an hour in front of the mirror examining why I'm so hideous if they don't. And then I'll ask Marty like infinity times, which doesn't tend to make for good dinner conversation.
Well, while I was walking, my eyes were tearing up over the beautiful song "Hello", by Lionel Richie, that was playing. Except it was being sung by the Glee Cast, which makes it even more ridiculous, so right away I'm already a gaylord and it's like 8 AM. So then the guys start whistling at me, and my musical brain is like:
"Hello? Is it me you're looking for??
I can see it in your eyes.... I can see it in your smile. You're all I've ever wanted, (and) my arms are OPEN WIIIIDE...."
And then I can't stop thinking about how absurd this entire scenario is so I start cracking up.
And they have no idea! They think I'm giggling and blushing because they're whistling so they're high fiving each other, and I just want to bring my headphones to the tough guy leader so he can see he's not the one that made me laugh. It wasn't you, it was the Glee Cast, fool.
Then I'll imagine Marty singing the boy parts of this duet to me and this makes me laugh even more because Marty is trés serious.
Then this face that Marty makes will pop in out of nowhere. It kind of looks like this:
Which brings me then to the most hilarious skit on snl of all time
Please watch it. I think about this skit often, and make Debbie Downer or better yet, CLIFFORD (!!!!) faces to myself in passing mirrors, windows...anything with a reflective surface, really and that makes me laugh even harder.
Like I just watched those two videos right now and I'm going to pass out from laughing so much.
By this time, I've rolled into work laughing my head off and everyone thinks this is totally normal. It's a good day.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
In April
Marty and I booked a trip to St. Lucia.
It's an all inclusive package which I'm terrified of. My favorite places to go are when I end up in hurricanes/floods, shoot guns with foreign old men, get kidnapped/shot at/chased by drug dealers, go clubbing where I absolutely under no circumstances belong, or go diving for hidden treasures in shipwrecks/pretend I'm The Little Mermaid. I'll tell you about it another time.
There will be no off-property budget for this one, because it's a luxury room at Sandals and we spent all our lifesavings and Marty is certain it's going to be La Bamba. That means The Bomb in Spanish. No, it doesn't. Why do I do that? Sorry.
One time, a couple of friends and I were at a nice restaurant called "Anclas". Being curious, Annie asked, "What does Anclas mean?" As I didn't want to look like a fool, I replied, "Anclas? Oh, that doesn't mean anything. Maybe it's a name or something." To which Tamara, and her neverending wealth of Spanish knowledge, responded, "Anclas means Anchor, idiots." Well, that is a stupid word for anchor.
*********************************************************
Went on a Segway Tour in the Distillery District where I learned that Back In The Day, Al Capone used one of the Distilleries there during The Prohibition, and killed all sorts of people buy shooting them into the wells. And also that the people used to ward off the shoreline by piling dead horses into a giant heap, so that is also something gross.
Some other stories were told too but the guys telling them were so much like Mountain Dew Dudes I couldn't concentrate on anything but their douchebaggery. They were interrupting each other, like, "DUDE! Then what happened?!" but I (and everyone else) knew that they knew what happened and they were just trying to generate excitement. You'll get nothing from me but one raised left eyebrow, Mountain Dew Dude!!
Also, Marty was racing ahead of the gang at 2 mph(like really, that's warp speed on a Segway), carving like he was on a snowboard all cool-like, so I was pretty much laughing at him the entire time.
Segway'ing (?) is SO fun!! It's really just like that movie Paul Blart: Mall Cop. I'm not saying I'm all la-dee-da now, but it was pretty Hollywood.
People thought we were in a gang. A Segway gang.
*********************************************************
Well, apparently my month was really boring. It may not have been, though. My short-term memory lasts about 2 weeks.
*********************************************************
ZOMG!! ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG!!
MAJOR UPDATE!!
