Nevermind. . . I don't want to know. . .

So one of the bathrooms at work got re-done. The toilet seat is weird. It's all shaped and contoured. I guess it's supposed to be ergonomically designed or something.

Come on. Ergonomically designed? Just how long were you planning on sitting there?

I take it back, I DON'T want to know.

My faith in humanity restored!

Car is back from the shop and I must say, those guys at the Husky gas station (where I took it) were super nice. I feel I got a good price for the work done - they switched out my coolant fluid, ran a pressure test on my coolant system and changed my oil. They even filled up my washer fluid, even though I didn't mention it was low! They must have checked it for me. And my conversation with them went something like this:
Mechanic: Well, you were totally out of coolant fluid. All the seals on your system are shot.
Me: I know. I was told by the dealership that it would cost $1200.00 to fix
Mechanic: Oh no. It shouldn't cost that. I mean, you're looking at about 925.00 but 1200.00 is too much.
Me: I just can't afford that.
Mechanic: Well, as long as you put fluid in every time the light comes on, you'll be fine. It'll drive no problems. Just keep an eye on it.

And I waited for him to pressure me to fix it, like the dealership had done, but then there was just silence from his end. And I said:
Can you change my oil while you're in there?
Mechanic: No problem. By the way, whoever added coolant last didn't put the lid back on.
Me: Oh. Well. (pauses - and then blurts out) It was me! What an idiot!
Mechanic chuckles: well just make sure you put it back on or it can cause worse problems.
Me (sheepish): okay, thanks. When will it be ready?
Mechanic: anytime after 1pm. You can pick it up till 9pm.
Me: Oh, wow thanks!! How much?
Mechanic: Well, I haven't totalled it up but it'll be around $XXX
Me: Alrighty. Thanks.

And then I showed up and it was EXACTLY what he said it would be!!

This is the first time I've gone to a mechanic and haven 't felt TOTALLY screwed over when I left. I was dealt with politely and (I feel) fairly. I paid what I was told it would cost. And no one pressured me to get this or that done to my car.

Monday. . .sigh

So far today: I have run out of windsheild washer fluid (and it's a bad day for that), had an electrical malfunction in my car (which now has to go to the mechanics tonight), had a parking meter fail, spent 40 minutes on hold with the parking authority, returned back to my car to find a parking ticket (and now I'll have to call those fascists back!), the power went out here - it caused my database to corrupt itself, now I'm trying to restore 20000 records and it's slow going.


sniff.

Whoa-oh, it's Magic!!

Seriously, what is that Mr. Clean Magic sponge made out of? I love it!! I use it to clean anything and everything and it truly is a miracle! It takes soap scum off the bathtub, it cleans the gunk outta my kitchen sink, it takes puppy footprints off linoleum.

And isn't Mr. Clean a happenin' guy? He's got the earing and everything. Although he kinda looks like a cross between Yul Brenner and Telly Savalas. . . .

Is Baltar a Cylon?

Now, I know Heidi's opinion. Heidi has always firmly believed (and correct me if I'm wrong in the comments, Heidi!) that Baltar is a Cylon. But I firmly believe he isn't. He should be so lucky! That would be the best thing that ever happened to him!

Besides, what kind of freaked out algorithm has he got going that makes him so squirrelly? If he was a Cylon, they would have boxed him ages ago. Seriously. You can't have a frak up like that out there running amok.

Seriously, BSG is the best show out there right now. If I was an actor on that show, I would get down and praise the gods everynight that I was born on Caprica, or woke up in a jelly mess of Cylon goo, just so I could have all my choice dialogue, angst filled scenes and the occasional jolly good time in the mess hall. But a couple of things have me worried:
a) where the heck is Caprica Six? I assume she got tossed in the brig, but we haven't seen/heard any of this (and the obscure reference to her on tonight's epy doesn't cut it).
b) Who is getting killed off? If you read the chatter out there, someone is going to that big Jupiter Eye in the Sky. Pray for Starbuck, my fellow Capricans!! She's the best female hero on tv! Sure, she's crazy and totally fraked up, but you gotta love the girl!!
c) Together, Lee and his wife are Lee and Dee. As I said to Ashleigh, BARF!
d) Why doesn't Tighe get a glass eye or something? Honestly, if the Cylons can make entire human bodies that are nearly undetectable, surely someone can toss a piece of glass at Tighe. Maybe he can use one of his whiskey shotglasses?
e) Did Adama and Roslyn get it on on New Caprica? Am I supposed to be 'in the know' on this or will they keep vaguely referencing it without actually saying it?

