Filed under: Uncategorized
Sometimes, I find it difficult to continue to write this blog. I feel myself beginning to shake, my cynicism turn to pessimism, and I wonder if I’ve blurred the line between satirical and bitchy. Whenever my favorite Ginger-kid gives me hell for not posting, I’ve witnessed different excuses bum-rush my lips. I say that I’ve been busy, or that I have not stories; except, that’s not true. A writer never runs out of stories. What is true is that, at times, I don’t trust myself to tell them the way they need telling.
Today, I want to share a family tradition with you. I grew up without religion, but not without spirit. Thanksgiving rolls around and while other families are saying the Lord’s Prayer, my family does it a little bit different. In my family, we share among the table the things we are most thankful for the previous year. It gets a little teary, and often puzzling, but the end result is the same: a cleanse has been done.
Things I am Thankful For
My dreams I have been given an opportunity not many people have had, I get to follow my childhood dream: to be a writer. Other people have to do horribly boring professions, like dentistry and accounting, and that great and all, but I get to write things… Yeah…
The Jeep It doesn’t always run well, and it doesn’t always run, but when it does we are saved hauling groceries home by hand in -30 Celsius. Also, Jeeps make you feel cool.
My friends We may not see each other as much as we should, but the support of some solid bitches has made my life pretty great. I’ve been meeting more and more women who really seem to have it together. Besides, you girls are hot… who doesn’t like hot chicks?
Canada Wow, I’m tempted to bullet list this point. I’m thankful to have been born in a peaceful country, with social programs and job opportunities. I’m thankful that I’m not starving/freezing/broker(er)/married to my cousin at the age of eight/sick/zombified. Yes, maybe our social programs could use a little work, but you know what? They’re a helluva lot better than Africa’s got it. So please stop whining over your triple-grande-soy-latte-thing-that-probably-has-caramel-in-it. I feel so bad for you, what with your opportunity, and peace, and medicine, and education, and gender-equality, and sexual-orientation equality, and all that.
My family Even though grade school days have long past, the pride my parents bring me is still as strong. Little boys and girls across the globe have repeated these words “My mom/dad are __________ (enter adjective here) than yours”. Yeah, well, mine are whatever that adjective is. I’m sure you may disagree with me on that point, as is your right, but if there was a standardized test mine would unstandardize that thing like no tomorrow. Ok, seriously though, I’m so lucky that I have both of my (adjectival) parents in my life, and that they’re healthy and frisky. Yeah, Mom, I called you “frisky”.
My husband My husband is a quiet, modest man. He loves to laugh and never has to practice patience; well, he’s pretty good. Without him, many of my opportunities would have been lost hopes and vacant dreams. I am very blessed by whatever spaghetti-monster made this world to have his love and support. I wish that everyone could know what it feels like to have a partner, a nemesis, and a lover all rolled into one.
So that’s my list today, what’s yours?
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: culture, family, funny, humor, humour, movies, Netflix, television
So we finally got ourselves Netflix. Actually, we didn’t. My mom gave me her account and password and insisted that we try it out and see how we like it. After years of deciding which torrents to download, and planning their download time around your regular life. iI’s sort of neat to be able to browse through hundreds of titles, most of which were movies you wanted to see but not badly enough to pay for them of their own accord.
Which has led us to a new dilemma. The Wii remote blinks schizophrenically at us while we’re trying to make a decision. It blinks like that because we’re always out of batteries and are left instead to scrounge them from other remote controls, alarm clocks, smoke detectors and other valuable life-saving necessities. We could go buy more, but it’s probably not going to happen any time soon.
So now it’s October, and October is the month where I watch a year’s worth of horror movies and serial killer flicks in tandem.
So I watch one serial killer movie! One! Now it keeps recommending “Ed’s Top Ten” filled with brutal violence. Which is cool, cause I like brutal violence in movies and all, but it’s my parents’ account! And I don’t live with them!
I can just see it now, Ma and Pa, sitting at home about to watch some sort of culturally shocking, or heartwarming movie. Ma moves in for the cuddle and Pa’s big arm rests on her shoulder as she nestles into him.
AND THEN BLAM! In their face is flashed movies where dudes pop out girls’ eyes, or some mad German (why are they always German?) scientist is sticking three people together to make a fecal-fuelled centipede. Which, by the way, probably wouldn’t work with the whole e-coli thing.
