Higher Power, My Ass

Okay, first off, lemme just say…I’ve never been much of a believer.  Mumbo-jumbo blah-de-blah whatever.

But you know what?  I’ve had a revelation.  There really is something out there.  I have PROOF.

I also know that whatever this Higher Power is…whether he/she/it is a single entity or a collective consciousness or a bunch of electromagnetic energy hovering in the ether…  Whatever it is ~

It’s an ASSHOLE AND HAS A SICK SENSE OF HUMOUR.

I know this, because:

I bought a convertible and a mountain bike.

AND IT HAS BEEN RAINING EVER SINCE!!!!!

But I am a reasonable person.  I am a happy person.  I am nothing if not resourceful.  I could survive on a desert island.  So I will not allow this to slow me down.  I will forge ahead, I will smile, I will adapt.

Thus, I have a plan and my plan is thus:

Commencing at approximately 0800 hours tomorrow, I shall begin the process of dismantling Spike the Bike as the initial step in converting Skipper the Geo Tracker into an amphibious pedal-powered sailing vessel. 

Next, I shall replace Skipper’s gas/brake/clutch pedals with pedals harvested from Spike, applying waterproof seals as required.  These pedals will power the propellor which I shall create from scrap metal scored from the now-redundant fuel tank, thus also making Skipper an eco-friendly transportation choice and possibly bringing world-wide renown and a documentary collaboration with Leonardo DiCaprio.  This propellor will also be of a daisy-shaped design so that it is pretty.

Tires from Spike shall be revamped to act as emergency flotation devices in the event of a man-overboard situation. 

Should the rain ever cease (hah), my work shall not be in vain, as Skipper’s canvas roof will be transformed to act both as a shelter during inclement weather and also as a sail should the sun ever decide to appear.

I shall use my subliminal psychic powers and my innate sense of cool to convince the rest of the world that frizzy hair is as awesome as it gets. 

I will pretend that I am Holly Golightly in the final scene of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.  Being wet is poignant, endearing, dramatic and poetic. 

I will also commence construction of a massive rainbarrel to collect and filter our clean(ish) Canadian rain, which I will then sell to the Americans as drinking water at an outrageously marked-up price.

So go ahead, Ye Gods.  Melt the icecaps.  Destroy the levees.  Bring it on.  I can take you.

   

This is only the beginning.

Upside/Down In The Small Town

From city...

 

...to small town

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been catching a crapload of crap from my nearest and dearest lately for leaving the City. 

You have to understand – I was a City girl all my life…even when I wasn’t a City girl.  Born in the City, raised in the boonies, I spent most of my teen years scratching the days into the wall of the cell my parents liked to call a bedroom, dreaming of returning to the City of my birth and never coming back. 

And boy, lemme tellya – the day I graduated, I hit the ground running.  I was 17 and on my own – WOO HOO!  (Well, unless you count Student Aid…but that’s a whole ‘nother story altogether – one that involves numerous undercover identities, artificial accents when answering the telephone, and a possible future one-way trip to Mexico.  Because imagine my delight when I discovered you could get financial assistance from the government to study acting! )  Oh, yeah – I held the world in my hand, I did.

So I moved to the City.  And there I took root, made friends, got a fabulous – if convoluted – education, found love, partied HARD.  Until one day, those roots were torn up (by – what else – a guy) and I was whisked away on a cross-Canada adventure that wound up landing me, like a backward Dorothy, back in my hometown.

Well, after an adjustment period that only took about, oh, five years or so, it turns out I kinda dig it here!  Colour me stunned. 

Now I’m gonna tell you why and you’re all gonna stop bugging my ass about it, ‘kay?  Listen up.

Living in a small town:

_____________________________________________________________________________________

UPSIDE:   Traffic – the lack thereof.  With the exception of the 10 minute period around the shift changes at the local tire factory (yeah, I know…see ‘Downsides’ below), you can run out to the store to buy chips and be back before the ads are over.  With gas prices the way they are and my patience being what it is, this one really rocks!  I mean it.  Last time I was in the City, it took me 45 minutes to get from the highway to my friend’s house four streets over.  I was transformed into a 5-foot-tall bucket of road rage in a peasant blouse…which really fucked with my whole granola persona.  Nothing pisses me off more than letting myself get pissed off.

DOWNSIDE:  Yeah, no – there really is no downside to this one.  Sorry, I tried. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  No fancy, expensive hair salons.

UPSIDE:  The first time I got a haircut here, I was really nervous…though it’s only hair, a renewable resource and all that…I wasn’t sure what to expect.  But…I was thrilled with the result and went to pay, pulling out my credit cards, not caring how many years it would take me to pay it off because I looked so damn fine.  Guess how much?  Come on, seriously, guess.  ELEVEN DOLLARS.  *stupified gaping stare*  I was expecting something like three hundred, like I paid in the City.  The poor hairdresser kept trying to give me back the change from the fifty I gave her because I was so friggin’ thrilled at the bargain I was getting.  It totally made both of our days.

