The Place We Call Home

Do you realize that we have been wandering happily through our lives completely ignorant of the fact that pan-dimensional beings on every plane of existence are snickering up their sleeves at us*?  How embarrassing, not to know the name of our own universe.

I am going to do Human-kind a favour.  I am going to name the universe.  Traditionally the person credited with the discovery of something new is honoured to give that thing it's name; the name which will define it for all eternity.  Clearly I am not the discoverer of the universe but I think I am the first to realize no one has named it yet.   So.  I recognize this universe in which we live to be unique and distinct from all other universes and hereby proclaim it's name to be Becky. 

I assure you that I have done us all a great service.  Spread the word.  You're new address is:

Street

Town,State/Prov

Country

Planet Earth, 3rd Rock

Sol

Milky Way

Becky

*Or pant legs, frimpts, bloogle suits or other article of clothing suitable for snickering up.

Christmas Diet

Breakfast:

2 cups of coffee

4 shots Baileys

Snack:

3 pieces of fruit (Terry's Chocolate Orange)

Lunch:

1 Eggnog latte

1 Peppermint Brownie 

1 Tums

Snack:

1 c caramel corn

Dinner:

Salad 

Ice water with lime slice

Five-layer chocolate torte (dessert) 

Hey, Virginia!

I can remember the last Christmas that I believed in Santa.  I was the usual age, whatever that is, about 6 or 7.  My brother started in on the whole Santa story in early August once he discovered I was responsible for the dirt in his toothbrush while we were camping (my flip flops weren't going to clean themselves).


My older brother, The Enemy, explained to me how Santa would just know when I was being naughty because he could see me all the time.   And he kept score.  Good stuff meant more gifts, naughty stuff meant those gifts went to The Enemy.

This changed a few things.  For one, it meant that for about a week I refused to pee or take a bath with the lights on. It also meant The Enemy, once a figure to be pitied for being two whole huge years older and therefore stupid, had some inside information that I wasn't aware of.  The balance of power had shifted.

This bore study. 

I watched my brothers' every move that Christmas and it didn't seem to make sense to me that Santa didn't notice him shake all the gifts under the tree or lick all the Tutti Frutti candy canes and put them back, things he did without fear of losing gifts to his little sister.  Yet Santa could tell when I snuck broccoli to the dog or left my wet boots on the kitchen floor.  Hmmm.

The Enemy finally fouled up when he tried to convince me that good deeds done for older brothers were worth extra Nice Points.  Now, I am not saying I came into this world a cynic, but even at the tender age of whatever I knew when I was being played.  The gig was up.  I tested this be-nice-to-brother hypothesis by grasping my big brothers budding obsessive compulsive disorder around the neck and riding it like a trick pony for days.  I  hid hair in his mashed potatoes. I stole his Garfield stuffy and did horrible things to it. I dressed Starsky and Hutch in Barbie fashion.  I moved his juice glass to the opposite side of his plate. I committed acts of evil The Enemy still has not recovered from to this day.

It was a thing of beauty.

And did Santa retaliate?  Was I naughty listed and left nothing but coal that year?  No.  I made out like a bandit as always.  So did The Enemy although, instead of the usual hunting and fishing-themed gear, his gifts tended more towards soft toys and bouncy balls for some reason.

So that is the story of how I stopped believing in Santa. 

Or "How My Brother Got That Twitchy Eye"

Appocalypse sNow

It snowed today, about 3 cm total.  This is barely a skiff back home where snow is measured in real units, the smallest of which is an hour.  As in "It took me an hour to dig to the shed to get the snow plow out this morning."  3 cm of snow in It-Never-Snows-In-Comox is cause for a Meteorological Alert on the Weather Network and for the Air Base to issue the following warning which I swear I am not making up:

"Attention all personnel, this is the Control Tower.  There is a severe snow fall advisory in effect for the Comox Valley.  Accumulations of up to 4 cm are expected.  We don't understand how to plow roads or drive our vehicles in less than perfect conditions so kiss your asses goodbye.  Honestly, it never snows in Comox. Tower out."

Okay, maybe that last bit was made up, but there was real fear and confusion in the voice.

Where I am from, a snowfall of 3 cm is called September.   Here in 'The Valley' it's considered a life altering event and cause for mass panic in the streets. Or it would be, if the streets were plowed. Even 3 cm of snow, once it gets all melty and turns to slush, can make for treacherous driving but the snow removal budget for this region, I am given to understand, is slightly less than that spent on Big Foot research.  


