There's nothing I hate more than rude, inconsiderate drivers. Unfortunately, living in Alberta, they seem to be the majority out on the highway. I know, I know: every city or province claims that they have the worst commuters on the planet. And to be fair, I think Montreal may lay claim to the dubious honour of having the very worst in the country (Stop signs = stop. No, really.). But for argument's sake, let's say that Alberta, and in particular Edmonton, has similarly horrible drivers.
I spend a lot of time on the highway. I have a little tiny car with all season tires, 2-wheel drive, and a 4 cylinder engine. It's not fast. It's not grippy. And yet, I still manage to not get in accidents even when the roads resemble the rink at Rexall.
(On a side note, all these arguments regarding whether or not to build a new arena for hockey in downtown Edmonton are bunk. If the city is going to refuse to plow the roads, why not just hold the hockey games out in the street? It's definitely icy enough, and the Oilers would have the advantage of being used to that lovely bitter cold. We may actually start to win some games.)
Pet Peeve #1: Weave Zones
Okay, so. Do we all remember drivers' ed? Do we remember the law regarding weave zones? Yes? 'Kay, good. If not, here's a refresher: if I'm entering a main road, the person on the main road exiting has the right of way. No ifs, ands or buts. Then tell me, since when is it appropriate for you in the car behind me to zip out on to the main road before me? I'm slowing down to let the guy on the main road exit on to our road. I'm not doing it to piss you off, I promise. Plus, it's icy. And snowy. So there. Also, please refrain from giving me the finger when you cut me off from behind. It's a good thing I shoulder check twice, most people don't. My Honda Fit may not have the engine power of your Hummer, but at least I'm not destroying the planet to assuage my over-sized ego. I also sleep really well, by the way.
Pet Peeve #2: Closed Lane Passers
It's rush hour. It's August. You've had a rough day at work and all you want to do is get home and pet your llama. The llama's had a rough day too. You two will commiserate over some casserole, all you need to do is drive home.
But wait: construction has occurred!
You percolate in a traffic jam because there's only one lane open when there should be two or three. Chances are you're on Whyte Ave. You're patiently crawling along because you know the lane next to you is going to end in five or so meters. And then! some @**hole comes zipping along in the soon-to-be-closed lane and merges in to your nice honest lane just at the last minute. You're furious! You're outraged! But oh well, you think, that's probably the only person who's going to do that. After all, people are good, deep down. Church attendance may be down, but there's still decency in the world. Driving etiquette exists.
But then another person does it! And another! They merge in to your lane one after the other, like tweens at a Miley Cyrus concert, all blatantly ignoring signs earlier in the route advising them to merge earlier.
The douchebags. You know they kick puppies and pull the wings off beautiful butterflies. But you stay in your lane and don't retaliate because you don't want to go home to your llama bitter and disillusioned. They're perceptive creatures, and no one needs an angry llama.
Pet Peeve #3: SNOW
Dear city of Edmonton: PLOW THE BLOODY ROADS!
That is all. Bella is scraping her Fit belly on the snowy roads.
Sincerely, Cait the Great
Seriously, I'm running out of men to push me out of the tundra/road. They become more scarce every day.
Good Drivers
Occasionally, one runs across a rarity: a calm, courteous Road Friend. These Road Friends are a gem in every way: they don't cut you off, they don't ride up your ass when you slow down on icy patches, and they switch to an outside lane when you're merging on to the road. I find the drivers of these cars are more often than not women.
I often like to give these Road Friends the distinction of having a name. I like to name inanimate objects: my car's name is Bella, my phone's name is Scarlett, and my laptop's name is Leticia. Leticia Laptop. I'm totally cool. So when a nice little Honda Civic kindly allows me on the highway, I say to myself "Thanks Cecilia Civic. Props." I keep an eye out for Cecilia as we travel along, and try to protect her from big mean Dodge Rams. Bella's got yo' back, Cecilia. You're welcome. It's nice to imagine myself surrounded by Road Friends. It's like a nice little golden aura around Bella. Why can't everyone be nice? The modern world's message of peace and equality extends to our roads too. At least, I think it does. Well, I'll start with myself. I hereby pledge to be a Road Friend.
