Category Archives: Not your average writing

Randy Boswell, CanWest News Service

Canada geese are routinely targeted the world over (their namesake nation included) for abatement or culling by frustrated municipal officials and wildlife authorities, who try everything — barking dog teams, egg-addling birth-control blitzes, bitter-tasting “goose-be-gone” grass spray, even buckshot — to rid themselves of the nuisance.

All of which makes the extraordinary efforts in Britain to save the life of a single, conspicuously wounded Canada goose so remarkable.

The heart-rending saga has gone on for nearly four months, since the residents of Northampton first caught sight of a handsome gander swimming in a pond with a mate at its side — and a poacher’s arrow sunk straight through its chest.

To the general amazement of a would-be animal rescue unit — which, despite numerous attempts, has been unable to capture the bird and give it veterinary care — the goose has survived not only the initial piercing of its breast but also the infections that must surely have taken hold at times during the ordeal.

Yet it lives, a testament to the hardiness of the creature and the twist of fate that has all of Britain pulling for this one pitiable bird even as it casually curses the species in general.

“I have no idea how it has survived,” Roy Marriott, the bird’s chief pursuer, told CanWest News Service on Wednesday. “The arrow has obviously missed all the vital organs and somehow gone through muscle.”

This week, Marriott and other volunteers from the charitable group Animals in Need will try again to gently snare the injured goose, last seen a few days ago in a city pond with the arrow lodged just below its neck but now bent at an awkward angle, presumably causing even more trouble and soreness.

The crooked arrow is likely causing the bird “a bit of pain,” Marriott said, but he added that at the latest sighting the goose “was still swimming around with its mate and protecting her against the swans — he’s obviously still getting around all right and seems to be doing fine.”

Officials with the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals have advised Marriott’s group that if the goose is captured, the arrow should be trimmed rather than pulled out.

“It’s been in him now for so long,” he said. “So we’re not going to try to remove it because more infections could take place with it out.”

Marriott said: “I can’t understand the mentality of anybody firing [an arrow] at an animal like that.”

© The Vancouver Sun 2007

After being inspired by Da Koch’s blog about “the spiritual gift of flossing,” I have started to floss daily. After reading how satisfying it was for her, her words somehow stuck to my brain, and I wanted that squeaky-clean-mouth feeling and pride of hygenic discipline for myself.  I was tired of making excuses not to.

For the first-time routine flosser (well, it’s not the first time, but it’s been a long time!),  it’s kind of like that feeling when you’re a kid with a loose tooth and it feels really good to wiggle the shit out of it. My virgin gums bleed each night as the wiry, taut string penetrates. I also enjoy how clean my teeth feel each day; there are no leftover grits and they feel super smooth, almost like I just got back from the dentist. Now I notice when there is the slightest bit of food stuck between them and I want to floss right away. But I won’t. I’ll wait until tonight. 

Apparently flossing can become a serious addiction. According to The Bouncing Molar, “When you start flossing instead of eating, doing your job, while you’re holding the steering wheel of your semi-trailer, it could become a problem.

Flossing addiction has lead to many a marriage breakup and can even in severe cases lead to death (usually from starvation). A 30-year-old woman was found dead with her cats in an apartment with a piece of floss in between her teeth and fingers. It is suspected that it was a flossing addiction that lead to this fateful end.

I suggest joining Flossaholics Anonymous; they have a great support network. Just remember, the first stage to recovery is recognizing you have a problem and that it can be fixed.” 

Who knew FA existed?

So, like every habit/drug/pleasure in life, moderation is key. After three days of getting between the teeth, I started to get obsessed with my plaque. I wondered, should you do it before or after brushing? Like every question I have about life in general,  I Googled it. I am realizing that almost everything can be answered on Google – how wonderful and how sad. The modern era of library halls remain empty, their shelves holding the Encyclopedia Britannicas lay dusty.  But I obviously don’t care. I’m not gonna travel fifty-blocks when I can look it up in seconds free of charge. The results of the floss question were fifty-fifty. Some people say to floss before brushing as brushing will remove the plaque and gunk that gets pushed out  from the floss once and for all.  Some say to floss after brushing as it’s better to get rid of the big stuff first and then get at the little stuff left over, and also that brushing first  loosens up what’s in between the chompers at hand. 

Then I found some articles saying dentists and periodonists say it doesn’t matter, as long as you do it. And not to overbrush, as too much brushing erodes the teeth and can lead to tooth decay.

So, if I haven’t already bored you to death about the mundane routines of good oral hygiene, especially for those of you who actually practice it, let me try to impress you with the proper technique, thanks to Google and copy and paste :

Floss Time

       Tear off about 10 to 12 cm of dental floss and wrap it around your middle or forefinger of each hand. Gently work it back and forth between two teeth till it slides past the tight spot. Be careful not to be too rough or your may slice your gum. Next, wrap the floss around your tooth and scrape it up and down. This removes stubborn plaque and polishes the surface. Repeat the process on each tooth till they are well and truly flossed. Rinse your mouth. You could brush your teeth before or after flossing, it does not matter. Some people prefer flossing first and then brushing the loose ends away. 

Bill Clinton, Al Gore, and George W. Bush went to a fitness spa for some fun. After a stimulating, healthy lunch, all three decided to visit the men’s room and they found a strange-looking gent sitting at the entrance.

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I’m copying everyone else and changing my colours. Let’s see if anyone notices. Oh let’s.