____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  People here have never heard of organic produce.

UPSIDE:  That’s because it’s ALL organic!  I buy my produce at a local farm market, where 10 bucks gets you a carload (I am NOT kidding) of the most delicious, pesticide/herbicide-free fruits and veggies you’ve ever tasted.  And the family that run the farm are super-nice.  When I was there yesterday, they were giving out slices of watermelon for the road.  Who does that???  And I buy my eggs for 2 bucks a dozen from a lady who delivers TO MY DOOR.  Sometimes the eggs are still warm…from hens that I know for a FACT actually ARE runnin’ around happily in a yard, not cooped up beakless in a wire cage somewhere.  And you’ve never tasted eggs like these – they are like butter.  They’re responsible for making me the crappy vegan that I am. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  Fewer banks to choose from.

UPSIDE:  My bank serves cookies.  Every day.  I kid you not.  And coffee.  Free.  On warm days, it’s lemonade.  On busy days, like pension-cheque day, they get fancy with little petit-fours from the local bakery.  And they put all this on a long table that runs alongside where people line up, so you don’t even have to go out of your way for a treat. 

It’s also pretty sweet that when you lose your bank card (okay, when I lose my bank card), I don’t even need to show ID to get a new one, because they already know who I am (and not just because of my student loans).

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  My best friends’ boxy, white, but very expensive apartments are very, very far away.

UPSIDE:  I have a charming flat in an old Victorian mansion, with a fireplace, hardwood floors, bay windows, a deck overlooking the water, free parking, a huge garden-filled yard with an old-wood forest in back that is full of amazing wildlife, where I am allowed to paint the walls any colour I please and have as many pets as I want.  All this for less than I paid for a bug-infested room 20 years ago as a student in the City.  And I was only required to sign a one-year lease (“Just until we get to know each other,” my landlord shrugged as I signed).  That lease expired two years ago and I’ve never been asked to sign anything since.  

The view from my deck

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  Everyone knows everyone.  You can’t sneeze without everyone knowing about it.

UPSIDE:  Everyone knows everyone.  You don’t screw with people, ’cause they know where you live.  (And if they don’t, their uncle/cousin/mother’s minister’s niece does.)  This has a direct effect on the crime rate – people don’t lock their cars or their doors around here and my bike has been sitting on my deck for months, unlocked.  I had four bicycles stolen when I was in the City.  (Though seeing that in writing kind of makes me embarassed to admit that.  Perhaps I should have reconsidered my security measures a little harder…but anyway.  Shut up.)

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  There is nothing to spend your money on.  Restaurants are all dark by 9 pm.  I have to drive at least 100 km to get a stinking falafel. 

UPSIDE:  There is nothing to spend your money on.  And this means your cost of living is waaaay less.  Your car breaks down?  Dude up the street’ll fix it at a discount and tax-free…if you pay cash and don’t need a receipt - “Just the right amount to take the missus out tonight for fish and chips like she wanted.”  That is, of course, if buddy next door hasn’t already noticed the car was making a funny sound when you drove it in last night and took it upon himself to ‘take a look’ this morning before you got up.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  All the men in town with jobs seem to work at the tire plant.

UPSIDE:  Cheap winter tires.  Duh.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  You have to get your car rust-checked more often, because of ALL.  THE.  FRESH.  SALT.  AIR.  (Yeah.  Bummer.)

UPSIDE:  Do I need to say it?  *sigh*  Alright.  BEACH!!!!!  Right over there!!!  (And there is so much OXYGEN!  I had no idea that air could taste so good!  I didn’t even realize I’d been breathing smog ’til I moved away!)

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  The town is so smaaaaalllllllll!  There’s nothing to it!

UPSIDE:  You can walk anywhere you want in 20 minutes or less.  Don’t wanna walk?  Six bucks’ll get you a cab ride anywhere within town limits.  That includes the tip.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  Hardly any metered parking.

UPSIDE:  That’s because there are huge FREE parking lots everywhere you look!  In the City, I paid damn near as much for parking as my hourly wages.  Which meant, most of the time, leaving the car at home and taking *ugh* public transportation.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DOWNSIDE:  The nightlife/club scene?  BAAAHHAhhahaaaahahaahaa!!!  Country music and tube tops.  ‘Nuff said.

UPSIDE:  The night life.  Stars.  You can actually see stars at night.  Swear to god.  When I first came back here, I would stand for hours like a mouth-breather in the middle of my yard staring up at the sky going, “But…what are those tiny lights in the distance?  They seem familiar somehow, yet….”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

So yeah, okay – I miss ethnic food.  I miss racial diversity.  I miss art, films, dance, music that isn’t karaoke.  I miss my City friends.  God, I really miss the food…did I mention the falafel situation?

