Are You Married To Your Phone?

Is that a cell phone in your pocket, or are you just not all that happy to see me?
You seem distracted. No really...go on take that call.
No seriously, I don’t mind.
I’m sure whatever it is, is really important. Could be the kids wondering if there’s any milk in the fridge.
Maybe it’s your boyfriend or girlfriend just checking to see where you are. Nice!!
Perhaps your mom wants to tell you about that funny thing she saw on Dr. Phil.
You’d better take the call. Your Grandmother might be out of Werther’s or there could be a really funny squirrel in someone’s backyard. You’d better answer.

Someone might need to tell you what they had for lunch, or that funny thing the dog did at the park. It might be someone calling to apologize for calling earlier.

If it’s my dad calling, he’s hit dial by accident. You’re about to hear him eating a blue-berry bran muffin while taking a country drive. He wouldn’t call you purposely. Not, while barrelling down a gravely road at 30km and hr. That’d be dangerous.

Maybe I just have a habit of hating things I can’t afford- but I’m having a hard time embracing the cell phone. I’ve yet to receive a call from a cell by anyone who is; in trouble, in hospital, in labour, incarcerated. Mostly they just seem to make contact when they are out-and-about, running out of battery charge, slightly-out-of-range, outnumbered by “hot chicks”.

Still, we all know the panicked look of someone who realizes there phone is out of power. It’s horrible to watch. They start sweating and eyeing your outlets for a charger...

My friend Laurie Boese sent me a song idea and some lyrics. I finished it off. Sound bites to follow someday.

ARE YOU MARRIED TO YOUR PHONE?

Does your cell phone have a wedding ring?
Do you always have to bring that thing?
Every time we meet
Get together to talk or eat
Do you need it everywhere you go
The concert hall and the picture show
Would it pout if it got left at home
Are you married to your phone?

chorus:Are you married to your phone
Does it ever let you out alone?
Do you live and breathe for the dial tone
Are you married to your phone.

Does your cell phone have a wedding ring?
Do you always have to bring that thing
Every time we meet
Get together to talk or eat
I smiled and asked you up to dance
I brushed my fingers cross your pants
But it seems my hopes were cursed
Motorola got there first.

Chorus

You turn it on first thing each day
While I try to look the other way
Do you ever wonder who owns who?
Should I comeback when your contracts thru?
I don’t think we’ve been alone
Since you said I do and brought it home
The other day when we were sexting,
I looked up and you were texting
Are you married to your phone?

What’s the big emergency
do you sell Avon, or ecstasy
are you Chief of Neuro-surgery?
or just married
to
your
phone.



Photo by J. Ferguson

Letter to a Former Bicycle

In the 70s we hung posters that proudly proclaimed
“If you love something set it free. If it comes back to you its yours, if it doesn’t...it never was”
The person who came up with that never owned a dog,
or had a boyfriend who needed to see Quebec,
or a grandfather who sometimes got confused,
or a parakeet and a cat at the same time
... or a bike.
I, on the other hand, have had all of the above. Make no mistake; If you love something carry a lock and keep close tabs.

I remember that time I loved my 10 speed mountain bicycle enough to give it some freedom on the back step. Off it went in search of adventure never to return. Maybe it was looking for my boyfriend in Quebec, but more likely it snuck off with that bike-thievin’-upstairs-neighbour to trade itself in for small quantities of smack. Either way, my bike never had that “I really miss her and I’m heading back” epiphany that the slogan promised.
But it was mine.
It was definitely mine.
First I mourned, and swore off mountain biking. Then I began to hate other people who had bikes. But secretly, I missed it. I went to places we used to go together- hoping to catch it with someone else. I imagined seeing it everywhere- disguised with black paint.
I tried to convince myself it had nothing to do with me. I’d bought it from someone else, so maybe that bike had been given a little freedom in past relationships. Maybe that bike had problems with commitment.
THEN, a few months back I saw it whoring itself on Craig’s-List of all places.
I’ll admit to a slight heart flutter, but to tell you the truth I was shocked by how little I felt.
Though I instantly recognized it, my bike didn’t look quite the way I remembered. It wasn’t as large and robust. It looked thin and tired. It’s front suspension had been replaced (which didn’t surprise me- he’d always had “issues” in that department).
I saw its picture and finally felt nothing.
See, I’ve moved on.

