Blogger status update: FREAKING OUT

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UPDATE:
Wallet has been found. Co-worker put it in a 'safe' place (aka on the top of a bulletin board). But that was after I already can canceled a credit card and went to the banks in town for new debit cards. Sigh. At least I don't have to arrange for another license, because that would have been tricky.

And to be fair, the co-worker wasn't in this morning, and thought it was a business-card case, not a wallet.

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I.
CAN'T.
FIND.
MY.
WALLET.

UGRAGHRAGHH!

I have NO idea where the bloody thing is at. I know I had it this week. I bought groceries at the Northern. But it's not in any of the usual places. I ransacked my house and desk. And. I. Can. Not. Find. It.

And my passport is expired.

FAAAAAAAAAAACK!

Ode to a laptop

Dear HP laptop:

I have to admit, I have grown fond of you. I took our relationship for granted all those months when things were good. We got along fine, we had some good times. I know. I remember them.

But then, I began to neglect you. You got dingy. You got dirty. And I wanted to spice up our relationship a bit. Give you a makeover, of sorts. I hear you clean up nice.

So I set to work. I used a q-tip to get between the fine crevices of your keyboard. I polished your screen till it shone like new. But try as I might, I couldn't rid you of that niggly little white hair (are you getting old laptop? I'm so sorry to hear that. I'll still love you when you're grey) underneath your space bar. You know, where the sun don't shine.

I was determined. Perhaps too much so, it seems. And my makeover vigor turned sour when my Extreme Dusting left you maimed. I didn't mean to snap off your space bar. It was an accident. Don't you believe me?

And I tried to make things better between us. I consulted experts who I hoped might take you in for counselling/repair. But they rejected you. I'm sorry for that. I took you to Mexico so you might enjoy the sunshine. But my efforts were in vain. You were broken. We, laptop. We were broken.

I had lost all hope. I really had. I thought our bond was irreparably broken.

Until now.

Because lo and behold, here you are again, safe in my arms. Keys intact. Screen glossy. Mousepad shiny. How glad I am to have you back on my knee. Keeping me warm in the cold northern evenings. Whispering sweet whirrings to me as you lay beside me at night.

How I've missed you, laptop. And I'm forever glad you've come back to me.

And I promise, next time you need a little “freshing up” I'll buy a container of compressed air. I can't bear to be apart again.

Love always,

Jackie

Dreams are a wish your heart makes?

I don't know, Cinderella.
Something's either wrong with YOU or wrong with ME.

I've been having some reallly trippy dreams as of late.

Saturday night, I dreamt I was back in Mexico. And for some reason decided I was going to go directly from Mexico to Athens. By myself. Mostly for the food. And I wasn't going to tell my coworkers/boss.

Okay. So, the food we had in Greece was fantastic. But I think we hit every single hot-spot in Athens when we were there. So why the hell was I going to Athens by myself? And I remember thinking that in the dream. I was like "Dream-self, why are you doing this? Why are you just running away to Greece for no apparent reason? You are just giving yourself a panic attack thinking about this, self. Don't do it." But dream-self didn't listen. And boarded a plane for Greece. And freaked out about not having told work she wasn't coming back on Monday. And real-self woke up all panic-y.

Then Sunday night, I had a continuation of the Greece dream. Dream-self was still going to Greece, but this time was freaking out NOT over the work thing... but some kind of electronic-security-blanket thing. Dream-self was all panic-y because when speed-packing for Greece, she didn't have her shiny, new GPS. And both real-and-dream-self have serious getting-lost issues. So we freaked out. And then we didn't have our new, shiny camera either. So we couldn't document anything.

And what's a dream-girl to do when she can't find her way OR take pictures of being lost?

She wakes up, and feels like an elephant is sitting on her chest.

Stupid reckless dream-self, messin' up my life.

Hate-choooooo

Markets and Mexican Mores

Nearly had a bit of a crisis today. And my nearly, I mean I did... but managed to get myself out of it with just a very minor loss. And a renewed faith in the goodness of people everywhere.

