As I was wondering aimlessly around the grocery store earlier today, despondent and exhausted, I thought of the great time I had last night on one of my favourite dates of the year--St. Patrick’s Day.
Every year on St. Paddy’s, I go to the Blarney Stone without fail to celebrate my Irish heritage with the Killarney and a couple hundred other people. This year, I opted for a new adventure. My friend Sheila is part of a singles social club and she was able to invite a friend along to a sold out show at the Commodore to see Spirit of the West! How could I possibly turn that down? The Commodore is by far the best venue in Vancouver to listen to live music and thanks to it being a ballroom in days past, it has a nice large, bouncy dance floor to boot.
After downing some of my home-made potato leek soup (actually was Jamie Oliver’s recipe) and some freshly bought Irish soda bread from Savory Island Pie Company (both were delicious by the way), we starting adding our tacky green accessories to our outfits. We had cleaned out our local dollar stores and end up with flashing shamrock necklaces, tattoos on our hands and faces, and me with my striped green and black over-the-knee socks--they were a real attention getter alright. We were set to go.
We hopped on the Skytrain (there were no cars involved tonight for obvious reasons) and quickly noticed that we were really the only people wearing an excessive amount of green and as such, received about half a dozen darting and concerned looks from other passengers. But when we hit Granville Street, we felt at home and definitely started to blend in, especially when we heard the awesome droning sound of the bagpipes.
Granville Street is the mecca of Vancouver. In the span of 4 blocks you can hear 6 different kinds of music being played by the local buskers, see all the old theaters up in lights and find any type of food you’re looking for. My fav from way back is Roxy Burger...now I’m dating myself, but hey, that place still rocks. The really neat thing about Granville Street is that it’s a super friendly place--you never know what you are going to see and it doesn’t matter what time of day it is, it’s always just perfectly normal, well, for Vancouverites anyway. For example, there we were last night, standing in the Commodore’s line up, when a guy, wearing a Darth Vader helmut, playing the bagpipes, while in a kilt, rode by on a unicycle. No one thought that was odd in the least--perfectly normal--we just kind of looked around at each other and said “You just saw that, right?”, and then carried on with our conversation. A few years back on New Years Eve, I was dressed in a sexy little Marie Antoinette outfit for a singles thing I went to (it wasn’t a costume party incidentally), and we ended up walking Granville Street afterward. I had my picture taken with several Japanese tour groups and dozens of other people who thought I was part of the city’s entertainment--perfectly normal.
Once inside, we ended up finding a cluster of tables so the whole group could hang together. Aside from a few of the regulars that Sheila knew, I didn’t particularly connect well with the group. The women were not too friendly and guys were a little too reserved for me, but there was one who piqued my interest--he had the whole Clark Kent thing going on. I just knew if those glasses came off he’d turn into Superman, cape and all. We were chatting for a bit, and once he mentioned that he and his room-mate have raw onion-eating contests regularly, and that my socks looked like the wicked witch of the west, my fantasies were ruined. Yes, I found a good one alright...I was guessing maybe about 25? No, how ridiculous of me to think that this guy was just a kid--most 34 year olds voluntarily make themselves violently ill just for kicks, right?
Sheila and I made several trips to the bar--there was lots of tequila involved at my end, so needless to say I was feeling great when the opening band started to play. Albeit the music is fantastic and watching the cello being plucked was cool, the challenge with some Celtic bands is that the music can be a bit pokey, so we had to make our own fun at times. Sadly, I can’t remember half the stuff we did thanks to the tequila, but I will say that we were usually laughing so hard we were crying. Finally Spirit of the West came on and oh the Irish dancing started. They are such high energy and it was so much fun singing along with them--everyone was so happy and drunk or not, that is the one thing I love about going out to events like this--just seeing people having a really good time--it always puts a smile on my face. That smile was quickly wiped away when Clark Kent, who was now dancing next to me (I may have accidentally grabbed his butt--it’s all just a blur now) split his glass of stout all over the side of my face, in my hair, and all down one side of my “kiss me I’m Irish” t-shirt. Aside from the smell of the stout, and being a little wet, I really didn’t care. So naturally I thought I would take advantage of the situation as it gave me an excuse to direct Mr. Kent’s attention to my stout-soaked breast under my WHITE t-shirt. Now, I’m no idiot (well maybe when I’m drunk), but if I was a guy, I would have been all over that situation. But when you eat raw onions for fun, you don’t care about things like that--he barely cracked out an apology and I concluded that chivalry was indeed dead.