Dog N A

I'm a curious person and being a curious person means that I read alot. Last night I couldn't sleep but I didn't want to get wrapped up in a book and then stay up all night, so I plucked some mindless reading of my bookshelves - Your Alaskan Malamute and You. Now, Portia is not a pure bred, she was rescued by ARF (link on the right) but based on her appearance, they speculated she was either a Husky or a Malamute cross. After reading several books and scrutinizing pictures, I have decided to go with Malamute.

I was reading last night the general characteristics of malamutes: stubborn (check), likes to be with her pack (check), loves children (check), worst guard dog ever (check - she loves anyone who looks at her sideways), loves snow (check), etc. But all of this got me thinking - these were not physical traits - these were mental/emotional traits. So how much of who she is is defined by her DNA? And by that turn, how much of who we are is defined by our DNA? The old Nature vs Nurture debate. If there are characteristics that can be generally applied to most alaskan malamutes, then what would be the charateristics applied to me by my ancestors? What's a product of my environment and experiences, and what's a product of stuff lurking in my genes? My love of pink? Scrapbooking? My dislike of seafood?

If you say that someone is an artist, or musically talented because someone else in their family was and that was passed on, then what else can be handed down? Like, I hate the smell of wind, I love crunchy food and I'm afraid of the dark. If I could hand out questionaires to all my ancestors, what would they say? Would there by a high proportion of people who like pink and solitary activities the same way that Portia's ancestors learned you depended on your pack for survival and therefore, pack was all?

Shrug - but it sure makes for interesting wool gathering late at night.

That's the pic on my calendar for February and I really like it! Don't you hate it when you really like your February calendar picture but you know it's only gonna be up for 28 days? Or less if you're like me and you forgot to flip over from January. And why haven't we done something about this whole 28-day-February? Why can't we take a day from January and one from March and make all three 30-day months? Don't you think it's odd that we've never fixed this? I call for a revolution!!

Mad Rant

There is no underlying topic to this rant - just the randomness of my brain. . .

What's going on in the world today? It seems like depression is on the rise, apathy is on the rise, malcontent is on the rise. Why? Generally, don't we have it easier than any generation before us? I wasn't sold into servitude at the ripe age of 12, I wasn't married off in a pre-arranged ceremony to a groom I had never met. I wasn't only given the choice of being a teacher or a nurse because of my gender. I don't have to bake bread over a wood fire, or unravel a sweater so I can reknit it for a child that's grown. Are we any unhappier than those who came before us, or is this what happens when your basic needs of survival (water, food, shelter) are met?

There's also this need for a weird sort of full disclosure. Relative strangers will tell you about their medical problems, their mental problems, their sex lives. . .but ask someone what size pants they wear and you're likely to get the cold shoulder. Celebreties are the worst. They'll have full spreads in magazines telling the world about their drug abuse, childhood trauma or the personal details of their relationships, but remained close lipped or lie when it comes to their age or whether or not they've had plastic surgery.

Where's it all leading? What kind of world am I going to wake up in tomorrow? Will I be getting botox and cutting all the labels out of my pants? Will I tell more about myself to the stranger on the bus than I do my family and friends? Will I care?

Stranger in a Strange Land
My dad died in August. He was Greek and growing up, we'd learn a bit of Greek here and there. To be sure, I can tell you that I love baklava and tiropita. I can say 'hello, how are you' and 'I am fine' - y'know, the basics. But I was definately raised to be Canadian. Dad was Greek Orthodox, although he wasn't what you would call a religious man. My mum is Roman Catholic, and we were raised Catholic and went to Catholic school. But when Dad died, we wanted to give him a Greek Orthodox funeral, but also for his sisters, who are VERY religious. It seems like everytime I go to visit Thea Doxa (my aunt) , she's fasting for something or other. Thea Freida (another aunt) who lives in Greece, used to go to Grandma's grave everyday after she died - I think for years. And when in Greece, we had candles regularly slapped into our unknowing hands and we would light them and then place them in the little monument, or in the sand at a church - not really knowing what we were doing or why.

