The More You Ignore Me The Closer I Get You're Wasting Your Time

On Monday I contacted a seller on etsy to ask a question about colour options. The listing said that other colours were available but I wanted to confirm that the specific colour I wanted was available and also to know approximately how long it would take to prepare the item if I wanted the optional colour. (Sorry to be all vague; I'm not interested in calling out this particular seller, I just want to know what you would do in my situation.) So. On Monday I sent the email (through etsy.) I haven't heard back from the seller. I know it's only been two days but the seller updated her shop yesterday with a whole slew of new items so I know that she has signed into her account and has likely seen my email. My question is this: Do I re-send my email or do I give up trying to contact her? I really like the item she is selling and I haven't been able to find something similar. I could look for a different item from a different seller that could serve the purpose but this particular item really makes my heart happy. However, I have a hard time supporting people who appear to not give a shit. Maybe I'm being harsh but I feel like etsy is a place to support artists and buy handmade and if this lady can't be bothered to reply to a simple email, maybe I should spend my money elsewhere. What would you do in this situation?

With A Twelve Pack From 12th & Porter With Billy 4:30am At Night

Dear Lovely Peeps Who Commented On Yesterday's Angsty Post,

Thank you for your kind words and suggestions. I was lost in my own head yesterday and you helped me find my way back out. You rock, dudes.

Love,
Trying To Be Less Crazy

* * * * *

Dear Stella,

I'm sorry for not realizing it was your 2nd birthday yesterday until Facebook told me. Also, happy birthday!

Love,
The Lady Who Feels Guilty Even Though She Realizes That You Don't Even Know It Was Your Birthday

* * * * *

Dear Wolfgang,

Thanks for the 4:30 wake up call this morning, buddy. Was it really necessary to continue to whine for half an hour after I took you out for a pee and gave you a drink of water and a handful of biscuits?

Sincerely,
The Lady Who Wants To Punch You

* * * * *

Dear Shawn,

You didn't get up because you didn't hear Wolfgang? Really? Really?

Sincerely,
The Lady Who Really Wants To Punch You

* * * * *

Dear A Most Wanted Man By John Le Carre,

Please do not end.

Love,
The Lady Who Is Attempting to Pace Herself

* * * * *

Dear Ryan Johnson,

Watching you plow into the boards during last night's hockey game was horrifying; I cried when they wheeled you off the ice on a stretcher. I am very happy that you are going to be okay.

Love,
A Hockey Fan Who May Be A Tad Too Emotionally Invested In Her Canucks

'Cause You Would Never Sue Me Baby It Wouldn't Look Good It'd Be Weird

Last week Shawn sold a pair of speakers through craigslist. There was a bit of confusion on Shawn's part about who he was selling them to and he ended up agreeing to sell the speakers to two different people. In his defence, he wasn't being malicious or sleazy - there was a genuine miscommunication between Shawn and the first person he agreed to sell them to. Shawn sold the speakers to the first person and emailed the second person to apologise and explain the situation.

The second person (hereafter referred to as Mr. D-Bag) replied that Shawn had a week to produce his speakers or he would sue him. He emailed Shawn from his work email address, identifying himself as a Realtor. He told Shawn that their email correspondence was a legal, binding contract and that Shawn had broken that contract by selling the speakers to someone else. He said that as a real estate agent, he was very knowledgeable about contracts and that he knew he would be successful in suing Shawn.

Shawn called Mr. D-Bag to try to diffuse the situation. He felt like he could talk to Mr. D-Bag to better explain the situation and make Mr. D-Bag realize that Shawn had made a mistake and felt remorse. He also offered to help Mr. D-Bag buy a new pair of speakers, using his contacts in the industry to get Mr. D-Bag a sweet discount.

