Humor – Page 15 – Rant and Roll

Smoking, or non?

I did a lot of crazy stuff as a kid.

(This probably shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of you.)

In grade two, Ms. Nolan (full disclosure: I LOVED HER) asked us to bring in props for our “class store.” We were going to learn how to add and subtract integers through the purchase of goods on sale in our shop.

The student buying the products would have to add up the price of their groceries, while the cashier would have to calculate the correct change owed.

As a class, we were darned excited about this math unit.

Now, other kids brought in cereal boxes, soup cans (that had been – responsibly – cleaned and dried), kraft dinner packages, and egg cartons.

And what, you may be asking yourselves, did young Ethel bring to the project?

A jumbo box of Eggo waffles and an (empty, thank goodness) twelve-pack of Labatt Blue.

That’s class with a K right there folks.

For all you non-Canucks out there, LB is a kind of beer. And a pretty bad beer at that. (Actually, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even exist anymore.)

Ms. Nolan must have been pretty flabbergasted, especially because our grade four buddies had come down to help us set up shop (literally) and bunch of them were play-acting drunk, slurring their words and taking pretend swigs from the bottles.

Needless to say, most of my props went home with me that day.

Though the Eggos stayed.

Flash-forward to grade five. We had a student teacher named Michael, who was wonderful and completely lovely.

He was patient and soft-spoken, was always excited and dressed really well.

(In my memory he’s about fifty-nine, but in reality the guy couldn’t have been older than twenty-six.)

And as a class, we used to make him sweat like long-tailed cat in a room filled with rocking chairs.

And I, I was a chief culprit of this stress (though not of my own volition or intention.)

Like I said, I just did weird stuff!

Case in point:

One of the assignments he got us involved with was a cross-Canada anti-smoking campaign, which was also a competition to see who, out of all the elementary students across the country, could create the best anti-smoking poster and catch phrase.

In order to participate, you had to finish the sentence: “If you smoke – …”

I’ll never forget the winner from the previous year, because my ten year old self thought it was absolutely freaking brilliant, and the poster looked like it had been drawn by a professional artist.

The winning poster read:

If you smoke, you’ll be hooked!

The accompanying picture was that of a really sad killer whale being fish-hooked by an evil (and obviously soulless) smoking henchman.

Aha, I thought to myself. This was what we had to live up to!

So what did I pull together you might ask? Did all my hard work ensure my victory?

Well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.

My slogan was: If you smoke, you’re just a butt!

Genius, right?

I mean, who would want to do anything that reminded them of bums? No one, that’s who!

My poster, while a little avant-garde, was sure to wow the judges.

This is (a recreation of) what I drew:

IMG-20120504-00076 — That’s a border of cigarette butts by the way.

Needless to say, I think Michael may have had a heart attack when he saw this.

He kindly let me know that there was no way, not for all the tea in China, that he was letting me send in a poster that depicted a bare ass smoking a cigarette.

I fought back hard.

Couldn’t he see how much effort I had put into it? Yes he could, he told me. Couldn’t he see where I was coming from? Yes he could, he told me. Didn’t he like my border of cigarette butts? Yes he did, he told me. Didn’t he think that the thought of putting your mouth on a bum would make kids not want to ever smoke a single cigarette in their entire life? Yes he did, he told me.

At this point I remember his face getting really red – not from anger I’m sure – but more from the fact that if he didn’t laugh soon, his entire head would explode.

In the end, I received an A on the project and I got to keep my slogan, but I had to go home that night and make a new poster.

So this was the one I sent into the competition:

(The stars are the cigarette butts – I was too lazy to draw them out again.)

Needless to say, I didn’t win.

But hey, it wasn’t a total wash. In fact, looking on the bright side, I don’t smoke, and if I ever hear someone say that a person has a “smoking ass” – well – only I know the real truth of the matter.

But like I said, crazy stuff guys.

CRAZY STUFF.

I’ve found a driver and that’s a start

Happy Wednesday you winsome and wonderful weirdos! I don’t know what I’d do without you.

So here are five things that make my little heart smile:

Lunch dates with my rad mates.

On Tuesday Ms. A, Ms J. (good grief, do I sound like Tyra Banks?), and I had lunch at one of Vancouver’s newer food carts – Mom’s Grilled Cheese.

These roaming food wagons are getting more and more prevalent – especially around the downtown core where we work – and offer a huge amount of choice in terms of menu options.

It’s not just chili cheese dogs and cans of coke anymore, folks.

