Facebook, and its revolving door of renovations

Although there is no stopping them from updating the website, they could try setting a schedule to coincide with these upgrades. I have no problem with a newer, refurbished, Facebook but non-stop changes to the user interface is just harassment. Especially in the realm of social media when there is a new networking site being born every minute. I can never catch a break, it seems. My inbox is flooded, daily, with invites to new websites where I will ‘connect with professionals’ or ‘join an extensive talent network.’ Will there ever be an end to this madness? Undoubtedly, the answer is no.

 

Call me a social media junkie, cause that’s what I am.

Through and through.

 

I basically wake up, sign on. This has been my daily ritual for as many years as I can remember there being the internet. The only variance in the process has been the websites I log into, as they blossom and wilt away into cyberspace – as if they were never there. I breathe technology. I fear the day it speeds past me in its race to perfection, leaving me dazed and confused in its dusty clouds. I can never become technologically incompatible, I will not. That is probably why I spend so much time on the computer. Or my BlackBerry, or my other smart phone. As I said, I’m addicted to social media (and, of course, technology).

Anyway, cutting to the chase. It seems as though it’s every other day that one logs into Facebook only for it to have changed, or been altered in some way. What motivates them to do this? I understand the need to improve, and I comprehend the need for evolution – but why don’t they try implementing these changes every other month. Or every three months for that matter. That would make all the difference. A schedule, a routine. I’m all for change, but I’d like a pretty press release updating me of future changes. I do not think it is too much to ask.

(Thanks Kash)

Messy shananigans

Getting drunk is, let’s say, a rite of passage of sorts.

Albeit, getting really drunk is, well, a certain skill possessed by an exclusive few.

I have never been a big drinker. Always the last one to take a shot (grudgingly), usually the one who passes off their drink – encouraging others to drink up so they forget I’m not really drinking. Of course, there is the odd time I will indulge myself in the bliss that is drunkdome.

This past weekend, while at the cottage (on an island with 11 people, 6 d0gs), I witnessed yet another testament as to why I never drown myself in the bottle. I have written the account from my perspective, we will call the central character Drunk Girl.

I have kept it all in one paragraph to create a better sense of setting and non-stop read, enjoy.

 

She had just pounded a 40 ouncer of whiskey with her best friend in the kitchen, shot for shot. Our friend is a true drinker, just feeds ’em to you – there was no escape for Drunk Girl. She was getting “the spins” so she lay down in the living room, on the bed, wanting nothing but stillness and calm. Little did she remember we were on the island not only with 9 other people, but with 6 dogs. One thing pet magazines do not warn you of is allowing your dogs to drink lake water. Typically, if your pet is properly vaccinated it would pose no fatal harm. That is not to say there aren’t other symptoms resultant of drinking lake water…Such as diarrhea. Generally the dogs spent much of their day outside, but this night there were 4 all together in the living room. One of which, who we still are not certain, decided to squat and relieve themselves on the shag carpet. Of course, having been drinking lake water, the pile was a large, mushy excrement – with an odour that would bring you to your knees. Drunk Girl, was roused by our friend who wanted her to rejoin her in the kitchen for more drinking. She tried to sit up, fell back down. Sat back up, fell down. Started getting up, fell off the bed. Tried standing up, fell back over. Tried standing up again, back to the ground. Braced a nearby corner table in attempts to steady herself, fell back down. I then thought it would be funny to propose for her to clean the pile of poo. She surprisingly agreed. Obviously, she had no clue what I was asking her to do. Yet still she has agreed, so I set her to the task. This was a bad idea on my part. I should have thought ahead, should have pondered potential results. Not to mention, it took me a good few minutes of coaxing to actually commit her to cleaning it. Alas, she got to it. Remember – this is the same Drunk Girl who was minutes prior been falling over repeatedly. To my amazement she got about 70% of the mess disposed of in her few seconds of success, and then she lost her balance – falling into the pile. She must have had a horseshoe up her fanny because she only managed to get shit on the palm of her hand. So I’m sitting there, watching her laughing, and she finally notices what’s on her hand. Her moment of acknowledgement was hilarious. She then lost her balance again, getting some on a nearby sleeping bag. Crouching there fighting a fit of drunken giggles she grazed her hair while steadying herself, with the poo-hand. I said to her, “you’ve just got poo in your hair!” She reached back – and touched it again! I couldn’t help but be overcome by a fit of laughter. Eventually she stumbled to the bathroom and cleaned herself up, then came back to the room with a drink in hand. The next morning she had not a single memory of this whatsoever.