So now poor old Ma and Pa must face the cruel reality of their daughter’s interests. No, no. It wasn’t anything to do with the way you raised me! I swear! No, no. It wasn’t because you sent me to overnight summer camp and I got lice! I… I…. I just like it.
A system had to be created. A system that was unbreakable, and convinced my parents that my emotional hard wiring was A-OK. It’s devious, it’s clever and it’s all mine. My secret to defeating Netflix is simple:
All Dogs Go To Heaven.
Clears up those genius suggestions in no time.
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: baking, Canada, Canadian women, cooking, culture, feminism, independence, lifestyle, sewing, social, women's movement
Doris Hilda Anderson, CBC: Life and Times
Her autobiography “Rebel Daughter” was absolutely fascinating. It outlined her life growing up in Calgary, Alberta during the Great Depression and her continued fight against the status quo. Pretty much, you’re freaking lucky this lady was around, girls. Women have only really truly had their equal rights in Canada since 1981. Yeah, only thirty years have gone past and yet my own generation is completely in the dark about how it was. But I think we lost something when we gained feminism.
I think we lost an essential skill set: domestication. My own generation of women are, well, sort of useless. Oh sure, we hold down jobs and are good at things, but how many actually know how to cook? How many can cook without a recipe? How many of us bake? How many of us can sew? Yeah, not very many. And why would we have to? Dinner is a phone call away. You can have that pretty dress for the office Christmas party for $120, in all sizes and colours. This is capitalism, and this is feminism.
When we gained the freedom to pursue our own interests, we forgot how to do those things our grandmothers spent a life doing. So ladies, have we really helped ourselves? Or have we traded in our over mitts and sewing machines for computer screens and drive-thru? We have lost what made us the queens and conquerors of our homes. We have lost autonomy from mass-produced, capitalistic, shit.
So ladies, remember the women who lived through the Great Depression, who saw the fight for our freedom, and who watched us forget all about it… do them a favour, Ok? Let’s learn to do those skills that are taken for granted; that are needed, but unappreciated. Let’s learn how to do this stuff because if we don’t, we will never be able to gain back what we’ve lost.
Edit: We’ve already kicked men’s asses in the workforce, so let’s kick their asses at home again. Cool?
Dear Husband,
I awoke early to begin my day of writing. I awoke early, knowing just what I needed to fill that void in my stomach. I awoke early, to see your betrayal staring me in my face.
That’s right, I’m talking about the milk. You remember the milk right? You remember how you poured some into your tea last night? Yes I thought you might. You remember how you used the last bit of the precious liquid in your cereal this morning, right? I bet you can still feel the sweetness against your tongue.
Well I didn’t get to do any of that! My pot of coffee had brewed and the warm smell wrapped itself around my senses. Oh, I was looking forward to enjoying at least three cups of it this morning. But alas! It was not to be! Do you know why, Dear Husband?
Because you used the last of the milk and didn’t replace it!
I was not planning on using the last two eggs this morning. I was going to save them for a large breakfast that the two of us could share. We would daintily feed each other healthy slices of toast filled with eggs and tomatoes and tell jokes that no one else gets. Instead, on this sunny fall morning, I would eat some cereal to conserve the eggs to share with you, my love.
Alas! It was not to be! Why, Dear Husband? Because you used the last of the milk and didn’t replace it!
So I sit here, drinking black coffee, cooking up the last of the eggs, and yet I think of you, Dear Husband.
I think, that when you return from your hectic busy day; when you come into the door with your arms open wide for your Welcome Home hug; when you gesture to your head to show me a haircut which is never styled anyhow… I think, Dear Husband:
THAT YOU BETTER HAVE A GODDAMNED JUG OF MILK IN YOUR HANDS!
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: children, culture, funny, humor, kids, life, lifestyle, parenting
You know what bugs me? Ok, ok a lot of things bug me, but you know what really drives me batshit? Questions. Not questions like “What are you going to make for dinner?” or “Do you want to watch The Shining or Halloween?” but questions that just aren’t anyone’s damned business. For the first six years of our relationship, Mike and I dreaded going to weddings. Short of the booze and bad music, you just knew some distant family member was going to corner you and go “So, when are you two going to tie the knot?” *wink wink* and you’d have to smile and think of some lame excuse like “Oh, it’s not really a priority to us right now”, when what you’re truly thinking are things like “Get lost old bag” or “Who is this person talking to me?”
