Wow! So much work, so little time. And just in case you thought that you might have a moment to squeeze in a little joy, they piled on a bit more today just to make certain that there's no room for fun or relaxation.

I'd rather be here. Doing this. Carston Holler...please come to Vancouver and build some kickass art/slides for me. Click on the images or video buttons to explore. Enjoy.

Now back to VandeKopple you useless rhetors!

Anyone who checked out my Flickr page recently (and really, why would you), will have noticed that I've posted some very boring photos of the new front door my parents recently bought and had installed. It's shiny and new and safe and soundproof and draftproof and far from anything I would have picked out. It's too ornate with all its fake brassness and etched and carved glass. Give me an Arts and Crafts knock-off and I'd be happy.

I had to post the photos because my parents wanted to share them with friends and family. After I posted them, though, my mother had a little moment of self doubt. She worried that some people might think that she and my dad are nuts for spending around $8,000 (there were 7 doors in total, well, two sets of french doors and...I'm not going to explain) for new doors for their nearly 40-year old house. Her worry is not unfounded. It is a 40-year old, two storey house. They are both 67-years old. They shouldn't be climbing stairs...they shouldn't even be near stairs. But they are paranoid and grounded, so they're not going to sell and move. Fine.

But back to the worry that people might think that they're crazy. Maybe I'm the crazy one. I'm thinking that if these people stuck around after my parents bought a toddler (my sister) a pony, and then built a barn and a corral for it in our back yard (JNads...I will be strong. I won't even mention the monkey.), then they will stick around after both of my parents have lost their minds, and have started renovating the house like that Winchester Widow, like they're running away from ghosts.

Or dressing the dog up like he's their baby. If that happens, I'll grab him and run. In the meantime, a friend of mine has a 60-year old swag lamp that she wants to give me. I'm extremely curious.

This morning, and for the second time this week, I just about walked out of something. And the reasons would have been strangely similar (almost vomiting) although the causes were drastically different (sick of not understanding anything that Diana's been talking about the last few weeks and sick after my first session with the personal trainer). But I didn't weasel out of either situation, and I guess that I'm better for it.

I was not too enthused with the notion of going to see the personal trainer. All these horrible (paranoid...I'll admit it) fears from elementary and high school came rushing back. It's time for the shocking confession: I was never a jock. In fact, the whole idea of team sports greatly unnerved me throughout my childhood. We weren't raised to be interested in sports. My mother wasn't interested, and my dad wasn't around much...he worked long hours. It wouldn't have mattered, anyhow, because he wasn't interested in them either. You would think that coming from a family of six boys, that sports would be a popular thing. But no. They weren't. I guess that his family moved around too much for any of the kids to be involved. And I don't think that either of my grandfathers were into sports, either. My dad's dad didn't do much, and my mom's dad was a farmer. Ummm, I've forgotten what I was saying.

Right. No sports. Physical activity (ie sports) wasn't encouraged in my family. My sister and I could both read early, and well. We did well at school. We played piano. Our fingers and our brains may have been coordinated, but the rest of our bodies just spazzed a lot. This made us, and me especially (being a boy) realllllly popular at school. I was almost always the last one picked for teams in P.E. I was almost always the first one to be picked on for screwing up. No wonder I joined the library club. In fact, that was the only team activity I was involved with.

So, P.E. and all things sporty meant trouble for me. Eventually, I developed a paranoia/hate on for jocks. This dislike was solidified when I went to college, and soon realized that team players got first pick for classes, even though they weren't the smartest people on campus. This seemed HUGELY unfair to me (and still does), and I really resented it. Just because someone can throw and/or catch a ball doesn't mean that they should get first choice of classes.

Where the hell am I going with this?

Oh, right...the first session with the personal trainer. I was really dreading it. And when I met him, I thought "shit, he has a faux-hawk...this is not going to go well, and I have committed to this thing for at least 6 months." He's everything I loathe in a sporto (I had to do that...this entry was feeling very "The Breakfast Club". I really related to Anthony Micheal Hall's character. And I thought the Ally Sheedy character was too much of a characature...what a thankless role.). He's fit. He's enthusiastic. He's really into fitness. The whole group is. That's all the others were talking about in the background. It drove me nuts! I wanted to interrupt and ask them if any of them had read a good book lately. I know, that sounds totally stereotypical...like jocks don't/can't read. I'm not suggesting that. What I am suggesting is that there are things other than sports.