So when Dad died, we called the Greek Orthodox priest and asked him to reccomend a funeral home and we relied on him and Dad's Greek friends until Doxa and Freida could fly in from Greece (where Doxa was visiting when Dad passed away). And now it seems like everytime I turn around, I'm learning more than I knew before. There has been many 'funeral' type memorial services for Dad. Obviously we had a funeral, then we had one forty days after he died and there is another one today, for the six month mark. Before the forty day service, Doxa invited us over for the evening. Jenge and I went, assuming we'd have Coke, sit and mix with the Greek ladies and then go home. But at 8 o'clock that night Doxa said, "As soon as the other ladies get here, we start." Jenge and I looked at each other, eyebrows clearly saying "Start what?"

And then the Greek ladies arrived. Buckets of boiled wheat were brought out and dumped on a tablecloth on the table. A picture of my dad was brought out, a candle and some incense was lit. Tupperware containers with crushed almonds, slivered almonds, crushed peanuts, breadcrumbs, golden raisins, regular raisins, parsely, cinnamon, nutmeg, anise, and sesame were lined up. They were put in our hands and we were instructed (in half english half greek) to put it all on the wheat in the shape of a cross - three times each if possible). Jenge and I had no idea what we were doing! Then, when all the fixins were added, the Greek ladies picked up the table cloth and we mixed it by flipping the mixture over and over, 'tossing' it back and forth, using the tablecloth for leverage. It smelled wonderful and was tasted carefully by the ladies several times, with orders of "More cinnamon" "More almonds" "Get the rest of the anise" shouted out. There was lots of yelling and they argued, Greek style, about what was needed. Then it all got put into a white linen lined bucket, and another serving on a silver tray. It was carefully covered in granulated and powdered sugar, and then there was a flurry of discussion about how to decorate them. The bucket was painstakingly measured to find the exact center and then a cross was made with white covered almonds. Silver candies were placed all around, and then the edges were carefully wiped with brushes to dust off any stray powdered sugar.

I had just helped make my first Kollyva - or as Chant called it, Funeral Trail Mix. The Kollyva is set up at the front of the church during the memorial service and people can come up and place candles in the big bucket. Then, at the end of church, the candles are lit, and we each get our own candle as well while we stand in the pews. Afterward, the candles are all blown out and the men take the Kollyva to the gym (the community center is attached to the church) and mix it all up in a big bin. It gets dolled out in little paper pastry bags and everyone takes some, and a spoon and then sits around and has coffee, greek cookies and for the family, a shot of Metaxa.

Last night, we went back to Doxa's and did it all over again, Ann and my newphews in tow. And although I knew what to expect this time, I'm still in a sort of weird wondered state about what it all means. There's a very strong sense of community, of gathering. And everyone has to put their two cents in. There was a big meal afterward, with tiropita, spanikopita, salad, ribs, fish, bread, cheese and wine. I'm not sure, but I think we'll do it again at the one year mark. It's a good chance for me to practice my Greek and to make sure that I keep in touch with my dad's side of the family, now that he's gone. In a really weird way, now that he's died, I feel like I'm learning more about what it meant for him to be Greek than I learned when he was alive. I guess I always thought I'd have more time. But then, don't we all.

Everything I need to know about life, I'm learning from my dog.

Lesson 1: If you see something you want, don't give up till you get it.

Learned By: Watching her try to get one kibble out from underneath the stove for two days

Lesson 2: If you need a hug, don't be shy.

Learned By: Having her jump on me at 6 am and then throw her 50lb body down and rest her face in my neck.

Lesson 3: Stick to your guns.

Learned By: Hearing her punch the door for twenty minutes, despite being told she doesn't need to go out.

Lesson 4: If you wanna be energetic when you're awake, nap as much as you can. Preferably in a nice sunny patch.

Learned By: the number of naps she takes in a day and the amount of energy she has.

Lesson 5: If you can't be good, be good-looking.

Learned By: How often she 'turns on the cute' when in trouble.

When you need someone to tell you like it is!

