K I T S C H — Cate's Blog

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Kegless in Kitchener

A couple Saturdays ago we had to get on the road before 7:00. That's a.m, thank you, and it's really not my finest hour.

I won't venture into the arena of inappropriate requests and why we had to accede to them. Just suffice it to say we ended up on Homer Watson Boulevard in southwestern Kitchener at around 8 a.m.

I guess it could have been worse. I do love Kitchener-Waterloo, even when there are no lederhosen or tubas around.

Yeah, that last link? I know you didn't bother clicking on it, so go do it now. Please? Don't worry, I'll wait.

Okay, so I realize it has nothing whatsoever to do with Kitchener, but how fucking cool is the idea of the Biergarten at Epcot Center? Or is that the Biergaten? The website just can't make up its mind. It seems similarly conflicted about "music" and "song," as if they were two entirely different concepts. Dude, to a lexicographer they might be, for all I know. But this is Walt Disney World Resort^®. Let's just "enjoy the oom-pah sound of the band," shall we? Hey, give me enough of the Bier, and I may even "yodel and sing along with the group." But they better know "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths, or Peeter will get up and walk.

But back to Kitchener. There are lots of very cute houses there. Some of those houses are even shaped like darling cloche hats. Darling!

Unfortunately, though, that means dick squat when everyone in the neighbourhood is selling crap. And to make matters even worse, this southwest corner of Kitchener started to feel like a Leonard Nimoy-hosted special on the Bermuda Triangle, as we kept trying and trying to get downtown but always ended up back on Homer Watson Boulevard. I've usually got a good sense of direction and am the designated map reader more often than not, so this made me sad. Maybe a tiny bit scared. But mostly just sad.

What made me even sadder, though, were the multitude of signs pointing to a museum known as the Joseph Schneider Haus. Sure, now I realize it's one of those places with costumed interpreters who pretend it's 1832. I love that stuff! I'll gladly spend all day petting friendly goats and watching people in funny outfits churn pretend butter.

However, on that Saturday, all I could think of were those appalling TV spots where some actor tries to look like he's starring in an old film as this guy, the pioneer who made it possible for you to pick up a pack of Juicy Jumbos down at the Food Basics. Well, if you're Canadian, that is. And not completely grossed out by the idea of a hot dog called a Juicy Jumbo. And if you're still considering buying them after you've seen them hawked on TV by the reanimated corpse of J.M. Schneider.

In any case, we took a pass on his Haus.

It was kind of cool once we finally got away from Homer Watson Boulevard because we saw parts of Kitchener and Waterloo that we hadn't seen before. Usually we're on our way to a party or a restaurant and we don't get to sightsee. It's a shame, because the area is lovely. If I weren't set on moving back to the States, this is where I'd like to live.

During JournalCon last year, Gwen and I were kicking around a half-assed theory about Toronto being the Canadian Houston: humid, multicultural and something else. The same size? I forget. There may have been a few drinks consumed, and I was still feeling the residual effects of all the Vicodin the nice Texas doctors kept pushing on me for my fucked-up elbow. So if Toronto is Houston, then Kitchener-Waterloo must be Austin. It's close to the big city, it's a college town, and I'd love to live there. Hey, I said it was a half-assed, drunken theory.

I'll tell you where else I'd like to live: on Strange Street in Kitchener. I really don't know anything about the neighbourhood, but the street looks nice enough. That's beside the point, though. Every time I wrote out my address, I'd feel like I were living in a Cure song or a Tim Burton movie. It would be even better than my other fantasy of telling people I live on Athol street in Toronto.

Aaand this is the point where I should probably go out and get a life. Or at least some sleep.

Saturday, July 10, 2004

Pranks

A few days ago I volunteered to photocopy numerous copies of an industry standards document. Rrowr, sexy! Hey, it was a nice change of pace from my usual duties as a Professional TV Watcher.

Shut up. That is too a job!

Anyway, after a while, I even got into the photocopy groove, that trance state where the hypnotic rhythm of the photocopier reacts with your brainwaves to make you so relaxed that you're positively giddy. In fact, you'll laugh at just about anything.

That may explain why, when one of my colleagues strolled by, we started joking about the blank company stock-purchase order someone had photocopied and left behind. Wouldn't it be hilarious to choose someone at random in the company and order him or her a gazillion shares of company stock to be paid out of salary over the next year? You could imagine this person on our next payday thinking, Hmm, that's weird. I thought it was payday today. So how come there's only, like, five bucks in my checking account?

Then Co-worker pointed out a specific person we should do this to, and we laughed much, much harder. Hey, this person deserves it for producing work so poor it makes the baby Jesus cry. We're talking buckets of tears, okay?

Obviously, we're never going to go through with it, though. This is the sort of prank idea that basically decent people concoct to relieve some of the stress caused by a person you just can't realistically take any action against.

So you can make up your own mean scenarios, or you can go here and work out your frustrations by reading about Rob's cool pranks that don't actually harm anyone. I [heart] Rob and his entire site, but the printer ones are so good that I think someone needs to enact a law designating the printer pranks as the standard by which all future pranks will be judged.

Next up: Revenge.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

The gift of squirrels

Last Friday my mother's lawyer took care of closing the sale on our family home. Mom's doing pretty okay with it. So are the rest of us, mostly.