Anyhow, he was alright, I guess. He was fakely enthusiastic while he made me run around the gym like a fool, and balance on as bosu ball (look it up people...you have the technology) while holding 15 pound dumbells and doing squats. IT'S SO MUCH DAMN FUN! Eh, perhaps I'll benefit from it. These guys must know what they're talking about. They apparently train the Canucks. By the end of the session, my legs were shaking so bad that I didn't think that I'd be able to drive myself to a happy place.

But here's the reality: I was feeling so sick after the assessment this morning (what the hell is the workout going to be like!), that I had to sit in my car for 15 minutes just to compose myself. Then I drove to Stanley Park, where I took another 15 minute break. Then I was able to drive the rest of the way to the magazine, where I finally got to shower because the gym doesn't have any freaking showers. What the hell kind of gym is it without showers!?!?! Nevertheless, I didn't throw up. By mid-afternoon, I was able to eat. And I didn't step on the gas instead of the brake (and vice versa). So maybe this will work out. Stay tuned to find out.

I'm reading other people's blogs instead of doing my think-aloud. This isn't a good sign.

As part of my lifestyle makeover, I've decided to be nicer to most people. Some people make it difficult to be nice to them. Case in point: classmate Julian. I don't know what it is, but we've established some sort of adversarial relationship. I think that it's because he's British. Well, that's the only theory I've got for now. But the adversarial-ness doesn't add up to much. Just friendly caustic comments that are tossed back and forth.

But to instill some sort of good feelings/vibes in my life, I've decided to try to talk to most people I encounter. I'm not so good with the small talk. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I can't fake caring about trivialities. I just don't care.

I put all this goodness to use today before class. (I've just realized that maybe I'm trying to counter Josie's notion that I'm inherently and quietly evil. I don't want to have to wear the sparkly devil's horns she so thoughtfully bought for me.) I decided to have a conversation with a particular classmate who sometimes drives me up the wall. I knew that she had done something this weekend in which I was interested, so I figured that I could hold a decent conversation with her for a lenght of time. I was right. I could, and I did. And it was going quite well until she started on the infamous topic of her novel. She hauled out the same old line "and I didn't even know he was a she until I was writing about him taking off his hat and a cascade of blonde/red hair fell down to her shoulders". Oy! Not again. I could see a small group of first years who were sitting at the table behind her all stop, nudge each other, and half listen while smiling at me crazily from behind her back. They are all just so lucky that I'm not their mentor because I would so lie to them about Diana's class. But I'm not, so I won't get to taste sweet revenge. My classmate carried on for a while. When she stopped to take a breath, I jumped at the chance for escape, which I did. And I felt a little bad about it. However...I needed to escape.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I still have to admire my classmate's conviction in herself. She always signs her emails with "writer", and then lists all her works in process (I have none.) She also attends writer's festivals and workshops. I don't. She calls herself a writer. I don't. And I admire her for that.

But if she would only shut up about it.

I haven't had much to say lately. But here's a fun update: I twisted my ankle walking to the car today after school. It's hurting a bit right now. I hope that it goes away soon. I was almost caught up with homework and workwork, and now this happens. I have to see the personal trainer next for the life makeover. If I have a bunged up ankle, that will work out just fine.

And my horoscope said something like "things are looking up". Maybe I should reread it again.

I just spent the last few hours fighting with Illustrator, trying to get my logo to print for our design homework. It still didn't print properly when placed in a document. It prints fine on its own. I'm pissed, but what can I do? I don't have the techno know-how to fix my problem. Oh, well...an explanatory note will have to suffice.

I need a little humour, so I'm revisiting this website which was forwarded to me by a friend over a week ago. My friend suggested that I check out the comments on the "we posted yesterday" link. I had no idea that so many people were so against those stupid croc shoes!

I particularly like the comment by Compulsive Shouter. He/She insightfully comments that there's no real need to buy a particular type of Jibbitz junk to paste onto your hideously ugly rubber shoes: It's not really a big secret but if you just lick the backside of a real candy corn you can stick it to just about anything - shoes, limbs, pets, whatever. Apply directly to the forehead if you prefer. Good point.

Also noteworty is a suggestion on the "we posted yesterday link. They suggest that you visit the Jibbitz website, and for bonus fun, set your volume on "stun" and run the cursor repeatedly over the logo. I haven't tried this yet, but I think that I'll just trust the Consumerist webmaster.

Someone who's opinion I respect and often seek took the time out of their day (yes, I'll use the singular they...it's my damn blog) to tell me that they had read the articles I had written for alive, and that they were "cute".

