Unprophetic Coffee

The Donut Shop. That is the name of the coffee we have at work. That or Arabica. “Arabica” brings to mind coffee from the exotic land of Arabia, such as Saudi. The Donut Shop brings to mind a frightening wannabe version of Tim Horton’s. When people see Arabica brewed they think, “Oh good! Coffee!” When they see The Donut Shop they think, “Oh look, coffee. Well I’m going to die some day.” The thing is, they are both terrible coffee (coffees?). And coffee tastes terrible to begin with. So it’s not like you’re expecting liquid chocolate. The problem is, whether it’s a Donut Shop day or an Arabica day doesn’t actually signify anything. You’d think if it was an Arabica day, it would be a good day, and if it was a Donut Shop day it would be a bad day. But they are just different levels of bad. And besides I have proof that it does not predict the kind of day you have.

I moved to a place in Gordon Head, right next to Mt. Doug Park. The bus stop is close and I made sure I was there early. EARLY. Do you know what that means to me? Well, in this case, only a couple of minutes, but that’s besides the point (I know for a fact that the expression is “beside the point” but I have been saying “besides the point” for so long that I just plumb refuse to change, for the sake of consistency alone) (I also like the expression “plumb.” I like expressions that I can also eat, I call them “edible expressions," like "don't have a cow" or “good gravy.” Just kidding! I'm a vegetarian). You might be surprised by this but I am not known for my earliness (see post “Tardiness”). I am not even known for my on-timeness. Well I waited and waited for the bus but it obviously wasn’t coming. I had already been late to work twice. The first time I was late was because I decided to ride my bike to the Royal Oak Exchange from my old place. Well, I’d done it before, so you’d think it wouldn’t be a problem. But this time I decided to take the highway. Which was also the long way. I’m leaving out the part where I never meant to bike all the way to the Royal Oak Exchange, or to even bike on the highway - I was trying to find where the closest bus stop was. Apparently I passed it unawares and just... kept going. If I didn’t die of heat-stroke (it was the hottest day of the summer so far) and pure exhaustion, I nearly died on the highway. I do not recommend it. Some people do it, but they are obviously depressed. Because when those semi’s go by your entire life flashes before your eyes... and you realize what a horrible movie your life would make. The storyline is just totally out of whack, you pretty much live a cycle of repeated mistakes and unassuming joys, and if you don’t get pancaked by a semi, you nearly die of boredom, flashing your life before your eyes AGAIN only this time at least it includes a close shave with a semi (exciting). So, just like I was telling you, that day I didn’t even have coffee, so it didn’t predict anything about how bad the day was.

The second time I was late was because... I can’t remember. Oh wait, now I remember. Because I was early for the bus. Yep. Once again, I was early (and once again that actually only means a couple of minutes) and the bus must have a cruel sense of humor and have come even EARLIER than a couple minutes. Probably three. That day I did have coffee and it was Arabica, which should have proved that it was a good day. It wasn’t. So coming back to my story about being early for the bus yesterday, I waited for that bus until it was almost too late. Finally I sprinted home, tried to wake up my new roommate (Krista) and pathetically plead for a ride to work. I couldn’t do it, I tried and when she didn’t wake up, I felt a great sense of relief and panic at the same time, which was interesting. I grabbed my helmet and hopped on my bike in my sandals and work clothes and pedalled as fast as my little out-of-biking-shape legs could take me. I didn’t think it was possible. I had fifteen minutes to get to the Royal Oak Exchange to catch the number 75. And somehow I made it. Granted I had to leave my bike at the exchange because there were already two bikes on the bike rack, but God must have known, because I happened to have my bike lock still on my bike from the move (I hadn’t bothered to lock it up at my new place). That’s totally God... right? Not stupidity? Well that day, despite being chaotic, turned out to be a miracle day, because I miraculously made it on time. And if I was late just one more time I would have had it recorded as an absence at work. And that day I had The Donut Shop coffee, and it was disgusting, per usual. What is the point of all this? Not much. What can you learn from it? Heck if I know. I still haven’t learnt how to be on time.

I promise the next post won't be quite so useless. Actually I can't really promise that.