And that's the Tip from the Wink for this edition: Try to be less of an dick on the roads. One day, the Road Friends will form a coalition and hunt you down. Hummers are no match for us.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Ponies
Sometimes I wonder why I spend hundreds of dollars a month to get myself half killed by some crazy quadruped. A BIG crazy quadruped. Wrangling twelve hundred pounds of hoofed beast is how I spend my spare time. I could go shopping. I could see a movie. I could grab a glass of wine with some girlfriends. But instead I drive a hundred kilometres (round trip) to go visit my Muffy. And I've been doing it for years.
Occasionally you'll meet horse-crazy people like me; we usually smell, um, interesting, and have dirty cars with oddly shaped pieces of leather adorning the passenger seats. Don't get excited, boys. That whip is not for you. We see no problem with spending entire paycheques on boots and saddle pads for our four-legged friends. My horse has a more colourful wardrobe than I do. Upon meeting one of these equine enthusiasts, it is usually advisable to pretend you haven't. Run away. We'll take your money.
A horse of my own was all I ever wanted as a child. I wanted a horse more than I wanted nice clothes, more than I wanted that new cool gadget, more than I even wanted friends. I used to sit on the arm of our couch, pretending to be a jockey or a steeplechase rider flying over jumps. I read every horse themed book I could get my hands on. I owned a fleet of pastel coloured My Little Ponies and staged Barbie rides with every single one of them. My poor mother didn't stand a chance.
I had to wait 13 years for my dream to come true. For my birthday that year I received a spunky Thoroughbred mare. I use the term "received" lightly, as I paid for Skye myself. Well, actually, my generous mommy lent me the money, and I paid her back over the next few years by bussing tables. I realize now that the real birthday gift was allowing me to have a horse at all, and it's still the best gift I've ever received. She wasn't an expensive horse, but she was perfect. Dainty, chestnut with a heart shaped star: she was the love of my life and my best friend for many years.
That doesn't mean she was an easy horse. Skye was impatient, prone to pulling back and pawing, she pulled like a train, she had no brakes, and I often ended up on the ground for a closer look at what she was spooking at (usually nothing). She broke halters and lead ropes trying to fling herself away from whatever she was tied to, and she even put me on crutches once. Ask Cassie about the polo clinic: that's a good story too. I shed many tears of frustration over that horse, and I loved every minute of it. My horse memories often provoke me to ask myself, are other athletes this dedicated? If the hockey puck or volleyball ran away from you every time it saw you, and it took you 45 minutes to halter it and another hour to put it on the trailer, and then you fell off during your lesson and ended up with a face full of dirt, would you still play the game? Here's a nod to all the other riders out there. It must be love.
Eventually I ended up with a fabulous instructor who tamed Skye's unruly ways and really taught me how to ride. I even won Reserve Champion at dressage provincials one year. Pretty good for a horse who cost less than the saddle I rode her in.
Sadly though, our partnership was not to last. Skye's advanced age and limited athletic abilities led me to retire her and take up another mare, Wantara. Although I intended to keep her and lease her to less experienced rider, she died suddenly one spring night. She was only 19, not that old for a horse. I'll never know what killed her, but I still miss her. Perhaps it's silly to miss a horse, but I do. I still have her halter.
So now I have another horse friend, Wantara. I call her Muffy because frankly, I think Wantara is a terrible name. What do I yell out when she's trying to turf me? Wanty? Tara? Muffy is clearly the better choice.
Muffy is a special horse in her own right: she suffered a terrible injury as a 3 year old, underwent surgery and months of isolation in an effort to heal her, and then completely lost her mind as a result. She needed a few years of mental rehabilitation, but she's coming around. She's only recently stopped leaping in the air on her hind legs, although she still does it sometimes just to spite me. She's still terrified of everything, though. White things are especially scary. (She doesn't realize her feet are white too.)
Any why do I put up with all of this? Because I was born with a genetic defect that makes me a horse addict. Lots of people have it, but that doesn't make it any less debilitating. You can't cure it, so don't even try. So here's the tip from the wink for this edition: Buy your kids a pony. Ponies are really cute, and they'll force your kids to get a job.
