one, middle-aged men who should never appear topless in public are frequently those most likely to appear topless in public
two, at $16.95 for a day-old cheeseburger and soggy fries, niagara falls can't be beat in terms of freshness and value
three, most tourists lose more money in vending machines than slot machines
four, evidently there is no truth to the longstanding myth that smoking helps to keep the pounds off
five, a haunted house by any other name is simply a darkened room holding six guys in black sweaters hiding behind a door
six, in the absence of daily inspections and proper sanitization of hotel pool, twelve gallons of chlorine will apparently suffice
seven, "why are there no boys on our floor?" is the last thing an overprotective father wishes to hear from his boy-crazy seven-year-old daughter
eight, eavesdropping on neighbours made that much easier thanks to paper-thin hotel walls
nine, what is it about spending a few nights in an unfamiliar bed that makes one long for the comfort and familiarity of home?
falling is easy, getting up is hard
p.s. thanks to blogger's new "stats" feature, i just learned that my blog has received over 6,700 pageviews since inception, almost all of them courtesy of me
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
i think therefore i am
i can understand why babies and infants might fall asleep with their knees and wrists tucked up below their chins. something to do with that whole trying-to-climb-back-into-the-womb theory. that whole trying-to-recreate-the-security-of-the-fetal-position thingy.
but whenever i nod off on the couch with my two-year-old sprawled out on top of me, i always awake to find one of her tiny little hands nestled beneath my shirt sleeve. always. one hand. one shirt sleeve. always.
yeah, yeah. i know it's weird. you don't have to tell me.
but more to the point, why does my wee one perform this bizarre little stunt in the first place? i mean, which biological or psychological imperative is she attempting to fulfill when she decides to jam her fingers into the concave wonderland that is my armpit? there aren't any physical equivalencies to the short-sleeve t-shirt inside the womb, are there? i think i would have remembered reading about that in biology class if there were.
but wait. my youngest has yet another peculiar little habit that bears mention. every evening around ten or eleven, my two-year-old stumbles out of bed and proceeds to make her way down the hallway towards my bedroom in search of my wife. (i am only able to witness this after-hours escapade as the computer table at which i am seated at that hour provides a handy ringside view to the action.) but the best part of this nightly episode is the enormous purple pillow that two carries beneath her arm as she ambles toward the bedroom door. now keep in mind that the sleeping accessory i speak of is almost as long as my daughter is tall and probably twice as wide. and yet night after night, just like clockwork, my tiny bundle of joy somehow manages to wedge that oversized pillow between her elbow and hip before heading off on her incredible journey in pursuit of greener pastures. or warmer sheets.
"when i was a little kid and i got scared, the rain man would come and sing to me." - rain man (1988)
i'm not really sure what this has to do with the post, but here goes anyway:
but whenever i nod off on the couch with my two-year-old sprawled out on top of me, i always awake to find one of her tiny little hands nestled beneath my shirt sleeve. always. one hand. one shirt sleeve. always.
yeah, yeah. i know it's weird. you don't have to tell me.
but more to the point, why does my wee one perform this bizarre little stunt in the first place? i mean, which biological or psychological imperative is she attempting to fulfill when she decides to jam her fingers into the concave wonderland that is my armpit? there aren't any physical equivalencies to the short-sleeve t-shirt inside the womb, are there? i think i would have remembered reading about that in biology class if there were.
but wait. my youngest has yet another peculiar little habit that bears mention. every evening around ten or eleven, my two-year-old stumbles out of bed and proceeds to make her way down the hallway towards my bedroom in search of my wife. (i am only able to witness this after-hours escapade as the computer table at which i am seated at that hour provides a handy ringside view to the action.) but the best part of this nightly episode is the enormous purple pillow that two carries beneath her arm as she ambles toward the bedroom door. now keep in mind that the sleeping accessory i speak of is almost as long as my daughter is tall and probably twice as wide. and yet night after night, just like clockwork, my tiny bundle of joy somehow manages to wedge that oversized pillow between her elbow and hip before heading off on her incredible journey in pursuit of greener pastures. or warmer sheets.
"when i was a little kid and i got scared, the rain man would come and sing to me." - rain man (1988)
i'm not really sure what this has to do with the post, but here goes anyway:
what it is what it was what it shall be
so the other day one of the kids at my summer gig asked me what the title of my blog meant. "it's complicated," i said.
by complicated, i meant that it's difficult to explain. and it is. it truly is.
i mean, i certainly know what the title is supposed to signify. but if you ask me to put it into words, i begin to stumble a little.
it's like this. the title is supposed to represent the essence of life in our society. or more precisely, the everyday trials and tribulations that make up life in our society. or more precisely, the everyday minutiae that occupies the majority of our experiences in this society.
you see, it is difficult to explain.
so then the same kid asked me why i write about the things that i write about, as opposed to, say, more "important" topics like politics or the environment or the economy.
and after a few seconds of reflection, i looked at the kid and i said, "because that's what i want to write about. if you want to write about the damn economy, then start your own blog and write about the damn economy."
and because when you add up all of the stories about report cards and tiny plastic thingies and sweaty palms and tactless doctors and bicycle racks and odd neighbours and receding hairlines and chinese buffets and the funny things that kids say, you have the complete picture. not the big picture, mind you, but the complete picture.
and in this case, i would argue that the whole is most definitely greater than the sum of its parts.
oh, and in response to the third question from that same kid, i write this blog for two reasons. one, for myself. and two, for you.
by complicated, i meant that it's difficult to explain. and it is. it truly is.
i mean, i certainly know what the title is supposed to signify. but if you ask me to put it into words, i begin to stumble a little.
it's like this. the title is supposed to represent the essence of life in our society. or more precisely, the everyday trials and tribulations that make up life in our society. or more precisely, the everyday minutiae that occupies the majority of our experiences in this society.
you see, it is difficult to explain.
so then the same kid asked me why i write about the things that i write about, as opposed to, say, more "important" topics like politics or the environment or the economy.
and after a few seconds of reflection, i looked at the kid and i said, "because that's what i want to write about. if you want to write about the damn economy, then start your own blog and write about the damn economy."
and because when you add up all of the stories about report cards and tiny plastic thingies and sweaty palms and tactless doctors and bicycle racks and odd neighbours and receding hairlines and chinese buffets and the funny things that kids say, you have the complete picture. not the big picture, mind you, but the complete picture.
and in this case, i would argue that the whole is most definitely greater than the sum of its parts.
oh, and in response to the third question from that same kid, i write this blog for two reasons. one, for myself. and two, for you.
out of the mouths of babes
just a few minutes ago, my two-year-old was trying on a pink ballet tutu that once belonged to her older sister. now the little one isn't really an aspiring ballerina, at least not yet. but it was the reaction of my seven-year-old to this seemingly routine event that made me stop and smile. and so i thought i would share that reaction with you.
seven: um, what are you doing with my tutu?
two: mine.
seven: listen, kid. i was wearing that tutu before you were even born.
seven: um, what are you doing with my tutu?
two: mine.
seven: listen, kid. i was wearing that tutu before you were even born.
Friday, August 27, 2010
maybe she has a point
"----- is a very capable boy. he generally prefers to work by himself on quiet, individual activities. when he does participate in group activities, he always tends to select the same children to work with. accordingly, in the future, i would like to see him working with a variety of children at different times."
my mother brought over a couple of my kindergarten report cards the other day. back then they were known as progress reports. the pages were mostly filled with highly articulate observations on the inner workings and outer limits of yours truly. but it was the above comment prepared by my senior kindergarten teacher that immediately caught my attention. it caught my attention because about a week back, a colleague and i were engaged in a highly animated discussion on the nature of personality and the ability of human beings to "change" their characters. essentially my co-worker's argument, one frequently put forward by psychologists in the field, was that once a child reaches the age of six or seven, his/her essential personality traits are more or less formed. and by "formed" i assume my colleague meant "fixed."
now following the debate, i still had some doubts as to the veracity of this hypothesis. but when i accidentally stumbled across the above comment in my hand-written report card, it gave me pause to at least reconsider my stance on the matter.
how come? well, because even today, at the ripe old age of --, at the heart of my personality lies a desire to avoid the judgments of others by escaping into a world of isolation or a world of familiarity.
and according to at least one kindergarten teacher in the old north york board of education, i was already exhibiting these proclivities at the tender young age of five.
"will you just shut up and listen to the song, please!" - anonymous
the last song on the last day of listening class circa the summer of 2010
my mother brought over a couple of my kindergarten report cards the other day. back then they were known as progress reports. the pages were mostly filled with highly articulate observations on the inner workings and outer limits of yours truly. but it was the above comment prepared by my senior kindergarten teacher that immediately caught my attention. it caught my attention because about a week back, a colleague and i were engaged in a highly animated discussion on the nature of personality and the ability of human beings to "change" their characters. essentially my co-worker's argument, one frequently put forward by psychologists in the field, was that once a child reaches the age of six or seven, his/her essential personality traits are more or less formed. and by "formed" i assume my colleague meant "fixed."
now following the debate, i still had some doubts as to the veracity of this hypothesis. but when i accidentally stumbled across the above comment in my hand-written report card, it gave me pause to at least reconsider my stance on the matter.
how come? well, because even today, at the ripe old age of --, at the heart of my personality lies a desire to avoid the judgments of others by escaping into a world of isolation or a world of familiarity.
and according to at least one kindergarten teacher in the old north york board of education, i was already exhibiting these proclivities at the tender young age of five.
"will you just shut up and listen to the song, please!" - anonymous
the last song on the last day of listening class circa the summer of 2010
the secret
the secret is so simple, really.
when it was only for sport, i couldn't do it.
when it was only for show, i couldn't do it.
when it was only for fun, i couldn't do it.
all i needed was the proper motivation.
simple, really.
"when we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves." - victor frankl
go ahead. crank it up. i dare you.
when it was only for sport, i couldn't do it.
when it was only for show, i couldn't do it.
when it was only for fun, i couldn't do it.
all i needed was the proper motivation.
simple, really.
