Vietvan, here I come! I will not be posting for the next couple of days as I’ll be in Hongcouver, VC, Japanada. I plan to have fun, hopefully five days out west will provide me with content for a blog or epic proportions, a blog so great that it will undoubtedly catapult my daily visits all the way to 4!Here’s hoping anyways.
I read an article the other day about how in a single generation, the activities of children have completely changed. Seemingly, the reason that kids are all a bunch of fatties these days is because all they do is watch TV, play video games, and surf the internet. (The irony that these are also the only things that I do is not lost on me. )The article went on to speculate as to a few of the causes, like media being interesting than real life etc., but the one that really blew my mind is that some parents are afraid to let their children leave the house. One mother was quoted as saying “I would never let my kids go to the park, that’s where the kidnappers and pedophiles are.”
Oh my sweet lord, has it really come to this?
I don’t know what screwed up parks this lady is frequenting, but I’d suggest taking a look around. I’ve been to a lot of parks, and I’m yet to be raped, killed, robbed, stabbed, shot, yelled at, or talked to. Am I just lucky? Did I miss all of the warning signs? I think not. Let me go out on a limb here and say something: There is no more crime today than there was 50 years ago.
Obviously there are more criminal acts perpetrated, but I would be willing to bet that, per capita, not much has changed. What has changed is that media. With television, the internet, movies, and newspapers all screaming “THE WORLD IS A DANGEROUS PLACE” it can be pretty hard to ignore. Do you want to know what is extremely dangerous? Driving your car. There is one traffic related fatality every day in Alberta, not to mention countless injuries. Every time you step into the car you are putting your life at risk. If you’re going to be afraid of anything, be afraid of driving. Do you want to know something else that’s extremely dangerous? The flu. Yup, your everyday garden variety flu kills kids and old people like they’re going out of style. Do you want to know what didn’t really kill many people? SARS and West Nile. When West Nile was rearing its ugly head I’d often hear people say stuff like “you can’t go out anymore, what with West Nile and all.” To these people I would often ask “what is West Nile? What are the symptoms? What can happen?” Nine times out of then, they can’t really answer. Sure, SARS was freaky and all, I personally got a little caught up with that one, but at the end of the day it didn’t really do all that much damage. If you want damage, look no further than the plague. Now that disease kicked some ass.
I would like to point out to the world that yes, you are afraid. All of this propaganda about terrorism, and orange alerts is just a facade. There is no threat. People are terrified of terrorists. I have absolutely no idea why. Last year in America I’m pretty sure that zero of 350 million people died of terrorism. Frankly, I like those odds. Yet, due to the overwhelmingly imminent threat of impending doom that only terrorism can offer, the Patriot Act has been permanently established to protect the freedom of the American people. How do they intend to protect the freedom of the people by harshly limiting it? Sure you’re free, unless you do something that seems “terroristy”. Then your ass is off to Guantanimo, beeotch.
I would rather risk the terrorists than live under the constant repression of fear and paranoia. You’re not actually free to live if you’re afraid to leave you home. Do you want to live you life? Then do as I do. First, boycott the news. The news preys on fear and sensationalism and has very little to do with reality. Second. take a trip. Go some place warm and sunny, and be sure to fly there. Third, let your fat kids play outside. They’ll be fine, and if, God forbid, something terrible does happen, at least your fat kid will have lived at some point in their lives.
I refuse to subject myself to living under the thumb of fear. I will do what I want to do, I will think what I want to think, and I will say what I want to say. That is freedom. An odd quote from an odd source, but in the cheesy movie The American President there is a point where Michael Douglas says:
“You want free speech? Let’s see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil who is standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the ‘land of the free’? Then the symbol of your country cannot just be a flag. The symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Now show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then you can stand up and sing about the ‘land of the free.’”
That is freedom. People seem to have lost track of that.
It would seem as though I am suffering from writers block. And or a medical condition know only as boringifus lifificus, undoubtedly caused by doing nothing but unpacking boxes, night after night. I don’t even use the stuff I unpack, I just go on to the next box. Maddening.My commute to and from work is now 30mins, which is more maddening. I’m deathly determined to defeat it, no matter what the cost. I need to shave at least 10 minutes in order to save my sanity. I’ve been trying alternate routes, but thus far have been repeatedly denied by construction. Stupid Edmonton sucks for construction. There are only really three months in any given year where road work is a possibility, so they just go completely ape shit for those months. It wouldn’t be so bad, but now there are only two roads between my work and my house that don’t have construction delays. That means that everyone who knows the city is on those two roads in order to avoid traffic delays caused by construction. Unfortunately this has lead to traffic delays caused by avoiding traffic delays. Undoubtedly, the increased traffic on these two roads will lead to maintenance problems and the cycle will continue to haunt my commute forever and ever. The redundancy of this problem make my head a splode.
