arvTales

Park in front of a family friend's driveway. They had a blue Mini Cooper.

Me: They have a Mini, but it says "AWDY."
Sis: It said "Audi?"
Me: *smiles*


One of those funnier-when-heard things. Also a you-had-to-be-there.

Yes, I am aware I am weird.

Today was Martyr's Shrine day. Martyr's Shrine honours Canadian Jesuit, um, martyrs. Today also happens to be the day of St. Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuits. It was a special day.

I don't know all their names, so thank goodness for the internet. The eight saints of Martyr's Shrine are: Jean de Brébeuf, Gabriel Lalemant, Antoine Daniel, Charles Garnier, Noël Chabanel, Isaac Jogues, René Goupil, John de Lalande.

My brother was right, they all have schools in Toronto named after them. Cool.

We make the trek at least once a year. We go to mass, walk around the 75-acre site, say a few prayers, take a few pictures, play a few games, and laugh at each other. Oh, and have a barbeque. Can't forget about that. We've been going to Martyr's Shrine ever since I can remember, bbqing every time.

Religion to me is a very personal thing, so I hardly ever go with friends or family. The Martyr's Shrine pilgrimage is different.

This is one family tradition I will definitely keep alive.

---
I counted. Including the title, I wrote 'Martyr's Shrine' six times. Seven now.

Another full day in the life of Manfred.

'How was it? What did I do?' Well, first let me tell you not talk with your mouth full. Second, it was good. I got a lot of work done in the last two days. Clean, fun, clean, then more fun.

I am a very messy person. If I don't clean every week, things get, well, messy. I am what you would call an Organized Messy Person, or OMP. My filing system is the floor. Really. I know where everything is. There is a method to my madness or, as Einstein would call it, order in my chaos. Ask me where my bank statements are and I would point you towards the pile of paper infront of the closet. My new CDs? Near the glass table. Put them back after you burn them. Everything has its place in my room.

I'll post pictures at a later date. It's a must see. Especially if you plan to stalk me. In that case, let me start dialing 9... 1...

I never knew how much I used my credit card. Okay, I had a fair idea. Afterall, with double points, I decided it was best to use it whenever I can, so really, I should not be surprised that I depend on it a lot. A LOT.

So, I say a big FUCK YOU to the person/people that got a hold of my number to rack up over two hundred dollars worth of pizza.

Too many things not bought. Must play waiting game. Good thing I don't need new underwear.

I was going to sign up for iTunes, but no, they require a credit card. I was gonna get the second season of Dead Like Me but no, that costs enough that the points I would get from the purchase would be significant enough to warrant patience. Plus, on top of it all, I have a lunch and dinner to go to this week that's gonna cost me mucho dinero. I was gonna put it on my card so, you guessed it, so I could get points. But no, no points for me. And I refuse to use my emergency cards. Those are for emergencies. Besides, no points for those.

I am a point hog. A point addict, to use the vernacular of my childhood. Must get something for spending money I was gonna spend anyway. There are still free things in this world. And good people like them nice Visa folk that acted so promptly.

But there must be a balance in the universe. So for every good person there is an asshole. Like the punks that got my number. Bastards.

I'm starting to forget things again. For example, yesterday after work I was looking for my sun glasses that I swore I had brought with me in the morning. When I got home I found them on my bed. Today, I put them inside my bag to make sure I always know where they are, but it still took me a couple of minutes to find after work. Now I always put them on my glass table so I always know where they are.

Feeling kinda old. Gonna have to start wearing my pants 10 inches above my waist, yelling at kids to get off the grass, complaining about social security, the sad state of journalism and the world going to hell in a handbasket. Okay, that last two I've always complained about. Have you read the Star lately? Typos and bad news galore! Get some editors or at least spellcheck and would somebody please print an article about cute puppies! If I have to read another article by Haroon Siddiqui on Iraq, I swear to goodness... Can't the guy write an editorial about cute little happy things?

Now I'm all riled up. Damn kids. Where are my glasses?

Is staring at a beautiful woman rude? Not the stare-at-her-boobs, drool-hanging-out-of-the-corner-of-my-mouth stare. Just a normal, whoa-she's-hot kind of stare. I don't think I even stared at her breasts once. Whoa, that is so not normal.

Which reminds me of a funny story that involved me in no way whatsoever:
"I was reading her shirt."
"She's wearing a plain white tee."
"And it was very eloquent and wordy."

Back from the tangent. Yeah, she was very attractive. So am I. (This is where the sarcasm font really comes in handy.)

Why the hell am I staring? I ask myself.
'Cause she's damn attractive, I answer.
There are lots of pretty girls in the world. There's Harmony.
Oh, she's gonna love that when she reads this.
She better. I don't give out compliments everyday.
You're still staring.
I can't help myself. I'm drawn to her.
So say something.
Like what? 'I like your iPod. Will you please marry me'?
It would be better than staring.
She's like a car crash: I can't not look.
You never look at car crashes. You hate them.
I know. Bad example.
So she's better than a car crash. You like her.
That she is. And no. I like how she looks. There's a difference.
You're still staring.
I know.

Then I got off the bus.

He looked nice with his goatee and bald head. You don't see many asian drivers on my route, but there he was. A nice looking bus driver, or "operator" as they preferred to be called.