A few months ago, Peeter and I took our last trip to Schenectady. Realistically, I'll say it was the last time I'll ever see my family home again. It's entirely likely that I'll never even be back in the Capital District area either. All my high school friends have left and -- let's face it -- it's not like I've actually lived in the town for over 15 years.

And, frankly, I'm not sure I want to live there again anyway. By the end of the hardcore six-month winters, the snowbanks are taller than me. The local accent really grates. No, I mean it seriously grates. Also, it's sad when people keep trying to rejuvenate the downtown Schenectady area and it doesn't take.

You see, Schenectady pretty much hit its heyday about a hundred years ago, what with Thomas Edison doing a whole bunch of science-y stuff there. (You really like how I'm so precise, don't you?) But people, that golden age ain't coming back. It's a basic law of urban planning. Or something. Sad but true. I wish it were different.

Still, Schenectady has a planetarium. Even Toronto, a city of over three million people, doesn't have that anymore. And Albany -- the Capital District, really -- was recently voted the least stressful "large metro area" in the U.S. Not too shabby, eh?

And Schenectady also has my parents' house. As a perennial apartment dweller, I just adored having a home base, something roughly permanent to call home. I love that I can navigate the entire place in the dark. I love the smell of the basement. (Seriously. In fact, Yankee Candle needs to create a candle called "Cate's Parents' Basement.") The backyard has a host of dearly departed pets buried in it. And most years, in January, the eighteen feet or so of snow in the backyard will melt during some early thaw and create either an intriguingly strange pool or a lovely ice rink.

I love a good ice rink.

Well, as Peeter and I were getting ready to leave for the last time, I felt extremely sorry for myself. Yeah, I know. I've been doing a bit too much of that lately. I'm working on it, thank you.

Anyway. I was feeling kind of weepy as we finished packing the car.

Fine. As Peeter finished packing the car. I'll admit that I was walking around the house and the yard, communing with old ghosts.

There's a beautiful oak tree in the front yard of my parents' property, and as I was walking toward it, I started to ask Peeter about some ancient Estonian custom I vaguely remember where you put your back up against the trunk of a powerful oak tree and make a wish. Although, for what it's worth, the superstition could very well be that if you cut down the oak tree in the fall and chop it up into logs, you'll have firewood to last throughout the winter.

I don't know. Those crazy Estonians were drunk most of the time anyway. Maybe they just needed to hang on to whatever trees were handy so they could hold themselves upright through a vodka haze.

I never got an answer to my oak tree question because, as we got closer to the tree, we noticed that it was full of squirrels. Baby squirrels, to be precise. There were five of them, and their mother was leading them out of the nest for the very first time. If you've never seen baby squirrels, I'm here to tell you they look incredibly dorky, especially when they're hugging tree branches in terror. They were more scared of the tree than they were of us. I mean, I'm scared of heights, but I'm not a squirrel, okay?

At least I left Schenectady laughing instead of crying. That's progress, isn't it?

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Surrender!
(lovers, thieves, fools and pretenders)

First, I know it's been a long while, but I want to thank you again, those who wrote to me with condolences over the loss of Sir Pet-A-Lot. You know it helped. A lot.

We buried him up north, not far from where our other bunnies were laid to rest, close to the cottage land that Peeter's parents used to own.

It's weird, though, that while it genuinely is comforting to bury our pets in a place we love, it does lead to kind of a mindfuck when you try to reconcile "beloved pets buried" with "beautiful memories of parties in high-cliffs cottage country" and "bullshit excuses Peeter's parents used for selling cottage land at 5,000% below market value before we could get our own damn downpayment together."

Oops. Did that sound bitter? Sorry. In any case, that's neither here nor there, for today, in honour of Canada Day, we celebrate...Muskoka!

For those who haven't personally experienced Muskoka cottage country, it's a lovely area a few hours north of Toronto. The climate is plenty harsh in winter, yet still beautiful, in a glittery kind of way. But in July and August, the area is utterly charmed. It's like The Waterboys' The Pan Within come to life in Canada. Truly.

One of my really good memories of the area was when I spent a day there with my stupid ex-friend Ülle. It took place a week after Labour Day, which made the lake too cold for swimming, but we'd had a nice enough time anyway. Then, just as we were gathering up our stuff to leave around sunset, we heard this weird, distorted lone goose call. We looked up, and there was a whole flock of geese flying over the lake. They all started calling out as they flew over, and the cries echoed off the water and the cliffs. The reflection in the water made it look like there was an enchanted goose flock flying in the bottom of a magical lake.

Then again, Ülle was kind of a bitch, and she did her damnedest to break up Peeter and me when we started dating, so there actually are a whole lot of other memories that take precedence over that one, beautiful geese be damned.

Okay, here's one. When we brought Sir Pet-A-Lot up for burial, we did our usual after-stops at the Salvation Armies of Bracebridge and Gravenhurst. A grim ritual, agreed, but these shops are home to some of our best finds ever. That includes getting reacquainted with some of the hideous ancient romance novels that I'd read ten years ago. And they're still floating around the charity shops.

Scary? In spades. Sad too.

The funny part, though, is that they're still sporting the subtle "adjustments" that Peeter made to the covers. These "adjustments" would, of course, be highlighting any disdain Peeter or I might have held for the material at hand.

I guess you'll just have to head up north if you want to see that. While you're there, check out what Peeter and I thought might have been a course on etiquette that the mayor instigated after last year's tourist season. It turns out it was probably just a play of some sort.

I think you could understand the mistake, though.