megfowler.com

I have no idea how to spell that. Kumbyah? Koombaya? Cumbayah? LL Cool J?

CBS’ Survivor recently announced their intention to divide teams by race for the upcoming season of the waning-in-popularity series.

This has caused an uproar, of course… as well I think it should, especially when people like Rush Limbaugh use it as an opportunity to share their views about which race will prove a “winner.”

Eccch.

So I thought I’d help out by offering new ways to divide the teams that they might not have considered yet:

• PC users vs. Mac users
• Hockey fans vs. Football fans
• Lottery ticket buyers vs. Compulsive gamblers
• Lactose intolerant people vs. People with nut allergies
• Fans of Linkin Park vs. Fans of Tool
• Elvis impersonators vs. Michael Jackson lookalikes
• OCD sufferers vs. People with ADD
• Old Coke lovers vs. Those who liked New Coke
• Democrats and Republicans
• Polygamists vs. Feminists
• East Coast Rap vs. West Coast Rap
• Telemarketers vs. Anger Management class-takers
• Playboy Bunnies vs. MIT Grads

I think any one of them could be huge. Any more suggestions to save CBS from marketing peril?

UPDATE for Matthew Sheffield’s readers: Hi! I would comment at Mr. Sheffield’s blog, but my “registration to comment” hasn’t been approved. This isn’t a political blog. I make this clear here. Mr. Sheffield apparently did a blog search for the keywords “Survivor” and “race” and mine was the only one that must have seemed “lib” enough to mention from his results (because I mentioned Mr. Limbaugh.) And I’m Canadian… so I don’t vote in US elections.

A few points:

• Rush Limbaugh’s comments were ill-founded, lacking in context, based on antiquated stereotypes, and entirely inflammatory (this is his stock in trade, people… it’s what he gets paid to do, like any other pundit.)

• “Pundit” is a funny word.

• I think there are plenty of conservatives who have issues with Rush Limbaugh and the way he plays fast and loose with facts and news. I think most people should have a problem with that. And I don’t think he cares.

• This post was primarily an excuse to make jokes about lactose intolerance and New Coke and telemarketers. Because that stuff is the essence of humour (note the Canadian “u”)

• I do, however, think that stupid comments will be made about CBS’ little controversy-builder on both sides of the political fence. And when I say “people like Rush Limbaugh”, I mean anyone who speaks without considering the consequences of their speech. Again, this occurs across the political spectrum.

• CBS’ was profoundly irresponsible in deciding to make race the object of a publicity stunt because the problem of racism (and I love the comment — “it’s racial, not racist.” Yes, division by race is “racial.” All the crap that inevitably follows is “racist”, however) is simply too large and too thorny to find any resolution, reasonable debate, or clarity within the context of a reality show. It’s like trying to tackle feminist debate on “America’s Next Top Model” or gender psychology on “The Bachelor.”

• There are people dying all over the world because of assumptions, beliefs, and biases connected with race, and while Mr. Burnett may view it as provocative entertainment or “pot-stirring”, I believe that it is nothing short of cold-blooded, regardless of any provisos or rules or systems he may put in place to seem more “PC.”

• New Coke jokes are STILL funny. Even after all these years. Huzzah!

1. Your mood this morning (afternoon, evening, etc… )?
2. The mood around you?
3. The state of your current surroundings (messy, tidy, serene, sterile, etc… )?
4. The primary thought in your head right now?
5. One thing you’re concerned about?
6. One thing you are most definitely NOT concerned about?
7. Your mother’s middle name?
8. The last thing you ate?
9. The last thing you really WANTED to eat but couldn’t/didn’t?
10. One really brilliant quote?
11. One thing you wish you could do right this moment?
12. Can you actually go and do that thing?
13. Reality Shows: love or despise?
14. Celebrity magazines: love or despise?
15. CNN: love or despise?
16. Do you follow any sports?
17. Can you swim?
18. Can you sing?
19. Do you drink coffee?

Today is a day I would rather be lying on the grass or carrying a sleepy kitten in the crook of my arm or inventing new types of milkshakes or feeling ocean air settle like spiderwebs on my skin or navigating the swing of a precarious hammock. Today is a day for mindless television or a silly afternoon matinee or for sipping Cherry Coke at a barbeque where everything is burnt but the potato salad. Today is a day for magazines and sand and coconut oil and dreaming up renovations and whacking people with pillows and making pronouncements about lemons that seem profound.