Mr. D-Bag refused Shawn's help, saying that he didn't want or need new speakers; he wants Shawn's speakers. Only those speakers will do. He also reiterated his knowledge of contracts and his belief that he will be successful when he takes Shawn to small claims court. At which point Shawn asks Mr. D-Bag if this is really worth his time. Seriously. He's going to sue Shawn over speakers? And Mr. D-Bag says that yes, he is going to sue Shawn over speakers; it's not that difficult to file a claim and he can recoup the fee when he successfully sues Shawn. Shawn took this to mean that Mr. D-Bag has done this before.

Mr. D-Bag then tells Shawn that if he pays him $200 "compensation" he won't sue him. Oh yes, Mr. D-Bag throws down the extortion card. He tells Shawn he can have a few days "to think about it" and hangs up.

So of course I'm all riled up. I'm all "let's write a letter to his employer! Let's report him to the Real Estate Board of Canada!" and Shawn is all "I don't know. Maybe I should just pay him so he goes away."

Shawn's strategy is to ignore Mr. D-Bag in the hope that he will give up and disappear while my strategy is to draft stern letters that Shawn said I am allowed to send if/when Mr. D-Bag actually files a claim.

The situation is so bizarre. Using Mr. D-Bag's logic, Shawn could sue the two individuals who both agreed to buy the speakers and never showed up to actually complete the transaction. Or the idiot who agreed on the price but showed up with $200 less and pressured Shawn to still sell him the speakers because that's all he could afford to spend on them. That's what Craigslist is. It's sometimes shady and unreliable. Does that mean you should sue every time something doesn't work out in your favour?

I Got My Swim Trunks And My Flippie Floppies

When our two car payments and two insurance payments are combined, Shawn and I spend more monthly on our vehicles than on our mortgage. And that's not even considering the cost of parking or gasoline. At this rate we will never get out of our condo and into a real house.

Our plan is to sell Shawn's car and trade mine in for one we can compromise on (Shawn needs speed and power, I need a hatchback for easy puppy transportation.) We spent Saturday morning at a dealership getting my car appraised.

I am not a fan of car dealerships. I do not love cars the way Shawn does so I end up spending a lot of energy trying to tune him out while he drools over all the shiny new cars. Car dealerships smell funny. They have bad coffee. Car salespeople scare me a little (I think it's the combination of manipulation and desperation they exude.) This dealership was no exception.

At one point during the shenanigans, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I take two steps into the room and realize that I am standing in a puddle of dirty pee water. Someone had done something horrific to the toilet and caused a massive overflow. The floor was completely covered in water and there was toilet paper and other debris floating in it. And I was standing in it. IN FLIP FLOPS.

I hauled ass to the front desk to tell someone and the woman there says, nonchalantly, "Oh yeah, I know. Just go upstairs and use the employee bathroom." And then my head melted because seriously? You know? You know that there is a major flooding situation in the bathroom and you couldn't be arsed to, you know, put a fucking sign on the door? So people don't go in - IN FLIP FLOPS - and get dirty pee water on their feet? ON THEIR BARE FEET?

So my car dealership experience didn't start off too well.

Fast forward to us sitting down with a salesman and having him tell me how "amazing" it is that "so many woman are driving stick shifts nowadays." Now, he was an older guy (probably my dad's generation) who didn't seem like he was trying to be a dick. I think he was just trying to include me in the conversation because up to that point he and Shawn had been having a spirited discussion about the future of GM while I sat stewing about the dirty pee water on my feet and how I was going to have to throw out my favourite pair of flip flops and probably sterilize my feet in boiling water and that was really going to hurt a lot and wow this coffee tastes like mud. So. The salesman tells me it's amazing and Shawn shoots me a look (the "don't say anything Hillary, it's not worth it" look) and I bite my tongue and don't say something like "it sure is amazing! Did you know I can vote now, too?" and spend the rest of our time there stewing about dirty pee water and chauvinistic salesmen.

Here's the thing: if he had told me it was impressive that more and more women are now driving stick shifts I would probably find it a bit condescending but not outright offensive. But to call it amazing? The miracle of life = amazing. The Vancouver Canucks sweeping the St. Louis Blues in four straight games = amazing.

These brownies I made last week = amazing.

