On elevators and the morons who ride them

How's this for a good old fashioned rant? I hate people who don't pay attention in the elevator. This afternoon I took the garbage out (to P1) and had to go back up to the 2nd floor (where there's a street-level exit). As the elevator arrived at P1 (it had come up from P2), the man inside tried to push past me to get out, only to realize that it wasn't his floor...and he pushed past me once again to get inside the elevator. It was just the two of us.

Out of curiosity, I looked at the buttons in the elevator, figuring he was just going up to the lobby. Do you know which button was lit up? Floor 27. He thought that in the two seconds it took to go from P2 to P1 that the elevator had magically rocketed up 29 floors. I don't get that. And what's with the pushing?  That's my rant.

Learning to eat all over again

Tonight my obliging husband gave me my first technical hamburger-eating lesson. I was a vegetarian from age ten until I was twenty-three. And yes, if you speak with some of my closest friends, they will divulge stories about me eating hotdogs when I've been drinking too much...but I digress. The point is that I don't have the years of experience that others have. My hamburger eating skills didn't evolve with me as I grew old. The shameful results are that when I indulge in handheld food items, most of it ends up on the table and my lap, some of it ends up in my mouth, and the remainder is smeared on my face. Sometimes when a small child eats they mysteriously end up with food bits in their hair, on their forehead, and in many other unsuspecting places. I am that child. But I'm a twenty-six year-old woman.

After watching me struggle through the first quarter of a hamburger, Luc dispensed some bite-by-bite advice to help me navigate the terrain.

Luc: "OK, start with the left side there."
Me: "Here? OK..." (takes a bite)
Luc: "All right...where do you think you should bite next?"
Me: "Here?"
Luc: "No, that's a common mistake, you have to bite again from this side." (pointing)
Me: (takes an enormous bite) "Ohhhh...." (eyes wide, mouth full, face smeared with food, hamburger still falling to pieces in my hands)
Luc: "OK, take it slow, don't get too excited..."

I think learning to eat hamburgers cleanly in your adult years is like learning new languages. The longer you wait, the more difficult it becomes and the more ridiculous you look when you try.

True story

At his bachelor party, Luc and his friends got drunk, stole a golf cart and drove around—Luc fell off the back of the cart and cut open his leg and arm, soaking his white shorts in blood and dirt. A lot of blood and dirt. He let the blood dry on the shorts, and three days later when he was home, got the stains out completely.

This morning I got a small dab of liquid concealer on a white dress shirt. I immediately applied stain remover, soaked it, scrubbed it, soaked it again...continued the process when I got home, washed it in detergent and oxyclean....and the stain is still there.

I realize I'm blogging about clothing stains, but a practically week-old mud and blood stain vs. a small, quickly attended-to makeup stain? Come on, Universe, you're killing me here!

Finders Keepers

Apartment lobbies are a funny thing — rented apartment buildings more so than buildings of owners. Upon entering the back lobby of our building on Friday we came across an immaculate, leather office chair. It was positioned in what I like to think of as the "free" zone. The precarious spot between the door and the sitting area that says, I'm not waiting to be taken outside by someone in particular, I'm just hanging around until someone (anyone) takes me. The parameters of the free zone are generally dictated by the table beside the lobby couch: on the table = free, beside the table = not for the taking. However, when oversized items are left out, it's hard to say. You're probably wondering if we took the chair. No, we already have enough crap in our apartment. Had it still been there the next day, it would have been tempting. So tempting, in fact, that the temptation would have outweighed the logical voice in my head that kept saying, Keep walking moron, you don't need another desk chair. I did, however, snatch up a 2-pack sample of the very shampoo and conditioner that I  happened to purchase last weekend. Today's findings: a single dryer sheet. I left that gem for someone else.

Not-so-cheap Tuesday

Today seems to be an ongoing battle with the universe. This morning I clamped an entire finger between my flat iron, and I thought to myself, "Kristen, that was really stupid, don't make this one of those days." Fortunately I smartened up, but the world just kind of had it in for me. The day's events were like an off-key crescendo, ending with a bang when our car got towed while we were out for dinner. Cheap Tuesday pasta night isn't so cheap when the city hits you up for $150 in towing and tickets and a $25 cab ride to the impound lot. The worst part is that the "do not park past this point" sign was completely covered and obstructed by a giant City of Vancouver road improvement sign. So you'd better believe we're going to fight City Hall on this one. We took cell phone pictures of the ridiculous, gigantic sign covering the no parking sign. But still, I don't have my hopes up. Cities are usually pretty skilled in screwing people over - not so bad that you retaliate further, but just enough to ruin your day.

