feeling chipper

I love chips. Taco chips, nacho chips, those dorito things but only in a pinch and especially, potato chips.
Oh my god the potato chip. Rippled, salt and vinegar, sour cream and onion and even plain. Rippled chips with French Onion dip. That is some kind of life perfection that is. When I go to the occasional party, often chips are not served. There are other, shall we say, lesser snacks. Pretzels maybe or those shrimp rings (not a lover of shrimp or actually any seafood). Sometimes those edible bread bowls come out. Those are very nice filled with spinach dip but . . . no. No no no.
When I go somewhere, like to someone's house and they say "would you like some chips?" I get all thrilled and excited. Out comes the bowl. I'm usually halfway through scarfing them down in a socially inappropriate way when the giver of the chips may suggest, "dip?"
"Oh, yes, my god in heaven, yes," I reply.
Out comes the dip.
"Is this homemade?" I'll ask.
"No, bought it," the giver of the dip will respond, sheepishly.
"Like at 7-11?" I ask, all hopeful.
"Yes," says giver, turning red.
"That is like the best dip ever," I'll say, mouth engorged with chips and dip.
"Um, good," the giver will say, backing away, grabbing maybe an apple to eat.
The chip.
I also like - the popcorn.The popcorn with a little butter and a little salt.
Movie popcorn is the best. I know it's $82 for a small size and a small drink but still, definitely worth it.
The chip.
The popcorn.
I've gone for a lighter tone on this blog as my last one was, shall we say, disturbing for my fanbase of two. I sensed awkwardness in sub boss and in replacement sub boss. That's right, sub boss is leaving her job to go back to being a teacher like I am. She will then be known, I guess, as teacher. Lateral to me. That transition could be awkward and worthy of a blog next month as it happens. I think new sub boss will continue to read my blog, increasing my fan base to three, but I'm not fully counting on it.
So yes, the lighter tone. As sub boss asked me about the earlier, darker blog, I lay down on her office floor and began to weep, gnash my teeth and bang my fists on the carpet.
"My life!" I cried, over and over and well, over again.
Sub boss asked how my new shoes were fitting.
"Well, they hurt," I said and returned to my tantrum.
"Um," said sub boss, "Is this like an epileptic seizure? I don't think your health benefits cover that."
"No," I responded, "It's more like, I don't know maybe ADD or something. Maybe Tourette's. Or maybe I'm having a stroke."
Sub boss looked stricken.
"No, no coverage for any of those things," she said. "However, polio is covered. I think you get a lump sum of $2,500 or something."
"Perfect," I responded. "It may just be that."
I love chips.

indifference and Costa Rica

A dictionary definition: uninterested, unimportant, neither good nor bad, inferior, neutral.
Indifference
I'm starting to think that nothing bothers (hurts?) me more than someone's indifference to me. I had that experience today, from someone I've known my whole life. I don't know if she perceives it that way or knows that I do. Her experience of me is quite different and has its own difficulties I'm sure. I'm not laying blame or saying I'm right and she's wrong. I can be negative (extremely), angry, anxious . . . etc. Not fun, I'm sure.
Indifference. Over the years she and I have moved through different stages - never particularly close really but with a base of . . . something.
Sorry for being vague (to my regular fan base of 2), don't want to get sued, ha ha.
But for the last number of years there's been, on her part towards me, indifference. And I have no idea how to get through it or even try to mention it. Our history leaves me feeling at fault, inferior and generally afraid to bring this up. She is more settled in her emotions, I am up and down and sideways. I shouldn't let it crush like it does, but I do. For fear of being cliched, it cuts me right down to my core and it takes me days to cover it up again. I thought maybe writing about it would help.
On the other hand, besides my other hand, is Costa Rica. I'm going there for three weeks this fall for a ridiculously low price. Amazing.