Well, it gets worse after you get married. People assume that now you’re married you’re just dying to procreate. As if you’ve really been waiting seven years until marriage, because a child out-of-wedlock is a sin…and other bullcrap.
They also assume you want lots and lots and lots of little you’s running around, screaming, eating candy and taking turns crying and pooping. Now, please don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike kids. But to be fair, I don’t like very many kids either. So this whole “kids” thing? Yeah, I’m thinking about it. It seems kind of cool. I’d like my life to have more meaning then the things we want to do, and well, to be honest, kids have cool toys.
So you answer something like, “Yeah, maybe in a few years we’ll have a baby. Just one though”. Well, that starts off this whole new thing. The family member (whose name you can’t remember and relation you’re skeptical of) starts in on the whole “Just one? Oh, wow. If it were me I would have just had oodles of little babies. I just love their little cheeks and the way they smell”.
Look, I’m thinking about it ok? I don’t really want to commit to a whole slew of kids. That’s like saying “You know, you may as well give me all the BMW’s in the lot, since I like luxury vehicles a whole bunch”. I’m ok with just the one. You know? See how it works out and stuff. Then maybe… maybe I’ll have another one.
Besides, babies are like these perfect, clean little people. They’re canvasses for parents to fill with colours and paint in little personalities. And guaranteed us adults are gonna fuck them up. So I wonder to myself, how many little people do I want to screw up? Cause I’m gonna. So if I only screw up one person, does that mean I’ve mitigated the damages?
I don’t know, this is a lot of pressure.
Is there anywhere I can rent a kid for a bit and see how I do?
See how handsome he is?
Filed under: Bad Movies For Everyone, Generalizations | Tags: culture, film, funny, humour, movies, pop culture
Hey, did I tell you we finally got married? Just as a side note, best part of being married? Having a team name. That’s right, every time Mike and I leave a party we prepare our friends for our departure by declaring “Arts Roll Out!” Apparently our friends are very un-clever because they seem to ignore the hilarity of the situation.
So, back to the blog post. The big movie fans we are, and the big sci-fi fan I am, there was no way I wasn’t going to see The Rise of the Planet of the Apes. We purchased our tickets and browsed around West Edmonton Mall until our showtime. During this idle browsing period, Mike informed me that he had never actually seen Planet of the Apes. Who hasn’t ever seen Planet of the Apes? Like, seriously? What is wrong with your upbringing? Are you broken? But the tickets were bought, and even though he was now going to wreck the original for himself, I didn’t think we could easily sneak into Fright Night due to the 3D and us not having appropriately stolen 3D glasses in the past and saved them up for last-minute movie-ditching. So we were going.
This isn’t a review blog, so I’m not going to review The Rise of the Planet of the Apes, but I will state that I quite enjoyed it. James Franco is a wonderful actor and since I don’t find him attractive, I must actually believe that. So the credits are rolling and the Artses are rolling out of the theatre when the following occurs:
Mike: That was really good. I like how they left it open for a sequel. They are gonna have a sequel right?
Tannis: Yes, and we can watch it tomorrow if you’d like. It’s called Planet of the Apes.
Totally should have snuck into Fright Night and just squinted a lot. When we have children, you can count of me pumping them full of essential cultural influences. Seriously though, who hasn’t seen Planet of the Apes? Oh the tragedy.
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: childhood, culture, harry potter, life, magic, movies, pop culture, writing
Harry Potter. Oh Harry, your books are over, your movies have played, your battle is won and now my heart is void. I had the same feeling when watching the final episode of LOST, a television show Mike and I watched (and will again) with a fervor that borders on zealous. It wasn’t the horribly sad ending (which both had) that brought tears to my eyes. No, what made me bawl and smear my make up was knowing that something I’ve loved, and has been in a part of my life for the last twelve years, is over.
Sure, I’ll still pick up the books, and each time I read them, the story will be like new to me (unlike many people, I can re-read stories hundreds of times and still enjoy every minute of it). But still, it’s over and I’m sad. Harry Potter’s my buddy, just like John Locke and Jack Sheppard were. I knew them intimately and rooted for them even during their most vulnerable moments.
