In no particular order, I present to you the most awesome moments of the week…
The one with the guy at the stop light:
Thursday morning, it was too overcast (read that: cold/gray/miserable/freezing/depressing) to have the windows and sunroof open. I was, however, driving the SUV, which has a respectable sound system. This resulted in ear-throbbing levels of bass during my commute. Upon rolling up to a stop light, the guy in the car next to mine began giving me over-zealous head nods. I admit I did look pretty hot. At the very least, I was having a good hair day. A quick glance revealed that this young man was an East Indian chap dressed in thug apparel; he was driving a completely riced Honda Civic; he was a total wangster. The more I ignored him, the louder he cranked his system. When I could take it no more, I cranked up the bass and rolled down my windows. My song of choice? ”One Time” by Justin Bieber. He tried to crank his system louder than mine, but it didn’t work. Embarrassed, he was forced to concede that he spent too much money on his ridiculous aluminum wing and coffee-can muffler and not nearly enough to better my stock CD-play and speakers. Or Justin Bieber, for that matter…
This was almost as awesome as when I drowned out the neighbor guy’s Eminem album with almost 40 minutes of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.”
The one with the employee discount at the store I don’t work at.
Tomorrow in Kids Unlimited, we’re talking about God’s plan for the Israelites and how he intended for them to live set apart for Him; I prefer the way my Bible college prof, Ken Esau, put it: “Wow-Weird!” I thought glow sticks would be a cool object lesson. Moreover, I thought glow sticks would be ridiculously fun. After buying 150 glow sticks and six glow-in-the-dark batons, I ventured into the dollar store (insert shudder here) to pick up glow-in-the-dark balls. The balls I found have flashing blue and red LEDs inside, and they’re awesome. One of the sales associates helped me find an extra four balls, and, in the course of our conversation, she asked why I was buying insane amounts of glowing toys. When I explained where I work and what I do, she told me that she has been teaching Sunday school for more than 30 years; she also gave me her employee discount.
The one with the thousand-foot roll of foil.
While a co-worker is out of town, I have taken it upon myself to ensure that all of his office things are thoroughly wrapped in foil. By “thoroughly” I mean that I intend to wrap every singular object in foil, right down to the littlest push pin and loneliest business card. I’m about 10% done. Monday might end up rather busy. The best moment in this adventure [thus far]: flipping on the lights for the first time and realizing just how effective (and reflective) foil can be in a small space. Next on the to-do list: figuring out how I shall best capture this fellow’s reaction.
Think I’m over reacting to the threat of pigeons? Perhaps not! I’m not the only one unwilling to sit idly by and let the sky rats run rampant. Kings of Leon recently stopped a concert just three songs in because of the nasty creatures. People magazine tells us:
Three songs into their St. Louis concert Friday night, the Kings of Leon had to shut down the show on account of some unexpected accompaniment that CNN pins on “pooping pigeons.”
“Jared [Followill, the band's bassist] was hit several times during the first two songs,” said Andy Mendelsohn of Vector Management. “It’s not only disgusting – it’s a toxic health hazard. They really tried to hang in there.”
The dirty birds were reported to have been lurking in the rafters of the Missouri city’s Verizon Amphitheatre and launching their aerial attack during the band’s opening number, “Closer.” Followill, 23, got it in the face.
“I was hit by pigeons on each of the first three songs,” said the musician and self-professed germophobe. “We had 20 songs on the set list. By the end of the show, I would have been covered from head to toe.”
Nor did he feel safe gazing skyward to see who his attackers were – or how many of them.
“The last thing I was going to do was look up,” he said, “but if that was only a couple, we must have caught them right after a big Thanksgiving dinner.”
After the cancelation – and, presumably, a good, hot shower – the band said in a statement through its manager, “We want to apologize to our fans in St. Louis and will come back as soon as we can.” Added the band’s publicist, “No fans got pooped on as far as we know.”
Kudos to Jared and the guys! Next time, I hope they arm themselves with pellet guns and take more aggressive action against the sky rats.
This video of the concert popped up on youtube:
Towards the end, you can see the drummer and lead singer wipe sky rat scat from their faces. If I’m not mistaken, the singer’s shirt is also dotted with pigeon bomb shrapnel.