I just met this dude on craigslist who sold me, omg omg omg:
Singstar
Singstar POP
Singstar 80's
Singstar 90's
...and two microphones for $30. That's like what the tax is if I paid for these instore!! I cannot WAIT to get all the singin' happening!!
One of my favorite songs of all time is on one: I Wanna Dance With Somebody by Whitney Houston, pre-crack era. This is the song I am generally listening to when you see me walking down the street with an 80's skip in my step, singing quietly to passing trees and doing chest shimmies to fences and dogs. I don't even care who's watching when this song is on.
OoooOHHH I wanna dance with somebahdeyyy
I wanna feel the HEAT with somebahDAYEEHH
OOOoooohh I wanna DANCE with somebahdeyyy
With somebodehh who loves meee!
My favorite part:
Somebody - WHOOOO?!
Somebody - WHOOOO?!
Anyways, that is all.
It's an all inclusive package which I'm terrified of. My favorite places to go are when I end up in hurricanes/floods, shoot guns with foreign old men, get kidnapped/shot at/chased by drug dealers, go clubbing where I absolutely under no circumstances belong, or go diving for hidden treasures in shipwrecks/pretend I'm The Little Mermaid. I'll tell you about it another time.
There will be no off-property budget for this one, because it's a luxury room at Sandals and we spent all our lifesavings and Marty is certain it's going to be La Bamba. That means The Bomb in Spanish. No, it doesn't. Why do I do that? Sorry.
One time, a couple of friends and I were at a nice restaurant called "Anclas". Being curious, Annie asked, "What does Anclas mean?" As I didn't want to look like a fool, I replied, "Anclas? Oh, that doesn't mean anything. Maybe it's a name or something." To which Tamara, and her neverending wealth of Spanish knowledge, responded, "Anclas means Anchor, idiots." Well, that is a stupid word for anchor.
*********************************************************
Went on a Segway Tour in the Distillery District where I learned that Back In The Day, Al Capone used one of the Distilleries there during The Prohibition, and killed all sorts of people buy shooting them into the wells. And also that the people used to ward off the shoreline by piling dead horses into a giant heap, so that is also something gross.
Some other stories were told too but the guys telling them were so much like Mountain Dew Dudes I couldn't concentrate on anything but their douchebaggery. They were interrupting each other, like, "DUDE! Then what happened?!" but I (and everyone else) knew that they knew what happened and they were just trying to generate excitement. You'll get nothing from me but one raised left eyebrow, Mountain Dew Dude!!
Also, Marty was racing ahead of the gang at 2 mph(like really, that's warp speed on a Segway), carving like he was on a snowboard all cool-like, so I was pretty much laughing at him the entire time.
Segway'ing (?) is SO fun!! It's really just like that movie Paul Blart: Mall Cop. I'm not saying I'm all la-dee-da now, but it was pretty Hollywood.
People thought we were in a gang. A Segway gang.
*********************************************************
Well, apparently my month was really boring. It may not have been, though. My short-term memory lasts about 2 weeks.
*********************************************************
ZOMG!! ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG!!
MAJOR UPDATE!!
I just met this dude on craigslist who sold me, omg omg omg:
Singstar
Singstar POP
Singstar 80's
Singstar 90's
...and two microphones for $30. That's like what the tax is if I paid for these instore!! I cannot WAIT to get all the singin' happening!!
One of my favorite songs of all time is on one: I Wanna Dance With Somebody by Whitney Houston, pre-crack era. This is the song I am generally listening to when you see me walking down the street with an 80's skip in my step, singing quietly to passing trees and doing chest shimmies to fences and dogs. I don't even care who's watching when this song is on.
OoooOHHH I wanna dance with somebahdeyyy
I wanna feel the HEAT with somebahDAYEEHH
OOOoooohh I wanna DANCE with somebahdeyyy
With somebodehh who loves meee!
My favorite part:
Somebody - WHOOOO?!
Somebody - WHOOOO?!