This is where I noticed, even in my drunken stupor, an interesting dynamic with this little group. There was a girl in the group who kind of stuck herself to Clark the whole night and was flashing me daggers when he came near me. She was acting like she was with him, so I let him be, but he kept coming back to me. The claws didn’t come out because I could really care less, but at the end of the night when he wanted my phone number, it became awkward and weird thanks to the clingy chick. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to write while really drunk, but it doesn’t work well at all--I’m not even sure if what I wrote was actually my information. Sheila ran interference for me so I could slip him my number without her noticing. All I can say is: meow.
We finally packed up just around 1 am, and after 5 hours of dancing, we were hungry. A choice had to be made: Megabites pizza (the pizza that ONLY tastes good when you’re drunk) or catch the last Skytrain. We opted for the latter, and on the way down Granville, I did a little ballet dancing with a girl who complimented me on my socks (huge attention to the socks all night) and then had we conversation with two people here from Ireland who were quick to shove Celtic-fest brochures in our drunk little hands. Once back in Richmond, we forced the cab driver to go through the McDonalds drive through (also a spot where the food tastes better late, late at night while still intoxicated). I did notice that McDonald’s food really does stink--you can’t help notice when you’re trapped in a cab with it--I don’t think the cab driver was amused. The handy thing about going out with Sheila is that she lives three doors down from me in my apartment building, so after we scarfed down our food, we parted ways, and with a short walk to my door, all that was left was for me to pass out on my sofa.
I may have betrayed my beloved Blarney Stone this year, but it was a night to remember for sure. It was also a morning to remember thanks to having to scrub forever to get the tattoos off my face, unweave the shamrock that was knotted into my hair somehow, and trying to oxyclean the stout out of my ruined little t-shirt. I may have awoke a bit of a mess and minus a Superman, but I had a blast...how can you not on St. Paddy’s?
Monday, March 19, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Smoke and Incense
Throughout my life, I’ve always had a heightened sense of smell--sometimes I’m grateful for it, and sometimes not, depending on the situation. I’ve also always had an aptitude for adventure, or rather some might say adventure finds me, depending on the situation.
I bought my top-floor condo brand new almost 11 years ago, and have had the same stupid smoke alarms ever since. You know the kind, the ones that go off at even a hint of something being over-cooked in the oven or on the stove and then you’ve got to grab a kitchen towel and start fanning and waving it like crazy to make it stop. Many-a-time have I had to silence the damn things, only to end up taking them off the ceiling so I could cook in peace. I also love to burn incense but hadn’t done so for many years simply because the smoke alarms just couldn’t take it--they would freak out immediately. Now to be fair to them, they have done their duty, especially in this situation...
Three Christmas’ ago, when I was still in the stage of having a 10 foot real Christmas tree in my home (I have vaulted ceilings), there was a major incident that scared the crap out of me. I had a bunch of candles lit during my big Christmas Party, and I had gone to bed that night forgetting to extinguish one of them. Unbeknownst to me, and thanks to all the old wicks in the bottom of the holder, it burned all day Sunday and at 3am Monday morning I awoke from my sleep to the deafening sound of my smoke alarm. I jumped out of bed, tripped over the cat (what a surprise), and ran into my living room to find a 3 foot flame shooting out of this candle holder, right next to my gigantic tree. I tried to use water to put it out, but the holder had melted and the oil-based varnish reacted to the water and the flame shot even higher. I was able to smother it eventually, and I’m pretty sure I lost a few days off my life that night. The next day I was in Canadian Tire buying replacement fire extinguishers for my expired ones--it also gave me an excuse to stop by the local fire station just I could make sure I was buying the right ones (wink wink).