We all need that someone in our lives who isn't going to take any crap, isn't going to fall for your excuses, and isn't going to let you sugar coat it anymore!

For me, I've got two peeps who fit this bill. They are 7 and 4 years old. They are my nephews.

The other day I was driving the 7 year old to skating lessons. I had put a towel down on the backseat to keep him from getting covered in dog hair, as my car is also a doggie taxi for Portia. I also commute for about two hours a day, so I have coffee cups, water bottles, sandwhich bags, candy wrappers, some grocery bags, maybe a shopping catelogue or two, an umbrella and several old travel mugs in my car (NB - this doesn't include the contents of my trunk - whole other blog).

When I opened the backdoor for my nephew I saw him look in the car and pause. I jokingly said, "Auntie Gita has a lot of stuff in her car, eh?"

He turned to face me and said, "Yeah, looks like a lot of junk!"

Truth hurts, mes amis. Truth hurts.

Let me tell you!

Let me tell you about my obsession with Sean Bean. It is fierce! Ya know, normally, I'm not into historical war stuff but I have seen every installment of the Sharpe series simply because Sean plays Sharpe. (example here). I rooted for him in Goldeneye even when he was a bad guy, I rented Silent Hill for the sole purpose of seeing him. I've watched Anna Karenina a dozen times because he's in it. I never wanted Boromir to try to steel the ring from Frodo in LOTR even though I had read the book! But why oh why does he regularly play a bad guy? In his upcoming film, The Hitcher, Sean is once again our resident baddie. I'll have to go see it just so I can ogle him, but I'm dying for him to play a romantic hero! Dammit!

Is David Caruso the new William Shatner?

Think about it. The strange pauses in dialogue. The showboating of lines. The vogueing for the camera. The thing is, when Shatner did it, it was all fun! It was like he was in on the joke. I don't think Caruso is in on the joke. Jenge and I watch CSI: Miami sometimes when there is nothing else on and I turned to her one day and said, "can you imagine how annoying it would be to live with Horatio Cane [Caruso's character]?"

Horatio Cane in deep monotone, serious voice: What's for dinner?

Margarita: Stuffed peppers.

Cane in deep monotone serious voice: We'll see about that. [pushes sunglasses on face and storms upstairs]

Honestly, you'd go mad.

Return to the Valley of the Dolls - by Squirrelly Girly and Portia

Scene begins - Jenge has just gone upstairs while Margarita sips her coffee on the sofa. . .

J (from upstairs): What medication did you have in your room?
M(sits up like a shot): No! She didn't!
J: She did. What was it and how many did you have in the bottle?
M: Umm, I dunno, 30? but I've taken some.
J: Kay, I got 26.
M: Call the vet! I don't think she ate any, but we can't be sure!
J(on phone with vet, covers mouthpiece and speaks to M): She has to come in and throw up.
M: How much is that gonna cost me?
J: Dunno, but since we can't be positive she didn't' eat them, she has to come in.

Later that day, at the vet's. . .
Vet: Looks like she didn't eat any of them, or if she did, didn't ingest any full capsules. All we found was kibble, a cookie and some black plastic.
- side note: It was "Underworld Evolution" Later found chewed up in my room.

Portia had to spend most of the day at the vet getting her vitals checked every hour, but has since returned home. Apparently she busted into the pills and was more interested in destroying the prescription bottle than actually eating its contents. That dog is going to give me a heart attack!

Ho Ho Ho!

Doggie Dope Dealer

As you know, Rocky is extremely high strung. I can't laugh during tv shows as it sets of a five minute non stop stream of barking and pacing. I also can't sneeze, move to quickly or pet Portia too long as it sets off another barking fit. So, at our last trip to the vet, Jenge talked to the vet about this problem and she recommended an herbal mixture for dogs that is supposed to calm him down. He gets three servings a day.

So, is it working? Tough to say, but the stoner doggie jokes are flying fast and furious around her. Is he calmer? Who can tell? He's wound so tightly that even if he were to calm down by 50% you might not see it. But last night I was able to chuckle quietly to myself and he didn't bark, so fingers crossed!

Working at the CarWash!
So the other day, as I was driving down Crowchild Trail, the sun was shining brightly and it was a gorgeous, bright, winter day.

