Archive for the 'odd things' Category

Happy 2nd Blog-versary

This typist began blogging two years ago this week with this blog.

Hundreds of posts later, a change of address, a busted bandwidth or two and a bunch of new on-line friends and here we are.

To celebrate, I’m posting my blogroll so you can have the points on Technorati:

Um, Canada, it’s about the uniforms

They’re ugly.

Can we say that without being hauled up before a Committee on UnCanadian Activities?

Well, we’re saying it anyway. And others have said it too. Plenty of others.

Were those get-ups Olympic-opening-ceremonies chic? Ah, no.

Try bowling alley chic. Not offense to bowling alley goers. Those shirts would be fine for a bowling alley.

Look, we know you’re athletes and you need sweat-wicking athletic wear and cotton caps to keep the sun off

And we know you didn’t design the uniforms or choose to wear them. It isn’t your fault.

We know that.

But we also know this: the opening ceremonies is a time to showcase cultural dress, country colours and national creativity.  You don’t dress athletes in practical sweat-wicking jock wear and painter’s caps AT THE OPENING CEREMONIES OF THE BIGGEST OLYMPICS IN HISTORY!

You just don’t.

Even Malawi had classier national uniforms than Canada.

What were you thinking, Canada?

OK, enough with my sister’s near-tragedy…

… now let’s talk about my paper cut.

Friday the 13th was not just bad luck for my sister and the 5000 others who were evacuated from their houses to escape a raging wildfire. It was also a day of calamity for me. I got a paper cut under the fingernail on my left index finger.

I don’t know how it happened but I realized I had a paper cut while cutting up citrus fruit to make a salade de fruits.

A short lesson in chemistry: Citrus acid + paper cut = foul-mouthed typist.

I believe I’ve done the right thing by remaining stoic and silent throughout the fire crisis. It just wouldn’t have been right to complain about a paper cut while devastation stalked those close to me.

But the fire is out now, and my sister and family are back home and getting on with their lives. And we are happy about that.

Meanwhile, my paper cut rages on. Without sympathy.

I think I’ve earned the right to some complaining and sympathy. So with no further adieu.

Typing has been a trial. It has been an exercise in selfless determination to get these words out to you on this blog. But I’ve done this for you, my friends. Through the pain of the paper cut.

My sense of duty knows no bounds. Yes, acid rushes into my paper cut when I cut up fruit for smoothies each morning, but I soldier on for the sake of the children. I put their health above my paper cut. And at night, I grimace again as I cut up fruit for their bedtime fruit-plates. Such is my devotion.

So please everyone, spare a thought for a stricken typist. Send a message of best wishes as you did for my poor dear sister ( who BTW is safe and fine now so you can stop sending messages wishing her well!)

My papercut and I will be eternally grateful for just a small pebble of your attention and/or sympathy.

Thank you in advance.

Which GT theme are you using?

A couple of weeks ago, GT went through a bit of a make-over. Some might have said an identity crisis.

At the end of the day, I installed a theme-switcher to allow you to choose which look you like. The themes appear at the top of the page in the sidebar, either on the left or right, depending on theme.

There are bits and pieces of each theme that I liked so I tend to move around, choosing a theme to suit my mood. I think my fave is summer theme with the orange flowers on the top.

But I have no way of knowing which theme you are using or liking and I’m curious to know what you see when you hit this blog.

Maybe you’re like Write Procrastinator who said no, no, no to all the new-and-improved themes, and went back to the original theme of K2.

So drop a comment and let me know. Thanks.

Yellow belt, purple belt, brown belt

They all live under the roof of this typist.

They graded (and double graded!) the other day in Shotokan Karate.

So anyone who even thinks about breaking into our house should be on notice. Unless it’s that cute Aussie in American Idol - he has special dispensation to break and enter at his leisure.

This typist started training as a white belt awhile back, but stopped when it became clear that Shotokan Karate also involves kicking and punching.

Rather than snapping to defensive postures, this typist recoiled into a “I want my blankie” posture.

And thus ended my Karate career.

Beware bread!

This important article was sent awhile back by GT commentator Dick.

Research on bread indicates that:

1. More than 98 percent of convicted felons are bread users.

2. Fully HALF of all children who grow up in bread-consuming households score below average on standardized tests.

3. In the 18th century, when virtually all bread was baked in the home, the average life expectancy was less than 50 years; infant mortality rates were unacceptably high; many women died in childbirth; and diseases such as typhoid, yellow fever, and influenza ravaged whole nations.