"when we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves." - victor frankl
go ahead. crank it up. i dare you.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
shut up and dance
you know those tiny, round plastic thingies attached to the base of the question mark on select metal clothing hangers? you know. they come in an assortment of colours and they look like miniature rings and they indicate the sizes (s, m, l, xl) of the various items hanging below. you know.
anyhow, my two-year-old is utterly obsessed with them. and it just so happens that winners, in the plaza across the street, is absolutely crawling with them. in fact, you can probably eyeball hundreds... maybe thousands... perhaps even millions of the little keepsakes lying about the floor at the discount clothing retailer. now i don't really know how they got there - on the floor, that is - but they got there. and as i've already indicated, my daughter is completely infatuated with them. stockpiling them, to be more precise. like a squirrel and her nuts. why, she has even started up a collection of the tiny "circles" (as she calls them) which she keeps in an old plastic water bottle on her dresser. hell, i'm getting worried that she might be a candidate for "hoarders" one day. but whenever i need to get the little one out of the house for a few hours, all i have to say is "do you wanna get some circles at winners?" and before i know it she is standing at the door with her crocs on.
anyhow, today my wife needed some quiet time to herself so i decided to take my youngest on a tour of the aforementioned winners to see if we couldn't rustle up some more of them plastic circle thingies. now at this juncture i should probably point out that today's post has absolutely nothing to do with those plastic circle thingies other than the fact that i've already spent the last three paragraphs or so describing them in somewhat graphic detail.
no, today's post has more to do with the popular musical selections blaring over the p.a. system at the winners location just across the road and the incessant interruptions of said musical selections which make it damn near impossible for pretend shoppers like myself to enjoy said selections. in particular, this afternoon while i was thoroughly grooving to one of my favorite numbers from back in the day, the aptly titled "get right back" by seventies soulstress maxine nightingale, i was forced to digest at least a half-dozen interjections imploring assorted winners' personnel to "pick up line 17" or "go to cash register 6" or "report to receiving." and i gotta tell you that it made it damn near impossible to enjoy any continuity in the disco-era classic. why, it was just one ill-mannered interruption after another. i mean, seriously, couldn't the disembodied voice of the winners p.a. system have at least waited until the end of the damn song before barking out her orders to her various minions? i mean, really, what's the point of even broadcasting those catchy dance hall ditties if pretend shoppers like myself can't get down for more than a few seconds at a time before being subjected to yet another impertinent intrusion? i mean, really now.
oh, and in case you were wondering, today the kid and i produced a near record haul of plastic circle thingies, more than 50 by my count, including at least two black and white beauties, considered the mona lisa of the genre by most experts.
"c'mon boys and girls, i wanna tell you, when you grow up you'll find there comes a time when you gotta dance. but nobody says you can't pick good music." - wkrp in cincinnati (1981)
the way it was meant to be enjoyed
p.s. the neck of the hanger. of course. that's the word i was searching for. gracias.
anyhow, my two-year-old is utterly obsessed with them. and it just so happens that winners, in the plaza across the street, is absolutely crawling with them. in fact, you can probably eyeball hundreds... maybe thousands... perhaps even millions of the little keepsakes lying about the floor at the discount clothing retailer. now i don't really know how they got there - on the floor, that is - but they got there. and as i've already indicated, my daughter is completely infatuated with them. stockpiling them, to be more precise. like a squirrel and her nuts. why, she has even started up a collection of the tiny "circles" (as she calls them) which she keeps in an old plastic water bottle on her dresser. hell, i'm getting worried that she might be a candidate for "hoarders" one day. but whenever i need to get the little one out of the house for a few hours, all i have to say is "do you wanna get some circles at winners?" and before i know it she is standing at the door with her crocs on.
anyhow, today my wife needed some quiet time to herself so i decided to take my youngest on a tour of the aforementioned winners to see if we couldn't rustle up some more of them plastic circle thingies. now at this juncture i should probably point out that today's post has absolutely nothing to do with those plastic circle thingies other than the fact that i've already spent the last three paragraphs or so describing them in somewhat graphic detail.
no, today's post has more to do with the popular musical selections blaring over the p.a. system at the winners location just across the road and the incessant interruptions of said musical selections which make it damn near impossible for pretend shoppers like myself to enjoy said selections. in particular, this afternoon while i was thoroughly grooving to one of my favorite numbers from back in the day, the aptly titled "get right back" by seventies soulstress maxine nightingale, i was forced to digest at least a half-dozen interjections imploring assorted winners' personnel to "pick up line 17" or "go to cash register 6" or "report to receiving." and i gotta tell you that it made it damn near impossible to enjoy any continuity in the disco-era classic. why, it was just one ill-mannered interruption after another. i mean, seriously, couldn't the disembodied voice of the winners p.a. system have at least waited until the end of the damn song before barking out her orders to her various minions? i mean, really, what's the point of even broadcasting those catchy dance hall ditties if pretend shoppers like myself can't get down for more than a few seconds at a time before being subjected to yet another impertinent intrusion? i mean, really now.
oh, and in case you were wondering, today the kid and i produced a near record haul of plastic circle thingies, more than 50 by my count, including at least two black and white beauties, considered the mona lisa of the genre by most experts.
"c'mon boys and girls, i wanna tell you, when you grow up you'll find there comes a time when you gotta dance. but nobody says you can't pick good music." - wkrp in cincinnati (1981)
the way it was meant to be enjoyed
p.s. the neck of the hanger. of course. that's the word i was searching for. gracias.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
no news is good news
patient: hey doc. did you have a chance to look over my blood results?
doctor: i did.
patient: and?
doctor: well, your glucose levels are a little high.
patient: glucose levels? so does that mean i have, like, diabetes or something?
doctor: probably.
(long pause)
patient: well, that sucks.
doctor: yeah.
and with that, the news was official. well, sort of. i still have to go back in three months for a follow-up test. you know, to confirm the diagnosis and all. but for now, i have no choice but to take my doctor at his word. type 2 diabetes. the silver medal of blood sugar disorders. yay.
actually, i had been expecting the news for quite some time now. you see, i've been suffering from the symptoms associated with the condition for as long as i can recall - fatigue, excessive thirst, frequent trips to the restroom. ahem.
but the good news is that the changes required to control my blood sugar levels are fairly simple and straightforward. in a nutshell, diet and exercise.
naturally i had been most concerned over the changes required to my diet. food, after all, is the window to the soul. especially my soul.
but it turns out that a typical diabetic diet is not much different from a typical healthy diet. five or six small meals a day is recommended. fruits and vegetables are good. dairy products are good, too. white meat is better than red, of course. and we all need starches like bread and pasta.
at the same time, try to avoid salty or sugary foods. saturated fats are a no-no, as well. and so are fried, fast and processed foods.
and finally, everything in moderation. common sense really.
common sense to all but me, it would appear. for i spent the better part of the past four decades or so indulging myself in the absolute worst the food chain has to offer. frozen pizzas, fried chicken, assorted subs, potato chips... and that's just a typical tuesday. nothing was too rich for my blood. or so i thought.
looking ahead, even if my glucose levels are noticeably lower at my next examination, i still think i'm in it for the long haul this time. the lifestyle change, that is. besides, it was time. and i've got a lot to lose if i don't play my cards right this hand.
you know, diabetes is fairly common in my family. to be honest, i should have known better.
"the eyes are the window to the soul." - author unknown
hey, alanis was born in ottawa, too
p.s. wait a minute. you're depressed because you do have me in the mornings or because you don't have me in the mornings?
doctor: i did.
patient: and?
doctor: well, your glucose levels are a little high.
patient: glucose levels? so does that mean i have, like, diabetes or something?
doctor: probably.
(long pause)
patient: well, that sucks.
doctor: yeah.
and with that, the news was official. well, sort of. i still have to go back in three months for a follow-up test. you know, to confirm the diagnosis and all. but for now, i have no choice but to take my doctor at his word. type 2 diabetes. the silver medal of blood sugar disorders. yay.
actually, i had been expecting the news for quite some time now. you see, i've been suffering from the symptoms associated with the condition for as long as i can recall - fatigue, excessive thirst, frequent trips to the restroom. ahem.
but the good news is that the changes required to control my blood sugar levels are fairly simple and straightforward. in a nutshell, diet and exercise.
naturally i had been most concerned over the changes required to my diet. food, after all, is the window to the soul. especially my soul.
but it turns out that a typical diabetic diet is not much different from a typical healthy diet. five or six small meals a day is recommended. fruits and vegetables are good. dairy products are good, too. white meat is better than red, of course. and we all need starches like bread and pasta.
at the same time, try to avoid salty or sugary foods. saturated fats are a no-no, as well. and so are fried, fast and processed foods.
and finally, everything in moderation. common sense really.
common sense to all but me, it would appear. for i spent the better part of the past four decades or so indulging myself in the absolute worst the food chain has to offer. frozen pizzas, fried chicken, assorted subs, potato chips... and that's just a typical tuesday. nothing was too rich for my blood. or so i thought.
looking ahead, even if my glucose levels are noticeably lower at my next examination, i still think i'm in it for the long haul this time. the lifestyle change, that is. besides, it was time. and i've got a lot to lose if i don't play my cards right this hand.
you know, diabetes is fairly common in my family. to be honest, i should have known better.
"the eyes are the window to the soul." - author unknown
hey, alanis was born in ottawa, too
p.s. wait a minute. you're depressed because you do have me in the mornings or because you don't have me in the mornings?
a grown-up pride hides all the need inside
there are three types of people in the world.
those who learn from others' mistakes. we call them smart people.
those who refuse to learn from others' mistakes. we call them stupid people.
and those who only learn from their own mistakes. we call them people.
"a single conversation with a wise man is better than ten years of study." - chinese proverb
paul anka was born in ottawa, you know
those who learn from others' mistakes. we call them smart people.
those who refuse to learn from others' mistakes. we call them stupid people.
and those who only learn from their own mistakes. we call them people.
"a single conversation with a wise man is better than ten years of study." - chinese proverb
paul anka was born in ottawa, you know
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
pleased to meet you
the meeting was set up to discuss my existing mortgage with the bank and my desire to renegotiate the terms of said contract if possible. but when i was introduced to the mortgage specialist that would be handling the matter (no pun intended), i immediately observed that he appeared a tad youngish. and a bit anxious to boot. maybe he had just completed an undergraduate business degree, i thought to myself, and this was his initial foray into the world of financial planning.
following the introduction, i extended my hand in a traditional gesture of greeting. but what i received in return was anything but traditional. to say that this fellow's palms were a little sweaty would be the understatement of the century. and to make matters worse, banker boy dragged out the duration of our handshake well beyond the customary moment or two.
when our hands finally parted ways, i was left to spend the next thirty minutes or so debating the terms of my current loan agreement with my new best friend. but try as i might, i just couldn't shake (again, no pun intended) that feeling of dampness simmering in my right hand.
amortization periods, interest rates, rapid paydown options.... none of it mattered at that point. for my greeting hand had just been violated in a manner that left me practically reeling in disgust. should i ask for a tissue? should i excuse myself and pay a quick visit to the men's room? should i steal a squirt of the hand sanitizer sitting on the desk before me? i mean, i didn't want to hurt the chap's feelings. but at the same time, this was supposed to be a very important tete-a-tete. thousands of dollars were on the line, after all. how could i possibly focus on negotiating a good deal for myself when i had this worrisome burden weighing so heavily on my conscience?
following the introduction, i extended my hand in a traditional gesture of greeting. but what i received in return was anything but traditional. to say that this fellow's palms were a little sweaty would be the understatement of the century. and to make matters worse, banker boy dragged out the duration of our handshake well beyond the customary moment or two.
when our hands finally parted ways, i was left to spend the next thirty minutes or so debating the terms of my current loan agreement with my new best friend. but try as i might, i just couldn't shake (again, no pun intended) that feeling of dampness simmering in my right hand.
amortization periods, interest rates, rapid paydown options.... none of it mattered at that point. for my greeting hand had just been violated in a manner that left me practically reeling in disgust. should i ask for a tissue? should i excuse myself and pay a quick visit to the men's room? should i steal a squirt of the hand sanitizer sitting on the desk before me? i mean, i didn't want to hurt the chap's feelings. but at the same time, this was supposed to be a very important tete-a-tete. thousands of dollars were on the line, after all. how could i possibly focus on negotiating a good deal for myself when i had this worrisome burden weighing so heavily on my conscience?
and suddenly, in the midst of all this internal tumult, i flashed back to that now serendipitous run-in a few weeks back with my old pal and his germophobic uncle just outside the kosher burger shack near my crib. the uncle who refused to shake my hand, as some of you may recall. and it made me wonder if the old man wasn't onto something there.
"genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.” - thomas edison
so tell me what i see when i look in your eyes
Monday, August 23, 2010
click
it started about three weeks ago. that's when i first noticed that my mouse was giving me trouble. my computer mouse, that is. it's not a complicated device, really. a simple two-button usb design with vertical scroll that came with my brand new dell pc about four years ago. but between my seven-year-old's miniclip and y8 obsession, my two-year-old's penchant for slamming things that don't belong to her, and my own somewhat immature habit of incessantly shaking any object within arm's reach while waiting on my excruciatingly slow internet service, the little guy has probably seen its best days come and go.
so here's the problem. whenever i click on the left button, the mouse delivers not one but two (or sometimes three) clicks to the intended target. as a result:
let's say that i wish to return to the previous webpage via the direction arrows in the top left corner of the screen. so i click once on the back arrow. but instead of travelling back to the immediately preceding page, i find myself on a webpage two pages in arrears. but, of course, i don't want to travel back that far. so i click once on the forward arrow. but instead of travelling forward to the immediately subsequent page, i find myself back on the original webpage that i didn't want to be on in the first place. so i click once again on the back arrow. but this time i travel not two but three pages in reverse. so now i'm exactly two webpages behind the actual page i'm trying to locate. but at this point i figure that i'm finally in the clear. after all, all i have to do is click once on the forward arrow and naturally i will jump ahead two pages to my intended target. but in a show of blatant defiance, my mischievous mouse decides to take this rare opportunity to actually perform the way it was designed to. so now one click on the forward arrow equals one webpage forward. accordingly, i'm still one page west of where i want to be. so i tap on the left mouse button one more time, and this time as gently as possible. but unfortunately, the mouse's consecutive hit streak has come to an end at... one. and so, once again, i find myself on the wrong page. on the outside looking in, as it were.
maybe it's time i picked up a new mouse.
"the machine does not isolate us from the great problems of nature but plunges us more deeply into them.” - antoine de saint-exupery
hey, i've never seen this version
so here's the problem. whenever i click on the left button, the mouse delivers not one but two (or sometimes three) clicks to the intended target. as a result:
let's say that i wish to return to the previous webpage via the direction arrows in the top left corner of the screen. so i click once on the back arrow. but instead of travelling back to the immediately preceding page, i find myself on a webpage two pages in arrears. but, of course, i don't want to travel back that far. so i click once on the forward arrow. but instead of travelling forward to the immediately subsequent page, i find myself back on the original webpage that i didn't want to be on in the first place. so i click once again on the back arrow. but this time i travel not two but three pages in reverse. so now i'm exactly two webpages behind the actual page i'm trying to locate. but at this point i figure that i'm finally in the clear. after all, all i have to do is click once on the forward arrow and naturally i will jump ahead two pages to my intended target. but in a show of blatant defiance, my mischievous mouse decides to take this rare opportunity to actually perform the way it was designed to. so now one click on the forward arrow equals one webpage forward. accordingly, i'm still one page west of where i want to be. so i tap on the left mouse button one more time, and this time as gently as possible. but unfortunately, the mouse's consecutive hit streak has come to an end at... one. and so, once again, i find myself on the wrong page. on the outside looking in, as it were.
maybe it's time i picked up a new mouse.
"the machine does not isolate us from the great problems of nature but plunges us more deeply into them.” - antoine de saint-exupery
hey, i've never seen this version
gulp
so the last thing a recovering hypochondriac and borderline neurotic wants to hear is, "maybe you should come into the office so that we can talk." the office being the doctor's office, that is.
but that was precisely the message left on my answering machine sometime this afternoon by my trusty physician.
to be fair, the complete message went something like this: "um, i just had a look at the results of your blood tests from last week and i think it would be a good idea if you could call me back... or maybe it would be better if you just came into the office so that we can talk."
now after replaying that message a good half-dozen or so times, i have come to the conclusion that the communique in question may reasonably be interpreted in one of two ways. uno, my blood tests were fine and my doc just wanted to confirm my fineness in person so that he could bill the province for a highly unnecessary thirty-second consultation. or dos, my blood tests were anything but fine and my doctor was demonstrating the highest level of professionalism when he chose not to leave a message on my answering machine advising me of how long i had left.
and keep in mind that my opinion on this matter is largely informed by the old maxim (canard?) which suggests that doctors rarely invite patients into their offices to deliver good news.
that said, i do take some comfort in the fact that at least my m.d. gave me the option of either calling him back to learn my results or speaking to him in person. small comfort, yes, but enough to provide me at least a faint glimmer of hope for the time being.
of course, it didn't help when i contacted my doctor's office to inquire about my blood tests the other day only to be informed by the receptionist that my cholesterol level was a tad "elevated" while my albumin level was a touch "odd." which cholesterol level is high - the good one or the bad one, i demanded. and what exactly is albumin, i inquired. the receptionist couldn't answer my second question ("albumin? hmm, i'm not really sure...") and had trouble distinguishing between hdl and ldl for my first question ("i think hdl is the good one.... or is it ldl? maybe you should just wait to speak to the doctor.") perhaps this is why my daughter's pediatrician once noted rather bluntly, "receptionists do not go to medical school."
"no news is good news." - author unknown
my seven-year-old daughter finally caught a glimpse of grease on amc tonight and i am pleased to report that she is suitably hooked
but that was precisely the message left on my answering machine sometime this afternoon by my trusty physician.
to be fair, the complete message went something like this: "um, i just had a look at the results of your blood tests from last week and i think it would be a good idea if you could call me back... or maybe it would be better if you just came into the office so that we can talk."
now after replaying that message a good half-dozen or so times, i have come to the conclusion that the communique in question may reasonably be interpreted in one of two ways. uno, my blood tests were fine and my doc just wanted to confirm my fineness in person so that he could bill the province for a highly unnecessary thirty-second consultation. or dos, my blood tests were anything but fine and my doctor was demonstrating the highest level of professionalism when he chose not to leave a message on my answering machine advising me of how long i had left.
and keep in mind that my opinion on this matter is largely informed by the old maxim (canard?) which suggests that doctors rarely invite patients into their offices to deliver good news.
that said, i do take some comfort in the fact that at least my m.d. gave me the option of either calling him back to learn my results or speaking to him in person. small comfort, yes, but enough to provide me at least a faint glimmer of hope for the time being.
of course, it didn't help when i contacted my doctor's office to inquire about my blood tests the other day only to be informed by the receptionist that my cholesterol level was a tad "elevated" while my albumin level was a touch "odd." which cholesterol level is high - the good one or the bad one, i demanded. and what exactly is albumin, i inquired. the receptionist couldn't answer my second question ("albumin? hmm, i'm not really sure...") and had trouble distinguishing between hdl and ldl for my first question ("i think hdl is the good one.... or is it ldl? maybe you should just wait to speak to the doctor.") perhaps this is why my daughter's pediatrician once noted rather bluntly, "receptionists do not go to medical school."
"no news is good news." - author unknown
my seven-year-old daughter finally caught a glimpse of grease on amc tonight and i am pleased to report that she is suitably hooked
Friday, August 20, 2010
run on
the bathurst 7 was just about to pull away from the curb when out of nowhere appeared this spandex-clad twenty-something kid lugging a bmx beauty so the driver had to slam on the brakes and allow the dude to fasten his ride to the bike rack on the front of the vehicle but the x games wannabe didn't really know how to load up his motocross so the driver was forced to vacate his leather perch in order to assist the hapless pedaler and by the time the pair had succeeded in fastening the bicycle to the newly-minted rack three or four minutes had already passed which allowed me some time to ponder why any cyclist would ever rely upon mass transit as a means of transporting his/her wheels when the whole purpose of owning a bicycle is a desire to avoid the need for motorized transportation in the first place but i decided to give the sidewalk jockey the benefit of the doubt because after all he may have resorted to riding the red rocket that morning due to a debilitating injury or an extended commute or perhaps he had misplaced his helmet the day before but when the spandex king yanked the cord to signal a stop request just a few minutes later i must admit that i was a little perplexed given that the metropass-wielding daredevil had only employed the services of our local transit authority for a few hundred metres but it wasn't long before my confusion morphed into boundless contempt once our helmetless hero finally stepped off the vehicle and proceeded to climb aboard his oh so sweet ride for now of course my initial suspicions had been proven unfounded as the cycle boy was clearly not suffering from a debilitating injury nor was he apprehensive about pedaling without a helmet nor was this an extended commute and i suppose the long and the short of it is that in an imperfect world there will be always be occasions where bike owners make a mockery of our public transportation system by hitching a ride aboard a half-empty motorcoach even though their two-wheeled cargo could more than adequately perform the very same role. period.
whew.
teacher: "kids, today i'm gonna teach you how to compose a simple sentence."
(dubious grade 11 student refuses to take out her pencil)
teacher: "uh, why aren't you taking out your pencil?"
dubious grade 11 student: "sir, this is beneath me."
i remember it like it was yesterday
whew.
teacher: "kids, today i'm gonna teach you how to compose a simple sentence."
