Spice Test Fixation

I know it's stupid. I know I should be utterly ashamed. But I can't get enough of it. That's right, I'm talking about YouTube Spice tests. For those of you who have no clue what I'm talking about Spice tests are a phenomenon made popular by young men from Sweden and Norway. How it's done is a teaspoon of a random spice is put in a shot glass, it is then consumed and the consquences are well and thoroughly reaped. This usually involves hilarious facial contortion and sometimes regurgitation. The flavour is appraised then rated on a scale of 1 to 12. Fewer rate higher than two.

You may shun me, saying, "We thought you were smarter than this!" - But even I can fall victim to the hysterical delight that can only come from self-induced destructive behavior. Besides, we all know that teenage boys are stupid and useless, and if we can find a way that they can benefit the world, I for one, am willing to partake. Come, Join me. It will make you feel dirty in a good way. (Sympathetic vomiters beware)

Diversity A Go Go

The stores down my street emphasis the diversity in my bohemian neighborhood. There is a small Chinese/Canadian restaurant right next to the cool independent movie rental place. I can buy a full breakfast there for $2.95 and the eggs only taste vaguely of ginger beef. Next to that is a Convenience Store/Internet Café that closes twice daily so that the Muslim owners can observe their hours of prayer. I’ll be honest, it’s mildly inconvenient.

From there, if you cross the street you’ll have access to the Jamaican Pizza place. They don’t serve actual cheese on their pizzas. Instead they use some kind of vegan tofu-y mush. Given my previous experiences with vegan food, I stick with their Jamaican beef patties. They’re delicious and really inexpensive. The “Everything for a Dollar Store” is just past that. It’s run by a Pakistani family that is very friendly towards their customers but are constantly attacking each other verbally and physically. Next to that, right before you turn the corner to get to my house is the methadone clinic, and it’s the patrons of this establishment that I want to talk about.

When I first moved to this neighborhood I wasn’t really used to anything like it. I grew up in the suburbs of Edmonton, and although there was and still is a big Meth problem there I never had many interactions with it or people on it. Edmonton boast Meth-heads, Pot-heads, Cocaine-heads, Ecstasy and other concoctions, but Heroin was something more for the really big city types. I’ve seen Trainspotting and Permanent Midnight, but those films seem like Sunday brunch compared to what I’ve seen sleeping on my front lawn.

A little while ago I read an article about a woman who was innocently opening her shop being accosted by another woman she had asked to move out of the way. The woman she had asked to move reacted violently and started screaming at her and making vicious threats. The Reason? The woman in front of the store had just found a vein to shoot up into after an hour’s search and the Shop Woman had disturbed her. Now she was going to have to start all over again. I suppose one could see the assailant’s side of the story. Who would honestly be trying to shop in a children’s bookstore at 10 am that couldn’t wait for her to finish? That happened three blocks from my house.

All the public washrooms in the area are equipped with black lights. Barista’s have cleverly created codes to communicate which people need to be watched so that they don’t end up in the corner shooting into their eyeballs. In Starbucks across the city the words “Tall Americano Misto unsweetened” puts workers on alert to sketchy characters.

It’s not uncommon on this block to see a barista knock on a bathroom door and tell the occupier in a voice that has obviously said it a thousand times, that the police have been called, the and they would need to vacate the premises sooner rather than later. They then go back to nonchalantly making a Strawberry Frappiccino for a candy raver kid.

Nor is it uncommon to watch two blue uniformed men with tight blue gloves cleaning out the pockets of a transient and piling bottles, bags, rubber tubing, needles and other paraphernalia on top of the nearest available surface. The transient seems almost relieved in the knowledge that they’ll be going somewhere warm for the night.

By the second week of my occupancy in the neighborhood these sights were common. I thought that I had grown immune to it. Last week I saw this woman. She was probably in her early 30’s but her body was that of a 60 year old. I couldn’t see her face. She was bent over, hanging from the waist with her arms dangling like a particularly mistreated rag doll. She was wearing an ill fitting and stained tank top with pair of jeans rapidly losing a battle with gravity. In one hand she held a piece of rubber surgical tubing. And she stood in the middle of the sidewalk, with people rushing around her in either direction and her body swaying in their wake like a weeping willow.

