Lights! Camera! Popcorn!

It's time to raise the curtain,
It's time to light the lights,
It's time to get things started,
It's the Monarch's Opening Night!

It's been a busy couple of weeks, and during that time, I had the distinct privilege of picking gum off of 410 theatre seats. (Some committee members bring organization, networking, fundraising opportunities, and business savvy to the board; I bring other skills.) But at long last, the ceilings were painted, the bathroom sinks renovated, and the bare minimum of food safety requirements met.

Everything was as ready as it could be, there was nothing left to do but open the doors and see who would walk in. It was a gala event in the finest, with all the good members of the populace decked out in their formal apparel. I must admit, when it comes to black-tie crowds, I've never been much of a schmoozer. But this time, I tried to make an effort. And so, when one lady in a sparking blue gown came up to me, I straightened my hat and put on my best smile.

Ten seconds later, while gesturing to indicate the scope of the renovations, I clotheslined a concession clerk carrying a tray of popcorn. Kernels went everywhere, almost reaching the press photographers standing nearby. Fortunately, they were paying keen attention, and didn't let the mess obscure any of their pictures.

The lady in the blue evening gown wandered off immediately, but by the end of the evening, I'd volunteered to help sweep up another two (unrelated) popcorn spills, and I was good friends with most of the staff.

Like I said, I'm not a black-tie schmoozer, but I've got my strengths.

I must admit, I'm not really sure if that was the hard part or the easy part. Sure, we had to overcome insurmountable odds in order to get the place open, but now we've got any number of day-to-day crises on our hands.

Whatever it is, though, it's going to be fun.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a late showing of "Vertigo" to attend.

Beam up, tune in, drop out.

A person's mind wanders into strange places when they're waiting for the curling game to end.

Transporters. I don't think any actual scientist ever gave them a moment of serious thought, until science fiction writers needed a way to get their characters from A to B. Sure, they'd be cool, but only in a "chocolate and gumdrops falling from the sky" sort of way. Honestly, I'd rather see billions of research dollars go towards moonbases or artificial intelligence or public broadcasting.

Besides, there's the philosophical implications that they pose to the distinction between body and soul. Imagine a teleporter that could zap any person to any location -- with the exception that the person was always dead when they reached Point B. This device would actually be surprisingly useful. For one thing, burials would become obsolete. And who knows? Maybe giant composting plants would be more popular if nobody actually had to put any bodies in it. On the other hand, suicides would become extremely grisly. For example, people could die, and then fall from a great height, which means unfaithful lovers would end up having to buy quite a bit of extra hail insurance.

But that all is based upon the supposition that the human body could not function without a soul. But what if it could? "Impossible," some might say. "It's the spark that gives us life!" Ah, yes, but if you don't mind me reusing that straw metaphor -- you don't need a live battery, once the engine's started. And you don't need teleportation to get there, either.

Hair grows. Skin sloughs off. Cells die, and are replaced. Cell components break down, and are repaired. 70% of the body is water, and water tends to slosh around. One way or another, all the parts of your body are replaced after a few years.

So, what if everyone on Earth was born with a soul, but it went on to the next world once your original body was exchanged? For one thing, it would explain all those gift shop souvenirs that depict angels as winged babies. It might even explain parental love a little bit, too. But most importantly, I think it could actually be a half-decent compromise between atheists and Christians: The soul is immortal. But if you're old enough to read this, you've already lost it.

Food for thought.

(Caveat: No, I don't honestly believe this. You should know better than to listen to my rinkside philosophy. But it might make for a good story idea someday.)

The Hershey Henhouse.

At the restaurant for lunch today, we were discussing various subtleties of English (e.g. is the first E in 'eleven' supposed to be pronounced like the E in 'me' or the E in 'meh'?), and I was taking the stance that McLeven would be a perfectly acceptable alternative. I really like this idea, I said.

"Denton," replied MJ, "You like any idea that's yours."

"True, but that's usually because no one else would."

I didn't win all my arguments today, but I won that one. Bolstered by my victory, I decided to try out another of my ideas this evening:

Chocolate Chicken.

Now, hold on. Just think about it for a second. Honey-glazed chicken? Yummy. Apricot chicken? Fancy. Chicken with plum sauce? Essential. There's nothing saying you can't put the sweet to the meat. On top of that, hot chocolate with cayenne isn't at all uncommon in the southern lands, right? I figured it was worth the risk. (Besides, depending on how it turns out, it'll either be my reward for returning to this blog, or my punishment for having abandoned it.)

