Today I committed murder. I was provoked. And yet, surely even the fire alarm deserves to live its life, or to at least have a trial to let it answer for its transgressions. Perhaps you, gentle reader, can decide my moral culpability.
I was in the kitchen, innocently frying chicken for dinner when the unthinkable happened: the fire alarm began blaring out a warning. "The chicken is not burning!" it screamed. "But I would tell you if it were!"
Having had run-ins with that fire alarm before, I deftly ran to the fan over the oven, turned it on, and then dashed, a pair of jeans in hand from the laundry, to try to mute the panicked object. I then leapt heroically from the chair on which I was standing, wrested open the nearest window, and, fearing that I would wake the neighbours in our fourplex who were on nightshift, I ran back to mute the alarm again.
It did not cease its screaming; perhaps it somehow sense that its destruction was imminent.
I scrambled about, trying to dislodge a wire, remove a battery--anything!--to silence its anguished screeches, for it sounded like a rabbit trapped on a wire fence. The situation was grim: there were no buttons or batteries, and the screaming was now almost beyond my endurance.
I stood there, my jeans wrapped around the accursed creature in my hands. I tried to reason with it, to explain that yes, I realized that the chicken was not burning and that I appreciated its attempts to bring this fact to my attention.
Then my arms grew weary . . .
I moved around and alas!--my ears were met with silence. I dared to move a pant leg from the body of the fire alarm, for by now my arms were aching. The alarm squeaked and sputtered, and I thought better of it. I stood there for several more minutes, feeling a cold draft gusting in from the open window. "Surely there's no smoke," I reasoned. "Surely I can gently let the fire alarm hang from its three wires" (which were now dangling from the ceiling). "Surely it can be reasoned with."
Gently, ever so gently, I let go of the fire alarm. Like a collicky baby awakened by the sound of a knob turning, the alarm awoke with a vengeance. By now, it was beyond consolation.
In moments such as these, when one is either led to commit a heroic act or a grievous crime, I lost all reason. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife (a wedding gift, incidentally). The first wire I cut was clearly an artery, and the fire alarm sputtered and gasped, now in a panic that nothing but death could free it from. The second wire severed silenced it. Forever.
March 15, 2007
March 11, 2007
Conjunctivitis of the Third Eye
I attended my first Yoga session the other evening and was filled with profound thoughts that I will now condescend to share with you (oh lesser spiritual beings).
The concept of the "Third Eye" was perhaps the most intriguing, though I am left with a couple of questions. First, why would the band "Third Eye Blind" imply, through its choice of name, that its members are musically incompetent and its lyrics shallow? At least the band has the decency to warn consumers. Second, what would happen if someone were to start scrambling around during a Yoga session complaining of the loss of a third contact lense? How would one put it in in the first place?
By the way, the Fort McMurray S.P.C.A. need no longer concern itself with finding homes for its feline charges. Let me explain: during yoga, we were asked to think of a "positive word." The word that instantly popped into my head was "cat." I like cats, you see; I have "positive" feelings towards them. Even better, ever since taking high school chemistry, I've always thought of the word "cat" as "positive: after all, aren't "cations" positively charged, whereas "anions" are a dark lot--the sort that bring you to tears like onions? At any rate, I filled my mind with the word "cat," believing that my thoughts would remain private. Imagine my shock, if you will, when we Yogites were asked to send our positive words "out into the community." Although I felt hopeful that more adoptions would take place in Fort McMurray, I was sorry to bombard my husband's third eye with the word cat, as he has terrible allergies.
All in all, Yoga was an enlightening experience, even though my energies kept coursing in the wrong directions (which felt akin to taking the wrong steps in a social dance class). I even learned that despite what my mother says, I do in fact have a halo around my head.