 

This is why I love my friends, this is [also] why I do not get inebriated too often.

 

 

 

 

 

When Dali just doesn’t cut it anymore…

Surrealism has always been an obsession of mine. Kindled first by the wondrous works of Salvador Dalí during my teenage years, I became profoundly inspired by surrealist works. They speak to imagination, mutating reality and morphing perceptions. I have collected an array of surreal photographs below for your enjoyment. May they inspire you when even the foggiest of doubt may haze your mind.

 

Perhaps it is the transgression of normality that draws me to surrealism. It is metamorphosis of the mind. Ideas flowing into one another providing a result that is both stimulating and confusing at the same time.

My first venture into surrealist literature began with a Canadian author, Yann Martel, who wrote the Life of Pi. It is no wonder as to why this novel won much praise (and the Booker Prize). Martel wrote a fascinating account of a boy stranded on a boat in the Pacific Ocean following a shipwreck with a hyena, wounded zebra, orangutan and a bengal tiger. It truly tingles your mind as you unravel the twists and turns that mould into the plot seamlessly.

Surrealism is the materialisation of imagination.

It has no bounds.

No restraints.

 

 

I apologise for not crediting any photographers whose stills I may have used, feel free to contact me with your specs (and proof of ownership) and I will gladly link to your site.

Had to reblog this…

If you are yet to set your eyes upon the following images, prepare yourself.

These may quite possibly be the cutest photos ever taken of “man’s best friend”.

The photographer, Carli Davidson from Portland (Oregon), is known for her uncanny pet photography skills. Available for hire, she will frame even the most exotic of your pets – and do it with plenty pinache.

 

The photographs below were taken from her website (which I have included below) – make haste to check it out, ’tis brilliant.

This series is titled Shake and, although I have only included a handful of highlights, is definitely the most adorable and creative concept I’ve seen lately.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enjoyed these?

Check out Carli’s website!

To rideshare or not to rideshare – that is the question

I was in a car driving to Ottawa — from Toronto, it’s not too far.
Just about 500 km or so – 4 hours if you don’t drive like my father.

 

My boyfriend and I were heading there for my mum’s family annual horseshoe tournament. This tradition pre-dates my exisitence, and having not been in a few years now my attendance was necessary. We decided to catch a rideshare to Ottawa to save some cash, and luckily found a young driver leaving when we needed.

Rideshares are certainly a questionable way to travel. Yet, in my opinion, almost completely safe.

Of course there’s the odd chance you may choose a serial murderer as your driver. But the chances of that are probably the same as encountering one walking down a dimly lit street. Yes there are crazies, but I’ve yet to draw the short straw. All of my drivers have been nice, cheery and sane. Thank Perkins, cause if not I’m sure my mother would have been rather uneasy about my travel choices.

I’ve had a couple awkward situations arise during a rideshare before.

I have included my most recent escapade here.

____
As I said, most of my rideshare experiences have been rather peachy.

Although there are the minorly aggravating people. Not many, but you will always find a couple who seem to find it entertaining to drum out every beat of the song over their thighs.  This was the case of our last rideshare.

Sometimes you just want sleep and the most minute of things can tick you off. Nobody wants to listen to crappy metal riffs and your hands slapping your legs when they’re trying to catch some zz’s before the journey is over.

Note to readers: if you’ve ridden with a driver before opt for the front seat to minimize opportunity for radio pirating.

The deal breaker: we had previously ridden with this driver coming to Ottawa, and had informed him of our last rideshare experience.

Our last experience: It was my boyfriend’s first rideshare. He had never explored this option of travel before, familiar only to planes, trains, and automobiles. In his opinion, it is the most dodgy form of travel known to modern man. Well, that is to say aside from train-hopping, hitchhiking and a few other questionable forms of travel. Let us be honest for just a moment. Rideshares are a glorified form of hitchhiking – pitch in a bit of untaxed loot towards the gas tank and you’re golden. Back to the story- we were leaving from Ottawa to return to Toronto after a week-long visit.