4. More than 90 percent of violent crimes are committed within 24 hours of eating bread.

5. Bread is made from a substance called “dough.” It has been proven that as little as one pound of dough can be used to suffocate a mouse. The average American eats more bread than that in one month!

6. Primitive tribal societies that have no bread exhibit a low incidence of cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s disease, and osteoporosis.

7. Bread has been proven to be addictive. Subjects deprived of bread and given only water to eat begged for bread after as little as two days.

8. Bread is often a “gateway” food item, leading the user to “harder” items such as butter, jelly, peanut butter, and even cold cuts.

9. Bread has been proven to absorb water. Since the human body is more than 90 percent water, it follows that eating bread could lead to your body being taken over by this absorptive food product, turning you into a soggy, gooey bread-pudding person.

10. Newborn babies can choke on bread.

11. Bread is baked at temperatures as high as 400 degrees Fahrenheit! That kind of heat can kill an adult in less than one minute.

12. Most American bread eaters are utterly unable to distinguish between significant scientific fact and meaningless statistical babbling.

In light of these frightening statistics, it has been proposed that the following bread restrictions be made:

1. No sale of bread to minors.

2. A nationwide “Just Say No To Toast” campaign, complete celebrity TV spots and bumper stickers.

3. A 300 percent federal tax on all bread to pay for all the societal ills we might associate with bread.

4. No animal or human images, nor any primary colors (which may appeal to children) may be used to promote bread usage.

5. The establishment of “Bread-free” zones around schools.

What do you do with an old oil storage tank?

Well, you convert it into a bar and grill, of course. Or at least that’s what they do here at Flippers..I’d heard of this place but didn’t really believe until I spotted it with my own eyes one day. It is located about an hour and a half’s drive from my house. Luckily I had my camera that day, otherwise no one would have believed it.

Flippers was closed on this particular day, but some day I will walk into that oil storage tank, slap down a fiver on the bar and order a beer from Flippers.

Someday.

Red

Red, wherever it appears, jumps out and grabs you. That’s why it is the colour of emergency and caution. And that’s why it’s a photographer’s dream. These are some reds picked out from this typist’s collection.

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A tonic for VD sufferers

Are you choking on a diet of force-fed Valentines Day sentimentality?

Are you drowning in a tsunami of witless schmaltz that crashes over you every February 14th?

Are your teeth hurting from saccharine commercial pitches that fail to tug your heart strings?

Are you having disturbingly vivid fantasies about bludgeoning Hallmark cupids?

Do you scan dictionaries searching for a Bah Humbug! equivalent word for this time of year?

Do you want to set fire to people who wish you “Happy Valentines Day.”

If you have one or more of these symptoms, then I’m afraid that you have VD.

It strikes down many good a person at this time of year. You can spot a sufferer by guilt-laden postures and eyes that are glazed over with sheer boredom. You may also see them running about buying things at the last minute for fear of what will happen if they don’t.

My heart goes out to fellow VD suffers. I don’t have the cure, but here is a temporary tonic to get you through the next few days.

Good luck and stay well. It’ll all be over on Friday.

7 things you didn’t know about GT

I’ve been tagged by musicologist Beth of Atlanta for this 7-things-you-didn’t-know meme. I’m usually hesitant about revealing too much personal information. These 7 facts will explain why:

1. I had a stalker for 3 years.

2. He had a mental illness and became delusional about moi.

3. Two years ago, he came to my neighbourhood looking for me. He told a neighbour that I had murdered one of the little typists and that my Significant Other typist had gone missing.

4. Moments later he came into my house through the back door which had been left opened with the keys left in. (I’d dropped in for a minute to pick up my laptop typewriter.) When I saw his face, I thought I was Sharon Tate. He held up the keys and said I shouldn’t leave them in the door as people in my neighbourhood had been murdered.

5. He was arrested, charged on four criminal counts and placed in a psychiatric institution where he underwent a 30-day assessment. He was put back on his meds and found fit to stand trial.

6. We went to court. The trial was put over for four months. We went to court again. He spewed conspiracy theories about me and others. One involved the Chief of Police being an imposer.

