Last Sunday, my life changed forever. I wasn't expecting it, and I certainly didn't want it, but I sit here now, unable to un-see the things I have seen. It is safe to say I will forever be haunted by the memories of what transpired last Sunday.
Christian and I arrived at the AGO, thinking we were going to see some art ranging from mediocre to somewhat cool. We were paying for our tickets when I heard this strange sound. I wanted to comment to the ticket seller that it sounded like there was a sheep loose in the building.
You know, because of the baa-ing sound I could hear.
A couple of weeks ago, Bea, James and I decided to go on a Zoo Adventure. Naturally, we decided to go to the zoo the weekend after there was a Groupon deal online. This meant that it was obnoxiously full of people. And strollers. So many strollers.
It's times like these I think about investing in some sort of scooter. A pink one. Obviously. And it would have a cup holder, where I would keep my beverage. Because I imagine it would be hard to operate a scooter if I had a beverage in one hand. Safety first, guys. Well, laziness first, safety second.
While I was at the greatest wedding of all the times, I witnessed something miraculous. Something so mind boggling that my poor little brain could barely comprehend it.
It's no secret that I'm fairly organized. Especially now, having just typed that out. And while I prefer to say "organized", some of my friends prefer to say "anal retentive" or "annoying" or "seriously, you spent your Friday evening doing what?"
Doing what, indeed. I'll be getting to that in a moment.
A little while ago, Blogger introduced this "Stats" thing where you can keep track of, well, stats. It's a good thing they gave it such a logical name like "Stats" instead of something like "SUPER FUN BRIGHT PURPLE ELEPHANT". Because you would more likely than not be clicking on that link and expecting a super fun bright purple elephant and instead see a page full of stats. How misleading. And dull. Stats? Where's my super fun bright purple elephant?
Like the title suggests, I have piles of irrational fears. Maybe even enough to put in to two piles. Two very large piles, though. Like, taller than me. (And we all remember how tall I am.)
I thought it would be fun to list some of my irrational fears. So then we can all laugh at what a bizarre (and--more likely than not--disturbed) person I am. And it's fun to laugh at weirdos. Don't listen to your mom: it really is fun. Try it some time. And don't forget to point for increased enjoyment.
When people ask me how tall I am, I usually say 5'10".
That's great and all, but it's not true.
I'm actually 7 feet tall. I just hide it well.
Nah, that's not true at all. I'm actually a man. No, that's not true at all either. I'm actually a horse. Okay, you got me. I'm not a horse. I'm a mop.
But, really.
Today, for some reason, Brother and I decided to measure ourselves. I stood against the wall and he drew a mark and we tried to make sure it was all straight. The mark turned out more like a scribble, though. And who knows how straight the measuring tape was. But here's the photographic proof of my height:
Do you see that? I'm 5'8.5"--maybe 5'8.75", given the angle of the scribble. Also, I was holding the tape measure to the wall and trying to take a picture at the same time, which proved difficult. Also, why can't cameras have the button thingy on the left-hand side? Jeez.
Anyway, when I was measuring myself constantly, back in the day, I got to "five-eight-and-three-quarters" and stopped. But I said 'five-nine' when people asked, because, well, that's easier to say. And then people started prefacing their height questions with statements like, "GOLLY, ARE YOU EVER TALL!", so I felt the need to tack on an extra inch.
5'9" just never seemed that tall to me. What, that's like an inch or two above average. Stop gawking at me already. I'm normal, okay?! And up until twenty minutes ago, I really thought the average female height for women in Canada was between 5'6" and 5'8". But check this out:
Turns out I am abnormally tall for a Canadian female between the ages of 25 and 44. It also turns out that Chile is producing near-midget women. I also feel the need to point out that I used a nice colon in my red font caption, but it's hard to see. Moving on!
Then I thought, wait--I was born in the UK and I grew up in the United States. THAT'S where all the tall girls are. Canada is just full of teeny-tiny ladies. Ain't no thang.
