I hate lying but I do it so well

Since being let go from my last part-time job (my luck to work at the only place in this city with TOO MANY employees) I find myself in need of a new part-time job so I can stop lying to apartment managers about being employed. (Ha!)

Hence the fun new world of online applications.

Here are some questions I really wish I could just answer honestly:

Why would you like to work for our company?

-Because I need some money to live, and I feel like you might give me a reasonable amount of it if I perform your monkey tasks. My real passion is my art, of course, so I feel like your company would allow me to pay some bills without taking too much time away from me being happy and fufilled.

What skills do you feel you would bring to this organization?

-I'll show up most days, not get sick very often, do things with a minimum amount of complaint, give off pleasant odours and speak english clearly, and very probably won't call any customers "dick-face"while they can hear me. Oh, and if it ever comes up, I'm pretty good with jive/hip-hop lingo, yo.

What are your career goals?

-Good money, health benefits, no uniforms or pantyhose, no babies, no door-to-door, loose sex and occasional theft of office supplies.


What is wrong with our culture that I can't just write the truth? Is it so bad?

things preventing delicious sleep:

After the following night, I am starting to rethink my genius housesitting plans.

2:30 am: Eddie the dog stands outside my room whining. Not continuously...most are just loud exhales that only occasionally turn into whines. As if to say, "I'm not really trying to bother you". Get up to let Eddie out into yard.

6:45 am: Alarm goes off. Struggle to find off button on strange alarm.

7:00 am: Alarm goes off again. Realize I only managed to hit the sleep button. After turning on light and inspecting strange, cryptic alarm, get up to crawl under bed and unplug alarm.

7:15 am: Alarm goes off again. Consider consulting priest. Realize that it is one of those damn failsafe alarms. Turn on light, yank out batteries.

7:30 am: Awake to sound of cat, who wants to be fed, dropping things off bathroom counter into toilet. Sound is impossible to ignore. Was that splash my toothbrush? Get up to feed cat.

8:45 am: Eddie, whining again. Get up to feed dogs and let out into backyard.

9:15 am: Eddie and Joe, both whining. Repeated pleas of "shhhh" fail to invoke sympathy. Get up to take dogs on walk around neighboorhood in pyjamas. Realize sleep is beautiful, impossible dream.

Post St. Patrick's Day #2

An Open Letter To Drunk People:

Please do not give into the deluded thought that us sober, calm people are uptight and repressed and just need to learn to have a little fun, and that we can be led by your shining example. The only thing we are repressing is rage. The next time you push in front of me at a concert to flail wildly, scream moronic things, grind against your boyfriend/girlfriend, and expectorate like a lawn sprinkler, I will not be tapping you on the shoulder merely to glare and motion you to the side. I will be tapping you on the shoulder so that you will turn around for me to punch you right in the face. I've done it to Italian sailors, I can do it to pale intoxicated hipsters at the HiFi.
Motherfuckers.

Love,
Me

p.s. As a total aside....the general rule is, if you need a thick belt around the waist in order to have a waist...you shouldn't be wearing one. They are ornamental and not in fact load-bearing.

Post St. Patrick's Day #1

The Legend of St. Patrick:

"Most people in Ireland didn't like snakes. They thought snakes were slimy and poisonous and had big nasty fangs, and they were afraid of them. Patrick didn't like snakes either, and was afraid of them for the same reasons. He decided it would be a pretty good miracle to get rid of them, and so on the day he told the people he would chase all the snakes out of Ireland, he showed up with a drum made of snakeskin and walked down the middle of Dublin town beating it so loud that the windows shook.
The noise made people clap their hands over their ears. The snakes, of course, had no hands, and couldn't protect their ears from the noise. All they could do was slither away.
Patrick drove the whole hissing, wriggling mass of them into the Irish sea, and from then on, people called him St. Patrick and there were no more snakes in Ireland."

The Legend of the Pied Piper:

"In 1284, the town of Hamelin was suffering from a rat infestation. One day, a man claiming to be a rat-catcher approached the villagers with a solution. They promised to pay him for the removal of the rats. The man accepted and thus took a pipe and lured the rats with a song into the river, where all of them drowned.
Despite his success, the people reneged on their promise and refused to pay the rat-catcher. The man left the town angrily, but returned some time later, on June 26th, seeking revenge.
While the inhabitants were in church, he played his pipe again, this time attracting the children of Hamelin. One hundred and thirty boys and girls followed him out of the town, where they were lured into a cave and never seen again. "

As we can see, there are certain similaries. Pestilence, noise, drowning, creative problem-solving. Here is an easy guide to keeping things straight.