Oh the things you'll hear

There's nothing like the sweet giggles of a baby to warm the cockles of your heart. It's been sweltering in our apartment for the last couple of weeks, so each window is open to max capacity all day and all night. We hear a lot of interesting things—crows that sound like they're strangling cats, car alarms, lovers quarrels, people belching, cats meowing, our neighbour piping away ever so irritatingly on her recorder—so it's always nice when the sound floating through the window is a pleasant one.

Yes, there's nothing quite like the laughter of a small child to make me smile and calm my nerves, which have been frayed by the final days of wedding planning. Seventeen days, to be exact. Seventeen days of ribbon tying, cardstock cutting, decision making, organizing, and the never-ending emails that haunt me in my sleep. I finally understand why everyone says planning a wedding is so stressful. But take my word for it, it's only as stressful as you make it. I keep working away on these projects, thinking DI-Y the hell am I doing this? Why? Because deep down I love the frenetic pace of wedding planning and minutia that make the wedding day distinctly your own. And I don't think I've ever been so excited for anything in my life.

My Bridezilla Confession

By telling you this story I'm hoping to relieve myself from the residual guilt of acting like a total psycho. Luc and I agreed to forget it ever happened, but for me, writing about it is cathartic, and entirely necessary.

The bridezilla story

As many of you may know, Luc and I went to visit his family in Saskatchewan for a week. Our flight was on a Friday night, and since Luc works until 6 pm, he was taking the skytrain straight to the airport. I, however, was racing home first to check the mail (for the many wedding RSVPs I have been anxiously awaiting). Upon arriving home I realized that Luc had the mail key....at work....downtown....which meant the locked mailbox stuffed full of RSVPS (I could peer at them through the slits in the metal) would remain there for the week that we were away. The week that I planned to call the non-responders, start sorting out table arrangements, and generally get a hand on things that were guest-count dependent. 

I'm not proud, but when I realized that I couldn't get at the reply cards for another week, I kinda went crazy. First I called our landlord and asked if he could come to the building and open our mailbox. Not happening. Then I called Luc and strongly suggested that he leave work early to bring me the mail key. He thought that was a bad idea. So I called him again. And maybe a few more times after that. Finally realizing that he wasn't coming home, I grabbed the first few things I saw: a paring knife, a fondue fork, a bobby pin and tweezers, and walked as calmly as I could down the stairs to the lobby of our apartment building. And by calmly, I mean that I burst into the hallway brandishing my McGyver-esque weapons, eyes wide with delirium, palms sweaty with anticipation of busting up that stupid mailbox. Thank the lord none of the neighbours were around. Actually, they may have been, but I was too focused on the task at  hand to notice.

I proceeded to hack and pry into the mailbox, tearing up the contents with the surprisingly sharp prongs of my fondue fork. Using my mixed arsenal of kitchen wares and grooming products, I managed to partially wedge open the mailbox and pluck out all of the RSVPs. Granted, most of them were pretty messed up when they were finally released from the maniacal grip of my tweezers.

Standing in the lobby, surrounded by shreds of envelopes, I had an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. But after taking a moment to assess the situation and my bizarre behaviour, I felt like a total Bridezilla. By sharing this story, I'm hoping to wash my hands of this incident and move on. But after all, isn't there a little bit of Bridezilla hiding somewhere in all of us?

Hair where there should be none

What's that, you ask? How many curly little black hairs did I find in my thai takeout from last night? Three. Three curly little black hairs.

I found the first last night and decided to play it cool and keep eating, hair happens. At least it never made it into my mouth.

While putting my leftovers onto a plate this afternoon I found number two. I told myself to relax, it was probably just the other half of the first one.

And then, dangling precariously from a noodle on my fork, just seconds from entering my mouth, I spotted number three. And that, my friends, is when I threw away my thai takeout.

Everyone has a breaking point, mine used to be hair number one, and I think this experience has just set me back to that good old standard. One hair is one too many.

