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Thursday, March 23, 2006
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well, hello mollusk!
In a near-perfect coda to my entry last night, a small snail was climbing the WALL OF MY BEDROOM this morning.
I like snails. In fact, I love snails -- even in butter!
But on my wall? Mais non. I will let him sit there until I leave, and then transplant him to a leaf outside. I hope he'll be okay there.
Here are some questions in his memory:
- Have you ever done something truly stupid to your hair that you regretted for months on end? Do tell us all about it!
- If you had a snail of your own -- like I did for a bit -- what would you name it? Mine was called Alain. He just had a way about him.
- If you had to choose one of those idiotic reality shows to be on, which one would you choose? Why?
- Are you wearing pants right now?
- Do you play any instruments? How well or terribly do you play?
- Is there anyone in your life who indulges you?
- Do you have any gadgets in your life that you love far more than you should?
- Can you please stop my nose from running? Thank you.
- Do you have any advice just for me?
- Do you take things personally, or do you have a rather thick skin? And if the latter, what moisturizer do you use?
Au revoir from Alain et moi....
7:19:28 AM 
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raindrops on hosers and whiskers on hipsters.
As I lie in my bed tonight, cozy, well-fed, ready to face another night of cheerful insomnia, the most dominant noise in my bedroom is not the snoring of an already slumbering spouse, the murmur of the radio or television, or the soft hum of my iBook.
It's the rain outside.
And when I say rain, I don't mean the pitter-patter of tiny drops on my roof or windows.
What I hear sounds more like the turbines of a tanker ship spinning water into seafoam-tipped waves. What I hear is a fire hose flowing full-blast, gushing out a gallon a second.
What I hear is the sound of Vancouver in Springtime.
Now, before I say another word, I should assure you that I'm quite aware of how blessed I am to live where I live. Vancouver is a world-class city with an international flavour.
Or, translated: yadda yadda yadda yadda.
I love living here. Don't get me wrong. But it ain't perfect.
I haven't slept in days because of the Hoover Dam-like roaring outside my window. When I do manage to fall asleep, I often dream that I am going down with the Titanic (my whole room feels a little damp most of the time, too. It actually may have been underwater at some point...)
When the women of Vancouver -- women like me! -- wake up in the morning, we are faced with one of two hairstyling options (or three, if you include hats.) Either you can slap enough product on your hair that it will stop your...
- curls from frizzing into a mushroom cloud
- straight hair from sticking to the sides of your face
- bangs from dividing like the Red Sea across the expanse of your forehead, blown back by the wind
- long locks from flying up and getting caught in the brackets of your umbrella
... or you can put it back in a ponytail.
When it comes to choosing something to wear, you can find lots of high-fashion picks in Vancouver. But there's not much use in putting on the latest sweater or camisole unless it's July 6 (which is a sunny day, five years out of six). No one's going to notice your nifty new togs beneath two layers of Gore-Tex and a MEC fleece.
And your Fendi Baguette?
Dude, there is no room for an umbrella in that thing.
Yes, I know that I've said many times that REAL Vancouver girls don't carry umbrellas -- like we're trying to be slightly-damp Chuck Norris clones in Pumas -- but I'm starting to give in.
If a Vancouver girl ISN'T carrying an umbrella, it means that a) she has a good coat that doesn't leak; b) her hair is like Brillo and impervious to the waterfall from above; c) she is bald; or d) she does not leave her home.
Yes, they cause you to poke strangers in the eyes. Yes, they rust at the hinges and leave damp puddles by your desk at work. Yes, they turn inside out and become flaccid, floppy shadows of their former selves. But when the wind blows and the rain flies at your head like a character from The Matrix, you need some sort of tool to fend off disaster.
And if it is pink with a smooth wooden handle? So much the better.
And another thing?
There seems to be this West Coast ideal that some men have of the rosy-cheeked, fresh-faced, makeup-free girl with the jeans and boots, ready for anything. Well, let me break that down for you a little:
- Fresh-faced: Water-slicked.
- Rosy-cheeked: Windburn.
- Makeup-free: See 'Water-slicked.'
- Jeans: Only garment that does not become transparent or clingy when wet.
- Boots: If you've ever broken a heel in a puddle, only to feel your cute new shoe fill up with heaven-only-knows-what-the-hell-is-in-that-water, well... you'd do boots, too.
I personally solve the wet shoe issue by wearing flip-flops, but eventually I'm going to have to deal emotionally with the idea of what is splashing up from the street onto my toes.
But not tonight. Nope.
Tonight, I am dealing with allergies, the Wookie, encroaching mold, and online banking.
Before I cover those issues, though, let's discuss men around here -- men around my age -- for a moment, just to give them equal time. You can spot a Vancouver boy from miles away, unless he is camoflauged in a business suit or wearing something his girlfriend bought him (if he's not too busy "keeping his options open" to have one, that is.)
Here are some of the signs and indicators of the classic local dude:
- ironic and experimental facial hair
- seventies-inspired sneakers
- obscure t-shirt
- jeans sagging awkwardly below little microbrew belly
- encyclopedic knowledge of anime
- constant discussion of mountain snow conditions
- fervent love of all things "indie"
I could go on and on. It's like someone took Jack White, Elvis Costello, Homestar Runner, and Josh Hartnett and combined them into a single being. And then gave them a close-fitting toque and a job in the "film industry."
I am not the dream girl of said man. I don't know if anyone really is, besides a weird hybrid of Dido, the Powerpuff Girls, and Pamela Anderson.
Anyway, back to my life:
I will go to sleep tonight, pillows around my ears to block out both the Sounds of the White Water (tm) and the Wookie Who Lives Somewhere Nearby. Then I will wake in the morning, eyes puffed out like Timbits an inch or so off my face (how does pollen float around in this weather?), and head to the bathroom to shower.
The bathroom has a typically West Coast problem of its own: it is being eaten by the earth -- sinking slowly into the floor like time-elapsed quicksand -- and colonized by 237 individual varities of mold.
Mold loves Vancouver. And how could it not? Our city is damp, temperate, and highly hospitable to anything that multiplies in the face of humidity. We scrub the stuff away and within days, it's back in force, spreading out across our tiles like creeping death. If creeping death afflicted tiles, that is.
Oh, and I have I mentioned the roof?
Our apartment roof -- here on the ground floor of three -- leaks. Not because of an overfull bathtub upstairs, though. No, our roof leaks because the main roof leaks, and the water sloshes down the inner walls of our whole building and pools directly over our hallway.
And drips into our light fixtures.
While they're ON.
Awesome.
Most apartments in our fair city are moist and rotty around the edges like our own, but that doesn't stop landlords from charging rents akin to the cost of a fresh kidney on the black market. And that's BEFORE utilities!
Anyhow, I think it's time I stopped ranting and went to sleep. The downpour has ceased for a moment, and I need to take my opportunities where I can get them.
Vancouver, I love you.
I would have left you a long time ago, otherwise.
But can you please do something about the Wookie?
12:31:10 AM
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© Copyright
2006
Meg Fowler.
Last update:
4/1/06; 11:44:16 PM. |
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