So I went to the neighbouring town, La Penita today. Every Thursday the town has a market with vendors hawking everything from silver jewellery to donuts to sombreros. I had put off buying much of anything until today because I wanted to see what the grand selection was before settling on one single item.

I took a shuttle there, and a good chunk o' money was spent. I left with many shiny things and some cozy things and a couple pretty sculpture things.

I even "haggled" a bit, but not in the way I think of haggling. For me, it just means striking up a conversation and only paying what I can afford... and getting a discount for "pretty blue eyes." LOL. Those vendors really know how to flatter a lady :)

When I decided to leave, I meandered my way up the main street, snapping photos as I went. I reached the public bus back to Rincon de Guaybitos, and fumbled for my bus fare while stepping on the toes of a surly Mexican woman... before cramming myself in with the rest of my fellow bus riders.

It was a quick 10 minute ride back, and pretty uneventful... up until I reached the lobby of my resort and realized I was down a bag.

No, not the bag with the colourful Mexican blankets.

Not the bag with my pretty sculptures.

But the bag I brought WITH me to the market... yep, my purse.

A;LKDJFLAJDFOIAJSDLFKJASDKLJL *aka* ugragh!!!!

Luckily, I had PURPOSEFULLY emptied my wallet of all ID, credit cards, bank cards, valuable documents/passport when I first arrived... anticipating some sort of worst-case-scenario. I stored them in my room's safe. So all that was in my purse after the market were 1 bank card, 1 credit card, my keys and 100 pesos (aka 10 dollars).

So that was good...

Except for the keys part. My room keys and safe keys were also in my purse. NOT good. That meant if the person who found my purse was sneaky they could break into my room (has the room number engraved into it) and get into my safe.

So I talk to reception, they go into crisis management mode, calling the bus company... and I sit outside on the street curb waiting for the bus to make its way back.

After an hour, and enlisting a bellboy's help to speak with the bus drivers... and many false alarms later... I finally *think* I see the bus I took... climb aboard, make the international sign for "sad pathetic tourist who forgot her purse" ... and the unilingual-spanish driver points to the corner of the bus... where my PURSE LIES.

Yep, unreal.

I rifle through it; credit card, bank card keys and water bottle are all intact. My 100 pesos was missing, but I didn't care. As far as I was concerned I was going to give it as a reward anyways... so whoever turned it in just helped themselves. The bellboy says he thinks the bus driver took it, because he said something along the lines of "I don't know if the money is still in there..." which is kind of shady, but frankly I don't care.

It seems I dodged yet another bullet (I once actually left my passport and travellers cheques in a Marks and Spencer change room when I was in Colchester, England... and they came back to me in perfect shape), and I'm reminded how people really are inherently good. Oh, and how lucky I am.

Oh, Meh-hee-co, mi amore....

Bloggers unite! (and then tie-one-on?)

Once upon a time, many moons ago, I used to have a running tally/casual competition with a fellow blogger/friend re: how many of the Nunavut bloggers we had met in person/"knew" (and by "knew" I mean... outside the Facebook/blogspot domain).

At the time I think my tally was... five? Maybe six? Not many. And most were unintentional... and either through work or my month-long-stay in Iqaluit.

Well, all that's about to change.

Tonite, is the inaugural "Name of Town Withheld" blogging symposium. It is to be held at one of the finest establishments NTW (also known as YK) has to offer... complete with food NOT from the Co-op Inns North (where your food is guaranteed to be over-salted and under-cooked)... AND BEVVIES WITH DINNER!

For those who have never been to Rankin, there's something you should know: we don't have any bars or restaurants that serve alcohol in town. We have the legion that is (sometimes) open on Friday nights, but beyond that you have to supply your own liquids (and not from a normal liquor store either, you have to order over the phone or in person from Churchill or Iqaluit).

Now I'm not a CRAZY HUGE drinker, but sometimes a girl just wants a pretty drink. Or a mojito. Or an icy brewski. Mmmm or a daiquiri.

Okay, I'm getting a little carried away here, I'll have plenty of time for that (and more) in MEXICO, but I'm really crazy pumped for our blogging dinner.

Can't wait to meetchas all!!