It's not all about me, I swear

It's been a hectic week here in the city, so Luc and I have planned another weekend escape to the mountains. These mountains, however, are significantly more populated than the ones we trekked into last weekend. Not so much mountains, per se, as an overly developed town.

We're going to relax and read and pretty much just hang around. After all, I need my beauty rest, we have our engagement photos next week. In preparation I got my hair dyed, just a touch-up to add a little excitement to my otherwise mousy look. According to people at work though, my darker hair makes me look like an evil-twin version of myself.

After all of that self-indulgent "me" talk, I feel I owe you, my lovely readers, a story:
Last week a woman on the bus had her cat with her in a carrier. When she noticed me staring at her kitty she began talking to me, telling me how much the cat loved buses. I asked if she was just taking the cat for a ride, she replied that the cat was sick and she was taking her to get help. Then she got off. At the hospital. The human hospital. I wonder how that went?

Do people actually do this?

At Tim Horton's last week I asked for a large coffee with two milks. Same as usual. I stood to the side, waiting for my order. A couple minutes later the woman behind the counter shot a panicked look in my direction and cautiously held out the coffee cup in front of me. "Ma'am, are you sure you want twenty milks in your coffee? Seems more like a latte." The cup was literally filled to the brim with cold milk.

Officially in my "late" twenties

Today is my 26th birthday, or as my mom described it, "being closer to 30 than to being 20." The day got off to a less-than-stellar start as I walked from the bus station to the Tim Horton's in a swirling cloud of skunk spray. A giant skunk had been squished on the highway, and the weather on this particular morning was nothing short of a howling gale, sending the potent stink in a far-reaching radius that included the bus station where I get off, the Tim Horton's that I patronize and the front door to my office building.

As I walked to get my morning coffee, the smell seemed to be following me, so much so that I thought I may have been sprayed by a skunk and not noticed it in my Monday daze. I started to panic, wondering how long it would take to get the smell out of my hair and clothing. Would I need some sort of skunk bath?  Should I cancel my Tuesday night hair appointment? Would dyeing my hair help with the smell? Should I still go into the office? Will Tim Horton's serve me smelling like this? Will the skunk bath fade my tan from the weekend? Amid the ridiculous questions I was asking myself, I saw the black, white and red smearing of skunk on the road. It was really, really gross. I was sad to see the dead skunk, yet relieved to see the root of the evil smell.

The rest of the day was great; I got cake at work, cake at my parents' house, lots of love and messages from friends and family, and at the end of the day I didn't smell like skunk. What more could a girl ask for?

Unsolved mystery

Back in January I had a bit of a scare regarding a knee injury. A decent-sized lump on the side of my knee was causing me a significant amount of pain while working out. The pain always subsided soon afterwards though, so I never did anything about it. But after much goading from Luc, I went into physio to see if I couldn't get things back to normal. Unfortunately, the physiotherapist was stumped, and for some reason she thought it was appropriate to tell me that it may be "something scary", and that she couldn't treat me further until I saw a doctor and was properly diagnosed. Because it may be "something scary..."

And you can all guess where my mind immediate jumped: cancer. It's a cancerous tumour and I'm dying, I figured. I had been completely reasonable until someone with a certificate on the wall blurted the words "something scary."

Of course I got into the doctor's office as soon as possible, and left another couple of physicians in my wake, equally as stumped as the physiotherapist. This time, however, I was sent to have x-rays taken. I spent the next week waiting for the results, sifting through a variety of situations, all the while unsuccessfully trying to convince myself that everything was fine. Everything was fine, though. So fine that the doctor's office didn't even need me to come in to review the results. So fine that I could just blow it off.

And because of my waxing and waning gym motivation through the rest of the hectic school year, I never got the chance to work out consistently enough for my knee to become a big problem. But now that I've slid back into the cozy workaday schedule of 9-5, I've had the routine opportunity to work my knee into the ground. And it got bad again. Really bad. There was obviously something wrong, no matter what the x-rays looked like.

A few days ago I returned to the same doctor's office and saw a different doctor. It was one of those appointments. It could have been a comedy sketch. I was there to have my knee checked and I was wearing jeans so tight I could barely get them above my calves. The doctor commented on that. We both laughed. But what really started as me going there to get a referral to a knee specialist turned into three needles in my knee, me freaking out, several instances of me saying "oh god, oh god, I'm going to pass out...", me lying down on the bed trying to stay conscious (I have a tendency of fainting...ask my friends...), and it all ended with the doctor and I sitting around, eating a box of shortbread cookies and reminiscing about living in Richmond.

