Trust me, there is a reason for this musical interlude.
Nothing new to report, other than the re-hiring of a person, whose profile already has whispers of fraud and stealing company money and paying for son's wedding and being in charge and control, with utterly no supervision or guidance from lazy owners, taking advantage and stealing revenue and court proceedings and newspaper headlines. Acquittal : I don't know but it sure left a sour outcome in the spittoon of sales that dwindled to virtually nothing. Nothing.
Somehow, her name farted out from some other Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, also in process of rejoining the company, because she knows it so well and hides the processes and procedures equally well. She knows we're fucked without her. She's famous and everybody loves her.
We've rehired her, too. They are so stupid! --- lessons learned, people, lessons learned. Sadly, the new owners are desperate to make money (as all new business owners feel when making little revenue at the start) but to be honest with you, if I KNEW ALL THIS SHIT WENT DOWN, THEN WHY DON'T THEY -- DIDN'T THEY DO THEIR DUE DILIGENCE!!!
Hence, they need someone like ME, sadly, they will never know. So I happily attach a song and let the days progress. I await my eventual dismissal. Lessons learned. Lessons learned.
Thursday, June 06, 2013
Sunday, June 02, 2013
Skin Tags
The internet states:
Often workplaces demand a sober dressing from their employees. A pant suit or casual outfit can be accessorized with a striking brooch, necklace, earring, bracelet or even a watch to add zing to the simple look without it being over the top and obvious in the eyes of the management.
One could even carry an arresting handbag or wear a pair of unusual shoes which will offset and add contrast to the outfit. One could even highlight a monochrome outfit with a splash of contrasting color in the form of a headband, bracelet, belt or even ring.
The accessory can be an extension of the individual's personality. The idea is to go bold and be daring. Having fun with accessories and experimenting with them is the first step to enjoying high fashion. One of the most favorite rules of high fashion is the ability to mix and match patterns.
My fashion statement is using Tea Tree Oil on my skin tags, an internet remedy, smells like shit --- no not shit --- like old bark tree growth shit, slimy fermented moss tree skin, which I am to apply 3 times a day on cotton swab for at least 2-3 weeks. Holy fuck! I can taste the smell, it's glued on my tongue when I apply it with cotton swab. *spit spit*
One will let you know if it works or not.
Often workplaces demand a sober dressing from their employees. A pant suit or casual outfit can be accessorized with a striking brooch, necklace, earring, bracelet or even a watch to add zing to the simple look without it being over the top and obvious in the eyes of the management.
One could even carry an arresting handbag or wear a pair of unusual shoes which will offset and add contrast to the outfit. One could even highlight a monochrome outfit with a splash of contrasting color in the form of a headband, bracelet, belt or even ring.
The accessory can be an extension of the individual's personality. The idea is to go bold and be daring. Having fun with accessories and experimenting with them is the first step to enjoying high fashion. One of the most favorite rules of high fashion is the ability to mix and match patterns.
My fashion statement is using Tea Tree Oil on my skin tags, an internet remedy, smells like shit --- no not shit --- like old bark tree growth shit, slimy fermented moss tree skin, which I am to apply 3 times a day on cotton swab for at least 2-3 weeks. Holy fuck! I can taste the smell, it's glued on my tongue when I apply it with cotton swab. *spit spit*
One will let you know if it works or not.
Being Ordinary, the plain one.
Brenda, Beth, Gina ... can't recall the name associated with the fat girl with the pixie cut hairdo, waxed down sideburns, red nail polish. Claims she's Gino's girlfriend, that he lives in North Van, British Properties. He's coming soon to "pick me up" so I bum another smoke. We wait outside the school grounds. Gino's coming. Another free cigarette. The wind shyly scatters leafs in parking lot, as cars depart and the emptiness fills up with the smell of dinner and darkening skies. Eventually my hunger abandons her and her pack of cigarettes, once again.
Apparently he's some rock star and they are lovers. She's 15-16 years old at this time, and I'm impressed she can make up such stories and think the crowd she hangs with actually believe her, that we allow her to continue day after day, without a limo arriving to pick her up after school, in the leafy storm of empty lot.
There's another girl, too. Cindy. She says "Lennox" is coming from his spaceship. She is tall and gangly and has greasy black pixie cut, and wears 3D glasses and a zipper smile. Except she doesn't smoke cigarettes, so we don't waste our time waiting for alien arrival. We don't waste our time on Cindy at all.
I can't top either story. I don't know how to bullshit and appear truthful. I don't have the look. I am ordinary. Plain. My hero is the curly blonde haired guy, who died in the movie "Carrie", American Hero, Starbuck, the Captain on the Love Boat and Mrs. Partridge. I won't have grown to have a musical influence for another year or so .... I will be a follower, a listener, a believer, a disbeliever, a friend with a nicotine habit.
