The Mystery of the Severed Feet

In the spirit of Halloween, I thought I would write about something creepy. And what is more creepy than several mismatched, detached, decomposed feet washing ashore somewhere.

Since 2007, RCMP on Vancouver Island in B.C. have been stumped (pun intended) about feet that have been washing up on beaches in various Gulf Island communities. The feet are clad in shoes, mostly runners I think. All of the feet, until now, have been right feet. But the last foot that floated to shore the other day was a lefty. No, this foot does not match the others.

The fact that a left foot has made an appearance has CBC speculating that if they get some more left feet washing up, perhaps they can make a pair. My first reaction when I watched the following CBC clip reporting on the mystery of the severed feet was simply, do we really give a shit if we are going to make a PAIR sometime? I mean, are we on Sesame Street here, or would our energy be better put into speculating WHERE THE FEET ARE COMING FROM? I think the CBC on the island need to get off the weed.

For your amusement during these haunted days, I thought I would leave you with this savory little clip. A modern day version of Ichabod Crane, only this story isn't about a headless horseman. It's about bodyless feet. Lots of them.

The Confident Tuna

I used to be a big fan of CBC. That is, until a couple weeks ago when the whole H1N1 media frenzy began creating mass panic and hysteria.

For almost half a year up until a few nights ago, I would listen to CBC radio while spending time in the kitchen. During any spare time at work, I would scan the media for articles of interest to keep informed of social issues, mostly visiting CBC online. But this whole H1N1 is starting to piss me off. Not because I think it's bad to keep the public aprised of latest developments on the virus. But because of the pandemic of sheer terror being created, for what looks like the sake of pushing vaccines which ultimately profit pharmaceutical companies.

What I find interesting, though, is the number of people who are refusing the vaccine because they don't trust it and want more information. As a person who spent a good year being debilitated from a vaccine that never should have been administered to me, I applaud some of these people for going against the herd and at least asking some questions and being willing to do a little investigative research. These people were willing to peel off the sticker from their forehead that reads, "I BELIEVE EVERYTHING MY GOVERNMENT TELLS ME", long enough to engage in some healthy critical thinking. But for every critical thinker who voices their criticism of the herd mentality, there is a lot of backlash. Critical thinkers are often the black sheep who are labelled as "conspiracy theorists", or "nutbars" while all the other sheep keep their heads down and listen to their herders. In this case the herders are folks in white coats who are peddling a product for corporations who don't always have our best interests at heart. If you are one of those 'rare' statistics that has an 'adverse reaction' to their product, don't expect a Get Well card. Expect a Not our Problem card instead.

CBS has published the findings of some of their investigative research, which shows that the H1N1 virus may not be as widespread as the authorities are making out:

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/10/21/cbsnews_investigates/main5404829.shtml

Their findings show that many cases of common flu are being labelled as H1N1, when in fact they are just common flu. The bottom line is that health authorities no longer know how much H1N1 is out there, because, as they have stated in the media, they have stopped testing for it unless it is a very critical case of illness. Many people in the public are saying that they want to get their sick kids tested for it, but are told by clinics to stay home and avoid infecting others. What a mess. The authorities no longer know the extent of what's really going on.

The World Health Organization isn't liking the resistance they're getting from the herd on this one. And telling by the barrage of media stories about the dangers of H1N1 and the importance of vaccinations (up to four stories a day online), governments are pushing vaccine campaigns into high gear because some of the sheep are breaking free and looking up for a change.

Though I'm not reading anymore CBC online, and I have boycotted CBC radio for a while, I am still getting the odd trickle at work of H1N1 madness. One of the radio transcripts sent to me today really made my morning. Take in mind that radio transcripts often contain many mistakes from the transmission process from sound to print, so a simple phrase like "a can of tuna" could end up coming out as.....something else. This one is my favorite, concerning the H1N1 vaccine:

"THIS CALGARY FAMILY DOCTOR SAYS HE HAD MANY QUESTIONS HIMSELF BUT AFTER CAREFUL REVIEW, HE'S URGING ALL HIS PATIENTS TO GET THE SHOT. ONE POPULAR QUESTION INVOLVES THE PRESENCE OF MERCURY IN THE H1N1 VACCINE, A PRESERVATIVE CALLED THAMERASOL IS LINKED TO RUMORS OF AUTISM BUT THIS HAS NOT BEEN PROVEN.