Women mastering the stick shift? Not amazing. Kind of cool, if you ask me. I definitely feel like a bit of a badass because I know how to drive stick. But I don't feel like it's my greatest accomplishment.

Shawn says I'm too sensitive. There is a slight possibility that he's correct; I mean, this did happen two days ago and I'm still pissed about it. I just find it really insulting that this man felt justified in basically congratulating me for being able to drive my car. Asshole. Needless to say, he will not be selling us a car (and not just because my car was appraised at over $10,000 less than what I paid for it fourteen months ago ... eep!)

Inland From Vancouver Shore The Ravens And The Seagulls Push Each Other Inward And Outward

Friday Faff: Soapbox Edition

One of items in my 25 Things About Me post was that I don't support the 2010 Vancouver Olympics. Sarah asked why. I composed a long, ranty post in my head but decided to try to break it down into brief sections. There will be less head melting that way.

Shame
Vancouver has more homeless people than any other Canadian city. Part of the reason is due to the fact that you can sleep on the street in Vancouver in the dead of winter and wake up alive. I'm not sure that applies anywhere else in Canada. If Vancouver has billions of dollars to swing its Olympic-sized dick around, surely they can find a few million to build housing for Vancouver's homeless.

Manipulation
If I was creating a budget for an event that is occurring in the future, I would ensure to factor in a reasonable rate of inflation. Stating that Vancouver's Olympic security budget jumped from $175 million to over a billion dollars because of inflation is manipulative and insulting.

Legacy
Just last year, Montreal finally paid off its debt from the 1976 Olympics. I am afraid that Vancouver is following the same path, especially after the City of Vancouver's $100 million loan guarantee to the company building the Olympic Village.

I love my city. Vancouver is beautiful and vibrant and alive. I understand why people support the Olympics. I understand that people want to show off this amazing city to the world. I just don't feel like it should come at a cost to Vancouver's most vulnerable residents. Vancouver belongs to everyone - not just the rich yuppies who can actually afford tickets to the games.

/end rant

Not A Letter From An Occupant

Dear Boy I Had A Major Crush On In Highschool Who I Literally Ran Into On The Street Outside My Building This Morning:

I haven't seen you in, oh, eight years or so but you are still looking good. Your dimples are as cute as ever. I just wanted to let you know that usually I brush my hair before I leave the house in the morning but this morning I was a bit rushed. I wear makeup now too! (but not until I get to work because, you know, there's no point in wasting valuable sleeping time putting on mascara because really, who sees me before I get to work? Oh that's right, today you saw me.) Also, I don't normally wear wrinkled trousers to work - I do know how to work an iron, I just didn't have time this morning. Actually, I was planning on wearing my cute little wool dress today with adorable dark red tights, but then it was raining and it looked cold and I didn't have time to check the weather network so I just threw on the first thing I found in my closet. In the dark (because Shawn's not working this morning.) So Boy I Had A Major Crush On In Highschool, if you could maybe try to picture me wearing the cute wool dress with the adorable red tights, with brushed hair and makeup on, instead of all wrinkled and disheveled like I actually was, I'd much appreciate it.

Love,
The Wrinkly One

PS: I did not appreciate your tone when you asked "So are you living around here?" Yes, there is a lot of crack in my neighbourhood but there is no crack in my house and that is an important distinction to make. Besides, you're the one going to school there. What are you learning to be? A crack dealer? Oh snap!

PPS: It would have been nice if you could have worked your schedule into our conversation somehow so that I could, you know, take the other route to the train station on those days. Just sayin'.



Dear Lady On The Train Who Sat In The Middle Of The Floor And Read A Newspaper:

Was it necessary to sit on the floor? If you really couldn't stand for the thirty minutes it takes to get downtown, you could have asked for a courtesy seat. People are jerks but I've been riding the train for over a year now and I've never seen anyone outright refuse to give up a courtesy seat when asked. By sitting on the floor, you were taking up about the same amount of floor space of four standing passengers. Could you feel the rage of the 60 other train passengers directed toward you? Maybe you shouldn't take the train during rush hour. Just a suggestion.

