Rarely are quizzes bang-on

But, the one I took this morn, while choking back my coffee and dwelling on the fact that my arm aches from being hyperextended by the female officer who reallllly hated my Michael Moore-ish-ness, was seriously bang on:

Your score is 0 on a scale of 1 to 10. You hate Bush with a writhing passion.You think he is an idiot, a liar, and a warmonger who has been a miserable failure as president. Nothing would give you greater pleasure than seeing him run out of the White House, except maybe seeing him dragged away in handcuffs.

You can take it here.

On 'big'

I'm supposed to be working on assignments for work. Instead, I'm working on a basement* theory:

Could the social ill that causes people to buy guzzler SUVs (and consider cycling a personal affront) be the very same as the one that makes them eat fast/processed food and watch TV indiscriminately?

Is this desire to be 'big' (physically or only by mechanical extension) related? Is this the same urge to expand that makes people support Bush's Iraq fiasco? Or is it the TV they've been watching indiscriminately?

Do they really just want to be 'big'? Or do they just watch too much TV? Even TVs are getting bigger.

Why is everything expanding *except* polar ice caps and populations of besieged nations?

*Basement theory = An unverifiable theory employing tautological arguments, usually developed during periods of sleep deprivation (or substance use/abuse) - commonly a thinly disguised rant about some aspect of Western culture.

Psoriatic identities

I am not American.

Never am I more acutely aware of this than when I try to register for an online radio station which reminds me between every 5th and 6th song that if I *were* the music would be clearer; I'd be permitted to skip over the depressing diddies; and I'd have access to a much larger selection. I am, however, not allowed to register. The service is not available to Canadians - but that doesn't stop the program from broadcasting its watchword - telling me that things could be better...if only...but, alas:

I am Canadian.

Ok, so maybe I was also aware of my Canadianonimity while on a road trip through the USA 2 years ago. More specifically, though, I was aware that I was not that which the local majority was. In Texas, the feeling that I was not Texan was predominant. When I was in Las Vegas, I realized the buffets weren't worth it. In Detroit, I was just grateful that the border was near.

There are aspects of the USA that frighten me - and then there is New York.

The bright-lights-Times-Square-New-York makes my ears bleed. But elsewhere, where you can hear the sweet squeal of the trains, feel the goo that drips onto your bare summer skin from the roof of the subway, the rush of the summer rains that wash the trash and old furniture further down the street, the cackling of the unsupervised children who attack bus passengers with water balloons at red lights, the hazard of encountering people who'll offer you directions even though they have no idea where they are, and the quiet, dirty streets and noisy, dirty bars - the city is my sinful, lusty, dirty fantasy---and my friends there: perverts.

I do love my current multicultural, multilingual Canadian province of residence: Quee-beck. And, I know some of my American friends and acquaintances love my Sinful Home to the North as much as I adore their Sinful City to the South.

Recently, in fact, a visiting amateur of this belle ville announced that Montreal is sooooooo fun, that *it* should be the capital of Canada, not Toronto.

I would have agreed.

Wedding fiasco - finest kind

Everyone loves him. We still do. He was the class clown, and the only one of us to actually make it to TV. This month he got hitched - the real kind of hitched - not the kind involving visas. This wedding, which doubled as a high school reunion, allowed us - former high school hooligans - to gather on a beach resort near our hometown, without taking turns horking on each other for old times' sake.

The event was also the indirect cause of the paddle boat incident I mentioned in the previous entry. A friend asked me to expand on the story, but I think this picture says it all:

Wedding Fiasco

And yes, that's my dress I'm dragging.

Reunion Fiasco

And no, we weren't serious.

Knee deep...

I looked down at my arms. Still attached. Excellent. Blood? None. Car still running? Hmm. Maybe I can just drive out of the ditch. Nope. Smell of gas? Check.

I asked myself this: Do cars really explode after accidents? No answer.

I turned off the ignition and opened the door - motivated by the B-movie feeling that I might blow up in an entirely anticlimactic fashion. I crawled out of the car, and stood for a moment, knee deep in itchy brown grass. How unpleasant, I thought.