Then there have been times where I was well aware (eventually) that there was smoke in my home, and I didn’t need the incessant sound of the alarm blaring to determine that. For example...
I enjoy my baths--a time for relaxation, yes? I had the spa music going, the scented oils were permeating the air amongst the bath water, and of course, the candles were lit. I have a giant mirror in my guest bathroom (which is where the tub is) so when had my foot up on the toilet seat cover to begin removing the nail polish from my toes and I started to smell something burning along with hearing a weird crackling sound, I was grateful to have the giant mirror there. Why might you ask--because as I looked up, I noticed the hair piled on top of my head with a clip was on fire--I had tilted my head into one of the flames. I was quickly able to put it out but of course within seconds the smoke alarm outside the bathroom went off--that, coupled with the trauma of almost burning my hair off while using flammable nail polish remover and attempting to silence the damn alarm without ripping it from the ceiling, it is fair to say that any potential relaxation was long gone. I still went through with the bath, even though the smell of scented oils were nullified by the lingering stink of burnt hair, my iPod shuffled into heavy metal, and I was swearing up a storm--yeah, real relaxing. I also began to think that maybe my cat Dexter and I are more alike then I thought (see blog on Dexter).
After hearing some of these stories, you know your friends love you when they are suggesting, through their gifts, that perhaps you should reconsider lighting things on fire in your home, like candles, for example. My good friend Sheral gave me a beautiful candle holder one Christmas with what I thought was a used candle in it--turns out, it was one of those fake candles. Thanks Sheral.
After much deliberation, I finally decided to replace my old smoke alarms with new, photoelectric ones that were less sensitive to cooking, etc. and save myself the potential heart attack every time I was in the kitchen. It was very exciting at first--I could cook to my little heart’s desire with no alarms going off--I even spilt something all over the bottom of my oven, and it still didn’t go off.
Naturally, I felt it was time to start burning incense again. What can I say, I like the smoke of incense--and not the “stick” kind--I need the real stuff--the resin. My two amazing friends who live on Galiano Island also contributed to the cause by getting me some cedar rope that I could burn, and after a visit there and a trip to Banyan Books, I was loaded up on all things that smoked and ready to really test the limits of my new smoke alarms.
I was quite surprised that for months and months I really let it rip, and still the smoke alarms would not go off. I even managed to convince myself that my new alarms were special, and that they could tell the difference between incense smoke and real fire smoke (in retrospect, I do realize that was quite stupid to believe that smoke alarms were that advanced). Now all the while, all I could think of is maybe these things aren’t working--what if there was an incident like that Christmas where I almost burnt down my home? So with that in mind, I really pushed it--I closed my doors so they were only open a crack and lit as much incense as I could at once. When I could barely see my hand in front of my face and when I was sure my neighbours were going to file a complaint against me, the sweet sound of the smoke alarm was in the air. I never thought I would be so happy to hear the alarm go off. Once I passed that euphoric stage (it also might have been the incense), I realized that these alarms were 10 times as loud and I had a bit of work to do! As I ran around opening doors and turning on fans, relief washed over me as I knew that my smoke alarms were on my side, and that I could enjoy the incense I love so much, in moderation of course. So what if my hearing is now slightly impaired and Dexter was seriously traumatized by the noise and smoke...my smoke alarms and I can now live cohesively under one roof.
I bought my top-floor condo brand new almost 11 years ago, and have had the same stupid smoke alarms ever since. You know the kind, the ones that go off at even a hint of something being over-cooked in the oven or on the stove and then you’ve got to grab a kitchen towel and start fanning and waving it like crazy to make it stop. Many-a-time have I had to silence the damn things, only to end up taking them off the ceiling so I could cook in peace. I also love to burn incense but hadn’t done so for many years simply because the smoke alarms just couldn’t take it--they would freak out immediately. Now to be fair to them, they have done their duty, especially in this situation...