From,
A Disgruntled Passenger



Dear Shawn,

Hypothetically speaking, if your wife devotes a large portion of her evening (every evening, for a week!) painting the condo, acceptable comments for you to make would include:

"Wow! You are such a good painter!"
"Your painting talent amazes me!"
"This is the best paint job I have ever seen!"

Unacceptable comments include (but are not limited to):

"You didn't use painter's tape to make a crease?"
and "I'm not criticizing your work, I'm just saying that if you used painter's tape, it would look better!"

Your wife knows how painter's tape works, in theory. You wife also knows (FROM EXPERIENCE) that it doesn't really work that well and it's easier to just touch up the uneven crease later.

Love,
The One Who Makes Your Dinner And Will Spit In Said Dinner If You Make Any More Snotty Comments About The Quality Of The Paint Job



Dearest Wolfgang,

I know that my arrival home from work is the highlight of your day. I realize that it is a Very! Exciting! Thing! and sometimes you can't contain yourself. Was it really necessary to headbutt me in the mouth, though? My tooth is still throbbing. I don't have dental insurance and if I need to go to the dentist because of this, it's coming directly out of your college fund.

Love,
The One Who Can't Put Any Pressure On Her Front Tooth Without Pain



Dear Vancouver Canucks:

You had a 3-1 lead. How could you lose 5-3? To Nashville, the lowest scoring team in the Western Conference. Smarten up!

Sincerely,
A Former Fan

You Are Going To Find A Way To Fix What's Broken

Last night Shawn met me downtown after work so we could pick up our costumes for the "white trash" party we're going to tonight. It's the birthday party of a close friend of Shawn's, so instead of trying to explain how offensive it is to be having a white trash party, I'm just shutting up and going along with it. The thing is, this friend is a little WT anyway. We were over there a few weeks ago, having a few beers on his patio. When you finish your beer? You throw the can over the railing into the yard.

So we get our supplies (yes, I will be posting pictures tomorrow) and decide to get hot dogs from a street vendor. We were both hungry and didn't feel like bothering with the Friday night crowd at a restaurant. So street meat it was. And it was fabulous.

We came home and decided to open a bottle of champagne. Because hot dogs and champagne are a good combo. Don't judge. The thing is, once you open a bottle of champagne you have to drink the entire bottle of champagne. Which we did. Which led to Shawn spilling a glass on the bed (and Stella, who was lying on the bed.) So I drunkenly tried to bathe Stella, which did not go well, while Shawn decided to order a pizza. After the disaster that was Stella's bath, I decided we needed more beverages. I grabbed the vodka out of the freezer and turned back to the counter. I didn't slam the freezer door but I kind of nudged it closed as I turned around. So I didn't see the bottle of wine that was precariously balanced on top of the fridge start to tip when the freezer door made contact. The bottle of (red) wine fell from the top of the fridge straight down onto the kitchen floor (ceramic tile) and shattered. It was the biggest mess I have ever been responsible for. So Shawn and I are picking up the glass and mopping up the wine and the freaking pizza arrives. Awesome. Shawn deals with the pizza man while I try to sop up the wine from the tile grout. The tile grout that I painstakingly applied sealant to last summer. Sealant that clearly did not work, as the tile grout is now stained a deep purple. Only in areas where the wine hit though, so right now we have multi-coloured tile grout. It looks like I will be painstakingly applying red wine to the tile grout this summer. Is this a bad idea? Because I'm not kidding - that's the only solution I can think of so far. Admittedly, I've only tried to think of a solution when I've been either a: drunk or b: hungover, so something may come to me when my head is feeling a bit more clear.

We eat our (cold) pizza and drink our beverages and the night is looking up again when Shawn walks into the den and knocks a picture off the wall, sending it crashing to the den floor to shatter in a million pieces.

And then we go to bed.