Andddddd, no. It just turns out I'm really the average height of a Canadian/British/American male. Go me. I'm man average. Manaverage. BAM. My word. I called it.
So, I've decided--guys, you need to get taller. Because, let's be real here: 5'9" is not that tall. Don't listen to all those "average height ladies" out there, also known as AHLs. They will try to make you think that you are nice and tall.
WRONG! They are wrong. Just stand next to me when I'm wearing my monster 6 inch heels so I can fill you with feelings of inadequacy and fear.
And then go do something about that height thing and get back to me.*
In conclusion, I might as well be 5'10". Ignore my retarded facial expressions as I try to master the fine art of holding a tape measure and look at that minuscule amount of white tape. That is the difference between my real height and the height I tell people I am. Say what? That's nothing: my favourite boots easily have that much of a heel.
So there. I win. At everything. But mostly being Manaverage height.
*I just thought I should point out that I have no issues with short guys--I mean, guys that are awesome and Manaverage like myself. They are just as manly and rad as the above-Manaveragers.
While Brother was at work, he stumbled across what is perhaps--nay, definitely!--the greatest book of all time. He didn't even have to open it. He could just tell from the cover.
Really, there are absolutely no words that can do this justice, so here it is:
All That the Rain Promises and More . . . A Hip Pocket Guide To Western Mushrooms
I know you really, really want to focus on the man in the tuxedo, with the trombone, and the handful of mushrooms and, well, his everything (especially his face), but I'll get to that in a moment.
First, I was unaware that the rain made promises, and mushroom promises at that. I was sort of under the impression that it fell from the sky, evaporated, and then went back up into the sky. A cycle, if you will. But apparently, this entire time, it's been promising people mushrooms.
Mushrooms and more!
Maybe trombones. Or bearded men in tuxedos. I'm not entirely sure at this point.
I also feel the need to point out that David Arora was being redundant in the second part of the title by using the word "hip". Clearly, a pocket guide to western mushrooms is hip, David. There's no need to state the obvious.
Okay. So now you can draw your attention back (but did it ever really leave?) to the dude in the tuxedo and join me in a jovial, "DOUBLE YOU, TEE, EFF?"
At first I was all, I don't even know, but then I found the following image and was all, that actually just confused me more:
So, so . . . SO, apparently mushroom lovers are "opportunivores". What this means is that this trombonist was picking mushrooms--I mean chanterelles--five minutes before a concert. And he was doing so gleefully. I don't know about "opportunivore", more like an "I'd-rather-hold-up-the-entire-concert-just-to-dig-up-some-mushrooms-because-I'm-hungry-and-is-it-okay-that-there's-mud-all-over-my-tuxedo-now-but-here-have-a-chanterelle-they're-delicious-vore." Also known as an asshole.
Also, there appears to be some heated debate over chanterelles and boletes. Mohammad, I totally agree with you: there hasn't been a bolete I didn't like either. We might be mushroom soulmates.
And here's a guy peering into a toaster. And apparently you can toast mushrooms.
Now, children! Children are excellent at picking mushrooms, as they are low to the ground and can be convinced into doing just about anything if you threaten to take away the TV privileges. Also, you can wear mushrooms as hats--they keep your head dry, are fashionable, AND provide you with a snack. Amazing.
Now, I know what you are thinking, that this book must be a dream right? It's just too magical! But, thankfully, it is a real book. It does exist! Santa Claus, respect for the elderly, and knowing the difference between 'your' and 'you're' doesn't exist, but this book does. Thanks, life.
Today marks an important day in history. Take a moment now to commit this day--the 5th of October in the year 2011--to your memories, for today is the day that I finished watching How I Met Your Mother in it's entirety in under two weeks.
That's right. Five full seasons and the start of season six. 115 episodes. 45 hours. A lot of minutes.
45 hours of pure legen--wait for it--dary awesomeness.