And also, I may or may not have decided that Megan is the grown-up version of me. I hope you're not weirded out by this (*creepy creepy creepy* - you have to say that in a sinister voice, while drumming your fingers on your lips, all creepy-like. Just so you know) but that's the truth.

So yah, because the older version of me won the NWT BLOGGING AWARD FOR BEST BLOG... you obviously should go VOTE FOR YOUR FAVOURITE NUNAVUT BLOG, HERE!

**Finally, not sure how much internet access I'll have in Mexico. I'm trying to avoid taking my laptop etc. so I've set up some random posts and if I have internet I'm sure I'll be able to find something to write about**

:(

My favourite pants are about 5 wears (maybe less) from being dead.

Not even my tried-and-true crotch-patches (you know, those little iron-on thingies that patch holes) can save them this time.

I'm sad. Now what will I wear when I roll out of bed at 7:00 to go to work to do an interview at 7:30, and then nap for an hour before work REALLY starts?

Geeez guys...

Let meeee call myyyy girrrrlfriend in peace!



Has anyyyone seeeen my reetaiiiner?



I'm the preeesident of the A-V club *snicker*


(When reading this, insert voice of Neil Goldman from Family guy)

Grumpy (under)pants

Okay I am giving you fair warning.

If you don't want to read a post about women's underwear GO TO ANOTHER BLOG - haha. You can come back later (like try the evening) there will probably be another post in this one's place by then.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I've had the phrase "grumpy pants" in my head all day... and to be fair... probably the better part of this week.

Why? I blame Fawn. Fawn's blog is one I just started reading (following a nice comment she made on a bad-day-post on MY blog) and I heart it. She makes me laugh, and has a great attitude about life, even if things aren't going super smooth.

Anyways, a couple weeks ago she wrote a post called Grumpy Pants. Since then, there's been alot of healthy encouragement going on for Fawn to live her life in yoga pants, because she's VERY preggers and they are the comfiest.

I am a full-on believer of comfort. To a disturbing degree at times. In first year university I developed a nickname had "no-pants" tagged onto the end. Everytime someone knocked on my dorm-room door, my response was "hold on, I have to put on pants."

Now, I've grown up since then. I generally wear pants around the house. But I have a no-zipper-when-at-home-wearing-pants-rule because hey, this is my castle, and comfort reigns.

So we get that comfort is very important. And we get that maybe I had a grumpy day today. But I think I've figured out why. It's cuz I've not done laundry in a week or so, and I'm down to the reject underwear.

Come on, you know you have it. Or maybe it's reject socks, or reject jeans or all of the above. But every week or two if I let laundry go too long, I look in my top left hand drawer and see the dregs of my underwear drawer.... and I know it's going to be a bad day.

If I'm not happy with my underwear, I'm in a grumpy mood all day. You should not, I repeat NOT, spend your day thinking about your underwear and how much you hate them. You should not even THINK about your underwear. That is just the way life should be.

But that wasn't the case today. I'm hurting for laundry, I'm into the reject underwear (I don't even KNOW when I last saw a sock... I've been wearing sandals/clogs for the past week... the last person in Rankin to wear bare feet) and it's totally affecting my mood.

The easy solution (BESIDES doing laundry - I hate laundry haha) is to just stock up. So it takes longer to get to the much-neglected bottom-of-the-drawer ones. But it's FRICKIN' hard to buy underwear online. And the last thing I want to do when I go down south is hit La Senza (I HATE that place, but that's another post).

So I guess I'll just have to start doing laundry, or become a seamstress and make all my knickers by hand lol.

Okay, you can open your eyes now. I'm done talking about underwear.


PANTIES! (gotcha!)

Mortified

I just gave this guy a "double thumbs-up.
Not just one. Two. At the same time.
Like the fonz.
How embarassing.

Willkommen!

Yes, that's German for welcome... or maybe hello... I really don't know at this point... or care...

Now if you've been paying close attention, you may be a bit confused. At no point in our planned itinerary were we to stop in Germany. Rather, it's (hopefully) the last leg of Murphy-kicking-us-in-the-ass-Law.