cop out

I was at my friends' community house in the Downtown Eastside last night They live across from Oppenheimer Park, Jackson and Cordova. Rough area sure enough. Around 7 p.m. there was great excitement on Cordova Street. A shirtless man, obviously either mentally ill or strung out on crystal meth. or both, was standing in the middle of the street. Cars were zooming by him and he was (I think) shouting and holding (I think) two metal sticks.
Well, within minutes all of the cops in the neighbourhood - about 8 cop cars, one ambulance, a couple of shadow cars come roaring up, guns drawn at this guy.
The guy freaks out (wonder why that would be?)
My friend hollers out to blonde female cop "this is a mental health issue."
"We know," she responds and heads off to join the 8 or so other cops to bring down dangerous shirtless man.
Somehowand for some reason, he starts to run and the cops follow, finally hitting him with a taser gun. Down goes shirtless man. The 8 other cops put their weapons back and surround him.
Eventually, an ambulance takes him away, handcuffed.
Was there a better way to deal with this? Of course. The cops are scared, me thinks (and my friends, who've lived and interacted with those in the Downtown Eastside for 12 years also think). They escalated the situation, instead of de-escalating. Imagine 8 cops surrounding you, guns drawn. Now imagine that situation in a paranoid, drugged out state. "Well, at least they didn't kill him, they could have done that,"some might say that.
But 8 cops? 8 cars? Come on. The cops are trained in non-violent takedowns. My two cents: they need to hang out more in the Downtown Eastside, get to know the people, the community. See them as people, not throwaways who are easily tasered.
Yeah, the cops put up with a lot. They see a lot of crap and a lot of crappy people. That's a cop out though, don't you think?

sports bras, Costa Rica, Tom and Katie, other blather

This was one boring long Victoria Day weekend (for my thousands of American fans, that would be Memorial Day).
It was rainy, rainy and cold. Lots of people out of town. And eek, my community centre gym was closed today - Victoria Day. Eeek, I thought. It was raining so I didn't want to jog outside. Blather. So off I go to this gym downtown that I for some reason have a free pass for. Hmmm. This is a boring story. Well, I'm bored so it makes sense. The gym had all of this new equipment jammed into one room. Me and about 8 men worked out, who knows where the women were. It was one of those stuffy downtown "hoity toity" type gyms.
Later, I went to look for a sports bra. Men do not have to worry about this, obviously. That seems wrong to me because they are expensive. They should be covered by MSP me thinks. Wow, still boring. Suffice it to say that I couldn't find one - I tried on about 20 of them. The salesclerk eventually got tired of me and the last I saw of her she was over by the sports socks, sort of hiding from me. Can't say I blame her. They can put cheese on the moon but they can't create a bra that prevents jiggle, jiggle, jiggle while you jog. How odd.
Bored, did I say I was bored? It's a good self-pity type of day.
Tom Cruise was on Oprah today. He is in love, love, love with Katie Holmes, he says. He has never felt this way before, he says. Poor Nicole, wonder if she watched that interview. Katie comes out at the end, after Tom has to chase her back stage. She looks shellshocked. Because I like to speculate about things I actually have no knowledge of, I think Tom enjoys being the leader to her wallflower ingenue thing. But that's just me.
Costa Rica - seems like a possibly good vacation spot. I may just go there. Nobody voted in the great London/Hawaii debate but it is now a London/Hawaii/Costa Rica debate. Cast your votes, please.
Also, I think I need a life. If you have any ideas about that, please post here.

Who has seen the pope?