Anyways, that is all.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Words Words Words
Remember Back In The Day when the cast of Dawson's Creek were under media fire for their extensive vocabulary and use of references that any normal teenaged viewer would have to break out their encyclopedia to understand?
Well, not all the cast. Not Jen, who was just there to be a slut, nor Pacey, who I always saw as Dawson's tagalong, but definitely Joey, and most certainly Dawson, who always appeared to be very wise beyond his years. Or maybe wise for his years. You're not fooling anyone with that pepaw, The WB.
I loved the way they spoke. I love words. I have had a long and stable relationship with words since I spoke my first one...at age three.
My mom thinks the tale of my imbecility is really hilarious and, to my sheer embarassment, tells anyone who will listen. I think she waited until I was 14 to tell me on purpose, so I could truly feel the effect on my social life.
My parents started getting a little concerned when after a year and a half, I made no sounds at all, other than crying non-stop, especially since my older sister, Olivia, had started speaking basically out of the womb. By two and a half, and after seeing numerous specialists that could figure out nothing, they booked me an appointment to see if I was just a little bit slow.
The appointment was set just past my third birthday. However, only days before having to endure the diagnosis, I miraculously started speaking... and didn't stop. I guess my mom had used my lack of speech as a vessel for her secrets, and told me everything, thinking her slow daughter would never be able to reveal these little nuggets of information.
Well, I got you, Mom! My very first phrases were along the lines of, "Auntie! Mom hates your haircut. She thinks you look like a boy!" and "Hey, why are you so poor? You're not?" And then I would start crying and crying because why did my mom tell me they were poor then? Until they would finally resign and admit that, yes, Cynthia, we are poor, okay? This was all in Cantonese, and therefore much funnier.
I learned English through the playground, fool. And in fact, I got so good at speaking English, I was put into Advanced courses all through grade school.
By grade four, around age 9, I was placed into a class with an elite group of students called Enrichment. It sounded like healthy bread, so my suspicious parents allowed it.
We got to leave regular class to play math races and read advanced-level books. Then they created a spelling team for us, and in a colour-based level scheme (white being the most basic and moving darker and darker from there), we were labelled The Black Team.
I walked around thinking I was The Matrix for a long time.
Well, not all the cast. Not Jen, who was just there to be a slut, nor Pacey, who I always saw as Dawson's tagalong, but definitely Joey, and most certainly Dawson, who always appeared to be very wise beyond his years. Or maybe wise for his years. You're not fooling anyone with that pepaw, The WB.
I loved the way they spoke. I love words. I have had a long and stable relationship with words since I spoke my first one...at age three.
My mom thinks the tale of my imbecility is really hilarious and, to my sheer embarassment, tells anyone who will listen. I think she waited until I was 14 to tell me on purpose, so I could truly feel the effect on my social life.
My parents started getting a little concerned when after a year and a half, I made no sounds at all, other than crying non-stop, especially since my older sister, Olivia, had started speaking basically out of the womb. By two and a half, and after seeing numerous specialists that could figure out nothing, they booked me an appointment to see if I was just a little bit slow.
The appointment was set just past my third birthday. However, only days before having to endure the diagnosis, I miraculously started speaking... and didn't stop. I guess my mom had used my lack of speech as a vessel for her secrets, and told me everything, thinking her slow daughter would never be able to reveal these little nuggets of information.
Well, I got you, Mom! My very first phrases were along the lines of, "Auntie! Mom hates your haircut. She thinks you look like a boy!" and "Hey, why are you so poor? You're not?" And then I would start crying and crying because why did my mom tell me they were poor then? Until they would finally resign and admit that, yes, Cynthia, we are poor, okay? This was all in Cantonese, and therefore much funnier.
I learned English through the playground, fool. And in fact, I got so good at speaking English, I was put into Advanced courses all through grade school.