THIS MERCURY IS AT A VERY LOW LEVEL THAT'S SAFE. THE AVERAGE DOSE YOU'RE GOING GET OUT OF A FLU VACCINATION IS LESS THAN A QUARTER OF WHAT YOU WOULD GET FROM A CONFIDENT TUNA".

But what about a really confident tuna? And does this mean that we get even less amounts of mercury from a tuna with really low self-esteem?

Hey, just askin'.

Creative solutions

Getting to work on time isn't always easy. Sometimes while we are crawling along in our car at a snail's pace on the traffick-congested road to work, watching cars whizzing by next to us in the carpooling lanes, there is the temptation to join them, no? But what does one do to try avoid getting caught with below the legal limit of passengers for the carpooling lane?

Today, CBC reported a response to this question:

Man caught 'carpooling' with teddy bear
Last Updated: Friday, October 23, 2009 11:36 AM ET

A man in Gatineau is facing hundreds of dollars in fines after trying to pass off a teddy bear as a third passenger while driving in a carpool lane.

Police said the man was caught trying to fool police not once, but twice this week.

Const. Isabelle Poirier of the Gatineau police said officers first stopped the man on Monday, when they spotted a teddy bear buckled into in a rear car seat in the man's vehicle. The bear had been dressed up as a child in fall attire, complete with tuque and scarf.

The man was fined $144 and sent on his way, only to be stopped again the next day trying to pull off the same trick. He was again fined $144.

Poirier said the laws about what qualifies as a passenger are clear.

"This is not a real person. You have to drive in the lane with three people inside [your car]. Three real people."

I love the "Three real people" statement. As if to clarify that though teddy is a person, he's not a 'real' person. This article made my Friday. "What's that teddy? Drive faster you say?"

Now for all of you law-abiding, environmentally righteous folks, I'm sure you feel that justice was served on him for the fines he received. But the deviant in me applauds his creative instincts.

The hostages next door

Back when I worked for the government in Yellowknife, I remember that upon occasion my colleagues and I might gather at one of the windows on some dark winter day and comment on an approaching lightning storm. It was fun to be away from our desks, looking at something that had nothing to do with work while our Director was conveniently away at some meeting (it was her corner office that we were often peering from). That our jobs made the weather and landscape seem like a mutually entertaining group experience probably says a lot about our jobs. Believe me, we were aware of it, and we looked on with indulged enthusiasm anyway.

My current government job in Edmonton affords the occasional group window-gawking activity, too. However, we are not surrounded by miles of rugged wilderness with a view of endless sky. We are not looking at things like approaching storms rolling along the landscape. We gather to check out things like, oh, hostage taking. But I suspected that what was an unusual diversion from work for me yesterday was just old hat for some of my city slicker comrades.

It all happened when some 'disgruntled' (a favorite adjective of the media in this case) WCB claimant lost it yesterday morning and decided to let his hunting rifle do the rest of the talking with the folks handling his file. And so he arrived a few doors down from us at the WCB building with his rifle packed all ‘inconspicuously’ into its carrying case, and asked a receptionist to see his caseworker. Now I have always been careful to treat the admin staff very well. This is a good example as to why every workplace should have Admin Appreciation days. Because these people are the folks who will be fielding all the nutters for you, like people asking to see you who are carrying full-looking rifle carrying cases.

