My best friend Candie and I had a debate last night. It was one of those debates that ended with her asking how we are friends?! It's was about the Olympics.
Candie loves the Olympics and loves watching them. I hate the Olympics and thinks it's a colossal waste of time. Candie sees it as patriotism and the human spirit on display. She lives in Texas, and misses Canada so to her, a chance to get a glimpse of the Canadian flag on TV or even to hear the anthem means a lot to her.
But let's be real - the chances of her hearing the Canadian anthem at the Olympics is slim to nil. Don't you have to win a medal to have your national anthem played?
I think the Olympics are a waste of time and money. The money the federal government pumps into the Olympics is poorly spent. Sure, you can come back at me with the argument that funding for sports in Canada is low. But whatever amount spent is, to me, too much. Take that money and spend it on health care, or child care, or caring for the elderly or vulnerable.
I resent that my tax money is being spent on someone's dream to throw a ball of metal the farthest in the world or paddle a boat a few hundred metres the fastest. If your dream is to be the best gymnast in the world, then go get it, babycakes. But do not expect me to have to fund that dream. My dream is to live near the ocean and write novels. I do not expect the government to pay for that, even though there are grants. I do not believe in demanding the government to help you achieve your dream, whether it's the fastest biathlete or best selling author. The government should make sure there are hospital beds when you need one, or there is a pension available to you. The government should be working to provide the basic necessities of life to its citizens instead of allowing someone to be the best butterfly swimmer in the world.
So when I read that $40 BILLION dollars was spent on the Beijing Olympics, I gag. Imagine what that $40 billion could pay for in this world. Vaccines, food, shelter, education, relief from natural disasters, literacy... the list is endless. That money could be spent making this world a better place, instead of finding out who the best beach volleyball team is in the world. Because, really, who cares.
Patriotically Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Monday, August 11, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Road Bump
I hit a road bump today on the road to marriage. The pastor at the church we booked bailed on us. Well, it's not much bailing, as not being available.
We booked the church - a lovely stone country church with stained-glass windows - way back at Thanksgiving. The pastor at the church died just before we got there, and the teary-eyed church ladies assured us they would have a new pastor by the time our wedding rolled around. So last week, I called the church lady and asked about the pastor. She said they have a new one, Pastor George Something-something (he's Japanese) and he's on vacation but he will call me as soon as he gets back.
He's back. And he called me today. When I asked him, very politely, if he would perform the ceremony, he said he was away. And he left it at that. While I stroked out on the other end. I tried to stay calm as he explained that he doesn't work all the time and his time off is September 19th. My left side went numb. I told him the invites have gone out and we have put a deposit down and plans have been made. He suggested we meet on Sunday the 14th or "better yet" Saturday the 20th. I snapped. Those two futile days he offered as plan B sucked and I could feel the shrillness build in my voice when I asked him to find an option for us. He said he'd make a call. He might know someone.
Thank god, he does. His name is Reverend Al McNeil, and he's a retired pastor in the area. Useless George gave me his number and I fought the urge to tell Useless to bite me.
The piece de resistance is that before Useless gave me Revered McNeil's number, he grilled me on if I had any church connections in Lamont. WHAT?!? I don't think I as polite as I should have been when I said no, Byron's side doesn't go to church and any connections I may have had are way back in Nova Scotia so NO, George, I do not have church connections here. I wanted to add for good measure to shut it and give me Al's number.
Al is delightful. He sounds like an old man who is full of business. He is available, he wants to meet with us the week before, and he sounds reliable. I like him. Now I am braced for more bumps to come in the next forty days. 40 days! Aiiiieee!
Bracingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
We booked the church - a lovely stone country church with stained-glass windows - way back at Thanksgiving. The pastor at the church died just before we got there, and the teary-eyed church ladies assured us they would have a new pastor by the time our wedding rolled around. So last week, I called the church lady and asked about the pastor. She said they have a new one, Pastor George Something-something (he's Japanese) and he's on vacation but he will call me as soon as he gets back.
He's back. And he called me today. When I asked him, very politely, if he would perform the ceremony, he said he was away. And he left it at that. While I stroked out on the other end. I tried to stay calm as he explained that he doesn't work all the time and his time off is September 19th. My left side went numb. I told him the invites have gone out and we have put a deposit down and plans have been made. He suggested we meet on Sunday the 14th or "better yet" Saturday the 20th. I snapped. Those two futile days he offered as plan B sucked and I could feel the shrillness build in my voice when I asked him to find an option for us. He said he'd make a call. He might know someone.
Thank god, he does. His name is Reverend Al McNeil, and he's a retired pastor in the area. Useless George gave me his number and I fought the urge to tell Useless to bite me.