By grade four, around age 9, I was placed into a class with an elite group of students called Enrichment. It sounded like healthy bread, so my suspicious parents allowed it.
We got to leave regular class to play math races and read advanced-level books. Then they created a spelling team for us, and in a colour-based level scheme (white being the most basic and moving darker and darker from there), we were labelled The Black Team.
I walked around thinking I was The Matrix for a long time.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Thar She Blows!
I'm sorry that my small brush with fame had me dreaming about retirement and I didn't bother to write for nearly a week. I actually didn't really move much during this entire weekend.
Then it was brought to my attention that I am fatter than a whale.
There's really nothing I can do about it but complain repeatedly. I tried to diet one time and it lasted for about three days. I'm not even sure if it counts because by the end of Day Three, I ended up eating a Costco-sized box of chocolate bars which, although I'm not a scientist, strikes me as counterintuitive. Also, I'm allergic to chocolate, so not only do I end up with a good "Look mum, I'm four months pregnant!" gag, I also make a good Freddy Kruegar double, and I don't think the point of dieting is to collect Halloween costumes.
So obviously dieting is out.
The next best option would be to "exercise", but exercising is the bane of my existence. It wasn't always this way, comrades. It wasn't always this way...
In my late teens, I made the foolhardy decision to become one of those terrible people that "eats well" and "generally takes good care of themselves".
I did everything right: I bought new kicks, new clothes, the prerequisite headband, and one of those stupid Nalgene bottles that you can boil water in. Exactly WHAT am I going to be boiling water for in a plastic water container I have no idea ("Guys? Guys? Can we take a break here? I just want to cook some spaghetti in this water bottle. Can one of you build a fire?"), but it cost me $20, so you know it works. Oh, and a gym pass, I guess. I looked like the poster child for Lululemon, only more whale-like.
Basically, my experience with the gym cost me about $500 before ever setting foot in one. This is a lot of money for someone who sells coats for a living. Actually, I should say I was supposed to sell coats. In reality, what Maxime and I did as managers at work was lock up, put a "sorry" sign on the front door, put on as many down coats and vests that we could possibly squeeze on until we ran out out sizes, and sumo wrestle. Good times.
So I'm walking into the gym for the first time, whistling Dixie (I have no idea what this means??), and imagining my post whale body. I've chosen 6 o'clock on a weekday, A.K.A Gym Rush Hour, to debut the New Me. Aaahhh The Treadmill. Well, I certainly know how to run, and this machine looks much less intimidating than those wierd ones with all the limb-looking things sticking out of it!
I climb aboard and set foot on a leisurely and relaxed pace. Why, this is downright easy! Then I see that everyone else is working up a sweat at a run. Not to be outdone, I increase my pace to a brisk run, and continue at this rate for approximately 40 minutes. 40 minutes!!
Now, since this was my very first time on a treadmill, I didn't know that you weren't supposed to just stop the machine when you are done with your run, and that you are supposed to ease your way by slowing down and walking first. What happens next is unbelievable.
I stop the machine and immediately trip over my own feet. "WHAAAAAA!!!!" I scream, with my arms flailing about in cartoonish fashion, trying to grab onto something, anything, to break my fall.
You know what breaks my fall? You know what breaks my fall?!! Not my arms, which I could probably do without anyways, but my right shin, which smashes onto the pedal of a nearby rowing machine. I've circled it in red for your perusal.
Laugh it up, Chuckles. Laugh it right the fuck up. The imagery does not even begin to convey the pain I felt, which I'm permanently scarred from (physically and emotionally) after 10 years. This Google image doesn't show the metal spikes that grow from the rowing machine's pedals at all.
I collapse to the floor and writhe in such a manner that I could probably sue Seth MacFarlane for this and win.
Everyone is crowded around me and my blood-gushing shin within seconds. It's not the way I want to become famous. "Is she okay?" I see them whispering to each other.