Also, the folks in my neighborhood seem to feel that any amount of snow, if it is glared at in disbelief long enough, will go away on it's own; no need to shovel it. This is true but I don't have the heart to tell them it's not because they have amazing super powers. Unless you count denial. Inevitably the snow will turn to rain and the rain will wash away the snow and the streets will be safe for another day. 


A guy up the street said 'You're welcome' when I pointed this out.

It's Not Broken If Husband Fixes It Before The Repair Guy Arrives.

Husband can drive a standard and bake cookies.  He can dance the two-step and gut a salmon. Like Franklin the Turtle, he can tie his shoes and count to two.  But he cannot, will not, suffer an appliance repair man in his own home.  I think he thinks they belong to some sort of ancient order which, if allowed to enter, will indoctrinate him in the ways of secret handshakes and routine maintenance schedules.

The dryer broke down on Tuesday.  Foolishly I called an appliance repair person thinking something like "This person is skilled and knowledgeable about why my dryer seems to be malfunctioning."  But apparently what I was actually thinking, according to Husband who can add mindreader to his list of many skills, was "Husband has the reproductive organ of a small shrew-like creature and enjoys knitting."  

He took this rather badly.

The dogs and I watched from our usual perch (behind the sofa) while parts of dryer and wads of lint flew about the kitchen.  Various tools were sought out from the places they shouldn't be and applied to the task.  Tests were conducted.  The internet was consulted.  Words were said which shall not be repeated and for those of you who need to know, I can assure you that you don't.

And now the dryer works.  Not just sort-of-works or only-if-you-hold-the-door-shut works but really works.  

It was at this point that Husband sweetly (and smugly) requested that I phone the Secret Brethren of Appliance Repair and tell them their services would no longer be required.  

They tried to offer me some reading material but I hung up.

If your pedantic, you'll love this....

I studied behavior sciences' in college and I learned two things very very well: 
1.  Maslowe's Hierarchy of Needs makes a cool t-shirt and;
2. Never let Them know what your weaknesses are.

The other day, I found a pet peeve belonging to a friend of mine.                                                        


 And now I am going to play with it.


Love, 
Remote

Monday, Monday

Monday's are the mother-in-laws of the work week.  They arrive whether you want them to or not; they can be a nasty shock to the system and when they are gone you are left feeling small, inadequate and ill-prepared for the road ahead.


My Monday was a lot like that only worse and with Sing-Along Christmas Lights.

Honesty Week: Experimental Truth

As a people, Canadians generally perceive themselves to be open, honest and tolerant.  I think this is a load of litter-box gravel.  Canadians are people.  And people, not to put too fine a point on it, are people.  


This week I conducted an experiment.  I hypothesized that people (defined for the purposes of this experiment as 'random strangers I encounter in malls and at the grocery store') are fundamentally unprepared to hear the truth, even when they ask for it, and are even less prepared to offer it in return.  


To test this I decided to answer any direct question put to me with blunt honesty and gage the results.  After each interaction I asked the folks if they felt honesty was better than the cultural expectation of bald-faced lying and then gaged those results.


I am here to tell you that people don't like hearing the truth so much, but they will certainly deliver it back to you with both barrels when you put them on the spot.


Out of the 45 truthful interactions with random strangers I experienced this week only 1  resulted in a meaningful conversation stemming from my refreshingly honest response to the question "Do you prefer paper or plastic?" (Neither, I prefer wicker.) 

• 12 people told me I was weird.  I thanked them for this honest appraisal and we parted amicably. All 12 of these people were under the age of 20.
• 13 people looked shifty or uncomfortable when I honestly responded to their inquiries about my general health and well-being.
• One gentleman offered me his card (Dr. Blank Blankenstien, Psychologist).
• And 21 people brushed me off or cut the interaction short which I classified as honest but mean.

All in all, this was more entertaining than informative and has no scientific merit whatsoever but I'll be honest with you, I was just bored.

Honesty Week

Watch this space.  
It won't do anything but watching will give you something to do while I conduct an experiment with Truth and then write about it in a slightly different space.  However by that time you will likely have wandered away which will lead me to consider the fleeting attention span of the average person and to encourage you all to meditate more often.
I'm just sayin'.