This morning my head huts, my feet and fingertips are covered in tiny cuts, my kitchen floor is a different colour than it was yesterday morning, there are wine-stained rags in a heap on my balcony and my condo (and dog) smell like a winery. I think the universe is trying to tell me something, I just can't figure out what.

I Hate The World Today You're So Good To Me I Know But I Can't Change

Dear Car Dealership Lady,

I want to apologize for my bad behavior on Saturday. It's just that when you told me that I didn't have an appointment (not "I don't have your appointment marked down" or "someone must have recorded it on the wrong day" but "you don't have an appointment today *eye roll,* *sigh,* *sneer*") it stressed me out. It stressed me out because Shawn and I had already driven for over an hour to drop his car off at his dealership and then make it to your dealership on time for my 10:30 appointment. The 10:30 appointment that had been booked for days. And then, when you told me that it would "be awhile," I may have raised my voice a little. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Car Dealership Lady. I've worked in the customer service industry before. I know how much abuse you must deal with. I know that customers can be angry, bitter people. That's why I always try to be especially kind to customer service representatives. The fact that you pushed me over the edge, and so quickly, really is a testament to the combination of snarkiness, disdain and general bitchiness that you've managed to cultivate. So no, I was not willing to "leave the car and come back in a few hours" like you so helpfully suggested. I didn't mean to make your life difficult, it's just that I had another appointment I had to be at that afternoon and we had planned our day down to the minute. I'm glad that your manager stepped in at that point and told me my car would be serviced next. Things could have ended there. We could have gone our separate ways and never had to see each other again (rest assured I will not be bringing my car back to your dealership ever again.) But you had to engage me again; you couldn't leave well enough alone. You see, the only reason I brought my car back to the dealership was because my first service was free. So when you asked me to sign the slip of paper (that said I acknowledged the $49.95 fee) and I refused, I don't think you should have acted to surprised. I don't care that the salesperson that sold me the car doesn't work there anymore. I don't care that the dealership was sold to another company. I don't care that it's no longer company policy to give the first service free. It was policy when I bought the car. End of story. The eye rolls and exaggerated sighs were not necessary (or appreciated.) Nor was the muttered, "I'll see what I can do."

In the end, my car was serviced for free and barring any future warranty issue with my car, you and I will never have to see each other again. So Car Dealership Lady, I'd like to take this chance to apologize for the scathing letter I sent to your boss.

Cheers!

Hillary

* * * * * * * * * *

Dear Matt,

I've been seeing you for 4 years. For 4 years you have been trying to convince me to go blonder! shorter! more layered! with bangs! For 4 years I have been telling you to take half an inch off the bottom. So when I sat down in your chair on Saturday, I was excited. "Take it all off!" I told you. "There's no limit! Do whatever you want!" I had high hopes, Matt. High hopes that you so cruelly dashed when you turned the chair around to the mirror and showed me my new hair. My new Weather Girl hair. My flippy at the bottom Weather Girl hair. There are no words. I hate you.

Hillary

* * * * * * * * * *

Dear Stella,

I know that you hate your puppy seat belt. The problem is that you hate being in your crate in the car even more. When you're in your crate, you cry and you howl and I cannot concentrate on driving. I tried letting you free in the car, but that almost ended in disaster when you dove down to my feet while I was driving. The puppy seat belt is our compromise (oh how I wish I could explain compromise to you.) The puppy seat belt goes around you like a harness and attaches to my passenger side seat belt. You're attached to the car, so you can't get tangled in my feet, but you're close enough that I can still pet you. Win win, right? So why do you hate the puppy seat belt? Why do you chew the puppy seat belt? More importantly, why do you chew the car seat belt? I know it's just two little pieces of plastic that you chewed but I had it priced while I was (patiently) waiting for my car to be serviced on Saturday. To fix the two little pieces of plastic, the entire seat belt system needs to be replaced. The parts alone will cost $1100. So obviously I'm not getting the car fixed. And you, obviously, will be traveling in the crate from now on. Asshole.

Love Mom

* * * * * * * * * *

To my menstrual cramps, headache, lower back pain and sore ankles (tell me this is a result of non-supportive (but cute!) shoes and not my period and I will eat your face),

Go the fuck away.