I wanted to help. I wanted to say something. Do something. But I just walked past. What could I have possibly said or done that would fill the void this woman felt the need to fill with drugs. What can any of us do? What is it in our society, in any society, that people feel they need to escape from. What abyss is so appealing that you’d allow your physical body to waste away to an unrecognizable form and change your personality so much that you would scream at a bookstore owner? I don’t get it. But I don’t know if I want to. Because if I did I’d be obligated to find a way to help. I’m selfish like that.

L'apostrophe

A couple days ago I put up a post about proper apostrophe use, and it reminded me of this amazing comic strip I used to read as a teen. I'm all about the bitter sardonic humour and as a cynical 13 year old, Bob scowled at me from the pages of Edmonton's independant See magazine every thursday. He brought me endless joy. I believe at one point I went through a phase where I attempted to wallpaper my room in angry flower comics. Stephen Notely, the man responsible was from Edmonton and I alway entertained thoughts of running into him on the street to tell him how much I liked his work. Unfortunately like so many independant artists Stephen moved to the US before I had a chance to meet him. His strips stopped appearing in my local Indie Rag and gradually I just forgot about him fairweather fan that I am. The apostrophy bit made me think about this particular strip and I was inspired to look him up again. Thankfully Stephen's still going strong at Angry Flower.com and his stuff is still as funny as I remember it and still as warped. Give em' a gander and he'll give you a gaffaw. (It's Alliteration and therefore you're more likely to check it out)

Totally Manipulative Jerks

Duncan is casting for his first short film right now and the state of our kitchen table is the evidence that he is working really hard on it. There’s a small forest of paper on the table, composed of storyboards, script drafts, shooting schedules, and resumes and headshots. I’m not typically a person who is self conscious about their body. As a farm girl from the Alberta prairies, I long ago came to terms with the fact that my figure was specifically designed to carry a baby under one arm, a pig under the other and to milk cows with my feet. In bohemia my sense of self is even more encouraged. I bathe often and all my clothing is relatively intact which puts me light year ahead of many people in my neighbourhood. But I have to say that the women that stare out at me from the glossy and mat photographs intimidate me. They’re all flawless. All the faces smile at me with perfect teeth, content in the knowledge that a blemish is something that happens to other people.

I asked Duncan about it. I wanted to know how he could stand being around so many attractive people all the time. He’s a slender, balding, grinning, little nymph of a man who could hardly be mistaken for George Clooney on the street. His response was one that I should have assumed. It’s something that is ingrained to us by our mothers (the good ones at least) and our teachers and many other pro-women role model. What we see in the pictures isn’t real. Duncan claims that all the headshots need to be taken with a grain of salt because when they come to the auditions in person they rarely look like that. Not only are they caked in makeup, but a good photographer will also know exactly how to light a person’s face to diminish unwanted features or accentuate positive one. A good Director of Photography on a film will do the same thing. Maybe 1 woman out of 30 will look as good as she does in her photos and maybe 1 in 15 will be recognizable from her photo.

We’ve all seen the pretty cool Dove Evolution ad that shows you the transformation of a woman from reality to billboard. It was pretty amazing. So I did some research and I stumbled across the following website. It’s a professional photoshopping agency that alters photographs of celebrities for magazines and other print media. The results in some cases are less that dramatic for example Cate Blanchette is a beautiful woman no matter what light you shine on her. It’s the younger actresses that prove the most terrifying specifically the ones of Lindsay Lohan who has meat added to her emaciated frame and Brittney Murphy who looks as if she had spent the last 3 sleepless years bathing in alcohol and self destruction. The site is flash so you’ll just need to navigate to the portfolio section on the top bar. Enjoy, it will make you feel a little better about your own deficiencies.

http://www.iwanexstudio.com/

TP Warz 2008 Update: The resistance faction remains strong as we enter our 3rd or 4th day. A blank notebook with some torn pages has mysteriously appeared next to the toilet. To what end I would rather not know. My own supplies kifed from the storage closet at work is still going stong, but it is rough and single ply. I don't know how the boys are suffering but I am certainly taking my castualties. Lets hope this ends soon for all parties concerned.

Punk Status Check

No... but apparently knowledge of apostrophe use is.

Photo courtesy of the Harajuku photo forum of Japanforum a place where you can see pictures of people who are examples of what happens when too much time meet too much money. (Although I do find it impressive the skill and creativity that goes into making some of the outfits.)

In Related Bathroom News – IT’S ON!