(dubious grade 11 student refuses to take out her pencil)
teacher: "uh, why aren't you taking out your pencil?"
dubious grade 11 student: "sir, this is beneath me."
i remember it like it was yesterday
Thursday, August 19, 2010
kiss and make up
"beauty fades. brains are forever." - judge judy
when she passed me in the lobby of our building, i had to do a double-take just to make sure that i wasn't imagining things. "i've seen that woman before," i mumbled to myself. but where? where had i seen her before? the hair seemed familiar. the clothing seemed familiar. the jewellery seemed familiar. yet it was the shoes that seemed most familiar of all. those four-inch black-and-white patent leather pumps. shoes like those tend to stand out in a building filled mainly with female octogenarians sporting hush puppies and support socks. (and don't talk to me about support socks, kid.)
but what about the face? it was the face that i just couldn't place. i mean, her face did look familiar, not unlike the shoes and the jewellery and the clothing and the hair. though it wasn't the face that i normally associated with all of those accoutrements. at least not in the same configuration that appeared to me in the lobby of our building that day.
and then it hit me. why, of course. how could i not have recognized her? it was my upstairs neighbour. the one who lives directly above my unit. the one with the two teenage sons who certainly gave my daughter and me quite the scare last year when they nearly clobbered us with a pair of water balloons dropped from their balcony. the one with the live-in boyfriend who always seems to be recovering from a perpetual sunburn, even in the deepest throes of winter. and the one with whom i've shared an elevator ride on at least a dozen or so occasions since she and her brood sailed into the building a few years back. hell, i've even exchanged pleasantries with the woman on the few rare occasions when i felt like being social during said elevator trips.
but why didn't i recognize my neighbour that day? well, and i will try to be kind here, i didn't recognize my neighbour that day because she wasn't wearing her face. and by her face, of course, i am referring to her customary mask of makeup. the dollops and dollops of foundation and blush and mascara and eyeshadow and eyeliner and lipstick and lip gloss and lip balm that practically drips from her middle-aged mug whenever i run into her.
so?
so how come some folks devote so much time and money and energy trying to disguise their true appearance?
after all, we can't hide our real faces forever.
"i want to be a guy, but i want to wear a lot of makeup.” - gwen stefani
at the risk of sounding repetitive, sometimes an apple is just an apple
when she passed me in the lobby of our building, i had to do a double-take just to make sure that i wasn't imagining things. "i've seen that woman before," i mumbled to myself. but where? where had i seen her before? the hair seemed familiar. the clothing seemed familiar. the jewellery seemed familiar. yet it was the shoes that seemed most familiar of all. those four-inch black-and-white patent leather pumps. shoes like those tend to stand out in a building filled mainly with female octogenarians sporting hush puppies and support socks. (and don't talk to me about support socks, kid.)
but what about the face? it was the face that i just couldn't place. i mean, her face did look familiar, not unlike the shoes and the jewellery and the clothing and the hair. though it wasn't the face that i normally associated with all of those accoutrements. at least not in the same configuration that appeared to me in the lobby of our building that day.
and then it hit me. why, of course. how could i not have recognized her? it was my upstairs neighbour. the one who lives directly above my unit. the one with the two teenage sons who certainly gave my daughter and me quite the scare last year when they nearly clobbered us with a pair of water balloons dropped from their balcony. the one with the live-in boyfriend who always seems to be recovering from a perpetual sunburn, even in the deepest throes of winter. and the one with whom i've shared an elevator ride on at least a dozen or so occasions since she and her brood sailed into the building a few years back. hell, i've even exchanged pleasantries with the woman on the few rare occasions when i felt like being social during said elevator trips.
but why didn't i recognize my neighbour that day? well, and i will try to be kind here, i didn't recognize my neighbour that day because she wasn't wearing her face. and by her face, of course, i am referring to her customary mask of makeup. the dollops and dollops of foundation and blush and mascara and eyeshadow and eyeliner and lipstick and lip gloss and lip balm that practically drips from her middle-aged mug whenever i run into her.
so?
so how come some folks devote so much time and money and energy trying to disguise their true appearance?
after all, we can't hide our real faces forever.
"i want to be a guy, but i want to wear a lot of makeup.” - gwen stefani
at the risk of sounding repetitive, sometimes an apple is just an apple
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
gotta have my ipod in the a.m.
well, well, well. what should i discuss tonight? the make-up lady, the lazy cyclist or this city's obsession with ipods and underground travel?
hmmm, i think i'll go with my final suggestion. the make-up lady and the lazy cyclist can wait.
so this morning, as i made my way into work on the yonge street subway, i decided to conduct a brief and admittedly unscientific study of ipod usage on my train. according to my calculations, approximately 30% of all subway patrons were plugged into the iconic portable media player during today's morning rush hour. that's right. just about one out of every three users of public transportation in this city was listening to some form of audio entertainment as they rode the rails to their places of employment (i presume) earlier today. at least on my train they were.
now speaking of rails, i believe that i once employed the pages of this very blog to rail against the creeping corruption of musical appreciation via the proliferation of digital music players and their accompanying earphone technology. musica, i argued, was always intended to be experienced as a shared communal adventure and not as a means of shutting out the outside world. yet the very design of the modern mp3 player all but ensures that the listener remains isolated in the consumption of his/her personal musical tastes.
so here's my question: why is it that so many residents of this city feel compelled to listen to their latter-day walkmans while they commute to work every morning on public transit? i mean, is it really necessary to get in those thirty or forty minutes of the latest musical trends before the start of the every single workday? after all, it's not as though my fellow metro travellers are barred from listening to their ipods once the clock strikes five or on weekends or statutory holidays or whenever they have some free time. hey, that's what i do. in fact, between youtube and the cd player and the car stereo and the samsung k3 and the radio and the rogers digital music channels, i am hardly lacking in terms of musical indulgence.
so you're on the subway. so what's so wrong about striking up a conversation with one of your fellow passengers? or reading the paper? or reading your fellow passenger's paper? or avoiding eye contact with your fellow passenger? or staring at the poster ads? or straightening your tie? or hiking up your socks? or munching on a granny smith apple? or making a mental to-do list? or dreaming of a better life?
and yes, i am fully aware that most, if not all, of the above activities can be performed while one hums along to the latest eminem release courtesy one's portable musical device. but that's the whole point of this piece. that's the question i've been asking all along. why, in modern times, must we always seek out musical accompaniment to assist us in every aspect of our daily routines?
and just how much magic can lie in those tiny little earbuds anyway?
"music is the wine that fills the cup of silence." - robert fripp
hey, the man was responsible for "stairway to heaven"
hmmm, i think i'll go with my final suggestion. the make-up lady and the lazy cyclist can wait.
so this morning, as i made my way into work on the yonge street subway, i decided to conduct a brief and admittedly unscientific study of ipod usage on my train. according to my calculations, approximately 30% of all subway patrons were plugged into the iconic portable media player during today's morning rush hour. that's right. just about one out of every three users of public transportation in this city was listening to some form of audio entertainment as they rode the rails to their places of employment (i presume) earlier today. at least on my train they were.
now speaking of rails, i believe that i once employed the pages of this very blog to rail against the creeping corruption of musical appreciation via the proliferation of digital music players and their accompanying earphone technology. musica, i argued, was always intended to be experienced as a shared communal adventure and not as a means of shutting out the outside world. yet the very design of the modern mp3 player all but ensures that the listener remains isolated in the consumption of his/her personal musical tastes.
so here's my question: why is it that so many residents of this city feel compelled to listen to their latter-day walkmans while they commute to work every morning on public transit? i mean, is it really necessary to get in those thirty or forty minutes of the latest musical trends before the start of the every single workday? after all, it's not as though my fellow metro travellers are barred from listening to their ipods once the clock strikes five or on weekends or statutory holidays or whenever they have some free time. hey, that's what i do. in fact, between youtube and the cd player and the car stereo and the samsung k3 and the radio and the rogers digital music channels, i am hardly lacking in terms of musical indulgence.
so you're on the subway. so what's so wrong about striking up a conversation with one of your fellow passengers? or reading the paper? or reading your fellow passenger's paper? or avoiding eye contact with your fellow passenger? or staring at the poster ads? or straightening your tie? or hiking up your socks? or munching on a granny smith apple? or making a mental to-do list? or dreaming of a better life?
and yes, i am fully aware that most, if not all, of the above activities can be performed while one hums along to the latest eminem release courtesy one's portable musical device. but that's the whole point of this piece. that's the question i've been asking all along. why, in modern times, must we always seek out musical accompaniment to assist us in every aspect of our daily routines?
and just how much magic can lie in those tiny little earbuds anyway?
"music is the wine that fills the cup of silence." - robert fripp
hey, the man was responsible for "stairway to heaven"
Monday, August 16, 2010
if only they came with an instruction manual
earlier today as i was getting ready for work i noticed my seven-year-old wandering throughout our condominium as she dutifully performed her morning brushing duties. and i couldn't help but be amused as i watched her move from room to room while she scrubbed away with her much-worn spongebob squarepants toothbrush. amused because i, myself, have been known to stray from the narrow confines of my own washroom on occasion while performing my twice-daily oral hygiene ritual. and amused because it occurred to me that my eldest child could have only acquired her somewhat unconventional brushing habits from one person and one person alone - namely, me.
and that prompted me to pause for a moment to reflect on some of my daughter's other youthful yet highly-developed idiosyncrasies. like her penchant for taking 40-minute showers every evening just prior to lights out. and her almost instinctive tendency to respond to a question with another question as she attempts to draw out her interrogator's true intentions.
and suddenly i was struck by the blinding realization that in many ways, children are almost preordained to take on at least a portion of their parents' several and varied mannerisms and eccentricities.
look, i am hardly the world's greatest father. and with the growing recognition that my offspring will likely adopt many of the quirks and foibles of their old man as they grow older, i am now more motivated than ever to provide them with a shining example that will one day allow them to say they are proud of what their dear old dad had taught them.
ah, what the hell
and that prompted me to pause for a moment to reflect on some of my daughter's other youthful yet highly-developed idiosyncrasies. like her penchant for taking 40-minute showers every evening just prior to lights out. and her almost instinctive tendency to respond to a question with another question as she attempts to draw out her interrogator's true intentions.
and suddenly i was struck by the blinding realization that in many ways, children are almost preordained to take on at least a portion of their parents' several and varied mannerisms and eccentricities.
look, i am hardly the world's greatest father. and with the growing recognition that my offspring will likely adopt many of the quirks and foibles of their old man as they grow older, i am now more motivated than ever to provide them with a shining example that will one day allow them to say they are proud of what their dear old dad had taught them.
ah, what the hell
Sunday, August 15, 2010
tick tock
the room itself was rather nondescript. the examination table, the vinyl chair, the doctor's scale. but as the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes turned to... to more minutes, i gradually began to explore the less pronounced elements of my surroundings with my eyes. the monet watercolor hanging on the wall - a lithograph, probably, and not an original. the blood pressure gauge hanging beside the monet. the hand sanitizer dispenser. the boxes and boxes of cotton balls perched atop the wall cabinet. the bottle of tongue depressors, sitting alongside the container of powder-free latex gloves on the counter top. and the enormous earwig lying motionless at the foot of the door, either resting or recently deceased.
as the walls of the office were paper thin, i could make out most of the conversation unfolding in the adjacent exam room. a female patient was peppering her doctor with question after question and i could tell that she was anxious. perhaps it was something that he had just said to her.
by now my toes were starting to turn purple, a direct result of the chill in the air, i surmised. and the paper examination gown i was draped in did nothing to add to my comfort level. i had already given up on my attempts to tie a knot in the back. and to make matters worse, the makeshift dress was slowly beginning to tear on one side.
i decided to hum. "under pressure" by queen, as far as i can recall. the opening bass line. dum-dum-dum dum-dum-dum-dum. dum-dum-dum dum-dum-dum-dum. it was then that i noticed the complete absence of any medical qualifications in the room. just the monet litho, but no degrees or diplomas or certificates nailed to the walls. maybe it was because my doctor had only recently relocated his practice, i reassured myself. yeah, that must be the reason.
i was bored by that point so i sought out things to do to distract myself. i squeezed that round black air pump on the blood pressure gauge a few times. i weighed myself a few times, both with and without my sandals, just to see the difference. i washed my hands with hand sanitizer gel. i washed my hands with soap and water to remove the smell of alcohol from the hand sanitizer gel. and i tried in vain to juggle a couple of the aforementioned cotton balls. i reasoned that i was paying for them anyway with my taxes, so why not?
and then i noticed the syringe sitting on the counter top, hiding behind the popsicle sticks and the funny gloves. and four empty blood vials. so it was going to be a four-vial day after all.