The details are fuzzy, but apparently this guy fired off a shot in the lobby. Maybe the brave person at the front was doing too good a job at fielding people. Maybe that person was awake enough at that time in the morning to see that in all likelihood, that was not a guitar case the fellow was carrying. Regardless of any questions asked or accesses denied, the armed man headed for the 8th floor where all the caseworkers and adjudicators were. When he got there, he stuffed nine of them into the boardroom, and stayed there for a long time while the entire Edmonton police force and media assembled outside.

It was quite a view from the top floor of my work building. A big mess all around us of cops, cars, flashing lights, armed trucks, SWAT teams, and blockade tape. It stayed like that for the whole day while hostage negotiators tried to reason with the guy. One lucky hostage got let go early, in exchange for water and cigarettes for his captor. Don’t get me wrong - I empathize for those poor people who were traumatized by the incident - but I thought it would be funny if the hostage taker also asked for someone to put money in his parking meter so he wouldn't get a ticket.

It all ended as best as a situation like that can, with the hostages let go at the end of the day unharmed. Though I’m pretty certain he isn’t going to get his claim reconsidered now. What I wonder is if those traumatized WCB workers will have the nerve to ask for coverage for days off needed to recover, and if so, if they will get screwed over by WCB like everyone else. I also wonder if there will be job vacancies coming up there. Yes, I’m currently on a term job, and no, I’m not going to apply there.

It's interesting that so many people commenting on media sites took sides with the hostage taker, saying that WCB had it coming. I read some of the commentaries to a CBC article about it yesterday, and found some good ones that made me snicker:

Well they ain't going to compensate him if he injures himself now.

I hope they don't use a taser on the person. That would be cruel.

I sure hope all the people involved in this get out safely... and I really hope they don't have to apply for WCB because of anything that happens.

Anyway, that was yesterday's highlight. Back to my desk.

Boobs Beware

Hot date tomorrow night, and I wanna look good. So on my lunch break I quickly trundled to the mall amidst the crowds in hopes of finding something to wear.

Now I realize I’m not a total bombshell. I was in Italy last year and I know what’s out there in real living flesh. But just because I wasn’t designed in the image of an Italian princess, such as the one George Clooney has hanging off his arms these days, doesn’t mean I’m unworkable. So when I walk into a store these days, I’m feeling optimistic that there is ‘something for everyone’, including me.

I walk into JACOB while in the mall and am surrounded by stylish clothes. I’m thinking in terms of a dress, or a skirt. It’s my lunch hour, so my eyes are quickly scanning the room. Aha! There are some dresses that look cute and um…date enhancing. I pick them off the rack and head to the change room with flinty determination.

Sometimes the change room experience can be a downer before even starting to get changed. The downcast lighting seems to make shadows on EVERYTHING. Maybe this was okay when I was 18, but not anymore. But this change room is nicely lit. I look at myself without wishing I could ask someone to please dim the lights. Women are so hard on ourselves, so I’m glad that this JACOB store goes easy on us. Whatever lighting they have, I want it in my bathroom.

I reach excitedly for the dress that awaits my eager clutches on the hanger. It slips on, and I’m thinking, yeah, alright, THIS little number is just what I'm looking for. And then I try to do up the zipper on the side. I give it a little tug. Nothing. I pull with a bit more force. Nada. I squeeze the two sides together at the top in order to ease the zipper’s passage. No chance. And the problem is obvious. My boobs are too big.

But there is no way that I’m a quitter. The dress otherwise fits quite nicely. I’m determined. So I take off the dress, do up the zipper, and try slipping it over my head. I get it to around my shoulders and keep pulling in hopes that it's going to pass over my chest. Then it is stuck. Now I can’t get it on, or off. One of the staff asks through the door how I’m making out. I try to sound all casual while feeling like it’s going to take the Jaws of Life to get this dress off me unscathed.

After all the wiggling and shifting and grunting, the dress that did fit, of course, was the one that had the polka dots. But there was no bloody way I was going on a hot date looking like June Cleaver, even if some of you think that’s kinky. So I left empty handed, and sped back to work thinking that, despite my failed endeavor, I was hopefully burning off some “upper body” weight (as my chiropractor often refers to my chest - the root of my back issues). I don’t know what I’m going to wear tomorrow night.