I have. Seen the pope that is.
It was a dark and stormy night when suddenly His Holiness appeared through the fog . . .
Okay, it wasn't that way. But it was. I'm talking about the newly dead pope, Pope John Paul the um - shoot I forget - the IV I think.
From Sept. - Nov. 2003 I set out to Europe to try and find myself. I was about 18 years older than the average finding yourselfer, although I did meet an 84-year-old American woman in a Prague hostel and a 57-year-old woman at the hostel in Rome. Apparently her grown children told her that she would never have the guts to travel alone. Hah! She said and off she went.
Anyway, I found myself in Rome. This was amazing. Rome! Who'd a thunk.
I found some cool fellow hostellers to hang out with (which was great because not a soul, not a soul I tell you spoke to me in Edinburgh.)
So one day a few of us decide to go to Vatican City, see the Sistine Chapel and St. Peters Basilica. Saw the Chapel, had some pizza at the Vatican cafe (odd, that) and headed a few blocks away to the Basilica.
Well, it was CLOSED. Closed I tell you. "Dammit!" I said, "Who closes a bleeping Catholic Church?"
Well, we slowly figure out (we're not the brightest bulbs in the Italian tourist pack) that it is the Pope's 25th anniversary celebration and he will be making an appearance. My mother, a staunch French-Canadian Catholic, would loved to have been there. Me, I've got major problems with the Catholic Church and have never much cared about the pope.
And yet, it was very interesting because within about 20 minutes, about 200,000 people show up at St. Peters Square. Nuns and priests in all kinds of nun and priest costumes and non-nun and priest type people. Souvenir booths were doing a thriving business.
Now you couldn't actually get into the square unless you had a ticket but somehow my brave and outspoken hostelmate, Pinder, just, well, walked over the barrier. So we followed her and plunked ourselves on the ground in the middle of the square. Just as it was getting dark, out comes a choir to the front of the Basilica. We are so far back that we have to rely on the big screens.
They sang something in Italian "La, la, la, pope, la, la, la, God's love, la, la, la, don't use birth control, la, la, la" something like that.
And then, suddenly, was Mick Jagger. No, no, from a distance it looked like Jagger. It was actually the pope. He was a dot from where we sat.
"Blah, blah," he said in Italian (I think it translated to "Hi! I feel like crap and they keep dragging me out here."
The crowd goes wild.
"Blah, blah," something else. More cheering.
Some people are on their knees, praying, others are milling about talking. It's kind of like the food court at Metrotown, lots of chaos. We are getting bored because we can't understand a word being said, the pope looks like a dot and we're not Catholic. We talk about sex, of all things, for awhile and then say, "wanna go?" And off we go in search of a real Italian bakery.

a little middle class vacation problem

It seems that I get 3 weeks vacation time from Sept. 19. Where to go, what to do?
I haven't had real and actual holidays in awhile, but I've actually been at this job for a year now (whew!) and so off I will go.
London or Hawaii? I ask you, my tiny fanbase of one or two. Oh, the deep and distressing dilemma.
I don't want to spend a million dollars.
London - I've been there before and have a place to stay apparently. From London, I could fly cheaply to Greece. Nice. And yet, the British pound = $2.34 Cdn. Eeek.
Hawaii - I worship Oahu. Worship it. I've been there three times, twice I stayed in my parents' hotel room. One tiny room, one tiny bathroom, two parents and me. Yup. Anyway, if I went to Hawaii I would stay in a hostel. Now the flight is about the same price as to London, oddly enough.
In Hawaii I wouldn't know anyone but it would be relaxing and hot and beachy. London would be more exciting yet less relaxing.
This is a huge dilemma. Huge I tell you.
Or, I could stay home and go to the Vancouver International Film Festival every day.
Please comment with advice and I will use STV to make my decision.
In other news . . .
I have said the words "Lulu Lemon (sp?)" more in the last three months than I have in my entire life. This is significant of nothing, nor very interesting really.
I'm addicted to chewing ice. I'm also about to go to the dentist for the first time in five years (yeah, yeah but with vacation also comes benefits! yippee!). I worry that the dentist will yell at me for chewing ice.
Blather.
Be brave.

hair, sandals, clothes

I'm attempting to become more of a girl. Well, yes, I have all of the necessary girl parts apparently and in all of the right places. That's good, because adding/subtracting these things can be expensive.
But you know, a GIRL. A girly-girl. I've never been so good with these things. Some woman are naturals. My sub-boss, for example. She likes to talk clothes and shoes. Especially shoes, I've discovered. "The reason you buy Capri pants," she tells me, "is to show off your shoes." She looks me up and down, a habit she has that I don't know that she is aware of. "Um, yeah," she tells me when I mention going to buy some sandals, "Yeah, good idea." Now don't get a negative idea about sub-boss. She was being helpful. I enjoy sub-boss.
So off I go to get sandals on Robson Street of all places. Robson Street is Vancouver's poor man's version of the Champs Elysee. It's filled with trendiness and expensive stuff that mainly only tourists and rich ESL students can afford. I scoff at it, in my politically way. Scoff, scoff, the poor, blather blather blather.
I take with me not sub-boss but a co-worker. Little did I know but she knows shoes. At the first place we go to she buys a pair for $80. We look at a few more places and then I pick up a nice pair for $60. Excellent, I'm a girl.
Clothes. Reitmans last week. Excellent Capri pants, skirts, etc. Sub-boss seems to approve so I'm happy. I'm a girl.
Hair. Went to get the gray covered today. My excellent hairdresser, Karren at Bent (604-694-BENT - 1236 Richards Street) knows for what she is doing. She handles curly hair and whining, both mine. She cuts, colours, and blow dries it straight. I feel all giggly when I leave. I think I prefer curly but it is very cool to see how long it has gotten and to have a different look for a few days. The colour job is amazing and blah blah. Seriously, best hairdresser I've ever had and I've searched high and medium and low. Plus, I'm apparently getting a free pedicure.
I'm a girl.
I need to write an entire blog for both Karren hairdresser (don't let her tattoos scare you off) and sub-boss. Both unique characters. And girly-girls.
I am such a girl now.

