This morning, I purchased a brand new tiny vacuum cleaner from my local large multipurpose buying centre with LOW prices. I named him “Greenback.”
Later this afternoon, Greenback choked on dust and hair and ultimately died when his neck broke.
DAMMIT GREENBACK, WE HARDLY KNEW YE.
Although the leaves are turning, the nights are cooler and the sun drops faster from the sky lately, I was totally in denial about autumn coming. That is until I went into Starbucks tonight and got a seasonal favorite that magically appeared on the menu while I was in Jasper for the weekend; the Pumpkin Spice Latte. The late nights studying into the winter might be well accompanied by this drink. Yum.
One of the hazards of keeping insects is that they typically only eat other insects. While I have spoken of the escapes our little inmates have had, I haven’t spoken of the true evil, escaped crickets.
Although the chirping of crickets and cicadas pleases me on a hot tropical summer night, and it takes me to some porch in a southern American state, sitting on a swing, watching fireflies and drinking a sweaty-bottled beer, the experience is less enchanting when it’s in your own home.
A few weeks ago a cricket escaped in the kitchen of the apartment. This has been the only escape I know of this year. We’ve improved on last year’s numbers with the simple practice of killing any cricket that evades being eaten. But this little bugger had been quiet for quite some time, eating crumbs and other bits around the house (Wikipedia even suggests the assholes will eat nylon and wool, from carpets) and grew to be a mature male.
How do I know this? He started rubbing his legs on his wings, chirping for a mate, a few nights ago. Incessantly chirping, chirping, seemingly from the relative safety of behind an immobile fridge.
There was some discussion of using insecticides, but the side effects should be obvious. I thought about using another cricket to bait it out, using my hair blow dryer to blow it out, going more and more crazy with each passing moment of stridulation (look it up, future cricket expert).
Finally, last night, I awoke at 4:45am, discerning that the chirping had grown somewhat louder and closer. I jumped out of bed and quickly located the sound, coming from near where our heat lamp for most of the guys is. I tried baiting the jerk with food, and finally gave up, and laid a towel down, hoping to muffle the noise.
That proved to be useless, but I drifted off to sleep nonetheless. About twenty minutes later, I awoke again, realizing that the sound had moved. I moved in on the chirping, silently, stealthily. My skills were undeniable.
Moments later, I had the jerk scooped and had tossed him in with the hungry Hunstman spider, and drifted off to dreams of whales and boats.
On Wednesday/Thursday, I played mountain taxi and dropped my boyfriend and his two friends off in the mountains for an extended bachelor party hike. It was an amazing drive, but things just did not seem to add up…
300 km edmonton to calgary +
108 km calgary to canmore (at 530am, steam rising from sloughs, the sunrise burning bright in my rear view, turning the steam pink) +
37 km on a ‘well maintained’ gravel road to the mount shark parking lot, where we left a car for them to collect on their hike out +
2 black bears + 3 moose +
70 km back out and onto sunshine village, three minutes short of missing the first bus of the day the guys had planned on taking up the mountain +
group of sheep +
some random elk +
and then, the trip home. 400 or so kilometers home, three coffees, a red moon from a lunar eclipse and one ferrari spotted all added up to, two blocks from home, =
one flat tire.
And I wasn’t even the one going on the five day mountain adventure. I’m sitting at work in Edmonton on a Saturday night, watching the rain come down. The car remains jacked up until I have a day off to try and get the fucking lug nuts off.
At work, I probably get 5-10 press releases in a day. And we’re not even the reporters, this is just random spam we get from companies who want to hit anyone who will pay attention with a press release.
Today, we got one on a new company that will cremate you, turn you INTO A PENCIL, then draw a photo of you with that very pencil. WTF?
Also, it begs the question of what the eraser is made of…
My boyfriend has lived at his condo for about a year and a half now, and only now is it becoming a bit more homey. Perhaps because I’ve moved in, perhaps because he is taking the time to decorate it more. A few weekends ago I got handy and did a few chores, starting with hanging some venetians at the 14 foot level and ending with a failed bid to fix a running tap.
