Late night journal with Rob
I was thinking about it, and I figured out that I've been going through these crazy mood-swing... things... like all day. Well, not all day, but the latter half of the day I guess. See, it started out that I was like totally craving slurpees, and then it moved on to lemonade (I know, lemonade? Come on) and then I really wanted a milkshake. Now I'm back to slurpee/lemonade, I can't decide which. I should probably just get a glass of water.
I have a confession to make. I watch alot of shows every week, I think there's seven I catch regularily, tape when they over lap, and then there's hockey and football several times a week. But I realized, the most embarassing show? Gilmore Girls. I know, it's pathetic. There's got to be a therapy group or something that can clense me from this, I'll never live it down, I'm sure. Moving away from there though, and on to more pervasive matters, the Canucks clenched another sweet victory over their opponents today, as well as did the Lions. Of course, the 'nucks held out until the third period where they unleashed a fury of play that decimated the ranks of their enemy and left none standing... or so I heard, because I fell asleep during the second intermission and woke up to see the winning goal in overtime, where I cheared and then sat in a dazed and confused post-sleep induced stupor trying to register how that one goal just "won the game." Then I realized that it was OT, and I wanted the last hour of my life back. No matter, there's still another 81 games to entertain me, and about 10 until I throw myself off the band wagon when we start loosing. Oh, I know, it's a new season with a whole new team and even new leadership, but they'll be the same old dissapointing Canucks in the end. You just watch. But I'm not a player-hater, I'll watch each and every game and support them, because in the end... what else do we have? Our hockey team is to us what the colloseum was to the greek. But I digress.
Yesterday I spent a couple hours with my great grandpa and grandma, who I don't get to see very often. It's always been a sad thing for me, because they don't live very far away at all, we've just never really been very close. They're putting in some laminate flooring in the living room, and my grandpa George needed a hand moving furnature. Not that he asked for the hand, I'm sure, but when you're in your 90's the rest of your family usually thinks it's in your best interest not to be moving stuff like that around yourself. Of course, he had gotten a head start on it anyway, and when I got there he had all sorts of rigs set up for him to jimmy the stuff across the room. Heh, them crazy prarie boys, I tell you I defenetly missed out on those hard working genes, cause I'm as lazy as the day is long. I'd prove it to you, but... meh. Anyway, so we get the stuff moved and rip out the carpet in no time, so we got to sit down while we waited for my grandparents to show up and before I had to leave to pick up my rotten brother. We had a glass of wine together (only one, my dad said, cause I was driving... but wine is pretty foul tasting at the very best, so that wasn't an issue I'll tell you what) and we had a good chat. He started telling me all sorts of stories, about growing up on the prarie, living out here in BC, working up in Seashelt, alot of stuff I had no idea about. His dad was Russian and his mom was Irish (or was it the other way around...) but he was born in Saskatchewan in the 14th century b.c. before they had a written language. About the time Brian was kicking around, I think. They were probably friends. Or more than likely, co-existed as cave dwelling neanderthals together. I bet they hunted the buffalo. Or the great apatasarus, and were ruled by a trianical race of alien cats from a planet near Mars that enslaved them to build the pyramids. I could see that. So anyway, he was telling me about when he was 7, he still lived out on the prarie, and him and his friend were hunting golphers together and not having much luck, so they went back to his friends house who grabbed his dad's old war helmet. (side note, his dad was the Irish one, because he was in the British army, if I remember correctly) So his friend puts the helmet on my g. grandpa, walks fifty paces, turns, and fires at his head. Then they swapped equipment and did the same thing again. I guess it was lucky that he was a poor aim at that time, because otherwise one of them would be kinda dead right now (he was telling me that later he was a really good aim with the gun) and on about the third round his friend got so close it nicked the helmet. At which point his friend's dad came running out of the house to see what was happening and nearly lost it he was so mad. Ahhh crazy times. Another story he told me was a little later, when he was living out here in BC, he was out with his "gang" (he seemed to refer to any group of friends, co-workers, or any people he was generally associating himself with to be his "gang", and unfortunatly I don't think he was mixed up in the mafia. Which is totally lame) and the Salvation Army was doing some renovations and getting rid of a bunch of shelves. So he took the wood and did what an industreous lad would do - he built himself a boat. He has no idea how in the world it didn't sink, but he figured it was because he covered the whole thing in tar. He had it floating in this lake or something when this kid came by and was like, "boy, that's a neat boat! I'll trade you my bike for it!" George figured that was a decent trade, so he agreed, and somehow the kid hauled the thing away. Later that day, the kid comes storming back, fit to be tied, demanding that George return his bike because the boat sank down in the river. George shot back that it didn't sink over here, so it wasn't his fault because it sank down there and refused to return the bike. And they went to war. That night, he tossed a rope out his window, climbed out, and met up with his gang down by the highway, where the two gangs started hurling rocks at each other with slingshots and such. This epic battle went on until the sherrif drove by in his brand new Ford car, and got caught in the crossfire, smashing out his windows, and sending him right into the ditch. The guys figured that was a good sign that it was time to be on their way, so he scurried home, up the rope, and into bed. Later on, his dad was talking to the sherrif, who he was good friends with, discussing the situation and his dad went off about how 'those young hoodlums were ruining the neighbourhood.' Then his mom said, "Boy, I'm sure glad my Sonny (which she called him in those days) isn't like those kids."