I’ve had it. I refuse to accept the opinion that because I’m a woman it’s my job. Just because I have different equipment I will NOT be discriminated against. I am not buying any more toilet paper until the boys do at least once. This is a real issue that has been present since a week after I moved in. They believe that because I am a girl and clearly I make use of the TP more often than they do, that I should be solely responsible for the purchase and stock maintenance of it.

Pfff…Like they don’t spend hours in the bathroom in the mornings

I’ll keep you abreast of how the purchasing boycott continues. I may crack under the pressure. They are as stubborn as they are irrational.

Strange Accessories

There are many things I was told to be wary of when I moved in with two male roommates. I was told they would be messy. I was told they would smell funny. I was told that they would leave sports equipment on the stairs (Not something that I’ve really had to worry about with a stand up comedian and a film student) and, I was told that they wouldn’t be great cooks. I was never told that they would monopolize the bathtub for hours on end.

I don’t mind all that much. The toilet is in a separate little water closet so if I have to pee I don’t have to be too concerned about banging on the door and screaming to be let in, only to be told that the sink would be accommodating for my evacuated waste. Moses and I have had some very meaningful conversations about the nature of things through that door. I know that I find lounging in the tub to be very conducive to thought and I believe that Moses and Duncan do to. They must. There is no other way I can explain away the hours on end that they must spend getting pink and pruney in the water.

No, I don’t mind how much time they spend so long as its not all day. And here’s where my problem lies. They have both started investing in bath accessories. And I think I’m responsible for it. I had jokingly bought Duncan a sack of bath salts for his first day of classes – I had assumed they would be of use to him. They were the girliest ones I could find, bright pink with a grapefruit scent and expanding pink flower petals. The package featured a woman with a towel wrapped around her head and a look of blissful relaxation on her face. He loved it. He shared them with Moses. And then he bought more in varying colours and scents. We have a very exuberantly scented rainbow on our bathroom window sill right now and an even more exciting coloured ring around the tub, which I end up scrubbing out anyway so I guess you reap what you sow.

But something came in the mail that made me worry that the boys may be taking this whole relaxing bath thing a bit too far. This. They found it featured on Tokyo Mango and had it shipped here. This worries me as I am left wondering three things:

1. Will ever be able to get take a bath or shower again?
2. Who do I call if the boys electrocute themselves from its over use?
3. When will I get a turn?

I mean really...look how happy she is.

Those Wacky Brazilians

A salon and spa by my house is offering discounts on waxing next week. More specifically they are offering discounts on a particular type of waxing which they have charmingly referred to as a “Bush Whacking Special.” My friend Stella would like to go. And she would like me to join her. At first I thought that I was to be there strictly in a hand holding capacity. I saw myself as valiantly beside her, my hands clasped tightly around hers as she had the hairs ripped from her tenderest of areas. As she looked at me with tears in her eyes we would bond in a way that only giving simulated birth to hair enshrouded paper strips could allow. I would be ready to hold any of my friends’ hands when the time came for them to produce life. I would be second only to the midwife. As long as I was strictly in a holding rather that catching capacity I would be ready. This would be training. I was horribly delusional.

Her reasoning is, “I’ve seen you try on underwear.” I don’t understand what the big deal is. No one sees me in my underwear. Not even me. So it doesn’t really bother me too much. Besides, bohemians are all about hair. How will I be able to blend in with the locals if I rid myself of my excess body hair? Doesn’t my possession of my own personal “Bush” automatically make me earthier? Besides I think I’m already starting to arouse suspicion with my insistence on shaving my armpits.

The truth is that the whole concept of doing the Brazilian slash and burn makes me uncomfortable. I knew a guy in high school who one day, walked strangely into homeroom and started trying to surreptitiously scratch at his personal area. Occasionally he would get lost in the obvious relief that the scratching would bring and start clawing like a feral badger. When reluctantly asked about his discomfort he said, “You know how I said I would never ask a girl to do something that I wouldn’t do myself…well…” Yeah. ‘Nuff said.
That’s always kind of stuck with me. I work with children. There should be no risk of me ever having to itch anything down there in public.

Stella also pointed out the part of the brochure that stated you could get a shape of your choice waxed into your hair. She thought it might be fun to get an arrow pointing down waxed in. I then took a personal moment to question why I am still friends with Stella.

Despite my discomfort at the physical aspects of the procedure, at the end of the day I have to ask myself one thing. What kind of people would offer a discount on waxing someone’s gye-gye and do I want them around mine?