This is the microsuede chaise that was Mike’s first furniture purchase. It’s my studying chair, and lovely for laying upon while watching a fire burn. (the fireplace is to the right of the chaise and unseen in this photo)
Last year, we tried growing herbs from seed, and failed miserably. This year, I bought some started seedlings from a reputable greenhouse, and they seem to be doing better. Lavender, basil and mint were lovingly transplanted, and I filled in the gaps with pansies, violets and snapdragons. So here, the garden in all it’s glory on the sad “porch-atio”, as Mike’s sister calls it. The view? Overlooking a tremendous alley perfect for bums to sleep in, and a daycare, where children scream all day. Also, please note apartments across the way. Sometimes a creepy old man stares at me while I stare at him.
Back into the living room, here are the spiders (you can see Sparkles out there, in the foreground), backed by some art by a friend, Lon Wenger, and a collection of hand made cards and post cards I made Mike while in Thailand. On the end, a small collection of orchids we are trying to start.
This is the dining area, with an anniversary gift I gave Mike…a huge blow up photo of him eating a hot dog in Las Vegas at the defunct Boardwalk Casino (R.I.P). I made it using Rasterbator. Below, my biweekly splurge, three gerbera flowers I buy from Artworks, the lovliest gift store near my work in Edmonton.
Peering in the living room from the entrance. The kitchen and dining area it to the right, just past the first piece of art I ever purchased. It is on an old cracked skateboard and was done by a local artist, Cordelia Chan. I’m now super hot for skateboard art. You can also the very high tech looking, yet totally useless tower fan, next to the study chaise. Don’t get fooled by remotes, people.
Here at the office we have all sorts of high tech gadgets. I do my work on a G5 that silently sits on my desk top. Sometimes I wish it whirred, it gets kind of quiet in the newsroom. Weird, I know, you’d expect it to be people yelling over eachother’s desks, answering phones and being busy, but it’s actually more like a newspaper reading room at a large library. Except you can drink coffee.
We even have highly technological automatic hand sensing antibacterial gel sprayers. You hold your hands underneath and a big gloppy spurt of heavily alcoholic hand sanitizer comes out. And yet, even with these ‘advances’ there are still throw backs to what used to be.
Every so often, I will hear the jangling ring of a rotary phone. Yes, it is an actual rotary and not someone’s goofy MP3 ring tone. The other day my box found a box of wood encased tape erasers and old radio alarm clocks. I even discovered a huge box of film, from the by gone eras when we used to have a dark room and actual prints to deal with.
I haven’t seen a typewriter around yet, but desperately want one to clack upon when it gets slow. It lends an air of reality to this highly electronic world.
We have a ‘fashion guru’ of sorts here at work. He’s a super slim, fast walking, faster talking slick dresser who does all of our fashion layouts. He’ll come into the office with some amazonian woman, laden with pink Holt Renfrew bags, Balenciaga purses tumbling out nonchalantly while he collects the studio key or asks who his assigned photographer is.
You see, apart from this man, the news room is a bit devoid of fashion. There are pockets, here and there. Mostly on the floor where they keep the marketing people. One of the city deskers got some new shoes recently and they were the highlight of the day in the newsroom. One of the war correspondants, who at 6’6″ is no small man, came in wearing short shorts the other day and then, to the dismay of everyone I’m sure, loudly stated he had forgotten his slacks.
Anyhow, fashion is not on the forefront of most of these people’s minds. So while I do not feel gutsy enough to wear my crazy pink legwarmers (maybe on my last day) and continue to demurely wear a tank top under my open-back shirts, I still dress fairly well.
That is, except on the days our fashion guru happens to come in. One day, I had dutifully straightened my hair, but been caught in the rain. As I tried frantically to wrangle the don’t into a do, striding across the newsroom floor was the stylist, complete with hair stylists and five chic hair models in tow. Great.