"where god?" - Michael Steadman, thirtysomething

I push the conversation because I know where it is going. I want to push her to think about what this really means but it doesn't go that way.
"Anyone who doesn't believe in Christ will go to hell?" I ask her, but I already know her answer.
"Yes," she says.
"Really? What do you think about that?"
"It makes me sad," she says, "Sad that people I know will go to hell."
"If you really, really believe that," I ask her, "Shouldn't you be telling people?"
She does, she says. But it's difficult. She feels mocked, mocked at work and that hurts, she tells me.
I feel badly for her. It must hurt a lot to be mocked for something you profoundly believe to be true.
"Why is it," she asks me, "that Christianity is the one religion that can be mocked? We can't mock Sikhs, Muslims . . ."
"I don't know," I tell her.
For a number of years, through my 20s, into my 30s, I tried to believe much of what she believes. I'd had a profound spiritual experience when I was 22 and because I knew some Christians at the time, I attached it to that. If I'd known Buddhists, I might be bald and robed today.
I think I like Jesus. He was a great Jewish socialist who talked about the most amazing things. Love your neighbour, turn the other cheek. He hated what wealth and power did to people. The first will be last and the last first, he said. People that society has no use for are the greatest to him. (i.e. "collateral damage" in war and that guy who stands in front of London Drugs on Robson Street, shaking and asking for money). I can't get past that simple profoundness, that radical grace.
But the rest - the heaven, the hell, the accept me as god or else - is that god? god is so much bigger than that, I hope.
So I see where she is coming from, this woman who is mocked. She was born and raised into a type of Christianity that preaches heaven, hell and only-Christ. That takes the bible word-for-word.
I think I consider myself morally superior to her, because I've figured out that literalism cannot be true, that there was no literal tree of temptation. And that really, is just as wrong as her condemnation ideas.
where god?

I recommend not

It's not a good idea, I think, to see the new film, Crash (the new one, not the David Cronenberg one) when you are the slightest bit melancholy.
I'd heard great things about this film, like Grand Canyon but better, is what I'd heard. Off I went. I was feeling um - melancholic? - Mothers Day, I have no kids, I want kids, blather. I was also driving and listening to the Be Good Tanyas who are AWESOME but when I am melancholic? they make me more melancholic.
Crash. It was good to see Sandra Bullock not at all congenial and the rest of the cast was really good too, IMHO. But . . . hmmm. And it was written/directed by an Ontario guy, Paul Haggis. So a nice little Canadian touch there. But it kept hitting you over the head with its theme, racism, in a million melancholic little ways. Subtle, it was not.
I was sitting there with my regular popcorn with some kind of butter substitute topping realizing that I should have gone instead, to a nice, light comedy.
Blather, if you saw the film, let me know what you thought.