I want to do something that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, something light. Something I can’t mess up with my vague malaise. Something uncomplicated that makes me smile.

The older I get, though, the harder it is to let go, even for a few moments. To relinquish control in favour of contentment. To accept things as they are for a bit. It’s not like my life is difficult enough to qualify as a reality check or drudgery, but still.

It’s been a tough couple of months and I just could use a few hours without my brain so furiously and determinedly trying to figure out the next step or where I should ideally be at or “am I handling this just as I should?”

Even when I pause to do things that are blissy and unfettered and good, some part of me still knows there is still something to go back to when I’m done. I am not the master distractor that I used to be.

Maybe it’s good, though.

Maybe that’s growing up.

Maybe it’s inevitable.

Maybe I’m tired of it.

Definitely I’m tired of it.

C’mon, you guys. Let’s go play. Or sleep. Or something.

i knew it by heart
every key, every note
when you played it for me
the room blue with dusk
the sofa sagging with age
and your guitar half out of tune.
i didn’t want to say
i’d heard it before
so i fooled you
with my bright eyes
and told you i loved the song
when really, i just loved you.

If Pluto is no longer a planet because it’s actually a dwarf planet, should I worry about the fact that I’m the shortest person in my family?

I’ve never won one of those big stuffed animals at a carnival or a fair. And no one has ever won me one. Well, I suppose I should admit that they tried, but then I would choose a different prize like a painted Japanese fan or a keychain in the shape of a heart or something.

One day, my friend Casey — who wanted to be more than my friend — insisted I should have a giant pink bear of my very own. But when he went to throw the ball to earn me one, I confessed that I thought they looked really cheap and the fur felt itchy and I probably wouldn’t even want to keep it in my room.

He was incredulous. “What kind of girl says something like that? I’d be winning it for you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

We didn’t end up dating.

I had the best ski jackets, always. They were pastel-coloured and totally impractical, because I’d go shopping with my dad and he was a sucker for the rhapsodic look I’d get when I tried on some confection of pale pink, green, purple, and blue triangles, or snow-white quilted down. My mother would be quietly horrified when we arrived home, knowing that as soon as I stained one of these coats (which was nothing if not inevitable) my love for them would wither to half… if that.

When I was in junior high, there was a certain kind of purse that all the older girls seemed to have that I really, really wanted. It was a sack-like design with odd pleats and a bucket-bottom and sturdy straps, always in black leather, and absolutely riddled with buttons and keychains and baubles. If the girl was a bit of a badass, she’d have a button that said, “1% Angel, 99% Bitch” or “You Are Entitled To My Opinion.”

Considering that we had a gazillion teen moms attending classes at my school because of our innovative day care centre, they often had baby picture keychains dangling there, too, or a tiny Rubik’s cube, or long strings of feathers and beads, or a soccer ball or basketball or bat, if they were on one of the senior teams.

They never went anywhere without these purses, these receptacles of gum and cigarettes and feminine hygeine products and who knows what else. They seemed like badges of age and maturity, really — even moreso than wearing a strapless dress to junior dances (which I was not allowed to do.) I longed to have things (that weren’t schoolbooks) deemed important enough to carry everywhere.

But I had a habit of losing purses, and my Bonne Bell lipgloss and change for the Coke machine fit just fine in the front pocket of my backpack. I went to the variety store at the mall to pick up some buttons, but all of them had swear words or some kind of vague allusion to sex, and, well… I had a bob haircut and wore penny loafers.

No one was going to buy that kind of cool from me.

I finally settled on one that was just a yellow circle happy face, but with a straight line for a mouth. It said, “Have A Day.”

My parents thought it was funny, but no one at school got the joke at all. Eventually I took off the button and gave up on my purse dreams in favour of backpack nerddom.

I did the Jane Fonda workout every day in the sixth grade. I loved it. And I loved pepperoni from the deli near our elementary school, along with salt and vinegar chips. Sour keys, too.

I also learned to play “Proud Mary” on the ukelele and the recorder that year.

In seventh grade, I fell in love with salad bars and Rocky Mountain Fries with extra salt. And pastries from Ed’s Bakery that I would go on assignment to buy for my family on lazy Saturday mornings.