The concept of the "Third Eye" was perhaps the most intriguing, though I am left with a couple of questions. First, why would the band "Third Eye Blind" imply, through its choice of name, that its members are musically incompetent and its lyrics shallow? At least the band has the decency to warn consumers. Second, what would happen if someone were to start scrambling around during a Yoga session complaining of the loss of a third contact lense? How would one put it in in the first place?
By the way, the Fort McMurray S.P.C.A. need no longer concern itself with finding homes for its feline charges. Let me explain: during yoga, we were asked to think of a "positive word." The word that instantly popped into my head was "cat." I like cats, you see; I have "positive" feelings towards them. Even better, ever since taking high school chemistry, I've always thought of the word "cat" as "positive: after all, aren't "cations" positively charged, whereas "anions" are a dark lot--the sort that bring you to tears like onions? At any rate, I filled my mind with the word "cat," believing that my thoughts would remain private. Imagine my shock, if you will, when we Yogites were asked to send our positive words "out into the community." Although I felt hopeful that more adoptions would take place in Fort McMurray, I was sorry to bombard my husband's third eye with the word cat, as he has terrible allergies.
All in all, Yoga was an enlightening experience, even though my energies kept coursing in the wrong directions (which felt akin to taking the wrong steps in a social dance class). I even learned that despite what my mother says, I do in fact have a halo around my head.
March 8, 2007
Julie Will Kill Me When She Reads this Blog Entry
. . . but I don't care. After all, we're separated by 7 1/2 hours of travel time. If, by chance, she comes to Fort McMurray to exact her revenge, I will be delighted to see her. I might even cook for her and provide clean linen (unsoiled by animal fur).
Julie is innovative, artistic, and unusually creative. What I admire most is her bold approach to life--her desire to try new and novel things and her remarkable ability to succeed at anything she attempts.
Now that I've said some nice things to appease her, I can share some stories to the amusement and betterment of my audience. Keep in mind that I share them only because of my own propensity to find myself in absurd situations and to be utterly oblivious at times. I like to think that my own foolishness--and Julie's--is actually rooted in genius.
Story 1: It never occurred to Julie, in her university days, what "checking the oil" really meant. She checked it again and again, certainly, but never progressed to the next stage--that is, adding oil or even changing the oil. Not surprisingly, she found herself stranded in a seedy Californian neighborhood and even then, she protested (on the phone with her parents) that she had checked the oil. Granted, I'm no better in that regard. The first time my dad sent me to the gas station to "fill up" the tires of the Delta '88, I did just that--fill them until they were nice and round and the car had risen an entire foot.
Story 2: One evening, Julie asked me what kind of car I drove. "A Mercedes Benz," I responded. "I know that," she said. "What I mean is, what company manufactured it?" "Uh, Mercedes Benz," I once again replied. "No!" she said, growing exasperated. "I mean, is it a Ford or a Toyota or what?"
Story 3: I appreciate a good prank. Sometimes they don't turn out as planned (i.e. when a friend's cousin is taking a nap due to PMS, and you don't even know this person, it's probably not a good idea to give her the 'measles' with a stick of bright red lipstick, especially on Christmas day). Julie is a gifted prankster, but she, too, has been known to go a little too far. For example, she once took the "tack-on-chair" prank one step further, this time using an exacto blade. Her victim not only sliced open his testicles but was profoundly humiliated.
Although hundreds (if not thousands) of stories remain to be told, I will have to pick on someone else to be fair to each of my friends. [Beware, dear Desire and Kathryn Andrea.]
Julie is innovative, artistic, and unusually creative. What I admire most is her bold approach to life--her desire to try new and novel things and her remarkable ability to succeed at anything she attempts.
Now that I've said some nice things to appease her, I can share some stories to the amusement and betterment of my audience. Keep in mind that I share them only because of my own propensity to find myself in absurd situations and to be utterly oblivious at times. I like to think that my own foolishness--and Julie's--is actually rooted in genius.