things slip out

Now, now, that is not meant to be an obscene title, or probably I'm the only one who thought of it that way.
I often say things I shouldn't. I thought this problem would ease up with age, and it has, um, a little. I have a friend at work who is becoming quite good at keeping me from blurting out too much, but I can't take her with me everywhere I go. She has a husband. Well, he could come along too but I think the 24/7 thing might get a bit much.
Blather.
So in an earlier post, cats and redemption, I wrote about how I lived for a while with five women and a sex offender named Bob. It was a long story how that happened and again, just suffice to say that there I was. Bob only lived there for two months of the almost 8 years I lived there. The owner/head renter of the house is a lovely older woman and I do miss her. So I was in North Van. the other day on a North Shore world tour of the West Van library (which I highly recommend, 17th and Marine in West Van. A bit of a hike but a great library), Capilano Mall (Reitmans has amazing sales and clothes right now), McNews (15th and Lonsdale - awesome magazine shop) and finally Park and Tilford (groceries, free parking, another Reitmans, a movie theatre - it can't get much better than that. Well, of course it can but never mind).
So I decide to pop in at my old abode, see if she and a couple of the other roommates are still there. It's a beautiful house with an amazing garden.
I knock on the door and she's not there but another woman is, W. I remember W. vaguely and say hey W. remember me? She seems to and I'm invited in to look around. It is still such a beautiful house and I do miss that. Memories, etc. etc., blather.
This comes out of my mouth.
"So, do you guys still see Bob? He's not back in jail is he?"
W. says oh no, he was there last week.
"He doesn't live here again does he?" I blurt out.
"No, no." says W, 'He's a really nice man, Karen."
In fact, he is. Very nice, good-looking, the head roommate is like a mother to him. Honestly, he is very nice.
"Right," I say.
"We all have our quirks, Karen," W. says.
Now I've dug my hole. I was always um - well - contrary when I lived in North Van. Always disagreeing with everything. I don't want W. to think I'm a total bitch.
"He is a very nice man." I say, "Nice, nice, nice. Nicest sex offender I've ever met."
Sigh.

More Random Thoughts

I am not going to write like Rosie O'Donnell anymore. In various Gallup polls, conducted by, well, Gallup, it was rejected. I thought it made me sound more serious and you know, deep and troubled, an image I like to maintain, but apparently not.
Why am I obsessed with Rosie O'Donnell? She has this blog right (www.rosie.com) and is telling all of her fans who have discovered her blog various details of her life. She just recently put one up about her partner's giving birth experience in 2002. She also takes pictures on her cell phone camera of her various activities and posts those. i.e. she went to see Christina Applegate on Broadway in Sweet Charity. Opening night, paparazzi everywhere. Regular people leave blog comments - like 1,000 each blog or something, and seem to now think Rosie is their friend. Okay, okay, I left one. Just one. It was a moment of weakness. Why does this irk me in an obsessive way? Hmmm. Well, for one thing, I am easily irked. (I can hear my sub boss laughing and nodding her head at that one). But for another, these people are not Rosie's friends. Rosie is merely trying to raise her public awareness rating or something and this is a good and cheap way to do it. Also, her regular activities are not really regular activities - appearing on Jay Leno, fighting with David Letterman, etc. Going to opening nights on Broadway. Blah blah.
I want 1,000 people to read my blog because I am basically self-absorbed like most other people, including Rosie O'Donnell.
I am now done ranting about Rosie. I'm sure she's a fine person.
I was hoping to be a famous writer before I was 40, but I don't think that is going to happen now. I'd better hurry up. Although I did interview the actor who played Greg Brady, years ago and also Sandra Oh before she got famous. Both were on the phone, but still.
Mother's Day is coming up. My mother is almost 75 and still alive and kicking. A good piece of advice she gave me "you have a tongue." Meaning that I can ask for things if I need to. Good advice. And another: "it's not going to jump out at you." Meaning the ketchup was not going to jump out of the fridge by my just staring into the fridge. Good one that.
Also, whenever I was sick or hypochondriacal, she said "poor chwet (sp?)" which means poor bird in French (her mother tongue) but is a term of endearment. I still call her when I'm sick and ask her to say that.
She also always watched me throw up, up until I was 20 and moved halfway across the country on my own.
My mother is a Manitoba French Canadian, raised in the 30s on a farm in small town Manitoba with 13 - count 'em 13 brothers and sisters. She had to drop out of school in Grade 11 to help raise them. I have never visited St. Joseph's, where she grew up. She made a fine tortiere (French Canadian meatpie) and French pea soup, which I didn't like. She's been married to my father for 45 years (an amazing feat, believe me) and has taught me to play a mean game of bingo.
So I sent some flowers. Make sure she'll get them on Saturday, so she can know that I didn't forget. I tend to send cards late or not at all, because I'm 39 and passive-aggressive. Now you can easily order flowers online. Have credit card, will get.