An Icy Inspiration

Have you ever had one of those moments where you are completely in awe of someone? It’s a moment where every molecule of your body is screaming at you because someone very special is directly in front of you. It’s kind of a tickly icy feeling that falls into the category of not totally unpleasant. I had the great pleasure of attending a concert the other night that gave me exactly that feeling.

You may not have heard Daniel Johnston’s name, but I can assure you that you’ve heard one of his songs. He’s been covered by everyone from Pearl Jam to The Eels to Tom Waits and his song writing genius is ignored by no one. He’s the human equivalent of Spinal Tap’s “This goes to 11” statement among musicians. His song writing talent has been compared to a young Bob Dylan, but he’s also been equivocated with another young visionary –Van Gogh.

Daniel has severe bi-polar disorder. Aggravated by hallucinogenic drug use in the 80’s, Daniel has been arrested and institutionalized on a number of occasions. But that hasn’t stopped him from inspiring dozens of modern artists. Kurt Cobain wore a t-shirt featuring the cover of Daniel’s “Hi, How are you?” cassette in a number of promotional photos and to the MTV music awards, which sparked a bidding war over Daniel’s next album by Electra records and Columbia Records. Impressively enough this is while Daniel was still in an institution getting treatment for his disorder. If you want to know more about this amazing man’s constant struggle you should check out a documentary that was recently made about him, The Devil and Daniel Johnston. It’s well worth your time.

There were about 500 people at the concert venue. They came from many walks of life and social groupings, but they all had one thing in common. From the moment Daniel walked onstage and began to sing the audience was dead silent. There wasn’t even the usual asshole that every crowd has screaming at the musicians about how much they love them in the middle of the song. There wasn’t the annoying girl who got dragged by her boyfriend and insists on complaining through the show. There was just the music and one man who was trying with all his might to share a little of his perception of the human experience. It was mind blowing.

Above is the video for Daniel’s song “Story of an Artist”. It’s interspersed with clips from the documentary and footage of Daniel’s own home movies. I’ve decided to make it the page’s theme song because it’s honest in a pretentious way – something I hope this page to be. Enjoy.

Vegans Love Balls - LOVE 'em

I had the good fortune last weekend to attend a vegan potluck. The gathering was hosted by my friend’s yoga group. This is not yoga how the rest of the western world understands yoga. This is a 2 hour, balls to the mat, breathing in a way that would seriously concern a cardiologist, Tibetan stretch fest. I have not personally attended nor do I wish to. They seemed like nice enough people albeit a little raw and earthy, but the potluck was on the beach so I figured that a well ventilated location would be ideal to commune with people who really embody “Bohemian”. It nearly killed me.

We got down to the beach at about 8 o’clock. It was still a beautifully warm day and the sun was just staring to go down. We had set up a prayer blanket as a picnic blanket. I looked at the spread of bowls and jars before me and counted myself lucky to be trying so many new foods with so many interesting new people. I started to question the exact nature of that luck when I discovered while in conversation with the “Leader” that in addition to food, they had also brought enough musical instruments for everyone. I was allotted “Finger Cymbals”.

The food was laid out on the blanket in front of us, and I was first offered a plate of homemade steamed Iddli. Great pride was taken in these small biscuits of Indian origin, although to me, the uninitiated westerner; it appeared to be a plate of soggy sugar cookies with a maggoty finish. I feel guilty for writing these words. I’m not a food derider usually. I will try anything once. That’s how I learned that I have a profound love of beef tripe and foie gras makes my taste buds tingle in a delightful way. That is why I ask you to consider my words as you would an adventurous foodie when I say that Iddli tastes of exactly what it is made of – fermented rice and lentils. The soapy tongue-scrapey after taste was just the proverbial icing on the cake.

After having taken in my politely guarded expressions of retching, I was informed that they tasted much better when topped with another Indian delicacy, coconut chutney. I have have tried and have fondness for mango chutney. I have had a passionate oral relationship with coconut. What was sitting in the Mason jar was in no way reminiscent of either of those things. It was green fuzzy sludge. And it did not make the Iddli taste better. It made it taste blindingly worse. I did finish my portion but I then spent the next hour devouring the only two familiar foods on the blanket attempting to coax my taste buds back from the brink of a coups d’état. My meal consisted of dates and tabouli. The tabouli was top notch. The dates were awkwardly sticky.