I try to laugh it off. "Oh no no I'm fine. Look! haha! I'm fiiiine! This is so embarassing!" I smile and make my way over to the side of the room, out of the spectators' views. I proceed to lay out a mat and pretend to do sit ups, but really I'm crying and thinking of how to sue the gym.
So watch out because I'll sue you, Seth MacFarlane! I'll sue YOU, The Gym!! I'll sue you all!!! I'LL SUE YOU ALL!!!
Then it was brought to my attention that I am fatter than a whale.
There's really nothing I can do about it but complain repeatedly. I tried to diet one time and it lasted for about three days. I'm not even sure if it counts because by the end of Day Three, I ended up eating a Costco-sized box of chocolate bars which, although I'm not a scientist, strikes me as counterintuitive. Also, I'm allergic to chocolate, so not only do I end up with a good "Look mum, I'm four months pregnant!" gag, I also make a good Freddy Kruegar double, and I don't think the point of dieting is to collect Halloween costumes.
So obviously dieting is out.
The next best option would be to "exercise", but exercising is the bane of my existence. It wasn't always this way, comrades. It wasn't always this way...
In my late teens, I made the foolhardy decision to become one of those terrible people that "eats well" and "generally takes good care of themselves".
I did everything right: I bought new kicks, new clothes, the prerequisite headband, and one of those stupid Nalgene bottles that you can boil water in. Exactly WHAT am I going to be boiling water for in a plastic water container I have no idea ("Guys? Guys? Can we take a break here? I just want to cook some spaghetti in this water bottle. Can one of you build a fire?"), but it cost me $20, so you know it works. Oh, and a gym pass, I guess. I looked like the poster child for Lululemon, only more whale-like.
Basically, my experience with the gym cost me about $500 before ever setting foot in one. This is a lot of money for someone who sells coats for a living. Actually, I should say I was supposed to sell coats. In reality, what Maxime and I did as managers at work was lock up, put a "sorry" sign on the front door, put on as many down coats and vests that we could possibly squeeze on until we ran out out sizes, and sumo wrestle. Good times.
So I'm walking into the gym for the first time, whistling Dixie (I have no idea what this means??), and imagining my post whale body. I've chosen 6 o'clock on a weekday, A.K.A Gym Rush Hour, to debut the New Me. Aaahhh The Treadmill. Well, I certainly know how to run, and this machine looks much less intimidating than those wierd ones with all the limb-looking things sticking out of it!
I climb aboard and set foot on a leisurely and relaxed pace. Why, this is downright easy! Then I see that everyone else is working up a sweat at a run. Not to be outdone, I increase my pace to a brisk run, and continue at this rate for approximately 40 minutes. 40 minutes!!
Now, since this was my very first time on a treadmill, I didn't know that you weren't supposed to just stop the machine when you are done with your run, and that you are supposed to ease your way by slowing down and walking first. What happens next is unbelievable.
I stop the machine and immediately trip over my own feet. "WHAAAAAA!!!!" I scream, with my arms flailing about in cartoonish fashion, trying to grab onto something, anything, to break my fall.
You know what breaks my fall? You know what breaks my fall?!! Not my arms, which I could probably do without anyways, but my right shin, which smashes onto the pedal of a nearby rowing machine. I've circled it in red for your perusal.
Laugh it up, Chuckles. Laugh it right the fuck up. The imagery does not even begin to convey the pain I felt, which I'm permanently scarred from (physically and emotionally) after 10 years. This Google image doesn't show the metal spikes that grow from the rowing machine's pedals at all.
I collapse to the floor and writhe in such a manner that I could probably sue Seth MacFarlane for this and win.
Everyone is crowded around me and my blood-gushing shin within seconds. It's not the way I want to become famous. "Is she okay?" I see them whispering to each other.