I had quite a trek back to the edge of the highway, through a swamp and up a hill, but people met me halfway. Since they were so excited about running into the swamp to rescue me, I thought I'd just take my time and assess the damage.

The car was nestled in the forest, about 12 inches from the nearest large tree and suspended comfortably on top of a smaller one which had been unfortunate enough to get in my way. You know, I really felt bad for that little tree. A transport truck, a family van and a sedan pulled over, its passengers all asking me the same questions. Everyone else just gawked as they drove past.

The truck driver offered me a bottle of water and everyone called 911. I insisted that all I needed was a tow truck, but passers-by who had witnessed the three 360s and backward plunge into the boreal forest at 100+ km/hour were unconvinced.The 401 highway is, after all, one of the most dangerous stretches of road in Canada.

It took about 30 minutes for the local emergency respondents to arrive - an all-volunteer gaggle. I apologized for ruining their Saturday afternoon, but one local woman assured me that I was just lucky I caught them before they started drinking beer. This was the same woman who hugged me while still in the swamp and wailed: "OH MY GOD!!!! IF YOU WERE MY DAUGHTER...!!! IF YOU WERE MY DAUGHTER...!!!"

Apparently I wasn't the only woman in shock. We hugged for so long that I realized I was doing it to make *her* feel better.

The volunteer firemen and ambulance attendants totaled about 10 men. They stared at me for a while and then trudged down to the ditch to check out the car. One-by-one they noted the proximity of the car to the large trees and told me I'd obviously used up all my 'lottery luck'. Another fireman referred to the accident as a "3-coupon fair ride."

They then planted themselves on top of the car and chatted. With several large men sitting on the hood, I was worried they might dent it. Then I took a good look at the situation and realized it was better to simply seize the photo opportunity. I posed, in front of the firemen, trying to look as indifferent as possible. I'll post the picture as soon as it's developed.

Then the police arrived - two handsome young bucks in aviators. I was never so glad I'd worn a skirt. The entire process was made very easy for me. A little flirting, a little signing of the accident report, a little flirting. He later insisted that I drive with him back to the nearest town where my car would be towed, because it would be more comfortable than the truck. He even put in a good word for me with the mechanic.

You see, I was only 2 hours into an 8 hour drive, on my way to a family reunion in the suburbs of Toronto. I had to get there that same afternoon, and the mechanics were all backed up. With a little pleading - and with the law on my side - my car was given top priority and put on the lift immediately. About an hour later I was told that my brake line had completely rusted out - contributing to my loss of control. I had no brakes. Apparently this is a common glitch for Hondas - and I mention that as a warning to those of you who have one.

I endured 3 hours of heckling by the mechanics and a discussion about God's Grand Plan. The work manager at the garage told me that God didn't intend to kill me, he was just trying to put things in perspective. I felt like Joan of Arcadia.

I drove the remaining 6 hours listening to old, mellow Bob Marley, desperately trying to stay calm and focussed as I navigated the Machine of Potential Death over the Ontario highways. I was in awe. It had taken approximately 20 people to come together to help me in order for me to be back on the road that day. Each of them mentioned both God and Luck. I couldn't help but notice that the section of highway where I'd spun off the road was the only stretch that wasn't bordered by a cement wall median or rock cliffs. It was either God - or the gap in the Canadian Shield that saved me.

I was emotionally vulnerable, a religious mush. Had a Pentecostal Minister been present, I probably would have sold him my soul. Fortunately, God had mercy and let me off at sending Thank You cards.

The day left me physically unmarked - merely a mosquito bite - and emotionally gooey.

How strange then, that a simple after-wedding party last weekend left me with massive bruising on my legs and scratches on my belly as a result of a sinking paddle boat incident. Sinking a paddle boat is supposed to be impossible.

God works in mysterious ways, indeed.

It proves that we have a responsibility as creatures of the Earth to learn from situations like these. And, that is why I am accepting it as my mission in life to spread The Word: God hates paddle boats.