"By the way - do you watch Battlestar Galactica? If so, what did you think of the first episode?"
I waited nice and patiently for that third season to come out on DVD... I played by their rules. I avoided the spoilers. And what happened? I was given three weeks to watch every single episode, and that's what I did. Then, for two days, I was on the same page as everyone else.
And now I'm back to running away from anyone who wants to talk about a show I love. Well, nuts to that. Tonight, I go to ride the azure torrents. I shall ride fast and hard, scarce daring to look behind me, for fear of seeing what deep-dwelling creature has been disturbed by my passage. I shall not dare to look ahead, lest I be tempted by the siren's call of boundless content and its untold riches. No, if I must ride into the maelstrom, then so shall I go, eyes open, unafraid, focused upon the one object of my desire. And by doing so, I shall effect my escape, and arrive safe in harbour at the end of my journey. Then shall I finally find out what happened at end of Season 3, and just where [CAN'T SAY] got shuttled off to, and whether [BIG] and [SPOILERS] are going to freak out, and how - or if - the entire crew survives the [YOU SHOULD SEE IT]. See? That's exactly what I don't want to do for the next year until Season 4 hits the shelves.
And so, I -- a person who would gladly pay for each episode, if only iTunes (or anyone else) made such an option possible in Canada -- descend into piracy. And I'm loving every minute of it.
Oh, and in case anyone from Grande Prairie is reading this blog: Starbuck is an exact replica of my old co-worker, Shanna. From the path of desctruction she creates right down to the flash in her eyes when she smiles. There, I said it. It's been on my mind for three years, and now I've said it.
She's going to kill me.
Showing posts with label Grande Prairie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grande Prairie. Show all posts
10.4.08
7.2.08
Trench Mouth.
"Trench Mouth" is a disease also known as Acute Necrotising Ulcerative Gingivitis (ANUG). I didn't think it was possible for a name like "trench mouth" to be less disturbing than its full medical name, but I can't think of anyone who'd put up with just two of those terms, let alone the whole quinella.
Since ANUG does such a great job of terrifying children into brushing, I think it's safe to use the term "Trench Mouth" for something else. I humbly propose: the act of accidentally saying something that would get you mistaken for a pedophile.
Naturally, I have an example.
I'm currently preparing to move into a new condo, and this requires something I never cared about before: curtains. After all, I lived in Grande Prairie for a year. It was practically a faux pas not to hang a Newfoundland flag in your apartment window. But that won't stand here, and so I found myself with an interior decorator, looking over fabric samples. (As a side note: she mentioned about four times which particular fabrics were light-blocking, which was ideal for shift work. Maybe we're not that different from Grande Prairie after all... or maybe I should have shaved that morning.)
On the drive home, I envisioned myself speaking to an eight-year-old Denton in 1984. How on Earth would I ever be able to face him, and admit that I spent an afternoon picking out drapes? He'd never forgive me. But maybe I could win back his trust by explaining the den. It's off to the side, without any windows, which makes it perfect for movies and video games. And I'm thinking about using it as a stage for film projects, too, so there'd be a dropcloth that hangs over one wall, and there'd be a camera on a tripod, and we could make movies. Doesn't that sound like fun?
And then the eight-year-old Denton in my head looked at me in silence for a moment, and then asked, "Doesn't that sound a lot like that special episode of "Diff'rent Strokes"?"
Normally, this is where a long, awkward silence would begin. But thanks to the power of language, only a short awkward silence is necessary! Then, I simply shrug and say, "Sorry. Trench mouth."
Remember those three words, my friends. They may save your job one day.
Since ANUG does such a great job of terrifying children into brushing, I think it's safe to use the term "Trench Mouth" for something else. I humbly propose: the act of accidentally saying something that would get you mistaken for a pedophile.
Naturally, I have an example.
I'm currently preparing to move into a new condo, and this requires something I never cared about before: curtains. After all, I lived in Grande Prairie for a year. It was practically a faux pas not to hang a Newfoundland flag in your apartment window. But that won't stand here, and so I found myself with an interior decorator, looking over fabric samples. (As a side note: she mentioned about four times which particular fabrics were light-blocking, which was ideal for shift work. Maybe we're not that different from Grande Prairie after all... or maybe I should have shaved that morning.)
On the drive home, I envisioned myself speaking to an eight-year-old Denton in 1984. How on Earth would I ever be able to face him, and admit that I spent an afternoon picking out drapes? He'd never forgive me. But maybe I could win back his trust by explaining the den. It's off to the side, without any windows, which makes it perfect for movies and video games. And I'm thinking about using it as a stage for film projects, too, so there'd be a dropcloth that hangs over one wall, and there'd be a camera on a tripod, and we could make movies. Doesn't that sound like fun?
And then the eight-year-old Denton in my head looked at me in silence for a moment, and then asked, "Doesn't that sound a lot like that special episode of "Diff'rent Strokes"?"
Normally, this is where a long, awkward silence would begin. But thanks to the power of language, only a short awkward silence is necessary! Then, I simply shrug and say, "Sorry. Trench mouth."
Remember those three words, my friends. They may save your job one day.
3.10.07
Deep breaths.
Oops. Today will probably go on my permanent record. It was an easy, breezy day at the Greenhouse today. Assemble some equipment, perform a bit of maintenance, balance your chest on a bench while you tilt your head upside-down to find a LAN cable that was right here just a second ago... it was the sort of good, productive day that makes you feel like you traded a spit-handshake with karma.
That's why I was in a good mood as I walked through the hallway this afternoon. There was a spring in my step and a song in my heart. One of my superiors (probably my supervisor's manager's team leader's boss, if the org chart stayed still long enough for me to read it) commented on my cheerful countenance: "Be careful, Denton," he cautioned, "you'll never get a promotion unless you start looking more stressed out!"
"Right," I replied, and then I immediately slumped my shoulders, staggered around, and started pounding on a concrete wall with my fists. I must have been putting my heart into it, too, because I've still got pins and needles in my right hand even as I type this.
I'm not sure if my response was the correct one, but it happened before I had a chance to correct myself. There's something I'd like to point out, however, that will hopefully distract you all from my remarkably poor judgement:
When asked on the spot to demonstrate signs of stress, I have absolutely no idea how to proceed, instead confusing it with lunatic rage.
Perhaps this is proof that I really do have a good time at work... either that, or it's proof that my old mates in Grande Prairie really needed a few extra long weekends.
That's why I was in a good mood as I walked through the hallway this afternoon. There was a spring in my step and a song in my heart. One of my superiors (probably my supervisor's manager's team leader's boss, if the org chart stayed still long enough for me to read it) commented on my cheerful countenance: "Be careful, Denton," he cautioned, "you'll never get a promotion unless you start looking more stressed out!"
"Right," I replied, and then I immediately slumped my shoulders, staggered around, and started pounding on a concrete wall with my fists. I must have been putting my heart into it, too, because I've still got pins and needles in my right hand even as I type this.
I'm not sure if my response was the correct one, but it happened before I had a chance to correct myself. There's something I'd like to point out, however, that will hopefully distract you all from my remarkably poor judgement:
When asked on the spot to demonstrate signs of stress, I have absolutely no idea how to proceed, instead confusing it with lunatic rage.
Perhaps this is proof that I really do have a good time at work... either that, or it's proof that my old mates in Grande Prairie really needed a few extra long weekends.
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