So, let's begin with the chicken.

Okay, that was easy. Next, the sauce.

1. Seven squares of dark (60% cocoa) chocolate. Leave the Quik on the shelf -- we're going for something special. (Besides, they were left over from Christmas.)

2. Cayenne pepper. Helpful cooking hint: when buying a brand-new packet, do NOT tear it open with your teeth. Regardless, I sprinkled a bit and a bit more in, which was probably a bit too much.

3. Peanut sauce. My reasoning was that chocolate and peanut butter are a solid combination, as is Satay chicken. Once again, I added a bit too much -- chocolate now consists of about half the sauce ingredients by weight.

4. A splash of milk. Just to keep it from solidifying as it cools.

5. A dash of maple syrup. There's a reason those dark chocolates were left over from Christmas -- I hate that stuff.

6. Finally, a pat of butter. Once again, butter chicken is good, and cocoa butter is good. Besides, since I don't have a double boiler, this'll be a good indication of when the chocolate's melt-- whoa! That was quick! Okay, blogging's over. Must stir.

*****

All right. Here it is, the final product: Denton's Aztec Chicken. (Give it a fancy name, and they'll at least take a bite.) Behold its majesty.




And now, time for a bite.

It's dark. Not just the chocolate, but the fine grit of the cocoa bean, rolling over your tongue like a storm cloud, bolts of cayenne streaking out as it goes by. It's thick, too -- it coats your mouth, grabbing on to your tastebuds like a pack of starving wolves will drag down a moose. You search the taste frantically, seeking to identify anything else, perhaps seeking escape. You find none -- the chicken is just as helplessly caught in this chocolate morass as you are. Perhaps a bit more salt would have given it some fighting spirit, but it's too late for that now. The chocolate continues to overwhelm, dark and thick like the evil in men's souls, refusing to be ignored, refusing to be understood.

That was way too much cayenne.

Okay, second bite.

Yep, still the same.

*****

And so it went, ladies and gentlemen, on and on into the night. I choked, I wept, I reached for the water -- but I finished it. I like to think that counts as a victory of sorts.

Besides, more sugar next time, and a bit more liquid to thin it out, and it'll be fine.

The 10% gratuity is included.

The story can be told so simply and yet so completely, it's almost as if a haiku happened to me.

I enter a Subway sandwich store at 20h00 on a Saturday evening. Before I order, the youth comes out from the back room and says hello.

"Just so you know, we're out of bread."

"...bread? How does that happen?"

"Ehh, the staff screwed up. It happens sometimes."

See, this is why 1.5% unemployment isn't always a good thing.

Like a post-post-modern man.

Well, after my first day as a cellular user, I remembered to turn it on, and saw that I had one text message and seven missed calls.

TEXT (PARENTS) -> YOU HAVE OUR KEYS
MISSED CALL (PARENTS)
MISSED CALL (PARENTS)
MISSED CALL (PARENTS)
MISSED CALL (PARENTS)
MISSED CALL (PARENTS)
MISSED CALL (PARENTS)
MISSED CALL (PARENTS)

Oops. Looks like I still have to get the hang of this.

NaNoWriMo update: My Favourite Editor.

Well, I started off with a bang for NaNoWriMo this year -- 10,000 words in the first weekend.

The story was about twelve people that traveled across Canada. So, the first chapter was about the person from B.C., the second chapter was about the person from Alberta, and by the time I got to Saskatchewan, I was struggling to get the words across. My characters were struggling to find interesting things to do. They seemed trapped at a rest stop on the Trans-Canada, unable to do anything but talk about coffee. That wasn't what I wanted -- what I wanted was to write about the songs of walruses and unquestionable dominance of the polar bear. I want to write about high-kicking seals, about towns populated only by sled dogs, and about hunting trips that don't require any preparation beyond flour and ammo.

So, I'm going to write about it. Goodbye, original storyline! Hello, drastic swerve into interesting material!

It might seem a bit capricious and, well, amateur to switch gears halfway through. But NaNoWriMo's all about your self-discovery as an amateur writer, and that's exactly what this is. Besides, I'll still be incorporating my first three chapters -- it's just that these will be the only characters. I'm just editing out the chaff before I write it, that's all. I'm looking forward to this weekend of writing more than ever, now.

