Swedish incendiary bombs

I went to see the fireworks last night with some friends and it was a lot of fun. I took my sister along because I figured that after spending a week in a car with my parents, she would appreciate some time apart from them. She got along with them surprisingly well.

Not surprisingly, I was asked how I knew her and I got several shocked looks when I said she was my sister. I don't mind that. I am actually very surprised when people look at the both of us and say that they see some resemblance between us. Those people must be blind.

The last night's show was courtesy of Sweden and was really good, though not as good as their offering last year. A little too much Abba and not enough booming explosions in my personal opinion. I had a good time regardless and I'm a little upset that I can't see the rest of the fireworks because of work.

It looks like my sister might be going with my friends to see them again next Saturday. I have to work that day.

We live in such a wonderful time and place that we can detonate bombs for fun.

You can pick your friends...

I had thought that my so called "hell week" at work was over. Apparently not.

My aunt phoned me at work Friday morning asking if I could take care of her kids for the day because my sister was on vacation and not available. In spite of my misgivings, I said that I would be over after work because she sounded really stressed.

I could see why when I got there. The whole house was in boxes, and my aunt and uncle were bickering with each other while they rushed frantically, trying to complete some last minute odd jobs that they had promised the new owners they would do. Just as I arrived, the baby woke up and started screaming.

My other cousin, Garrett, was nowhere to be found. I was somewhat glad to see that because she is a handful to say the least, and I still wasn't looking forward to spending several hours with her. My aunt and uncle left to get the truck they had rented for their move. Just then, there was a knock on the door. I took Kendall with me and opened it to find Garrett on the porch, and standing behind her was my mother's aunt Sharon.

There is no other way to describe my relationship with Sharon than dysfunctional. For reasons that I will probably never understand, she does not like me. For my part, I neither like nor dislike her, because I don't know her enough to be anything more than indifferent.

We sat together in the livingroom until Auntie Paula came back, and in that time, Sharon talked incessantly to Garrett. Once again, she didn't bother to aknowledge my presence. I considered telling her about how I need to pay for tuition and books and my membership at the rowing club and dance because she is a widowed millionaire with no children of her own, but then I decided against it. She doesn't like me and I don't need her money.

I keep trying to tell myself that I can't be loved by everyone, but I would be lying if I said that it didn't hurt. I'm glad that my cousins have such a caring aunt, because I never did, and I doubt I ever will.

After she left, I spent a hellish six hours with Garrett.

Laundry wars

I got home yesterday after a hellish day at work. It was incredibly hot out and in spite of drinking lots of water, by the end of the day I was beginning to feel more than a little dehydrated. I stopped in at Starbucks for a frapuccino on my way home, because I needed something cold and it’s been a long time since I’ve spent any money on myself.

My cat, as always was laying out on the ashphalt in the heat. I poked her with my foot and she came inside with me to get a drink of water. I worry about her. She has been slowing down a lot over the past four or five months, so every day I expect to find her dead in the driveway when I come home. I have a funny feeling that that time will come sooner rather than later.

After I had dealt with feeding the cat and putting away my stuff from work, I grabbed the mountain of laundry that was sitting in the middle of my floor, only to find that Moriah had beaten me to it. Twit. She must have special surveillance equipment to let her know exactly when I want to do my laundry. She spent all night doing laundry for the people upstairs, so needless to say, I came to work today wearing some things that I would rather have washed first.

At the beginning of the week I had a million and a half things that I wanted to do around the house, but because my boss decided it was hell week, everything is just piling up. By the time I get home in the late evening, I’m really not interested in necessary things like eating, let alone doing yardwork or cleaning. Maybe I’ll get around to them next week.

Translink sucks

I have a problem. My family has left for a vacation, and taken the car with them.

Apparently Translink does not service my area after 9:30 pm. That means that if I were to theoretically go to see the fireworks tomorrow night, I would either have to ride my bike 30 km in the dark, or spend the night at a bus shelter and arrive home at an ungodly hour of the morning, only to have a shower and then leave for work.

