September, 1998.
It started out as a good idea, I mean, how hard can it really be? I’d never been camping before, and was ready for an adventure.
The plan was, Blair was going to pick me up around 6:30, we’d all meet at the Petro-Canada on the Trans Can, and head to our final destination. West Hawk.
Red flags were popping all over the place, but I gleefully ignored them, content in the knowledge that I was about to be at one with nature, but still within a stone’s throw of running water.
What you should know about me is that I consider only having a window air unit, and double beds in a hotel room roughing it.
Blair calls me on the Thursday before we are to leave. Do I have a tent? Of course. Because I’m a skilled woodswoman. Nevertheless, I use my incredible networking skills and procure a tent that accompanied my girlfriends’ parents on their honeymoon. In ‘72.
Friday rolls around, and I’m packed and ready to go. Make up? Check. Hair brush? Check! Booze and bug spray? Check check! Oh, and a sleeping bag, I’ve got that too.
Blair is late. Really late. We don’t hit the road until closer to 9:00, and he’s not driving his standard set of wheels. Instead, he’s piloting a firefly.
Sidebar: Fireflys are built for people under 5′4. And only two at a time. I’m 5′10, as is Blair. Joe, well. He is 6′2 and P, he’s probably around 5′6. Are you envisioning?
The 4 of us meet up with the other carload, and we fly off to the Whiteshell. About 30 minutes in, we clearly realise there is something wrong with the car. An hour in, we wonder if we will reach our destination. We do, but the car is nearly smokin’. (A quick check the next AM reveals we had essentially NO OIL. For those keeping score, it’s like having NO BLOOD. Anyway…)
We get to the campground gates far too late to get a site. That doesn’t deter us youngins though. We gate crash and choose our own site, and go about making ourselves at home.
First order of business. Crack the vodka, throw the beer on ice, and eventually, at some point, we will erect that tent. Next on the list? Start a fire. Of course, we have no wood, stores are closed. Once again, we slip off under the cover of darkness and theive a few cords. We’ll burn the evidence. Prove it.
Now, for the tent. Hey, does this thing come with instructions? Of course not. Again, how hard can it be? Well, nigh on impossible. The poles are all colour coded, mostly faded, and we don’t have flashlights. Our first attempt at lighting the area was to run the car, and build in the glow of the headlamps, but the Park Police quickly shut us down. We did manage to get a few supporting poles and the canvas draped, but this guy 
would be hard pressed to find comfort, and coverage. But, whatever. We’re half in the bag, and it’s just going to have to do.
The Parkies showed up 3 more times, insisting we need to shut the hell up, or get the hell up, so we figured we should shut this party down.
Blair and I zip our bags together, and we rough it under the stars (Very cool, for the record. Best part of the trip), P crawls into the makeshift tent, and Joe disappeared.
As an aside, I almost went camping in 1996. I was 16, the guy I was dating was the 24-year-old cousin of my friends’ boyfriend, and the whole situation was a hot mess. Long story short, are plan got shot, the boys went, had no tent, forgot the food, tried to start a fire with nothing but paper and slept under a picnic table. Thank you Goddess for the interference in my scheme.
Back to West Hawk. I’m the first one to arouse from my state of semi unconsciousness, and I slowly peruse the damage we have managed to cause in a short 8 hours.
There are bottles and cans absofreakinglutely EVERYWHERE. There’s a pair of feet sticking out of a wannabe tipi, a 6 foot + man sleeping in a firefly with his legs hanging out of the window, and a stranger and his dog at the foot of our site with a camera slung around his neck.
I croak out a throaty good morning, and the good Samaritan laughingly states that we remind him of his youth, and requests permission to snap a few shots. Whatever gets you off, buddy. Whatever gets you off.
At this point, I’m starving, so I walk over to the car, and smack Joe on the foot. He’s sleeping with the cooler, and I want grub. Upon closer inspection, I notice he is covered in crumbs. He shrugs. Offers up the weak excuse that he was hungry. And ate.everything.
Off to the restaurant. We smell, we are unruly, hung over, starved and out of our element. P has turned into a toddler and his crying that he wants to go home. He has a headache, his back hurts and he didn’t sleep well.
Fair enough. The trip has been one catastrophe after another. Before leaving, we swing into the Shell at Falcon, top off the oil, and head home.
The ride is fairly uneventful until Blair, who is riding shot gun, notices Joe is pulling heavy into the shoulder. He yells, resulting in Joe snapping back awake and over compensating, pulling us into ONCOMING TRAFFIC. He corrects, we pull over and he surrenders the wheel to B.