I’ll write again when I have cool stuff to write about. Until then I will don my cape and cowl and battle valiantly against the forces of traffic, and possibly evil if I don’t end up stuck in the traffic.
The rumors are all true, Mrs Iron and I are officially playing at being grown up. We’ve moved into our first new home, I’ll try to post a couple of pictures at some point in the near future.It feels odd, this new home of ours. I’ve been there for two nights now, but it still seems like I’m visiting someone else. I definitely don’t feel at home yet, I can hardly bring myself to pound a hole in the wall. It just feels rude. I hung up a wine rack for my wife and felt like I owed somone an apology.
The move is not without its problems. For example, we have no appliances, or rather, no fridge and none of the other appliances have been installed. How considerate of our builder to notice that I’ve been packing on a few pounds lately and offer to not install any means of preparing food stuffs. Eh! As a consolation prize they are paying for all of our meals until they get their act together, so in all likelihood I’ll end up fatter than ever.
The other big problem at the moment is that we don’t have any window coverings, and I’ll tell you something, it feels really weird taking a poop when you can see people walking by. While I don’t really care if people see me naked (it’s their loss, trust me) I still feel like a weirdo showering and being able to see out a window. Our blinds are supposed to arrive Tuesday, but we haven’t had all that much luck this far in the process, so I’m not really expecting anything.
The last odd thing is that last night I fell asleep watching TV and was awoken by fireworks. What? No. What? Who sets off fireworks at 12pm Sunday, July 17? What possible reason could there be for that? And I’ll tell you something, there’s nothing quite as confusing as falling asleep in a room you’ve never really been in, on a couch you’ve never sat on, only to be slapped out of your slumber by high yield explosives detonating outside your window.
Everyone has lots of useless crap. My parents moved to Australia six years ago for a three year work term. At the time of the move, they decided that they would keep most of their stuff in storage here in Canada because there was no use in hauling all of that stuff over the Pacific if they were only going to be in Australia for three years. Six years later they’re still overseas, and they have absolutely no idea what they left in storage. It’s funny because they completely filled a storage locker, like those big ones you see being loaded on and off of ships. They literally have tonnes of stuff in there, and no real inkling as to what any of it is.I was reminded of this as I prepare to move tomorrow. I have a lot of really stupid stuff, that I in no way, shape, or form need, but I am unwilling to part with. For example, a bag full of Australian coins totally about $3AU. Or two lighsabers, one Luke’s from The Return of the Jedi, and the other Darth Vader’s. I also have Darth Maul’s double sided lightsaber, yet it holds no real nostalgic value for me.
While I’m sure that at no time in the future I will required a 12″ GI Joe with a motor bike, I still find myself packing him safely away. Then I’m going to make the effort to carry him down three flights of stairs, load him into a moving van, drive him halfway across town, take him off of the moving van, and place him in a box, in my basement. I know this to be true. I probably won’t see him again for at least two years, and when I find him, I guarantee I’ll be looking for something else. Knowing this, I still cannot bring myself to part with this hidden gem of the toy world.
I wonder what sort of instinct it is, bred into us from a very early age, that lets us place value in such completely useless crap. You could fill an entire storage locker with stuff you simply don’t need, but it’s not enough. I imagine my parents already have a pretty healthy dose of new crap to haul with them from Australia back to Canada.
No wonder people are building such large homes nowadays. They need them for all of their garbage.
It’s T-minus 72 hours until I get my new house. Things seems to be moving along nicely. Tomorrow is my pre-occupancy inspection, so I get to miss a half days work so that I can go over my house with a fine toothed comb. Hazaa! I think there is a good chance that I will drive anyone else there completely insane, but I don’t give a rats ass. Jayman wasted 15 days of my life by forcing me to remain in crap Baywood, the least they can do is sit down and shut up while I make sure they didn’t screw anything up too bad.I’ve already noticed a few things that they messed up and will have to fix before I move in. I get some type of perverse pleasure each and every time I notice one of these things. It’s like “ha! I caught you, you sneaky bastards!” If you ever decide to build your own home I would strongly recommend visiting every time work is done so that you can make sure it wasn’t done poorly. Chances are, it was.
Ali and I have been packing fools the last couple of days. Getting out of that apartment is going to be no small chore. It turns out that after nearly five years there Ali has accumulated quite the stockpile of complete crap. I’ve only been there the last two years, and already my crap stockpile is quite impressive. All in all, I would say that we’re giving away roughly 20-30% of what we own. Of course this still leaves an impressive 70-80% to be moved this Friday, but I’ve never been one to fuss the small stuff.