Three Christmas’ ago, when I was still in the stage of having a 10 foot real Christmas tree in my home (I have vaulted ceilings), there was a major incident that scared the crap out of me. I had a bunch of candles lit during my big Christmas Party, and I had gone to bed that night forgetting to extinguish one of them. Unbeknownst to me, and thanks to all the old wicks in the bottom of the holder, it burned all day Sunday and at 3am Monday morning I awoke from my sleep to the deafening sound of my smoke alarm. I jumped out of bed, tripped over the cat (what a surprise), and ran into my living room to find a 3 foot flame shooting out of this candle holder, right next to my gigantic tree. I tried to use water to put it out, but the holder had melted and the oil-based varnish reacted to the water and the flame shot even higher. I was able to smother it eventually, and I’m pretty sure I lost a few days off my life that night. The next day I was in Canadian Tire buying replacement fire extinguishers for my expired ones--it also gave me an excuse to stop by the local fire station just I could make sure I was buying the right ones (wink wink).
Then there have been times where I was well aware (eventually) that there was smoke in my home, and I didn’t need the incessant sound of the alarm blaring to determine that. For example...
I enjoy my baths--a time for relaxation, yes? I had the spa music going, the scented oils were permeating the air amongst the bath water, and of course, the candles were lit. I have a giant mirror in my guest bathroom (which is where the tub is) so when had my foot up on the toilet seat cover to begin removing the nail polish from my toes and I started to smell something burning along with hearing a weird crackling sound, I was grateful to have the giant mirror there. Why might you ask--because as I looked up, I noticed the hair piled on top of my head with a clip was on fire--I had tilted my head into one of the flames. I was quickly able to put it out but of course within seconds the smoke alarm outside the bathroom went off--that, coupled with the trauma of almost burning my hair off while using flammable nail polish remover and attempting to silence the damn alarm without ripping it from the ceiling, it is fair to say that any potential relaxation was long gone. I still went through with the bath, even though the smell of scented oils were nullified by the lingering stink of burnt hair, my iPod shuffled into heavy metal, and I was swearing up a storm--yeah, real relaxing. I also began to think that maybe my cat Dexter and I are more alike then I thought (see blog on Dexter).
After hearing some of these stories, you know your friends love you when they are suggesting, through their gifts, that perhaps you should reconsider lighting things on fire in your home, like candles, for example. My good friend Sheral gave me a beautiful candle holder one Christmas with what I thought was a used candle in it--turns out, it was one of those fake candles. Thanks Sheral.
After much deliberation, I finally decided to replace my old smoke alarms with new, photoelectric ones that were less sensitive to cooking, etc. and save myself the potential heart attack every time I was in the kitchen. It was very exciting at first--I could cook to my little heart’s desire with no alarms going off--I even spilt something all over the bottom of my oven, and it still didn’t go off.
Naturally, I felt it was time to start burning incense again. What can I say, I like the smoke of incense--and not the “stick” kind--I need the real stuff--the resin. My two amazing friends who live on Galiano Island also contributed to the cause by getting me some cedar rope that I could burn, and after a visit there and a trip to Banyan Books, I was loaded up on all things that smoked and ready to really test the limits of my new smoke alarms.
I was quite surprised that for months and months I really let it rip, and still the smoke alarms would not go off. I even managed to convince myself that my new alarms were special, and that they could tell the difference between incense smoke and real fire smoke (in retrospect, I do realize that was quite stupid to believe that smoke alarms were that advanced). Now all the while, all I could think of is maybe these things aren’t working--what if there was an incident like that Christmas where I almost burnt down my home? So with that in mind, I really pushed it--I closed my doors so they were only open a crack and lit as much incense as I could at once. When I could barely see my hand in front of my face and when I was sure my neighbours were going to file a complaint against me, the sweet sound of the smoke alarm was in the air. I never thought I would be so happy to hear the alarm go off. Once I passed that euphoric stage (it also might have been the incense), I realized that these alarms were 10 times as loud and I had a bit of work to do! As I ran around opening doors and turning on fans, relief washed over me as I knew that my smoke alarms were on my side, and that I could enjoy the incense I love so much, in moderation of course. So what if my hearing is now slightly impaired and Dexter was seriously traumatized by the noise and smoke...my smoke alarms and I can now live cohesively under one roof.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A Walk Down the Wrong Aisle
I happened to be in London Drugs on my way home late tonight, only to find myself embroiled in a teenage conversation about the birds and the bees. Everyone that knows me well knows that I am always happy to talk to anyone, anytime, anyplace. As you can imagine, that philosophy can do wonders for creating adventures and some seriously funny stories, or, as I like to call them, “incidents”. And sometimes, you can’t just help but overhear something that makes you snicker or smirk, unbeknownst to the group it’s referenced to.