I had fish named Charles and Diana. Charles died first in the Fish Royal Family. I also had a gold cassette tape of Charles and Diana’s wedding and paper dolls and picture books and gazillions of magazines related to their union. When they eventually split up, I lost track of all of that stuff. But the fishes were long gone anyway.

When I was six, seven, eight years old, my parents’ best friends had a big trampoline out at their acreage. I loved that thing. I couldn’t believe how much I craved the feeling of endlessly bouncing up and down. As soon as we’d get there, I’d be on the trampoline, much to the irritation of their eldest daughter — who had a black purse like the kind I would end up wanting so desperately a few years later — who wanted me to sit on the floor of her bedroom and listen to her talk about boys.

One day, while jumping alone as everyone else ate dinner — and for the life of me, I can’t think how I managed to do that with my mother for a mother — I jumped so hard I peed my pale green clamdiggers. This was the very essence of embarassment to my seven year-old self. I had to borrow pants to wear home.

I didn’t do the trampoline thing for a long time. In fact, the next time I remember (though there were no doubt jumps in the intervening years) was when I was babysitting at a house with a much bigger trampoline. I hopped up to play with the littlest kid, and within moments, was once again relishing the delicious feeling of being airborne.

What I didn’t notice in the midst of my reverie was that his sippy cup had fallen into the middle of the webbing and was dripping onto the surface of the trampoline. I went to do a sit-bounce and soaked my pants clean through.

For a split second, I was a horrified seven year-old again, until I saw that the liquid on my white jeans was Sharkleberry Fin-pink.

Every time my family moved, I lost some small thing I absolutely adored to the packing and unpacking and chaos of a transition. There are three objects that I was unable to ever recover or replace:

• A Love’s Baby Soft roll-on that smelled really lemony and fresh. That was lost in the move from Edmonton.
• A grape-flavoured lip gloss that didn’t taste like fake grapes, but real ones. Lost in the move to Chilliwack.
• A small white polar bear. Lost in the move to Calgary. It went by the name of Winston, as in Churchill.

I would secretly search for these things for months, hoping they’d pop up. I wonder where they are now?

The stuff you remember.

I was inspired by Sheryl to break down my day for you. Then I realized how boring I actually am. Then I decided to do it anyway.

4:45 am: Wake up for the first time, flinging myself towards my alarm clock in panic. I’m not already supposed to be awake, am I? Ahhh… I still have just over an hour.

5:00 am: Wakened again by one of the Bottle People who drive their shopping carts down our back alley, rooting through the recycle bins. One of the Bottle People is a nice lady — I talked to her once when I brought out a bunch of bottles when she was there. The other Bottle Person is likely mentally ill (he growls) or really, really pissed off (which is his right, of course) and likes to smash things that he feels he won’t yield a refund.

5:15 am: Damn crows. DAMN CROWS. SHUT UP. SERIOUSLY. AAAAAAAAAA. One of these days I have a date with a slingshot and Smarties. I will pelt them with sweetness.

5:30 am: My bed is the nicest place on earth. Seriously. Even if I need a new mattress and my pillows suck. Even if I just found a hole in my sheet. When it’s warm and soft, it’s PERFECT.

5:55 am: Argh. Must get up to take first shower before Catherine rolls out of bed.

6:00 am: Really. Get up. Get UP.

6:05 am: Mmmm. Warm water. I think everything I use in the shower either smells like coconut or mango, leaving the bathroom smelling like an umbrella drink at a resort.

6:15 am: Ow. Ow. Ow. Why is mouthwash so burn-y? Ah, yes, the alcohol. I think my tongue is disintegrating. Gag twice, spit.

6:20 am: Crawl back into bed for ten minutes, wrapped in towels. Ahhhh.

6:30 am: Mmmmm. Ten more minutes, please.

6:45 am: Oh, CRAP. Get up! GET UP.

6:47 am: I look like the undead. Extra blush it is!

6:51 am: My blow dryer smells like burning. Oh, now it’s smoking. Dammit. It’s a ponytail day. Or was that my hair that was smoking?

6:57 am: I look like a pinhead in a ponytail. Dammit.

7:01 am: Put on skirt I ironed last night. Shirt, however, is wrinkly. Is that a stain? Crap.

7:02 am: It’s a stain.

7:03 am: Is it really noticeable? Crap.

7:04 am: My cube faces away from everyone. I’ll just wear it.