We were waiting for one last girl to join us. She was the one who was supposed to be bringing full platoons of food. As we waited for her we partook in such beach favorite games as “Joining hands and performing group atonal singing of the word OM” and “Going around the circle to discuss how we feel in that moment to become that much closer to each other.” Didn’t you ever do those activities with your family and friends when at the beach? No? I can tell you why. Because mainstream people don’t do that. I was with people so off the mainstream that they had formed a commune to dig their own stream 90 miles off the main one. And they had set themselves adrift without paddles guided by only the power of OM.

When the girl finally arrived she unpacked her slim messenger bag and produced the following:

1. Another bowl of Tabouli (Vastly inferior to the first bowl someone else had brought)
2. Everyone’s Favorite Snack –VEGAN BALLS!

That’s right folks, it’s a tiny mouth sized balls of raw energy. They come in a variety of flavors and sizes – all just as awkward to consume or talk about. These particular balls were chocolaty and did have a salty flavor which invites a distinct and very obvious reference – far too easy for a clever dick such as me. These balls were instantly recognizable to me as a source of food that once ingesested would not attempt to make a break back to the daylight from whence they came.

What happened next was in no way a ploy to escape the evening. It just worked out that way. As soon as I had chewed and swallowed one of the little balls my tongue started to swell. It was mildly unpleasant at first, but along with my rising panic the swelling spread. It went down my throat and into my nose. I was just able to nonchalantly ask what was in them before the total meltdown caused me to grab onto my friend’s arm for support.

I had consumed every component of the balls before except one. Hemp Hearts - The seeds of marijuana plants that have been stripped of their druggyness and made edible. At least for some people. For others who are apparently allergic to them it leads to intense pain, swelling and eventual sleepiness after consumption of oodles of antihistamines. My Theory – The bohemians sensed a cynical outsider and made a quick phone call to this girl – who sought to eliminate me the only way she knew how - with multi-purpose hemp.

I made it home okay, thanks for asking, and clearly was able to live to tell the tale. But next time you are offered a ball of questionable origin – Vegan or not – you should think twice. They might have just gone after me first.

Wait a minute...Those aren't mine!!!!

I’m back. I barely made it. There were unforeseen incidents associated with attempting to put the house into a shape that would not be shut down by the city for health violations. There are still some cobwebs in the kitchen and unidentifiable stains in the bathroom but with the free spirited boys I live with I figure sometimes it’s better to just leave well enough alone. At least the spiders or stains aren’t trying to electrocute me or give me a heart attack or induce a stroke.

I had the most trouble when I discovered that the vacuum had not been used since before I moved in. Before you say “Ewww” and start wiping off your hands and sanitizing your keyboard from how dirty that makes you feel, keep in mind that we have hardwood floors so they are usually swept instead of vacuumed. Not regularly, but when ever I have time or the boys break something. But I guess we don’t really feel the need to take that fantastic care of the hardwood. The floors have been less than pristine since Duncan hosted his “Bring your own Medium” Party and he and six other people got drunk and started dropping knives into the floor from varying heights to see what kind of Dadaist designs they could make. Seriously. I can’t make this shit up.

Anyway, in my effort to make our living space habitable for humans I decided that it was time to pull out this fabled vacuum and do some damage in the space where we make things that go in our mouths. I found it buried in the back of a closet that was filled with the stuff left behind of the guy who had lived in the house 2 roommates before me. (Did I mention the house was kind of a revolving door for roommates with Moses being the pivotal figure?) It was smaller than any vacuum cleaner I had ever seen. In fact, it looked like it should have a Fisher-Price trade mark stamped on it and percolate tiny colored plastic balls when switched on.

Still, I was determined to carry on with my valiant mission of cleanliness, so I did some basic maintenance to make sure all was well. The vacuum worked on a Dustbuster principal so it didn’t have a bag to empty, just a little canister that happened to be full. This led me to a very Zen thought – Can dust collect dust? Then I checked the cord to look for any frays or disconnectedness and when it seemed like it wouldn’t burst into flames once connected to electricity, I turned I plugged it in and turned it on.

It was rather anti-climactic. It was on, it was making a horrible squealing noise from the hose, and there was no suction. I switched it off and unhooked the hose and peered inside trepidatiously. I should have been able to see something through it. It shouldn’t have been eerie blackness. So I did the butter knife test, where you drop a knife into the hole which hopefully dislodges whatever the blockage is. It stuck. Honestly. I couldn’t get it back out.