So everything was going smoothly, no delays... we're cruising down the Van Wyck... waving to Shea stadium etc. We arrive at JFK, head to the Olympic Airlines counter (not actually planning to check in, we still had 6 hrs before our flight was to leave) and findout that our flight's been delayed an additional 4 hours... meaning we wouldn't be able to catch the cruise out of Athens.

So a bunch of Amazing-race-esque running around later... phone calls to our travel insurance folkies... hooking up the laptop to scope out the best flight, best price... and hopefully leaving in the next 3 hours.

We settle on Berlin Air. We have to get from Terminal 1 to Terminal 4... and an hour and a bit before our flight was to leave. Taxis refuse to take us (you have to go the "official" route, through a taxi-organizer I guess... we were trying to flag one down) ... Finallyl we check in... we're the last ones (they have already taken down the Berlin Air signs.... are dismantling the lineup posts etc)... and the kind lady marks our tickets as 'special'. Talk about special treatment.

Heh.

Special alright... turns out it meant we had been "randomly" selected to go through an intense search of self and carry-ons at security. Somehow along the way, the security nimrods managed to lose Jeff's boarding pass... and we're told to go on without it... by the time we finally get to the Berlin Air gate, they think we are totally useless Canuks, no boarding pass, running for the plane etc.

Seven hours later, we arrive in glorious Dusseldorf... and they've lost our bags. The next hour or so is spent trying to overcome a significant language barrier... and somehow arrange to *maybe* get our bags sent to Athens for after we return from the cruise... but they may have to be sent to Rankin. Who knows.

I came out of it okay, I packed really light and had checked an almost-empty duffel... just had all my liquids/tolitries etc. Jeff on the other hand ... well now needs to powershop for an entire 10-day trip to Greece... in under 2 hours.

Somewhat of a fiasco... but tonite we'll be on a boat... and hopefully will begin the relaxing part of this vacation. We could really use it.

Technical difficulties

Or....

Murphy's Law of Hosting.

I hosted the english half-hour of the afternoon show today.

My CBC debut of hosting. The job I have said I want to end up doing... assuming I have some degree of control over content and chasing stories I want to do.

How did it go?

The words "crash and burn" come to mind.

Ok, maybe that's a bit harsh. I did a pretty good job, I can acknowledge that. On the actual HOSTING bit? I can say I felt comfortable.

On the TECHNICAL BIT? Not so much.

The unique thing about our afternoon show out of Rankin Inlet is that there's no tech working the show with you. The host is in charge of pushing all the buttons, lining up the show on the computer and introducing it all. All while sounding relatively calm.

Me? Well, let's just say I had no clue what buttons I was supposed to push until 3 minutes before my intro. Seriously. (The whole affair was pretty spur-of-the-moment, but this one element made it particularly tricky).

I still didn't exactly understand what I was doing until right before my first item (after I played a song I loooove - - total control over song choice = best part of hosting). So the first... um... 15 minutes went pretty smooth. And then for some reason a sting (read: radio-speak for instrumental music used in-between items/stories/weather etc.) played when the item was supposed to. But I realized what happened right away, and reflex-pushed the button to stop it, then there was DEAD AIR.

Even when I was a wee child watching Full House I knew that DEAD AIR = BAD NEWS. It might as well be the cardinal sin of radio.

So DEAD AIR for probably 15 seconds? (I'm not really sure, it was long enough for me to start freaking out and clicking rapidly on the item I WANTED to play...)

I finally fixed it, and pressed the right button as 2 of my colleagues rushed into the studio, scared looks on their faces. Mine mirrored theirs.

During the next item (man it sounds like we have the longest show going... but we don't... it's only 30 minutes...but it felt like the shortest lifetime ever... if that makes any sense), our local producer said I had a wonderful voice for hosting, and we talked about how I really wanted to get back to my current affairs roots etc. It was great. She doesn't hand out praise very liberally, so it meant a lot to me.

Somehow we ended up losing about 2 minutes (doesn't sound like much, but makes all the difference in the world)... and I forgot to press the button that activates the theme (you are supposed to press it at 16:57:22) ... so co-worker came back in all a flutter asking if I remembered to start the theme (it runs UNDER the items at zero volume until the host is done saying the good-byes) and of course I didn't and then she worked some magic... and fixed it. The last item ended, we had 45 seconds to spare...

