Jesus of Suburbia

A random conversation with my offspring yesterday morning…

OS: That guy’s always sitting there.

Me: Perhaps he’s Guardian of the Milk Crates.

OS: Maybe he’s waiting for Jesus.

Me: Well if Jesus ever shows up at a convenience store, you be sure to let me know.

OS: You know that even if it’s a guy that looks like Jesus, I’m still calling you.

Me: And what would he look like?

OS: You know, he floats down on a cloud, with long flowing hair, wearing sunglasses and playing a guitar.

Me: On his own personal cloud?

OS: Of course, he’s Jesus. And they’re epic aviator sunglasses like 4 sizes too big.

Me: Is he black or white?

I have no sole

I have a shoe problem.  Not in the Imelda Marcos sense, (although I would sell my first-born for a pair of LV”s), but rather in the Murphy’s Law sense.  You see, we have a love/love relationship, my shoes and I.  I love them, and they love to break on me and ruin my day on a regular basis.  It usually happens at work, which is only mitigated by the fact that a friend happens to keep a box of shoes under her desk.  Come to think of it, I have no idea why she keeps an entire box of shoes under her desk.  Perhaps there’s some sort of underground shoe fashion show/fight club thing that I’m not aware of.  I shall have to investigate further.  In the meantime, instead of walking like I have an old war wound when my shoes break, I borrow a pair of hers and pray that I don’t look too fashionably uncoordinated.  I once broke a boot heel walking across the street to the train station after work and had the choice of either walking with a serious limp, or tip-toeing it with that one foot and pretending there was nothing wrong.  I tip-toed.  I’m vain like that.

Countdown to Armageddon

They say 40 is the new 30.

Having never been much of a conformist, I’ve decided this doesn’t work for me.  Since I have every intention of living to the ripe old age of at least 90, I’m going to live under the “45 is the new 40″ banner, in which case I’ll deal with “40 being the new 30″ at that time.

Confused?  Here, this might help…

Or not.

Anyway, until such time as I do reach 45, I will be celebrating my 39th birthday in perpetuity.  Please chose all cards accordingly.

Of course, I kid.  In actuality, I could care less that I’ll be 40 this year.  I don’t feel 40.  I’ve been told I don’t look 40, (although this is usually from younger people who have no concept of time or age, but I’ll take the compliment, and run with it all the way to the botox clinic).  Nor do I act 40, much to my son’s dismay.  Hey, he’s 18, he should be used to it by now!

Let’s get ready to rumble…or not

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Actually, I can barely remember yesterday so let me start again.

I remember it like it was 4 minutes ago.  I was visiting my cousins in Tulsa, and alone in the house because they’d gone grocery shopping, when a tornado warning appeared on the television.

There was no break in regularly scheduled programming.  No “This is a message from the Emergency Broadcast System”.   Just a nonchalant box in the top right corner showing a little map of the where you may not want to be if the funnels of doom touch down.  Where was the warning of imminent death and destruction?  The sirens?  The army marshaling people to the nearest underground bunker/missile silo?  Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for James Earl Jones’ voice to come booming through the television telling people to flee for their lives?

Me (being chased by a rhythmic gymnastics ribbon)

One minute I’m happily surfing through the multitude of channels that are not offered north of the border, the next I’m plotting the quickest escape route and packing a survival kit.  And I had no idea where they kept their flares.

While simultaneously trying to start the generator and calculating the length of time and dimensions required to dig an underground shelter that will house two adults and one neurotic teenager, my cousins came home.

We were in no danger.  The little map only warns of the possibility of a tornado.  There was no need to panic and could I please put the shovel down.  Ungrateful bastards.

It takes a village idiot to raise a child

Major overcrowding

school  [skool]

Noun:  An institution for educating children, or a large group of fish or sea mammals

Personally, I’m in favour of the fish.  Fish are quiet.  You don’t have to worry about hurting a fish’s feelings.  Fish don’t have parents that whine and complain about the treatment of their offspring.  (Not to imply that all fish are bastards, just that the parental units have bigger things to fry).  Oh, and you can eat a fish.

Most importantly, a fisherman can’t be suspended for fishing, (unless of course, he’s unlicensed and/or fishing for an endangered species or something).  Whereas, if you’re a teacher working for the Edmonton School Board, you can actually be suspended for teaching.

In a bitter twist of irony, a teacher at Ross Sheppard High School was suspended last week for trying to teach his students that their actions have consequences.

Unlike when my Aunt got the strap for writing with her left hand, (the consequence of a sore palm outweighing the consequence of being burned at the stake), Mr. Lynden Dorval had the gall to give a failing grade to students who did not complete assignments.

I’ll repeat, more slowly and using smaller words.  Students that did not do their work were given a zero.

A travesty, to be sure!

According to the school board, penalizing students for not completing their work is against policy.  

Air fist-pump!

There’s definitely something to be said for the validation of strangers.  Creepy, could be one way of putting it.  Perhaps a tad stalker-ish.  Unfortunately I haven’t been able to find out whether a restraining order is applicable online.  I have put a motion forward to have it addressed at my next town hall meeting.

Of course, I jest.

This is my plaque. There are many others like it, but this one is mine.

It’s the awesomest thing ever!

I have been presented with an award.   There wasn’t really a red carpet or a ceremony or anything, which is just as well because my gown is at the cleaners).  But there is a plaque!  See?

The Liebster Blog Award is a completely fictitious but no less awesome award bestowed upon bloggers with less than 200 followers, (why do I feel like I’m one of the unpopular kids all over again), by their fellow bloggers.  And I am one of its recipients.

In other words, “You like me.  Right now, you like me!”  And there is much rejoicing.

There are also rules.  This goes against my anarchist upbringing, but I shall make an exception in this case so as not to appear ungrateful.

Here they are:

Please don’t let them die.

Is there anything more tragic than a singer who has passed away?

I just threw up in my mouth a little.

For years, or at least a few weeks on the Billboard Hot 100, we danced and sang along and illegally downloaded their music, and then all of a sudden, (after a 5-year-long battle with Ebola), they are taken from us.  Gone to the big amphitheatre in the sky, or the mosh pit down below.  Either way, they will be sorely missed.

Or not.

Honestly, whenever I hear the news that a singer has had their final curtain call, I cringe.  I dread the weeks, months, even years to come where every other song on the radio is sung by the dearly departed, even if they haven’t had a hit single since the Bronze Age.