As a member of the 10 year and 20 year reunion committee, we could not contact Cindy. She has simply disappeared.
And as I type this in my Blog in the year 2013, it is my hope that she somehow finds her way back, that the plain girl still stands beside her for at least a few minutes as she waits for Lennox.
Apparently he's some rock star and they are lovers. She's 15-16 years old at this time, and I'm impressed she can make up such stories and think the crowd she hangs with actually believe her, that we allow her to continue day after day, without a limo arriving to pick her up after school, in the leafy storm of empty lot.
There's another girl, too. Cindy. She says "Lennox" is coming from his spaceship. She is tall and gangly and has greasy black pixie cut, and wears 3D glasses and a zipper smile. Except she doesn't smoke cigarettes, so we don't waste our time waiting for alien arrival. We don't waste our time on Cindy at all.
I can't top either story. I don't know how to bullshit and appear truthful. I don't have the look. I am ordinary. Plain. My hero is the curly blonde haired guy, who died in the movie "Carrie", American Hero, Starbuck, the Captain on the Love Boat and Mrs. Partridge. I won't have grown to have a musical influence for another year or so .... I will be a follower, a listener, a believer, a disbeliever, a friend with a nicotine habit.
As a member of the 10 year and 20 year reunion committee, we could not contact Cindy. She has simply disappeared.
And as I type this in my Blog in the year 2013, it is my hope that she somehow finds her way back, that the plain girl still stands beside her for at least a few minutes as she waits for Lennox.
Saturday, June 01, 2013
Magnetic Son
Warning
This post is full of boasting and bragging about my fantabulous son, Brandon. But not nearly as much as Rosie O'Donnell does on Twitter and her hourly instagram tweets of her new baby daughter.Continue if you must, lots of girl-chickie-teenage-love-banter.
Always a crowd pleaser, we begin our journey with two teenaged girls pretending to be drunk, pretending they know not what they do, *glug glug* from a brown papered bag blanketing a power drink. For their sake, let's pretend they added an ounce or so of mom and dad's wodka.
Unfortunately, the video is unavailable due to privacy settings, so I have removed it.
We continue, with a self-portrait by an admirer -- time consuming rendering that graces FB posts far and wide.
Since then, Brandon has grown to the more maturer look of Justin Bieber ... with a striking resemblance.
That being said, we logically follow the dance routine, the dance steps, the choreographer who insists, teaches, touches, admires.
Brandon is also the luckiest kid around, striking up a long lasting friendship with his buddy from Cultus Lake - Deandre - as they navigate life and girls and the future, whatever lies ahead.
I am pleased to announce the Facebook "in a relationship" status with the most prettiest girl I can imagine, Serena! Truly stunning!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Sounds of Italy in Hotel Lobby with Mr. Calisini
I saw a post on Facebook the other day. It had a picture of teachers from Sands Secondary School, a picture believed to have been taken between 1979-83. I went to that school when it was first built, yet I have few memories of it and my two junior years attending it. I studied the picture provided by the FB poster, and realized the gentleman he refers to in his comments is my Mr. Calisini. Yes, my Mr. Calisini ...the one and only. The one who made me think beyond boundaries, the first who allowed us to think =outside the box=. He must have moved on from NDSS to Sands after our graduating year in 1978.
He never treated us like students, he treated us like equals, each of us on our own discoveries and what lies ahead. He said he had no answers, that we already knew deep inside everything there was to know. Then we opened our Bibles and deciphered the "tower of Babel" as a rocket ship platform to universal skies.
"maybe not, what do you think...write an essay."
He wasn't talking about maturity, and what to expect when you get married and have children and settle for less, because that's what your mom may have done, and that's what your dad did. He never persuaded us to become Catholics or Muslims or vegans, although we knew this was a big layer of his being, albeit fractured. He never preached or persuaded a personal belief, but somehow I knew he had a conviction and was trying to convey righteousness, and how to be righteous. Not to condemn the different, but to be different.
Even as a 16 year old girl I knew instantly Mr. Calisini was different. He reminds me of a character straight out of West Side Story, a Jet, soft toe-shoe sweep, quick hop, finger snapping gentile. For some reason he has allowed us to know more about himself than we should. We know about monasteries, that he has a brother, and his mother lives in Italy and has died. He loves opera. English literature. 18th century. Porches. St. Peter's Square. Italy.
We spied on him once. Our high school had a field trip to Italy and England, chaperoned by Mr. Calisini, and there were eight classmates who went, including my sister and my best friend, Carrie. We happen to notice a strikingly handsome young man take interest in conversing with our teacher in the lobby of a hotel in Venice, and later we decided to follow him. It lead nowhere. Mr. Calisini retired to his room, alone.