The piece de resistance is that before Useless gave me Revered McNeil's number, he grilled me on if I had any church connections in Lamont. WHAT?!? I don't think I as polite as I should have been when I said no, Byron's side doesn't go to church and any connections I may have had are way back in Nova Scotia so NO, George, I do not have church connections here. I wanted to add for good measure to shut it and give me Al's number.
Al is delightful. He sounds like an old man who is full of business. He is available, he wants to meet with us the week before, and he sounds reliable. I like him. Now I am braced for more bumps to come in the next forty days. 40 days! Aiiiieee!
Bracingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Summertime and the living is... shitty
It's been a delightful summer. It's been warm, but not blistering; sunny with a few days of rain. My tomatoes are coming in lovely, and I even have some peppers. The wedding plans are falling into place and all is well.
Except for seagulls.
I blogged about them a couple weeks ago when I was shat upon on my way to work. But my battle with the gulls has gone further. I want to kill them. I'm talking about bread soaked with bleach, slingshots to the face, stomping on their eggs killing. I have had it with these frigging seagulls!
Our apartment is on a hill, and next door are condos. Because of said hill, our apartment windows are directly across from the roof of the condos, where there are seagull nests. I am convinced there are more than one. All day long, we are forced to listen to the caws, the squawks and screeches of seagulls. It can be very loud in our apartment, so loud that I can't hear Byron talking to me. At night, it's warm so we have our bedroom window open. But it is always closed around 5 am when we are woken up with another day of squawks.
This morning, I stopped at our car in the back parking lot to get some shoes, and the noise of the gulls was deafening. I feared another splat of shit, and I saw hoards of them circling.
The other day, when Byron was sleeping all day for his night shift, I pitied him sleeping in a stuffy apartment while the gulls hollered outside. I called Animal Control to see who I can talk to to get the nests off the roof across the alley from our bedroom window. The man on the line started laughing at me. It's apparently breeding season and it's against the law to disturb nests. He said, and I quote: "you're outta luck." Dammit! How much longer does this go on!?!?
Not only is it a battle at home, but on the streets. My office is on the top floor so we see gulls circling and hear them screaming all day. The entrance to our building is white with shit. The streets look candy-coated with bird poop. Every car has a splatter of shit. It's heinous.
I don't remember this last summer. Of course, last summer, Byron and I just moved in together and got engaged so my mind was pre-occupied and gulls were the last thing I thought about. I have never been so anxious for the end of summer.
If you happen to see a pile of dead birds next to a bleach-smelling bag of bread, don't look at me. That's all I'm saying.
Annoyingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Except for seagulls.
I blogged about them a couple weeks ago when I was shat upon on my way to work. But my battle with the gulls has gone further. I want to kill them. I'm talking about bread soaked with bleach, slingshots to the face, stomping on their eggs killing. I have had it with these frigging seagulls!
Our apartment is on a hill, and next door are condos. Because of said hill, our apartment windows are directly across from the roof of the condos, where there are seagull nests. I am convinced there are more than one. All day long, we are forced to listen to the caws, the squawks and screeches of seagulls. It can be very loud in our apartment, so loud that I can't hear Byron talking to me. At night, it's warm so we have our bedroom window open. But it is always closed around 5 am when we are woken up with another day of squawks.
This morning, I stopped at our car in the back parking lot to get some shoes, and the noise of the gulls was deafening. I feared another splat of shit, and I saw hoards of them circling.
The other day, when Byron was sleeping all day for his night shift, I pitied him sleeping in a stuffy apartment while the gulls hollered outside. I called Animal Control to see who I can talk to to get the nests off the roof across the alley from our bedroom window. The man on the line started laughing at me. It's apparently breeding season and it's against the law to disturb nests. He said, and I quote: "you're outta luck." Dammit! How much longer does this go on!?!?
Not only is it a battle at home, but on the streets. My office is on the top floor so we see gulls circling and hear them screaming all day. The entrance to our building is white with shit. The streets look candy-coated with bird poop. Every car has a splatter of shit. It's heinous.
I don't remember this last summer. Of course, last summer, Byron and I just moved in together and got engaged so my mind was pre-occupied and gulls were the last thing I thought about. I have never been so anxious for the end of summer.
If you happen to see a pile of dead birds next to a bleach-smelling bag of bread, don't look at me. That's all I'm saying.
Annoyingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Friday, August 1, 2008
Worst Workout EVER
I signed up for an exercise class through work called "Abs and Butts". It was inexpensive, and I thought it might be a harmless way to get an extra work out. I went to the first class last week, and it was fine. I had never been to an exercise class before, and it was alright. Me and the only other chubby girl in class hid in the back of the gazebo it was held in. I kept up with everyone else and sweaty like a hen hauling wood. I felt rejuvenated and strong after the class. I was also sore as hell for three days after.