1. St. Patrick did not charm the snakes with sweet sweet pipe music, and lead them into the ocean. But if you think that, it's pretty cute.

2. The Pied Piper did not chase the rats with a drum.

3. Snakes are not actually slimy but feel cool and dry to the touch.

4. Unlike snakes, both rats and children have hands to put over their ears.

5. It would also be a pretty good miracle to beat children with a drum.

6. There is no St. Pied Piper.

my banjo name is 'Lil Catfish Edwards

If I get asked any question more often than "what the hell are you wearing?" I would say it has to be, "Hey, how are those banjo lessons going anyway?"

Yes, I am learning the banjo. I am taking a course every wednesday night, along with five other of the hippest people in Calgary. Which includes two old men, a somewhat neurotic plump housewife and a brother/sister duo who have Goodtime banjos, which look like they are made out of balsa wood.

The style of banjo I am learning is called Clawhammer. It differs from Bluegrass in the respect that instead of using finger picks to pick out of a lot of little notes, you hold your hand in a grim arthritic rictus position to strum and pluck between each note. So in short, your hand is the clawhammer. Perfect for when I am older and suffering from the rheumatiz.

So far I'd say I'm doing pretty well, although I seem to be having "practice issues". I'm not the slowest in the class but we are all having our overall-clad butts kicked by the brother/sister team, who keep being sent to the other end of the room so their awesomeness does not discourage those of us still trying to perfect our lobsterlike hand position.

Housewife, to me: "Gosh, they're doing well, aren't they?"
Me (loudly): "I think, at this point, it's pretty clear those guys are total nerds"

I tried to stay on the remedial side of the classroom for as long as possible, where the chord changes are slow and we get to play "Micheal Row the Boat Ashore" in an endless and relaxed way. However last week my teacher promoted me rudely to the keener side and I'm now trying desperately to keep up. I immediately suffered a crisis of confidence...

Me: "I have no idea what I'm doing wrong, but this doesn't even sound like Oh Susanna."
Teacher: "Oh, I see what the problem is..."
Me: "I have the wrong tuning, don't I?"
Teacher: "Actually we're playing Cripple Creek."

Oh.

I better play more, or I'll never pass the exam. Which is of course playing dueling banjos against the teacher while standing in a tub of mud and chewing on a stem of wheat.

i'm thinking of sending a check like this to the calgary parking authority

I can't stress how much you need to see this...

....if you ever wanted to read my blog translated into ebonics. And trust me that you do, women and men.

a cross post picture

This is a photo of that kid who played Harry Potter....naked....with a horse. I had heard of this but not seen it.

I honestly can't figure out if I'm turned on or what.

palpitating the hearts of nerds everywhere

Today I was walking down 17th Ave on my daily mission to hunt and/or gather lunch when two guys walking towards me parted so that I could pass between them. I could feel them giving me the ol' elevator eyes.....a few steps past this appraisal I heard one say to the other:

"Hey, she looks really smart"

Which I think marks the first time I have been catcalled on my intelligence.

I knew selecting eyeglasses endorsed by the Jr. Accountants League of America would be a good choice.

I. Get. The. Hint.

There really is no clearer sign that you should get off your expanding butt and write a blog than people actually sending you emails with helpful possible blog topics. So. I promise to write more and I'll start with this:

In high school, Marsha and I were way ahead of everyone else. This sounds like in some way it may be immodest but I think it's actually just true. So instead of paying attention during class we came up with myriad projects like making a list of everything funny ever said on the Simpsons and writing those stories where you put down two lines, fold it over, then someone else writes two lines, and so you eventually unfold it and read the accordion-like and hilarious results.

Somewhere in all of this we also came up with a national holiday, No Socks Day.

Years later it turns out that No Socks Day is real.....it's May 8th. So on that day you should all take off your socks. But not near me necessarily because I am very sensitive to foot odour. I know you think your feet don't smell, but man, they do. So maybe let's call it No Socks In Your Own Personal Space Day.

Also Marsha found that every day is actually a day of something....my birthday is Lumpy Rug Day. Which I vaguely resent.

It is better than it being on Baby Day (ugh!) or More Herbs, Less Salt Day, but not quite as good as if it had been Sea Monkey Day or perhaps Wiggle Your Toes Day.