It was six in the morning. I don’t think I had ever left so early when gracing a rideshare. Anyways, we hopped in the car with my mother and she whipped us down the road to the local gas station. It was from here we were scheduled to depart. Over the phone, the driver informed me that another girl would be catching the ride with us from the station. We were caught off guard, wasn’t it to be only us in the car? Were we not banking on the copious amount of resting room we were to be granted?

Our plan was foiled. We arrived at the gas station rubbing our eyes as we unloaded our luggage from my mother’s Benz. There was a frumpy looking girl waiting outside the convenience store. Frumpy was probably too kind a description for this post-apocalyptic raver chick. Torn camo-print cargo pants, with tear-away zippers at the knee. A hideous shirt from some rave scene or another. And, of course, her forearms were littered with bile-inducing plastic rainbow beaded bracelets. Kandy. Oh goodness, I thought leaving arts high school I’d ridden myself of such distasteful accessories. Apparently not. Nonetheless, we all flocked into the vehicle and hit the road.

Halfway down the 416 the girl suggested we listen to one of her CDs. To our dismay she decided to pass up a “Happy Hardcore” CD. This, my friends, is one form of music that should have died years ago. And died again when it was suggested to be played at 6.30 in the morning. Yet somehow the driver agreed. I don’t think I need to continue further with such distressful tales.

Patty’s verdict: Go on, save your money and hop in a rideshare. If you do, I have included a brief list of survival tools crucial to your successful travels.

Rideshare Survival Kit 101

– Bear spray (never know who your driver is)

– Headphones (to block out incessant noise)

– Smartphone (with data connection for constant GPS/safety access)

– Provisions (in case you get dropped somewhere along the 401)

Mamma knew I was a problem child

I didn’t know I was a problem child until I was 7 years old.

Correction, I was probably closer to 4 or 5.

Whatever age I was, my mother refused to bring me shopping with her anymore.

 

Anyway, I nearly clawed my eyes out scrambling for her reasoning behind such a rash – and criminal – act. Certainly she must have substantial evidence to justify stripping a young boy of his womanhood. I mean, without my weekly trips to the stores how would I cope with my juvenile oniomania?

I lay awake in my bunk for nights on end. Searching the depths of all reason. Yet still, I could not uncover the answer. That first week being homebound was comparable to being left in a windowless room without Facebook, food or cable. It took me 2 days of self-imposed solitary confinement to prove to my mum I wouldn’t quit ’til she told me. So she did. To my dismay, I did not particularly enjoy her answer.

“I can’t take you shopping anymore. I just can’t. It’s nothing wrong with you my darling, not you as a person.” She sat back in her chair.  “Just you as a shopper.” My eyes swelled with tears. I bit my tongue, trying not to open the floodgate of emotions burning somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I knew where she was going with this. “I meant it in the most loving of ways sweetheart. You simply can’t have everything you fix your eyes on.” She was trying to make me feel better. No, I wouldn’t have it. My toes curled – stomach wrenched. Then it came. Through my digestive system, up my pipes and out my mouth. Emotional diarrhea – then known as a tantrum.

Throwing myself down on the ground I wailed and whined as though my life depended on it. Oh the theatrics, one of my finest childhood attributes.  Although I must say it proved the most rewarding of them all. She never really did give into them. As a matter of fact, much of my tantrums were spent crying alone underneath my bed or trailing behind her in the department store. Still, I always threw one when I wanted to get my way.

I needed to lift this ban. She needed to lift it — immediately. I was going through a tantalizing withdrawal from the rush. The rush is what I call the associated thrill of the buy. What I live every day for. The first time I experienced the rush – I was in utero of course – I thought to myself, I will never find anything better.

Mum lifted the ban and I went back to asking for everything I saw whenever we went shopping. I don’t think she enjoyed it much, but she loved me all the same.

Everyone says people change, but I think they stay the same. Their bones may grow, their skin may wrinkle and their libido may die. They could move across the world and back again. Live in a shack or in a castle in the south of France. Yet however much they try to change themselves they’ll always be, to someone at least, still that little boy throwing a tantrum.