Today was class #2. Well, for me 1.5. When I got there with my co-worker/friend Kirsten, they had started stretching on the lawn. We have had rain here for two days, so the lawn was soggy. The instructor said the gymnasium was being renovated and said the lawn would be great. Now, the lawn is in front of a building filled with colleagues, whose offices look down on the lawn. At one point, we were all on our backs, with our feet facing the building. The instructor had us fling our legs in the air and spread our legs as wide as possible. I was supremely uncomfortable.
My yoga mat is black, and it was sunny at lunch time, so my mat turned into a griddle. I could feel my arms getting sunburnt and I was sweating more than necessary. I scooted into the shade, which was on a hill! And because it was the shade, the ground was even soggier! I tried to do one exercise and started rolling down the hill. I got into a snit to end all snits and stormed out of the class. I did not pay that money to sit on wet ground and roll down a hill. I couldn't do any of the exercises properly. I came back to the office and emailed off a snotgram saying this was unacceptable.
Now, my yoga mat has bird shit on the bottom and is drying out in my cubicle. My cube, by the way, smells of worms.
I don't mind breaking a sweat, if it's for a good reason. Next week has to be better. Or I might snap my instructor in two.
Jane Fonda-ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Today was class #2. Well, for me 1.5. When I got there with my co-worker/friend Kirsten, they had started stretching on the lawn. We have had rain here for two days, so the lawn was soggy. The instructor said the gymnasium was being renovated and said the lawn would be great. Now, the lawn is in front of a building filled with colleagues, whose offices look down on the lawn. At one point, we were all on our backs, with our feet facing the building. The instructor had us fling our legs in the air and spread our legs as wide as possible. I was supremely uncomfortable.
My yoga mat is black, and it was sunny at lunch time, so my mat turned into a griddle. I could feel my arms getting sunburnt and I was sweating more than necessary. I scooted into the shade, which was on a hill! And because it was the shade, the ground was even soggier! I tried to do one exercise and started rolling down the hill. I got into a snit to end all snits and stormed out of the class. I did not pay that money to sit on wet ground and roll down a hill. I couldn't do any of the exercises properly. I came back to the office and emailed off a snotgram saying this was unacceptable.
Now, my yoga mat has bird shit on the bottom and is drying out in my cubicle. My cube, by the way, smells of worms.
I don't mind breaking a sweat, if it's for a good reason. Next week has to be better. Or I might snap my instructor in two.
Jane Fonda-ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Poopy Day
It's been a poopy day so far, and it's not even 9 am.
When I opened my blinds this morning, I saw that our dining room window has streaks of seagull poop on it. On both panes. Huge amounts of dried-on poop. There is my weekend right there. Scraping shit off my window. We used to have a patio of poop until I got some plants and filled it with that. Now, the seagull that used to perch on the patio ledge, stare me down and poop has left. Apparently, he's left shit down the side of my building and onto my window.
My window at work also has bird shit on it. A big ol' streak of white with some brown mixed in for ambiance. I am not sure maintenance is coming around to wash it off.
But my biggest fear here in Victoria has come true. I got shat on.
I GOT POOPED ON!!!
I was walking to work this morning, standing on a corner waiting for a light, when I felt and saw the poop fall on me. Thankfully, it was a just a smidge in my hair and a little bit on my shirt. I took to wretching and ran into a coffee shop. I washed it out and off and cursed mightily. It all came out, since it was wet and white and not a whole lot. But enough to make me gag. When I got to work and told people my ordeal, they all told me that's good luck. Hooey! I think that's just what Victorians say to keep shat-upon tourists quiet. After an early morning wretch (that is not pregnancy related!) I better have some good luck coming down the pipe!
Fecally Yours,
xoxoSallyt
When I opened my blinds this morning, I saw that our dining room window has streaks of seagull poop on it. On both panes. Huge amounts of dried-on poop. There is my weekend right there. Scraping shit off my window. We used to have a patio of poop until I got some plants and filled it with that. Now, the seagull that used to perch on the patio ledge, stare me down and poop has left. Apparently, he's left shit down the side of my building and onto my window.
My window at work also has bird shit on it. A big ol' streak of white with some brown mixed in for ambiance. I am not sure maintenance is coming around to wash it off.
But my biggest fear here in Victoria has come true. I got shat on.
I GOT POOPED ON!!!
