Of Lascivious Dopplegangers

A Thought: Blogging is weird, eh? Today L and I were reading our friend Dave's Blog. We were laughing at the latest issue of The Bird (the newsletter Dave publishes about the goings on in his house, which is really funny) when Lindell suddenly cries out, "My God! He hates the Dutch too!" (Disclaimer: We have many good friends of Dutch descent, they are good people...on occasion.) Then we clicked on one of Dave's friend's blogs, which had a link to another blog. Now this girl is a complete stranger, but Lindell identified with her M.A. Thesis procrastinating prowess and I identified with her love of Northern Exposure (doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo, doo, doo --for those of you who don't know, that's how the Northern Exposure theme song goes). What I'm trying to say is that we had found our internet soul mate.

I guess the odds are pretty good that if you surf the blogs long enough, you'll find your doppelganger/internet soul mate, but it still feels odd to think that there could be someone out there....just like me.

Let that sink in for a minute.

This jeopardizes everything. My very identity may be at stake.

But, let's leave this complicated question for now, because I have to tell you the one funny thing that did happen yesterday. We went out to take pictures (it was a "good light day") and were heading toward Batosh. We neared a bridge and decided to drive down a nearby dirt road. We parked the car in a sort of secluded spot and were in the process of unbuckling when another car drove by...very slowly...and looked at us--a young couple in the middle of nowhere, in a secluded spot, shifting around in a car--and all of that car's inhabitants smiled a wry, knowing smile. I instantly understood the meaning of those smiles, so I held up a camera to let them know that nothing uncouth was about to happen. But instead of dispelling any tawdry thoughts, this seemed to encourage lascivious suggestion as I clearly saw the driver mouth the word "k-i-n-k-y". Then he winked and rolled out of sight.

Lost (also probably copyrighted)

On Sunday morning, after breakfast, of course, God went to his office. Like most of us He has a hard time getting started in the morning, so he spent several hours cleaning his desk (since He read that the average office desk has more germs than a public toilet He’s been quite adamant about disinfecting his work surface). Once his desk was cleaned and organized he decided to catch up on the news and reply to some old e-mail. Pretty soon it was lunch. In the afternoon He chatted with His cubicle-mate, Lucifer, about how much paper they waste every day. Then they made paper airplanes until it was time for a coffee break. But God decided that the coffee from machine in the snack room wouldn’t do on a non-day like this, so He and Lucifer decided to walk to Tim Horton’s. It was mid-afternoon, one of Timmy Ho’s busiest hours, so it took over an hour to get their coffee, choose a donut, eat, drink, and walk back to the office. The point is that by the time they got back to the office it was practically time to go home, so the two cubicle mates quietly packed their bags and snuck down the backstairs, hopping against hope not to run into the Boss.

We've all had days like this, but while God was off cleaning things, checking e-mails, getting coffee, etc., thousands of people in Regina, Saskatchewan suffered under torrential wind and rain at the Roughrider-Hamilton game. Sadly, this was not the only disaster that resulted from God's blah day.

As L and I were leaving Regina toward Saskatoon, we accidentally got on the wrong road. We drove north for three hours without a map and saw no people or any sign of people. Finally, we saw an ice cream shop that seemed to be open (only in SK: gas station--closed; ice cream shop--open all night). The ice cream man gave us some vague directions that were even more confusing because he kept talking about some place called "Satou". It took me a few minutes to decipher his meaning: "Satou" is "S'toon," which is short for "Saskatoon" (because those extra two syllables are quite taxing).

So we kept driving farther north (we were on the 6, for those of you who care about those details) into the blackest, loneliest night I’ve seen. The moon was orange, not quite full, but very low on the horizon. I saw a bright blue shooting star. And then, I saw the Northern Lights; yes, I saw the Aurora Borealis! This was on my list of things to do before I die and I never really thought I’d get to see it. For those of you that haven’t seen it, I can describe it as colorful smoke, or the first drop of food coloring in a clear glass of water. The color was a fluorescent green. And it moves slowly and gracefully like a fish in calm water.