Dear Stolen Haro mountain bike,
Well you never came back. I waited, but you didn’t come.
I’ve moved on. I have an awesome new green Norco- Cruiser. 3 speed. He’s retro. Ya, I thought that’d bug you. You know how I always had that secret thing for retro. (You were always accusing me of looking!)
Sorry to tell you, but he’s the coolest bike ever...and I do mean ever. Pedal breaks.
So I guess it worked out.
I hardly ever think of you (except when I go uphill).
I held on to your water bottle and lock key for a while, but I didn’t know where to send them, so I tossed them last spring.
Best of luck.
Kath

THE DUMB THINGS THEY MADE ME SAY

Warning: This blog entry contains the word cervix 4 times. My apologies to sensitive readers.

Sometimes you find yourself stringing together words that you never thought you would have to use in the same sentence. Things that seem so ridiculous to say, that you can’t believe they are coming from your mouth. I don’t mean the dumb things we say voluntarily- I’m talking about the stupid things you have to say- because the moment calls for them and they must be said. For me these sentences stay like embroidery on the fabric-of-my-being.

I think when I was a kid everything I said and did, happened and then dissolved. Maybe when your 7 you had to interrupt the odd game of hopscotch, to tell your mom, to tell your brother, to stop calling you a “tramp”. But you don’t realize how non-sensical it is at the time. By the time you find out what a tramp is, you’ve forgotten he called you one, (or maybe you are one), so no harm done.
When you get older you have higher expectations of what you should and should not have to say.

The first time I remember having to say something earth-shatteringly messed-up was when I was in labour with my daughter. In the course of the day’s wondrous events I was put in the position of needing to utter a request that went a little like :
“Um...The next time you abruptly ‘check my cervix’ could you first ask the visitors to leave?”
It is a miracle to me that there are even a series of words that could effectively form this request for an event that seems wrong on so many levels. Whoever developed the English language clearly thought of everything!
Now, since then I have watched a few episodes of “Birth Story”. Public-cervix-checking seems to be common place in this forum, probably because my sentence didn’t make it through the ether to birthing centres world-wide. The women on the show seem disinclined towards stating the obvious.
Cervix dilation status =Confidentiality
If anything goes without saying, it must be THAT.
Riiiiiight?????

About 18 months later I found myself at a petting zoo calmly reminding my new daughter not to “lick the pigs”.
Surely no human ever came to this world thinking a time in their life would arrive when they would have to turn to another human (small though she was) with her tongue wedge through a rusty/dirty frost fence and remind her (FIVE TIMES) that licking livestock was not a part of what we were here on earth to do. God invented lock-jaw and swine flu for these reasons-So mothers, instead of forming the warning, could just give their kid (the pig licker- who eventually came out of the-cervix-everyone-knows-about ...even before they read your shameless Blog!) a knowing glare upon diagnosis.

You allow you self to say these kinds of things, and eventually you are explaining to a grown man- that ..........
Wait for it!.....
“Your black nail polish is on the dresser beside your earrings”. Marilyn Manson years, I hated you!!!
More than more!


Other things I heard myself say that didn’t make sense:

To the dog- “Stop licking your sister!”

To my friend- “You left your accordion at my house. I tried to play it. Hope you don’t mind”

To my grandmother- ”Well, I see your point but I’m not sure my marriage broke up because I wear jeans all the time.”

To my dad- “When you’re done cutting shampoo bottles up into tiny pieces and stuffing them into a bleach bottle, would you mind giving me a lift home?”

To Phil (my former neighbour)- “Ya, so the plumbing’s broken again and when you flush your toilet it comes into my tub again. If you guys could not throw up again tonight... again, I’d really appreciate it.”