And on a completely unrelated note: Guitar Hero may make you feel like you're playing at a sports stadium. But Wii Music makes you feel like you're playing at the Muppet Theatre. There's something to be said for that.

Just like a breakfast: tasteful, yet energizing.

At the greenhouse today, my supervisor introduced a visitor to our group. She'd been tied up in meetings all day, so he was wondering if we could just keep an eye on her for half an hour, and have a little informal conversation.

No problem, said I. So, we sat down and had a little chat, trying to keep from talking about any of the reasons she was visiting the greenhouse. She mentioned where she was from, and that she was new to town, and I asked her what sort of hobbies she had, and so forth. And then she asked us what our hobbies were. MJ answered first -- mountain biking, primarily, and he discussed that for a bit. Then she looked at me, and repeated the question.

Well, if you ask someone in the middle of NaNoWriMo what their hobbies are, you risk a very long answer. So, rather than bore her, I mentioned my second-latest pursuit: Captain Shrovewreaker. But I didn't think explaining the whole Dr.Horrible/breakfast pirate thing was entirely necessary, so I shortened it.

"Well... it's just a hobby, but I have a lot of fun making short videos and putting them up on the Internet."

And then, I thought, maybe she likes acting. I could use actors for the next Shrovewreaker video.

"Say, what about you? You comfortable in front of a camera? microphone? Up on stage?"

No. No, she wasn't. Well, maybe I could enlist her for set design. Painting backgrounds and whatnot.

"Oh, well, that's too bad. Do you have any other artistic talents, though? You see, these films are pretty low-budget..."

...and it's only at this point that I notice MJ trying hard not to laugh, and finally realise what these "films" must sound like. And that, my friends, is the end of my diplomatic career.

Fun while it lasted.

Better cheating through chemistry.

I'm sure everyone's heard about the melamine scandal in China right now. At first, milk, then eggs, and now it seems to be in livestock feed, as well. I wondered, though: what is melamine, and why is it added? To increase the amount of protein reported, apparently. Ah, so it's a protein substitute?

Not quite. You see, the way many labs test for protein is to look for the total amount of nitrogen. Almost any type of nitrogen.

Now, behold the chemical structure of melamine.



This may be a bit gauche of me, but I find that vastly amusing. It's like Homer Simpson is running the feed lot:

"Dad, marbles won't work. The food inspectors test for nitrogen."

"Nitrogen, eh?" (dials up chemical company) Y'ello. I'm looking to purchase (reads notes) ... nitrogen."

"Certainly, sir. What sort?"

"Um... nitrogen."

"...nitrogen?"

"Yes."

"... all right. You mean, something with a lot of nitrogen?"

"...Yes. As much nitrogen as possible per... chemical."

"Hm. Well, how about melamine?"

"Does it have nitrogen?"

"Oh, yeah, plenty."

"Excellent. I'll take your melamine."

"But, sir! We have over 20,000 tonnes of it... hey, he hung up already."

And so was born a worldwide product recall, as people poured an industrial byproduct into their food, in order to inflate the quantity of their product in a market that only knows how to buy in bulk.

D'oh.

(Insert screaming bunny sound here.)

Hey, I'm new to this video editing thing. It's only natural that I should lose two hours of work once or twice...

Guest blogging resumes tomorrow. After I've had a good cry.

Honest Q; Sad, sad A.

A while back, my friend Joe posted a comment on this blog asking what my co-workers thought of my creativity. A flattering question, but to me, "creative" means writing a computer program, or acting in the Mikado, or perhaps writing a computer program which acts in the Mikado.

Perhaps I can describe this better using an example.

At work yesterday, I learned of Roscoe's House of Chicken' n Waffles. Chicken and Waffles together? Really? My interested was aroused... and it's not like I had anything better planned for supper that evening. So far, not very creative.

However, my larder was unprepared for the project. I had no chicken, but I had ground beef. Actually, it was soy-based ground beef substitute. I had no gravy, but I had a package of goulash mix, and some mushrooms and onions. I had no waffles, but I had Eggos. Still not creative, but close enough! Ladies and gentlemen... Goulash Stroganoff on Eggo.



In Joe's defence, maybe it could be called creative... because I certainly wouldn't have called it good.

Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.

børked, børked, børked.

Once again, it's made clear that I'm no longer the culinary master I once pretended to be.