Although I’m sad, the sort of sadness that you get when a good friend moves far away and you know you’ll probably never see them again, I’m also thankful. I’m thankful for books like Harry Potter and shows like LOST because they gave me something, and reminded me that my love for stories is too overwhelming to ignore. I became a writer because of epic tales that span years to tell. If you want to do the story justice that is. They reminded me that there is still magic in this world.
I don’t know how other writers feel, only how I feel, and I truly believe that to write, you must believe in magic. Not just the magic we possess to entrance readers, to pull them into a different world and introduce them to creatures and people of our imaginations, but real magic. I believe in magic. I believe that there are things out there that happen which are so strange, so impossible, so fantastical that magic has to be real.
I believe in magic because without it, we’re just moving around and living in a world which is so clearly laid out for us. We are born, we go to school, we finish school, we go to more school, we finish that one, then we get jobs, get married, have children, all that stuff. I choose to believe that there are places in our world where magic hides, where you can find it if you really listen to your heart and feel it.
I have to believe in magic because without it I’m only telling the same story again and again and again. Once a year, when the new Harry Potter would come out (book, movie, whatever) my belief was renewed, I was reminded of the magic that’s hidden away. Now that it’s done, the onus is on me. I get no more reminders, from now on, I have to find that magic for myself, and bring it to you with words and characters.
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: alcohol, apartment, community, culture, Edmonton, funny, ghetto, humour, life, neighbors
I still remember the first apartment Mike and I lived in together. It had peeling laminate and windows that could maybe save 1.5 legs if a fire occurred, which they did regularly. That would have to be due to The Gas Pump, a bar from the early seventies located at the bottom of our apartment building. It hasn’t changed since the seventies, including the patrons who have since grown harsher as the years have passed. Every night the shouts and screams of middle-aged drunks in the midst of their mating rituals floated up and into our bedroom, lulling us to sleep. The sounds of sirens would wake us up as yet another fire was started, either by the drunks of by the homeless people who would sleep in our stairwells and light fires to stay warm. Mike and I would look at each other, debate how much we wanted to stand outside in January weather, at 2 a.m., in our pajamas and instead decide to just go back to sleep. Six months later we moved.
That was seven years ago, and finally, the patrons of the Gas Pump have found us. Actually, it was the ghetto that found us. Sure, it’s unlikely you’re going to be pumped full of ammunition in my neighbourhood (although it has happened), but try to cross the street without meeting a gangster (15 years old and pissed off that Mom took his PS3 away), or having your bottles stolen by the multitudes of bottle people.
I have a bat, and it has pointy edges, and I practiced hitting intruders with it. I don’t want to kill someone, just maim them.
So anyhow, we’ve got new neighbours. That’s right, the Crackheads next door moved out (and by moved out I mean trashed the place and abandoned it), but it’s all good because they’ve been replaced by drunks. I sorta miss the Crackheads though. At least they hid out in their condo and smoked crack and I could only hear them yelling and screaming through the vents. The drunks have taken this to a whole new level.
I have to give them some credit though, they are more apt at yard work then the prisoners on day release whose only job it is to cut our lawn, when they come, which is next to never. The drunks are all about keeping a nice and tidy lawn. So much so that they’ve decided that 4 a.m. is a wonderful time to mow their 8’x10′ lawn with one of those push mowers from before electricity became a household item.
Granted it is nice and cool out at 4 a.m., but none the less, we needed to have a chat. I explained to one of the drunks (and I believe I’ll have to explain it to the other 10 that seems to sort of live there) that 4 a.m. isn’t exactly a “neighbourly” time to be shouting and boozing it up. I think our chat went very well, it definitely progressed after I asked him “You are drunk right now, aren’t you?” A question he could not deny, only confirm with a sad nod of his head.
Regardless, I think he and I may have reached an understanding: He shuts up after midnight, we get along wonderfully. He makes noise after midnight, I phone the police, his landlord and the condo board until they eventually remove him and he’s got to move back into his mother’s nursing home.
I think we’ve reached an agreement, but I wasn’t wearing any pants during this heart-to-heart. That may have had something to do with it.
The Lifespan of a Fly 