Thursday, October 07, 2004
"To th' Elaphant!"
Intermission, when writing an essay, justifiably comes in the middle of the second body paragraph, right? No matter how awful it may be? That's what I thought.
Fishing through my bag brings unpleasant surprises sometimes. Withered carrot sticks. And by withered, I mean, little dried sticks. No longer happy orange, but ...burnt umber brown. It makes me leery that they dried out before they had a chance to get moldy though. I'd love to blame our arrid northern climate....but I have an inkling it has to do with just how those abnormally shaped cute little carrots are farmed. You know the ones...the ones that look like someone chopped the fingers off a toddler and then colored them with "macaroni orange." They didn't get moldy! My bag doesn't smell! It seems pre-ordained that any vegetable left long enough should get moldy before it completely mummifies, right? In anycase, I have enough dried carrots to light my Jerker desk on fire if I so choose to do so in the course of this essay.
Also, someone wrote in the washroom today that they "wonder if either the Oedipus or the Electra complex applies to gay girls." And though I wasn't really going to blog that I graffitied a zoom advertisement in my school....I'm jumping ahead of myself here. I took my little pencil and wrote back some uppity reply and condemned the commenter for their ignorance. Anywho....without much thought, I tagged my blog address along with my E-E, and lo and behold....in a bid of desperate procrastination (oxymoron...YES!) I was checking blogpatrol later tonight. And some girl (with a lot of friends) actually referred to my little bathroom spaz on her blog and linked me. It's so lame that I'm bringing this up, but I dug it.
In other news...Mr. Pink hath not calleth me yet. Le sigh. I don't want to dump on him, I just want to invite him to my house for the weekend, so's we can shack up in the cabin together and make each other feel better about the general suck of life lately. I won't elaborate on his life suckiness....but I have to admit, I'm worried. However, I also concocted a wild plan that I want him to be in on. What happens when you take nudity, throw in a cold lake and nighttime? Fucking Cold Skinny-dipping! Woo hoo! I love skinny-dipping, and not just for the skanky reasons. I like swimming out on a lake of glass and just floating on my back to stare at the stars. And it shouldn't even be that cold, they've only had one frost, and I've swum in far worse a temperature than that.
BZOOM! Enter compulsory italicised flashback!
I remember a silly whim that Mr. Smith and I had one day in Grade 11- that it would be the craziest thing if we had a sleep over at the cabin (ok, I've lived in A LOT of cabins...) I was living in before we moved down the street to the trailer home. The cabin was on Le Lake, the same lake my parents live at now, just down the street from the trailer home that was down the street from the cabin...you dig? We held this sleepover in the throes of January, which in Alberta-ese means minus twenty degrees celcius or colder. After having a little pep/plan talk (very short) we donned each our own swimming gear. Allan in his diving wetsuit, I in my dad's drysuit (wussy, I know- and I later got in huge shit for this), and waddled our way down to the lakeshore with hatchets in hand. The ice was a good month or so old, so it was quite the task to hack a decent sized hole into it for the both of us to jump into. We didn't go particularly deep, just about chest height. The hole itself took a while to cut, but when it was done, we found we could both fit in quite easily. So in we jumped...screaming and howling from the horror of the cold. We stood there for a few moments and commended each other on our bravery and made a swift exit. Hot chocolate was had by all and no ill effects were suffered, other than my travesty of an attemp at learning how to swing dance from "the master" later on.
BUT WAIT! THERE'S ONE MORE!
Skinny-dipping was not something I wanted to try on my own, though it was a desperately romantic notion to me at first, that later degenerated into something to do for shits and giggles, and of course now, merely to demonstrate my eccentricities. The first time I ever went, it was a balmy June night, maybe about three weeks before Tall proposed to me. Tall had never been drunk before, and nor had I, and we'd pledged it would be something we would do together. We each dutifully (if not clinically) chose our poison earlier that afternoon and drank it later that day on the dock, each finishing off a mickey of some vile thing or another. And predictably, we were only slightly buzzed, but now massively bored. So the coast was checked and the clothes were shucked and in we went. Both of us at the time were very shy people so it was not without much circumstance and fuss that we got into the water in not even our skivvies. It was excrutiating, and by now, I swear not to ever be that modest about my body ever again. But once under the cover of the water in the darkness, flaws are not easily revealed, just the closeness of two warm bodies holding hands and looking at the stars together. It was pretty special, and though Tall is a long gone fixture, I'll always remember him for that night.