"in the sick room, ten cents' worth of human understanding equals ten dollars' worth of medical science." - martin h. fischer
i suppose it could be worse...
as the walls of the office were paper thin, i could make out most of the conversation unfolding in the adjacent exam room. a female patient was peppering her doctor with question after question and i could tell that she was anxious. perhaps it was something that he had just said to her.
by now my toes were starting to turn purple, a direct result of the chill in the air, i surmised. and the paper examination gown i was draped in did nothing to add to my comfort level. i had already given up on my attempts to tie a knot in the back. and to make matters worse, the makeshift dress was slowly beginning to tear on one side.
i decided to hum. "under pressure" by queen, as far as i can recall. the opening bass line. dum-dum-dum dum-dum-dum-dum. dum-dum-dum dum-dum-dum-dum. it was then that i noticed the complete absence of any medical qualifications in the room. just the monet litho, but no degrees or diplomas or certificates nailed to the walls. maybe it was because my doctor had only recently relocated his practice, i reassured myself. yeah, that must be the reason.
i was bored by that point so i sought out things to do to distract myself. i squeezed that round black air pump on the blood pressure gauge a few times. i weighed myself a few times, both with and without my sandals, just to see the difference. i washed my hands with hand sanitizer gel. i washed my hands with soap and water to remove the smell of alcohol from the hand sanitizer gel. and i tried in vain to juggle a couple of the aforementioned cotton balls. i reasoned that i was paying for them anyway with my taxes, so why not?
and then i noticed the syringe sitting on the counter top, hiding behind the popsicle sticks and the funny gloves. and four empty blood vials. so it was going to be a four-vial day after all.
"in the sick room, ten cents' worth of human understanding equals ten dollars' worth of medical science." - martin h. fischer
i suppose it could be worse...
Saturday, August 14, 2010
why do i always have to think of a clever title to these posts?
so i'm standing in line at the science centre today waiting to buy my tickets when suddenly a middle-aged redheaded woman with three redheaded children starts yapping behind me about how unfair it is that families with children have to wait in the same lineup as those without children. and naturally she's speaking at a decibel level that falls somewhere between that of a lawnmower and a jet engine. and the more she goes on and on about the supposed inequity of the lineup policy at the science centre, the more i want to crawl under one of those giant paleozoic-era rocks on display and plug my ears for the next 300 million years or so. and naturally her voice is so shrill and ear-splitting that it feels like a sledgehammer raining down blows on my brain. but of course i have nowhere to escape to as i have pretty much committed myself to that particular spot in the lineup, a lineup that is now snaking itself around the front wall of the entrance corridor. and all the while i find myself asking the question, "why, oh why, couldn't i find myself standing in line next to a nice dysfunctional family who had just been fighting in the car ride over here and were now giving one another the silent treatment?" and then, without warning, the aforementioned middle-aged redheaded lady begins to cough both violently and repeatedly, but naturally she has never heard about that fairly common practice of covering one's mouth when one is coughing both violently and repeatedly. and then, all of a sudden, in the midst of all this internal debate and soul-searching, the light above cashier #6 begins to flash and so i step up to the counter and purchase my tickets to the science centre.
"in lowell, indiana, there was a four-hour hostage standoff in a bank. the bank customers were made to line up and stand still for hours... just like in a regular visit.” - bill maher
a promise is a promise, senorita:
"in lowell, indiana, there was a four-hour hostage standoff in a bank. the bank customers were made to line up and stand still for hours... just like in a regular visit.” - bill maher
a promise is a promise, senorita:
Friday, August 13, 2010
you are hereby served
the threat of a lawsuit is to the business community what the threat of withholding dessert is to a seven-year-old. that is to say that in both scenarios, the threat alone tends to be sufficient to bring about the desired outcome. and believe me, i speak from experience, on both counts.
one simple anecdote to illustrate the point, at least as far as threatening a civil action is concerned:
so a few years back a kid in one of my classes told me that she had been trying for several weeks, unsuccessfully, to obtain her final paycheque from the telemarketing firm where she had been employed for the summer. apparently, when she advised the company that she was leaving her position at the end of august, they told her that she owed the business several hundred dollars in "back taxes" which is, of course, a ridiculous proposition and one clearly designed to thwart her efforts to recover the wages that rightly belonged to her. so i decided to step in and place a phone call or two on her behalf.
when i first contacted her former supervisor and asked for an explanation as to the withheld pay, he advised me that it was none of my business and that i should do something to myself that is typically not discussed in polite circles. then he hung up on me. undeterred, i picked up the telephone once again and dialed the firm's number. but this time, before the slick sales supervisor had a chance to slam down the receiver, i quickly made it known to him that i was a former lawyer and that immediately following our conversation i would be counseling my student on how to pursue legal proceedings in order to protect her rights under the employment standards act. this time i had his attention. but boiler room joe was still sticking to his tired old story about "back taxes" being remitted to the federal government. so i told him that first i would contact canada revenue agency in order to inquire about the legitimacy of his firm's actions. then i would advise my student to file a small claims action in the appropriate venue. and then, just to be a schmuck, i would use the statement of claim as an example of how to prepare civil pleadings in my law class.
her paycheque arrived in the mail the next week.
"nobody has a kind word to say about a lawyer... until they actually need one themselves." - anonymous
heard it on the commercial for the new drew barrymore film and had no choice but to proceed accordingly:
p.s. um, you do realize that i edit my work after i publish it on my blog, and for several days thereafter, i might add. but thanks for being the world's most efficient editor.
one simple anecdote to illustrate the point, at least as far as threatening a civil action is concerned:
so a few years back a kid in one of my classes told me that she had been trying for several weeks, unsuccessfully, to obtain her final paycheque from the telemarketing firm where she had been employed for the summer. apparently, when she advised the company that she was leaving her position at the end of august, they told her that she owed the business several hundred dollars in "back taxes" which is, of course, a ridiculous proposition and one clearly designed to thwart her efforts to recover the wages that rightly belonged to her. so i decided to step in and place a phone call or two on her behalf.
when i first contacted her former supervisor and asked for an explanation as to the withheld pay, he advised me that it was none of my business and that i should do something to myself that is typically not discussed in polite circles. then he hung up on me. undeterred, i picked up the telephone once again and dialed the firm's number. but this time, before the slick sales supervisor had a chance to slam down the receiver, i quickly made it known to him that i was a former lawyer and that immediately following our conversation i would be counseling my student on how to pursue legal proceedings in order to protect her rights under the employment standards act. this time i had his attention. but boiler room joe was still sticking to his tired old story about "back taxes" being remitted to the federal government. so i told him that first i would contact canada revenue agency in order to inquire about the legitimacy of his firm's actions. then i would advise my student to file a small claims action in the appropriate venue. and then, just to be a schmuck, i would use the statement of claim as an example of how to prepare civil pleadings in my law class.
her paycheque arrived in the mail the next week.
"nobody has a kind word to say about a lawyer... until they actually need one themselves." - anonymous
heard it on the commercial for the new drew barrymore film and had no choice but to proceed accordingly:
p.s. um, you do realize that i edit my work after i publish it on my blog, and for several days thereafter, i might add. but thanks for being the world's most efficient editor.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
did she just say what i think she did?
i'm not really sure when or how my sweet, adorable, charming, innocent two-year-old daughter learned to pronounce the f-word, but she did. because tonight, at the dinner table, in the middle of her blueberries-and-yogurt dessert, out spilled the most dreaded curse word this side of the international date line. and here's the funny thing. even though my youngest still struggles with the proper pronunciation of several common consonant sounds, she nailed that f-word like she had been practicing that expletive her entire life. and once she noticed the sheer horror that transpired around the dinner table upon her initial articulation of that most pointed of pointed profanities, she let rip again and again and again like a dam had burst open inside her windpipe.
and if nothing else tonight, i learned that a stern admonishment from a concerned guardian to refrain from invoking a particular vulgarity has little or no impact on a precocious two-year-old. because the more i wagged my finger in the general direction of my potty-mouthed junior miss, the more the little one revelled in the impact of her newfound vocabulary.
of course it didn't help that my eldest was doubled over, rolling on the floor expelling gales of laughter at every utterance of the sailor-endorsed standard.
and i suppose the worst part of this whole debacle still lies ahead of us. the part where two inadvertently breaks into an x-rated tirade at a most inopportune moment, in public no doubt, thereby bringing shame and humiliation upon her entire family. i believe the chinese refer to it as tiu lien. loss of face. oh well, what will the neighbours think of us now?
"alright, which one of you taught my little sister the f-word?" - seven
if only he had held onto jennifer:
and if nothing else tonight, i learned that a stern admonishment from a concerned guardian to refrain from invoking a particular vulgarity has little or no impact on a precocious two-year-old. because the more i wagged my finger in the general direction of my potty-mouthed junior miss, the more the little one revelled in the impact of her newfound vocabulary.
of course it didn't help that my eldest was doubled over, rolling on the floor expelling gales of laughter at every utterance of the sailor-endorsed standard.
and i suppose the worst part of this whole debacle still lies ahead of us. the part where two inadvertently breaks into an x-rated tirade at a most inopportune moment, in public no doubt, thereby bringing shame and humiliation upon her entire family. i believe the chinese refer to it as tiu lien. loss of face. oh well, what will the neighbours think of us now?
