When the moon hits your eye and you're stuck in the sky....

I’m like a stamp collector. But instead of stamps, I collect awkward dates. So, there I was, urged on by a fellow to go night-time skiing. Why, that sounded just dandy! And given that our last interaction was, well, another date, I felt like this invitation was going to be, well, a date.

 

He picked me up, and on the way, the ride was filled with flirty pleasantries, a giggle here and there and it seemed hopeful, all in all.

As we were skiing and snowboarding, sharing in the romance of the snowy evening, he kept bringing up the possibility of some seemingly fictional friends of his joining us. I was starting to sense this might be but a lie, because two hours into it, his friends were still nowhere to be found.

 

So, we decided to go grab hot chocolate in the lodge, to thaw and continue our innocent coquettish banter.

Just as he’s asking me about my burlesque performance, he casually mentions “the girl he’s been dating.”

 

Suddenly, I thought “Well, hold on there sailor, why am I here partaking in a snowy evening of merriment and sport with you if you have some chick somewhere out there?”

 

But before I could ponder this any longer, his friends showed up. They were two couples. Again, I thought “what screwy adventure is this?

 

Following this odd break, he and I continued to ski and snowboard solo. On the way up, I no longer sat on the inside seats of the lift. Nope, as a sign of defiance I sat on the outer seat. He chose to fill the awkward silence with questions about my dating life.

But the evening was far from over.

 As the evening wore on, my bladder finally caught up to being filled with hot chocolate. I decided to hold it for one more run. Just one last run. We got onto the chair lift, went about half-way up, still feeling sufficiently uncomfortable both physically because of the full bladder and emotionally because of the confused non-date situation.

 Suddenly the chair lift stopped.

“Do you think they forgot we’re up here?” I asked my non-date across the chair lift.

“Hmm I don’t think so,” he responded and proceeded to whistle and holler to the attendant at the top of the hill.

“See? He’s just putting down more snow for us,” he comforted me. But no. He was cleaning up his little booth, shutting her down for the night.

The skidoos zoomed down the mountain and it became painfully clear we were indeed forgotten.

So, there I was. On a date with a guy who’s dating someone else, freezing, with an increased urgency to pee and stuck on a chair lift left to die in the frosty night.

Finally, one of the rescuers, a jolly Irishman, heard our pleas and skied underneath us.

“How did you guys get up there?” he asked. This question was puzzling given that we were dangling high above ground on a ski lift. The answer seemed clear.

We left it unanswered.

“You guys had a close call there…almost had a cold night ahead of you.” This probably seemed cute to him, because he figured we could use body heat, because he, like I, thought this was a date.

“You really should watch Frozen,” he continued, “it’s a horror movie about a couple left on a chair lift over night,” he continued his light-hearted banter.

“Excuse me, sir, but you are getting help, right?” I interrupted his musings. He confirmed and 15 minutes later we were zooming down the hill.

It was the date that had all the makings for a comedy and horror, but none for romance.

I came, I saw, I changed my prescription and defeated a bat

Glasses.  They're good for a few chuckles, aren't they ? There are those who use glasses as a statement of coolness. These are emo kids who need the frames around their otherwise depressed, obscured faces to bring some life.  It's as if to say "my eyes window to the soul? That's right - take a deep dark look through these plastic frames with 0 prescription.  I'm that empty."
There are also those who use glasses as a fashion statement.  I'd hazard a guess, however, that these are generally people with reasonable prescription, whose optometrist, unlike mine, didn't laugh a full old chortle upon taking a look at my obscure (not cool hipster obscure, but generally obscure) prescription and astigmatism through his magical looking glass.  Yes, those who see glasses as fashion statement have never felt the pang of paying for an actual prescription.  Yep, I'm talking anti-reflective and thin. You can't just jam any old glass into those damned frames if you have any sort of visual impairment, lest you want to look like you're looking out of a fishbowl.

My journey to becoming bespectacled has long eluded me.  I thought to myself "ha! I might have gotten flat feet from my pa, but the glasses are all on my sister.  I can see!" Sure enough, my sister has grown up with a patch.  It being socialism, it wasn't even a fun patch.  It was beige (one of the many shades of beige we had to choose from as colours back in the day. Well that, or red.) What's more? She had a bowl cut.  Unrelated though it is to glasses, it did complete the look and upped my confidence.  But then, grade 10 hit and my 20/20 days were over. There it began.  The foggy glasses when you come in from the cold, the blind wanderings on a beach, tripping over enamoured couples, swimming up to strangers, not recognizing your friends after you update your prescription....

Like everyone who knows the growing pains of spectacles, I've been through many pairs.  But somewhat recently I was compelled to say goodbye to a particularly brave, well-traveled and solid pair of frames. These were real stand-up guys.
They've had more exciting existence than many people I know. Much less glasses.

It all began four years ago, when as a pale Canadian I came to the happy leper island of Molokai as a reporter.  My first week there, I jovially stepped into the crashing waves of the Pacific, only to have my one and only pair washed straight off my face.
"Shit happens," I thought as made my way back to town, "I'll just go to the nearest optometrist and ask for a new pair." How silly of me.  This island didn't have an optometrist, but a dude who flies in every two weeks, and like in a third-world country, dispenses prescriptions and glasses.

So, I asked who in town has a helicopter.
"Hi there, I hear you have a helicopter?"
"Yeah...who is this?"
"I am an intern here and I lost my one and only pair of glasses and am now blind."
"No problem, I will fly you into to Honolulu tomorrow," said the good man, who also turned out to be a part-time nudist.
After a stomach-turning, yet awe-inspiring blind flight, I procured the legendary pair that would see many an adventure.