My war with the pigeons started several months ago. I was soaking in the tub, but I had left the window open. It was a nice sunny evening, and I was enjoying the neighborhood sounds as I relaxed. The window, when opened, creates a hole sized about one square foot in the bathroom wall, facing our neighbor’s house. The neighbors have no windows on the east side of their house, so this is safe enough – especially as the window is considerably higher than the tub. In other words, one can soak quite happily without fear of creating a neighborhood peep show. Especially if one uses copious amounts of bubbles and keeps the shower curtain drawn. I feel the need to explain this quite thoroughly, lest some of you take to driving by my house. You wont see anything. Not that I bathe with the window open any more. No. The pigeons put an end to that.
There was I, soaking blissfully, when some great flappery interrupted my musings. A pigeon actually tried to fly into the window. Naturally, I sprung to action and successfully deterred said sky rat. None the less, I felt the sky rats had robbed me of one of my simplest pleasures. Sigh. I do not wish to offer them entrance to our home.
Since that day, I have regarded the pigeons with resentment. Those heathen sky rats have not been satisfied to rob me of open-window baths. They’ve taking to roosting under the eaves of the neighbor’s house, as well as sitting outside by bedroom window. They rob me of sleep as they coo and chatter in their pigeony way.
One Sunday morning, perhaps three weeks ago now, I awoke to the sound of their vocalization. Still groggy, I was infuriated that they had woken me before 6:00. Without truly considering the repercussions, I began to look for something – anything, really – to throw at the sky rats. My still-sleepy eyes locked onto a rubber band, and my mind was made up. Slowly, almost painfully slow, I raised my blinds. The brazen birds did not scatter! I proceeded to lean out the window, as far as I could, and then I took aim. I must interject that I possibly have the worst aim of all time. I didn’t truly expect to hit a sky rat; I simply hoped to frighten and scatter them in a satisfying fashion. But I did. I hit a sky rat. I nailed him with my rubber band. The whole pack (alright, there were three or four) took flight. They didn’t, however, fly the coop for long.
Instead, they have returned in greater numbers.
Pigeons, I once assumed, are a lazy, loafy type of bird. These seditious sky rats use their harmless appearance to infiltrate our society, and then they wait for an opportunity to do their worst. Even Disney has proliferated this pigeon propaganda, encouraging children to offer their few tuppence to support the sky rats!
Once welcomed into our parks and neighborhoods, the sky rats begin to bomb aggressively. They are not happy to drop the occasional load; they carpet bomb. My car, and, more recently, our folding camp chairs and patio, have been the unhappy recipients. This was an inconvenience and an annoyance. But the pigeons didn’t stop there. They waged a heavy assault on something near and dear to my heart – my Toy Story 3 Action Heroes wading pool!
Friday, I spent an hour draining and scrubbing my pool with bleach wipes until the smell of chorine was deeply ingrained in the surface. Granted, this shall create a more authentic pool experience, but I can’t honestly say that I’m thrilled about it. Those pigeons stole something from me – something sacred. I’m not taking this sitting down.
Today, I shall take my first strike against the pigeons. Sky rats apparently hate the smell of strong spices. I’ll be mixing a disgusting mixture of garlic, cayenne, and everything else in my spice cupboard, and then venturing out onto the roof to distribute the mixture. With any luck, this will provide temporary relief. Should the sky rats return, I’m fully prepared to take more drastic measures. A family friend has graciously offered the use of his airsoft gun; I fully intend to borrow it and take whatever means necessary to defend my family and our pool.
My friend Simon is a lot of things. He is a filmmaker, a chocolate cake enthusiast, a critic, a cynic, and a button-up wearer. He is also right. Not all the time, but a good chunk of the time. Last night, he was right. He suggested I respond to a young man’s invitation by simply writing, “No Thanks.” I have never been good at harsh, solid responses to men. I try to be polite and ladylike. So I buffered my response with an, “I don’t really know you.” Simon was right. A simple “No Thanks” would have been better.
In my own defense, the guy said, “I know you live in Canada and all, but I think we should start doing something.” I wasn’t sure if that was a euphemism for something else, so, despite the thousand other reasons I felt no inclination to respond positively, I felt that I ought to decline the offer. That and I don’t respond to facebook messages that begin with the words, “hey mama.” Especially not from a white guy.