My favorite, To anonymous-“ Why does it say ‘NANCY’ on your ass?!!!”

Names

If your ass ever gets sore from that high-horse you ride around on, do a Google search of your birth name.
You’re likely to find that there are people out there who share your name and are doing far more important things than you could ever dream of.
No offence.

I Google my name on a bi-monthly basis- just to keep perspective (and cuz I get bored)
There are Kathy Evans’s who are Inner city Highschool Principals, successful web-designers, and have spear-headed research in Autism. Some are black, some are white, they are young, old, but they all have one thing in common; they are all far more interesting than I could ever be.
There is even a Kathy Evans in Illinois who lists her profession as a “suburban shaman”.
How cool is that!!?

Nothing compares to the Kathy Evans of urban legend who is said to be the “dumbest contestant to ever appear of ‘who wants to be a millionaire’”. It is a made up story, but she does us all proud.

I wish it were true.
Legend has it she blew her chance by not knowing which was larger “an elephant or the moon”.
Go us!!

I’ve done a search of some of my friends and family. They are also dull in comparison.

And a few questions for them:
Lisa, ever think of running a Ringette Camp?
Brother John, hows life as the Governor?
Pete, when do I get to taste your award winning/world famous Bison recipe?

Somewhere one of my name-sakes may be doing a similar search and have reason to question her decision make alot of money in highend real-estate. Afterall, there is a Kathy Evans in Canada who wrote a little song about drinking a Lot of Mojitos.
Suck it up Kath!!

The Adventures of Lee M. Cardholder

Here’s a fun thing to do if you are poor:
I got the idea when I was at the liquor store one day after work and the clerk who was ringing in my purchase looked at my guitar case and said “Musician? I’m guessing you don’t collect Air-miles”.
Owww!!

I start saving those fake Airmile and MasterCards that come in the mail. They usually list the card owner as “Your Name, Your company” or my personal favourite “Lee. M. Cardholder”.
I packed my wallet full of them.

My friends and family know about it and that’s the most important part of the fun. When we go for lunch I say “Let me put this on my credit card!” and I get out my wallet. They panic. People would rather pay for lunch then witness the horrible awkwardness of having the waitress return with the card and explain that it isn’t real. I have practiced my look of shock and bewilderment in case I ever really need to use it. The steps for this are the same for getting yourself out of any jam.

Step one:
Act Surprised
(Tilt head and squint eyes as if you don’t understand what is being told to you). Take card from waitress and examine it for at least 10 seconds. Turn it over. Run fingers across embossed lettering like you were touching the face of a cherished lover. (Don’t make eye contact with anyone else at the table. They will make you laugh.)


Step two:
Show Concern
The waitress will probably be telling you that you got this card free in the mail. Say something like “What?!! It’s not reeeeal!!? Why would they send this to me if I can’t use it?! What would be the point of that?!!! That doesn’t make sense!” Shake your head as in disbelief. Return your card angrily to your torn shabby wallet and hastily produce your “Your-name-your-company American express.”
The waitress will probably hand it right back to you. Again, act surprised.

Step three:
Deny Everything
If you are like me and don’t have a car, say something like “Well, this is ridiculous. I just used this card at the gas station!! And it worked fine.”

I find this to be a highly entertaining way to pass away the impoverished years. I especially like using it when I’m out with my band-mate making large purchases for the studio.
The thrill of tapping my card quietly on the counter while the clerk is making the final calculations...
“Pete...let me pay!”
The stifled smirk, the slight widening of the eyes,
“I’ll get this one Lee M., I think you got it last time.”

Bobby Sherman, Yoga Pants and Mr. Peanut

A quick show of hands: How many of you ladies own at least one pair of “Yoga Pants”. Okay now, those of you with your hands up... if you’ve actually been to a yoga class please stand.
I see,
only a few...
Now, everyone please take your seat.

Oh, one more question for those of you who own the pants but have never actually attended the class;
Do you ever harbour any guilt about participating in the Yoga-pants fashion trend without and legitimate justification? I only ask because I would be hesitant to don full cycling gear and venture out without a bicycle.