Hillary

* * * * * * * * * *

Dear Shawn,

Thanks for inviting your pretty, skinny, smart, judgey friend over for dinner tonight when I'm fat, bloated and have bad hair (not to mention a half-organised kitchen and a dirty bathroom.)

You better bring home ice cream. And pick up your socks.

Your loving wife,
Hillary

* * * * * * * * * *

Dear Chocolate,

Thank you for being you.

I will love you forever,
Hillary

There's Rabbit And Piglet And There's Owl, But Most Of All Winnie The Pooh

Last night we went to Shawn's brother's house to check out his new reno (and sit in his backyard and drink beer. Oh suburbia, how I love you and your wide open spaces.) Shawn's brother lives on a main-ish street that has a lot of small cul-de-sacs off it. We were driving past one of these cul-de-sacs when I noticed a bear in one of the gardens. Not a cute little garden gnome-ish type bear, but a huge mutha black bear. So we pull over and watch it amble through the flower beds, wondering what to do. We couldn't just leave - what if someone came out of their house and startled the bear? What if the bear felt threatened? We decided to call 9-1-1.

The 9-1-1 dispatcher put me through to the Police dispatcher who was completely unimpressed with the fact that there was a bear! in someone's garden! send in the troops!

After discerning that I was not in the immediate vicinity of the bear (seriously, if you had a bear breathing down your neck, would you a: call 9-1-1 or b: run the fuck away?) she asked if the bear seemed aggressive (how am I qualified to answer that? Who am I to determine how the bear is feeling? I just found the bear, I didn't ask how it's doing) or if anyone was chasing the bear (I know, right? Chasing the bear. Who would do that? Moose tits, that's who!) I told her that no, the bear was happily munching away on something in the garden and no-one was chasing it. She then gives me the phone number for the conservation office and tells me that unless the bear is harming a person or is being harmed by a person, the police don't do anything. Which just seems wrong. I mean, it's a BEAR. In a GARDEN. Down the street from an ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. But it's not a police matter because there has been no blood shed. Blows my mind.

So I call the conservation office. The man I spoke to told me that all they do is record the date, time and neighbourhood information for their statistics, unless the bear is harming a person. In which case I should call the police.

It's a tough one - on one hand I feel like when you build houses on a mountain, in wooded areas, you deserve to have bears eating your petunias. On the other hand, I feel like there needs to be some sort of agency to deal with incidents like this. It's not safe to have bears in neighbourhoods. The neighbourhoods aren't going to disappear (and hopefully neither will the bears) so someone needs to be able to protect the people in the neighbourhoods. Just last week in Coquitlam there was a woman gardening and she got mauled by a black bear. It would be interesting to know if anyone had called the police with any bear sightings in her neighbourhood that day.

Momma, Keep On Praying, Cause I Aint Changing, I'm Complicated

I am both melty and unmelty today.

I'll start with the melty so I can end on a positive note:

I stubbed my toe really hard last night. Hard enough that it hurts to wear shoes today. I'm not even wearing difficult shoes - I'm wearing sneakers. Hopefully it feels better soon so I can wear my gorgeous wedding shoes and not sneakers with my wedding dress.

Yesterday was the pub's event coordinator's last day. I have yet to hear from the woman who is replacing her. This does not reassure me.

I booked massages for me and Shawn on Sunday afternoon. Getting the appointment was frustrating and stressful (which irks me because I'm booking the massage so I'll feel less stressed, right?) I just got a call from the spa confirming my appointment for an eyebrow wax tomorrow morning. Ridiculous. Also? The woman who called didn't believe that it wasn't my eyebrow waxing appointment (I guess she thought I was trying to cancel the appointment despite their 24-hour cancellation rule) so she was pretty bitchy. I'm debating canceling the massage appointment now because so far I've dealt with two of their employees and both have pissed me off. I have a gift certificate though so that complicates my righteous indignation.