You can get Vietnamese subs, shawarma, Asian-fusion, Ukrainian pierogies (who knew that spell check doesn’t know what a pierogi is!?), pulled-pork sandwiches, BBQ – seriously the list, like Rip van Winkle’s beard, grows ever long.

(Man, I can’t believe that the most hip facial hair reference I could think of is a make-believe dude who slept a lot!)

Yeesh.

Anywho, grilled cheese was eaten; grilled cheese was loved.

IMG-20120501-00066 — SO blinkin’ good! And they give you a pickle!

By all three us.

I ordered Swiss with tomato on multi-grain.

Cor. Absolutely delicious that was. If you ever visit the truck, and you’re wracked by indecision – give that a go.

You won’t be disappointed.

Trying on pretty pretties.

Today at lunch I bopped about the usual circuit (Vancity’s downtown/shopping business district) with the usual suspects (Ms. J + friends) and I tried on this dress:

IMG-20120502-00073 — This dress made me feel like the queen of hearts.

And then this one:

IMG-20120502-00071 — All aboard the covered wagon dears!

It’s funny, because in the store I felt like I was veering towards the red (I didn’t buy either) – but now that I’m looking at these photos, I’m particularly drawn to the white.

When it was on me, I thought I looked super “Little House on the Prairie”, but now I’m thinking more along the lines of “Pilgrim chic.”

I’m not sure – I’m turning over the issue to the experts.

(aka YOU!)

Either way, it’s always fun when you have someone with whom you can motor, who also is game to play dress up in the middle of your work day.

It’s a great way unwind, albeit briefly.

Plus it gives you the chance to say things like, “does this look like a giant bedazzled compression sock?”

IMG-20120502-00070 — Just. Not good…plus the jeans made me look like a headbanger-carney!

To which the answer is always, yes.

Yes it does.

Tulips.

Spring means many things here in Lotus Land.

It heralds the arrival of the chickadee dee dees – and other bird friends – who have recently returned from their tropical, winter sojourn. You can hear them in the morning as you draw back the blinds, or the moment you step out your front door as you leave for work.

It also means a boat load of rain – but I don’t want to write about.

I want to write about all the amazing tulips that have sprouted everywhere! Their colours are so rich and vibrant, I can practically feel my heart swelling inside my chest every time I see them.

IMG-20120426-00058 — Tulips make my two lips SMILE!

I also have tricky fingers and want to pick all of them, so I have to walk by quickly, for fear of snatching them all to myself.

(And therefore also the police. I fear them too.)

Nail polish.

I don’t paint my fingernails all too often. So when I do, I always feel as though I’ve accomplished something pretty cool.

In fact, I’m always a little startled that no one presents me with a plaque to mark the occasion.

The other night, as M and I sat in front of the fire (yes! A fire at the beginning of May! I am just as appalled as you are!) I painted my nails a sort of aubergine-maroon colour.

It was Professor Plum, in the car, with M’s camera.

And I like it!

A lot.

(Way more than I do the idea of a fire in May that’s for darned sure.)

Tina Fey.

I just finished reading Bossypants and boy did I ever enjoy it. The lovely Emily of Well Fed, Flat Broke lent me her copy and I pretty much hovered it up over the last two days.

Ms. Fey is hilarious.

There were pages that just kept me laughing non-stop. It was also nice to read about a woman with whom I really identify.

We’re not the same person by any stretch of the imagination, but so much of what she writes about, I found myself nodding along, feeling like I could relate to much of what she was talking about.

(Except of course working at a bleak-as-hell YMCA in Chicago during the early 1990s. Of that I have little knowledge or experience.)

I also have a massive crush on her and Amy Poehler’s friendship. Is that possible? Can you covet a best friendship?

Memo to all my real-life friends: Get cooler. And fast.

(I kid, I kid. If you were any cooler, you’d all be ice cold.*)

*In my mind I sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger when I say that.

Yikes! I must get back on track. SO – if you’re thinking of picking up the book, do it, do it!

You won’t regret it.

Unless of course your name rhymes with Parah Salin. Then, maybe, stay away.

…

So there you have it, you wacko beauty cats! Five things that bring me the lolz and smiles.

I hope they could bring you some too.

Don’t stand. Don’t stand so close to me.

So after all that writing about tofu, I realized I had a great desire to wok and roll. Indeed folks, the time was nigh to whip up a classic tofu stir-fry for Mr. M and I.

It’s been such a crazy start to the week – in fact, I cannot believe that today is only Tuesday – and I wanted something healthy, and tasty, and that I could put together with my eyes closed.