I try to laugh it off. "Oh no no I'm fine. Look! haha! I'm fiiiine! This is so embarassing!" I smile and make my way over to the side of the room, out of the spectators' views. I proceed to lay out a mat and pretend to do sit ups, but really I'm crying and thinking of how to sue the gym.
So watch out because I'll sue you, Seth MacFarlane! I'll sue YOU, The Gym!! I'll sue you all!!! I'LL SUE YOU ALL!!!
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Oh Em Gee.
BREATHE. BREATHE. BE. COOL.
I just logged on and nearly fell to the floor in an unexpected bout of overexcitement. WHAT is this:
I'm FAMOUS! Rymistri doesn't even know me and wants to know about my daily going-ons? I have to know more without looking creepy, so that I don't log on tomorrow and see that this icon has mysteriously disappeared. I know what You Other Three are thinking. "Don't mess this up, Cynthia! You're already starting to look creepy. Stop writing this post right now!" and that is what the half of my brain that always loses tells me, too. But how can I not?? This is a new follower who plucked me straight out of obscurity from cyberspace, and I didn't even have to beg, plead, or bribe with delicious yum-yums to get to join.
I'm not going to blow it, like I blow everything else. Not in the sexy way, Reader, get your mind out of the gutter. In like a blow up kind of way. No. No. Not like that at all, actually. I can't even think straight, I'm so excited. Unfortunately, usually my overexcitement ends in hilarious escapades of failure.
Take, for example, my very first birthday party. Not like my 1st birthday, which I only vaguely remember, but the first party that my parents allowed me to throw when I was about 8, and for the first time invite my real school friends, not just their mahjong friends' kids.
I invite everyone. In fact, I beg people to come and follow up repeatedly to see how they RSVP. Finally, I put together a decent guest list, and can allow myself to look forward to my big day. I've even got the It Girls to come!
The It Girls are blonde, blue-eyed, and shop at Gap Kids. The ringleader of this clique is Chantale, who everybody wants to sit beside at Mass and always gets picked first for team sports, regardless of her only medium-level athletic ability.
The day finally arrives: the cake is made, the movies are rented, the games are set up. Oh boy, oh boy, it's going to be the best day EVERTY-EVER!!
My guests start to arrive, including Chantale. The second she walks into the living room where the rest of us are, she freezes in her tracks.
"Cynthia, you have goldfish." She states, matter-of-factly.
"Um. Yeah?" My dad collects goldfish and other waterworld creatures and has three enormous tanks full of them in our living room. I have a weird sort of childhood.
"I'm allergic to fish."
"Well, we're not eating them." I say, wishing I could throw all these stupid water critters out the window in the cold February air. You're ruining my life, Goldfish!!
"No, like... I'm going to die."
"You're going to DIE?!?! Are you serious?!?" This is more than my not even 8-year-old mind can comprehend and I'm wishing I could die before her so I don't have to deal with this terrible situation. She shows me her allergy bracelet that, for all I remember, actually stated that Yes, Chantale is going to die from being in the vicinity of goldfish. Oh my God, I've killed the It Girl. My social life, which was supposed to be unfolding this very day, is over.
I am screaming for my parents to do something and she is crying and calling her mom and the rest of my guests are looking around in confusion at what is going on and steadily creeping nearer to where their winter coats are. This is a disaster. My fucking life is over on my 8th birthday.
Eventually, her mom reassures her that she is okay, but will pick her up to avoid any more freaking out. My parents convince everyone else with cake and chocolate that our house is safe and no one is dying, and the show goes on.
Holy shit, remember when repressing memories was a good thing? These blogs never end up the way I want them to. Is it that difficult to just end one story normally?
So now I'm almost sure Rymistri is a robot or the Internets are playing a mean joke on me, so I have to check the associated blog. She's PEOPLE!! Not only is she people, she is pretty! For anyone not in the know, I very much dislike The Ugly. They are frightening, with their often beady eyes, skin tags, and unsurprising lack of self-esteem. No thank you, The Ugly.