In short, it was an interesting side trip and we got home safely (no thanks to God!), or else I wouldn’t be writing this, now would I?

P.S. Hope none of you are religious. If so, I’m sorry (for you). That was too much, wasn’t it? Sigh. I’m going to hell.

Dark Water (that's probably copyrighted, eh? Oh well, down with the establishment!)

I was told that we'd be going to a "beach".

So, I happily donned my bikini and packed all of my beach supplies: sun screen, towel, hat, and soft-core porn for women (this month's Cosmopolitan). After an hour drive on a hot SK day, H, K, L, and I arrived at Manitou Lake, unpacked the car and began searching for a spot on the gravel surrounding the lake. The lake water, for the information of my non-saskatchestani friends, is full of minerals and lots of salt water, so you can float in it like in the Dead Sea. These minerals combine to create a uniquely pungent aroma that compliments the odd greenish-brown color of the water. But who is afraid of funny smelling water? NOT I !!

We walked down the beach until we found a suitable spot, but as soon as I laid my beach mat on the gravel I noticed that there were a substantial number of red ants. Unsure of the effect these tiny little insects would have on our "beach" adventure, we observed them carefully. After watching one particularly chubby red ant fight another chubby red ant to the death, we decided it was probably not a good idea to sit near them. Besides, our chosen spot seemed to have lots of algae. So we wandered back down the beach toward a fallen log we could sit on. L brought out his book (nerd) and the three girls skipped cheerily into the water.

The water was warm and the pebbly bottom was no problem with flip-flops on. We walked on in this way for some time (the flip-flops also created resistance, which made it difficult to walk very quickly) making our way deeper and deeper into the water. Then I heard a horrifying shriek, "SHRIMP!" I looked down at the water and suddenly realized that I had been wading in what can only be described as a huge vat of brine-shrimp soup. There were millions and billions of tiny, pink, stringy shrimp with beady eyes all around me! I shrieked. Then K shrieked and, finally, H shrieked and then we all began to wade as quickly as possibly toward the shore. The thought of these tiny, crispy, stringy, pink, wiggling things having access to one of my major orifices caused my stomach to churn like it's never churned before. I was nearly apoplexic by the time I reached the shore, but still had the sneaking suspicion that some of them might be between my toes.

This is a visual representation of H, K, and me wading to safety.

Once safely at the shore, we gave up. That’s right; we packed up our things and headed over to the Manitou Lake Spa where we paid an exorbitant eight dollars to float in shrimp-free waters.

P.S. All in all the day was great and my skin and hair greatly benefited from the mineral waters. Here is a picture of salt dried in my hair.

The Mystery of the Seatless Bike

So, last night Lindell and I decided to have a séance. We lit a bunch of candles, drew a pentagram, dressed in black, and decided to call on the spirit of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. After persistently moaning OOOOOmmmmm he finally graced us with his presence and shared his latest story from beyond the grave entitled "The Mystery of the Seatless Bike". At first we thought it might be some odd gay porn...but we were wrong, very wrong.

Sir Art (we were on a first name basis by this point) cleared his throat and began his woeful tale:
One morning, quite early in the morning to be exact (or inexact), Mr. Watson stepped out of the brothel in which he had laboured all the night. Stepping into the street he noticed a discarded bicycle seat, carelessly strewn along the path. Mr. Watson glanced up and down the alley while buttoning his fly--he'd become quite lascivious in his retirement-- wondering if someone had buggered off with one of the wench's bicycles. He counted all the cycles he was satisfied that the errant seat had been placed in his path quite by accident, stepped over it, and ambled over to the pub where he met his old chum Sherlock.