Of course the guy followed up, insisting that we could get to know each other, and I found myself responding with a classic bull-filled response about being so over long distance relationships and being too busy with school and work. Well, I suppose my response was honest enough. I am “so over” long distance relationships. And I am very busy with work and school and trying to finish a damn novel. But would those things really matter if I met someone with whom I had real chemistry? No. They just wouldn’t stand up as a real reason to not pursue the elusive Mr. Right. Or someone that seemed awfully right, for that matter. If I met someone I really hit it off with, distance and busyness would seem like very small obstacles.
Last summer’s brief spell dating a man that shall only be known as “Jersey Shore” (total guido!) was enough to remind me that I should only get involved with someone I really click with. Over the past year, I’ve also learned that I need to stop looking for Kevin 2.0. It would be so easy to continue looking for someone “just like Kevin, only he doesn’t do [insert frustrating thing] and actually likes [thing I like].” I’m over it. I’ve moved on. And I need another Kevin about as much as he needs another Naomi. I’m pretty sure that amount roughly equates to “not at all, not even a little.”
So where does that leave me? Single.
Sometimes I feel like I have become incredibly picky, but looking at the guys I’ve been involved with in the past, I know I haven’t been picky enough. I’d rather spend a lengthy period watching all my friends pair off and settle down than to keep dating for the sake of dating. It’s just frustrating. I feel like I’m finally at a place where I’m emotionally ready for another serious relationship, but I’m just not meeting any one that catches my fancy.
I still believe in fairytales and true love and being swept of my feet. Actually, the problem is that I’m just not willing to settle for anything less.
Now, if you excuse me, I shall go find my copy of Sense and Sensibility; perhaps Jane Austen will hold the answers.
Tonight I write about cardigans. Josh requested I write about cardigans, and, as I have little else to write about, I shall offer you a few thoughts about cardigans.
I have a long history with cardigans. As a Scottish school girl, the cardigan was an integral part of my identity. And uniform. That formative period of my life left me with a general distaste for cardigans. I’ve always been the rebellious type; thus, I felt it necessary to rebel against cardigans for a long time. This led me to embrace several alternative fashion faux pas from the mid 90′s until about 2003. I’m talking about serious faux pas. On many a day, I left the house wearing denim from head to toe. I even carried a denim purse. I owned denim shirts and skirts and jackets and pants, and I wore them all in some sort of ridiculous blue ensemble. Don’t even get me started on the strange color combinations that I paired with my Old Navy tech vest. Although I courted cardigans upon occasion, I was bullied out of my openness to the garments by a giant, butch pain in my ass, who gave me hell for wearing pink. Looking back, I see nothing wrong with my hot pink sweater, but I suppose anything from the Gap or Old Navy would intimidate a 13-year-old who grew up on a basketball court and lived in over-sized sweat pants.
So it seems strange that cardigans have become a staple of my clothing diet.
In the past six months, I bought at least 5 or 6 cardigans, all of which I’ve over worn to the point of destruction. I love cardigans. Two of said cardigans are pink, and I’m sure everyone I know is sick of seeing me in pink cardigans. On a particularly bad day, I found myself waiting in line at the Tommy Hilfiger outlet, baby pink cardigan in hand. It took every ounce of will power I had to put it back and walk out of the store. I own black cardigans. I own grey cardigans. I have biscuit coloured cardigans. Yes. Plural. Three biscuit coloured cardigans, to be exact. Beige, if you prefer.
Why am I telling you all of this? It just serves to illustrate that we’re a product our journeys. It might be my nature, after all, I come from a long line of cardigan-wearing women. It might be nurture; I was raised with cardigans, sweater sets, and films in which Doris Day wore cardigans. Whatever the reason, cardigans are in my blood.
The sooner we embrace our roots, the living history in us, the better. You can runaway from who you are and your past, but it’s still going to be there. When you finally confront it, it will hit you with a vengeance. You will wake up one day with a closet full of cardigans.
I’m a girl who wears cardigans. I’m not even cool enough to rock a hipster look. I am a Gap poster child reject. And I’m happy with that.
As relocating to a tropical locale is currently beyond my financial means, I did the next best thing. I purchased a Toy Story Action Heroes Adventure Pool, with which I have created my own backyard oasis. At Toys R Us I had been confronted with the difficult choice between said Toy Story pool and a Lightening McQueen pool, but ultimately chose the former because it came with a canon. Seriously. A canon to which one can connect one’s hose in order to launch water across the yard. Perhaps the choice wasn’t so difficult after all… In the end, I knew I had made the right choice because I incited envy in the small boy behind me in the check-out line.