It started out with an encouraging mix of inspiration and circumstance. Ever since moving to the Hat, I go a little "import crazy" when I'm in a large city. Arabic lemonade, Italian pasta dyed black with squid ink, Lebanese couscous... it's a cultural mosiac in my larder by the time I'm done. Unfortunately, sometimes that leaves me with a freezer full of marlin belly, and a pantry full of instant goulash. I had no idea how I was planning to cook the marlin belly, but the goulash mix helpfully suggested it could be used in a fish soup. Really... you don't say.

The first thing I learned about marlin belly is that it stinks. Imagine if octopi were hairy, and didn't leave the house very often. It was an illuminating discovery, if not enjoyable... as for subsequent lessons, they were considerably less important. So in an effort to dull the approaching disaster (which I was anticipating to resemble fish-based pork rinds), I tossed in a package of rice noodles. The aroma of octopus-belch persisted, but the noodles had mellowed enough of the flavour to make it slightly palatable. After the trial bowl, I tucked it away in the fridge, content in my accomplishments.

I returned to it after an extended absence (much like this blog) and found that its quality had declined considerably (much like this blog). The soup had solidified, gelled, receded into itself. I cut into it, and it quivered, possibly enraged with its own existence. I created a soup with just enough sentience to despair.

Or, perhaps I used too many rice noodles. Either way, happy meals and happy posts should resume this week.

Thanks for your patience.

The Flaming Disasters take to the ice.

Last week was my curling team's fantastic debut. That's "fantastic" in the literal sense, by the way, since losses that huge can't possibly be achieved without the aid of imps and pixies spitting honeydew on our rocks as they wheezed and whizzed down the ice. The opposing team was very good about the whole affair, though. In fact, they were polite enough not to keep score after the first end -- a great kindness which is usually rewarded with a kingship in the fables.

(Stop the presses! I just realised that "fable" is probably the origin of the word "fabulous"! Another victory for linguistics -- but also a crushing defeat, since that actually justifies "blogalicious" as a real word.)

I'll say it again: we are an awful team. We'd actually improve if we just started throwing stones at random. Actually, I take that back, for it isn't true. The reason I know this is because one of our curlers decided to start throwing stones at random while I was still deciding what shot to call, and that didn't work, either. However, no one fell down, and everyone had a great time. A moral victory for the scorecard, if nothing else.

Our second game of the season was this morning, and I was ready for it: I'd checked three curling books out of the library, and although two of them really didn't offer much besides an examination of 18th century Scottish poems about curling, it was still more research than I'd done last week.

We played a jolly group of seniors, they weren't quite as lenient as last week's opponent. To say they blew us out of the water in the last two ends wouldn't be quite right: Far more accurately, they blew us out of the water, and then hit us again before we landed, and again, and again, resulting in a mid-air combo KO. It's not often that curling reminds me of Street Fighter II, but when it does -- it hurts.

But that was just the last two ends. Maybe it was because they were still warming up, but for most of the game, we actually held our own. Guards were placed where necessary. Draw shots cozied up right into the house. Takeouts were landed with a satisfying crack. Not always, but often enough that we began to dream of better games after this one.

And once, just once, your humble skip had the hammer, and managed to curl it right around the guards. That beautiful stone gently bumped out the opponent's rock and came to rest snugly on the button, turning a 3-point loss into a 1-point gain. Not only did the other team offer a polite round of applause, so did the neighbouring rink.

It was truly... blogalicious.

I do the best imitation of myself.

The e-mail started out innocuously:

"The organisers of the staff Christmas party have asked me to pass on the following announcements..."

Potluck suggestions, reminders to clear attendance with supervisors, etc.

"Also, we are interested in putting on a staff talent show. Please reply if you're interested."

ah-HA!

This might be good. In fact, it might be VERY good. I just had to confirm one small detail... and an hour later, I'd confirmed that I was indeed the only person in my section (and quite possibly my entire department) that wants to do this. In other words: Carte Blanche. 15 minutes, all to myself.

The only restriction on content is that it has to be "clean and inoffensive". Ah, if only we had naught to fear, save that which is dirty and slanderous... For example here's my favourite idea so far: I recruit MJ to help out (he's described himself as an "outside chance" for this), and he walks onto stage, pulling a wagon with a few 2x4s and some power tools. I follow him on, wearing a top hat. I announce to the crowd: "Ladies and Gentlemen! Can MJ build a wall so large, he cannot push it down?"

I then play "Flight Of The Valkryies" on a harmonica (or perhaps kazoo), while MJ builds a wall, stands it up, and pushes it down. We take a bow, and leave the stage.