Maybe I should have taken that as a sign to pour myself a bowl of oatmeal crunch, turn on the TV and give up. But I’m all about the challenge and I really wanted my butter knife back so I didn’t. Instead, I took the hose to the sink and started running water through it. Something slid out the end of the hose with a loud “Shluup”. It was black, dense and slug-like in every possible way. And it smelled horrible.

A morbid sense of curiosity is what drove me to do what I did next. I grabbed the butter knife and used it to poke at the black mound. To my horror it didn’t crunch apart or dent like I expected a mound of mud or hair to. Instead, like an egg in an Alien movie, it unfurled…and exposed a pink bow. Upon further inspection it turned out to be a pair of women’s black mesh panties.

They aren’t mine.

Moses’ girlfriend has denied ownership.

Duncan claims he has never seen them before.

Which begs the questions.

Who do they belong to?
How did no one notice them being vacuumed up?
Why would you leave without your underwear?
Did you even notice they were missing?

I’ve thrown them out. I believe it’s for the best.

It's a good thing they're cute

Our house is a sty and it’s starting to drive me up the wall. I can kind of understand it with Moses. He’s at work all day and then he’s only home for an hour or so before he goes out for his stand up gigs. He may not do his dishes but at least they end up in the general vicinity of the kitchen, Duncan...not so much. Both Moses and I have tried to get Duncan to understand the simple concept that dishes start their great mission of food support in the kitchen and they should end their mission back in their home base of the cupboard, cleaned and ready for their next adventure. They do not belong on any surface in the living room or bathroom (What IS it with boys and their appalling concept of hygiene?) for any extended period of time.

When I was a kid I had a similar problem to Duncan. My room had a few dishes in it, granted, and they had been there for a while but I learned my lesson but quick when my father dumped the dirty dishes into a bath I was running. So Moses and I plotted on a way to get the point through to Duncan because apparently saying “Duncan, pick up after yourself you pig.” was too complex for a simple man like him to understand.

So we put the dishes in his bed. It’s direct, to the point and difficult to ignore. Somehow this failed. We found the dishes back in the living room. They were more evenly dispersed over a wider surface, but somehow the point had either been missed, or entirely ignored. A for effort though Duncan. I suppose it’s our move.

Over the next few weeks I am going to make a valiant effort to clean up this hole. I intend to document any more absurd resistance that I encounter. If I haven’t posted in the next 2 days please send help. The dust bunnies have got me.

Heady Nostalgia

On occasion living with boys gets to me. They’re messy, they smell funny, they stay up all night and play video games and/or play the bongos, they have loud sex (either with themselves or with a partner) and they eat my food. *Deep Breath* When things get to be too much for me I call my mother, and she tells me stories when she was living with roommates. There’s one story specifically that she has regaled me with that comforts me with the thought that a generous roommate could be worse than a selfish one.

The year was 1976. It was a hot day with the air full of dry electricity like an Alberta summer will get. My mother was in med school, (She’s a physiotherapist so she does tons of physical and mental work and gets paid next to nothing) and she was living with 2 other women in a small rent house by the railway tracks. One of the women, Bernice, is still my mother’s best friend. The other was a girl who had moved from England to revel in the education that living a life in a different country than your parents can provide. Usually alcohol poisoning, a mild STI, and malnutrition compose your diploma. Unfortunately my mother can no longer remember her name.

My mother and Bernice had made this English girl dinner on a previous evening. I believe they had made her something traditionally Canadian. Like back bacon marinated in beer with a side of maple syrup for dipping. Either way, the girl from England was so enthralled with this offering that she declared, tomorrow she would handle dinner. And she’d be making something special.

The smell spread in the heat. It got into your nose and set up base camp the same way it would cling to the fibers of your clothing – no matter how much you scrubbed or perfumed. It made toes curl and flesh crawl. And it was all over the house. It was with great trepidation that my mother and Bernice swathed their way through the thick clouds of stench towards the epicenter - The Kitchen.

On the stovetop was a large boiling pot that, if properly coaxed could have fit a small child. A foul smelling liquid was slopping over the rim and onto the element, making a hissing sounds and producing smoke on impact. My mother and Bernice peered into the murky depths of the pot and like characters from a William Golding novel they found themselves face to face with a severed nightmare.