And since I wasn’t too keen on the idea of eating banana bread for dinner (only because I ate half of a lemon meringue pie for my supper last night), stir-fry it was.

À la tofu.

This morning, while riding skytrain, I did two things – two things that can be perfectly summed up by just one word:

Mortification.

Holy doodle, it’s a boon and a half that I don’t embarrass easily.

First, I was SO into my crossword that I actually drooled onto my paper.

Or maybe it got on my purse – I’m not sure.

And although it wasn’t a ton of drool, and I desperately tried to keep it in, once I realized that I was leaking from my mouth – alas.

To no avail.

I’m pretty sure the girl sitting to my right was busting a gut for all of Canada, because the seat was vibrating pretty steadily for the next ten minutes.

(The fact that I too was laughing my face off could also have something to do with this.)

I couldn’t look up for the life of me, for fear that I would make eye contact with someone else who had espied my errant behavior because this would have undoubtedly propelled me into the most epic case of the “laughs” ever recorded in the history of the world, from which, I’m sure, I would never have recovered.

Then, about five minutes later (although in my completely cracked mind it seemed like these events happened simultaneously) my umbrella got loose from where it was resting between my knees.

I watched it fall in almost slow motion – although again in real life it was moving at quite a clip.

(This along with its steep angle of trajectory alarmed me.)

It kept tumbling forward, before making contact with the the legs (or you know, bum cheeks) of the man standing in front of me, only to come to rest, wedged in his crotchular area.

This, in the parlance of our times was very, very awkward.

Like, the most ever.

EVER.

The look he gave me may have taken years off of my life.

Good thing all that laughing just piles them back on.

So there you have it. My Tuesday started out on a high point, hilarity-wise, and will end on an equally stellar note, health and taste-wise.

And knowing M and I – there will be a ton more laughs too.

Let’s get down to business:

Chop it!

These colours - in whatever form I find them in - always make me smile.

Wok it!

I really appreciate to no end the number of puns you can create with the word wok.

Sauce it!

Add spinach:

But seriously, add more:

Like you mowed the lawn and then made a meal out of the clippings!

For a brilliant, final result of:

Multi-coloured noms! The best kind (but also lemon meringue pie.)

So there you have it folks – tofu stir-fry for the skytrain rider’s soul.

How were your Tuesdays? Anything crazy happen around your parts?

I would really, really love to hear about it.

I can be your hero baby

When I was in grade five, I was singled out as a “gifted” student.

Because of this, I was shipped off every Thursday to room 320, in order to spend the day away from my friends with the biggest losers I had ever met.

(Or at least the biggest losers in my highly-evolved eleven-year old opinion.)

And no doubt, all of those kids were looking at me in the exact same light.

The condescension hung heavy in that classroom, let me tell you. Like a really snotty cumulus cloud.

We were all there to participate in a program entitled “COW: Changing our World.”

This was horrible.

I was missing double gym to spend my day talking about environmental and political actions that, sure I cared about, but didn’t really care about.

Not more than kicking ass in frisbee death anyway.

One afternoon, after emptying our juice boxes and wiping the peanut butter from our mouths, Ms. Marvin asked us to sit in a circle and tell the group about our heroes.

I panicked.

What kind of question was that?

I can remember wracking my brain for strong female icons that I could proudly say were my heroes. I admired Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedman, but they weren’t mine. But I admired them to such an extent that they were pratically mythological, made-up figures and they existed for me because of everything my mother had told me about them, and the few books I had found in my library.

The same for Roberta Bondar and Nancy Green and Nelly McClung.

CIMG7348 — My beauty mom and beauty sis. Two women I admire greatly.

Each name stuck in my throat like a ball of hair; I could feel my tongue trying to push words to the front of my mouth, but nothing would come but nerves and peanut butter breath.

I cannot remember whom the first three students named.

Perhaps this is because of the enormity of Justin’s (number four’s) pick. He sat there in his green club-med sweatshirt, tapered jeans and classic bowl cut, so confident, so ready.

He was more than prepared to announce to the world his hero.

I remember he even inhaled before speaking.

“My hero is Jean Chretien.”

I want to embellish here and say that I came close to passing out upon hearing this, but it’s not true. I might have been a drama queen, but I knew where to draw the line.

But still – Jean Chretien?

How could anyone in their right mind possibly say that he was their hero? It certainly didn’t make things better when the girl next to him (I’ve since forgotten her name) declared that her hero was Kim Campbell.

The only thing running through my head was: WHO ARE THESE WEIRDOS?