Occasionally you'll meet horse-crazy people like me; we usually smell, um, interesting, and have dirty cars with oddly shaped pieces of leather adorning the passenger seats. Don't get excited, boys. That whip is not for you. We see no problem with spending entire paycheques on boots and saddle pads for our four-legged friends. My horse has a more colourful wardrobe than I do. Upon meeting one of these equine enthusiasts, it is usually advisable to pretend you haven't. Run away. We'll take your money.
A horse of my own was all I ever wanted as a child. I wanted a horse more than I wanted nice clothes, more than I wanted that new cool gadget, more than I even wanted friends. I used to sit on the arm of our couch, pretending to be a jockey or a steeplechase rider flying over jumps. I read every horse themed book I could get my hands on. I owned a fleet of pastel coloured My Little Ponies and staged Barbie rides with every single one of them. My poor mother didn't stand a chance.
I had to wait 13 years for my dream to come true. For my birthday that year I received a spunky Thoroughbred mare. I use the term "received" lightly, as I paid for Skye myself. Well, actually, my generous mommy lent me the money, and I paid her back over the next few years by bussing tables. I realize now that the real birthday gift was allowing me to have a horse at all, and it's still the best gift I've ever received. She wasn't an expensive horse, but she was perfect. Dainty, chestnut with a heart shaped star: she was the love of my life and my best friend for many years.
That doesn't mean she was an easy horse. Skye was impatient, prone to pulling back and pawing, she pulled like a train, she had no brakes, and I often ended up on the ground for a closer look at what she was spooking at (usually nothing). She broke halters and lead ropes trying to fling herself away from whatever she was tied to, and she even put me on crutches once. Ask Cassie about the polo clinic: that's a good story too. I shed many tears of frustration over that horse, and I loved every minute of it. My horse memories often provoke me to ask myself, are other athletes this dedicated? If the hockey puck or volleyball ran away from you every time it saw you, and it took you 45 minutes to halter it and another hour to put it on the trailer, and then you fell off during your lesson and ended up with a face full of dirt, would you still play the game? Here's a nod to all the other riders out there. It must be love.
Eventually I ended up with a fabulous instructor who tamed Skye's unruly ways and really taught me how to ride. I even won Reserve Champion at dressage provincials one year. Pretty good for a horse who cost less than the saddle I rode her in.
Sadly though, our partnership was not to last. Skye's advanced age and limited athletic abilities led me to retire her and take up another mare, Wantara. Although I intended to keep her and lease her to less experienced rider, she died suddenly one spring night. She was only 19, not that old for a horse. I'll never know what killed her, but I still miss her. Perhaps it's silly to miss a horse, but I do. I still have her halter.
So now I have another horse friend, Wantara. I call her Muffy because frankly, I think Wantara is a terrible name. What do I yell out when she's trying to turf me? Wanty? Tara? Muffy is clearly the better choice.
Muffy is a special horse in her own right: she suffered a terrible injury as a 3 year old, underwent surgery and months of isolation in an effort to heal her, and then completely lost her mind as a result. She needed a few years of mental rehabilitation, but she's coming around. She's only recently stopped leaping in the air on her hind legs, although she still does it sometimes just to spite me. She's still terrified of everything, though. White things are especially scary. (She doesn't realize her feet are white too.)
Any why do I put up with all of this? Because I was born with a genetic defect that makes me a horse addict. Lots of people have it, but that doesn't make it any less debilitating. You can't cure it, so don't even try. So here's the tip from the wink for this edition: Buy your kids a pony. Ponies are really cute, and they'll force your kids to get a job.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Mark Hamill and Me
Boyfriend and I were lounging around his pad the other day, wondering how to fill our evening. After some debate on whether we should go out or stay in, we eventually settled on watching a movie, since that's what we do every night anyway. I know, I know: you wish your relationship was as awesome. I get that all the time.
So we settle in for a comfy night.
"You know," I begin. "I've never seen Star Wars. The original."
"What?" This one word is punctuated by a mixture of incredulity and hurt. "...how? Huh?"