Headcheese is made by boiling the head of a pig for several hours until all the meat, fat and hair scums on the surface of the boiling water. If you desire you can also boil the pig’s heart and trotters for an extra flavor burst of piggy. Once you’ve got the pork residue to the top you skim it into a terrine where it will congeal into a manageable tube of varying hunks of pink enrobed in rose-tinted clear gelatin. It is then sliced into lunch loaf sized portions and enjoyed as a summer treat. Preferably with lots of mustard.

It wasn’t that the gesture was appreciated. It was just that it was disgusting. An offer of ham sandwiches as a substitute meal was suggested and rejected and a 2 week airing out process began.

My roommates have not as of yet done anything that would require airing out time. I hope it doesn’t get to that point. I suppose for now I shall just take my mothers opinion of, “You have made your big messy bed and now you must slumber sloppily in it.”

So the next time I see teeth marks in my block of Cheddar cheese, I will think to myself, “At least they aren’t cooking for me.” And smile in a nostalgic way thinking of the stories of my mother.

Laundry Rant

Laundry Rant

I don't actually hate laundry. In fact I don't mind it. It makes me feel like I'm doing something useful while I play video games. It is the ultimate “Get out of an event I really don't want to go to” excuse: "Sorry, guys I need to go home and do some laundry" Is obviously a translation for “I am a smelly girl and you wouldn't want me around anyway.” In other words, laundry is not a bad thing that makes me mad. What does piss me off however is people who touch my laundry at the Laundromat. What is the last thing you would like to have complete strangers do? That's right, touch your underwear! I've had my laundry stolen before. It was unpleasant. Some complete ass went and swiped all of my dark load shirts and 2 pairs of pants and, for no apparent reason, a large and hideous orange and red Hawaiian shirt belonging to my then-boyfriend. That sucked a lot. That was in my old building that had a box for a Laundry Room in the basement. In the Laundromat down the street, which is always full of people, I deal with jerks who are impatient bastards that like to pull your stuff out of the washer AND dryer before their cycles are complete. At $2/load for wash then $1.50 for a dry, I'm getting pissed. Currently I am writing a really nasty note to leave on top of the dryer for the douche who pulled my clothes out of the washer WHEN THEY STILL HAVE SOAP IN THEM! Seriously. Who does that?

Culinary Liabilities

I was in the grocery store today and I overheard a woman who I believe is a serious competitor for the less than exclusive title of “World’s Most Ill-Equipped Parent”. This woman and her little girl were browsing down the pre-packaged food aisle right in front of me (I needed pasta sauce to make something more elaborate I’ll have you know). She was dragging the little girl away from a large blue display and I overheard her say, "No you can't have Kraft dinner, that's too hard. What about Beef-a-roni?" and she gestured to the glistening red tins.

My response was something akin to “Wow. Just Wow.” Admittedly I had a friend in high school that was able to burn bouillon. She was no longer welcome over at my house after her attempt to make popcorn melted the linoleum in the kitchen. But even she bought herself a microwave cookbook and an intensely sensitive fire alarm she was okay. She didn't die of malnutrition. The chances of the child of this horribly inept parent to survive are less than my friends. When it comes to the point where KD thwarts you it's time to get some professional help. Take a class, buy a book, or switch to the food channel for a half hour. Please.
And another thing, why would you ever personally ingest something called, "Beef-a-roni" let alone encourage your child to. As far as unappetizing food names go that's almost as bad as "Mc Nugget".

To be honest my interest in now peaked. I’m curious as to how many more unappetizing names there actually are than Beef-a-roni. Like maybe Headcheese or Blood Pudding would be in the running. But those names are full of tradition and were named because of what they actually contain or how they are made. They weren’t thought up by a conglomerate of ad executives in suits as something that will appeal to the thought pallets of a wide range of people.

I guess that goes along with our culture's obsession with food that is not actually food and therefore spelled incorrectly (Cheeze Wizz, Spam, ETC.) This is chronicaled with more detail then I could ever possibly muster the patience for over in James Lilek's Gallery of Regrettable Foods.

This! This is what I'm talking about!

This is in relation to my last post about courtesy. Duncan, if Moses' antics are giving your room this effect, why aren't we selling tickets? Honestly, we should get on that.

Courtesy …Sexy Courtesy

I was woken up this morning (2 am) by my roommate Moses. He’s lovely most of the time, but this morning I was not amused. He and his girlfriend were engaged in some late night hanky-panky. You know how I know? Because his girlfriend is a screamer and apparently exuberant sex is something that Moses is good at.