KIM CAMPBELL AND JEAN CHRETIEN!?!?

From library and archives Canada — The usual suspects. HILARIOUS side note: when my mom was working in Ottawa in the early 90s, she was walking down the street one night and a woman yelled out "There's Kim Campbell!" This has kept me laughing for years.

ARE WE IN BIZARRO WORLD?

Now to be fair, in retrospect, I can (kind of) understand the reasoning behind an eleven-year-old girl’s decision to pick Kim Campbell.

Being the first female prime minister of Canada definitely propels you into a certain category of individuals (despite the fact that her party had already been decisively trounced in the elections).

But didn’t she listen to Double Exposure? They made fun of her all the damned time!

I do not recall the way the rest of the day panned out; I was too unsettled, too shaken up.

As I walked home, scuffing my tennis shoes and tripping over their laces, my mind raced with makeshift answers. Justin was not the athletic type – his legs were even skinnier than mine (and I was of such a stick-like nature that I could see my heart beating every time I emerged scrubbed-pink from the bathtub), so it was acceptable that he wouldn‘t pick a sports figure. He didn’t seem one to idolize film stars or literary giants.

And because of this, I began to question the defining qualities of this commonly used label.

“Hero.”

If someone could say that Canada’ twentieth prime minister was their hero, what did that mean for the term itself? Could just about anyone be a hero? What were the specific requirements and did they all have to be met? How could Jean Chretien be so special to one little boy? It was obviously not a choice born out of passion.

But then again maybe he was just a HUGE fan of the Constitution.

Looking back, the best that I can come up with was that this choice was one of utmost pragmatism.

On the first day of class Justin had said that he wanted to be a politician; somewhere along the line he must have realized that in order to accomplish this, it might be good to look up to someone who had already achieved this position.

And now of course, I know that there is nothing wrong with that.

In fact, if I could go back in time I would say party on Justin.

(Liberal) PARTY ON.

But that night I sat at the dining room table with my feet tucked neatly into the folds of my knees and slowly mashed my tofu around my plate. My mother, used to my pickiness, sat across from me and told me to stop molesting my bean curd.

“It’s not the tofu,” I said. Because in fact it wasn’t the tofu, as I really liked tofu (and still do to this day.)

“Well then what’s the matter?” My mother crossed her arms and looked at me, cocking her head to one side, making the dangly parts of her earrings knock together like wind chimes.

“Some stupid idiot in my class today told everyone that Jean Chretien is his hero.” I rolled by eyes. My fork clanged onto the plate as I let it slip from my fingers. “Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

I knew that my mom didn’t want to laugh. But she was one with whom I would listen to Double Exposure on the CBC. She also read Frank Magazine (in fact she had been lampooned herself in the rag) and like her daughter, thought that this was just too much.

My mother let out a wallop of a laugh.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Her whole body shook like an oversized maraca.

So I let loose too, laughing with an intensity that felt unnatural, but I felt like if I laughed hard enough the uncomfortable pit buried deep inside of me wouldn’t sprout leaves and grow into a tree.

As long as I laughed I could think Justin as a strange anomaly and continue to think of heroes as easily definable, realistic beings.

But eventually, I stopped.

And I, on this day, April 30, 2012, would like to extend an apology to both Justin, and the unnamed Kim Campbell fan.

In an age of Jersey Shore and Kim Kardashian and Twilight – I’ll take their choices.

But I”ll probably still need that juice box.

Because although I might take it, it’s still not going to go down any easier then it did the first time around.

And for that I blame Double Exposure.

(And my mom.)

Would you just take it easy man?

Between the ages of about twelve and twenty, whenever I spoke with my mother over the phone, she would inevitably tell me at some point in our conversation to slow down.

Seriously, all I need to do is just sit here and close my eyes, and I can actually hear her voice, pleading for respite from the verbal onslaught – my machine gun volley of words.

“HOLD IT!” She would exclaim. “Hold it! I can’t understand a single thing that you are saying!”

IMG-20120427-00064 — This is the kind of place I imagine my mother went to as I motor-mouthed through our conversation.

I would, of course, laugh to myself, or perhaps let out one of those larger than life exasperation-heavy sighs, so well-cultivated and practiced by the teenage set, before jabbering on a like a monkey in a tree.

Maybe I’d slow my speech a tad (though it is unlikely) because the news of my latest exploits, or how cute the boy I danced with was, or could she please come pick me up like right now because I am freeeeeezing – well, these were pieces of news of such importance, that if I didn’t push my words out of my mouth as fast as I possibly could, their significance might be forever lost, and my life would end, and I would have to cede the title of “most fascinating teenager EVER” to the next fastest-talking teen (aka my little sister.)