I was walking to work this morning, standing on a corner waiting for a light, when I felt and saw the poop fall on me. Thankfully, it was a just a smidge in my hair and a little bit on my shirt. I took to wretching and ran into a coffee shop. I washed it out and off and cursed mightily. It all came out, since it was wet and white and not a whole lot. But enough to make me gag. When I got to work and told people my ordeal, they all told me that's good luck. Hooey! I think that's just what Victorians say to keep shat-upon tourists quiet. After an early morning wretch (that is not pregnancy related!) I better have some good luck coming down the pipe!
Fecally Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Harley's
I was standing at the bus stop yesterday and a song came on the mp3 that whisked me back in time. I all of a sudden got nostalgic for Yellowknife again, but I've also been feeling the warm fuzzies towards the place in recent days since finishing "Late Nights On Air". All weekend, I was battling the conflicted feelings of wanting to go back and relive Yellowknife, but with a husband-to-be this time, and remembering how trapped I felt there.
"99 Problems" by Jay-Z changed that.
A few years back, while living in Yellowknife, I got a call one evening from a guy I was sort-of-kind-of seeing. He was nice enough and thought the world of me, but he was dumb as bricks and we had very little in common. I chalk it up to the fact that in Yellowknife, you carouse with people you would never carouse with anywhere else on earth. Anyway, shortly after we met, he went back out to camp where he was a cook. He was to be away for six weeks. A few days before he was supposed to come back, he called to say he decided to stay in 3 weeks more. I was furious so I went for a Walk of Rage (tm). (Sidenote: a Walk of Rage is when something bothers me so much, I have to go for a massively long walk, think things through and walk off all the rage in me. Trust me, it's therapeutic.) So on this Walk of Rage, I was wearing scummy jeans and white polo shirt, sneakers and pas de makeup. I was walking/storming up the main drag in Yellowknife, when I ran into NJ, a woman I worked with, and her husband. It was right in front of Harley's, the local peeler bar. NJ and her husband insisted I come with them to the strip club for a drink and in my agitated state, I agreed.
I never went to strip clubs, unless you count that one time for a stagette. Or when I did a radio documentary on amateur male stripper night. I never went to a strip club on a regular night when female strippers were earning their living. Harley's was a popular place in Yellowknife, and it was nothing for people to stop in for a drink on a night out. I also heard that they had rotating shifts of strippers come to town, but I could be wrong.
NJ and her husband were regulars at Harley's. I did not know this. This provided us with front row seats at the strip club. That month's rotation of strippers knew NJ and Husband by name, and they all came by for a visit. NJ, being very polite, introduced me to them all. I found it unnerving to have a stripper coo my name whilst petting my hand. The "show" hadn't started yet on stage, but it was well underway at our table. I looked away at one point to wave hello to someone I once worked with, and when I turned around, I was face to coochie with a stripper doing the crab walk across the table towards NJ with a shot of Sourpuss between her breasts. I was horrified to see NJ lick boobs and then do the shot. The stripper had a friend with a tray of Sourpuss shots for the rest of us to do. NJ's husband gladly complied, but I turned 10 shades of red and refused to do a shot of anything from the cleavage of a stripper. I do believe they goaded me and called me a prude. I felt odd and old and out of place.
Finally, the show started, which meant the crab-crawling strippers left our table and did their thing. I was shocked at their agility and athleticism. In awe, almost. How, I wondered, can they wear those lucite platform shoes and not slip? How do they not have blisters? I also wondered what their mothers thought and if their fathers were proud. And then I wondered how they practiced? How did they learn these moves? How long did they practice to fllick themselves upside down on a pole?
One girl came out and started dacning to "99 Problems" by Jay-Z. It is a great song and I love it. It's strutting music. It's music to feel tough to. I never pictured it to be a stripper song. With a lyric like "A nigga like myself had to strong arm a hoe This is not a hoe in the sense of havin a pussy..." you never think, this is a GREAT song to strip to. Yet here she was, flicking and squatting and thrusting around the stage. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.
Now, three years and several lifetimes later, I hear that song and think of NJ's wide eyes and lascivious stare at the woman whose breasts she just drank booze from. Like I said, you do things in Yellowknife you never would anywhere else in the world.
Prudishly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
"99 Problems" by Jay-Z changed that.