But the point is – suck it up, guys.  I’m not coming back to the City until you all stop whining about your outrageous rents, the traffic and the noise.

Of course, a girl’s gotta get her ya-yas out from time to time and the City really is only an hour away, so I am encouraging all of you to remain there so I have a place to crash when said ya-yas come callin’.  Please have falafels and blender drinks ready.

I have to go eat cookies do some banking now.

Queen of the World. That’s Me.

_______________________________________________________________

I bet a lot of you didn’t know that in some parts I am actually worshipped.

Synchronicity (with apologies to Sting)

Why My Friends Find Me Spooky – Reason #307:

A few years ago, I was fortunate enough to find a charming little flat in an old mansion-y type house overlooking the water.  The main floor is divided into two flats, mirror-images of each other. 

Imagine my pleasure when I discovered that the flat across the hall was occupied by Hot Jeff.  Hot Jeff was a delightful bit of yard candy in his early 20s and we quickly became friends.  Many a lovely chat was had on the porch (usually bitching about our respective relationships, but that’s another post for another day), usually over a beer or a cigarette (I had quit years ago, but for Hot Jeff, one was willing to make the occasional exception.) 

Imagine my sadness when I found out Hot Jeff was moving.  I was really going to miss him.  He always shoveled a path to my jeep when it snowed.

And, of course, there was always the possibility that whoever took over the apartment would be a sucky neighbor.  You know, playing music too loud, or parking in my space, or…you know, not being hot or whatever.

The sucking chest wound created by Hot Jeff’s abandonment was somewhat eased when my landlord contacted me to see if I knew anyone looking for a place.  Apparently, my landlords (a tree-hugging, book-loving couple that lived upstairs) liked me so much, they were hoping to find someone just like me to take the flat across from mine.  *mock modest shrug*  (Hot Jeff, while undeniably hot, was a tenant of the frat-boy variety…as in loud music, dirty ashtrays all over the doorstep, things like that.  I personally thought the hot kind of made up for it, but…)

Well, I didn’t know anyone at all who needed a place, let alone someone like myself.  I assumed it was because I was so deliciously unique and all.  Yeah.  That’s the kind of thinking that gets you a big fat kick in the ass from the universe.

Soooo….one day I step out of my flat pushing my bike.  And I catch something out of the corner of my eye and turn to find myself looking in the face of a girl coming out of the flat next to mine.  Also pushing a bike.  Also short.  Also with long brown wavy hair.  Kinda cute, with a bubbly laugh (those of you who know me, know about the laugh).  Roughly my age and build and colouring.  Bike was even the same colour as mine.  Then I looked at the parking lot, and parked right next to my little black car is another little black car.  Introductions informed me that Lindsay (who I will now think of as ‘Cool Lindsay’, for obvious reasons) is also single and also works in a similar community-service-oriented job.

Little weird, right?  But not really too weird.

Until you discover that she also has the same BIRTHDAY.

Yup.  It’s true.  I’d like to know what my landlords actually put on that apartment application form.

 This shit happens to me all the time.  It happens to you, too.  You just have to pay attention.

I wonder if Cool Lindsay likes to shovel snow.

Will the Real Drea M. Please Stand Up?

My mother had company over.  Upon spying the shrine to my parents’ only child (moi) on top of a dresser, the guest asked:

“My goodness…how many daughters do you have?”

 

BAAAAAHHHAAaahaahaaahahaaa!!!

Whaaaaaaaat?  It’s only hair….

(I dare you to guess which one is the REAL colour.)

Why I Always Pick Up Hitchhikers

 

Yeah, yeah.  I know what you’re saying.  Save your breath – I’ve heard it all before and you’re not going to change my mind.

That being said, let me just add that I am not a moron.  I mean, certainly if I were to see someone sticking out their thumb with a semi-automatic slung over their shoulder…(actually, I know nothing about guns – can you sling a semi-automatic over your shoulder?)…then of course, I’m going to keep driving.  But let’s face it.  That kind of thing is far more likely to happen in a movie (or the United States) than here in Nova Scotia.  I believe the benefits far outweigh the risk.

First of all – if you pick up a hitchhiker, you are helping someone out.  I mean, if you have to resort to hitching, you must truly be screwed.  I’ve always been blessed to either have a car of my own, enough money for taxi fare or an FWC (Friend With Car).  How bad must it be if you have to hitchhike? 