I started the extro... the signoff....

AND RAN INTO THE WALL.

How. Embarassing.

Again for you non-radio folks... the way the shows work is on every hour (and sometimes half-hour) there is a "wall" - it means your program is hijacked by regional or national HQ, for some sort of news. You cannot void the wall. You try to A-void the wall (ha-ha).

I did not manage to do that.

I ran head-first into it.

So between dead air, and running into the wall... and misplacing my pronouncer for one of the organizations two of the six times I had to say their name...

It wasn't exactly my finest moment in radio history.

I swear, if it wasn't for having to tech myself, I would have done much better. My reading was almost spot-on... and I enjoyed myself.

I guess it's just one of those things people will dig out of the archives to play at my humiliation when I'm rich and famous :P

The epic mozza battle

I don't know what it is lately, but I think I've reverted to my five-year-old self.

You know, where you want one food, and only one food, and it doesn't matter what you have in the rest of your fridge/cupboad... all you want is to take a mustard sandwich to school, point finale. (For the record, I never ate mustard sandwiches, but a kid in my sister's class did, and has become famous for it).

Now there's a bit of a flaw in that paragraph... my parents say I wasn't a picky eater... and that's lasted into adulthood...

But here I am, with the eating habits of someone else's five-year-old self.

Last week it was toast. Toast and raspberry jam.

The week before it was potatoes. With all the toppings.

I think before then it was fish-burgers... and long before that was pepperoni pizza (thank god that one's over, it was getting expensive!)

Now it's mozza sticks.

It all started a week or so ago, when I went out to dinner with two friends of mine, and one ordered the mozza sticks as an appetizer. I nearly died. They were the most delicious mozza sticks of my very short life. I somehow managed to only devour two. They weren't mine after all. Then I had a brainstorm.

Frozen mozza sticks. From the Northern. Yummie, right?

NO. NOT YUMMIE. They were squishy, bland, and the colour was all wrong*. The "batter" was yellow, not crispy golden brown. It was beyond disappointing.

So Friday, after working a bit later than usual ... I decided to treat myself. Go to the Wolf and get take-out mozza sticks. You know, return to my roots, yo.

Cost for 6 mozza sticks? 17 bucks. That's right. 17 bucks.

I sincerely hope there was some kind of mixup. That I was charged for the ENTREE of mozza sticks rather than the APPETIZER... but I didn't say anything. I had tunnel vision. Inside that little rhombus Styrofoam temple was my dream-mozza sticks. And a piddly thing like cash wasn't going to stop me from chowing down.

Since then, I've come to my senses. There is no way I'm going to let some fried cheese put me in the poor house. So I've decided instead to make my own. I will be the "mozza-stick woman" in Rankin Inlet. I'll give them out as Halloween candy. They will make their way into Christmas stockings. Into plastic Easter eggs.

It will be divine.

To be continued (quite possibly later tonite after the first batch is made...)

*PS, to Tina, these sad, wilty mozza sticks were actually made by those same eegits who make the jalapeño poppers. Why did I even bother?

Fierce Invalid

So, I'm feeling a lot less schmoopy about my newfound disability. I'm not going to lie, hobbling around my apartment is no easy task. And the puppy is really hard to take care of (we were doing SO WELL with the total house training - - he had been going on puppy pads up to this point because it was so cold out). A good routine was established... and now that's all gone to shit.

I don't really own any "convenience food" - so I have been making giant batches of potatoes and then microwaving them as the need arises.

But boy came over last night, and suddenly my life doesn't feel so shatty. Made me dinner (whoohoo fishburgers) and cleaned up my kitchen. I nearly died of happiness.

And I've finally found some adaptive ways of dealing with my gimpy foot... At one point I was using my desk chair as a wheelchair in my kitchen/bathroom/dining room area... aka the cushioned floor section (a good half ... if not more of my apartment) but then as I was scooting over the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room one of the wheels snapped off. So that is no longer an option...