7. He was found not guilty on all four counts. I was gutted. Ergo, was I the guilty party? It was explained to me that he was found not guilty because there was not enough evidence to prove he intended to commit a crime upon entering my house that day. Entering someone’s house without being asked does not constitute evidence he was about to do something illegal. Walking by someone’s house after shaking your fist and calling them Satan over a period of three years does not constitute proof of ill-intent. Nor does telling someone’s children their mother is an effin’ wh*** constitute proof that a crime was committed or intended when he walked into my house.

8. Upon reflection, I was glad he did not go to prison. He is in need of psychiatric help and anti-psychotic drugs, not a prison sentence. They placed a one-year peace bond on him. He cannot come anywhere near me. This will expire in May. I have not seen him since the trial.

So there. You got eight facts instead of 7.

U2? Eagles, The Who? No. Celine Dion

Where I live, city politicians organize big rock concerts. (I know. I know.)

Last year we had the Rolling Stones play in an outdoor venue. It was raining cats and dogs, but devoted fans were defiant and stood in the mucky trenches for hours, wringing every drop out of the show. It was fantastic.

This year the politicians screwed up by trying to screw other promoters. Long story, but incompetence and lack of experience as concert promoters explains the problem. They are after all city politicians, not concert promoters.

Last week we had rumours of another big (100,000 people) outdoor concert in the works. The Who, U2, The Eagles, Red Hot Chili Peppers? Anything seemed possible. We did have the Stones.

But who did the politicians book for the super concert? Celine Dion.

I have nothing personal against the Queen of Schmaltz. She has talent, no question, but she is a performer of the Vegas casinos oeuvre. Her schtick belongs in enclosed structures with padded seats and good parking. She is not a rock ‘n roller.

Her slickly produced, highly-sentimentalized show is a poor choice for the outdoor super concert next summer. Think muck, Celine.

You don’t play hockey games on soccer fields. You don’t have Celine Dion on mucky outdoor fields. It’s sad when politicians are your concert promoters, even sadder when uninspired politicians are running the show.

If I were Celine, I’d run from this one. And I’d run fast. She has no idea who she is dealing with and what she is getting herself into.

Is it two thousand and seven or twenty seven?

It’s time we chucked the chunky two thousand and seven syntax for the year 2007 and adopted twenty-o-seven.

That was the syntax in the last century. It wasn’t one thousand nine hundred and ninety nine. It was nineteen ninety nine. And in the first decade, it was nineteen-0-seven or nineteen seven.

In the year 2000 we called it two thousand. I can see that. It was such a novelty back then, and of course we had the spectre of the Y2K computer problem, Y2K being Year Two Thousand.

I’d think its time we stopped wasting all those syllables and shortened it up to twenty-0-seven, or better yet, twenty seven. We all know what it means and it sounds better to my ear.

Does anyone know the Canadian Press broadcast rule, or the CBC’s?

Buttzillian - the new trend in feline esthetics

My cat Cheddar (see sidebar) has a personal hygiene problem.

She also has a weight problem.

So when clumps of undetermined substance accumulated in the fur in her rump area, she needed the cat equivalent of a Brazillian.

Go here to read more about Cheddar’s Buttzillian.

Typist not a mad cat lady - yet

By the look of this blog, you could be forgiven for thinking this typist is one of those crazy cat people.

There have been Flickr slide shows, flickr badges in the sidebar, weekly columns - all about the cat.

While it is true that the cat in question (see sidebar) plays a big role in the life and times of this typist, I am not one of those people. Not yet.

But when I’m 83 and living in a one-bedroom apartment above the corner store, wearing my World War I pilot’s goggles while I tootle around on my World-War-II vintage bicycle, I will probably have 43 cats living with me.

I will talk to them constantly. My apartment will smell of vaguely cat wee and litter. I will bake cookies and nice little squares for the local cat-shelter fund-raising sale in the mall. All my friends will be cat-fanciers, and I will spend more time at the vet’s than anywhere else. And I will have an impressive complement of rogue whiskers on my chin.

My blog motto will be: All cats; all the time. I will live for the cats. I will call them my kids.

But despite appearances on this blog, I’m not quite there. Not yet anyway.

Column: GT shatters world record; then shatters ego

You know that 38.0 second time I set in the pool last week?

That was a world record for the 50-metre freestyle.

Not only did I set a record that day, I murdered the old world record for 50-metre freestyle.

Yup, the old record is 41.07 seconds. And do you know the category of people who held that record? Twenty somethings? Thirty somethings?

No. It was men aged 90-94. They held the record I shattered.

Hm.

Guess I have some work to do. Go here for more on this world record breaking story.