I am feeling both melty and unmelty about:

Joining Twitter. The possibilities for wasting time are blowing my mind. Come follow me! My name is Hillarywith2Ls.

I am going to experience my very first bloggy-life/real-life crossover on Monday. Angella is doing the photography for the wedding and I'm kind of scared to meet her. (If you're reading this Angella, sorry for being such a nerd.) There's a good chance that I'm taking some wedding jitters/fears/stress and projecting it onto the whole meeting a Real Life Blogging Rockstar. I don't know. My 3 major fears for the wedding are:
1: I will trip while walking down the aisle (brick patio + high heels + clumsy (and possibly tipsy) Hillary = potential disaster)
2: I will flub the speaking part
3: I will offend / annoy / disappoint Angella
I do realize that I'm bring crazy but at this point I don't care.

I am unmelty because:

First thing this morning I got a phone call from friends in Scotland, wishing me good luck this weekend. Definitely a nice way to start the day.

My friends from England put together a lovely video for me and Shawn that makes me cry and laugh simultaneously every time I watch it. They wanted it played at the wedding but there have been some formatting issues so they posted it on facebook. It's a good thing too - if I'd been surprised with it at the wedding I would have sobbed my wedding makeup off. If my head stops melting long enough to figure out how, I will put it up here.

In two hours I get to go home and then I don't have to work again until August 11th.

I have lined up 2 guest posters for next week, when I will be off doing fabulous married things. They are both hilarious and awesome so it blows my mind that they're willing to post here.

Hey Hey Isn't That Random

Random things that happened last night / today:

Last night I went to the music store to pick up the new Kooks album. They didn't have the 2-disc limited edition in stock though, so I asked the cashier if he could tell me what was different from the 1-disc regular edition. He looked at me like I was the stupidest person he'd even encountered and said (voice dripping with adolescent attitude,) "there's 2 discs." Um, yes, thank you. What I meant was, does the second disc feature live music? acoustic versions of their songs? the Kooks doing covers of other artists' songs? I was curious because I felt like I should buy the 1-disc version because I had specifically driven to the music store to pick it up and by not buying it I would be wasting time / gas / effort. I wanted to know if the 2-disc edition was worth me going to another music store. Anyway, I didn't engage the cashier in any nastiness (though I had a few choice names I wanted to call him,) I just went home and ordered the 2-disc version online.

I did pick up Adele's album last night. She is my new girlfriend. If you don't have this album, go buy it now. You will thank me later.

I just handed in my last paper for the soul-sucking English course. I've still got some coursework left to do and a final to write in 3 weeks, but I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

Today at work, the lights in our elevator call-buttons were replaced. The old ones weren't burnt out, they were just "too orange." I'm not kidding - that's what the technician said. I asked if perhaps the priority should be fixing the elevator that stops 6 inches below floor level and I got glared at. Seriously though, I have never once thought that the elevator call-button wasn't red enough. I have, however, tripped out of the elevator on multiple occasions because I wasn't expecting a 6-inch step. Everyone in the building avoids that elevator because we're convinced that one day it will free-fall to the basement and kill whoever is riding in it.

Ice Ice Baby

Winter? I do not love it.
I hate being cold. I am not a fan of snow.
Vancouver is not a happy place to be right now, for someone who does not love the snow.
It is also not a happy place for clumsy people. People who might slip and fall on all that lovely snow and ice. People like me.
On my way to work yesterday morning (stupid Monday!) I fell on a patch of ice. I broke my fall with my arm (which, as it turns out, was not the best plan.) Long (boring) story short, I've injured my medial epicondyle (fancy doctor-speak for "bent your elbow the wrong way,") sprained my wrist and have a pinched ulnar nerve. What does all that mean? In short, my arm hurts real bad. My right arm. Rock.
I can deal with the pain (because, hello, painkillers!) it's just the inconvenience that's driving me crazy. I can barely use my right arm. I am typing this using only my left arm. It's taken me about 20 minutes. Also, the whole ulnar nerve thing sucks. The ulnar nerve is the thing that tingles when you hit your funny bone. Basically, since yesterday morning, it has felt like I've continuously been hitting my funny bone. My fingers won't stop tingling. I am not a happy camper.
I'm going to go drink hot chocolate and feel sorry for myself now.