I once picked up a kid – a teenaged boy – who was covered in blood and reeked of alcohol.  It was just after dawn, on my way to the beach.  The poor kid had the crap beat out of him at a party the night before and had ended up sleeping on the ground in his girlfriend’s backyard.  He was tired and exhausted and hungover.  He seemed like a good kid, if a little dazed by the recent smackdown (a random attack from the infamous local TOB gang).  I told him his mother would have a heart attack if he showed up looking like that, and gave him water to clean himself up with, and a handful of bandages I kept in the glovebox before dropping him at the ferry.  My giving him a lift was the only good thing that had happened to him that day.

When I myself was in high school, I wasn’t always able to get my hands on the family car, so my boyfriend would sometimes hitch to come see me.  I’ve always been grateful to those who supported our young love by giving him a lift.

I myself have only ever been forced to resort to hitching once.  My car broke down on the 103, about 20 minutes from BW.  I could have walked, but the first car that passed stopped for me.  It turned out to be a carload of pretty cute young guys, who quickly offered an invitation to join them out on the town that night.  I was considering it, until one of them said, “Um…is your mom’s name Debbie?” 

Yeah.  Turned out I used to babysit him, years and years ago, when he was small enough to insist I give him piggyback rides.  I decided not to go out that night.  But I was very grateful for the ride.

Anyway, I always have and always will pick up hitchhikers.  I would rather live in my own happy little world where people are inherently trustworthy.  And I will believe that until proven otherwise, even if it proves to be my undoing.  I like the colour of the sky in my world.

It’s not altogether altruistic – I need to improve my karma any way I can.

Last Will and Testament

No, no, no, I’m not dying (not that I know of, anyway, not right away…of course, we’re all dying, technically, slowly, if you really think about it…..but I ramble.) 

I’m not planning to kick it anytime soon, but I do participate in rather…extreme…adventures, so I figured it would be best to announce my wishes, just in case. 

In the event of my demise, I, Andrea Lauren Hepburn-MacMillan, being of (*mmffft*) sound mind, do hereby announce, request and bequeath the following:

A)  The creation of any posthumous Facebook/Internet sites that contain any of the following shall result in immediate and torturous haunting by me, the deceased, along with any demons I befriend in the Afterlife:   

• Photoshopped photos of me superimposed with angels, crosses, hazy images of Jesus, puppies, teddy bears, clouds, rainbows, hearts, doves, praying hands, sunsets, candles, religious scripture or other cheesy sayings/poems, or just random pictures of random flowers or other things that have nothing to do with me;
• Comment boards where multitudes of freaks who have never met me can post things like ads for penile implants, nasty/weird remarks or start fights with other people posting nasty/weird remarks.

B)  Immediately upon my passing – and I mean IMMEDIATELY - all journals and computer hard drives (and all associated digital storage media, including floppy disks, CD-ROMs and flash drives) should be confiscated and placed in the possession of one of the following persons:  Keri T., Tami T. or Nicole S.  They will know what to do.  Under NO circumstances is the mother of the deceased to be permitted access to the premises until this has been done.

C)  Cats should be distributed equally among the first arrivals at the funeral service, who should be advised that upkeep expenses will likely be somewhat diminished initially by lowered appetites due to feeding on the face of the deceased.

D)  Though I have donated my cadaver to science, there will likely be remains to be dealt with, as there is probably not much worth harvesting (unless for curiosity’s sake) – eyes are nearly blind, lungs blackened from 20 years of smoking, liver is likely fucked, too…  So whatever is left after they chop it up should be incinerated and offered to the sky in a memorial skydive by whoever is up to it.  (And no chemically treated, tacky satin-lined, overpriced casket, please.)

E)  Bequeathed to the following:

• Keri T. – all incriminating photographic evidence involving flashing of illicit body parts, sexual experimentation, vandalism, or drunken-disorderliness; all disco-themed Christmas ornaments; 1 faux-suede overnight bag; any alcohol/chocolate contained in my estate.
• Tami T. – any Jane Austen volumes found in my library, along with all Nabokov volumes (to balance out the effects of the Jane Austen); all cute shoes and ’skinny’ clothes that fit.
• Nicole S. – the nearly-finished original illustrations for the children’s books written by her, along with permission for her 6 year old son to complete them; and nothing else because it would all be covered in cat hair and send her into anaphylactic shock.
• To the Ex(es) - any nude photos secretly saved for potential blackmail purposes and then forgotten about.  (*Just kidding!* …I sold those on eBay long ago…*No, seriously, I’m kidding.  Really.*)

The remainder should be sold at a big yard sale (likely held by my mother) and the proceeds used for a huge drunk in honour of the deceased. 

P.S.  I’m really serious about the Facebook page.  It will mean a world of pain.  A world.  Of pain.

Now, although I am dubious of the legality of this post, I believe it is customary for witnesses to attest to my sanity, so if you believe (*mmmfffftttt*) me to be of sound mind and all that jazz, please make your mark below.  (What, no takers?  None?  Nobody?  Anybody…???)