Or something in that regard.

Why, you might ask yourself, am I telling you all this?

The answer, my friends, is because there are a few areas in my life in which I am going to try to slow the heck down.

IMG-20120426-00057 — I'm going to smell the flowers.

I am going to breathe. And then breathe again.

Seriously, from this day out, my goal is to make a conscious effort to take five, (or smell the roses, or drive the scenic route, or whatever) in the following three areas of my life, because my need for speed is mucking things up and it’s starting to grind my gears.

Let’s dive right in:

1.) Proof reading my blog posts.

So. I love this blog. Like, SO MUCH.

And I love writing. But I’ve never loved reading my writing with a critical line-edit eye. In fact, I really can’t stand the slow once over, nor do I enjoy reading my work out loud (in a proof reading sense.)

This always came back to bite me in the butt during my uni days. I would always need to option out the final edit of my essays to lovely, selfless friends (or, you know, Mr. M, who – to his credit – was responsible for overviewing approximately 97.4% of my typo-free academic work).

If I didn’t put my stuff through this last minute check, then I was doomed to the “[insert positive feedback here – but would have benefited from one last final proofread]” professorial comment.

Urg. How I hated that comment.

A huge better-late-than-never apology to all of my professors!

It’s just that after immersing myself full-tilt in the subject matter, and then spending a crap-load of time crafting a sweet, sweet argument, and then writing a sweet, sweet paper, the thought of reading over my words one more time after all of that effort, actually made me feel as though my brain was bleeding out of my ears.

Who wants to sit in front of a compy for longer than they need to?

There is really only so much critical analysis a young gal can handle.

Anywho, what I’m trying to say is that this academic habit of mine has now translated into the horrible trend of not checking over these posts before hitting the fatal “publish” button. This leaves me scrambling for quite a while afterwards (depending of course of the post), cleaning up all my nit-picky errors – most of which are a result of typing too fast.

See folks! Again, what do I find myself doing? Pushing out ideas that I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT as quickly as I possibly can, without fully acknowledging that the people who will actually be reading these posts need to actually, you know, understand what it is I am trying to communicate.

Sheesh.

Mom! You were right all along!

But I’m working on it.

2. Eating too fast when I am hungry

Especially if the food is mega-tasty.

Now, to be fair, I’m of the mind that when you’re hungry enough, anything will taste good.

(My earliest memory pertaining to this theory is from the age of six, when my mom picked me up from my piano lesson and was driving me to my next activity – highland dancing practice. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch that day at school and she offered me a banana flavoured granola bar.)

At that time in my life I pretty much equated “banana” with horse manure, so you can imagine my reticence at scarfing that bad boy down.

But the rumble in my tummy persisted, and my resolve broke, and as I gobbled up that bar, I so clearly remember thinking “wow, this tastes AMAZING!”

Today at lunch I ate these scrumptious fish tacos:

However, because the majority of my morning was comprised of working with my hair on fire, followed by a lunch hour – which actually wasn’t made up of lunch, but a brisk walk across downtown Vancouver and back with J (which was beautiful and hilarious and fab.)

IMG-20120427-00061 — Beautiful downtown Vancity.

By the time I bought my food and sat down at my desk I was so ravenous I practically inhaled my meal.

And although the tacos were insanely tasty, it really reminded me that I need to make an effort to chew, chew, chew, when I am hungry.

Because when I hoover everything like the food vacuum I can so easily become, I not only give myself stomach aches, but I practically induce myself into a taco coma.

A “TACOMA” if you will.

3. Developing crushes on famous people (mainly a British problem)

I will watch some dude in one tv show for thirty seconds and immediately I’ll get all shirty over him. This doesn’t happen very often (which is probably why I feel so funny when it does).

It’s a bit ridiculous really.

But luckily, these infatuations are all incredibly short-lived, and often fizzle out before the week is out.

Hmmm.

Actually.

I am going to renege on this point.

Because I am okay with it.

I like my silly little crushes. (And I’m pretty sure they like me too.)

So there you have it! Two areas where I am making a conscious effort to cool my jets.

And in the mean time, I am going to wear my new skirt until it is runs thread-less and bare (and I am incarcerated for indecent exposure.)

And what about you folks? Is there anything in your lives where speed is killing you? Let me know, and we can swap tips on how to best employ the brakes.

P.S. If there are any typos in this (or any future) post, don’t tell me about them. I’ll find them eventually.