Neither is a particularly attractive choice. I guess I will have to amuse myself at home.

I hate Translink and I hate this shithole suburb.

But aside from this temporary outburst of angst, I have been ridiculously happy over the past couple of weeks for reasons I have yet to understand. At the moment I have three jobs, and I work seven days a week. I spend an average of 24 hours per week on the bus. When I am not at work, I am usually at school, reading in anticipation of the hellish semester that is looming ominously in my future. Sometimes when I have some time off work, I hop on a bus and take pictures of stuff with my new camera. I haven't seen any of my friends in weeks.

My birthday is coming up and once again, I will probably do nothing to celebrate it. It's just another year, that's all.

Maybe I'm just too tired to feel pissed off and inadequate.

Home alone

So, I am officially home alone for the whole week. My family has left me with an impossible to eat amount of fruit, as well as a fridge full of leftovers that I didn't really want to eat.

The cats are lonely, so they're all over me. Against all odds I managed to get all the courses I wanted at school, except for the ones that aren't being offered this semester. The gods must be smiling on me, at least for the moment.

I visited academic services to plead my case once again. If they don't sign off my papers soon, I won't be getting my scholarship in September. The lady told me once again that she couldn't sign it, so I talked and talked and talked until she was so fed up with me that she got me the necessary stamps and seals. I am so glad.

I don't get homesick easily, but evidently my family does. While I was trying hard to sleep on the bus, they phoned me and proceeded to tell me about their trip, and every possible mundane detail about the dinner they were in the middle of having. I don't mind talking on the phone, but when the majority of the conversation consists of alternating periods of silence and comments like "the waitress is bringing us cutlery," and I am tired and hungry, I get irritated very quickly. I hope that didn't show too much.

The best fair, baaa none

[piling in the Fraser River, near Kanaka Creek]

Every year I get the call for entry for the country fair and every year I eagerly peruse the little booklet, highlighting all the different categories that I could or should enter. Then without fail, every year the entry form gets absorbed into the ever pervasive clutter that surrounds my life and I forget about it until it is too late to do anything.

This year was no exception.

I walked deliberately past the theme park rides, the cheap handicrafts, cotton candy and scientologists offering free stress tests, straight to the barns. When Grandpa MacIntyre was alive that was the only place you'd go. He'd spend his whole visit inspecting and then sitting in the stables with the Clydesdales. I didn't see any Clydesdales though. In fact, I seem to have missed all the horses, cows, chickens and ducks.

The pigs, goats and sheep were pretty cool, though I do find it a little disconcerting when they just happen to hang diagrams of different cuts of meat beside live animals. But by far the coolest animal there was Prince Ali the llama, because he had his very own fan, and spent all his time sitting on the ground facing it.

No trip to the fair would be complete without seeing the bunnies and there were a few bizarre breeds there that I hadn't seen before. There was one there that was easily the size of a beagle. I asked my mom if I could take it home with me and she said no. Mr. Bumpy left us nearly seven years ago, but evidently he is still irreplaceable.

The crafts section of the fair was plastered in blue ribbons, not necessarily proclaiming the quality of entries, but the lack of them. There were some interesting things there, but nothing particularly exciting. Many things I saw there I could have done better, so I picked up next year's entrance form on my way out. Next year will be my year.

That is, if I remember to enter something.

Lou

[It's photo friday and Lou is attractive.]

The other side of the story

Jill was putting away her oars this morning when she suddenly recognized me. "Oh my god! I remember you!" she shouted, and began to tell the long and embarassing story about when we first met.

My rowing club was hosting a training camp a couple years ago and being somewhat dismayed that I had not been asked to come, I invited myself over. I ended up in several boats over the course of the weekend, and for my last row, I was placed in a double with a whiney novice.

My coach had set the workout as a long, boring 10 km steady state. About half way out, she began to complain that she was tired. Then she began to complain about how her hip hurt. Then she began to cough and choke, and told me that whenever she exerted herself, her throat began to bleed. By the time we had gone 5 km out, I was thoroughly tired of her whining.