"Yeah. I'd like to see it. I mean, if you think it's worth watching." We have nothing else to watch anyway, I think.
Boyfriend pops out of his seat, curly hair flying, and exits the room. He returns in about fifteen seconds gripping a copy of Star Wars: Episode IV. I have no idea where he got it. Boys must have these kinds of things stashed in secret places, though I'm amazed they can still locate them after a few weeks. In a house occupied by four boys, empty spaces don't remain empty for long, and soon begin to lurk ominously. Case in point: there's a bag of chips that's been on the living room table for about 2 weeks. What's in it? Not chips anymore, I'd guess.
Boyfriend excitedly pops the DVD in to his computer and flops down next to me. I've made him happy, I can tell. I don't want to tell him we're watching Star Wars just because we've run out of episodes of House MD. I snuggle in close instead.
I perk up as John Williams' brass and string overture begins to sound. I've always liked that music. And that yellow text is really cool! I like the scrolling idea. I begin to have high hopes for the rest of the film...
... and am sorely disappointed. Yeah, I know it was the seventies. But we still managed to produce A Clockwork Orange, Apocalypse Now, and the first two Godfather movies in this same era. All are pinnacles of great writing, editing, shooting and acting, and are thought provoking insights in to the human psyche. Not so with A New Hope.
I think what annoyed me most about Star Wars was the lead actor, Mark Hamill. Or more to point, his lack of acting skills. It could be that his main obstacle was the terrible script.
ex:
C-3PO: "This R2 unit is broken."
Luke: "Hey uncle! This R2 unit is broken."
Uncle: "That R2 unit is broken?"
C-3PO: "I think that other R2 unit will suit you just fine."
Luke: "Hey uncle! What about that other R2 unit?"
Uncle: "We'll take that other R2 unit."
Little Alien With The Glowing Eyes: "That R2 unit?"
Uncle: "That R2 unit."
Poor Mark Hamill didn't even have a chance. What actor could work with that script? At least he's cute. I dig the blond, sandy hair. Kinda reminded me of myself. I have big blue eyes too.
I also found the editing to be annoying to the point of distraction. I've been to TV school, so I know a little something about shooting and editing. Not a lot, but a little. Someone should tell these guys that cutting as someone is moving their head and then coming back to that same shot before the head movement is a little bit silly. And I was watching the "Digitally Re-Mastered" version. I shudder to think what the original was like. I hear there were strings. Lots of them.
I know it was meant to be a fun movie. It was fun, kind of. And Mark Hamill does continue to act today, so he can't be that bad. Because of this fun-ness, Boyfriend and I decided to watch the second and the third films.
The Empire Strikes Back is improves slightly on the first. The empty, snowy tundra in the beginning reminded me of good ol' Edmonton. And there's more of Harrison Ford, which is good, because he was a cutie before he became an octogenarian.
The Return of the Jedi had some nice greenery in it, which I found pleasing to look at. Also, the Ewoks look suspiciously like my old dog, Patapouf. I think it's a fair assumption that George Lucas has owned a few Lhasa Apsos in his time.
It's funny to think that as silly as these movies are, boys (and girls) around the world can recite them by heart. Mention an X-Wing, and you've made instant friends of anyone within hearing. Everybody knows the Death Star gets destroyed. I'd never even seen the film, and I knew all about the Storm Troopers. And of course I knew that Darth Vader is Luke's father. Like, Duh.
But why? The movie itself isn't all that good, at least not according to me. When it debuted in theatres back in '77, it was a smash hit. People were lined up around the block for a glimpse of Leia and Luke.
Perhaps it's all about escapism. We like to imagine ourselves up there too. Luke is just like us, poor and rebellious, but becomes the greatest Jedi of all time. He's someone we can really identify with. We want to emulate him, even though he's not well spoken at all and doesn't seem all that upset when he finds his aunt and uncle dead. Weirdo. And flying with aliens would be totally awesome. Though I think I'd break down and teach Chewie English at some point. I can't stand that growling.
All in all, I found the Star Wars Trilogy as disappointment. I can't believe there are three more of these movies! I'll probably watch them too. I like to have something to complain about.