Here's a chart to visually display how I spent the last ten days:
I chose to only include other activities that I couldn't do while watching HIMYM. This is why 'eating' is not a bar on the bar graph. I spend a lot of hours eating, most of which I did while watchin HIMYM. Multi-tasking: it's important. Sleeping is also important. I might spend too much time sleeping, but that brings me to my next point: I didn't have a job last week. This also explains the minimal hours devoted to "work". I might have also counted "doing the dishes" as work.
Obviously there are many more hours than what I've represented on the above bar graph, but I can't remember what I did. Clearly, it wasn't as important as eating, sleeping or watching HIMYM.
Because making graphs is fun, here's another one:
This line graph shows how my percentage of awesome has increased with each episode watched. My awesome level was already pretty high to begin with (that goes without saying, but I wanted to say it anyway), and it's only further increased.
Now I'm almost too awesome for daily consumption. I'm sort of like that really expensive desert that Serendipity serves. Yes. I'm served in a gold plated dish and covered in expensive dessert cavier. Om. Nom. Nom.
Anyway.
I have no idea why I only just started watching this show last week. Because it's really [one of] the best show[s] in the entire world (other shows being: Arrested Development, Gossip Girl, Alias, Mad Men and Frasier).
I was trying to compile a list of my favourite episodes or moments, but it's just too hard. Between Robin Sparkles and Slapsgiving; from the misadventures of Swarley and Teddy Westside and Vanilla Thunder to figuring out what the difference between peanut butter and jam is; the challenges, the interventions, the high fives . . . it's all too good.
I am rather fond of Barney's video resume, as it reminds me of that hilarious video resume that plagued the internet a few years back. Remember the douchery? And then Michael Cera spoofed it and it was glorious.
And I'm -this- (yes, I'm holding my fingers really, really, really close together) close to having Let's Go To The Mall completely memorized. I'm also incredibly anxious to see what the short lived Canadian variety show that Robin Sparkles and Alan Thicke starred in together was like.
Okay, I'm off to make more charts of things and to write letters to my future self.
Also, I want to have an intervention. Who needs intervening with something?
In honor of it being, uh, a Saturday, today's blog is an awesome surprise.
Woah!? A surprise you say? Er, I say. Yes. A surprise. I say: A surprise. Now that I've said it so many times, I expect you to have your surprised face good and ready. Fantastic.
Okay, so when I was getting ready for my photo shoot last week, I had to hunt around in Mother's basement for some props. And amongst the Christmas ornaments and discard toys, I found this:
What is it? It's a scrapbook. A scrapbook from the 8th grade. As in, when I was fourteen going on fifteen. As in, the most embarrassing thing I've come across in probably my entire life. As in, of course I took pictures of it to post on the internet.
Duh.
It's actually quite tragic. And I feel like the only way I can properly cope with my lame 8th grade self is to set the lameness loose on the rest of the world. Really, I'm trying to lessen my burden here.
Please take a long, hard look at those current pictures up there. And try to remember how cool and awesome I actually am. (I put three instead of one to really drive the point home.) Don't be fooled by lame 8th grade me. That was ten years ago. It doesn't count anymore. I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations on life and coolness is only about five years anyway.
Okay. Okay. I'm ready. Are you?
There I am. Fourteen year old me. And yes, I cut my own bangs. I mean, I asked my hairdresser to cut them crooked like that. It was totally popular in 2000. Yeah--white eyeliner and crooked bangs were all the rage.
These are my friends at grade eight prom. First of all, why did we have a prom at the end of grade eight? And second, baby blue was also apparently all the rage, along with crooked bangs. Carla there was the only rebel to wear something not blue. She also had amazing boobs for a 14 year old and that dress really showed them off. It was scandalous. Also, I'm not friends with any of these people anymore. Do they still like baby blue? Are they even still alive? I HAVE NO IDEA.
Obviously I had a sense of humour back then. Of course. I'm still waiting for that law of the universe to kick in.
My ideal age is 18 because then I am alone. And preparing for my future. Yeah. I actually was that lame and boring. In the dislikes section of this book I put "people who do not like school", and I described myself as a teacher's pet in the education section. I clearly hadn't discovered fashion at this age (and I have cringe-worthy pictures to prove it, full of ill fitting jeans and crop tops) so I had to soothe myself with books and learning instead.