There you go. Clean, inoffensive, and a 100% guarantee that we'll either have a much better turnout at next year's talent show, or no talent show whatsoever.

Believe me, I'll let you know if I think of anything better -- and of course, your own suggestions are graciously welcomed.

This is going to be SO much fun.

With or without.

This started out as a good weekend. I’d discovered Canada Writes, and decided to submit a two-hundred-word poem into the contest.

There was just one problem: my favourite literary device is logorrhea. Not surprisingly, taking my thoughts and scaling them back to two hundred words was like cutting off my arm with a pencil.

Worse, it's in iambic tetrameter. I spent the entire Sunday morning agonising over two things: whether the word "with" should be in line 3, and what three-syllable, middle-stressed word could describe a cityscape. You know, something like "imposing".

(...wait a second.)

At any rate, this was doubly frustrating for me, because I had just attended a slam poetry festival in Edmonton. Wasn't I inspired by the adrenalised emotion of their unfettered words? Their ability to scream epithets against monkeys whenever they pleased?

No, the sad truth is that although I'd love to don the black leather jacket of modern free verse, my physique doesn't fit anything but the blue employee's vest of happy sing-song. I guess that sometimes suffering for your craft means that the reader can't suffer with you.

Poetry can be so cruel sometimes.

Hurry Hard.

Last night, I attended the curling club's registration night on Wednesday, and tried to sign up our rink: We've decided on being called The Flaming Disasters. This works for two very important reasons: first, it'll be an awesome logo. Second, we can choose disaster-themed nicknames for everyone.

Anyway, they were sorry to say that the fellow in charge of our league wasn't there, so I'd have to contact him by phone at sign up in that manner. We were, however, welcome to the complimentary burger and pop -- although the soft drinks weren't actually available.

On Thursday, I phoned up the league president, who replied, "I really should have gone to the meeting last night."

"Well, we can still arrange this over the phone."

"No, I mean I could have reminded people I'm not the league organiser any more."

"Ah."

He did provide me the number of the current president, however. I gave him a call next.

"Hi, could I enter a team in the civil servant's league?"

"Well, we'll have to figure that out."

I assume that he thinks I'm looking to join a team that's one man short. "Oh, not to worry -- I've got three friends, and we're all willing to join the club."

"Oh. Well, we'll have to figure that out."

I should interject here, and point out that at the registration night, there was a sign on the main table exhorting members to order more snacks from the cafeteria, because every little bit helps the bottom line. Right next to the flyer for purchasing advertising space on the ice. I would have thought that some new blood would be, you know... good news.

"Well, is there a problem?"

"No, don't worry. I'll give you a call Monday and let you know if anyone else signs up."

"But I've already got a team."

"I know. But we can't have an odd number of teams, you know?"

I see. So, they'd rather decline four new (young) members and over a thousand dollars in entry fees (not to mention the extra concession revenue), because otherwise they might have to redo their scheduled rotations.

It's a bit bizarre, but I can't really blame them all that much. This isn't the Tournament of Hearts, this is a community organisation. In other words, they're running this league about as well as I would. Still, I can't wait for the inevitable confusion that erupts when I actually have to pay them. My goal is to keep the circus going for as long as possible before I point out that my supervisor at the Greenhouse is their treasurer.

Money matters.

Ten months of procrastination suit me well, but since it seems like the condo is finally nearing completion, the time has come for me to start talking about mortgages. The first thing on the list: make an appointment with a mortgage broker.

In theory, mortgage brokers are a great idea. Go to one source, they do all the checking, find the best value. But when I turned to the yellow page listings, I found three pages of brokers. Am I supposed to go to a bunch of brokers, to ensure I find the one who can offer me the best deal? I suppose I could, but that seems to me like I'm missing the whole point of these things.

Instead, I shall rely on my tried-and-true selection method: Editing for poor language and design skills. Here we go!

What's that, Centum Mortgage Direct? You say in your listing, "Each office is independantly owned and operated?" Sorry, I don't know what that word means. Next!

Thanks for serving my Medicine Hat area needs, All Source Mortgages! Too bad you're in Red Deer. Next!

Ah, Premiere Mortgage, also known as mortgagescanada.net, previously known as Intel Financial. How's that brand restructuring going for you? Never mind, the animated .gifs and 8-bit colour on your website reminded me that I don't care. Next!