And so, readers, I shall tip you the wink: Avoid Star Wars, and opt for some nice Stanley Kubrick or F.F. Coppola instead. You won't regret it. Every few minutes, George Lucas makes another million dollars. He doesn't need your help.
So we settle in for a comfy night.
"You know," I begin. "I've never seen Star Wars. The original."
"What?" This one word is punctuated by a mixture of incredulity and hurt. "...how? Huh?"
"Yeah. I'd like to see it. I mean, if you think it's worth watching." We have nothing else to watch anyway, I think.
Boyfriend pops out of his seat, curly hair flying, and exits the room. He returns in about fifteen seconds gripping a copy of Star Wars: Episode IV. I have no idea where he got it. Boys must have these kinds of things stashed in secret places, though I'm amazed they can still locate them after a few weeks. In a house occupied by four boys, empty spaces don't remain empty for long, and soon begin to lurk ominously. Case in point: there's a bag of chips that's been on the living room table for about 2 weeks. What's in it? Not chips anymore, I'd guess.
Boyfriend excitedly pops the DVD in to his computer and flops down next to me. I've made him happy, I can tell. I don't want to tell him we're watching Star Wars just because we've run out of episodes of House MD. I snuggle in close instead.
I perk up as John Williams' brass and string overture begins to sound. I've always liked that music. And that yellow text is really cool! I like the scrolling idea. I begin to have high hopes for the rest of the film...
... and am sorely disappointed. Yeah, I know it was the seventies. But we still managed to produce A Clockwork Orange, Apocalypse Now, and the first two Godfather movies in this same era. All are pinnacles of great writing, editing, shooting and acting, and are thought provoking insights in to the human psyche. Not so with A New Hope.
I think what annoyed me most about Star Wars was the lead actor, Mark Hamill. Or more to point, his lack of acting skills. It could be that his main obstacle was the terrible script.
ex:
C-3PO: "This R2 unit is broken."
Luke: "Hey uncle! This R2 unit is broken."
Uncle: "That R2 unit is broken?"
C-3PO: "I think that other R2 unit will suit you just fine."
Luke: "Hey uncle! What about that other R2 unit?"
Uncle: "We'll take that other R2 unit."
Little Alien With The Glowing Eyes: "That R2 unit?"
Uncle: "That R2 unit."
Poor Mark Hamill didn't even have a chance. What actor could work with that script? At least he's cute. I dig the blond, sandy hair. Kinda reminded me of myself. I have big blue eyes too.
I also found the editing to be annoying to the point of distraction. I've been to TV school, so I know a little something about shooting and editing. Not a lot, but a little. Someone should tell these guys that cutting as someone is moving their head and then coming back to that same shot before the head movement is a little bit silly. And I was watching the "Digitally Re-Mastered" version. I shudder to think what the original was like. I hear there were strings. Lots of them.
I know it was meant to be a fun movie. It was fun, kind of. And Mark Hamill does continue to act today, so he can't be that bad. Because of this fun-ness, Boyfriend and I decided to watch the second and the third films.
The Empire Strikes Back is improves slightly on the first. The empty, snowy tundra in the beginning reminded me of good ol' Edmonton. And there's more of Harrison Ford, which is good, because he was a cutie before he became an octogenarian.
The Return of the Jedi had some nice greenery in it, which I found pleasing to look at. Also, the Ewoks look suspiciously like my old dog, Patapouf. I think it's a fair assumption that George Lucas has owned a few Lhasa Apsos in his time.
It's funny to think that as silly as these movies are, boys (and girls) around the world can recite them by heart. Mention an X-Wing, and you've made instant friends of anyone within hearing. Everybody knows the Death Star gets destroyed. I'd never even seen the film, and I knew all about the Storm Troopers. And of course I knew that Darth Vader is Luke's father. Like, Duh.
But why? The movie itself isn't all that good, at least not according to me. When it debuted in theatres back in '77, it was a smash hit. People were lined up around the block for a glimpse of Leia and Luke.