"alright, which one of you taught my little sister the f-word?" - seven
if only he had held onto jennifer:
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
not in the mood
so i found myself trapped, once again, on the condo elevator with two of my more loquacious neighbours. it was yesterday, after work. which presented a bit of a problem. a problem in that i just wasn't in the mood to converse yesterday. at least not on the elevator at that particular moment with those particular neighbours. you see, i had already had a rather trying day at work. the a/c wasn't functioning properly so i had been sweating more than my usual quota of three litres a day. and my stomach was grumbling because i hadn't eaten a thing all day. and so, when i arrived home, i just wanted to run into my unit and take a shower and grab a bite and take a nap and chill out for the rest of the afternoon. but instead, i found myself trapped, once again, on the condo elevator with two of my more loquacious neighbours. and i feel kinda silly making this point because just a few days ago in the pages of this blog i was lamenting the fact that my friend's uncle had refused to shake my hand contrary to the rules of civilized society. and i appreciate the fact that social niceties require members of civilized societies like our own to engage in polite conversation when trapped on condo elevators with loquacious neighbours. but did i mention that i wasn't in the mood to converse yesterday?
loquacious neighbour #1: long day at work?
me: yeah.
loquacious neighbour #2: so how are your kids?
me: my kids? or my students?
loquacious neighbour #1: you have students?
me: i thought you knew what i did.
loquacious neighbor #2: what you did?
me: oh, my floor. gotta go.
"sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. there is a time for silence. a time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. and a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.” - gloria naylor
literally, the most beautiful song i have ever laid eyes on:
loquacious neighbour #1: long day at work?
me: yeah.
loquacious neighbour #2: so how are your kids?
me: my kids? or my students?
loquacious neighbour #1: you have students?
me: i thought you knew what i did.
loquacious neighbor #2: what you did?
me: oh, my floor. gotta go.
"sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. there is a time for silence. a time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. and a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.” - gloria naylor
literally, the most beautiful song i have ever laid eyes on:
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
how the west won the war (or why waiting for the bus runs contrary to the innate human desire to self-actualize)
so i'm waiting for the bus this morning on my way to work and then i realize that i've been standing at the bus stop for about fifteen minutes even though the schedule posted on the bus shelter clearly states that the bus is supposed to arrive every 8-10 minutes during rush hour. and then i begin to imagine that i'm a passenger in one of the thousands of shiny new cars that pass by the stop while i'm standing there. and then i imagine myself arriving at my destination of choice in one of those shiny new cars well ahead of my actual arrival in the not-so-shiny bus that has yet to make an appearance. and then abraham maslow's 1943 psychological theory on the hierarchy of needs begins to take shape inside my head. the pyramid, that is. and then i begin to focus on maslow's final stage, the need for self-actualization, and how that stage relates to my own predicament. and then it occurs to me that city officials responsible for public transportation in this g-dforsaken town have probably never studied maslow's theory. because if they had, they would have certainly understood that every human being possesses a fundamental desire to become the best that one is capable of becoming. to fulfill one's true potential any way one so chooses. just like maslow wrote. and maslow was right. which is rare in social science circles. but for once, maslow hit the nail on the head. the human head.
and as i just stood there waiting and waiting and waiting for the not-so-shiny bus that eventually arrived about twenty minutes after i first pulled up to the bus stop, i thought about some of the reasons that folks own vehicles in the first place. and it soon became obvious to me that the two primary reasons to own one's own personal mode of transportation are freedom and independence. the independence to make decisions for the betterment of one's own life. and the freedom to come and go as one sees fit. as opposed to being held hostage to the vagaries of the public transportation system. and how the desire to come and go as one sees fit is really just a practical application of the final stage of maslow's theory. because if one desires to be the best that one can be, one must be able to come and go as one sees fit. whether it is to school or work or home or the airport or the train station or the library or the park or the mall or the korean restaurant at the corner of bathurst and bloor.
"take most people, they're crazy about cars. they worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they're always talking about how many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already they start thinking about trading it in for one that's even newer. i don't even like old cars. i mean they don't even interest me. i'd rather have a g-ddam horse. a horse is at least human, for g-d's sake." - j.d. salinger (catcher in the rye)
i reckon that jon has already satisfied his higher-order needs:
and as i just stood there waiting and waiting and waiting for the not-so-shiny bus that eventually arrived about twenty minutes after i first pulled up to the bus stop, i thought about some of the reasons that folks own vehicles in the first place. and it soon became obvious to me that the two primary reasons to own one's own personal mode of transportation are freedom and independence. the independence to make decisions for the betterment of one's own life. and the freedom to come and go as one sees fit. as opposed to being held hostage to the vagaries of the public transportation system. and how the desire to come and go as one sees fit is really just a practical application of the final stage of maslow's theory. because if one desires to be the best that one can be, one must be able to come and go as one sees fit. whether it is to school or work or home or the airport or the train station or the library or the park or the mall or the korean restaurant at the corner of bathurst and bloor.
"take most people, they're crazy about cars. they worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they're always talking about how many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already they start thinking about trading it in for one that's even newer. i don't even like old cars. i mean they don't even interest me. i'd rather have a g-ddam horse. a horse is at least human, for g-d's sake." - j.d. salinger (catcher in the rye)
i reckon that jon has already satisfied his higher-order needs:
Monday, August 9, 2010
don't forget to brush, kid
i've given it a lot of thought and i think i've finally figured out why so many folks are wary of their dentists. the reason: dentists make us feel bad about ourselves. i mean, when was the last time you visited a dentist who told you that you had a perfect set of choppers? no cavities, no plaque or tartar build up, no gum inflammation or bleeding, no loose or chipped teeth, no signs of gingivitis or periodontitis, no problems whatsoever. when, i say?
i mean, it's almost like dental professionals go out of their way to find something wrong inside your mouth so that they can justify their exorbitant fees. fees, by the way, that have no limit, as i recently learned when i visited the ontario dental association (oda) website. you see, i had always believed, incorrectly as it turns out, that tooth doctors are bound by some sort of ethical code of conduct in terms of the fees that they can charge their unsuspecting patients. now i was already aware of something called the "oda suggested fee guide" which i had naturally assumed was created to establish maximum fee rates that dentists can charge their patients for specified services. but then i read the following:
"the oda suggested fee guide is a reference of suggested fees for dental services that is updated annually by the ontario dental association. on the other hand, every dentist sets his or her own fees, considering the factors affecting both the practice and the patients served. the fee guide helps dentists derive fees, but this is only a guide and the fees are only 'suggested.'"
but i digress. the point of this entry is to say that if only dentists would take a more accommodating approach to their clients then perhaps i wouldn't be quite so apprehensive when it comes to slinking down in that plastic-coated dental chair of theirs. look, if you have some bad news to deliver, as you inevitably do, then break it to me gently, would ya doc? treat me with kid gloves when the circumstances call for compassion. and stop being so judgmental, my oral health care specialist. after all, we can't all be born with award-winning smiles a la taylor lautner.
"don't forget your toothbrush! you're still in your cavity-prone years." - breaking away (1979)
the perfect song for a cloze exercise in a level eight esl listening class:
i mean, it's almost like dental professionals go out of their way to find something wrong inside your mouth so that they can justify their exorbitant fees. fees, by the way, that have no limit, as i recently learned when i visited the ontario dental association (oda) website. you see, i had always believed, incorrectly as it turns out, that tooth doctors are bound by some sort of ethical code of conduct in terms of the fees that they can charge their unsuspecting patients. now i was already aware of something called the "oda suggested fee guide" which i had naturally assumed was created to establish maximum fee rates that dentists can charge their patients for specified services. but then i read the following:
"the oda suggested fee guide is a reference of suggested fees for dental services that is updated annually by the ontario dental association. on the other hand, every dentist sets his or her own fees, considering the factors affecting both the practice and the patients served. the fee guide helps dentists derive fees, but this is only a guide and the fees are only 'suggested.'"
but i digress. the point of this entry is to say that if only dentists would take a more accommodating approach to their clients then perhaps i wouldn't be quite so apprehensive when it comes to slinking down in that plastic-coated dental chair of theirs. look, if you have some bad news to deliver, as you inevitably do, then break it to me gently, would ya doc? treat me with kid gloves when the circumstances call for compassion. and stop being so judgmental, my oral health care specialist. after all, we can't all be born with award-winning smiles a la taylor lautner.
"don't forget your toothbrush! you're still in your cavity-prone years." - breaking away (1979)
the perfect song for a cloze exercise in a level eight esl listening class:
Sunday, August 8, 2010
apparently i already have a post entitled "greetings and salutations"
so i ran into an old friend outside the kosher burger joint near bathurst and lawrence today. he was taking a stroll with his uncle at the time. but when i extended my hand in a show of greeting, my pal's uncle responded with a rather curt, "oh, i'm sorry. i don't shake hands."
excuse me? what did you say? did you just say that you don't shake hands? what do you mean, you don't shake hands? of course you shake hands. everybody shakes hands. it's part of our culture. you meet someone, you shake his hand. that's just the way it's done. nobody asks why. nobody asks how. so shake my g-ddamn hand already and let's be done with this silliness.
i mean, can you imagine what would happen to the state of modern society if everyone began to question the cultural norms that we all grew up with?
students, for example. "oh, i'm sorry sir. i don't write algebra tests on tuesdays or thursdays."
or children. "oh, i'm sorry father. i don't do chores on degrassi night."
or speeding motorists. "oh, i'm sorry your honour. i don't accept the jurisdiction of traffic courts."
or baristas. "oh, i'm sorry young man. i don't serve espresso brownies to obnoxious teenagers."
or panhandlers. "oh, i'm sorry ma'am. i don't accept coins anymore. only fives and tens if you don't mind."
after all, it's called a norm for a reason.
"originality implies being bold enough to go beyond accepted norms.” - anthony storr
believe it or not, this was considered groundbreaking technology back in '86:
excuse me? what did you say? did you just say that you don't shake hands? what do you mean, you don't shake hands? of course you shake hands. everybody shakes hands. it's part of our culture. you meet someone, you shake his hand. that's just the way it's done. nobody asks why. nobody asks how. so shake my g-ddamn hand already and let's be done with this silliness.
i mean, can you imagine what would happen to the state of modern society if everyone began to question the cultural norms that we all grew up with?
students, for example. "oh, i'm sorry sir. i don't write algebra tests on tuesdays or thursdays."
or children. "oh, i'm sorry father. i don't do chores on degrassi night."
or speeding motorists. "oh, i'm sorry your honour. i don't accept the jurisdiction of traffic courts."
or baristas. "oh, i'm sorry young man. i don't serve espresso brownies to obnoxious teenagers."
or panhandlers. "oh, i'm sorry ma'am. i don't accept coins anymore. only fives and tens if you don't mind."
after all, it's called a norm for a reason.