Upon hearing the odd tale, Sherlock, whose most recent adventure had involved his prostate, coaxed Mr. Watson into examining the evidence further. The pair returned to the site of the crime and Sherlock quickly deduced that the errant seat actually belonged to Mr. Watson's own bicycle, which, in his drunken stupor, he had forgotten he owned. Sherlock donned his bifocals and noted that the apparatus that holds the seat in place was missing. The two friends donned their bifocals and searched near but not far, they're old, you know. Well, ten minutes of hunching over and searching the ground wrought havoc upon their lumbar region, so the two elderly sleuths gave up. Mr. Watson wanted to head over to Timmy Ho's and Sherlock heartily agreed. But as they stood by their carriage they noticed that the missing apparatus had been carefully placed by the carriage! The two old farts stared at the ground and stroked their chins thoughtfully. As Mr. Watson stroked his chin, Sherlock noted a black substance beneath his friend's fingernails and a slight tear upon his right sleeve. Sherlock launched into a montage of Mr. Watson signing various documents, opening doors, and lifting his pint to his mouth--Eureka! Sherlock stood bolt upright and declared "I have solved the mystery of the Seatless Bike!" Mr. Watson demanded to know the answer to the question that had plagued him for approximately 30 minutes. "It's elementary, my dear Watson, the apparatus is placed on the right hand side of the carriage, the seat was strewn on the right side of the path, your fingernails are dirty, and you have a tear on your right sleeve. Clearly, you stumbled down from the brothel in the night and removed your own seat, then, unable to put it back together because of the arthritis, you placed these items so that I may solve the mystery and replace the seat for you." Mr. Watson was insulted by the suggestion that he was at all arthritic and exclaimed, "It couldn't have been me as I was in the brothel all night long!" To which Sherlock replied, "Oh, don't go blaming the old wenches like you did last time! We all know it only takes you about 5 minutes-- when you're lucky-- and you spend the rest of the night fumbling around, taking things apart until your arthritis flares and then you make up some cockamamie story!" Mr. Watson blushed and kicked a pebble muttering an apology. The two smiled, locked arms, and skipped, as best they could, to the nearest Timmy Ho's where they discussed the virtues of Mylanta for several hours.

The End.

Lindell and I were so disgusted with this miserable excuse for a story that we threw rotten vegetables at Sir Art until he left our dimension in tears.

True Story.

(Well…the part about the bike anyway. This neighborhood is going to hell—accursed seat removing bastards!)

O --the horror

Tuesday after softball some of the team went over to Alexander's for beer. As the sun began to set, the mosquitoes began to bite. Everyone was batting their exposed bits and those of their neighbors. I thought that might be a good time to impart a bit of my random knowledge: mosquitoes like blondes better than brunettes. It seemed true, L was busy defending his epidermis while I sat back and enjoyed the evening. But I woke up the next morning not just with at least 40 (I kid you not) bites on my legs and thighs, but with 40 giant and swollen bites! This sent me to the internet; L only has 7 bites around his ankles and his are definitely not as gross looking as mine are. My research yielded this interesting information: mosquitoes do, indeed, prefer blondes to brunettes, but beyond this the little buggers favor type-O blood. That explains my problem, I'm O+. Sigh. So, all you O types out there, don't forget your OFF because I also learned that of all the animals (including insects) on Earth, mosquitoes cause the most human deaths. Oh! and another odd fact is that if you eat lots of bananas mosquitoes will be more attracted to you. Craaaazy.

Censorship Scandal

Recently, allegations of censorship rocked the Machuca/Veitch district of Saskatoon. The Veitch clan, which originated in the northern climes, accused the southern Machuca clan of censoring certain remarks made in a certain public forum.

The Machuca clan released a press statement on 21 June explaining a rather embarrassing misplacement of a valuable resource and felt that the Veitch clan's reaction to their distress was less than appropriate.