In this case, I was waiting at the pharmacy to pick a prescription for my daughter, when four teenagers (three girls and a guy) came over with bountiful presence (as teenagers normally do) to the cold medicine section. One of them quickly picked out what was needed and then they just couldn’t help themselves as they found their way to the pregnancy tests. Not two seconds later did I feel absolutely sorry for the guy that was with them, as there was no way he could keep up with the conversation around all the “feminine products” that were so openly displayed on the shelf in front of them. They heard me give a little laugh, and that just exasperated the situation given they loved the attention. I watched them move on and I paid my bill and started to head down one of the aisles.
Of course, it was the aisle where not only the teenagers were hanging out but it was also the condom aisle. All I was going to do was walk by, but I just “couldn’t help myself” (that phrase is for my friend Todd who says that about me all the time). They were engrossed in a conversation about the g-spot, and were seriously misinformed from the sounds of it. I’m not sure why I felt the need to stop and correct what I heard. And I’m not sure why 15 minutes later we were still all talking, but for a split second, I felt that I could most certainly teach some kind of sex education class, and so did they for that matter. They seemed pretty stoked about this new information...that was a bit concerning to me upon reflection. I must say though, that I was quite impressed with my knowledge level, and coupled with my public speaking skills, I started to attract the attention of other shoppers that seemed interested in the subject matter.
When the announcement came on that the store was closing, I tried to bid them farewell, only to be invited to a house party on the weekend...yikes. Now it was getting a little uncomfortable, so I wished them well, reiterated a few key points before we parted, and got the hell out of there before the undercover police showed up.
Did I just help shape the potential sex lives of these four young people for the better...or did I just create a disaster for their parents? You might be wondering if this incident will deter me in the future from talking to a group of teenagers looking at condoms in a drug store--absolutely not. Will it make me think if I should be looking at a new career choice--most definitely.
In this case, I was waiting at the pharmacy to pick a prescription for my daughter, when four teenagers (three girls and a guy) came over with bountiful presence (as teenagers normally do) to the cold medicine section. One of them quickly picked out what was needed and then they just couldn’t help themselves as they found their way to the pregnancy tests. Not two seconds later did I feel absolutely sorry for the guy that was with them, as there was no way he could keep up with the conversation around all the “feminine products” that were so openly displayed on the shelf in front of them. They heard me give a little laugh, and that just exasperated the situation given they loved the attention. I watched them move on and I paid my bill and started to head down one of the aisles.
Of course, it was the aisle where not only the teenagers were hanging out but it was also the condom aisle. All I was going to do was walk by, but I just “couldn’t help myself” (that phrase is for my friend Todd who says that about me all the time). They were engrossed in a conversation about the g-spot, and were seriously misinformed from the sounds of it. I’m not sure why I felt the need to stop and correct what I heard. And I’m not sure why 15 minutes later we were still all talking, but for a split second, I felt that I could most certainly teach some kind of sex education class, and so did they for that matter. They seemed pretty stoked about this new information...that was a bit concerning to me upon reflection. I must say though, that I was quite impressed with my knowledge level, and coupled with my public speaking skills, I started to attract the attention of other shoppers that seemed interested in the subject matter.
When the announcement came on that the store was closing, I tried to bid them farewell, only to be invited to a house party on the weekend...yikes. Now it was getting a little uncomfortable, so I wished them well, reiterated a few key points before we parted, and got the hell out of there before the undercover police showed up.
Did I just help shape the potential sex lives of these four young people for the better...or did I just create a disaster for their parents? You might be wondering if this incident will deter me in the future from talking to a group of teenagers looking at condoms in a drug store--absolutely not. Will it make me think if I should be looking at a new career choice--most definitely.
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