Thursday, 30 June 2011

Girl Talk

     Long time no post.  Life's been a bit hectic and crazy lately, but I'll try to document some funtastic goings on from the past and future more regularly.  Anyhow, Caitlin and I were reminiscing fondly of one of our favourite embarrassing moments and I thought all yeens might enjoy it too.
     So, as much as we are not the most typical of girls, Caitlin and I do have extended phone seshes or call each other up just to chat before we meet up, whatevs: no big deal.  Over the last few years, we learned the practical greatness and functionality of speakerphone.  I can guarantee you I'm almost always doing something else, like putting my face on, doing mah huuur, or flinging clothes on, whilst practising active listening. 
     This was one of those times. 
     So I started to sheath my nekedness as our phones connected.
    After a solid chat before we planned our rendezvous, my mum rapped on my door.  I was fully clothed by this time, so I let her enter my bedchamber.  The trouble with speakerphone is that it is easy to get out of the mic's range.   
     A few moments of silence on Caitlin's end of the phone was enough for her to release her best, most offensively unskilled, overprotective Jewish mother impression.  She tried with all her might to roll her r's at the back of her throat, whilst unbeknownst to her, my mum and I were losing our shit laughing.
     I had forgotten to mention she was on speakerphone.  I swear I could feel her blushing through the phone.  We laughed and laughed, we still do.

Friday, 17 June 2011


     Last night, Vancouver bombed their chance at the Stanley cup.  I'm not a huge hockey fan, but I've followed them to some degree as they made their way though the play off's and the finals.  My night could not have been more different than the rioting down town. 
     Tim Thomas, the Boston Bruins' goalie with mad skillz, is an ice gypsy: enough said.  Caitlin and I are sure he emits a gypsy screech as forwards approach his net to stun his opponents and pin point the location of the puck using echo location.  Has anyone else ever noticed that the viewers never hear what's going on verbally on the ice?  No one would ever know of his secret talent, all those who face him would be too embarrassed to use the excuse that Tim Thomas used his gypsy powers and everyone would think the accuser is just a sore loser.  I swear he has one gold hoop earring tucked into his helmet and wears voluminous, striped cotton bloomers and a billowing peasant shirt. 
     Honestly, that first goal decided the game.  That game decided the night.  I have never seen such reckless vandalism.  I actually felt like I was going to vomit on multiple occasions as I watched the news coverage of the rioting.  Sure, you can't spell patriot without riot, but this was madness.  Upon witnessing the footage of London Drugs falling victim to hooligans smashing the windows then proceeding to loot the store that consistently has supplied me with nail polish, Pringles, and an Xmen trilogy box set, I have lost much of my faith in humanity.  However, I did have the pleasure of seeing an inebriated man dancing in the background of a field reporter's shot that looked exactly like Dimitri from those "dimitri finds out..." videos.
     It is extremely disheartening that I have not found a wealthy benefactor yet to finance my ultimate dream of becoming a PVC clad vigilante. 
     I wouldn't even have to bang him, I'd wait till he wrote me into his will, then I'd set him up so he's killed in the crossfires of a gang battle.  Although I should not have disclosed these plans, now it can all be traced back to me.  This is one for future Cari to deal with later.  Fantasy aside, this was the perfect opportunity for someone to bring justice to the city through masked hero work.  How I would have loved to have dropped out of the sky into the fray of the riot and beat some shit-head 20-something, adolescent minded guy to a bloody pulp with my phallic night stick of glory with retractable spikes. 
     One day.

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

Peter Pantload

     Darling Timothy showed me a lovely video on YouTube yesterday.  It consisted of some Mexican men running around in a forest at night time looking for a creature they called "Fallen Angel".  After managing to find a feather on the ground in the pitch black, they surveyed the night, stopping their camera on a horrible, hunchy, bone rack with knubby wing projections out its anorectic back.  After it realized it was being watched, the creature moves to make an escape.  It was one of those videos created for shock value, and it was obviously fake, but shitgoddamn, glowing eyes get me every time.  Ever since the Never Ending Story, glowing eyes are scarred in my hypothalamus to GTFO!
     Later that evening, I had been super sleepy and missed the majority of the VHS I was watching because of an impromptu nap, so I decided to call it a night at 10PM.  I nestled into bed, pumped some tunes and horizontally danced around in my bed for a while, vigorously mouthing along and choreographing how I'd perform the song if given the opportunity.  Finally it came time to turn out my little bed side light.  As soon as I was in the darkness, I decided I would internally recap the lovely day I had.  Suddenly, the darkness was filled with the image of the creature's reflective greenish-white eyes, terrifyingly vacant yet piercing the night vision camera and my very soul.
     I tried to fight the urge to fumble for the switch and turn on my bedside light, I am an adult, there was nothing to fear, I was being totally irrational.  Who the hell was I trying to fool?  I had that light on faster than a 5 year old rips open presents on Christmas morning.
      I wrapped myself securely in my quilt and hunkered in for a thorough stationary room inspection.  No creatures, just a lot of clothes piled on my floor and on the couch casting shadows.  In my delirious panic, it looked like everything was moving, but as long as nothing had reflective glowing eyes of death, I was going to be fine.  I repeated this dance of fear multiple times: psyching myself up, turning the light out, being greeted with the mental scar of those eyes, then immediately turning the light back on. 
     I realized I needed to fight overwhelming terror with overwhelming cuteness.  To YouTube I went!  On a brief side note, as much as I am not a supporter of Apple and Steve Jobs, I love my Ipod Touch I won from my university's bookstore.  Last night, having a world of adorable videos in my hand was beyond useful.  There's a video of a little white baby Holland Lop bunny nodding off in their owner's hand with soothing music tinkling in the background that I found in the related videos sidebar of a video of a baby seal being released into the wild.

     Not gonna lie, I watched that baby bunny video at least 6 times in a row until I was so deep in cuddly cuteness mode that I made a nice cozy nest and dozed off for a bit.  Even that freaky little Mexican demon couldn't get the image of dat chubby baby bunny out of my head.

Friday, 3 June 2011

Lucky Lung

     I watched Waterworld yesterday.  It got me thinking about how much I love semi-plausible post-apocalyptic movies.  Waterworld is kind of like the aquatic version of Mad Max, and they are kind of along the lines of Blade Runner.  I like the fend-for-yourself, everyone's toting a gun, 200% bad ass in strange tattered clothing theme in these movies.  My all time favourite, of course, is Tank Girl.
     She is one tough lady.  I blame her for my loathing of feeling vulnerable.  Treating men like objects, living off home brewed draught, and playing around in a tank, submarine, jet, boat or whatever we can get our hands on on the Australian outback seems like a pretty sweet life.  I want to sling a gun and decimate seething masses of corrupt government soldiers for shipments of alki too, while still managing to crack jokes and operate complicated weaponry.  I think I would defs be a Boat Girl, I mean, my wardrobe is already pretty nautical.
     I think I would explode if I met Jamie Hewlett in person.