The highlights are as follows:

Not even two months after their purchase, I moved to France where I taught well-to-do, intellectually minded young children the ways of the English language.  While in North America, something like a haunted walk might include a couple of masked councillors and possibly a sound effect or two, at the 18th century chateau where this camp was based, we had the advantage of having a former Nazi prison right on the grounds.

Needless to say, I was volunteered to be dressed as a clown and go into the bat-infested dark prison to scare the little bourgeois enfants. It worked like a charm, until one of those loveable buggers knocked over the tea light candles.  I panicked. The bat sensed that. It attacked me and my glasses flew into the dark in the midst of me fighting off a bat.  Yet, as I was reunited with them after the epic scene, they were unharmed, as if to say "alright, I see what kind of owner you are going to be.  I'm game."

And for the following four years, they alongside me, blissfully ignored the progressively obsolete and weak prescription within its frames, went ziplining, skiing, enjoyed climates in every extreme and like many things, they began to feel the pressure of life and my demanding lifestyle.

The end was nigh.  One day, I woke up bright and early to bike on over to a job interview with the government.  Now, with the government, you pretty well have to be dead in order to change a date for an interview.  I knew this and planned my life accordingly.
When suddenly, my glasses split right in half. You'd think that at this point, I would've learned and gotten myself a spare pair or contacts at the very least, but no.

I tried to revive them, albeit sacrificing elegance and style.  I tried super glue. It failed. I tried other glue. It failed. In last atttempt, I even tried black electrical tape.  I looked a fool, but I biked forth proudly...it was working! it was working! And then...they collapsed towards each other making my vision wide-angle like.  It was the end.  I called off my interview and deflated, I walked my bicycle to the nearest optometrist.

Good bye, frames, you've lived a long and treacherous life and your service shan't be forgotten.  Dying in the line of duty is no shame. 

Grandma's Dating Advice

Every phone conversation with my 88-year-old grandma includes some sort of off-colour joke. Yet, one day, when I called her for her 88th birthday, she seemed strangely down.  Coming to terms with the fact that she's getting old, I simmered my usual cheerful tone.

"How are you, grandma?" I asked with sympathy in my voice.
"Oh...not too well," she responded quietly.

I held my breath, pondering how to carry on the conversation in a tasteful, calm manner of a good grand-daughter.  That was until my grandma continued, "...I drank and ate too much and the party just ended." 

She's back.

My dating advice guru was back in the game.  While, as a little girl, I always viewed my grandma as a serious, responsible type, she first shocked me into reality of her open mind some 4 years ago when I was on the phone with her.

I was living in France at the time, using my maturity and wisdom to guide young, innocent french children the way of the English language as a counselor. 

"So, how are the French guys over there?" she asked matter-of-factly.

"Well, there is one cute chef who works here, but he doesn't speak any English and I don't speak any French, so..."I mumbled innocently.

"Why do you need to talk at all?"

Since then, it was clear that grandma's advice is a solid piece to take with you wherever you go.  No more polite skating around the point.  This was why, when I told her once about the demise of my relationship, I secretly wished for a piece of gold nugget advice.

My friends, tried though they did, simply could not measure up to the level of blunt honesty that grandma could.  They said the usual lines, like "maybe it's just a break" or " it will happen when you're not looking for it" and "there are plenty of fish in the sea."

But grandma's take was what I was looking for - if only for entertainment value.

And there it was.

"So, how are things with that boyfriend of yours?"
"Oh, we broke up, grandma."
"Why is that? "
"Well...I guess he was too nice and I needed something with a bit of spice to it."
After a moment of silence, my grandma dispensed the sought advice.

"Well, why don't you keep the nice one at home and get your spice somewhere else?"

For those of you seeking alternative advice on life, I suggest you contact your nearest grandparent who would undoubtedly give some out.

'Apostrophes in ample supply' official source says

Despite the belief that the English-speaking world is experiencing serious shortage of apostrophes, which has permeated the culture more thoroughly than snot in a single-ply, no-name brand facial tissue, sources report the notion is false. The modern world spelling culture would lead many to believe that rationing of apostrophes was at play, but this is far from the truth, according to a source.

"I went through the numbers and this is false," said Tom Laidl, an English professor from an unnamed university" it is...no, wait it's false," he corrected himself excitedly and as if struck by a sudden bout of grammar Turrett's Syndrome, he repeated " it's it's it's, not you are, you're! ha!"

The perceived shortage is believed to have been started by the same rogue group of language anarchists that fought to have "z" become more popular in the English language by its inclusion in plural forms of nouns, such as skillz,girlz and others. The same group has also popularized the letter "k" by substituting it for the letter c in words such as kool.

"I am not sure who started it, but sometime at around the time when text messaging took over for honest letter-writing,I began to notice a pattern of sentences that made very little to no sense," the professor continued upon settling down from his excitable performance earlier.
He quoted examples such as "youre great," "its great to see you" or their going to be there."

"The pattern was fascinating. Some people would rather use a completely made up word or an incorrect one rather that risk using up their precious apostrophes," Laidl said.
He continued to explain that the anarchist grammar group was found to have been also responsible for giving the word "of" a little more of a starring role in the language by frequently inserting it in place of "have" in circumstances, such as "I would of been there."

Upon finding out that the apostrophe shortage was faux, many frolicked in the streets, happily shouting out possessives at random as if struck by lightning. Sadly, soon after the announcement was made public, many began inserting an apostrophe left, right and centre. Much to Laidl's chagrin and the anarchy group's jocularity, it wasn't long before "it's" became a possessive.

"They'll get over it," he concluded while he sobbed quietly into his first edition Marriam Webster Dictionary.

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