7:05 am: Why is my bag such a mess? What the hell is this receipt for? Where are my headphones? Where is the top of my lipgloss? OH, EW. STICKY. EW.

7:06 am: Shoving everything into different bag.

7:07 am: Earrings! Earrings!

7:08 am: Take hair out of ponytail, twist and clip instead. There. Better. But hair is now too tight.

7:10 am: Keys… keys… keys. Oh, for the love…

7:12 am: Wave at Catherine eating breakfast, sprint out front door. Clicking madly through iPod tracks to find something fast and peppy and energizing. Hair still too tight.

7:13 am: Trip on bottom step. OW OW OW! Toenail is smashed. Just. Keep. Walking. Am distracted from tightness of hair.

7:14 am: Run down hill to catch bus. Stand amongst odd combination of yawning, lazily angry business people, cheerful old people, and iPodded kids going to private school.

7:17 am: Bus driver drives up on curb, nearly kills us all. No one blinks. Smile nicely at bus driver as I get on, hoping to live.

7:23 am: Change buses. Argh, no seats on this bus. Oooh! Attractive Bald Guy is at the back! Yay.

7:24 am: Attractive Bald Guy smells like cinnamon.

7:28 am: Fall asleep standing up. iPod is playing sleepy music. Dammit. I just flailed in front of Attractive Bald Guy.

7:47 am: Get off bus. Try not to trip. Ahh! Ahh! Almost tripping! Nope, made it.

7:48 am: Run to catch Shortest Traffic Light Of All Time. Miss it. Run straight into traffic anyhow.

7:49 am: Narrowly miss being killed by purple PT Cruiser being driven by a woman with large hair.

7:50 am: Stop in at indie cafe to get cup of coffee to bring to work. Loosen still-too-tight hair. Ahhh. Coffee AND unstretched face.

7:56 am: Wait to catch World’s Most Erratic Elevator.

7:57 am: Stand in silence with 9 other people as elevator does whatever it wants, visiting the basement and the 7th floor before it stops on mine. Man next to me is listening to Def Leppard on his iPod. REALLY LOUDLY. Pour Some Sugar On Me, INDEED.

7:59 am: Sprint towards cube, and…

8:00 am: Start work! By drinking coffee! And chatting! And discussing Jon Stewart! And checking blogs!

8:07 am: Morning meeting. Explain what I am doing for the day inarticulately, drink deeply of the Sweet Nectar of Life.

8:11 am: Go to staff kitchen. Pour bowl of Cheerios. Discover that there is no milk. Consider Cheerios with orange juice. Feel queasy. Take bowl to desk to eat dry Cheerios.

8:13 am: Get dry-Cheerio hiccups.

8:14 am: Hold breath for inordinately long time. Lose hiccups. Also lose breath. Take hit off asthma puffer.

8:15 am: Open Dreamweaver, begin coding and formatting text.

9:30 am: Answer work emails. Avoid including any swear words.

10:00 am: Curse Dreamweaver to the heavens. Restart computer. Text Catherine. More Dreamweaver.

10:30 am: Short discussion of Brandon Davis breaks out amongst the cubes. Conclusion: IDIOT.

11:30 am: Wander down street in search of coffee. Find both coffee shops with lineups out the door. Choose lineup with the least angry-looking businesspeople. Order a VERY VERY BIG COFFEE. Pay with Interac. Feel stares of lineup burning a hole in my back. Flee coffee shop with my hot cup of redemption.

11:45 am: Write something foolish, place on blog. Receive text message from Eric indicating he just got up. Curse Eric.

11:50 pm: Dreamweaver, Dreamweaver, weave me a dream, pour me a coffee, make it with cream…

1:00 pm: Research industry stuff.

2:00 pm: Get piece back from editors, implement changes for publication. Get really funny phone call from Cath. Laugh too loudly in my cube.

3:00 pm: Send piece to copyediting. Check personal email. Mourn lack of email.

3:05 pm: Put second dumb blog entry of day up. Cringe at lack of creativity.

3:20 pm: Answer more work emails.

3:45 pm: Implement copyedits. Do small dance near copyeditor’s desk.

4:00 pm: Send piece off to approval. Do small dance in editors’ office.

4:15 pm: Surf blogs for a few minutes. Realize I didn’t eat lunch.

4:30 pm: Answer last work emails of day, futz with Dreamweaver, tidy up desk.