When living in a house with girls there’s such a thing as courtesy. When living with boys there’s such a thing as headphones and teeth vibrating punk music. Unfortunately the headphones can only block so much. What they don’t help with is the floor shaking. As I believe I’ve mentioned in an earlier post I sleep on a futon on the floor. This does little to cushion the impact from the sex machine that is Moses. Duncan lives in the room right below Moses and he says that he finds the vibrations lulling. In fact he says that it reminds him of the commercial with the guy laying on all the ball bearings that pulsate with sub woofers underneath. He’s weird. I’m seriously considering that my only course of action may in fact be to march over to Moses’ room, bang on the door (No pun intended) and start yelling, “Does it turn you on that I can hear you?” What would I do if the answer was yes? I would move. Obviously I would move.

IKEA - Deathtrap Of The Poor

Were you to walk in to my room on the third floor of our rent house you would think I was a squatter. All of my furniture, and I do have some quite nice things, are in my mother’s garage in Edmonton. They’re in the garage because apparently it’s not feng shui to have an unoccupied bedroom in a house. In her eastern influenced insanity she also believes in keeping the toilet seat perpetually down lest the dragon of unhappiness fly up your… But I digress.

My things are in my mother’s garage in Edmonton. I no longer live in Edmonton. So, if you were to walk into my room on the third floor of my current residence you would see my pathetic futon mattress in the middle of the floor, my notepads, books and movies piled against a wall and a deteriorating IKEA desk in the corner along with an IKEA dining room chair that I have duct taped together. There is also a small IKEA reading light next to my “bed”. (On a side note, I am far too entertained that my word processor insists on me spelling IKEA in all capital letters.)

This is not a plug for IKEA products. This is a warning. I purchased these items from IKEA so that I could work on a surface that wasn’t covered in maple syrup or other unidentifiable substances – I’m speaking of the kitchen table and I am looking at YOU Duncan. I couldn’t help it. They were so darn cheap! The chair was $25 and the desk was $30. This is where they get you. On several occasions the chair, the night light and a bed (which still lives in Edmonton) have attempted to kill me or my loved ones. I am sure that IKEA has many fine products that do not attempt to maim and murder. They’re less expensive items however are specifically designed to kill those in the lower income brackets. Possibly this is a plot by the Canadian government – clearly in cahoots with the Swedes to reduce the amount of poor people. Who knows why?

Here’s the skinny on the mayhem that has ensued from these items.

The Chair: Collapsed while my ex-boyfriend was sitting on it. Not at the joints either. It split right across the middle of the seat and wedged his behind in a splinter riddled crack. It may not have been a bad thing if something more permanently terrible had happened to him considering how things turned out in the end. It collapsed again while I was on it, the joints completely uncoupling from where the pathetic little pegs were holding them, pitching me backwards where I landed with a loud thump and a cry of “Hoopa”. My solution was duct tape. Lots and lots of duct tape.

The Bed: The center beam snapped in half. I could see the rationale behind the snapping if I was doing something exciting on it. Like having sex, or reliving my childhood. Then it would have been my bad and I totally would have deserved the hours of therapy needed after it occurred. But I was fast asleep. And it snapped, and my entire bed including the mattress cradling my fragile form slid downwards with a clattering of wood and a splintering sound. After ensuring that I was still totally intact and not about to die of an adrenaline overdose I got up and made myself a cup of tea. I’ve managed to mend the two halves with a wood splint that I found in the alley. I’m resourceful like that.

The Reading Lamp: Sparks when you turn it on or unplug it. It’s like HAL with a swivel head. That can’t be good.

The desk has as of yet to attack me… but I’m keeping a close eye on it. One false move and it’s looking at the burning end of a lit match.

A plug for my friends

The internet is an amazing and wide place. There's all sorts of things there to entertain you for hours. So since you're spending so much time on the internet anyway, why not devote a couple of minutes to one of my buddies latest projects. It's a web series (Short and Sweet!! I Promise) about a famous actor WESTON BIGGERSTAFF who hosts a nature program. The gimmick - He sucks at it. He argues the existence of darwinism, he breaks narration to discuss his childhood disfigurement, basically, if you're willing spend 10 minutes today perusing TMZ, you should be willing to give my buddies a few minutes to tickle your funny bones. Give em' a go. You won't regret it.

http://www.redintoothandclaw.com