I was wrong. There isn’t ‘something for everyone’. Boobs beware. The world is cut for flat-chested women.

Ode to Helen

A very good friend of mine who happens to be a writer told me upon many an occassion that in order to really get anywhere with writing, you have to put your "ass to chair" and just do it. And you have to do it regularly. So I started Blogging, because for years, I had been writing daily in my journals, which no soul gets to read, and the fact that my words were hidden apparently wasn't conducive to creatively honing a craft. Rather, it was mostly a bunch of moaning and pondering. I have some loose convictions about burning those journals, but it almost seems sacreligious to burn all that writing and all those memories.

Anyway.

I had discussed this Blog with my friend, and said there are many things that I feel inhibited about writing in it. Perhaps things about my personal life, or my real thoughts on sensitive matters, or my emotional reactions, or anything that others might really 'hang me out to dry' with. Her response was that in order for writing to be interesting, you have to make it real. It has to be honest. And that you cannot control how other people react to it. So just 'go for it', she said.

I think her advice is more broad reaching than just publishing one's written thoughts. It has to do with life. Why don't we put ourselves 'out there' more? Why don't we smile at the strangers in the street more often? Why don't we say hello to people we don't know at work upon passing in the hallway? Why don't we say what we really mean, and why don't we really mean what we sometimes say? Why are we so discreet about our personal lives, or about who we really are? Why are we afraid to be goofy in front of people we don't know? What happened to our devil-may-care childishness, our innocence and careless enthusiasm? Where did our openess go?

Here is an example of what happens to it:

I got this weird comment from a "Helen P." today, in response to my Blog post called "The Underling". Her post was simply asking how old I was, and to "Wake up". I guess it's not bad to have a Blog for a year and a half, and never have an asshole leave a dump on it (until now). In fact, perhaps that someone cared enough to actually leave a comment should be a compliment. But that aside, I was intrigued that someone would not only tell me to "wake up" because I was baffled by my boss wiping her glasses on my scarf, but that a person would care to leave that kind of a footprint on someone else's day by writing a rude message on a silly little Blog.

I really don't care about whether this person is or isn't titilated by my daily (or, more likely, 'once-in-a-while') rants. The other comment they left on another posting was just as asinine. But it does lead me back to my previous point about why people don't put themselves 'out there' more often; why people in our society curl up and shut down. Why people don't smile to strangers, or spontaneously try to get to know the people in the elevator at work whom they have probably seen a dozen times. It is because of the Helen P.'s of the world.

Well I have something for the Helen P.'s of the world. Because I refuse to 'Wake up', and prefer to keep one foot in the sandbox (as advised by one of my wise 50+ year old girlfriends), and because immaturity is fun, and I absolutely love being a little shit sometimes, I am dedicating this song to Ms. Helen P. as my Ode to Helen.

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch.
You really are a heel.
You're as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as charming as an eel.
Mr. Grinch.

You're a bad banana
With a greasy black peel.

You're a monster, Mr. Grinch.
Your heart's an empty hole.
Your brain is full of spiders,
You've got garlic in your soul.
Mr. Grinch.

I wouldn't touch you,
with athirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.

You're a vile one, Mr. Grinch.
You have termites in your smile.
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick crocodile.
Mr. Grinch.

Given the choice between the two of you
I'd take the seasick crockodile.

You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch.
You're a nasty, wasty skunk.
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk.
Mr. Grinch.

The three words that best describe you,
are as follows, and I quote: "STINK, STANK, STUNK"!

You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch.
You're the king of sinful sots.
Your heart's a dead tomato splotched
With moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch.

Your soul is an apalling dump heap overflowing
with the most disgraceful assortment of deplorable
rubbish imaginable,
Mangled up in tangled up knots.

