Bad coffee. Burnt coffee. Good coffee. Strong coffee. Weak coffee. I’m addicted.
Whenever I try to lay off, my coworkers double the amount of coffee they buy for me. Apparently, I get “snarly”. Bastards.
Decaf? What’s the point.
There are worse addictions, I suppose. I could be addicted to porn.
Oh, wait.
Remembrance Day in Canada is much like Memorial Day is in the US — a day where one reflects on the price of freedom. Usually, most Canadians are pretty quiet about the toll freedom extracts. We’re a hearty, flannel-wearin crowd that drinks a lot of beer to push it to the back of our psyche.
This year, because of the cathartic cleaning, it feels a bit different. One of the things I couldn’t send to the Land of Discarded Stuff was a memorial card for my grandfather. He passed away on November 12, 1990. It’s hard to think that he’s been gone for 14 years.
He was a veteran of the second world war. He served in Europe… never really talked much about his experiences. There were times he tried. When he got home, he stayed in the army for years as a sergeant major, and then worked on the base as a civilian. My grandparents were very involved in the Royal Canadian Legion.
I will always associate Remembrance Day with my grandfather.
I miss him. I need a beer.
In their honour:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.- Binyon, For the Fallen, 1914
Ok. I’m done being sappy. I need another beer.
And I hate it.
I’m a packrat by nature. Damn, I still have email from 1983.
I need to setup a home office for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that we run two businesses — a theatre company, and an improv club — from the house.
I went out and bought office furniture, brought it home, and then came up with the bright idea of setting up the office in “the spare room”.
Bright idea. I know what you’re thinking. Spare room! Great!
We’ve lived in this house since 1998 and have used the spare room as a big closet, tossing all manner of items as far as we could into the room, and then closing the door.
I’ve been throwing things out for two days. It’s done. I’m drained. I had several “Clean Sweep” moments:
The object is not the person. The object is not the memory. You can throw away the object and keep the memory.
Among the 7 garbage bags of memorabilia I threw out were: my first kilt, the chanter from my much grieved set of uilleann pipes, the head joint of a 230 year old flute (stolen along with the pipes), a bunch of Christmas and birthday cards, and some university notebooks… sigh.
It almost felt therapeutic. I need a beer.
Sometimes, when you’re sitting at work, bored out of your skull, staring at yet another computer requiring TLC when you haven’t had a shred of TLC for technology in a decade, you have to rouse yourself from a mental slumber to air a confession.
At least, that’s where I am today… right now…
The confession: I have shallow moments. Yes, yes, it’s true. I know you’re sitting there in utter disbelief, bordering on dismay, teetering on disappointment…
Why have I come to this realization? Simply put: Blog Explosion.
When I surf blogs through Blog Explosion, I end up adding people to my list of blogmarks because of *something*. I don’t know what something is; it could be any number of factors — writing style, interesting content, sense of humour, whether the author is “a cutie”.
There it is. That last one. Yes, after going through my list of blogmarks, I find the proof of my shallowness: I have added people because they were cute. Sigh. No more lofting ambitions of mental fortitude. The sense of MROWR has beaten down the IQ. I’m shallow and I love it.
…may be in order. Yes, we’re freaks. That should be apparent.
A very long time ago, a religion was born. It grew. It prospered and bore squash. The basic premise of the new faith was (and still is) that the zucchini is a holy gift. While not to be worshipped directly, it is a gift to be seen as divine, and treated as such.
We had a high priestess. Among her duties was defining the Ritual of Desanctification for those Zucchini choosing to impart their divine nature to the epicurious. All in all, it was a hoot.
Before she could divine those rituals through communion with zucchini, she moved to England, embraced a Greekly-inspired lifestyle of womanly sisterhood, and our communication with her slowed to a stop. We assume that she became confused living in the Land of the Courgette.
Over the past decade, the religion has tempered, the domain has become a theatre company, but there is STILL a need, now more than ever, for zucchini desanctification given the rate at which Berkeley-esque adventure cuisine is spreading across North America. Who better to define these rituals?
Well, Mistress of the Holy Zucchini (v2.0), welcome to the family. 
It’s the little things in life… I tell ya.
I’m here in front of the computer, surfing blogs through Blogexplosion wearing the standard nobody’s home, guy uniform — boxers and a t-shirt. Yeah, I know. Mrowr.
It just snowed for the first time of the season today. I decide I’m on the uncomfortable side of chilly. Hrm. I don’t want to go upstairs to get a blanket. I’m a man, damn it; I’m holdin out. Inertia is my friend and I’m not about to piss him off.
Beat.
No, I’m cold. So, I grumble, get up and ready myself up for the trip upstairs to the bedroom to grab a blanket. ALL OF A SUDDEN (like it hasn’t been there the whole time) I notice the fleece blanket over the chair. HUZZAH! All of the comfy, none of the effort, and I’m back snugly surfing blogs.
I envy people who start shopping for You Know What presents in March.
I hate people who are FINISHED shopping for You Know What presents in March.