4:35 pm: Head down to catch the bus. Get stuck on elevator in basement. Put calming music on iPod.

4:40 pm: Am finally released from elevator hell.

4:45 pm: Catch bus, find self in the midst of rabid tourists with digital cameras and maple leaf shirts. Take photo of Japanese couple waving, give camera back. Wish that I didn’t have to give camera back… much better than mine.

5:00 pm: Change buses. Ahhh, there’s a seat. Put Chopin on iPod, fall asleep nearly immediately.

5:20 pm: Wake up slightly too late for stop. Prepare for walk backwards to Whole Foods.

5:30 pm: Walk into sheer bliss a.k.a the Whole Foods Produce Section and buy Weird Mushrooms or Very Red Tomatoes.

5:40 pm: Fall in love with peonies in the floral section. Resist buying. Buy weird organic juice instead. It tastes like grass.

5:45 pm: Head out of Whole Foods, catch bus home. Sit next to man who talks to himself AND to my bag from Whole Foods.

6:05 pm: Arrive home, head for Martin (my iBook) and start him up as I put my stuff away, take chicken out of the freezer, put on yoga pants (AHHHHHHHHHHH.)

6:15 pm: Hang out with Catherine (if she’s home) debriefing day, checking email, surfing blogs.

6:20 pm: Laugh so hard at a bank story (from Catherine) that I roll off the couch. Lie on floor for a while because it feels really good. Mmmm, floor.

6:30 pm: Watch dumb decorating shows or A&E crime shows while doing other stuff around the house. I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF BILL KURTIS. SERIOUSLY.

7:30 pm: Start dinner. Usually some variation on chicken and salad or curry or a stir fry or pasta. I’m SOOOO exciting. Make phone calls while I cook.

8:00 pm: Get sidetracked making dinner because Cath wants to get coffee and go for a drive. I can always eat later. Or not. Eh. Sometimes I really just forget to eat most of the day.

8:10 pm: In the car, singing loudly along with CD’s, heading for one of our favourite coffee places. Oh, who am I kidding. If they sell coffee, they are one of my favourite places.

8:20 pm: Decaf somethingorothers in hand, we swerve down the road, still singing at the top of our lungs.

9:00 pm: Home. Dinner. Maybe. Or Ben and Jerry’s Vermonty Python. Mmmm sweet, cold dinner.

10:00 pm: I should really post to my blog. And return some emails. Or… take a hot shower. Mmmmm, hot shower.

10:30 pm: Mmmm, H2O Body Butter… smells like SOFT.

10:40 pm: Post to blog… return emails… with Martin… in bed. Sleep experts be damned, I bring the lappie to bed.

11:20 pm: Turn light out. Listen to various neighbours returning home and remote-locking their cars. HONK. HONK. HONK. HONK. CAN YOU PEOPLE NOT DO THAT SILENTLY.

12:00 am: Listen to cat freaking out next door — sounds like he’s being put through a LaLanne juicer.

12:30 am: A bottle person? At this time of night?

1:00 am: Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

Right about here.

Less podcast, more meander. More kooky per square inch than your average link.

(I posted it a gazillion different ways before I settled on this link. My blog just wouldn’t play nice with Odeo. But this one works. I think.)

(That’s almost poetic.)

You totally know I’m dying to delete my last post. But I’ll just take another Flexeril and eat some chips.

Some people wonder and email me — not always nicely, mind you, which I always thought was weird, because you could always just stop reading and save yourself some angst — why I don’t write about certain things on my blog or address certain areas of my life. They want to know why I write the way I do, about the things I do.

And I get this from people who have just started reading me AND people who have been reading me a long time. At least once or twice a week.

Apparently, as a single girl blogger without children, I should a) be blogging about all my hot dates and my wild sex life; b) be talking about getting drunk a lot; and c) be slagging on all my ex-boyfriends so they can Google themselves and feel like utter slime.

And apparently, as a blogger with a social conscience, I should be a) blogging about my political views at length; b) establishing who I would vote for, and exactly why; and c) posting endless links to posts on other blogs about politics.

And wait! There’s more!

“Why do you write so many posts? Do you wonder why people comment on some and not on others? Does it bother you to write something really long and no one comments?” (Respective answers: I just do; I have no idea; Yes, sometimes!)

“Why are you so happy all the time?” (What?)