Spilly-Talka

I just wanted to update you on what has happened since my blog post "You Win Special Snack," regarding my winnings. I now have only one Coconut Bliss coupon left for a free pint of the best coconut milk ice-cream in the world, except for the stack of coupons only usable in the States, so next time I go over, boy am I going to be in bliss. NOTE: I have never gone over. I still use my Coconut Bliss water bottle. But let's just say it's seen better days. You see, I am a little bit clutsy with my water bottle. My coworkers call me a "spilly-talka" (I always thought they were saying "taco" with some kind of gangster accent but I just found out it's "talker" with a Scottish accent. Somehow taco made sense to me. Because tacos are spilly...?). Some people are just spilly people. Like my mother, may she rest in peace (she's alive. In fact I live with her. She's just been looking a little haggard lately and I want her to have a good rest. Just kidding mom, I don't want you to have a good rest?). I like to put a positive spin on everything, so I made up a slogan for her and I say it every time she spills something: "Valerie: she makes a splash wherever she goes." As for myself, my problem is a combination of things that I have no control over:

Weak Shop Mug

1. Spilly genetics (as seen above)
2. Chronic fatigue (that's why I need The Weak Shop mug with three handles)
3. Shaky hand syndrome
4. Artist's absent-minded syndrome

I have knocked over my water bottle on my desk approximately 10 times. Many of those times it was full of water and nearly killed my electronic devices. And yes, it does have a lid. But you have to put it back on for it to be useful.



As someone who needs a ridiculous amount of water (I have to drink 7-8 bottles of water a day so while the average person is 50-60% water, I am 90% water, 10% good intentions) I am always drinking, which means I am approximately four times more likely to spill something than the average person. This is what I like to tell myself. And people with bowel issues can't afford to get dehydrated or they shrivel up like a prune. Did you know that you can go two years without food but you can only go two hours without water before you die? (I made that up.) My Coconut Bliss water bottle is the only one I use: at work, on my bike and at home, and I take it with me wherever I go, like a blanky-bear (different from a security blanket, which I leave at home). The reason I love that water bottle is as much to do with my ego (it's the one thing I've ever won) as it is to do with science: it's stainless steel, not plastic, so the water doesn't taste funny after sitting in there and plastic particles don't mess with your brain chemistry; it doesn't have any copper around the rim to make it taste metallic and mess with your iron levels; it fits aerodynamically into my bike's bottle holder and the top screws on easy. There is a lot of science that goes into the perfect water bottle people. But after more than a few violent encounters with the ground, it now looks like it's been through a few world wars and the dents on the bottom make it as tippy as a drunken sailor. I tried bashing it on the concrete more than once to put it back into shape but to no avail.



A water bottle with a bullet hole was among the
artifacts found during an archaeological survey
of a First World War site, the Anzac battlefield
 in Turkey. It may or may not have been the same
one as mine.

One day I spilled my water bottle all over my desk just after my coworker Shelly left for the day. I was lying out my soggy papers on the floor to dry (reminiscent of A Beautiful Mind) when I heard Shelly, who shouldn't have been there anyway, say, "Did you spill again?" Hearing her, another coworker came over and then another and then my boss heard and came over and the jig was up. That's when the truth got out about me. Well, I have finally spilt my water bottle one too many times, my friends. You know you have done something one too many times when your boss finally comes over and actually orders you to get rid of your water bottle because it is becoming a hazard to the computer equipment... But there was no way I was parting with my prize. No sir. So I went to the bathroom and using the rounded water faucet I slammed that baby into the bottom of my water bottle until it sat flat. And if I ended up breaking the company's water faucet in the process, well, I could say my boss told me to. Who's winning now, huh?

The Bike Riding Diaries

Today three things made me happy on my bike ride home:
1. An elderly couple riding a bicycle built for two. When you're old, you need a little help.
2. A group of people standing in a huddle dressed up as knights in shining armor. I looked for a camera but didn't see one... I think they just enjoy dressing up as knights.
3. A man who biked in front of me for half the way home without once touching his handles bars. Wait you thought that was the interesting part? No, it was the fact that he used his spare hand time to do bird calls and flap his arms around in a dance(?) as people passed him. By pass him, I mean bikers going the opposite way because despite not using his hands he still somehow managed to bike faster than everyone else... as he did bird calls... and arm flapping (I distinctly heard a bird that sounded like an owl call back). Needless to say, it made me very, very happy. I was also happy to see he was dressed like a professional biker, not some shirtless hippy without a helmet like you were previously imagining.