But I've figured out how to bring a plate to the table from the kitchen (only use one crutch, and hold it in the other hand). And I always wear hoodies - - that little pouch can carry everything from bottles of water to snacks... to dirty dishes. And the hood is the perfect little place to put DVDs while I make the trek from the living room to my bed...

I hate crutches, but they are better than crawling around the apartment, but my left butt muscle is totally going to take over my body by the end of this. It's getting a major workout. And I'm going to have some killer armpit muscles too.

I am trying to make the best of this. I'm not really stir crazy yet, it's only been 2 days... but I think I may be going insane. Boy and I were watching TV last night and I found myself jealous of this guy stepping out of a car... and every woman wearing high heels. Haha, like YOU DON'T KNOW HOW GOOD YOU HAVE IT TV-LAND PEOPLE! I was even jealous of House because at least he could hobble better than I... but then his missing leg-muscle is slightly more chronic than my piddly ankle.

All in all... I'm watching a lot of episodes of Arrested Development, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and Bones. When I take the T3's I was given I tend to drift in and out of consciousness haha... ah well. I'm making pizza from scratch today... with the world's best home-made pizza dough. So that's a bit of normalcy. But to be honest, I can't wait to have my foot back. Life will be so much easier.

Monday's the big day: that's when I go in again to have more x-rays and find out what the situation really is. The swelling was too bad on Thursday.

Murphy's law of klutziness

I don't know what's gotten into me as of late... but I think I may have caught some sort of klutz-virus. It's getting out of control. I seriously need to seek professional help.

I think it all started back on Christmas vacay, when Danielle (sister) showed me this You Tube sketch of Dane Cook imitating when girls leave the car after a date... and how they have the distinct inability to find the car door handle to let themselves out...

Well ever since I saw that, I've noticed I do the exact same thing. NOT when on a date, but ANY TIME I AM LEAVING A CAR. It's mortifying. And my reaction is always the same, to laugh and make fun of myself. And then to bat playfully at the handle, do a little pathetic "wwhaaaat" and generally look like an ass.

Sometimes I can't even FIND the handle. And I have to turn my head sideways, and look for it. As though I'm reaaaaalllly painfully far-sighted.

BUT SERIOUSLY.

Why is it so hard to get out of the passenger side of a car??

Then there was the other day when the town's fire chief came into work with a guy that's doing army recruitment. I casually know the fire chief. And I get up to shake the army fellow's hand and IN THE PROCESS DUMP MY ENTIRE GLASS OF WATER ALL OVER MYSELF AND MY DESK. So smooth. I try to make a joke of it... saying something like "Hi, I'm Jackie, and I'm very smooth" but I think I just came off flustered... which I was... but not because of the army guy, but because I was standing there with WET PANTS.

Then TODAY I went to the Sugar Rush for lunch. And got myself a bottle of cranberry juice... sat down while my lasagna was being heated up... and went for the latest issue of WIRED. Of course, it was in that plastic magazine-wrap, which as I tried to open it, the magazine escaped from my hands...

JUICE EVERYWHERE. Red juice EVERYWHERE. So I ask the girl at the cash if she has a cloth I can use to wipe it up (off myself, the table, the chair, the floor...) and as I go to the washroom to wring out the cloth, I notice, there is army boy again, front and centre as witness to my humiliation. Again.

Oh no, that's not all though. As I return from the washroom, paper towels and clean cloth in hand... I bend down to sop up the juice that had made its way to the floor and MY PANTS SPLIT RIGHT UP THE ASS.

Yes. I kid you not.

Luckily they were just wind pants that I had put on over my jeans... because I don't know what I would have done if it were my lime green underwear on display...

But that riiiipp noise just about killed me.

I swear I hope this wave of killer klutziness wears off. Because it's getting old. Though, it has given me something to write about on the blog :P

Fatal flaws

Ok. So you have all been very kind by not calling me out on my latest blunder.

Except for Jaime.

She totally ridiculed me. :P

Apparently, I'm not actually knowledgeable about sandwiches. I'm "a french 'commons' in Picardie" about sandwiches.