He really did look nice. That is, until, he tried to kill me. I don't hold it as a personal offense, mind you. I was, afterall, just one person in a busload of people. But I was on the side of the bus that would have bourn all of the impact.

Pulling out of the station in a rush, the bus turned left, narrowly avoiding another bus and almost smacking its right side--my side--into an 18-wheeler.

But that's not all. Imagine this: bus is on the left lane, truck is on the right. Bus driver wants to turn right. He was really crazy. The truck driver had no choice but to let us turn or risk killing people, most of all, me.

The rest of the ride was just as smooth: go up to 60 km/h, brake suddenly, rinse, lather, repeat. Gotta say, I still fell asleep though.

---
The awkwardness of being invited into a party where all the guests are no one you know is so wonderful. Damn, this thing doesn't have a sarcasm font. Suffice it to say, the food was good, the company was okay. Not great food, but what can you really expect from a bar? The company is probably worth getting to know.

Should have had the nachos. Ah, the nachos that got away... I'll miss you forever. *tear*

I'm sitting outside, listening to the whirr of cars and ppthmmb, ppthmmb, eeeekkk of the buses as I enjoy the gentle breeze. Ah, the smell of clean Toronto air. It's even better 'cause my neighbour just mowed their lawn and there's a strong hint of the sweet smell of freshly cut grass. Love that smell. *Sniff sniff* There also appears to be a subtle whiff of dog doo.

These end-of-day rituals are the best. Jeopardy just finished, and dinner is almost ready. By-and-by, the kids on Jeopardy today were idiots. Specially the kid in the middle. He totally sucked. I mean, EDISON? Edison did not invent the telephone. Go back to school, kid. He invented the wheel.

What was I just saying? Oh yeah, freshly cut grass. I'm hungry now. I'm going back in. I'll talk about grass some other day. It's not like it's going any where. Reach for the sky, grassy! Up, UP, UP!

The best thing about living in Toronto is not that women can bare their breasts on the streets if they want to. This has something to do with that, but it's a bit more general. It's the women on the TTC.

Living in such a cosmopolitan city, you get to travel the world every day without having to spend thousands of dollars and being scanned, probed and man-handled by grabby airport security personel. Tastes, sounds, cultures from all over the world in one place. And, ah, the women...

more later===>>>

'Cause I told her I would write about her in my blog, here's what I sent to Am'la today:

Dear Diary,
Amela was mean to me today. She said, “your mama.” I don’t even know what that means but it hurt me so so much, right here *points to heart* I think it’s an ancient insult from, like, the ‘90’s. Why would she use such an old school put down?

Why is she so mean to me? I wish I was dead. No. I wish everyone else was dead.

Toodles,
Arvin

<<<===later:

Yes, the women. So many beautiful women on the subway. But this is not about them. This is about a woman on the subway who was wearing a short skirt. A skirt that was just a little bit too short.

She was sitting down. I was looking around. Like I always do. She didn't have her legs crossed. It was an unpretty sight. I couldn't turn my head fast enough.

It was a nice skirt though.

It's another late Sunday night and the work's not even done yet. My bed is full of papers that have yet to be reviewed. And a slice of cheesecake. That's... been... sittingthereforanhour. Too much paper. It's enough to drive a man insane, if he weren't so already. Lucky for me I'm positively postal. Mmmmm cheesecake.

So no work for the next few minutes as I write about my life for all the world to see.

What did I do this weekend, you ask? Well, first, let me thank you for asking. Second, "Not much." Hung out with my brother, grilled some meat on the barbie, drank some alcohol. The usual summer thing, I suppose. Yep, another hot, lazy summer day in ole Toronto.

Can't wait till next weekend. "Why?" you ask? 'Cause I'm heading out of the city for the annual Barti Family Midland Weekend Extravaganza. It starts off with hours and hours of driving then an hour of sleeping while pretending to listen to a priest, then hours upon hours of watching, meeting, and greeting people from all over Ontario and New York State. What fun!

Last year there was some kind of Filipino festival we didn't know about, with lots of very stuck-up, not-fun "ladies" from where's-it-again... Hick-ville, I think. At least they weren't from Mississauga. That would have driven me mental. 'Cause everyone knows 'Sauga sucks smelly farts out of dead chickens. Dixie, if you're reading this, don't act all surprised 'cause I believe I told you this before. *Thinks* Yep, I definitely told you this before. You live there, you know how craptacular it is.

Last year I spent most of the time reading, listening to music and staying out of the sun. Took nice pictures though.

I really pray and hope that this year is much better. At the very least I hope there to be interesting people there.

*sigh*

I smell the cheesecake. Gotta go pig out. Oh, before I go, HI HARM!

I am on blogger for one reason alone. So I can make fun of Harmony. Okay, two reasons really. One, make fun of Harm and two, spill my guts to the world.

So here's my guts. My name is Manfred, but it's pronounced "arvin." I live in Toronto, which is near Canada. Canada's a big country. I like to read, I watch way too much television and I am a very honest person. The "honest" part ain't gonna translate well through your computer 'cause I'm also notorious for writing incomprehensible and silly jibberish. Like right now.

Harmony's got big webbed feet.

I also like long walks on the beach, drinking wine while watching the sun set.

I love alliteration.

Harmony's nose hooks to one side.

That should satisfy you for now. The telly beckons me. I must answer. But before I go, let me leave you with one final thought: don't you think Harmony's got man-hands?