The wisdom of my wisdoms’ last hour

March 29, 2007

Later this morning I will allow a man to drug me and steal three of my most intimate possesions from right under my nose (literally!). I’ve dedicated a good bit of my body’s resources to growing these three (the fourth never materialized) “extra” teeth and I want them to know I’ve enjoyed our time together. I can’t help but question the “wisdom” of preventative extractions, but at least I have insurance. Charging $1200 for pain now to prevent potential pain later seems a little sketchy. But what do I know? I’m the crazy person letting someone wrench out the only “wisdom” I have at age twenty-four.


The golf/poker faceoff

March 15, 2007

We Ontario golfers are easy to spot during these last few weeks of winter. Whether in business meetings, elevators, or hibernating in the simulators at Golf Town, we all wear the same desperate look. Our eyes are glassy, our bodies limp. Even the collars of our polos droop. There is a remedy, but your wife’s not going to like it.  

Poker.

Last night I realized that poker and golf are almost literally the same game. Both take in overconfident suckers, chew them up, and…well, you know the rest. Each one makes you believe that the next hand, or next hole, will be the turning point that will save your round, or stack. You take a major gamble with both. In golf, you gamble on your lie, the wind, your technique. In poker, it’s your cards, your skill, and your mind reading skills. It’s an emotional roller-coaster ride whichever game you choose. 

My husband and I enjoy both, especially when we’re playing each other. Does that mean we’re both gamblers? Sure. We’ve known it all along. After all, we took a heck of a gamble getting married after only five months of knowing each other. Marriage can certainly be a roller-coaster, but when in doubt, we always split the pot!   


The Couch – Part Four

March 13, 2007

The Viking grunted and motioned Brad inside.

“Carly!” The man bellowed.

Brad ducked under the sonic boom. The Viking muttered something and pushed past Brad to get at whoever wasn’t answering him. He disappeared through a doorway at the end of the hall, leaving Brad alone in the living room.

Brad’s first impression was that there was only one piece of furniture in the room. It was certainly claiming the territory. All the other living room furniture was crowded against the opposite wall, huddled close together on the beige carpet. While under the front window, spreading out from wall to wall, and a good ways out into the room, was the ugliest couch Brad had ever seen. It had started out with a high back and pert arms, then, over the years, had bloated out in front of the TV. Its mallard head green velour had faded to a dull vomit colour. The back had slouched. The arms had sagged until it had finally given up and absorbed the stains deep into its foam. The couch was a hulking misery and Brad hated it instantly.

But he’d come this far already. The least he could do was try it out. He walked right up to the couch, turned round, and let himself fall backwards. The couch swallowed its victim. Brad sunk down, deeper and deeper into the velour, till he was sure his shoes were higher than his backside. A musty stink enveloped him. He nearly gagged when the last of his weight squeezed something sour out of the padding. This was so much worse than the bottomless velvet bucket seats of a 90’s cab. Brad groaned.

A door slammed. Two voices were screaming at each other in the kitchen. The Viking burst into the living room. He was livid.

“Then you deal with the &%^^$* couch!” He yelled back over his shoulder.

He was waving the half cruller over his head. His eyes squinted and fixed on Brad.

“What’re ya looking at?” He growled, and in one smooth major league move, wound up and lobbed the donut at Brad’s head.

Keep checking SavingCymbria for the next installment of “The Couch” – a serial short story


The Couch – Part Three

March 9, 2007

Less than two hours later, Brad was standing in front of a gray painted door at the address the girl had given him. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans for the hundredth time, took a last deep breath, and rang the bell.

It had stopped raining and a thin layer of ice was freezing over everything, giving the shabby bungalow a shimmering holiday gleam. Brad gleamed too. He’d showered and shaved off his latest attempt at a goatee. His short black hair was gelled to a peak on his forehead and he’d sprayed all the important areas, on Jason’s insistence, with Jason’s knock-off Calvin Klein body spray. Brad had even worked out what he was going to say to the girl on the bus ride over. He’d imagined her beautiful face in his mind, and it was already making him nervous.

The door swung open and Brad’s brain went blank. He was suddenly face to face with a Viking. The huge hairy man couldn’t have been much older than Brad, but raping and pillaging is always murder on the skin. His ribcage was a giant’s and his two dark eyes glared out at Brad from behind a fringe of shaggy red hair. Half a honey cruller was hanging out of his mouth.

“What do ya want?” growled the man. The cruller didn’t budge.

For 5 agonizing seconds, Brad had no memory of why he was all polished up and standing in this wild man’s doorway. The Viking’s eyes narrowed. It was enough of a threat to wake Brad up.

“Sorry,” said Brad. “I’m here about the couch.”

 Keep checking SavingCymbria for the next installment of “The Couch” – a serial short story 


Beware the robot suffragettes

March 6, 2007

The goblins inside my laptop were especially busy today. They plotted all afternoon while I worked. Then, after my last keystroke (which ironically happened to be the save button) they attacked. ~Page Error~ What do you do with a message like that? 

The closest comparison in human terms would be an emotional meltdown. If it was physical, you could still access the injury, maybe even fix it. The message would give a clue to the source of the pain. But page error? Error? It won’t even let me look at the code!!! 

My laptop has a fragile emotional inner being. When I offend it, which I often seem to(I suppose I’m the man in this analogy lol), it shuts down after telling me the equivalent of “if you really loved me, you’d know”. Well I don’t know! I’m not a darned technician!

If men and women still don’t understand each other after thousands of years, how long will it be before we can communicate with these machines we’ve programed. Don’t even get me started on Home Depot’s self-scan system! Humanity’s only hope is to keep technology subservient to us, if we want to have any say in the decisions that result from its calculations. Oh wait, oops, I just reasoned my way back to before the suffragettes. I thought I only lost an hour’s work this afternoon, and now I’ve gone and lost century’s!