Random thoughts

Napping from 6- 8:15 p.m. is a bad idea
when you try to sleep later and wonder why you don't

Skipping my Middle East class
because of nap
when he was talking about Iraq and the origins of Saddam
can't believe I missed that

I just get lazy
don't want to drive across town
when napping sounds much easier

Thank god I like reading
reading about the Bountiful polygamy sect now
from a woman who got out
maybe I should go there
and become a sister wife
would that feel like belonging
or would I get mad when the other sister wives popped out kids like candy
I guess I could babysit them
the popped out kids and the kid makers who are kids themselves

I appear to be imitating Rosie O'Donnell's blogging style
oh my - that wouldn't be good
I want to be unique
Rosie has too much money
and too many pseudo problems
That was judgemental
judgemental or judgmental? I never remember

I better go to work now
before I get too maudlin
my sub boss reads this everyday
I better make it more interesting
I like making people laugh
That's a good high
So is Atavan
well no that's more like sleeping, Atavan

I'm making no sense here
little sense
Off I go

Thanks for reading, sub boss
(I call my boss my boss and then "under" her is the sub boss)

Random thoughts

Napping from 6- 8:15 p.m. is a bad idea
when you try to sleep later and wonder why you don't

Skipping my Middle East class
because of nap
when he was talking about Iraq and the origins of Saddam
can't believe I missed that

I just get lazy
don't want to drive across town
when napping sounds much easier

Thank god I like reading
reading about the Bountiful polygamy sect now
from a woman who got out
maybe I should go there
and become a sister wife
would that feel like belonging
or would I get mad when the other sister wives popped out kids like candy
I guess I could babysit them
the popped out kids and the kid makers who are kids themselves

I appear to be imitating Rosie O'Donnell's blogging style
oh my - that wouldn't be good
I want to be unique
Rosie has too much money
and too many pseudo problems
That was judgemental
judgemental or judgmental? I never remember

I better go to work now
before I get too maudlin
my sub boss reads this everyday
I better make it more interesting
I like making people laugh
That's a good high
So is Atavan
well no that's more like sleeping, Atavan

I'm making no sense here
little sense
Off I go

Thanks for reading, sub boss
(I call my boss my boss and then "under" her is the sub boss)

my two uneducated cents regarding international relations

So this Japan-China thing. I got a note at the ESL school where I teach that there is going to be a protest outside of the Japanese Consulate tomorrow. The Chinese are very upset that the Japanese are apparently white-washing their textbooks regarding their massacre of the Chinese.
So they will protest here in Vancouver, right across the street from the school. A few of my Japanese students want to go and take pictures. "Better not," they've been told. So we will watch from the window.
"It's like the pot calling the kettle black," I told the students, teaching them a new idiom.
Blather. I'm tired, I have nothing more intelligent to say.
Are Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt having a fling or not? I am so curious it's pathetic.
My sub-boss informs me that Angelina Jolie is a great humanitarian.
Sample Angelina Jolie schedule:
- Visit Cambodia. Look for sibling for son.
- Boink Brad. Invite photographers to snap pics of public snogging.
- Call Billy Bob. Hang up if new wife answers. If Billy Bob answers, ask for vile of blood back.
- Look at landmines in Cambodia. Ask if this is where the killing fields were.
- Boink Brad
- Get Jennifer's number off of Brad's Blackberry. *67 and then leave nasty messages ending in "ha ha."
- Worry about father Jon Voight. Wonder why he has gotten so strange looking.
- Find a child with either no hair or no leg. Hold him for photographers. Decide not to adopt him, need fully-coiffed and limbed offspring.
-Boink Brad and others.

A wee bit o' poetry

I'm taking a fascinating course called, The Middle East and Its Trouble Spots." It's a Vancouver Continuing Education course and only $69. I highly recommend it.
We're doing two weeks on Islam and have been discussing Sufi poets, the most famous of which is Rumi. Here's a poem of his which I love and I think it taps nicely into mysticism and certainly transcends the borders of religions.

Love is here like the blood in my veins and skin
He has annihilated me and filled me only with Him
His fire has penetrated all the atoms of my body
Of "me" only my name remains, the rest is Him