We turned around and I told her that she didn't have to row if she was too tired. She didn't even offer to help me on the way back, and I didn't really mind much. She complained less when she was just sitting there, and my patience can only be stretched so far. I had nothing but soothing words for her as we slowly made our way toward the dock, watching other boats pass us right and left.

I had something to prove that day. I've always been too short to be taken seriously, and maybe that is for a good reason. I can safely say that I will never be an olympic rower. Yet, in spite of that, I am still a fighter. I have very little respect for people that don't finish races because they're tired or sore. I never want to be that person, and I wanted to show my coach that. Jill was twice my size and I pulled her back into the dock by myself.

Later that evening, my conversation with the coach was as follows:

"What the hell happened out there?"

"She said she was tired and her throat was bleeding."

"What a baby."

I was forced to agree, and wasn't until much later that evening that I realized with some disappointment that he hadn't said anything about me.

Today I was surprised to hear how similar her version of the story was to mine. She was painfully honest about how pathetic she was that day. "You were so patient and nice to me when you had no reason to be," she said, appreciatively, laughing about how ridiculous she must have looked, being towed by a little girl.

I think that too often I come across as being overtalkative, bitchy, arrogant or strangely aloof. It's nice to hear that sometimes I get remembered for being someone good. Maybe I gained something out of that wasted day after all.

She just doesn't get it

My grandmother phoned and left me four messages while I was at work today. I hate it when she does that.

Her phone messages are always the same, regardless of why she is calling. They begin with a long, low moan, then she whines for me to call her, and then you listen to ten to fifteen seconds of her fumbling with the phone, trying to hang up.

Then in about half an hour, she repeats the whole process. She usually calls back about six times, or until you call her back. She always sounds so miserable, like she's dying or in the throes of some sort of major emergency. I call as soon as I get however many messages she has left for me.

As always, when I call her, she's her regular bitchy self. "Oh," she says, "my TV remote stopped working this morning and the nurses can't fix it." I never know if I should offer to help or scream at her for fooling me again into thinking that she was calling about something important.

"Can you come over right now?" she asks.

"No, grandma. I'm at work and this isn't an emergency."

"But I called you."

"I'm at work grandma. I can't leave."

"But I called you." A couple of months ago, we brought our phones in to explain how they worked. Obviously we didn't do a good job because she still expects to call and find us all at home.

Today I had to hang up on her, because it is pointless to argue with her and I had work to do. She then phoned my mother to tell her that she was an awful person because she allowed me to go out and work. I told mom to tell her that I will quit my job as soon as she starts sending me something better than worthless $2 bills on holidays and staledated cheques that I can't cash for my birthday.

Until then, I'll be keeping my dayjob. Thank you very much.

Battle scars

I must confess that old telephone poles fascinate me. They're always covered with battle scars from days long past and I can't help but wonder where they came from. If they were old men they would sit you down on their knees and tell you with much exaggeration about the great war and their unfortunate accidents with pocket knives as kids.

They would show off their reflective badges for merit and bravery with stories of their various posts overseas and the planes they shot down over Germany under cover of darkness. But unfortunately they don't speak and I'm left wondering.

I imagine that many of the staples and nails originally held garage sale signs. There seem to be many garage sales around here in the summer months. Is it just that people have a lot of junk or do they need money? The number of pawnshops and thrift stores invading the neighbourhood cries out for the latter answer.

But what about the others? Some no doubt were signs beckoning to passersby with claims of deceptively easy weight loss. You know the type, the sheet of 8and1/2 by 11 paper with the pulloff tabs at the bottom. Perhaps some of the nails were used to hold up those vague offers of employment that are so common on telephone poles around high schools.

Maybe they held notices of community events, though on that particular corner, in that particular neighbourhood, I am not sure what those would be. It is more likely that there were once posters there calling the faithful to church picnics.

Perhaps some form or other of hastily removed slander?

I will never know.

The balloon puzzles me.