Was watching that credit card commercial, the one where they’re talking about beachwear, and the ad finishes with the family making snow/sand angels. So, I remembered back to my kidhood (long-term memory: yay. short-term: not so much), and recalled that that was something that my brothers taught me to do.
The joys of being the youngest, offsetting the fact that I was a free punching bag for my bros. So, I asked the milliner how she learned of such things, being that she’s the eldest. Most likely from friends, she said.
I never really thought of that, that being the oldest or a single child, your learning curve is a bit behind others, because you have to wait that extra time to learn the tricks of childhood. I mean, I must have been 4 or 5, I was running around with my brother, when he mentioned “hey, don’t forget your shadow.” So, imagine the awe that a tot can experience when he learns that he has an imaginary friend who follows him around on sunny days.
The bathrooms here have urinals of the “automatic flush” kind. Which? If you’re obsessive-compulsive you’ll only wash your hands 49 times instead of 50 after taking a tinkle, since you wouldn’t have touched that icky flush handle. The thing is, while at work I suck back a few litres of water, and it passes through me like, well, water, so I’m getting up close and personal with aforementioned urinals several times a day.
Now, the urinal is a 3.8-liter (1 gallon) flush, which means that I’m using up about 4 gallons daily on what amounts to almost pure water. Being of the “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” school, I’m always walking away feeling guilty, but figured there wasn’t much I can, since the damned thing will flush.
But, ah, I discovered that I can sneak up on the thing, stand off to the side, and let loose, and not have that infernal thing sense my presence. Hee, saving water and getting to re-enact my childhood spy games. Good times.
Frances, our feline, has breath that could fell a horse, and it’s only getting worse with time. So, on Sunday, I decided to try a little experiment. Applied a small–and I mean small–dab of toothpaste to a tip of my finger, and started to rub her teeth with the paste.
After struggling and digging her claws into my hands, she ran off, trying to get away from the taste in her mouth. We glanced over at her, realising that she was slobbering like a mastif or a dogue.
It was both horrifying and hilarious. She wasn’t amused.
So, the office moved over the weekend, and we now find ourselves even further along the west island. At the Nortel campus. (I had written down the directions to get here but, being me, had packed those directions along with the rest of my stuff, so ended up driving about an hour this morning, looking for the building.) When assigning seating arrangements, being the tech-writer I was naturally given the holiest-hole-that-was-ever-a-hole cubie, the farthest away from any natural light. Oh, but imagine my delight, my droogies when, what with the setting sun, almost everyone else in the office can no longer see their computer screens, what with the white spots bouncing off the walls of their corneas.
*Taking pleasure in others getting screwed.
That, although a passport isn’t entirely essential, you still need proof of citizenship when flying to the US? And that a driver’s license isn’t it?
It wasn’t really a problem when flying within the States, but wow, the Canadian ticket agents and customs’ guards sure looked at me differently when I explained that, um, no, in fact, I have never flown anywhere before.
Going through a week’s worth of mail last night, I came across a letter from “Les Cardiologues Associés,” which I guess is the cardiologists’ association from the Heart Institute. Looking at the envelope, I’m figuring it’s a letter of congrats for being such a studmuffin (hey, I can dream, can’t I?), or, you know, a letter of thanks for volunteering for experimental drug tests that might help others live longer lives.
I was wrong. Inside the envelope is a bill. For $25. That I owe to a certain cardiologist. For whom I volunteered as a guinea pig.
And why do I owe this $25? Because the Régie de l’assurance automobile required that he give his signature on a form for my driver’s license.
Twenty-five dollars. I’m thinking of paying it in rolls of pennies. Because if it’s that important to him, I’m sure he’ll take it any way he can.
Well, okay, more like my stomach muscles. We got into San Francisco this morning, happy to finally get away from Las Vegas. (Although, admittedly, the Cirque shows were amazing.) The milliner and I are staying in Berkeley, and we found this free internet at UC-Berkeley. It’s about 30C outside; everything is green or in bloom.
Heading to Napa tomorrow. My credit card is taking a huge hit.
Friends of mine (they are too!) arrived in Thailand around the time the tsunami hit. They were there, obtensibly, to climb the amazing sea cliffs, and to visit the country. Little did they know what they were getting into. I’ve been keeping up with their tales, vacationing vicariously through their trip reports. What they failed to mention, in all their entries, was that they were also volunteering at the local hospital (Vero, the chickie half of the pair, is an occupational therapist). Never mentioned, until this. A more indepth report can be found here.
I think that’s cool. Now, getting engaged whilst on a cliff? That’s just crazy talk.
Ya know what I lurve about this week’s snow and cold? I’m leaving it behind for until next Sunday, heading back to Vegas and then San Francisco for some sun. And some Cirque shows. And eating. And this. Oh, and this.
Don’t much care for Vegas as a city; being there is akin to witnessing one huge boulevard of broken dreams set to a soundtrack of a pinball arcade. Curious, however, about all the hoopla of San Fran.