One day, I turned away from my desk to get a print out, and spilled my tea all over my skirt in the process…of course on the one skirt I own that is not a blissful stain-camouflaging shade of black. It had been drying into a beautiful avant-garde tea stained splotch when, of course, the fashionistas arrived. He asked who his photographer was, while eyeing the hard to miss blotch on my skirt. “That happens to me all the time,” he said, pitingly.
We both know it doesn’t.
When I was younger, I used to laugh at the ladies I would see powerwalking on their lunches around the governmental buildings of downtown. They’d be wearing their power suits, opaque stockings and…running shoes.
Of course, I knew it was for comfort. I knew these women would have heels poking out of their ever-present totebags around their shoulders, and they would change into them at their desks. But, still, why?
Then, I became one of those women. I wear (still somewhat trendy) sneakers that do not match the rest of my outfit, and scurry to and from work, hoping some young girl isn’t staring at me from her car, wondering why downtown women are so bad at fashion.
At least my ‘inside shoes’ are cute and garner compliments on the elevator.
It’s been really hot for the start of June here in Edmonton, which is fortunate because I’ve decided to try getting to work without a bus pass for the rest of the summer. I took a brisk half hour walk, passing all sorts of folk in the streets. I had forgotten my music, so I found it charming to hear music and light chatter at some corners, or even a passing fire truck or two.
Anyhow, it’s added another wonderful element to my work days. I do not have any inclination of dread, boredom, or resentment at going into work. Some mornings I may be slow to start because I was up late the night before, but walking up the glass encased stairwell to the newsroom, and smelling the coffee maker brewing it’s 11am cycle is enough to awaken me.
Everyday is exciting here, it seems, and I cherish every hour I spend here. Come the fall, I may not be offered a position to stay in any capacity, let alone at my current awesome job, so I’m trying to spread myself out and do as much as I can anywhere I can. Here’s to hoping.
As my two loyal readers may remember, I have started a tarantula collection with my boyfriend. At last count there were four tarantulas, two hunstman spiders (google it, they’re weird) and… well, a crapload of centipedes and scorpions. Not to mention the now countless, ever breeding cockroaches.
Gross.
Anyhow, shortly after returning from Vancouver where Mike and I were for a wonderful four days, I was desperate to administer water and food to my little guys. Everything was going well, and I was quickly spraying down the containers the little dudes live in so they might freshen up. They can live quite long without food, but often need pretty specific humidity and water conditions maintained.
Then I got to Hercules, who we nicknamed Herc the Jerk after it became apparent he preferred burrowing and hiding to any other activity. He was in hiding as I popped the lid off his pill bottle container, but did not remain so for long.
I think you can see where I’m going with this, so I’ll spare the dramatics. There is now a dime size, very freaked, very uptight baboon tarantula running around the IKEA “Expedit” (what newly graduated kid doesn’t have one of these?) shelf my boyfriend uses to hold his records. I cried as I pulled everything off the sixteen cube shelf and shone a light down the back of the shelf, hoping against hope that Herc would come flying out and into my arms for a hug…or something. I don’t know what I expected.
So now the little asshole has been a runaway for over a week now. A forum dedicated to spiders says that eventually they appear, but that is usually for adult spiders. So we’ve laid down a damp towel for him to drink from, and every few days the legs come off a cricket and it lays in a bowl of dirt, like a virgin waiting to be tossed into a volcano. We’ve done this twice, and both times the cricket has disappeared, and there is no way in hell they can get around well without legs.
The next time you come over to the place, keep your eyes peeled for what may eventually become a giant hairy tarantula. I hope one day a year from now he’ll just wander back ‘home’, and I don’t know, curl up infront of the fireplace with a cup of tea and a newspaper and say “Fill me in, sweetheart, it’s been a while”. But that might be being a little overly optimistic, on many levels.
Lately, I’ve been playing hair games.
I actually decided ten months ago that I would look good with short hair, but every time I go in for a hair cut, I just have my stylist nudge up the length in the back. So now I have boy hair in the back, but hair just over my ears in the front.
I’m a wimp.