We were so disappointed.
The next day my sister sang high notes in the lobby because the hotel has such good echoes and she somehow manages a low larynx that can transfer a bus wait into an idle mid-morning practice of what lies ahead. Sadly, the next song I would hear would be a chorus of '99 bottles of beer on the wall' until we reached the Tower of Pisa.
We are driven to Rome in comfortable bus. It has a toilet and the driver periodically announces points of interest along the way, though my interest longs for a cigarette. The landscape flashes by at 100km per hour, field upon field, roads upon roads. And yes, they all lead there. We were halted and inspected on one of those roads by the Polizia de Stato or the Arna dei Carabinieri, I'm not sure which. A political diplomat has been murdered - and we are merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream at the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't remember the semi-automatic gun being pointed at my head, because I apparently slept through the entire episode of search and lock down.
Once everyone were convinced we are just innocent Canadian teenaged girls, with no hidden agenda, we were allowed to proceed with our trip, and Mr. Calisini has once again garnered shame of his birthplace. I think he dilly-dallys too much - tries to show us everything, outside the realm of food, he seems to promote Catholicism because we have all now coined a phrase for our afternoon adventures as "ABC" or "Another Bloody Church".
What can I say, when in Rome .....
I do not know why he came to Canada to teach. In some ways I think he was escaping. Not even pride in country could keep him if family turmoiled in his heart. Whatever it was, something rooted heavily inside him, guilt, shame, love. Or nothing at all. Maybe it's just a fantasy of a 16 year old girl, who sees what she wants to see. Whatever it was, she was glad he came and became the flamboyant, memorable teacher that we all seem to have and seem to remember.
He passed long ago ... in his beloved Italy.
He never treated us like students, he treated us like equals, each of us on our own discoveries and what lies ahead. He said he had no answers, that we already knew deep inside everything there was to know. Then we opened our Bibles and deciphered the "tower of Babel" as a rocket ship platform to universal skies.
"maybe not, what do you think...write an essay."
He wasn't talking about maturity, and what to expect when you get married and have children and settle for less, because that's what your mom may have done, and that's what your dad did. He never persuaded us to become Catholics or Muslims or vegans, although we knew this was a big layer of his being, albeit fractured. He never preached or persuaded a personal belief, but somehow I knew he had a conviction and was trying to convey righteousness, and how to be righteous. Not to condemn the different, but to be different.
Even as a 16 year old girl I knew instantly Mr. Calisini was different. He reminds me of a character straight out of West Side Story, a Jet, soft toe-shoe sweep, quick hop, finger snapping gentile. For some reason he has allowed us to know more about himself than we should. We know about monasteries, that he has a brother, and his mother lives in Italy and has died. He loves opera. English literature. 18th century. Porches. St. Peter's Square. Italy.
We spied on him once. Our high school had a field trip to Italy and England, chaperoned by Mr. Calisini, and there were eight classmates who went, including my sister and my best friend, Carrie. We happen to notice a strikingly handsome young man take interest in conversing with our teacher in the lobby of a hotel in Venice, and later we decided to follow him. It lead nowhere. Mr. Calisini retired to his room, alone.
We were so disappointed.
The next day my sister sang high notes in the lobby because the hotel has such good echoes and she somehow manages a low larynx that can transfer a bus wait into an idle mid-morning practice of what lies ahead. Sadly, the next song I would hear would be a chorus of '99 bottles of beer on the wall' until we reached the Tower of Pisa.
We are driven to Rome in comfortable bus. It has a toilet and the driver periodically announces points of interest along the way, though my interest longs for a cigarette. The landscape flashes by at 100km per hour, field upon field, roads upon roads. And yes, they all lead there. We were halted and inspected on one of those roads by the Polizia de Stato or the Arna dei Carabinieri, I'm not sure which. A political diplomat has been murdered - and we are merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream at the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't remember the semi-automatic gun being pointed at my head, because I apparently slept through the entire episode of search and lock down.
Once everyone were convinced we are just innocent Canadian teenaged girls, with no hidden agenda, we were allowed to proceed with our trip, and Mr. Calisini has once again garnered shame of his birthplace. I think he dilly-dallys too much - tries to show us everything, outside the realm of food, he seems to promote Catholicism because we have all now coined a phrase for our afternoon adventures as "ABC" or "Another Bloody Church".
What can I say, when in Rome .....