Rain Rain Go Away

An Open Letter to Umbrella Users in Vancouver

Hello fellow Vancouverite. Isn't this rain horrible? Isn't it cold and wet and dreary outside? Don't you just want to stay inside and read a book? Me too. I don't want to have to go outside to get to work but, just like you, I have to venture out into the storm. So let's try to make this easier on each other, shall we? It's bad enough that I have to go to work on this grey Monday morning. I don't want to add umbrella-rage to my list of grievances.

So here are a few suggestions to make our commutes a bit less heinous:

The Golfer
Are you planning to get a round in at lunch? Are you holding the umbrella for a family of 8? Will you melt if touched by a single drop of rain? No? Then leave the golf umbrella at home. If your umbrella is wider than you are tall, you should not be carrying that umbrella downtown.

The Dry Space Hog
Normally I am a stickler for the "walk to the right" rule. Getting places downtown would be so much quicker if people would just walk to the freaking right. There is an exception to this rule, however, that exception being the "dry space" rule. If it's raining out and you're lucky enough to have remembered your umbrella, do not walk to the extreme right if this means you are walking under a canopy. Walking under canopies or building ledges is reserved for people without umbrellas. If you have an umbrella, you are fortunate to have your very own, portable dry space. Walking under a canopy when you are already dry is a bit redundant, not to mention selfish.

The Aggressor
Maybe instead of barreling down the sidewalk like you're the only person important enough to use it, you could try to be a bit more considerate of others. Umbrellas have pointy ends. If you get a pointy end in the face because someone is too rude to tilt their umbrella away from you when you pass, it hurts (and sometimes bleeds.) Umbrellas are big (see The Golfer.) Sidewalks are narrow. A little tilt of the wrist and 2 people can pass each other without bloodshed.

The Oblivious Opener
You exit a building, step out into the flow of foot traffic, realize it's raining, and ... stop. Right smack dab in the middle of the crush of people who are trying to get where they're going. Perhaps instead of doing your fumbling in the middle of the sidewalk, you could open your umbrella in a less crowded area.

If everyone could be a little more umbrella conscious, I'm sure that we can keep umbrella-rage incidents to a minimum.

Love,
Hillary

Passing By You Light Up My Darkest Skies

Last week I almost had a heart attack when I flipped the breaker for the hot water tank and the lights went out. S had gone to take the garbage out, so of course when he came back to a completely dark condo he blamed me. The conversation went a little like this:
Me: I didn't do it.
S: Well the lights were on when I left, so obviously you did something.
Me: Well all I did was flip the breaker, so obviously something is wrong with it.
S: *silently glowers*
Moving is not bringing out the best in us.
It was a stressful night - me trying to read the hot water tank manual by the light of my cellphone, S trying unsuccessfully to turn the lights back on by flipping the main breaker on and off about eleventy million times. After about twenty minutes of this I deduced that I had, in fact, done nothing wrong while S reckoned that I had broken the condo beyond repair.
After a frantic call to the developer, we managed to get an electrician to come out the next morning. Electrician determined that our hot water tank is a death trap, which is why when I turned it on the whole circuit shorted out. (I heart Electrician because he proved the hot water tank debacle is not my fault. I'm just sayin'.)
We don't know why the hot water tank is a deathtrap (faulty wiring, faulty element, faulty installation, etc.) We also don't know who is going to fix it. Developer has promised me hot water tonight but I have no hope.
The one (slightly) bright spot in this is that we're not actually living in the condo yet. We're doing the big move on Saturday so it's not like we're running around smelly and unwashed. Well, no more smelly than usual.

She's Electric, She's in a Family Full of Eccentrics

A haiku for the electrician who may or may not be my hero:

I want hot water
Electricity has gone
Fix it for me please