"originality implies being bold enough to go beyond accepted norms.” - anthony storr
believe it or not, this was considered groundbreaking technology back in '86:
Saturday, August 7, 2010
you might want to cut those toenails, son
so when i was first diagnosed with stasis dermatitis (that swollen, discoloured ankle thingy), i immediately ran out and picked up six pairs of graduated support socks from some nearby retailers of therapeutic hosiery. specifically, i purchased two pairs from shoppers drug mart at $30 a pair, two pairs from sears at $10 a pair, and two pairs from walmart at $6 a pair. somewhat tellingly, the pairs from shoppers were made with 8% spandex, the pairs from sears were constructed with 7% spandex, and the pairs from walmart were put together with only 3% spandex. spandex, of course, is the synthetic fibre known mostly for its remarkable elasticity.
now over the course of the past week or so, i have taken the opportunity to try out each of the latest additions to my collection of therapeutic undergarments in order to determine which brand of support sock actually lives up to its claim of reducing pain and swelling in my walking sticks. at this time i am happy to report that both the chi-chi shoppers brand and the more moderately-priced sears brand were most helpful in terms of relieving the tenderness and discomfort concentrated in my lower limbs. and so, in the interests of fairness, today i finally decided to give the bargain-basement walmart brand a chance to show its stuff.
but as i slipped on my discount stockings before heading off to my esl summer gig earlier today, i failed to notice that a run (yes, a run) had suddenly materialized just above the big toe on my right foot. of course, this shouldn't have really come as a great surprise given that each pair of the walmart wonder socks is manufactured with a rather sizeable 45% nylon component. unfortunately, i only recognized this design quirk once i had already boarded the bus on my way to work this morning. now at this point you might be wondering how i could have detected said run in said stocking assuming that i was sporting proper footwear at the time. well, unfortunately for me again, today i had also elected to wear my open-toed sandals to work in order to allow my little piggies a chance to breathe inside the graduated compression of my new support stockings. as a result, both my fashion faux pas (socks and sandals, people) and my nylon mishap (run, run, run) were on full display for all to see. and what's more, once i had boarded that bus, it was simply too late to do anything about it.
and so, for the better part of six hours aujourd'hui, i tried my darndest to keep my big toe out of the spotlight at school. yet unfortunately for me once again, more than a few of my not-so-loyal charges felt obliged to publicly point out my prickly predicament. and as i came to learn over the course of the day, nylon tends to gradually give way once a tear has been unleashed. accordingly, what began as a small run around my big toe grew into a chasm the size of the grand canyon nearly enveloping all of the digits on my right foot. in fact, by the time i had returned home late this afternoon, i was fortunate to still be wearing a sock on my starboard side given the sheer enormity of the cavity that had developed. oh well, at least the package the stockings came in promised that if i was not completely satisfied with my purchase, i could return the item for a full refund. i suppose what took place this afternoon falls just short of complete satisfaction, don't you think?
"if you have embarrassed yourself and are going to laugh about it someday, you might as well start today.” - author unknown
i would prefer the auto-tune alacrity of kesha to the bombastic emptiness of gaga any day:
now over the course of the past week or so, i have taken the opportunity to try out each of the latest additions to my collection of therapeutic undergarments in order to determine which brand of support sock actually lives up to its claim of reducing pain and swelling in my walking sticks. at this time i am happy to report that both the chi-chi shoppers brand and the more moderately-priced sears brand were most helpful in terms of relieving the tenderness and discomfort concentrated in my lower limbs. and so, in the interests of fairness, today i finally decided to give the bargain-basement walmart brand a chance to show its stuff.
but as i slipped on my discount stockings before heading off to my esl summer gig earlier today, i failed to notice that a run (yes, a run) had suddenly materialized just above the big toe on my right foot. of course, this shouldn't have really come as a great surprise given that each pair of the walmart wonder socks is manufactured with a rather sizeable 45% nylon component. unfortunately, i only recognized this design quirk once i had already boarded the bus on my way to work this morning. now at this point you might be wondering how i could have detected said run in said stocking assuming that i was sporting proper footwear at the time. well, unfortunately for me again, today i had also elected to wear my open-toed sandals to work in order to allow my little piggies a chance to breathe inside the graduated compression of my new support stockings. as a result, both my fashion faux pas (socks and sandals, people) and my nylon mishap (run, run, run) were on full display for all to see. and what's more, once i had boarded that bus, it was simply too late to do anything about it.
and so, for the better part of six hours aujourd'hui, i tried my darndest to keep my big toe out of the spotlight at school. yet unfortunately for me once again, more than a few of my not-so-loyal charges felt obliged to publicly point out my prickly predicament. and as i came to learn over the course of the day, nylon tends to gradually give way once a tear has been unleashed. accordingly, what began as a small run around my big toe grew into a chasm the size of the grand canyon nearly enveloping all of the digits on my right foot. in fact, by the time i had returned home late this afternoon, i was fortunate to still be wearing a sock on my starboard side given the sheer enormity of the cavity that had developed. oh well, at least the package the stockings came in promised that if i was not completely satisfied with my purchase, i could return the item for a full refund. i suppose what took place this afternoon falls just short of complete satisfaction, don't you think?
"if you have embarrassed yourself and are going to laugh about it someday, you might as well start today.” - author unknown
i would prefer the auto-tune alacrity of kesha to the bombastic emptiness of gaga any day:
Thursday, August 5, 2010
truth and loathing in the big city
when i asked the property manager if she knew when the repairs to the condo swimming pool would be completed, she told me that everything should be ready to go in two or three weeks. but when i reminded her that she had given me the same estimate at the beginning of july, she looked at me as though as i had just asked her for a loan. and when i reminded her that she had also given me the same estimate at the beginning of june, she looked at me as though i had just asked her for a kidney. "look, what do you want from me? besides, i'm at the mercy of the board of directors."
but when i asked the president of the board of directors (who just happens to share the same name as my old man) if he knew when the repairs to the condo swimming pool would be completed, he told me that everything should be up and running in 7-10 days. and when i advised him that the property manager had just informed me that she thought everything would be ready to go in two or three weeks, he looked at me as though i had just asked him to resign his presidency. "look, what do you want from me? besides, i'm at the mercy of the contractor."
but when i asked the contractor if he knew when the repairs to the condo swimming pool would be completed, he told me that everything should be back to normal by september or october at the latest. and when i advised him that the property manager had just informed me that she thought everything would be ready to go in two or three weeks, and that the president of the board of directors had just informed me that he thought everything would be up and running in 7-10 days, he looked at me as though i had just served him with legal papers. "look, what do you want from me? besides, i'm at the mercy of the weather."
the weather? well, i wasn't about to contact the good lord himself on this matter. but there is one thing that divine providence might be able to help me with at this point. um, why do folks insist on treating me like an idiot? i mean, do they really believe for even a second that i'm buying whatever it is that they're selling?
as a postscript, i also inquired of both the building's superintendent and head concierge as to their estimates on the issue of the much-delayed repairs to the condo swimming pool. their responses? the building's super told me that he had heard the repairs would be completed by sunday (sunday?) of this week. conversely, the head concierge told me that he had heard the repairs would likely not be completed in time to salvage this year's summer swim season.
the moral of the story? if you live in a condo and it's truth that you're after, stick with the concierge.
"we are ashamed to seem evasive in the presence of a straightforward man, cowardly in the presence of a brave one, gross in the eyes of a refined one, and so on. we always imagine, and in imagining share, the judgments of the other mind.” - charles horton cooley
perhaps if the singing career doesn't work out, adam lambert can always land a gig in my building:
but when i asked the president of the board of directors (who just happens to share the same name as my old man) if he knew when the repairs to the condo swimming pool would be completed, he told me that everything should be up and running in 7-10 days. and when i advised him that the property manager had just informed me that she thought everything would be ready to go in two or three weeks, he looked at me as though i had just asked him to resign his presidency. "look, what do you want from me? besides, i'm at the mercy of the contractor."
but when i asked the contractor if he knew when the repairs to the condo swimming pool would be completed, he told me that everything should be back to normal by september or october at the latest. and when i advised him that the property manager had just informed me that she thought everything would be ready to go in two or three weeks, and that the president of the board of directors had just informed me that he thought everything would be up and running in 7-10 days, he looked at me as though i had just served him with legal papers. "look, what do you want from me? besides, i'm at the mercy of the weather."
the weather? well, i wasn't about to contact the good lord himself on this matter. but there is one thing that divine providence might be able to help me with at this point. um, why do folks insist on treating me like an idiot? i mean, do they really believe for even a second that i'm buying whatever it is that they're selling?
as a postscript, i also inquired of both the building's superintendent and head concierge as to their estimates on the issue of the much-delayed repairs to the condo swimming pool. their responses? the building's super told me that he had heard the repairs would be completed by sunday (sunday?) of this week. conversely, the head concierge told me that he had heard the repairs would likely not be completed in time to salvage this year's summer swim season.
the moral of the story? if you live in a condo and it's truth that you're after, stick with the concierge.
"we are ashamed to seem evasive in the presence of a straightforward man, cowardly in the presence of a brave one, gross in the eyes of a refined one, and so on. we always imagine, and in imagining share, the judgments of the other mind.” - charles horton cooley
perhaps if the singing career doesn't work out, adam lambert can always land a gig in my building:
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
really?
so it occurred to me today as i was standing in front of my 10 a.m. pronunciation class that i could basically tell them anything i wanted to about myself and they would have no way of knowing whether i was telling the truth or not. for example, i could tell them my actual age or i could tell them i am a young-looking 54. i could tell them my actual full-time profession or i could tell them i am a deep sea marine biologist. i could tell them my actual hobbies or i could tell them i enjoyed parasailing, base jumping and model airplanes. i could tell them my actual background or i could tell them i am the offspring of recently-deposed eastern european royalty. you get the picture.
the point is that when one is standing in front of a roomful of strangers (or in my case, a roomful of spaniards and brazilians, with a couple of russians and a colombian thrown in for good measure), one is free to invent any life story that one wishes.
but of course, such thoughts now make me wonder whether others in the past have presented fictional accounts of themselves to me on the occasion of our first encounters.
that said, to my mind the issue is not really one of presenting an honest picture of oneself. no, for me, the debate centres on the universal desire to be accepted by others. how so? well, let me use the example of one of my pals who left home many moons ago to begin his first year of university in a neighbouring province. now just before he left for school, i remember him telling me how he longed to move away from his hometown so that he could begin anew in a fresh environment. how come? well, he sought out this fresh environment where nobody knew of his past so that he could finally be himself and escape the pressure to conform to the persona which others had created for him.
at the same time, when i am standing in front of a roomful of international students who know neither hide nor hair of me, i am free to reveal my true character without fear of being judged by those who come to the table with preconceived notions of me.
or i could tell them that i am the offspring of recently-deposed eastern european royalty.