“Why can’t I have a pool like that,” He asked his mother.
“I bet that lady’s little boy has been really good,” She replied. “Maybe if you’re really good we can talk about it.”
The little boy switched his attention to me. “Is your little boy really good?”
“I don’t have a little boy,” I admitted. ”I’m buying this for me.”
He blinked, slightly bemused, and then grinned widely. I’m probably the coolest adult that kid has met in a long time. In any case, he nodded approvingly.
I’m still a child at heart, and I hope I never lose the ability to sit proudly in my Toy Story pool. Growing up is strange in that regard. As much as we must mature and readjust our goals and priorities as we become responsible, independent adults, I think it’s important to keep a youthful spirit. But I find the balance a little tricky at times. About two weeks ago, I had a crazy freak-out moment. I realized that, despite taking several educational detours, I may actually graduate next summer. And the thought of it scares the pants off of me.
What the hell am I going to do with an English degree?
Regardless, I had planned to go straight to graduate school after finishing my degree, but I didn’t realize I was going to have to start making the hard decisions about where and when and how quite so soon. I’m stunned, actually. The scariest thing is that it’s all out of my control. If I can’t get into all the required classes I need, I wont graduate. I almost prefer that idea. Tagging on an additional semester would allow me to finish up three minors; excessive, but it would certainly make it seem as though I’d been very studious over the past couple of years. I guess I’ll start my grad school applications and leave some room for serendipitous developments; whenever I plan my life too carefully, God laughs and throws me a curve ball.
In the meanwhile, I’ll be finishing my novel and drinking beer in my wading pool. The coolest thing about being an adult is that you don’t have to ask anyone to buy you wading pools or beer. (Okay, maybe those are lower on the top-ten list.)
On the surface, it looks like a slice of suburban heaven. The craftsman charm is, in actuality, skin deep and entirely misleading. Under the facade of picket fences, our neighborhood is a breeding grown for illicit behavior. The following has occurred within a one block radius of my home in the past 10 months:
A marijuana grow-op, resulting in the seizure of a home
Marijuana use on the lawn at the side of my house by two men I’ve never seen before
A police raid on a garage apartment; we presume this was drug-related
A motorcycle DWU that resulted in a woman being airlifted to a trauma center
Two (or was it three?) arson fires in the extension of our development currently under construction
Our neighbor’s basement tenant beat the snot out of his girlfriend while I watched in horror
A fatal stabbing
And – today – a man was shot. Twice. We don’t know why, and the police still have the street closed.
This list ignores the moderately annoying this we deal with on a constant basis… young garage apartment tenants partying until 3 am, punk kids smashing windows in the retail construction two blocks away, graffiti, littering…
This is my neighborhood:
(I choose to ignore the fact that the woman arrested as a person of interest does not look like the sort that would shoot someone. I’m sure the Surrey RCMP know exactly what they’re doing. )
Regardless, I feel like I’m living with all the hazards of the “hood” without any of the soul. There’s nobody sitting on the stoop, there’s no hip hop, there’s no double dutch in the street, there’s no fire hydrant spraying a crowd of kids on the hottest day of the year. Perhaps that’s an idealized image that hollywood fed me, but if I have to live constantly looking over my shoulder, I would far rather live in a thriving metropolis than an apathetic suburban cesspool. In the eleven years we lived in Seattle, we didn’t witness anything close to the crime that is practically in our backyard.
And I suppose it doesn’t help that I’ve been feeling exceptionally home sick lately.
I am a blue-jeans-wearing, latte-drinking, 20-something, displaced Seattleite living outside Vancouver, British Columbia. I’m the girl you’ll see with a venti Starbucks cup (quad venti hazelnut nonfat latte) permanently fixed in my left hand and a massive purse. I love fast cars, great books, intelligent comedies, thought-provoking conversations, and flip flops. While some consider me a shopaholic, I prefer the title “shoe collector.” My passions in life are writing and people; everything I do revolves around one or the other.
I’m a big idea person. I like to tackle new opportunities with enthusiasm and explore options I had not previously considered.
By day, I work in Children’s Ministry and produce The Kindlings, a podcast about faith, culture, and “things that matter in contemporary life.” By night, I’m an aspiring novelist with a narcissistic twitter addiction.