We had a good laugh together about that. Ahhh... crazy old men and their crazy stories.
I got sick today. I got it from Jen, who decided to pass it on to everyone else, from Dave to Bailey their dog, and even to me. But don't worry, cause I don't get really sick, I just kind of get tired. Ok, so I'm always tired, but I can feel it when my body is drained completely of what little energy I have to begin with, and I know it's fighting off something. That's the closest I get to being sick. It was funny, Jenissa would always complain how she would get sick and end up with strep throat, and despite her best intentions to share it with me, I'd end up with a slight throat tickle. =P Hey, I can't help it if my white blood cells are hard workers. They certantly don't come by it honestly. I swear, if my immune system was as lazy as me, I'd be dead!
I finished digging my ditch today too. The one referenced to in the comic. One thing I forgot to add to the explination of that was the fact that I don't know how big an inch is, for real. I am completely measurally challenged. I kid you not. So I always keep a tape measure handy so I can check if I'm the right heighth, width, depth, and whatever else direction needs to be measured. It always amuses me how, like if I have to drill a hole for reebar something like an inch below the surface of the existing concrete, I'll end up like four inches down and Brian will come over and point to where it's supposed to be. When he walks away I'll measure it to see how far off he was, and where his finger touched will be the exact measurement. He's like... a measuring... super hero... or something. Dead-eye Jack, we call him. Old Man Ruler. So what's his kryptonite, you ask? His anti-thesis? Well, he doesn't do metric.
So does anyone have anything else to say? Anyone? Anyone? Buler? Buuuler? Buuuler? Anyone..?
I have a confession to make. I watch alot of shows every week, I think there's seven I catch regularily, tape when they over lap, and then there's hockey and football several times a week. But I realized, the most embarassing show? Gilmore Girls. I know, it's pathetic. There's got to be a therapy group or something that can clense me from this, I'll never live it down, I'm sure. Moving away from there though, and on to more pervasive matters, the Canucks clenched another sweet victory over their opponents today, as well as did the Lions. Of course, the 'nucks held out until the third period where they unleashed a fury of play that decimated the ranks of their enemy and left none standing... or so I heard, because I fell asleep during the second intermission and woke up to see the winning goal in overtime, where I cheared and then sat in a dazed and confused post-sleep induced stupor trying to register how that one goal just "won the game." Then I realized that it was OT, and I wanted the last hour of my life back. No matter, there's still another 81 games to entertain me, and about 10 until I throw myself off the band wagon when we start loosing. Oh, I know, it's a new season with a whole new team and even new leadership, but they'll be the same old dissapointing Canucks in the end. You just watch. But I'm not a player-hater, I'll watch each and every game and support them, because in the end... what else do we have? Our hockey team is to us what the colloseum was to the greek. But I digress.