I am so tired today. I spent the long weekend cleaning my apartment. I tackled my bedroom which hasn’t been dusted or vacuumed in about three years. Three years of full-time school and work leaves no time for such frivolity. I have hardwood floors, so the dust bunnies under my bed and in corners were black, big, and frightening – straight out of a housekeeper’s horror B-flick. I swear they had teeth – at least they did in my dreams that night as they floated towards me with a vengeance.  I won, armed with my vacuum hose. I had to change the bag halfway. Vacuuming under the bed, radiators, dressers and bookshelves is a work-out for a couch potato like me, reaching into far corners with my face pressed against the floor and ass high in the air – I know, housekeeper porn – it’s quality entertainment, really. My hair and downward excercises resembled Richard Simmon’s while dusting and sweating to the nineties. I feel justified calling it a work-out since my bedroom is huge and I’m cleaning up the dead skin cells and stray hairs from three living beings: me, my better half and the cat, the worst culprit. 

So the cleaning was done, and yesterday I walked for miles and then drank red wine, ate medium-rare grilled steak followed by freshly baked strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert, and tossed a frisbee on Spanish Banks Beach with some friends. Plus I chased and twirled a happy toddler. All uber-fun, but exhausting. Me and wine don’t mix. I love drinking it, the taste, the aroma, my lightheadedness and giddy grinning, but during the night, I always wake up with a headache, dizziness and nausea. And today, I am wiped. I am doing everything to stay awake and not do a faceplant on my monitor at work. I could sleep while walking down the street. I’m quite talented at doing those two things at once during broad daylight.

When I had a paper-route in my early and mid-teens, actually, let me rephrase that to the following:  When a paper route was forced upon me via slave labour by my father and The London Free Press (who generously doled out the slave wages), I would be so tired from getting up at 5 a.m. before school every morning, I would fall asleep while walking back home, the monotonous sound of the metal cart dragging behind me coaxing my heavy eyelids shut.  I found myself staggering onto the middle of the road, awakened by a honking car or someone yelling at me to get off the f*cking road. I would sheepishly make my way back to the sidewalk, only to find myself back on the road again minutes later.  I was eventually fired because I just couldn’t get the papers delivered by 7 a.m. sharp. Most of my customers were grateful to have their papers by 7:05, even 7:15, but the very last house on my route belonged to a disgruntled London Free Press employee who stood by his door glaring at his watch.  I was never so happy to lose a job. 

I’d be happy to lose this reception job, it is so boring, but I need the money. It is laid-back, super easy, but soooooooo painfully dull. Order processing, counting inventory, answering the phone, listening to my boss cough up and swallow mucus and the warehouse guy belch is no entertainment. They are sweet people, but love to hear themselves talk. 

I need a real job. I am tired of applying, working for hours on the perfectly-written cover-letter. I just graduated and so far I’ve received no responses, just dead quiet, the droning dial tone when I check for messages. My Fido voicemail is always saying, “I’ve got nothing to tell you!” in that perky voice. Some pet you are. You’re supposed to fetch when I say so! Fetch me those jobs! Fetch me the fancy title, higher wages and my name in print, you lazy dog!

In response to Little Biscuit Whore’s post  the other day about forgetting everything he learned in Wegnerd’s Communications class, I, too, seem to have forgotten everything from the entire program! Ever since the grad ceremony, it feels as if all the knowledge gained, both practical and creative, is seeping out of my pores as the seconds tick-tock onwards. That’s when it seemed to all happen. And that is why I promply registered for two courses after our final exams last semester, to keep my mind perky and grammatically sound. But, as soon as my security blanket of regular teachers and classmates vanished, so did my smarts. I feel like an alcoholic out of rehab. How fitting, since all we did was drink after each Thursday night class. 

I noticed the affliction last Friday when I was editing my Historical Fiction Creative Writing classmates’ character scenes. Feeling like the ever-so-clever-the freshly-graduated-writing student, I blissfully marked up with red pen the contraction  “it’s”, using the delete squiggle over top of the apostrophe. I did the opposite for possessive “its,” inserting a bright red caret with a glaring apostrophe over top of the humble little word. Then I started thinking: Is this correct? I had to be right, after all! I questioned my classmate, whom I doubted since she constantly told me her grammar sucked. She said I had it wrong. I Googled it. To my horror, she was right and I was wrong! The shame I felt  was nauseating as I hurriedly scribbled a straggly “Sorry!” in each margin of the papers I had violated.  

Then to get my character scene ripped to shreds in Creative Writing. I was sneakily trying to make a non-fiction piece into fiction, and in doing so, the genius that I am, I forgot to change my own name in the piece!  I must admit, I only worked on it the night before, completely lost as how to write a fictional character scene from scratch and trying to get away with passing off an older piece thinking, “This’ll do. This is old hat compared the shit I did in Wegnerd’s class!” Oh, the mockery of it all as eighteen-year-olds lacerated my delicate prose. Actually, it wasn’t that bad, I got an A – , but it is humbling and a little degenerative being in a class with people so much younger that are actually quite good writers.  I want to smack the pompous dude. He never shuts up and is way to picky in his criticisms, ripping everyone’s work to shreds, getting upset about italicizing thoughts and using phrases like “four blocks North” and “years later.”

Ah well, it’s all a learning process, and I’m gonna have to get used to not being in my comfy old shoes that I’ve been wearing over the past two-and-a-half years. It’s soothing to read my classmates’ blogs though. All my sense of worry and panic melts away when their affable voices share how they are feeling the same way, stumbling through the cacophonous job market and bad interviews, feeling awkward calling ourselves writers when people ask what we do.

Hopefully the brambly path ahead of us will clear as we find our way and we will stop dreaming of thong pies (see Meladuck) and eating our feet. Yes, I dreamt I was trying to save money by eating my feet. In the dream it made perfect sense as I knew they’d grow back, like picking leaves or flowers off a plant.