Upwards and onwards. Not 10 minutes later, up in the distance we all notice this…form in the middle of the highway. As we close the gap at a rapid pace, we realise it is a flock of Prairie Chickens, and they ain’t moving.
Expecting to play a fascinatingly morbid round of bowling for buzzards, I brace myself. Instead, B tries to slam on the brakes at the exact moment the brake light comes on and…nothing. Total brake failure. He veers wildly to the right, almost killing us all, and immediately elevates his position in life to pheasant savior.
Turns out, this piece of shit loaner car had minimal oil, trace amounts of brake fuel, and burnt out tail lights.
I don’t even remember the rest of how we got home, but I do know I never went camping again.
No room service, no dice.
Can you top it?
Things I miss.
Typewriters. (thanks for the reminder Kyla’s blog!) A foreign language to some, a sense of nostalgia to others. My first full-time job saw me answering phones, stuffing envelopes, and writing forms up on a typewriter. Antiquated, yes. But quaint, too.
Often, I had to call the typewriter repairman, who would show up touting a briefcase, and wearing a tie. So distinguished. Formal. Wonderful.
Now, typewriters have gone the way of the dinosaurs. People don’t know what carbon paper is, the purpose of white out, or what it means to change a ribbon. (Is that the same as a cartridge?) And I’m not that old. Barely 30.
These days, the guys they send out to fix your office equipment are still in diapers, and sucking on lollipops. These guys are young enough to have fallen out of my fallopian tubes, and walk like their shit don’t stink. I love my email, I love the internet, but I miss simplicity.
The Muppets:
From as far back as I can remember, having sleepovers at Grandma’s house meant sleeping on the couch, eating what I wanted, and watching Johnny Carson followed by The Muppets.
In order to maintain some sense of hold on my childhood, in my basement you will find: The best of Johnny Carson, Muppets take Manhattan, Muppets Wizard of Oz, Kermit: The Swamp Years, Muppets in Space to name a few.
Try to not smile while listening to Ma-na-ma-na. Dare you.
Saturday morning cartoons:
The line up: Smurfs, Gummibears, Garfield and friends, The Wuzzles, The Get-Along-Gang.
Remember when cartoons didn’t suck, and it was exciting to watch them? A big DEAL. You got up early, and camped out in front of your TV, which coincidentally, may not have even had a remote. Yah, that’s right. A DIAL. It was you, your sugared cereal, a huge crazy floor pillow and your toons.
Me, circa late '82, early '83
Now, there’s a the Teletoon network. Cartoons on demand, whenever, and wherever. BOO. But can I get a hell yeah for Teletoon Retro? Now that’s some good TV. You don’t appreciate how awesome cartoons really are, when you only get them 1 day a week. Poor children. They just don’t know.
Polaroid cameras:
This was better than digital cameras with instant satisfaction. It was fast, it was printed, and it was MAGIC.
Say cheese (it's me!)
I miss the noise makers you put on your spokes, and the shiny cards that came in the Kelloggs boxes. I miss free prizes that didn’t suck, and games that required imagination. I miss popsicle pete points, leg warmers, and caprisun. I miss the days when Froot Loops only came in 3 colours, and Apple Jacks were readily available in Canada. I miss footsie pajamas, popples and hugabunch, and basically anything that I had when I was 7.
Time machine, please.
We must instill the knowledge of their place at a young age.
I don’t identify myself as a feminist, and in fact do not believe that the sexes are equal, and that women can do anything men can do. We can’t. It’s simple. (But I’ve yet to see a man have a baby, so we are clearly superior)
But I digress. I just stumbled upon a commercial that irritated me beyond measure. I’ll even say it pissed me right the hell off. Of course, now that I want to share it, I can’t find it to save my life. But I’ll paint the picture.
It’s for this: Spray N Wash
The commercial features an overly exuberant, annoying man standing at the front of a classroom full of eager-to-please namby pamby neurotic women, who are captivated by his presence, and the lesson he is about to bestow upon them.
We are then shown this: To bleach, or not to bleach , and the women’s faces become horrified. Apparently, even though all their current clothes sport this symbol, they are all too fucking dumb to understand the concept.
Thankfully, the marketing giants and geniuses over at spray n wash have sent this unsung superhero to our rescue.
He demonstrates that you can pour this new product RIGHT ON to the clothing, as the women gasp, bite their nails and call out to him not to do it.
But what do you know? Whiter whites, and astonishingly bright colours. Phew. That was a close one.
Who in the cool blue hell are they pandering to? I’m offended, insulted and disgusted that they thought this was the way to speak to their target demographic.