¶ 2:15 AM
Fishing through my bag brings unpleasant surprises sometimes. Withered carrot sticks. And by withered, I mean, little dried sticks. No longer happy orange, but ...burnt umber brown. It makes me leery that they dried out before they had a chance to get moldy though. I'd love to blame our arrid northern climate....but I have an inkling it has to do with just how those abnormally shaped cute little carrots are farmed. You know the ones...the ones that look like someone chopped the fingers off a toddler and then colored them with "macaroni orange." They didn't get moldy! My bag doesn't smell! It seems pre-ordained that any vegetable left long enough should get moldy before it completely mummifies, right? In anycase, I have enough dried carrots to light my Jerker desk on fire if I so choose to do so in the course of this essay.
Also, someone wrote in the washroom today that they "wonder if either the Oedipus or the Electra complex applies to gay girls." And though I wasn't really going to blog that I graffitied a zoom advertisement in my school....I'm jumping ahead of myself here. I took my little pencil and wrote back some uppity reply and condemned the commenter for their ignorance. Anywho....without much thought, I tagged my blog address along with my E-E, and lo and behold....in a bid of desperate procrastination (oxymoron...YES!) I was checking blogpatrol later tonight. And some girl (with a lot of friends) actually referred to my little bathroom spaz on her blog and linked me. It's so lame that I'm bringing this up, but I dug it.
In other news...Mr. Pink hath not calleth me yet. Le sigh. I don't want to dump on him, I just want to invite him to my house for the weekend, so's we can shack up in the cabin together and make each other feel better about the general suck of life lately. I won't elaborate on his life suckiness....but I have to admit, I'm worried. However, I also concocted a wild plan that I want him to be in on. What happens when you take nudity, throw in a cold lake and nighttime? Fucking Cold Skinny-dipping! Woo hoo! I love skinny-dipping, and not just for the skanky reasons. I like swimming out on a lake of glass and just floating on my back to stare at the stars. And it shouldn't even be that cold, they've only had one frost, and I've swum in far worse a temperature than that.
BZOOM! Enter compulsory italicised flashback!
I remember a silly whim that Mr. Smith and I had one day in Grade 11- that it would be the craziest thing if we had a sleep over at the cabin (ok, I've lived in A LOT of cabins...) I was living in before we moved down the street to the trailer home. The cabin was on Le Lake, the same lake my parents live at now, just down the street from the trailer home that was down the street from the cabin...you dig? We held this sleepover in the throes of January, which in Alberta-ese means minus twenty degrees celcius or colder. After having a little pep/plan talk (very short) we donned each our own swimming gear. Allan in his diving wetsuit, I in my dad's drysuit (wussy, I know- and I later got in huge shit for this), and waddled our way down to the lakeshore with hatchets in hand. The ice was a good month or so old, so it was quite the task to hack a decent sized hole into it for the both of us to jump into. We didn't go particularly deep, just about chest height. The hole itself took a while to cut, but when it was done, we found we could both fit in quite easily. So in we jumped...screaming and howling from the horror of the cold. We stood there for a few moments and commended each other on our bravery and made a swift exit. Hot chocolate was had by all and no ill effects were suffered, other than my travesty of an attemp at learning how to swing dance from "the master" later on.
BUT WAIT! THERE'S ONE MORE!
Skinny-dipping was not something I wanted to try on my own, though it was a desperately romantic notion to me at first, that later degenerated into something to do for shits and giggles, and of course now, merely to demonstrate my eccentricities. The first time I ever went, it was a balmy June night, maybe about three weeks before Tall proposed to me. Tall had never been drunk before, and nor had I, and we'd pledged it would be something we would do together. We each dutifully (if not clinically) chose our poison earlier that afternoon and drank it later that day on the dock, each finishing off a mickey of some vile thing or another. And predictably, we were only slightly buzzed, but now massively bored. So the coast was checked and the clothes were shucked and in we went. Both of us at the time were very shy people so it was not without much circumstance and fuss that we got into the water in not even our skivvies. It was excrutiating, and by now, I swear not to ever be that modest about my body ever again. But once under the cover of the water in the darkness, flaws are not easily revealed, just the closeness of two warm bodies holding hands and looking at the stars together. It was pretty special, and though Tall is a long gone fixture, I'll always remember him for that night.
¶ 2:15 AM