You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch.
With a nauseaus super-naus.
You're a crooked jerky jockey
And you drive a crooked hoss.
Mr. Grinch.

You're a three decker saurkraut and toadstool sandwich
With arsenic sauce!

Coffee snobbery

I am sometimes surprised by the limitless variations on coffee order specifications at Starbucks these days. I’m sure it’s nothing new in the world of seasoned Starbucks consumers, but to me, some of the orders I overhear repeated by baristas have me wondering if some folks here in the first world need to tone it down a bit.

See, there is a brand of coffee drinker out there who isn’t just into 'good' coffee. It’s not about whether the roast is too bitter or too dark. It’s about entitlement, whim, and the sense of status that likely comes with being able to afford to spend $5 on a coffee that has a name which no one but an experienced barista can understand. They have taken their coffee consumption to a whole different level that says more about their psychoses than their taste or dietary preferences.

Today, while waiting for my simple little decaf Americano, I heard the usual calls from the register to the baristas for things like a “tall, skinny, caramel, no-whip, soy macchiato”, and a “grande vanilla, skim, no-foam latte”. It was the usual coffee snob fare that I long ago seized to blink an eye at. I finally got my unfancified coffee and headed to the cream and sugar stand to doctor it into something a little more fabulous. And then I heard a barista repeat an order: “104 degree grande latte!”. That one stopped me in my tracks. Someone specified the temperature of their coffee? And this was acceptable?

.

I looked over at the guy next to me. He looked at me. We were both thinking the same thing. He says, “I like my coffee at 140 degrees”. I laughed. I also had the urge to tell the person who placed that order to fuck off.

The Underling

Apologies to my faithful readers out there – if I have any. I have been a negligent Blogger, though in the passing days my mind fills with all manner of things to write about. Mostly to do with my bus rides, but I’ve refrained from those rants for fear that I may have to change the name of my Blog if I keep it up.

Having managed another means of transport to and from work for the time being, my mind is free from the dark, convoluted journeys on the transit system. Despite that, life still manages to maintain its everyday dramas.

Here’s one.

In my previous post, I sung my praises and bewilderment about Galadriel, my boss who I’ve renamed based on her likeness to a dreamy elven queen. Oh how she glides. Oh how she dresses. Oh how glamorous and talented. Glowing skin, perfect demeanor, all that.

But this little elven queen has been playing with the ring of power.

She enters my office yesterday after 4 days of being sick. Already I am shrinking back in my skin, hoping she’s not going to be breathing Ebola all over me. Save that for the busses. But she comes no further while we are exchanging our daily greetings and updates. All is good. I relax. Everyone is smiling. Then she takes off her glasses, and reaches for my Italian silk scarf that is hanging ever so vulnerable next to the doorway. She uses this scarf to clean her glasses.

I don’t know what my expression was. I think I was still clinging to the shreds of a smile that I had worn only moments before. Maybe my mouth was open, though I was trying to stop my jaw from hitting the floor. All the while, the only thing going through my mind was, “you…are….wiping your glasses…on my clothes?”

I’m still confused. So was the person I told later on, who said they have never heard of anything like that before. It was suggested to me that I should go into her office and blow my nose in her scarf and see how it goes over. I already know where that would lead to, and I’m not going there.

What can I say. I’m an underling. The moment defined that for me. But even if I wasn’t an underling, I wouldn’t use someone else’s clothes to wipe the muck off my glasses. Even as an underling, I don’t use other people’s clothes to de-muck my stuff.

.

Perhaps this incident could have been the universe responding to my previous post, in which I said, "Like a battle-worn, beardy dwarf, all I can do is look upon the glitter with awe, hoping that perhaps a few of those sparklies will fall upon me". Well, if there were sprinkles to be had, they are now embedded in my scarf. I guess I should feel blessed to be so bequethed.

But all I can say is that there has been a perception shift. No more elven queen. Just a regular boss with nice clothes and strange manners.