A few hours ago I sat down to write... wait, holy cats, is that the time? Well then. Quite a few hours ago I sat down to write and thought to myself, this is the day. The day I will speak of on junkets; the day I will exaggerate in my memoir; the day Ms. Atwood will praise, weeping, as the single most important day in Canadian lit-rit-choor. Today is the day I begin the greatest novel ever written.
But first I'll just open these innocent emails from treasured friends and instead spend an age and a half joyfully reading about pasteurization and grammar and extinct letters of the English alphabet. I will completely lose track of that whispering voice in the back of my mind that has followed me for weeks, teasing me with a cast of characters who have haunted my dreams and clouded my waking moments but who for now take a back seat to the knowledge that we used to have a letter pronounced "thorn" and that the European Union produces nearly 9 million metric tonnes of cheese annually. Such knowledge gives me shivers of enjoyment despite the fact that I have gone yet another entire day without writing a single word worthy of Dame Atwood's sobbing accolades.
Bugger.
So to these distant and treasured friends I will say thank you here on this blog and not, as it turns out, in the dedication to my soon (or possibly never at this rate) to be written novel.
For M.C. and Tara. Who really should know better.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Friday, January 10, 2014
A Letter to the Year 2013
Dear 2013,
First allow me to apologize for the lateness of this letter. I usually write promptly to each Year as it passes and no slight was intended, but I should explain.
You see you were not my favourite year. Don't get me wrong, I've had worse years. The year JD died was pretty bad. Oh, and the year I crashed my mom's car, that was fairly awful. Not to mention the year Highlander II was released. I still haven't really recovered from that. It's just that you made it so difficult to love you, Year, with your stress and your lack of decent local dining and your new house that smelled like old cigarettes and your bloody seven bloody months of bloody winter. As I sit here trying to think of the things to thank you for it occurs to me that maybe, just this once Year, you should be thanking me.
For...
... increased sales at all western Starbucks' drive through windows.
... insisting that Alberta is a great place to live despite snow,
... and ice,
... and distance,
... and muskeg,
... and a two month growing season,
... and tornadoes,
... and fogs,
... and hail,
... and F-18s,
... and country music,
... and the overwhelming prevalence of plaid flannel,
... and Albertans in pick up trucks,
... and sudden moose.
But mostly you should be thanking me, 2013, for raising above all of this 'thisness' that you threw at me and coming out on top in a happy, beautiful home that no longer smells of other people, my joyful and silly Husband, a healthy family, friendships that have stood strong over distance once we scattered to the four corners of the continent (and one big jump to a whole 'nother one), wonderful new friends who tolerate, nay, egg on my shenanigans, and a determination to never, ever, wear a Stetson again.
You are most welcome,
Remote
First allow me to apologize for the lateness of this letter. I usually write promptly to each Year as it passes and no slight was intended, but I should explain.
You see you were not my favourite year. Don't get me wrong, I've had worse years. The year JD died was pretty bad. Oh, and the year I crashed my mom's car, that was fairly awful. Not to mention the year Highlander II was released. I still haven't really recovered from that. It's just that you made it so difficult to love you, Year, with your stress and your lack of decent local dining and your new house that smelled like old cigarettes and your bloody seven bloody months of bloody winter. As I sit here trying to think of the things to thank you for it occurs to me that maybe, just this once Year, you should be thanking me.
For...
... increased sales at all western Starbucks' drive through windows.
... insisting that Alberta is a great place to live despite snow,
... and ice,
... and distance,
... and muskeg,
... and a two month growing season,
... and tornadoes,
... and fogs,
... and hail,
... and F-18s,
... and country music,
... and the overwhelming prevalence of plaid flannel,
... and Albertans in pick up trucks,
... and sudden moose.
But mostly you should be thanking me, 2013, for raising above all of this 'thisness' that you threw at me and coming out on top in a happy, beautiful home that no longer smells of other people, my joyful and silly Husband, a healthy family, friendships that have stood strong over distance once we scattered to the four corners of the continent (and one big jump to a whole 'nother one), wonderful new friends who tolerate, nay, egg on my shenanigans, and a determination to never, ever, wear a Stetson again.
You are most welcome,
Remote
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
*Mashing the Mute Button
I'm just going to get right to the point on this one. Just gonna throw it out there for you to chew on. So.
The intellectual quality of the show being watched is inversely proportional to how much sense the show makes when viewed with the volume set at zero.
Think about it. Turn the volume off anything narrated by David Attenborough and you essentially have the world's most depressing Disney movie about dead penguins. The entire TED Talk's series looks like an incredibly boring timeshare pitch. Now try the same thing with Xena. See? Even with the sound off the saucy high jinks shine through.
The intellectual quality of the show being watched is inversely proportional to how much sense the show makes when viewed with the volume set at zero.
Think about it. Turn the volume off anything narrated by David Attenborough and you essentially have the world's most depressing Disney movie about dead penguins. The entire TED Talk's series looks like an incredibly boring timeshare pitch. Now try the same thing with Xena. See? Even with the sound off the saucy high jinks shine through.
So far I have discovered tens of shows (I'm just getting started) that I think are better viewed with the sound off, and not just because doing so increases my entertainment. Turning the volume off is also better for the plot, in many cases it accomplishes this by actually adding one. I'm not saying you can't enjoy Xena with the sound on. I am not saying you can't enjoy TED Talks with the sound off. And I am certainly not saying anything at all about what that tells me about you. What am I saying? I am saying, simply, that leaving me unattended with access to infinite television is bound to start affecting how I see the world.
I could provide you with a list of shows for you to test this little pet theory out on but let's not be lazy, do the research yourselves. Also, creating such a list could possibly generate a certain sense of invitation on my part for you to comment on or, less interestingly, rebut any selections I may place on said list and really, that smacks of human interaction and frankly I'm already bored.
I could provide you with a list of shows for you to test this little pet theory out on but let's not be lazy, do the research yourselves. Also, creating such a list could possibly generate a certain sense of invitation on my part for you to comment on or, less interestingly, rebut any selections I may place on said list and really, that smacks of human interaction and frankly I'm already bored.
Bingeing and Splurging
I've learned a new phrase recently: binge-watching. If you binge-watch something apparently that is not the same as having an -athon. 'Was a time, in days past, having an -athon meant calling over your best buddies, chopping up some crudites (pronounced "croo-dit-eh", it's French for "I forgot to get stuff for chicken wings") and, in the most refined and genteel manner, discussing every nuance in every scene of all three original Star Wars movies. You might even speak along with your favourite parts or assign characters. There could be costumes. It's an event. And perfectly normal.
No. Binge-watching is, it has been pointed out, something else altogether. It refers to the rather more recent habit of watching umpteen consecutive episodes of a program without cease or personal hygiene. Or, to put it a slightly different way, binge-watching is what happens while Husband is off being heroic and I am left on my own in a frozen province with a family pack of [Name Brand] macaroni and cheese, a fluffy blanket, Netflix and a wonderful, raggedy man called Doctor Who.
Or Mal. Or Merlin. Or all of the Star Trek captains. Or, once and I am not proud of it, the bald guy from Pawn Stars.
I can watch them all? At once? With no interruptions? Or commercials? Or showers? Yes please. Ahem. I mean, why honey, it's been just dreadful with you gone. What have I been doing with my time? Oh, nothing much. Literally literally.
I can watch them all? At once? With no interruptions? Or commercials? Or showers? Yes please. Ahem. I mean, why honey, it's been just dreadful with you gone. What have I been doing with my time? Oh, nothing much. Literally literally.
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