Story 1: It never occurred to Julie, in her university days, what "checking the oil" really meant. She checked it again and again, certainly, but never progressed to the next stage--that is, adding oil or even changing the oil. Not surprisingly, she found herself stranded in a seedy Californian neighborhood and even then, she protested (on the phone with her parents) that she had checked the oil. Granted, I'm no better in that regard. The first time my dad sent me to the gas station to "fill up" the tires of the Delta '88, I did just that--fill them until they were nice and round and the car had risen an entire foot.
Story 2: One evening, Julie asked me what kind of car I drove. "A Mercedes Benz," I responded. "I know that," she said. "What I mean is, what company manufactured it?" "Uh, Mercedes Benz," I once again replied. "No!" she said, growing exasperated. "I mean, is it a Ford or a Toyota or what?"
Story 3: I appreciate a good prank. Sometimes they don't turn out as planned (i.e. when a friend's cousin is taking a nap due to PMS, and you don't even know this person, it's probably not a good idea to give her the 'measles' with a stick of bright red lipstick, especially on Christmas day). Julie is a gifted prankster, but she, too, has been known to go a little too far. For example, she once took the "tack-on-chair" prank one step further, this time using an exacto blade. Her victim not only sliced open his testicles but was profoundly humiliated.
Although hundreds (if not thousands) of stories remain to be told, I will have to pick on someone else to be fair to each of my friends. [Beware, dear Desire and Kathryn Andrea.]
March 7, 2007
March 6, 2007
Rod had a dream . . .
I've had an eerie thought: what happens when someone is changing the colours on her blog and someone else logs on simultaneously? Does some sort of supernatural phenomenon occur? I will now back away from the keyboard--very slowly--to allow you to read this pointless blog entry without disturbance.
But first, another quick thought: My husband dreamt, the night before last, of a serial killer in a jail cell (on a ship much like my in-laws' living room that contained some of the foremost geotechnical mining experts in the world . . . but that's another matter entirely). This man, he discovered, was a rational being--that is, until he met a person shorter than himself. The moment he looked down on someone, he was driven to kill.
I know that dreams are often nonsensical, but if this dream does contain a warning of some sort, I'm glad that I'm roughly the same height as my husband.
But first, another quick thought: My husband dreamt, the night before last, of a serial killer in a jail cell (on a ship much like my in-laws' living room that contained some of the foremost geotechnical mining experts in the world . . . but that's another matter entirely). This man, he discovered, was a rational being--that is, until he met a person shorter than himself. The moment he looked down on someone, he was driven to kill.
I know that dreams are often nonsensical, but if this dream does contain a warning of some sort, I'm glad that I'm roughly the same height as my husband.
March 1, 2007
A Diatribe against Needless Repetition
As of late, I have had an open mind (or at least a mind slightly more open) regarding contemporary Christian music. A few people have met my silence during the services in church with the concern that part of me is shut off to the worship experience, and I have thus tried to approach choruses with a different attitude.
This morning I awoke with the realization that embracing these choruses is akin to being served nothing but rice day in day out. Although your stomach is full, your soul breaks down from the lack of any real nourishment. When you protest, those around you--gaunt themselves--insist that you are receiving ample nutrition and that the hunger pangs that will not abate are simply the result of a spirit that is not in the 'right place.'
I cannot understand why this spirituality is so often selected in place of Christianity's rich heritage. But I am understanding, now, that for the sake of my soul, I cannot sit at a table where artistic integrity is not held in any regard.
This morning I awoke with the realization that embracing these choruses is akin to being served nothing but rice day in day out. Although your stomach is full, your soul breaks down from the lack of any real nourishment. When you protest, those around you--gaunt themselves--insist that you are receiving ample nutrition and that the hunger pangs that will not abate are simply the result of a spirit that is not in the 'right place.'
I cannot understand why this spirituality is so often selected in place of Christianity's rich heritage. But I am understanding, now, that for the sake of my soul, I cannot sit at a table where artistic integrity is not held in any regard.
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