I don’t even DO the laundry, assholes.
As an aside, I was at Wal-mart looking at toothbrushes, and the children’s brushes were labeled boy and girl. In case I got confused. Asshats.
Thoughts? Am I reading too far into it? It’s stuck in my craw, and it won’t get out. In the meantime, I’m going to search out the video, but I’d love to hear what you have to say.
*Edit*
Not it, the meaty parts aren’t there. Just quick edited. The original is a solid 30 seconds of pure, unadulterated horse shit.
Or on second thought, stuff the kindness. A cup of coffee will work miracles.
So it starts. Another year. A blank canvas, full of promises and whispers of the masterpiece to come. I’m not going to make any resolutions this year, I’m just going to attempt to be the best me possible. It’s all anyone can ask of themselves.
Here I sit, famished at 11:30. Can’t spoil my appetite, going to the in-laws for brunch. At 1. Gotta tell you, that’s moving into lupper territory, and I hope I can hold out until then. The dog is looking mighty tasty, mighty tasty indeed.
Why can’t we just relax over the holidays? It seems like it’s a constant battle between families, and their quest to find out which side we really love more.
Example. Christmas Eve we hang with my extended family. A few cousins, and a grandmother thrown in for good measure. But it’s not enough. Christmas morning sees us getting up and rushed so we can get to my moms for breakfast and gifts.
Well of course, in the name of fairness, we also need to squeeze his side in, so after brunch at mothers, we run off to let the dogs out, and go to chew that fat with his extended family.
But wait. Not good enough. Before we meet with the aunts and uncles, we pre-meet with his folks for an hour, and then drive in separate vehicles to the same destination for more festive frolicking.
New Years Day brunch has been a tradition in his family since I’ve been around, with big Grandpa E footing the bill. This year, that ain’t happening, so we are just going over to have brunch (again 1 o’clock. DYING HERE) with his immediate family.
Well hells bells. Can’t let my parents feel left out. Burgers at their place. 5ish.
Next year, I’m either auctioning my soul off to the highest bidder, or just sending a card and hightailing it to Mexico.
New years eve. For my entire adult life, they’ve been anti-climactic. I don’t know what my expectations are, really. If maybe I feel there should be some cleanse of the soul as the clock strikes 12? Every year, I set out to make the perfect plans, and every year, they come up short.
Last night was pretty stellar. Good food, great friends and within walking distance. No complaints. We ate African yam and peanut soup, caesar salad, garlic cheese toast, jalapeno popper dip, shrimp, and toblerone fondue.
We drank wine, and beer and amaretto sours, and played wii with a 10-year-old, and sang nursery rhymes with a 2-year-old. It lacked nothing.
Life. All about the insignificant moments that stack up into something marvelous.
Cheers to you and yours. Let’s do coffee, k?
Tell me all about your holidays.
Nothing says Christmas cheer more than forced frivolity. It’s not that I hate the concept of an office Christmas party, it’s the looking for a new job in the New Year that really grates my cheese.
To start with, if I cared, and was politically correct in any sense, not everyone has a holiday in December, so these parties start off being culturally alienating. They call them holiday parties, but let’s face it. It’s a Christmas party with a token menorah for good measure. (much like the winter concerts at elementary schools. I see Santa on stage, you’re not fooling me.)
The other main beef I have is that these parties take place on my time, and I’m not getting a lick of pay. So what’s happening is you are forcing me, because face it, you can’t ditch, to hang with people for free, that I’m normally paid to associate with. Why can’t you bail? Everyone has somewhere better to be that night, douchebag. What makes you special? Then, you taunt me with free booze, but I need to refrain if I want to remain employed.
Then there’s the ridiculous notion that you need to buy your boss a gift. Not because you’re buddies, but because you want to keep seeing a paycheck. So off you go to the liquor mart, or florist, and purchase a wine you’d never drink, or a basket of shit you’d never eat, for a man or woman you don’t even like. (See Christmas Vacation for stellar example)
Top 5 reasons office parties suck:
5) Awkward conversations
4) Loose lips, sink ships
3) Ripe for sexual harassment suit
2) Unpaid labor
1) No chance of getting laid as well as keeping your job
So let’s sum it up.
New dress: $120
Hair done: $80
Shoes: $90
Babysitter: $40
Boss bribe: $20
Nail polish: $8
Pantyhose: $8
Total: $266
Watching that douchebag from accounting face plant into the eggnog? Priceless.
An office party is much like spending the holidays with those distant relatives, who both live in, and drive their 1973 VW with pride.
