this march’s latest hobo chic

If you’re in Vancouver right now, you know how ass-bitingly cold it is at the moment. And I don’t mean the normal Canadian cold, I mean “-8 and we start panicking and lining the walls of bedrooms with extra blankets because this is Vancouver and we are wusses” cold.

But still myself and Dr. Roommate & Friends persist in our nightly jogs through the graveyard.

But we bundle up because, you know, we’re not stupid.

Last night, I kind of half-assed it, because… well, Vancouverites, especially myself, are not your average Canadians.*

We can only try really, really hard to look the part.

I wore a touque that kind of looked like this, only with giant maple leafs everywhere:


Ears = warm and stylish



Unfortunately, I had lost my snowman-adorned, mother-purchased mittens earlier that day, so my little handsies were tucked into the sweatshirt.

This was truly a shame, as the mittens would have taken the attention away from my strikingly fashionable Vancouver Canucks pajama pants sweatpants. Before we ventured out, I actually ran them by the jogging commitee to see if they could indeed pass as sweatpants.

I was told by Dr. Roommate: “They look fine, but I’ll know.”

Where were my actual sweatpants, you may ask?

Now I could make up some story involving earthquakes and zombie plagues and cougar attacks and ninja-star-wielding hitmen whose powers combined somehow prevented me from doing my laundry, but the truth is… I simply don’t know what happened to my sweatpants.

Anyway, to make it worse, it was really, really cold and I was getting that irritating little breeze blowing up the cuffs of the pajama sweatpants.

So I did what any rational person would do.

I tucked them into my socks.

It looked amazing, kinda like this awesome person:


How many puns can you think if involving "sock"? My favourite: Sock me, Amadeus.



I’m not really sure what elaborate conclusion one can draw from this other than to serve as a future footnote on my psych ward application. Perhaps I was rocking the fur trapper look? A little courer de bois for the 21st century?

However, there was the possibility that I might have looked kind of drunk. Thus, with the overabundance of maple leafs on my ensemble, one could assume I was simply celebrating the Olympic anniversary.


No. I think I’d rather go with “Hobo.”
*I’ve never skiied; I remember nearly killing someone the only time I tried snowboarding (and then spent the rest of the day drinking hot chocolate in the lodge); and I went snowshoeing once in Girl Guides. I remember badly needing to pee the entire time.

how awesome is beetlejuice?

Please, help me settle an argument with a few friends who just watched Beetlejuice for the first time.

They did not like it.

I love it.

They found it in my collection amongst other such classics as Encino Man, Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, and this little gem, Sands of Oblivion. I’ve yet to add Weekend at Bernie’s II to my astounding menagerie of cinematic hits, but arguably, Beetlejuice is so damn fantastic is negates the need for additional necro-partying.

I mean, come on! Beetlejuice (I’ve said it three times now!) launched a television cartoon spin-off AND the career of Tim Burton AND a late-eighties calypso revival!

What else do you want?!

this week in triage


Triage [tree-ahzh] the principle or practice of sorting emergency patients and/or casualties in battle or disaster into categories of priority for treatment*

I drive (or perhaps… drove) a 2002 Cavalier. I say he is lovingly monikered Ernie because of my desire not to ascribe to gendered naming conventions, but really it’s because his first license plate was ERN.

On Monday, I was on my way home from work, driving down the highway, bopping my head along to “White Riot,” when all the lights came on and the engine died.

On the highway.

It’s almost as if Ernie said “F**k The Clash!” and rebelled by promptly shutting off.

Ernie does not approve.

I managed to coast to the side of the road and called my dad.

One week and a BCAA phone call later, my car is still dead and I’m at my parents’ house.

Tuesday was Fish’n’Chips’n’Glee night.

Dad does approve.

As we were tucking into our campy goodness, it was as if Bri decided that she needed to rebel against Glee in a similiar fashion that Ernie rebelled against The Clash.

She staggered up the stairs with a wad of toilet paper clutched around her hand and a shocked expression on her face: “Please pause the TV.”**

Dad sat her down while Mom and I crowded around, the schadenfreude-loving rubber-neckers that we are. Peeling back the bloodied toilet paper wad, Dad simply muttered, “I’ll be right back.”

As he took off to the bathroom to find the first aid kit, Bri explains that she was washing dishes and somehow forgot that Knives = Cutty-Cutty Sharp Time.

Beware. Now it has a taste for blood... just like a great white.

Meanwhile, Dad is taking his sweet time trying to find a band-aid or anything that remotely resembles a band-aid. See, our family’s first aid kit only really contains empty band-aid wrappers, a tangled tensor bandage, and a first aid manual so old it still says that leeches make a good cure-all.

Finally he returns, tapes up the gaping wound and tells us that, in his expert, accident-prone opinion, it needs stitches.

Bri is distraught. Not because she’s afraid of stitches, mind, but because her current lifetime suture count is 69 and that is something of a badge of honour.

Would tonight be the night to crack the seventies?

Mom and I loaded her into the car and searched for a clinic, but to no avail. Every clinic was closed.

That left the hospitals.

Delta was our best bet. With its near-rural status, the best we could hope to compete with in the ER were farm accidents or “natural causes.”

Once she made it through to triage, the nurse asked her to assess her level of pain on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain she’s ever felt (which instantly made me think of this). Bri said, “Uh, I dunno. Two I guess? Three?”

Bri looked at the nurse, thought about this for a second, then added, “If I changed that to a higher number, would I get through faster?”

The nurse was not impressed. She shook her head.

I think Bri was bumped to the back of the queue.

While she was wheeled through to the ER, Mom and I had to make do in the waiting room.

We watched the Food Network, which is really just the MTV of food. Nothing on that network is actually about making food anymore. It’s just reality shows where people may or may not have to eat things.

Bri returned about an hour and a half later.

With NO stitches.

She even argued with the doctor: “Can’t you just give me one stitch? Come on, I’ve waited for SO long! Please…. I’ve come all this way….”

Chicks dig… finger condoms…?

But nothing.

Thus, the results of this week’s triage:

Bri’s Pain Level = 2, or, uh, maybe 3?

Ernie’s Pain Level = 10

*This definition is provided so as not to confuse any readers who might take the prefix “tri-” and the word’s saucy Frenchness to imply something dirty. It does not. Also, I added the and/or.

**I am still not used to the fact that you can actually pause the television these days. It blows my mind every time.


Wound is healing well; Ernie is still up on blocks. Diagnosis: his old timing belt tic has flared up again.