A few years back, while living in Yellowknife, I got a call one evening from a guy I was sort-of-kind-of seeing. He was nice enough and thought the world of me, but he was dumb as bricks and we had very little in common. I chalk it up to the fact that in Yellowknife, you carouse with people you would never carouse with anywhere else on earth. Anyway, shortly after we met, he went back out to camp where he was a cook. He was to be away for six weeks. A few days before he was supposed to come back, he called to say he decided to stay in 3 weeks more. I was furious so I went for a Walk of Rage (tm). (Sidenote: a Walk of Rage is when something bothers me so much, I have to go for a massively long walk, think things through and walk off all the rage in me. Trust me, it's therapeutic.) So on this Walk of Rage, I was wearing scummy jeans and white polo shirt, sneakers and pas de makeup. I was walking/storming up the main drag in Yellowknife, when I ran into NJ, a woman I worked with, and her husband. It was right in front of Harley's, the local peeler bar. NJ and her husband insisted I come with them to the strip club for a drink and in my agitated state, I agreed.
I never went to strip clubs, unless you count that one time for a stagette. Or when I did a radio documentary on amateur male stripper night. I never went to a strip club on a regular night when female strippers were earning their living. Harley's was a popular place in Yellowknife, and it was nothing for people to stop in for a drink on a night out. I also heard that they had rotating shifts of strippers come to town, but I could be wrong.
NJ and her husband were regulars at Harley's. I did not know this. This provided us with front row seats at the strip club. That month's rotation of strippers knew NJ and Husband by name, and they all came by for a visit. NJ, being very polite, introduced me to them all. I found it unnerving to have a stripper coo my name whilst petting my hand. The "show" hadn't started yet on stage, but it was well underway at our table. I looked away at one point to wave hello to someone I once worked with, and when I turned around, I was face to coochie with a stripper doing the crab walk across the table towards NJ with a shot of Sourpuss between her breasts. I was horrified to see NJ lick boobs and then do the shot. The stripper had a friend with a tray of Sourpuss shots for the rest of us to do. NJ's husband gladly complied, but I turned 10 shades of red and refused to do a shot of anything from the cleavage of a stripper. I do believe they goaded me and called me a prude. I felt odd and old and out of place.
Finally, the show started, which meant the crab-crawling strippers left our table and did their thing. I was shocked at their agility and athleticism. In awe, almost. How, I wondered, can they wear those lucite platform shoes and not slip? How do they not have blisters? I also wondered what their mothers thought and if their fathers were proud. And then I wondered how they practiced? How did they learn these moves? How long did they practice to fllick themselves upside down on a pole?
One girl came out and started dacning to "99 Problems" by Jay-Z. It is a great song and I love it. It's strutting music. It's music to feel tough to. I never pictured it to be a stripper song. With a lyric like "A nigga like myself had to strong arm a hoe This is not a hoe in the sense of havin a pussy..." you never think, this is a GREAT song to strip to. Yet here she was, flicking and squatting and thrusting around the stage. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.
Now, three years and several lifetimes later, I hear that song and think of NJ's wide eyes and lascivious stare at the woman whose breasts she just drank booze from. Like I said, you do things in Yellowknife you never would anywhere else in the world.
Prudishly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
Monday, July 21, 2008
Identity Crisis
I think I may be in the beginning stages of an identity crisis. I don't know what this blog is about.
I have been reading some other blogs, namely Megan's, and the Coconut Diaries, these guys, Glen, some girl in Rankin Inlet, Mack the Hack, Janet, among others. Each seems to have some coherent theme. They'll be waxing politcal, or telling fascinating tales, or listing ridiculous things, or talking about important things like law school, or adjusting to a new life, or planning an alternative wedding, or idolizing David Hasselhoff.
What do I do here? I prattle on about the wedding. Who cares? What am I going to write about on September 20th? I ramble about how amazing I think Byron is. Snooze - to anyone else but me. I make silly observations about silly phrases, and bitch about hippies. It all feels very... shallow. Am I supposed to come down with these thunderous observations that stop people in their tracks? God, I hope not. Am I supposed to regale you with tales of debauchery and failed attempts at being human? Because I fear they may become old quick.
Am I too shallow for this blog?
Agonizingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
I have been reading some other blogs, namely Megan's, and the Coconut Diaries, these guys, Glen, some girl in Rankin Inlet, Mack the Hack, Janet, among others. Each seems to have some coherent theme. They'll be waxing politcal, or telling fascinating tales, or listing ridiculous things, or talking about important things like law school, or adjusting to a new life, or planning an alternative wedding, or idolizing David Hasselhoff.
What do I do here? I prattle on about the wedding. Who cares? What am I going to write about on September 20th? I ramble about how amazing I think Byron is. Snooze - to anyone else but me. I make silly observations about silly phrases, and bitch about hippies. It all feels very... shallow. Am I supposed to come down with these thunderous observations that stop people in their tracks? God, I hope not. Am I supposed to regale you with tales of debauchery and failed attempts at being human? Because I fear they may become old quick.
Am I too shallow for this blog?
Agonizingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt
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