Yesterday I spent a couple hours with my great grandpa and grandma, who I don't get to see very often. It's always been a sad thing for me, because they don't live very far away at all, we've just never really been very close. They're putting in some laminate flooring in the living room, and my grandpa George needed a hand moving furnature. Not that he asked for the hand, I'm sure, but when you're in your 90's the rest of your family usually thinks it's in your best interest not to be moving stuff like that around yourself. Of course, he had gotten a head start on it anyway, and when I got there he had all sorts of rigs set up for him to jimmy the stuff across the room. Heh, them crazy prarie boys, I tell you I defenetly missed out on those hard working genes, cause I'm as lazy as the day is long. I'd prove it to you, but... meh. Anyway, so we get the stuff moved and rip out the carpet in no time, so we got to sit down while we waited for my grandparents to show up and before I had to leave to pick up my rotten brother. We had a glass of wine together (only one, my dad said, cause I was driving... but wine is pretty foul tasting at the very best, so that wasn't an issue I'll tell you what) and we had a good chat. He started telling me all sorts of stories, about growing up on the prarie, living out here in BC, working up in Seashelt, alot of stuff I had no idea about. His dad was Russian and his mom was Irish (or was it the other way around...) but he was born in Saskatchewan in the 14th century b.c. before they had a written language. About the time Brian was kicking around, I think. They were probably friends. Or more than likely, co-existed as cave dwelling neanderthals together. I bet they hunted the buffalo. Or the great apatasarus, and were ruled by a trianical race of alien cats from a planet near Mars that enslaved them to build the pyramids. I could see that. So anyway, he was telling me about when he was 7, he still lived out on the prarie, and him and his friend were hunting golphers together and not having much luck, so they went back to his friends house who grabbed his dad's old war helmet. (side note, his dad was the Irish one, because he was in the British army, if I remember correctly) So his friend puts the helmet on my g. grandpa, walks fifty paces, turns, and fires at his head. Then they swapped equipment and did the same thing again. I guess it was lucky that he was a poor aim at that time, because otherwise one of them would be kinda dead right now (he was telling me that later he was a really good aim with the gun) and on about the third round his friend got so close it nicked the helmet. At which point his friend's dad came running out of the house to see what was happening and nearly lost it he was so mad. Ahhh crazy times. Another story he told me was a little later, when he was living out here in BC, he was out with his "gang" (he seemed to refer to any group of friends, co-workers, or any people he was generally associating himself with to be his "gang", and unfortunatly I don't think he was mixed up in the mafia. Which is totally lame) and the Salvation Army was doing some renovations and getting rid of a bunch of shelves. So he took the wood and did what an industreous lad would do - he built himself a boat. He has no idea how in the world it didn't sink, but he figured it was because he covered the whole thing in tar. He had it floating in this lake or something when this kid came by and was like, "boy, that's a neat boat! I'll trade you my bike for it!" George figured that was a decent trade, so he agreed, and somehow the kid hauled the thing away. Later that day, the kid comes storming back, fit to be tied, demanding that George return his bike because the boat sank down in the river. George shot back that it didn't sink over here, so it wasn't his fault because it sank down there and refused to return the bike. And they went to war. That night, he tossed a rope out his window, climbed out, and met up with his gang down by the highway, where the two gangs started hurling rocks at each other with slingshots and such. This epic battle went on until the sherrif drove by in his brand new Ford car, and got caught in the crossfire, smashing out his windows, and sending him right into the ditch. The guys figured that was a good sign that it was time to be on their way, so he scurried home, up the rope, and into bed. Later on, his dad was talking to the sherrif, who he was good friends with, discussing the situation and his dad went off about how 'those young hoodlums were ruining the neighbourhood.' Then his mom said, "Boy, I'm sure glad my Sonny (which she called him in those days) isn't like those kids."
We had a good laugh together about that. Ahhh... crazy old men and their crazy stories.
I got sick today. I got it from Jen, who decided to pass it on to everyone else, from Dave to Bailey their dog, and even to me. But don't worry, cause I don't get really sick, I just kind of get tired. Ok, so I'm always tired, but I can feel it when my body is drained completely of what little energy I have to begin with, and I know it's fighting off something. That's the closest I get to being sick. It was funny, Jenissa would always complain how she would get sick and end up with strep throat, and despite her best intentions to share it with me, I'd end up with a slight throat tickle. =P Hey, I can't help it if my white blood cells are hard workers. They certantly don't come by it honestly. I swear, if my immune system was as lazy as me, I'd be dead!
I finished digging my ditch today too. The one referenced to in the comic. One thing I forgot to add to the explination of that was the fact that I don't know how big an inch is, for real. I am completely measurally challenged. I kid you not. So I always keep a tape measure handy so I can check if I'm the right heighth, width, depth, and whatever else direction needs to be measured. It always amuses me how, like if I have to drill a hole for reebar something like an inch below the surface of the existing concrete, I'll end up like four inches down and Brian will come over and point to where it's supposed to be. When he walks away I'll measure it to see how far off he was, and where his finger touched will be the exact measurement. He's like... a measuring... super hero... or something. Dead-eye Jack, we call him. Old Man Ruler. So what's his kryptonite, you ask? His anti-thesis? Well, he doesn't do metric.
So does anyone have anything else to say? Anyone? Anyone? Buler? Buuuler? Buuuler? Anyone..?