Perhaps it's all about escapism. We like to imagine ourselves up there too. Luke is just like us, poor and rebellious, but becomes the greatest Jedi of all time. He's someone we can really identify with. We want to emulate him, even though he's not well spoken at all and doesn't seem all that upset when he finds his aunt and uncle dead. Weirdo. And flying with aliens would be totally awesome. Though I think I'd break down and teach Chewie English at some point. I can't stand that growling.
All in all, I found the Star Wars Trilogy as disappointment. I can't believe there are three more of these movies! I'll probably watch them too. I like to have something to complain about.
And so, readers, I shall tip you the wink: Avoid Star Wars, and opt for some nice Stanley Kubrick or F.F. Coppola instead. You won't regret it. Every few minutes, George Lucas makes another million dollars. He doesn't need your help.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
I'm Going To Win A House
So I bought my very first Full House Lottery ticket. For those of you who don't live in Edmonton, or who do live here and have never seen the commercials or heard the radio spots, the Full House Lottery is a charity in support of the University Hospital Foundation and the Royal Alexandra Hospital. Tickets are $100 and the prizes are amazing. Like, really. Expensive cars, lavish holidays, and yes, houses. Fully furnished, gigantic, brand new houses. These houses also come equipped with a new car, spending cash, and a holiday somewhere exotic.
You're probably thinking "Oh boy! Oh goodie!" I know, because that's what I've been thinking for years. I've always meant to buy a ticket, or three. But instead I squirrelled away my money, and took myself on vacations that I actually had to pay for. Foolish, yes?
Well this year I finally took the plunge. I purchased my very own Ticket. Yes, it deserves a capital. It's like a Golden Ticket. I feel confident there is a large prize in store for me. And here's why:
Picture the scene: A grade school class is bent over in concentration, little hands gripping plastic cards in white fists, straining to hear the teacher. The teacher pulls out a simple white ball and says: "Oh nine."
A child in the back snaps her head up, eyes shining, and yells out "Bingo! Bingo!" The teacher smiles and hands the girl a Santa shaped eraser. The little girl promises herself she will cherish the prize forever, and hand it down to her own children, one day.
The little girl in the happy scene is not me. I never, ever won anything in school bingo games. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Okay, that's a lie: one time I won a pink cell phone from Suzy Shier. I couldn't use it, so I gave it to Boyfriend. Boyfriend loves it. But I never won anything else. I swear.
Anyway, since I've been so unlucky with prizes in the past, I figure Fate is saving something great for me. Something great like a dream home. I clearly deserve a million-dollar home after my years of suffering at the hands of bingo. However, since I know there are thousands of other people in the city hoping for the same thing, I will settle for a trip to France. Or Spain.
And so Fate, I will tip you the wink: Give Cait the dream home.
That is all.
You're probably thinking "Oh boy! Oh goodie!" I know, because that's what I've been thinking for years. I've always meant to buy a ticket, or three. But instead I squirrelled away my money, and took myself on vacations that I actually had to pay for. Foolish, yes?
Well this year I finally took the plunge. I purchased my very own Ticket. Yes, it deserves a capital. It's like a Golden Ticket. I feel confident there is a large prize in store for me. And here's why:
Picture the scene: A grade school class is bent over in concentration, little hands gripping plastic cards in white fists, straining to hear the teacher. The teacher pulls out a simple white ball and says: "Oh nine."
A child in the back snaps her head up, eyes shining, and yells out "Bingo! Bingo!" The teacher smiles and hands the girl a Santa shaped eraser. The little girl promises herself she will cherish the prize forever, and hand it down to her own children, one day.
The little girl in the happy scene is not me. I never, ever won anything in school bingo games. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Okay, that's a lie: one time I won a pink cell phone from Suzy Shier. I couldn't use it, so I gave it to Boyfriend. Boyfriend loves it. But I never won anything else. I swear.
Anyway, since I've been so unlucky with prizes in the past, I figure Fate is saving something great for me. Something great like a dream home. I clearly deserve a million-dollar home after my years of suffering at the hands of bingo. However, since I know there are thousands of other people in the city hoping for the same thing, I will settle for a trip to France. Or Spain.
And so Fate, I will tip you the wink: Give Cait the dream home.
That is all.
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