“Why are you so sad?” (Hahahaha!)

“Is Meg your real name?” (WHAT?)

“Are you actually sick?” (Did you actually just ASK that?)

“Why is it so important to you to have a baby?” (I need something to sell on the black market!)

“Is that actually a picture of you?” (No, I stalk this girl and take her picture all the time. She doesn’t seem to notice.)

“Do you want to see a picture of my penis?” (Uh. You already sent one. I forwarded it to all my friends.)

So here it is, once and for all:

A) My family (MY ENTIRE FAMILY), old and new friends, men I might be interested in dating, my current co-workers, clients at my current job that Google me, my former employers, and my freelancing contacts — and heaven knows who else — all read this blog.

If you’re the kind of person who would go up to everyone you know and announce intimate details about your relationships, then I have to say: more power to you on one hand, and on the other hand, HOLY COW, YOU REALLY KNOW HOW TO MAKE PEOPLE FEEL AWKWARD, DONCHA?

I can’t imagine subjecting anyone I was trying to develop a tenuous romantic connection with or had just ENDED a romantic connection with to the scrutiny of the web AND all my friends and family. I just can’t. If that makes me a chicken, so be it. Bawk bawk.

But it doesn’t make me a prude or perpetually single or atrociously lonely. Because I’m not. IT JUST MAKES ME TRUE TO MYSELF.

And I don’t have a problem with anyone else divulging the complete details of their romantic lives, nor do I feel that it’s hypocritical for me to read their blogs and not share my own details. Because they choose to, and I DON’T. That’s how it works.

B) Oh my GOSH with the politics. So if I don’t write about my sex life, and I don’t write about my non-existent kids, and I don’t write about my cat (it died!), I should automatically begin writing about my views on government and international affairs? These are the only options?

I mean, I guess I could write about technology, but it could turn into a pretty boring succession of posts like, “Oooh! I love this! I just don’t know how it works!”

Actually, that sounds fun. But I digress (that was for you, girl!)

I don’t mind if people get political in my comments (which they invariably do), but I’m not a fan of theoretical backhanding, where the debate comes down to “you’re stupid!” “you’re MORE stupid!” “you’re so stupid I don’t know why you think you deserve to live!” “you’re so stupid… blah blah blah”

Which is what a lot of people do in place of respectful debate, when their passion gets the best of them AND when they are stuck so tightly to a line of thinking that they can’t possibly show respect to someone who thinks differently.

That’s not something I really ever wanted to see here.

Believe me, if you want that, you can find it at a million other places on the web, no matter what your political orientation might be. Nothing brings out superciliousness in people like a good discussion of politics. And having had those same debates with my family and friends — who love me, I know they do, they said so! — I’m not really into having them with people who a) don’t know the background on why I think the way I think and don’t care anyhow; and b) are raring to “flame” anyone who disagrees.

I’m not saying the people who read my blog right now would do that. I think you wouldn’t. But all it takes is one stupid troll to take the fun out of it for me. And I’ve seen those trolls on the sites of those who venture into the political realm. Web trolls, in my way of thinking, are like skunks: they might not create much of a stink in the end, but people run away just in case they do. And when they actually do? Oy.
That’s WAY too much power.

Also… I don’t think I know enough about most political things to spout off. Yes, I have a degree in Political Science. That doesn’t make me well-reasoned or thoughtful, though. It just means I read books, wrote exams, and paid a lot of money. And it takes a hell of a lot more than book-larnin’ to build an opinion worth listening to. And mine is worth listening to, I think. But I choose where to share it and how.

That doesn’t mean that I won’t go to your blog and respond to what you’ve said about politics. You’re comfortable with hosting debate in your space, and that’s awesome. In fact, you probably know more than me. I can probably learn a lot from you. It’s that whole choice thing again.

There, now. What else can I rant about?

Oh, yeah… why do people stop selling flip flops before the summer is over? And why do I get so much comment spam? And why does the media crucify people before they get their day in court? And why are people constantly searching for news about Mark-Paul Gosselar on my web site? And why is it so expensive to live in Vancouver?

Ah, I guess I’m out of steam. But there you go. This blog defies definition. It just is. And I love that you read it. So just keep doing that. And if you don’t want to?

Well… do it anyway. Or I’ll…

… eh, I’m too tired. JUST STAY. And make some coffee while you’re at it.