I have another appointment on Thursday and this time they're going to have the x-rays in the office to examine alongside my knee-non-tumour. Even though I know it's not "something scary," I'm still kind of nervous. I hope I get shortbread again this time.

#62 - Bringing my A game from the ladies tee

62: Golf on a real golf course (not a pitch and putt)

Our good friend Justin was visiting us from Saskatchewan this past week, so we were motivated to do something exciting on the weekend. Not that I'm saying golf is exciting...it's a funny, frustrating game for me. If I had a lesson or two, I might enjoy it more, but as it stands, I would label my abilities as poor to moderately poor. Please, don't let the plaid shorts fool you, I'm a hopeless duffer.

The entire day was nearly over before it began. On our way to the greens on the first hole a neighbouring golfer hollered "fore"...and with good reason. I was busy checking out my surroundings and the rogue ball came swooping down and landed right at my feet, missing my face by a matter of inches. I think if I had been looking up for the ball, I may have actually gotten it right in the teeth. Good thing I'm oblivious!

Despite the sketchy start and my weak performance, I'm still calling the game a success because I only had to scream "fore" once at the top of my lungs. In retrospect though, I would have been OK with my crooked shot nailing the guy on the opposite fairway. He was milling around on his cellphone and probably could have used a little tap on the head from a golf ball. Or at least in the shins so that he got off his phone and started paying attention. I'm no pro, but the last time I checked, cellphones were frowned upon when you're mid-game, standing in the fairway. 

I learned a few important lessons that I will take with me for next time:

1. Always go pee before you start 18 holes of golf

2. When someone yells "fore", duck and cover

3. Plaid shorts do not elevate your game

4. The ball washer never gets old, nor does asking your friends if they would like their balls washed

A new baby boy

Our best friends welcomed their first nephew into the world today. Congrats Kate and Tom!! And after seeing her sister-in-law go through 2 days of labour, I think Kate will be waiting a bit longer before she jumps on the baby train. I, on the other hand, still live in a fantasy world where babies come out of the womb looking like this:

Hat and all. And in my fantasy world, they aren't so much birthed as they appear magically with no pain or inconvenience, pooping rainbows and giggling softly. We've spent a lot of time with the babies in our family, but for some reason I still have this skewed vision of what it means to be a parent and what it takes to literally have a baby. Needless to say, I think we'll get married and see what transpires before we start talking babies, but for now it sure is fun to hang out other people's children! I'm so excited for our friends to see how great it is to be an Auntie and an Uncle.

I'm baaa-aaack

This morning I was wiping my eyes with makeup remover until I realized, oh, that's not smeared mascara, those are just tired bags, they're not going to rub off. I've just returned after a long weekend of "repose" (and by repose I just mean no school work or wedding planning) to my final two weeks of classes and two papers, a presentation and a final project.

The long weekend was anything but restful in the physical sense, but it was the longest mental vacation I've taken in a while. Every night was a late one, and every day was long and enjoyable one. I didn't have time to think about school, which was great. But I did have to get up at a decent hour every morning. But if you have to get up early, there's no better way to do so than having the cutest twin four-year-old girls jumping on your bed and giggling like wild hyenas. Luc and I spent the long weekend at West Edmonton Mall with his family; eating, drinking, swimming, shopping, amusement parking (yes, I'm making it a verb), and hanging out. And now it's back to writing, reading, busing, budgeting, and stressing out.

That's not my name

I was just reading an article about Dree Hemingway, model and granddaughter of writer Ernest Hemingway. The reader is given a "word of advice" though, to not ask Dree about her family tree. I always find this amusing, and disrespectful, when these young celebrities scoff at people referencing their famed pedigree- especially when 99.9% of them have gotten where they are because of where they came from. This always elicits a long and pained eye roll from me. I understand the desire to be called by their own name and not simply "daughter of" or "nephew of". But they're always saying, don't even ask me about my famous daddy, I totally became a supermodel on my own. Right...