So now that I am sure Rymistri is a human, I am on top of the world!
I realize this picture is contradictory to my aforementioned hatred of Nature, but obviously this calls for a celebration and for this post (only), I will allow this unification.
I just logged on and nearly fell to the floor in an unexpected bout of overexcitement. WHAT is this:
I'm FAMOUS! Rymistri doesn't even know me and wants to know about my daily going-ons? I have to know more without looking creepy, so that I don't log on tomorrow and see that this icon has mysteriously disappeared. I know what You Other Three are thinking. "Don't mess this up, Cynthia! You're already starting to look creepy. Stop writing this post right now!" and that is what the half of my brain that always loses tells me, too. But how can I not?? This is a new follower who plucked me straight out of obscurity from cyberspace, and I didn't even have to beg, plead, or bribe with delicious yum-yums to get to join.
I'm not going to blow it, like I blow everything else. Not in the sexy way, Reader, get your mind out of the gutter. In like a blow up kind of way. No. No. Not like that at all, actually. I can't even think straight, I'm so excited. Unfortunately, usually my overexcitement ends in hilarious escapades of failure.
Take, for example, my very first birthday party. Not like my 1st birthday, which I only vaguely remember, but the first party that my parents allowed me to throw when I was about 8, and for the first time invite my real school friends, not just their mahjong friends' kids.
I invite everyone. In fact, I beg people to come and follow up repeatedly to see how they RSVP. Finally, I put together a decent guest list, and can allow myself to look forward to my big day. I've even got the It Girls to come!
The It Girls are blonde, blue-eyed, and shop at Gap Kids. The ringleader of this clique is Chantale, who everybody wants to sit beside at Mass and always gets picked first for team sports, regardless of her only medium-level athletic ability.
The day finally arrives: the cake is made, the movies are rented, the games are set up. Oh boy, oh boy, it's going to be the best day EVERTY-EVER!!
My guests start to arrive, including Chantale. The second she walks into the living room where the rest of us are, she freezes in her tracks.
"Cynthia, you have goldfish." She states, matter-of-factly.
"Um. Yeah?" My dad collects goldfish and other waterworld creatures and has three enormous tanks full of them in our living room. I have a weird sort of childhood.
"I'm allergic to fish."
"Well, we're not eating them." I say, wishing I could throw all these stupid water critters out the window in the cold February air. You're ruining my life, Goldfish!!
"No, like... I'm going to die."
"You're going to DIE?!?! Are you serious?!?" This is more than my not even 8-year-old mind can comprehend and I'm wishing I could die before her so I don't have to deal with this terrible situation. She shows me her allergy bracelet that, for all I remember, actually stated that Yes, Chantale is going to die from being in the vicinity of goldfish. Oh my God, I've killed the It Girl. My social life, which was supposed to be unfolding this very day, is over.
I am screaming for my parents to do something and she is crying and calling her mom and the rest of my guests are looking around in confusion at what is going on and steadily creeping nearer to where their winter coats are. This is a disaster. My fucking life is over on my 8th birthday.
Eventually, her mom reassures her that she is okay, but will pick her up to avoid any more freaking out. My parents convince everyone else with cake and chocolate that our house is safe and no one is dying, and the show goes on.
Holy shit, remember when repressing memories was a good thing? These blogs never end up the way I want them to. Is it that difficult to just end one story normally?
So now I'm almost sure Rymistri is a robot or the Internets are playing a mean joke on me, so I have to check the associated blog. She's PEOPLE!! Not only is she people, she is pretty! For anyone not in the know, I very much dislike The Ugly. They are frightening, with their often beady eyes, skin tags, and unsurprising lack of self-esteem. No thank you, The Ugly.
So now that I am sure Rymistri is a human, I am on top of the world!
I realize this picture is contradictory to my aforementioned hatred of Nature, but obviously this calls for a celebration and for this post (only), I will allow this unification.
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