This is the second time someone has done that to me. The first time was concerning the same articles. My good friend's only comment after reading my first three published articles was something along the lines of "so, you like the word 'so'. You used it to introduce the final paragraph in all three of your articles."

Granted, that's a valid point. (Here's the excuse, though...the three articles were written at different times...it was just by some weird chain of coincidences that they all ended up in the same issue.) But that's all she had to say. I know that these articles aren't going to change the world, but a couple of them could change some people's lives.

Both incidences stung me a little. Perhaps I've been less than complimentary myself. If so, it's time to rectify the karma and the manners. Congratulations to all of you who've had successes. I may not understand the significance of your successes, but I do understand their importance to you.

Congratulations.

I got dragged into a dollar store today. While waiting for my friend to buy cheap spray paint (I have no idea what she uses it for...graffiti?), I overheard this conversation by the young white trash couple while they were waiting for their mother to buy some tacky fairy on a stick. I didn't look to see where the stick went. It doesn't matter. It's an fairy on a stick.

WTM: "What does that mean?" (pointing to a sign on a shelf)
WTF: "I don't know...'shabby shick'"
WTM: "Me neither. But they got those signs all over the place at work."

And they were contented with the way that ended. They dropped the topic when they got distracted by something shiny. I glanced over to see what they were looking at. The sign said "shabby chic".

The dollar store is so not my discourse community.

Last year, around this time, I would have been first in line to be king of the pissy blogs. I was frustrated, angry, disappointed. What a difference a year makes. I'm nervous to even admit that things are going fairly well. I find all this goodness discomforting. I'm eternally fearful of the twisted humour of the karma gods, even though I have little to be afraid of. I'm relatively pleasant. I try to treat others as I would like to be treated. I try to leave very few footprints on the earth. Which is why I was confused for years about how things were in my life.

There were years of bad times. And it's difficult to reconcile with those years because if it wasn't for them, I wouldn't be where I am today. It's a good place, but still, if I could, I would turn back the clock and change a few things, even if it meant a different, less good outcome.

In a way, I feel bad for having things to be thankful for when some people don't. My friends are struggling to find things to be thankful for this season. I sympathize and I understand . I'm hoping for betterness in your near futures (especially you, Meladuck...because no one needs a double assault on their personal appearance. First the haircut, and then the shower!)

But just so everyone out there knows, it still isn't all sunshine and roses for me. All this goodness with which I've been blessed (I'm not getting all religious on you...don't worry) would mean so much more if I could share it with the one person who believed in me so much, my sister. But maybe it is with her help that I've been able pull it together in the last few years. (That's more spiritual than religious...big difference.)

And I promise to do my best to help my friends so that next year, they can be thankful and not angry.

____________________

PS: I wasn't all this sunshiney on Friday. After my $30 haircut (it took her 20 minutes to do it...you do the math. Rip off!), I went shopping. I was behind a "mother" (I use that term loosely) and her infant son in the lineup at the check-out. During the transaction, the kid started whining and crying. In a loud voice (for the benefit of us overhearers...she wanted to include us in the discourse), she said to the kid "I don't know why you're acting like this." I exchanged looks with the tillgirls which said "well we do, asshole. He's fucking tired." There was dead silence during the rest of the transaction. After she left, the two tillgirls started talking. One had "been there before" herself. While they were talking, I wondered if she or this other careless mother had the sense to take their kids home for their naps. I doubt it. There's no testing or licensing required to have kids. You just need the biology.

My friend, who is an avid gardener, somehow found these crazy things. They're called La Boule Gazon (aka grass balls), and they're popular in Europe.

You can hang them by a stream:


















You can hang them outside your house:






















You can float them in some water:





















Or you can hang them outside your snotty but stylish haute couture boutique:

In response to JNads' insightful and sensitive response to yesterday's post, I will clarify. I was on dog duty in the morning. Which looked like this during the flea search portion (by the way...he hasn't had a flea all season...I don't want you to think that he's some flea hotel):

















Then I drove into Vancouver and after I tried to meet up with Josie for lunch/coffee (she had gone to the apparently useless digital camera seminar), I saw the registered dietician who reprimanded me for my bad eating habits.

I did not eat the dog's toothpaste (although I hear that it's chicken-flavoured).

My day started with helping my mother brush the dog's teeth and then look for fleas.

Then I got reprimanded for what I eat.

Now that's living. It's been just a feel good kind of day.