"free to be... you and me." - marlo thomas (1974) ... and you can youtube it if you like
from the greatest "kids playing mobsters" film of all time:
p.s. i pretty much do that anyway, except for the 'getting paid' part
the point is that when one is standing in front of a roomful of strangers (or in my case, a roomful of spaniards and brazilians, with a couple of russians and a colombian thrown in for good measure), one is free to invent any life story that one wishes.
but of course, such thoughts now make me wonder whether others in the past have presented fictional accounts of themselves to me on the occasion of our first encounters.
that said, to my mind the issue is not really one of presenting an honest picture of oneself. no, for me, the debate centres on the universal desire to be accepted by others. how so? well, let me use the example of one of my pals who left home many moons ago to begin his first year of university in a neighbouring province. now just before he left for school, i remember him telling me how he longed to move away from his hometown so that he could begin anew in a fresh environment. how come? well, he sought out this fresh environment where nobody knew of his past so that he could finally be himself and escape the pressure to conform to the persona which others had created for him.
at the same time, when i am standing in front of a roomful of international students who know neither hide nor hair of me, i am free to reveal my true character without fear of being judged by those who come to the table with preconceived notions of me.
or i could tell them that i am the offspring of recently-deposed eastern european royalty.
"free to be... you and me." - marlo thomas (1974) ... and you can youtube it if you like
from the greatest "kids playing mobsters" film of all time:
p.s. i pretty much do that anyway, except for the 'getting paid' part
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
it's not the heat that's killing me, it's the humidity
so i'm standing on the bus on my way to my esl gig this morning and the temperature inside the big tin can on wheels is about 80 degrees celsius and there isn't an inch of breathing room in sight and then i notice that for some inexplicable reason, the windows on said vehicle are all shut tight. and so i think to myself: what is it about bus riders in this city and their refusal to open the window on days like today when it's hot enough to fry an egg on somebody's forehead? and as i look around the bus i see that there isn't a single passenger who has managed to escape the effects of the overwhelming humidity based on the torrents of sweat pouring down their pallid faces. and so i think to myself: is it really so important that my fellow passengers block out the breeze in order to preserve their neatly-coiffed hairdos, even at the risk of suffering a heat stroke? and as i look down at my feet i can't help but notice that the pressure of standing in the excruciating warmth is causing my ankles to swell up. and so i think to myself: surely there must be at least one reasonably sane passenger on this g-dforsaken bus who appreciates both the current weather conditions and the fact that all 16 of the bus's windows remain closed at this point in time.
and it was at that moment that i spotted an elderly lady seated in front of me giving me a bit of a strange look - the kind of look that elderly ladies give when they've forgotten that others may be watching them - and so i decided that i couldn't allow this particular opportunity to go unanswered. and maybe it was because i had finally located my "friends best of season one" vhs tape earlier that morning or maybe it was because i had just been thinking about how i would describe the sitcom's six main characters to my first period listening class or maybe it was because the initial stages of my own impending heat stroke were beginning to take hold but whatever the cause, i decided that it would be best to respond to the elderly lady's impertinent gesture with one of my own.
and it was at that moment that i spotted an elderly lady seated in front of me giving me a bit of a strange look - the kind of look that elderly ladies give when they've forgotten that others may be watching them - and so i decided that i couldn't allow this particular opportunity to go unanswered. and maybe it was because i had finally located my "friends best of season one" vhs tape earlier that morning or maybe it was because i had just been thinking about how i would describe the sitcom's six main characters to my first period listening class or maybe it was because the initial stages of my own impending heat stroke were beginning to take hold but whatever the cause, i decided that it would be best to respond to the elderly lady's impertinent gesture with one of my own.
"how you doin'?" i asked in my best joey tribbiani drawl.
"excuse me?" the shocked golden girl replied.
and at the very next stop, the grande dame of the lawrence west 52 disembarked.
"mrs. seinfeld, please. i am begging you. put the air conditioner on." seinfeld (1991)
and yet, i remember the snow during softball practice in late march:
Monday, August 2, 2010
razor burn
to my mind, there can be nothing more tedious or mundane than the not-so-fine art of shaving. every sunday night (or monday night on a holiday weekend), i stand before my reflection in the bathroom mirror and i ask myself, "should i shave or should i go?" with my dollar store supermax twin disposable razor in one hand and my gillette foamy shaving cream for sensitive skin in the other, i gaze at my seven days of stubble as i wonder aloud how it is that my biologically-connected brother can barely scare up a five o'clock shadow given the same period of growth.
and then the routine begins once again. wash face with soap and warm water. apply shaving cream to face and neck. lather. shave left side of face. shave right side of face. shave between nose and upper lip. shave left side of neck. shave right side of neck. shave centre of neck being careful not to slice open prominent adam's apple. shave left jaw line. shave right jaw line. shave sideburns with an eye to symmetry. rinse. repeat.
now in my previous career, i used to wake up early every day just so i could get in a good shave before taking my morning shower. yet today when i look back on that period in my life, i can't quite believe that i managed to trudge through approximately 400 morning shaves (i did the math) before i elected to call it quits and move onto a profession where facial hair isn't greeted with the same level of scorn and derision. indeed it was that and the relaxed wardrobe requirements that made the decision to switch vocations that much easier to accept. (whoa... three "thats" in one sentence.)
and from a purely philosophical point of view, i tend to view the act of shaving in the same way i view the act of making one's bed. to wit: why bother? i mean, no matter how many times i shave my beard (or make my bed), my face (or bed) is gonna look like a mess in a few hours anyway. so once again i ask the question: why bother?
besides, there are plenty of phony explanations that i could rely upon to justify my dishevelled appearance if and when i ever choose to grow out my beard once and for all. i could tell people that i'm becoming religious. i could tell people that i'm embracing the hippie lifestyle. i could tell people that i'm auditioning for the role of gandalf the wizard in the hart house production of lord of the rings.
whatever the excuse, i'm sure i could pull it off. the look, that is.
"you realize how many boring things i've got to do in a single day to drive me crazy? i've got to get up, i've gotta brush my teeth, i have to shave -- and i hate to shave. there are days where i stand there debating with that mirror: should i shave, or should i cut my throat? but I shave." - all in the family (1974)
hated the show, loved the theme song... and whatever happened to katie holmes?
and then the routine begins once again. wash face with soap and warm water. apply shaving cream to face and neck. lather. shave left side of face. shave right side of face. shave between nose and upper lip. shave left side of neck. shave right side of neck. shave centre of neck being careful not to slice open prominent adam's apple. shave left jaw line. shave right jaw line. shave sideburns with an eye to symmetry. rinse. repeat.
now in my previous career, i used to wake up early every day just so i could get in a good shave before taking my morning shower. yet today when i look back on that period in my life, i can't quite believe that i managed to trudge through approximately 400 morning shaves (i did the math) before i elected to call it quits and move onto a profession where facial hair isn't greeted with the same level of scorn and derision. indeed it was that and the relaxed wardrobe requirements that made the decision to switch vocations that much easier to accept. (whoa... three "thats" in one sentence.)
and from a purely philosophical point of view, i tend to view the act of shaving in the same way i view the act of making one's bed. to wit: why bother? i mean, no matter how many times i shave my beard (or make my bed), my face (or bed) is gonna look like a mess in a few hours anyway. so once again i ask the question: why bother?
besides, there are plenty of phony explanations that i could rely upon to justify my dishevelled appearance if and when i ever choose to grow out my beard once and for all. i could tell people that i'm becoming religious. i could tell people that i'm embracing the hippie lifestyle. i could tell people that i'm auditioning for the role of gandalf the wizard in the hart house production of lord of the rings.
whatever the excuse, i'm sure i could pull it off. the look, that is.
"you realize how many boring things i've got to do in a single day to drive me crazy? i've got to get up, i've gotta brush my teeth, i have to shave -- and i hate to shave. there are days where i stand there debating with that mirror: should i shave, or should i cut my throat? but I shave." - all in the family (1974)
hated the show, loved the theme song... and whatever happened to katie holmes?
Sunday, August 1, 2010
all good things must come to an end
that's it. it's over. i've had enough. i can no longer bury my head in the sand anymore. what is over, you may ask? why, my not-so-secret love affair with the old navy graphic tee, of course. for yesterday afternoon, as i sat under the big top outside centrepoint mall in north york, ontario, i couldn't help but notice that my maroon-coloured, lifeguard print, old navy graphic tee would continually scrunch up beneath my chin. now at first i thought it might have something to do with the overwhelming humidity of the day. but that's wasn't it. then i considered the possibility that i had somehow slipped my t-shirt on backwards yesterday morning. but that wasn't it either.
and so, in the end, i had no choice but to conclude that yesterday's consternation was likely the result of faulty craftsmanship exhibited by old navy's loyal army of underpaid factory workers. after all, you get what you pay for, right? and in this case, i think i may have paid six dollars for my lifeguard tee. or was it eight? or maybe it was only five. but whatever the cost, i suppose i have no right to expect dior quality at walmart prices.
because you see, this isn't the first time i've encountered problems with the fit and comfort level of my old navy graphic tee collection. for example, one of my old navy tees is known to pinch at my spine every now and again. another appears grossly lopsided in terms of its sleeve length. and a third most definitely was not woven with 100% cotton, contrary to the specifications found on the tagless label, i might add. throw in yet another which began to fray after only two or three washes and the trend becomes difficult to ignore.
oh, well. what can i say? meh, it was fun while it lasted. and the tees and i did have a good time together. but alas, in the end our differences simply grew too great to overcome. yet i take comfort in the fact that no one can ever steal away the memories. it is the memories that i will always cherish. wherever i go in life.
"i don't know why they call it heartbreak. it feels like every other part of my body is broken too." - missy altijd
misery loves company circa 1981:
and so, in the end, i had no choice but to conclude that yesterday's consternation was likely the result of faulty craftsmanship exhibited by old navy's loyal army of underpaid factory workers. after all, you get what you pay for, right? and in this case, i think i may have paid six dollars for my lifeguard tee. or was it eight? or maybe it was only five. but whatever the cost, i suppose i have no right to expect dior quality at walmart prices.
because you see, this isn't the first time i've encountered problems with the fit and comfort level of my old navy graphic tee collection. for example, one of my old navy tees is known to pinch at my spine every now and again. another appears grossly lopsided in terms of its sleeve length. and a third most definitely was not woven with 100% cotton, contrary to the specifications found on the tagless label, i might add. throw in yet another which began to fray after only two or three washes and the trend becomes difficult to ignore.
oh, well. what can i say? meh, it was fun while it lasted. and the tees and i did have a good time together. but alas, in the end our differences simply grew too great to overcome. yet i take comfort in the fact that no one can ever steal away the memories. it is the memories that i will always cherish. wherever i go in life.
"i don't know why they call it heartbreak. it feels like every other part of my body is broken too." - missy altijd
misery loves company circa 1981:
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