One thing didn't:
1. Stupid boys in a truck howled at me as they passed by and almost gave me a heart attack. I wouldn't have minded if it was a suggestive howl like they saw passed the biking outfit and my brother's old helmet to the beautiful person inside. But it was definitely an "I'm going to make you crash into oncoming traffic and laugh" howl. How rude. And exhilarating.

Or that time I..

Just remembering some funny moments. Like that time I lost my balance standing on the bus and actually fell on some strange man's lap. Looking back, there were so many things I wish I had said to smooth that over. But really, is there any smoothing over sitting in a stranger's lap? No. No there is not.

Or that time I decided to pick up my friend's travel mug and turn it upside down to see if it said what it was made of on the bottom. As mugs often are, it was full of coffee. I will never live that down.

Or that time I took a coffee onto the double decker bus and dropped it on the upper level, spilling it all over the floor. It meant that every time the bus went forward or came to a stop, everyone watched the coffee creeping further up and down the aisle and eventually spill down the stairs. You have no idea how horrifying it is to have to tell the bus driver that you had an accident. 

I should really stay away from coffee. And buses. Especially together...

Or one I really like: instead of saying "Have a good day" at the end of a call at work, I accidentally said, "Have a good idea."

Or that time I was really sweaty after biking to work so I decided to use the shirt I had biked in as a towel just to realize I forgot the shirt I was going to wear and now had to put back on the shirt I had just used to dry myself.

Or that time I watched some guy ahead of me step in dog poo in the middle of the sidewalk and as I watched I thought "Poor sucker never looked where he was going," and immediately stepped in the first part of the same dog's poo because I was too busy watching the other guy not looking where he was going. I tried to get his attention to commiserate with him but he pretended I wasn't there and that nothing had happened. Pride goeth before the fall but not before you steppeth in poo.



This is me, a failed bear.

Or that time I volunteered to wear the teddy bear mascot costume at a Christmas fundraiser for the Queen Alexandra Foundation and tried to convince a skeptical little boy that I was in fact a real bear. I mistakenly said something about bears celebrating Christmas and decorating Christmas trees. He replied (with disdain), "Bears hibernate during the winter." Nobody told me I was talking to Dwight Schrute's illegitimate child.

Or how as a child I had an obsession with carving my name into things, particularly our furniture. At the time I wasn't thinking that this was incriminating myself, I was solely thinking of one word: fame. I carved "F+R" (R for the boy I liked in grade two) into a cabinet and when my mother confronted me I tried to convince her it was someone else. Of the ones I remember, I wrote my name in our doorframe, our storage unit, my desk at home and at school, a bunkbed at camp and many trees. When I was thirteen I got in trouble with the park ranger at Miracle Beach campgrounds for carving "Faith + Mike" inside a large heart, into a tree on our camp site.  Mike was a boy I liked on a camping trip after knowing him for three days and, as we all know, 95% of all park rangers are bitter about young love (this is true, I swear). The day before he left he serenaded me on the beach with his Catholic school horror stories. He had a concaved chest and said his best friend was a girl with big boobs who offered to donate some to fill the hole. These are the kind of boys I like.

You will also find my name in many cement structures around my old complex: the rock wall in my back yard, a corner of the basketball court, my friend's patio, the curb on my street and outside my aunt's old house in James Bay.

I refuse to be forgotten.

Bike or Die

You'll notice the bikers on signs never have helmets on.
What kind of message is that sending to the children?

You have to possess great humility to be a biker. No, not a motorbiker with their sweet leather X-Men suits and spaceman helmets. A bicyclebiker. With their spandex and saddlebags and aerodynamic head gear. Riding the Galloping Goose every day, I see many flavors of bikers. But after some obtuse observations I find most bicyclers fit into two groups: those embracing the humble experience that is bikerdom, and those awkwardly fighting against it (or looking really cool, in which case I hate them). But if you're going to bother to bike, you might as well embrace it. Yes, it means wearing a helmet. I sometimes wonder if people who don't wear helmets when they bike think that their heads are made of extra special strong material, like maybe they've been injected with adamantium. That might be more realistic if they were riding a motorbike in an X-Men suit. Somehow I can't imagine Wolverine riding a bicycle.