My normal method of moving consists of procrastinating until moving day, jamming everything I want into boxes and hauling it all to the new house. Then I go back to the old house, and throw away everything still there. Quick, easy and effective. I tried to explain this method to Mrs Iron, but she was unable to see the many subtle nuances and subtleties that define this as a brilliant method of moving. As such, we’re doing it the Ali way. This involves sorting, and parsing all of your stuff for weeks and months in advance of moving, and being completely packed prior to moving day.
I can’t see the logic behind this. First of all, this seems like a lot more work than just cramming boxes full of the stuff you like. I mean, you’re just going to unpack the boxes as soon as you get where you’re going, so if you stuff is disorderly for a whole day, who really gives a rats ass? Second of all, this method requires that you pack stuff that you use, before you’re done using it. For example, the other night Ali was cooking and asked me to take a pan out of the oven.
“Where are the oven mitts,” I inquired.
“Packed.”
Hmm, this seems rather inconvenient. Luckily, we had a dish towel handy, and the burns were only minor. Then this morning I had a fairly massive attack of hay-fever:
“Honey, where are the anti-histamines,” I asked.
“Packed.”
Well crap. “Where are they packed, I really need one.”
“In that yellow tub, at the back of that huge pile, underneath all of that heavy stuff.”
Double crap.
So now I’m all sneezy and allergic at work (you’ll recall that I’m lazy), all because we’re packing like ’smart’ people. I’ll tell you what, this seems none too smart to me.
Another day, another eight hours spent on a computer. Normally this doesn’t bother me, but this weekend my wife said “do those shorts fit?” and this morning I had to change my belt loop. Dammit.Once again, fatness is trying to sneak up on me and slip on a pair of man boobs before I realized that the game is afoot. I was working out quite regularly, but then all of this crap started going wrong with our house and I had to start going to the house every day to make sure nothing was horribly awry. This usurped my usual ‘go the the gym’ time slot, and thus, I’m getting soft around the edges yet again.
I was thinking that I should start to ride my bike to work, but then I’d be such a sweaty bastard by the time I get to work each morning that I’d need another shower. Just thinking about it gets me sweating a little.
Luckily the house is almost finished, and I’m moving in Friday come hell or high water. After I move into the house, I cannot foresee any circumstance under which it would become difficult to have to visit the house every day. As such, I should be able to resume my gym regimen and burn off some man titties.
In other news, spending an entire weekend packing isn’t cool. Not one little bit. Especially when it’s the first nice weekend of the summer. Also, if you ever need to steam clean your carpets I would highly recommend going to Safeway and renting their Bissle Wide Track. That little sucker works like magic. Magic I tells ya!
Finally, under no circumstances should anyone, any where, at any time, watch The Aviator. That movie was ass and a half. First of all, it was a one hour movie stretched to three hours with incredibly annoying shots like Leonardo sitting under a blinking red light for ten minutes. What’s more, yes he’s an agorophobic, germophobic, nutcase. We get it. There’s no reason to completely slam us in the face with it. That movie was about as subtle as a flaming ninja monkey running rampant through a fireworks factory during the blitzkrieg. And I know that it was the directors choice to wash out all of the color in the movie so that stupid people would get the impression that it was “back in the day”, but why did he have to turn the grass purple? There’s no reason for that. The only redeeming assets that movie could possibly boast are 1) a fine job of acting by Leonardo, and 2) I finally got the ‘Spruce Goose’ reference from the Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns goes all Howard Hughes.
If you really want to learn about Howard Hughes I would recommend skipping the crappy movie, and checking out wikipedia.
So I had a blog topic all thought up and ready to go for this morning. Then, while I’m driving down 111th Ave on my way to work, I see a lady using ski poles while she’s walking. What? There’s no way that’s necessary. Have you ever been walking and thought to yourself “man, I could really use some extra pull on this uneven sidewalk terrain.” I certainly haven’t. There weren’t even some type of special walking ski poles, they were regular old, metal tipped, ski poles. I can’t imagine they offered her all that much extra traction, as I doubt she possessed the strength to drive them into the concrete. Plus it looked that much more insane because she was all decked out it the latest and greatest walking apparel, which is always a surefire way to ensure that you look as crazy as possible while out in public. Odd.Anyways, as I continued my drive down 111th Ave I came to a stop at 142nd street and while I was waiting at the light I glanced into the car beside mine. I always do this, because more often than not the person in the car beside me is doing something hilarious, like singing and being animated or picking their nose. It’s funny that people will do completely ridiculous stuff when they’re alone in their car because they don’t seem to realize that they aren’t actually alone in rush hour traffic. Word to the wise people, if you wouldn’t do something with a stranger sitting in your car, you probably shouldn’t be doing it in traffic. If you haven’t noticed, there is a stranger sitting right beside you.
