Turkey. Jigsaws. Home.
I’ve been conducting a little experiment for the last few-plus weeks. I’ve gone cold turkey on flavoured sugar water and have been drinking more water. In fact, I’ve trimmed my liquids down to the following:
– milk (1%)
– tea (unsweetened)
– coffee (black)
– wine (though my drinking buddy is dry right now)
– beer (on weekends)
Yes, I know the last one is a bit of a cheat — but you go make you own rules. The ease of this is a mix of (a) having a water cooler at work with lots of free, cold water, and (b) keeping a half dozen Nalgene bottles cooling in the fridge on a regular basis.
No expectations, really. I just started thinking I’d re-program a little bit. And it’s going good now for nearly a month. I’ll keep updated as the weeks wear on.
This isn’t a journal about some mystic journey to caffeine free-ness. But I would like to note that I’ve been cold turkey on the coffee for a full five days now. That’s all. Not much commentary this soon out of the gate. Too bad.
Here’s the deal: In celebration of this weekend’s anticipated HOT turkey, I’ve decided to go COLD turkey on the coffee for a while. Don’t ask why. It’s just one of those things that somehow I’ve decided would be good for me.
Caffeine is the most commonly used mood-altering drug in the world. Caffeine is found in numerous plants, the most widely consumed being coffee, tea, cola nut, cocao pod, guarana, and matÃƒÂ©. It is estimated that in North America between 80 and 90 percent of adults and children habitually consume caffeine. About 15% of the general population report having stopped caffeine use completely, citing concern about health and unpleasant side effects.
Actually, I’m going to link the exact reason to indulgences. I’ve tried to keep my own indulgences in check and within something resembling a controlled state — with varying levels of success and consquence — for a while now, in fact. It’s not about excluding pleasantries from one’s life. It’s about measuring and making sure there is no OVER indulgence. Coffee has been an indulgence — at least in terms of money, time, and (gradually) dependence.
So, in leiu of coffee (retroactively) I’m turning back to the old standby: technology.
Karin and I signed up for a (second, shared plan) cell phone. I’ve been shy of that for a while, but the excuses to HAVE one were gradually out-weighing the reasons NOT TO HAVE one. The scale tipped long enough to sign up, and thus, as of Wednesday I’m a cell-phone user.
And being as that in the eyes of someone who really doesn’t NEED one (but it will sure be useful) a cell phone is a bit of an indulgence, something had to go: thus, until a better alternative is arranged — if ever — coffee-drinking-brad is on sabatacle. It’s been about 24 hours, and my head is starting to ache.
Easter weekend. Four days off. Rest and relaxation? You’d think. But then again, it’s never restful when holidays roll around, so — not really.
We drove East, six hours with a frustrated dog and the spring sun shining down around us, stopping a few times, once for lunch and others just for doggy breaks, pulling off to the side of the busy highway and trying to make a distractable dog pee in the ditch so she wouldn’t mess up the car.
Arrival! At last. And the day and a half spent there wasn’t definably crazy. Busy, yes. Packed, yes. Exhausting, yes. But it was fun and filled, and engorged with too much food. For an Easter dinner we skipped the turkey and ham and, by suggestion of Chatelle, noshed, snacking on a variety of homemade delights, including sushi, pakora, foccacia, and slew. Bruce mixed drinks. We sat, we gamed, we went to a movie in an eclectic downtown theatre.
Sparkle enjoyed her time in fits and bursts, racing and nosing their yard, running through a riverside park, and meeting a big black-coated newfoundlander (literally) five times her size, but restlessness and uncertainty filled the remaining hours and she skipped the whole eating-thing herself while abroad. Her first time in Saskatchewan. It went ok.
And then it was back to home, driving in the cool spring air and rain. We slept well that night, and yesterday I uploaded more photos. Check them out. They’re in the gallery. They are lurking. They are waiting.
But the long weekend is now over. Alas. Sigh. And back to work it is. Oh, so much to do.
It seems more of you are interested in THE PROJECT than I anticipated. I suppose it beats the endless filosofizing and melodrama with which I would otherwise fill these virtual pages. And of course, the last thing I want to turn this building story into is a filosofize-ed-melloo-dram-tic diatribe on the medeocre efforts of paying someone to build us a house.