I do not know why he came to Canada to teach. In some ways I think he was escaping. Not even pride in country could keep him if family turmoiled in his heart. Whatever it was, something rooted heavily inside him, guilt, shame, love. Or nothing at all. Maybe it's just a fantasy of a 16 year old girl, who sees what she wants to see. Whatever it was, she was glad he came and became the flamboyant, memorable teacher that we all seem to have and seem to remember.
He passed long ago ... in his beloved Italy.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Peace Train and Gutter Balls
We have changed our hours of operation.
My admirer is no longer here - his last encounter with me was the first encounter. "I'm Bill". Wide smile splashes towards me, as he nervously points his full arm towards Edward, his confidant, I suspect. Edward giggles under his Toronto Blue Jays cap. They have both suffered head injuries, somehow, somewhere, sometime. *between you and me, Toronto - what the fuck was he thinking*
In the weeks that follow and the emptiness of the lanes reminds me of Bill. Safe. When I arrive I am the only one here in the dark. In the quiet. I turn the disco lights on and race upstairs to locked doors and security codes, and more locked doors. Before, Bill was there downstairs with people, and staff and activity and chocolate bar machines and "the claw is my master" and "hurricane experience" and strikes.
They made a movie here once, unsuccessful in the box office - which doesn't surprise me because if I haven't heard of it, no one has! The premise, killer kills a bunch of big boobed teens stranded in a "bowling alley" and with each kill, a RED X appeared aka -strike- in the overhang scoreboards.
Lots of people still don't know that scores are now computerized and automatically tallied. No more pads of paper with rows of 10 frames, and broken pencils, and erasing and scratch out and scratch in. Done and done. Relax and just play and let us keep track of your gutter balls.
There's suppose to be two ghosts here. One is a little girl who wants to play ball, and the other is a teen-aged boy who drops dimes everywhere, because his mom use to work here when he died tragically. Hence, at cash out time, the front desk & servers always find dimes on the floors and stairs.
So far I have found nothing, except the realization of silence and how the future looks bleak without Bill or Edward at the lanes, because without them there are no dimes. We need to change our hours of operation.
Sometimes I wonder how my mind thinks and scrambles such a load - it gets tangled in thought, the moneymaker and paranormal and triangular space ships and Hummers and bounced cheques, the blind (the possibility of) dead drunk daughter, camp, family, teenager son and his "L", dead cats (here and then), ten pin alleys, laundry, frozen fries, fresh breasts, instant rice, Sriracha hot chili sauce and now Bill. My mind is a Rubick's cube - an absolute wreck.
Until I finally chose the train I want to be on.
My admirer is no longer here - his last encounter with me was the first encounter. "I'm Bill". Wide smile splashes towards me, as he nervously points his full arm towards Edward, his confidant, I suspect. Edward giggles under his Toronto Blue Jays cap. They have both suffered head injuries, somehow, somewhere, sometime. *between you and me, Toronto - what the fuck was he thinking*
In the weeks that follow and the emptiness of the lanes reminds me of Bill. Safe. When I arrive I am the only one here in the dark. In the quiet. I turn the disco lights on and race upstairs to locked doors and security codes, and more locked doors. Before, Bill was there downstairs with people, and staff and activity and chocolate bar machines and "the claw is my master" and "hurricane experience" and strikes.
They made a movie here once, unsuccessful in the box office - which doesn't surprise me because if I haven't heard of it, no one has! The premise, killer kills a bunch of big boobed teens stranded in a "bowling alley" and with each kill, a RED X appeared aka -strike- in the overhang scoreboards.
Lots of people still don't know that scores are now computerized and automatically tallied. No more pads of paper with rows of 10 frames, and broken pencils, and erasing and scratch out and scratch in. Done and done. Relax and just play and let us keep track of your gutter balls.
There's suppose to be two ghosts here. One is a little girl who wants to play ball, and the other is a teen-aged boy who drops dimes everywhere, because his mom use to work here when he died tragically. Hence, at cash out time, the front desk & servers always find dimes on the floors and stairs.
So far I have found nothing, except the realization of silence and how the future looks bleak without Bill or Edward at the lanes, because without them there are no dimes. We need to change our hours of operation.
Sometimes I wonder how my mind thinks and scrambles such a load - it gets tangled in thought, the moneymaker and paranormal and triangular space ships and Hummers and bounced cheques, the blind (the possibility of) dead drunk daughter, camp, family, teenager son and his "L", dead cats (here and then), ten pin alleys, laundry, frozen fries, fresh breasts, instant rice, Sriracha hot chili sauce and now Bill. My mind is a Rubick's cube - an absolute wreck.
Until I finally chose the train I want to be on.
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
One SCARY song
My kids call this the "scary song". What do they know, right, it's XTC! I make sure it's always on every CD we burn, it comes camping, boating, late night fire pits and marshmallows. MOM! SKIP THIS SONG.
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