Too bad my windows were so dirty that I couldn't see squat out of them.

I had pushed it too far, left it too long. Nope. Not even a trip to the gas station and some lovin' from the squeegee would save me this time.

It was time. Time for a carwash.

I love the carwash, and so I'm surprised how long it always takes me to get there. I've always got other things I need to do. Groceries, coffee stop, work, running late. I never seem to have time. But the other night, I decided, enough was enough. When you can't tell if your headlights are on because they are so dirty, it's time to go.

Going to the carwash makes me feel happy, like a child. It's loud and there's lots of stuff going on, but it's all pleasantly muffled from the safe interior of my car. Although, now that I am an adult, there is an added level of suspense: Did I close all the windows? What about the back one that's a little dodgy? Will it hold??

But it does and then the pretty colored foam gets sprayed on and I try to find exactly where it is that it turns pink and green, but I'm only ever able to catch it if I let my eyes drift over the entire windsheild. Scrutinize one point too hard, and you'll miss it. I splurged on the luxury wash, which I consider a deal at 8 bucks. Nothin' too good for my baby!

And now my car is bright and shiny and I'm busting with pride as I stare down at it in the parking lot. Do yourself a favour. Take yourself to the carwash today!

Emo vs Goth

For those of you not in the know (and hey, I'm right there with you), I have recently found out some info that may be usefull. For a while now there has been a new breed of teenager whose look is classified as 'Emo.' Now, you may look at them and see Goth, but apparently calling an Emo a Goth and a Goth an emo is like wearing a wrong colored bandana in downtown Gang City and you are asking for punishment. So I was confused, what was the difference? no one new, so I googled it and was directed to a site that Heidi had previously told me about, Ask a Ninja.

You can find out all about Emo vs Goth here.

If God Made one, Why didn't He make enough for everybody?

Went to see the new James Bond film, Casino Royale, this weekend with my mum. It was great! Haven't stopped talking about it since. Ashleigh (who saw it this weekend too) and I were raving about it via messenger as well. Daniel Craig was hands down the best Bond ever, and if you know me, you know I have been championing Timothy Dalton for years, so for me to boot him off the pedastal in one fell swoop says alot.

And as a side note to all you other action films out there, I can't recall hearing the F-word once (or perhaps I just missed it but I doubt it). No one got totally naked either (although I think everybody was wishing that Craig would!).

For those of you not in the Bond know, Casino Royale was actually the first ever Bond film made and David Niven (if you just said 'Who?' you don't know your Hollywood) played the first James Bond, not Sean Connery. I believe it was also another studio that made it other than MGM (who I think is the traditional Bond studio) and that's why it took so long to remake, they had to wait for the rights to come up. Well, it was well worth the wait. Fantastic! Two thumbs up! On the longish side, so don't drink a big coke or you'll be sorry!

Girly Girl and her Wheels.
I am irrationally attached to my car. I spend more time in my car than I do with some of my friends. I have an hour long commute (both ways) on good days, up to 2.5 hrs on bad (snowy days). I eat in my car, drink coffee, learn greek, sing along to the radio, contemplate life, work on my story dialogue, plan my day and day dream in my car.

When it had to go into the shop last week to get two new tires, I was lost without it. I had my mum's car, graciously and generously loaned to me for as long as I would need it, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't my car. There was no funny rattling sound when I stopped at red lights. No 'Check Engine' light glared at me from the dash. The heat worked great, the windshield wipers cleaned both sides, there was a cd player. It just wasn't the same. I know that sounds odd, you would think I would have been ecstatic, but, sniff, I missed my car.

So much so that when I went to go pick it up, I had a stupid grin on my face after I paid my bill and was told it was outside. 'Hi baby!' I whispered as I opened the driver door and slid in. I re-adjusted all my mirrors and my seat and then patted the steering wheel lovingly. "Did you miss me? I missed you!"

We've been through alot together, Perry (my car's name because he is periwinkle blue) and I. We've driven to Vancouver and back, we've secretly eaten chocolate bars and hidden the wrappers, he got broken into once and I was devastated. We've been frustrated by traffic, and driven late at night with no radio on and only the sound of his windshield wipers whoosing unevenly. We're mates! We're pals! We're homies! He's my freedom to get to wherever, whenever.