A lot of this book is empty. Apparently my room was clean, but where's the photographic evidence? I don't believe it!
I listed my favourite song as "Gravity" by soulDecision. I'm not gonna lie: I still remember all the lyrics to that song. The music video was in a bowling alley and they floated. And here you go; you can thank me later:
And, also, yeah, I put Faith Hill down as one of my favourite singers. Britney Spears too. And, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I had Backstreet Boys down as one of my hated bands. Luckily, I realized the err of my ways there.
This is maybe the best page of the entire book. Because I list my ideal boyfriend as a "vampire, shape shifter, or other night-worlder." And our wedding would be elegant and magical and "not like human weddings". And I actually described Edward Cullen perfectly ... before I even knew he even existed! See. We are meant to be. Hmpf.
To my credit, I must've gone back through the book later, because at the bottom I claimed I had been on some sort of drug while writing it (obviously drunk with vampire love) and then on the opposite page I wrote a much more normal boyfriend description.
This was empty. There was something there originally, because the sticker was ripped. What did it say? What inane thoughts did I have for my twenty three year old self?
Actually, it's probably for the best that I never find that letter.
And there you have it. Now, quickly forget everything you just read and focus on my current level of cool. Which is really high. And awesome. High five.
One of my favourite parts of flying is reading the Sky Mall magazine. If you don't know what that is, it's basically a shopping catalogue that they put in the front seat pocket in airplanes.
What makes it so fabulous? Well, it's full of hundreds of pages of the most pointless inventions, gadgets, clothes, lawn ornaments, pet products, anything and everything imaginable.
I was particularly irked during this flight because US Airways first decided to charge me $20 US dollars to check my luggage and then they decided to completely rob me of any complementary snacks.
That's right. A four hour flight and not one morsel of complementary food. Not even a cracker. I almost wanted to create some sort of scene and pretend I was anemic or something that would require me to eat (a moneyless anemic, mind you) to see if I could get a free meal out of it.
My blood sugar, my blood sugar! Must...eat...or...will..perish! (And then I would faint and probably start twitching for dramatic effect.)
Ah, so in my irked, less $20, hungry state, I couldn't sleep for very much of the flight. Instead, I turned to my trusty Sky Mall magazine to see what sort of amazingly pointless, yet awesome, goodies I could find.
It's like a shopping mall in the sky! I'm sure that's what those clever sons of guns came up with in advertising. Way to go, fellas.
Lucky for y'all, Sky Mall has a website, so I can share my personal favourites with you. Ahem.
This cosmetic product is 6-in-1. Yes, you read right. Six. That would be foundation, concealer, bronzer, blush, eyeshadow AND lipstick. In one. Oh, and did I mention it comes in one universal shade that can adapt to any skintone? Even if I wasn't a makeup artist, I'd still be saying "bullshit".
Ah, delicious bacon. If only it wasn't such a pain to make. But wait, you can get a Bacon Genie and microwave up to twelve strips of bacon all on your own! And look, it even has a dish to catch all the grease. Shucks, even a toddler could do it. It's good to get them started on the bacon when they're young, anyhow.
I know what's been missing in my life: the ability to make an eight inch tall cupcake.
Now your backyard can be home to Sasquatch. Except this one is only two feet tall. And horrendously ugly. Go on, put him next to your prized petunias. I dare you.
This is just some sort of "accident" waiting to happen. But apparently it's actually supposed to relieve stress. Rigghttt.
Why look at an ugly cat litter box when you can look at a cat litter box disguised as a planter! Woah! It's amazing. I mean, I thought that was just a planter in the corner, but then I got closer and realized it still smelled like cat shit and then saw your cat climb out of it. You're not fooling me.
But what's way cooler than a cat litter box disguised as a planter is a cat litter box disguised as a time machine! Now my cat can pee and time travel at the same time?! Amazing.
Now, I expect giant cupcake molds and cat time travel machines from all of you at Christmas time.