It’s an effort, but not THAT much of one.
In fact, I would dare to suggest that it is generally very amusing and deeply exciting — for me, at least — and as such deserves to be spoken of and written of with careful reverence, or something otherwise approaching careful disclosure. Nevertheless, I’ll try and break it up a little bit in hopes that it gets neither so monotonous nor lacking — which it might do if I risk running out of material. It’s a risk, and especially after attending (count) three turkey-roasts this weekend where the house-topic popped up on occasion; I don’t want to sound like a scrambled MP3 file — or an audio analogy approaching the modern equivalent of a broken record.
So, for example, the floor plan: one main floor and one top floor modified as we’re building. The original, of course, belongs to Jayman and I’m probably breaking a half-dozen copyrights and contractual agreements by modifying and posting them here, so I’ll give them full credit and hope I don’t receive an angry letter from some lawyer for doing so. They are on Jayman‘s site to download, anyhow.
Moderately disappointed, Melanie writes : “So you would have been our neighbours!!! And we went and moved before you got in…. “
True. Terwilligar is quite close. Yes, we nearly could have thrown rocks at your old place from our new one. Not that we would have of couse — it’s just a really bizaare and (unfortunately) nasty figure of speech. Ah, well. At least you know where we live, now.
And maybe, someday soon, I’ll post something concrete: like foundation pictures. (Smirk: Get it? Concrete? Get it? Wink! Wink!)
I’ll set the stage: in-laws in town for the turkey; brother-in-law wants to go to the Canucks game; game is sold out (basically); we buy tickets to the football game instead; time passes; we arrive at BC Place, tickets in hand and meet up with Chris.
It was raining a little bit on Saturday evening and Ryan (the tall, gangly one who I can now legally refer to as my brother-in-law) wasn’t sure he wanted to stand at the bus stop getting wet and trying to avoid eye contact with the little man selling vague religious slogans on his hat. We decided to run down Oak street to see if, perchance, we couldn’t meet up with Chris. We missed him, and nearly the bus, and were still a bit winded from our fifteen block sprint when the number seventeen dropped us at the base of Cambie bridge and we strode eagerly to gate G of the stadium.
The thing about football games — and I understand this completely — is that like many sporting events, they tend to attract folks who don’t always behave themselves in public. I usually try and avoid being one of those folks. Maybe it’s a strong sense of public responsibility. Maybe it’s the fact that beer costs more than seven bucks at the game. Either way, I paid my twenty bucks to watch the
cheerleaders football game, and I wasn’t planning on causing a riot or anything of that sort.
We handed the ticket guy what he wanted. Patiently endured a free security grope. And then regrouped, all three of us, a few steps away from the low metal gate surrounding the building.
The thing about BC Place is — the thing you really need to know — and would know if you lived in this city and were even slightly privy to even the shallowest bit of Vancouver trivia — is that BC Place, the football stadium, is inflated. The white pillowy marshmallow that is the roof of the mega-complex, is held up, largely, by a whole bucket full of air pressure. Now, I don’t know that I could adequately explain the physics of it here without completely boring my audience, as loyal as you all are, but I do know the following:
a) it takes a whole lot of air pressure to hold up a roof large enough to cover a football stadium, and
b) those revolving doors are there for a reason
Ryan, the aforementioned gangly one, failed to realize either of these simple facts, and instead opened the emergency exit doors. [ Insert large gust of wind here, as BC Place deflates by a fraction of a percent and we come to understand, briefly, what it it must be like to live through a tropical storm. ] My ticket stub blows out of my hand, into the rainy evening, and we manage to pull the door shut seconds before the security guard shows up.
Panicked, I push back outside (with it enough to go through the revolving door this time) and begin searching for my ticket stub.
[ Insert brief conversation with the security guard here. ] Enter police officer.
I won’t detail my conversation with the cop here: it isn’t actually that interesting, and the gist of it was that (a) I was an idiot for going through the wrong door, (b) I should know better, and (c) it should be crystal clear that my “buddies” and I were not to be “wreckin’ up the place.”
Sigh. Ticket(stub)less, I get back into the stadium, and slightly embarrassed we go looking for our seats, the security guard caught up with us a few minutes later to give me back my ticket, and the rest of evening only really got better. But at least we had a good story for Thanksgiving dinner.