D, the leader of the Machuca clan, described the misplacement of the valuable resource yesterday at a high level meeting:

“The moon hung heavy and full in the pitch black sky. It was midnight and we
could see lightning in the distance. Soon we were surrounded by the silver
electrical current in the sky. We were pelted by hail. My beloved wind chime was
knocked from the balcony and fell to the parking lot. Lindell went down to save
it. We mumbled some thing about our Neon's paint getting chipped off. We hoped
the hail would damage it all so the insurance could re-paint it. Then the storm
moved right over our apartment building (it seemed). The lightning was so bright
it hurt my eyes to see it. The thunder was so loud I thought I'd never fall
asleep. L turned the radio on just in case there was a tornado warning. I
decided that the only way I would be able to sleep was to plug my ears. So I
reached into the drawer and pulled out my fancy wax ear plugs, inserted them
carefully, and descended into blissful silence..... I woke up around 5 am with
one of the wax nubs in my mouth.

HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN!!!???

I personally think that aliens crept into my room and, upon discovering that I was
not an adequate specimen, decided to play a practical joke on me instead. If
anyone has any other theories, I'm open to explanations.”

The Veitch clan's response to this harrowing story was detailed at the same high level meeting. The clan's leader, L, read the transcript of the Veitch clan's response:

“Hahaha. First off, I can't believe you told this story to the general public
given the waking up with an actual nasty wax ear nub in your mouth. So gross!
Second, I hope that there will not be a follow-up blog that describes where
you found the second wax ear nub. Damn those ass probing alien bastards. But
really, how the hell did it get in your mouth? Next time it storms maybe you
should tape any vulnerable orifices.
As a final thought, I suspect terrorists/insurgents had a hand in this ... an errant mouth-side wax ear nub bombing.”

The Machuca clan's first reaction to the Veitch statement was, indeed, censorship. Certain members of the Machuca clan swiftly removed both the press release and the Veitch clan's reaction to it from the public eye.

The Machuca clan's leader apologized publicly to the Veitch clan saying, "We deeply regret this instance of censorship carried out by certain reactionary factions within the clan. We are launching a full investigation to determine which hormones are to blame and will swiftly bring them to justice. In the meantime, it is our earnest hope that the Veitch clan will accept our apologies and this coupon for one free Starbucks Frappuccino as a sign of good will."

However, the Veitch clan's Press Secretary responded by throwing the good-will-Frappuccino-coupon from a very high balcony while crying out, "NEVER! We will not be fooled by your Frappuccino and we shall never post replies to your silly clan again!"

At this moment, the clan's remain locked in a fierce staring contest and the peace of the district hangs in the balance.

An international Human Rights organization, Citizens for Peaceful Resolution of Blog Censorship Scandals (CPRBCS) has asked citizens around the world to sign a letter asking the Veitch clan to accept the good-will-Frappuccino-coupon so that yet another civil war may be averted in the ravaged Machuca/Veitch district.

Summer Solstice, Full Moon, Pagan (Belated) Birthday Party Report

This was my third and final birthday party of the year (way to milk it, eh?). My actual birthday was on May 28th, but since my parents were visiting I wasn't able to have a wild and crazy time. Then G and F visited and we had a really great intimate soirée (which resulted in the disintegration of G's retina). But I still hadn't had a wild, crazy party. So, counting on my lascivious classmates I decided to throw one last party during the week of the summer solstice (June 21st), which also happened to be a full moon. Charging all my fellow nerdy English majors to bring their own libations and to come dressed as their favorite pagan, the party preparations began. L and I made a mini Stonehenge out of rice krispie squares, complete with pagan worshippers and orgy goers (in the form of gummie bears).

Anyway, I dressed as the goddess Theia (a titan and goddess of "bright things") and L dressed as a Catholic priest (complete with the white collar and rosary-- and chastised all the dirty heathens ...although he did "marry" two of our friends with glow-in-the-dark swizzle sticks bent into wedding rings. Much debauchery ensued, by which I mean I took 6 or so tequila shots and ended the night barfing. Despite the miserable end, the party was great! Wish you all could've been there!