Which is kind of interesting... seeing as Picardie is actually quite close to where I lived in France. Well maybe not CLOSE, but it's not across the country.

I am obviously not a perfect person. I don't even pretend to be. I have my flaws, am generally accepting of them. But sometimes... I just know they will be the death of me.

Like I can see, some day, I'll be in some sadistic spelling bee.

And I'll be told "spell diphtheria or die."

And that will be the end. It really will.

Vocal woes

I, for some strange reason, got the notion to start reading out loud from the french wikipedia's entry on Pas-de-Calais.

I then moved on to the bald eagle.

Now my throat hurts, because I'm pretty sure I've not exercised my "french r" sound for several months.

Initially Sully was intrigued by the strange noises coming out of my mouth. But then decided he didn't like them, and started barking at me to stop. Literally.

Being as it is 3 am (espresso at 9pm was NOT a good idea) and his barking is not likely to be appreciated -- and my throat is sore from saying all those unfamiliar vowel sounds-- I have given up my french-speaking for the evening/morning.

Maybe tomorrow I'll start reciting the Green Gables french "house talk" (parkie slang for guided tour)...

"Bonjour, et bienvenu a la maison de pignons vertes... partie de la parc nationale d'ile du prince edouard..."

One picture. One million tantalized tastebuds

A brand new low...

Well I certainly created a bit of a splash in my first full day in Rankin. I really wish I had a theme song for my "Jackie antics" entries. They seem to be getting more and more frequent. Scary.

So, I was loaned the CBC vehicle last night, so I could do any grocery shopping etc. I needed to do... as well the guy that was supposed to take it home went home early, and left it with me.

I was thrilled, because that meant that Jaime and I could go on a driving tour of Rankin... rather than a walking, shivering tour of Rankin.

So to kill time, and to pick up a few things before I picked her up... I headed to the Northern (and apparently parked in the "for sale vehicles" area... oops!) I waste a sufficient amount of time, and head back out to my car.... and somehow set off the car alarm.... AND I CAN'T TURN IT OFF. So after about ten minutes of trying to turn it off... I give in, and call my producer. She drives down to help me out. She can't stop the alarm either. Then three kids ask me if I'm robbing my own car. Actually, it went more like this:

Kid: "Is there a robber?"
Me: "No, *engaging smile* I just set of the alarm by mistake"
Kid (to friends): She's robbing the car.

Ye-ah.

THEN. My producer and I jump in her car, head to CBC tech guy's place, because he knows how to fix it. He tells her. We try it. No dice.

By this time it is at least 20 minutes after I said I was going to meet Jaime.

THEN producer leaves me in the car, (to sit totally awkwardly, and freezing-ly in the screaming vehicle) to go get tech guy. Twenty minutes pass. No producer. No tech guy. Turns out in this time, he came, and tried to find me, but because I was parked in the "for sale" parking lot, thought all was fine.

FINALLY, I am rescued, and he drops me off at home, and then takes me to Jaime's place. A good hour after I said I was going to be there.

Or so I thought.

Turns out I'm an idiot... and got the wrong building, but decided I didn't need my wallet to go to Jaime's so I have NO MONEY. So I walk BACK to the Northern. And call 411. Ok I have her number. Can I remember my calling card number? Not a chance. Solution?

BEG FOR MONEY AT THE NORTHERN. That's right. I had to scam a quarter off a 12-year old in the Northern. How low can you go?

Anyways, I finally got there, had some fan-freakin-tastic cheese pizza... some classic "Beauty and the Geek" and broke out the Wii. I'm no longer a Wii-virgin. And now I want one. Blame Jaime.

Oh, and now I'm not allowed to take the car home for awhile. I think they are worried I might set it off in the middle of the night, and they don't want me to wake them up haha.

all clear

PHEUF.
That was getting a little embarrassing.
I kept pressing buttons and my phone would make loud noises. Loud embarrassing noises.
But it's over now.
Oh little "thatch" button. How I heart you.

three-minute update

I have turned the "radio" on my phone, and I don't know how to turn it off.
The only way I can get it to shut up is to take it off the cradle and put it on "intercom"
ugggggg