I still love my reading nook

One of the conditions of me going to grad school was that we would no longer be able to buy our own place. At least not until I graduated and got a job. But when I have time, I revel in the torture of browsing for condos on realty sites. My other favourite exercise in masochism is watching Property Virgins, where young couples in the US buy 3-bedroom houses for less than the price of a single bedroom condo in Vancouver. My anxiety to get our own place has nearly peaked, and my dreams of being carried over the threshold into our own place when we're finally husband and wife have been quashed. Now before I sound like a big whiner (too late?), read on to see what I'm talking about. And keep in mind that I just finished blow drying my hair - you'll know what that means in a minute...

I have a tumultuous love/hate relationship with our rental apartment. I love that it's got three huge windows in the living room, but I hate that those windows have obnoxiously ugly blinds from nineteen-whenever the hell they built this place. I love that our bathroom is big, but I hate that its colour scheme is fuschia and baby blue. Yeah, the blue toilet matches the blue bathtub, but I feel like they clash with the pink tiles on the countertop. I love the hardwood floors, but I hate the crusty tiles in the bathroom that are no longer physically possible of looking clean even after you scrub them on your hands and knees for an hour. I love the size (for a one bedroom), but I hate that when someone from out of town visits we have nothing better to offer than a blowup bed. I love that we have lots of cupboards in the kitchen, but I hate that not one of them can fit an upright cereal box. I love that we can control the heat to our apartment, but I hate that our heaters have two settings: off and sauna. And the one last hate that has no love to balance it out...I hate that I have to turn off every light in the place before I blow dry my hair (except in the bedroom where I have to do my hair because the pink bathroom has no sockets) and still, even still, with just one light on in the entire place, the fuse blows. I know we don't have it that bad, but sometimes, when I trip over some shoes that don't fit in the hall closest on my way through the dark to fumble with the breaker again, I just really want our own place that doesn't have a million little hates.

Lucky me?

For the past hour or two I've been the only attendant of a private panflute/recorder concert courtesy of our downstairs neighbour. It's just her, leaning out her window, and me, sitting here trying to write a paper for school. Luc is off on a snowshoeing adventure with a friend, which affords me an entire day of silence and solitude (my prerequisites for productive Saturdays). It's just me and my brain (and my neighbour), trying to hammer some sense out of all the ideas in my head. But right now all I can think of is this:

The music is more distracting than Luc playing those video games that look like action movies. And it conjures up hundreds of images of elves dancing around in my head. So much for productivity.


Did anyone notice all of the alliteration in this blog post? Too much alone time (and too much panflute) makes me go a bit loopy - I might be turning into a Dr. Seuss character. Or maybe I just need some decadent downtime with dessert and a drink? Definitely.

On being awkward

When getting coffee this morning at my regular place, I needed to speak with the proprietor to get some info for an article I'm writing, so I asked the guy working there, "Is the owner here? The guy from Boner Isl.....uuhhhhhh, I mean BOWEN island....Is Alan here?" To which he responded, through laughter he did not at all try to stifle or disguise, "BONER ISLAND!!! Now how's THAT for a freudian slip???" 


All I could do was laugh. Boner Island? Yes....Boner Island, that just happened. Try and say "bowen" right after saying "owner" though...it could have happened to anyone. Embarrassing, nonetheless. 

Don't say I didn't warn you

My March blog banner was meant to be a prophetic signal for the month to come (read: It's gonna rain. Then it's gonna rain some more). But I'm finding that my umbrella is more of a liability than a friend these days. When it's raining sideways, an umbrella provides minimal protection between you and soggy you. Everyone has to face the point in their Vancouver winter weather life where they make the significant choice to abandon their umbrella altogether and construct a near-rainproof outfit that doesn't flip inside out and make you look like a fool when it's windy. My day has almost come; I've been resisting it with great futility and my excuses for carrying an umbrella have been reduced to useless dither. When I'm still soaking wet from head to toe (except my feet which are  fantastically warm and dry thanks to my red rain booties!) after carrying an umbrella, it becomes nothing but a cumbersome carry-on. When I'm already juggling a lunch bag, school bag and cup of coffee, I have no patience for another item that, frankly, isn't performing its only duty. Keeping myself dry with an umbrella has become a clumsy sidewalk ballet that always ends in failure. It's a battle that I no longer have the energy to fight. With my hair tucked in a toque, and my head bowed down against a wall of rain, I'll trudge forward umbrella-less until April showers bring May flowers and I can wear regular footwear again.