Now here's an interesting case. The broker's name is Janice Hehr. Her website is at JaniceHehr.com. Her E-mail is janhehr@telus.net. And she works for MortgageBrokers.com. I ask you, friends: Is this who you'd turn to for clarity? Sorry, Jan. Next!

Hello there, EXSO Mortgages! Goodbye, company name with an ostensibly dynamic acronym! Next!

Speaking of acronyms, one e-mail address contains TMACC.com, which leads to Mortgage Alliance (who apparently love to trademark generic sentences). Is "Mortgage Alliance" what the "MA" stands for? Perhaps, but you'll notice the fine print in the lower right -- the "T" stands for "Terms and conditions"! RUN AWAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!

And so it goes. I finally found a broker without any noticeable flaws in their marketing presentation, and I make my appointment. Actually, it's in 30 minutes. And now, I go back to their website, to double-check the address --

--and it's completely unreadable in Safari. All of a sudden, misspelling "independent" doesn't seem like too great a crime. It's almost as if fate is trying to tell me that trying to win the mortgage game is a fool's errand.

As if I didn't already know.

Maybe he's visiting from Brooks.

Driving through the city today, I espied a beat-up red truck in a parallel lane. It bore the standard proclamations of low intellect on its rear window, but there was something different about this one. I moved in, trying to take a closer look...

Remember what I said yesterday about Medicine Hat being a city with taste?

After seeing a bootleg Calvin peeing on a John Deere logo, I may have to take that back.

The Infrared Albatross.

This last weekend, I've been going through the archives -- every tax return, every schoolbook, and every last scrap of paper that ever found itself under a fridge magnet. Movie ticket stubs. Notes passed to me which complained about a class, without mention of which class it was. Cable bills, still unopened in their envelopes. One playing card, four centimeters tall (King of Hearts). Subscription offers for CompuServe (CompuServe?). If it was in my room for more than five days, it found its way into one of two dozen boxes labelled, "Denton's stuff". This weekend, I pared it all down to three boxes worth keeping.

An imposing challenge? Certainly. Back-breaking paperwork? The worst of both worlds. Uncomfortable bouts of nostalgia? Much to my family's regret.

Being able to burn every last one of my notes from Dr. Johnson's Chem 251, however, made it all worthwhile.

Finally, in the back of the storage room lay one last box. It was a microwave box, although that said nothing about its contents. I opened it up... and it was a microwave. Not the one pictured on the box, mind you.

Dumbstruck, I staggered to my couch and collapsed. Finally, after six hours of leafing through psychologist's reports from when I was six, my past had finally come back to haunt me.

I remember it like it was yesterday...

The microwave in the Swan Hills staff room had officially died. No amount of cajoling, directed tapping, or tinfoil would work. A replacement was flown in from Edmonton by helicopter (not really), and all that was left was to throw the old model in the trash. (Fun fact about Swan Hills: Trash = environmentally safe incinerator. Ah, good times.)

I approached the supervisor's office later that day. Might I be able to take the microwave home with me, I asked?

Whatever for, he queried.

An art project, I answered.

Very well, then, he said in his infinite wisdom. But he demanded pictures of the finished work.

To this date, that work is unfinished, and the microwave haunts my storage closet still. This is why, despite having just thrown out two boxes of adorable drawings I made for my parents when I was 3, I still can't dispose of a broken microwave.

I made a promise to make art out of that appliance, and some day, I swear I shall. Until then, look at me, this poor wretched beast, and know ye the despair of the man who can not escape his past.

It could have been worse.

In my defense, I asked if he wanted to perform his experiment first, before I grabbed a bit of his specially requested chemical.

In my defense, I only needed five milligrams.

In my defense, none of the other twenty grams I spilled made it outside the fume hood.

In my defense, I cleaned it up using all the proper safety procedures, took full responsibility, and filed a full report.

In my defense, no harm was done.

And yet... I'm really glad this week is over.

Beeeeeee-doooo.

I completely botched cooking a simple chicken breast last night.

It took me three tries to get to the post office -- and once I got there, I almost mailed my union registration card to myself.

I inspected five shelves of shampoo at the supermarket for twenty minutes, and I still came home with a bottle of conditioner instead.

I bought a jar of Vegemite as an impulse purchase.

I filled up with gas at Esso yesterday, even after reading this.

The little things are not as easy as they should be when you're fighting a cold. So, perhaps it's for the best I've only updated the blog once all week.

Regardless, you have my apologies. Normal operations will resume as soon as possible.