A necessary evil you gotta perform to keep the peace. But if it were up to me, I’d wrap up each and every one of your bosses in a bright red bow look him straight in the eye and tell him, “what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-assed, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spineless, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is!”
“Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol”
Merry Christmas, fuckers.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder”, they say. Unless it doesn’t.
In his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, President Barrack Obama said, “The absence of hope can rot a society from within.”
I like this. And entirely agree. If you look around you, regardless of where you live, you will see an abundance of poverty, crime, hate and desperation.
Children, some as young as 8 years old are initiating into gangs, participating in activities that should be unfathomable, not status quo.
The question that begs to be asked, is why? The absence of hope, of course. I wonder if it’s a genetic trait? The lack of hope passed from one generation to another, breeding more despair, hostility and emptiness.
How do you pump hope into those who need it most? If it were only as easy as refilling a tire that’s low on air, or stuffing a turkey. Here! Take the god damned hope! Be THANKFUL for it. Cram it in to your every pore and just believe!
I honestly think at some point, people make the conscious decision to lose all hope. Whether it’s a defense mechanism, or way to combat the constant disappointment, it’s a choice. And once that choice has been made, there is just no way to stuff it back into them.
Is hope the cure? Of course not. Like anything, there are 2 sides to the coin. While for some, hope can be an uplifting ray, and for others, a lead balloon, weighing them down.
Where some can’t make room for it, others are bogged down with too much. Holding out hope for a lost cause, can be just as painful and damaging as not allowing any in at all. A burden and a blessing. An anchor and a release.
Will hope tie you down, or set you free?
Pregnancy.
Pretty simple concept. Don’t fuck; don’t get pregnant. So excuse me for a moment while I LOSE.MY.SHIT. entirely.
The Winnipeg Free Press published an article today that has me clutching at my guts, trying to staunch the nagging need to puke all over my keyboard.
http://www.winnipegfreepress.com/local/poverty-haunts-our-children-73368317.html
Did you meet Taryn? She’s a dime a dozen. Stroll through Elmwood on any afternoon, or maybe cruise through the core end of town and you’ll see her carbon copies. Sporting Adidas track pants, pushing high end strollers, smoking store bought cigarettes, sippin’ on Tim Horton’s coffee, rockin’ a poor ass dye job, and wearing far too much eye makeup. And they travel in packs.
Apparently pregnancy is contagious.
If their work ethic was half as prominent as their contempt for those who have it better from them, they’d all be successful. Instead, they stand around with their noses up and hands out, crying injustice.
Newsflash princesses. It’s time to put your big girl panties on and deal with it. The answer to your problems is simple. Hard work. People have been doing it for decades. No one is going to scoop you up out of the gutter. You need to fight and claw and kick and scream your way out. Get up off your back and fucking try.
It’s time you start realizing that the universe does not revolve around you, the world will not stop for you to get on, and the community doesn’t owe you shit. You are a mother. There is an innocent who looks up to, adores, and is entirely dependent upon you and every move you make effects them. Be a god damned heroine. Not a victim.
The Winnipeg Free Press says, “Nobody chooses to live in poverty… no one wants their children to be hungry.”
Bullshit.
Too many of these parents choose to smoke over feeding their babies. They choose to drink over clothing them. They choose to cab it to a corner store to buy potato chips, rather than pay their fucking bills.
You don’t think so? Drive down Alexander at 10PM on a school night. You’ll find children under 5, wandering the streets alone. It’s criminal.
The hard reality is these children are not loved. They were never wanted, and they know it. Their parents view them as a tax credit, and a means to more income. Period.
Fuck the Free Press. This story was spun the wrong way. The mothers need an education, and the children are already enrolled in the school of hard knocks.
Give them a hand up. Not a hand out.
/rant
Thanks to @lovelylindsey (on twitter) for the idea
her blog can be found here: http://www.shiftlessandlazy.blogspot.com/
Well. It’s official.
I’m an old bra’d.
If I could hyperlink, I would. I don’t know how. It’s an age thing.
Happy birthday to ME.
Here’s some twilight for your twinkle, girls. Pattinson Panties. A little vampy? Allowing Edward into your pants has never been so easy.
Not sure how I feel:
Outside
Read my lips, or his I guess:
inside
Does this come complete with a twidildo? Does anyone else think it would be hilarious to own these as your “period panties”?
This blog brought to you by the letters T, M and I.
Thanks to Rob for bringing this to my attention.
When celebrities die, do you suppose their remains are melted down to make tupperware and barbies?
Food for thought,
The blogger