But I digress. So I’m stopped at 142nd street and I glance into the car beside mine. There is a lady sitting in an old Buick yawning. Always good for a laugh, because people make funny faces when they yawn. Then I notice that her little girl is standing up beside her with her hands on the dash looking out the window. WHAT? NO! WHAT? This kid is maybe two years old, and should be strapped into a car seat and sealed in a hyperbaric chamber. Not standing on the passenger side seat with her hands on the dash. I stare at this for a while, but then the car turns left on the advance light leaving me at the red. In retrospect I wish that I had called the cops or something. Sadly I’m not smart enough to record the license plate as they drove away.
I continued my drive to work kind of sad and confused. Who does that? What the hell is going on on 111th Ave? Seemingly someone has stocked the water with an ample supply of complete insanity. Unfortunately for me, I live just off of 111th Ave, which would explain my desire to purchase ski poles and recklessly endanger the life of an infant.
BAH!
Of note, I was going to write about how 99% of blogs in the world are complete crap, and it completely ruins what would otherwise be a cool feature with the “Next Blog” button. It will have to wait, it seems a bit trivial at the moment.
So I’ve come firmly to the conclusion that my wife is smarter than me. I may know stuff that she doesn’t, but I’m sure if she were to put her mind to it, she could be better than me at about everything. This was has really been brought to my attention lately as I’ve noticed more and more often that my wife has the best memory ever. If you need a phone number, and my wife has ever been within earshot of someone casually making reference to that person having a phone, she can tell you the number. It is bizarre how many phone numbers she can recite by memory. I can hardly remember my brothers phone number, and sure my parents live in Australia so the number is like 14 digits long, but from time to time remembering how to call them is about all I can handle for the day.My wife remembered the phone number of her best friend from Kingston, whom she hasn’t seen or talked to since she was eight. That’s 16 years without dialing a phone number, and she rattled it off like it was no big deal. She also knew the area code to dial to reach Kingston Ontario. I sometimes forget how to call Calgary, and don’t even get me started on B.C.
It’s not just phone numbers though. It’s names, dates, faces, biology, events, clothing, hair styles, places, seasons, and everything else under the sun. I’m certain that if I were to ask her what I was wearing on the second date we ever went on, she could tell me. That ain’t right. It’s all up there though. Her brain is a super-efficient filing machine. Sometimes we’ll be at a grocery store and she’ll say something like “oh, this is that salad dressing your Mom was talking about.” I’ll say “huh?”, then she’ll prattle off something along the lines of “you don’t remember? We were in the backyard of their house and she said that she tried some new dressing. This is that dressing.” Naturally, this will have happened at least four months ago, and any memory I may possible have had of that event has long since been wiped clean by video games. Not her though, it’s filed away forever and for all time.
Also, I dare anyone to try and beat my wife at a board game. It cannot be done. She’s like a little Napoleon, always plotting and moving to attack. It can be frightening. Even games that seems random and luck based, she will hand you your ass without remorse. Don’t even try to play against her in dominos. No matter who she is playing against, she will win six games in 10. It’s a hard blow to the manhood, but one I’m forced to face, over and over again.
The only place I have a leg up on her is my impressive grasp of absolutely trivial information, much of which I learned from reading sugar packets. That’s why I like playing Trivial Pursuit. I rock at Trivial Pursuit, and can easily hand my wife her ass. This is the only opportunity I get to be smarter than my wife and I relish every second of it.
I don’t think I’ve ever won an argument. Not that arguments are supposed to be competitions or anything (but damn, I would love to win one). She’s too smart. Always parrying my rebuttals, and counter-attacking from angles I could not have foreseen. As I madly scramble to keep my footing and gain some type of leverage, she’ll continue to pursue until I say uncle. You know how you can tell you’ve won an argument when the other person either resorts to name calling, or says something along the lines of “well, I still think that….” I’ve never got my wife there. It cannot be done by one so feeble as me. (NOTE: before you think my marriage is crumbling, remember that not all arguements are fights. Often, we argue about things such as routes to destinations, movies to see, etc. It’s a healthy kind of conflict.)
I personally blame her father. While everyone in her family is quite smart, my wife and her father rule the roost. Without a doubt, her father is the smartest person I have ever known in my entire life. I’ve yet to find any topic where I can honestly claim to be more knowledgeable than him. He’s smart like my wife, with the addition of 25 years of accumulated learning. Also, he is amazing at Tribond. Not just good. Amazing. He can link any three words within a couple of seconds. Literally, any three words. “Moose, Aqueduct, and Homoeopathy” and BAM he’s all over it. Of course he’s also an electrical engineer with a masters degree in RF engineering. He graduated at the top of his class. I’m pretty sure my wife was close to doing the same as her GPA was a 3.9/4. But still, one can’t help but to feel slightly inadequate when placed in their combined presence.
I used to think I was smart. Then I got married. Now I know better. C’est la vie.
(My father-in-law has absolutely no rhythm whatsoever, and my wife is completely out of touch with pop culture. Take that.)
