Saturday, January 10, 2004

I can see clearly now

This week's lesson: poking a pen into one's only functioning cornea may cause some inconvenience. Never mind excruciating pain (thank gawd I kept those extra Tylenol 3s). And, because I had to patch my eye so that it could heal, I had to miss out on girls' night. Damn. Icy told me there was cheap wine to be had. And, I had to go to the doctor - twice! I hate that.

Fun things to do while blind: nothing*.

Did you know that there are 12 stairs from my foyer to the second floor in my house? Did you know that the Food Network is useless and even (gasp) boring without eyesight? Did you know that A&E's shows like Cold Case Files and Biography are just as good without eyesight? Did you know it's impossible to be pretty when half your face is taped up, to keep your eye patch in place? None of those sexy black-leather-and-strap patches for me - "that's just in the movies" said Dr. Hibbert.

*I used to work for an organization that insisted "It's respectable to be blind." The hell with that! I couldn't even fasten my own bra. How respectable is that? "Honey, I dropped the remote control. Can you pick it up for me?" Pathetic. To clarify, I was pathetic. Many people who are blind are not pathetic. Many people who are blind are very motivated and successful. They probably pick up their own remotes, and can put toothpaste on their own toothbrushes all by themselves. To the many blind mountain climbers, skiers, doctors, authors, educators, and parents, the hell with you too - meant in the most benign "good for you folks" kind of way. I'm just not up to the task.

"Ow my eyes... The goggles... they do nothing..."
Place that quote and win my eternal admiration.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

Funniest Thing So Far This Year
I caught one of my Web Co-op students sleeping at his desk. "Hey Web Co-op Student, wake up," I said.

"Oh," he jumps awake and exclaims. "I was just looking at my pants."

Airing Dirty Laundry
I was inspired to share the following disgusting memory with you after reading Lilly's post this afternoon. Lilly's apparently turned off by people who excavate and clip their calcified toenails in the laundromat - and who can blame her? Here's my favourite gross-out experience.

Prior to marrying Mr. Crabby, I dated another man for five years. Every few months, he and I would drive into Toronto to visit his family, where I was always housed in the "guest bedroom". During those five years, the sheets on the bed in that "guest bedroom" were not changed - not once. I noticed the increasing shabby-factor after three or four visits, and placed a pinch of carpet lint (of which there was a plentiful supply) under the pillow, as a test. At my next visit, I checked under the pillow and sure enough, there was my bit of carpet lint. A mere shadow of the assertive bitch that I am now, I didn't want to say anything, for fear of offending his mother, or because I didn't want to seem like a difficult daughter-in-law-to-be. I was already ten points down with her because I'm not Chinese.

So, I basically wore work-out gear to bed whenever we visited. I slept on those pilled, manky, musty sheets wearing socks, tights, and a sweatshirt. After year three, I covered the pillow with my t-shirt. In year four, I slept on top of the bedspread. In year five, I realized that he was kind of an asshole, and lost interest in pursuing a relationship with his mother who only ever glared at me. Then we broke up.

Six months later, late in the evening on my first date with Mr. Crabby, I surreptitiously checked out his bedding. If he's reading this, he won't be surprised at all to learn this. I was pleased with what I found: a proper duvet and duvet cover, under which were matching, clean-smelling, 250 thread-count all-cotton expensive-looking sheets. Good thing, too, because it wasn't long before I found myself between them.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

Bath Time With Crabby
Hello! Sure, come in. There’s enough room, and lots of bubbles still. Hop in – I’ll avert my eyes. Hmmm? Oh, I was just reading the labels on these aromatherapy bath products. Yes, it does seem indulgent for a Tuesday morning, but I’m trying to shake this headache that I’ve had since yesterday.

“Not tested on animals.” That’s a good thing, wouldn’t you agree? That poorly-constructed sentence guided me, the consumer, in my decision to purchase that product. How can you not support such a thing?

But what about the bad animals, the annoying animals, like Cujo, pit bulls that eat children, or the Energizer Bunny, Barney, or… Shrek? Why couldn’t we spritz cologne on their bottoms once in a while? Yes, I include humans in the “bad animal” category as well, don’t you worry. Jeffrey Dahmer would make an excellent candidate for scientific testing, but he’s dead – more’s the pity. I’d be willing to rub mentholated chapstick under Paul Bernardo’s eyelids… and observe. “Please note that the serial killer is experiencing discomfort.” Wah, wah, wah.

As every crazy idea needs a theme song, I propose that we spoof Lawrence Gowan’s Strange Animal. “You’re a bad animal, that’s what I know…”

Can you pass me that bottle please? Oh, you like that? Yes, rosemary peppermint bodywash – it’s very effective. I feel better already. “Not tested on animals.” Chalk it up to missed opportunities.

I don’t mean to offend. Sometimes when I feel unwell I get very crabby. Anyway, it’s my bathtub. If you don’t agree with me, you can make like John Kruk, and pick up your ball and go home.

Monday, January 05, 2004

If Roses Could Vomit...

Real roses sent to me by Mr. Crabby do not stink. They make me happy, not sick. Rose potpourri, rose soaps, rose candles, rose anything other than real roses, however, emit a migraine-inducing, bile-rising stench. Why do people insist on misting this crap in public places?

On Saturday, Aluminum Sister (aka Foamy Kimmy) and I went through the Diana, Princess of Wales exhibit downtown. Part of the exhibit is "scented" with this rose crap - blah blah blah, she was "England's Rose", blah blah blah, I get it, but I nearly fainted from nausea.

In a department store, I expect to be bombarded with different scents. In church, in a marketplace, in a mechanic's garage... these are places where one might encounter different "smells". I did not expect this at an exhibit of a dead woman's dresses, books, photos, and other effects.

I love perfume, when used conservatively in appropriate ways/places. This was not the place, nor was the scent used conservatively. If roses could vomit, that's what I smelled.

The exhibit, however, was great, if you have $25 burning a hole in your pocket and are interested in her life. Afterwards, we stuffed our faces with dim sum, which was also great. Then we cruised the Art Gallery of Ontario, to walk off the dumplings. By then, we were finally rid of the the repugnant smell of rose barf. Even Chinatown smelled better, and that's saying something.