Definition of Yoga: “Yoga is an ancient art based on a harmonizing system of development for the body, mind, and spirit. The continued practice of yoga will lead you to a sense of peace and well-being, and also a feeling of being at one with their environment.”
Definition of Yoga Pants: Well you’ll have to read it for yourself as I have chores to do:
but the thing that struck me the most was that the popular Lululemon yoga pant sells for about $108 American dollars. And product review contains the phrase “Many a yogini swears these reversible pants are the ones that make her butt look its best.”OH!
Well then!
( I read it twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.)

I guess those “Yogini’s” (is that even a word?) haven’t yet achieved that “sense of peace and wellbeing” and are still stuck in the “how does my ass look in these over-prices sweats” phase of their emotional growth.

I don’t actually own a pair of Yoga pants, (cuz I don’t have $108) and have never been to a yoga class. I do have friends that have the pants. They might go to Yoga and just aren’t talking about it but as far as I can tell they mostly wear them to grocery shop and drink. They think “Upward Dog” is a little-known rapper from Oakville.

“Yoga pants” as far as I can tell are just sweat pants with a flared bottom. In other arms of the clothing industry they might refer to them as “boot cut sweats”- but if they did that, certain people might actually attempt to wear them with boots- You know who you are.

I mostly hate them because OLD NAVY is pushing them. Old Navy has a habit of describing a product like it comes with an adventure. I disowned them when they came up with the “Alpine Hoody” a hooded sweatshirt with furry lining whose name implied a promise of a Chalet vacation. I also won’t be buying one of those “Cabana Dresses” they advertise. They’re product names are an insult to consumers.
I stopped believing what I saw in commercials the day I pulled the Bobby Sherman record from my box of Sugar Crisp and it refused to work on my Mickey Mouse turn table. So, enlightenment for $19.98?
I don’t think so.

I mean, don’t get me wrong- Yoga Pants are cool. But they aren’t as cool as a monocle. I wouldn’t sport a monocle without knowing at least a few of Mr. Peanuts dance moves.


But I understand completely. We all like to think we are moving towards enlightenment eventually.
So it’s nice to know that when the day to make that first step towards “peace and wellbeing” comes, you won’t have to rush out for some pants to do it in.

The Scale of 1-10...and other things LOVE has ruined.

Many things decay- Some quicker than others- fallen willows, window frames, dead hamsters in an old shoe box. The latest casually is “The Scale from One to Ten”.
Back in the day (and I can say that because I’m over 30) “The Scale from One to Ten” was a perfect system of measuring anything from pain to the hunkiness of the new guy in English class. It was easy and universally understood.
One, was the least hunky a guy could be and five meant he was average.
If new-guy-in-English-class was deemed to be a 10, it meant his sexiness was unsurpassable.
10, you understand, being the highest and last number, was therefore the ceiling of hotness.
This scale was used by boys, girls, men and women all over the world as long as I’ve been alive and maybe even since the beginning of time.

Adam: “Eve, on a scale from one to ten, how badly do you need me to bite that apple?”
Someone or something picked a tiny hole in this perfect 1-10 system. The rain has been seeping in ever since, rotting it from the inside out.

The puss has spread faster than wildfire, leaving girls everywhere to wonder if being rated a "10" by their boyfriends doesn’t still leave room for improvement.

It’s even oozed into the Percentile Chart inspiring people everywhere to exclaim that they are 110 % sure of this or that.
Who do we blame? That’s a good question.

First let’s talk about the Mother’s-Arms-Scale-of-Measurement.When we were kids our mom use to say she loved us “this much” and spread her arms out as wide as possible. It was a lot of love!- two huge arm lengths, and more importantly, it was as far as she could stretch. It was the ceiling, the unsurpassable amount of mom love! If we wanted more mom-love. ..we’d have to hit our mom in the head with an Etch-a-Sketch, bury her in the sandbox and find a mom with bigger arms. But why would we? This one loved us the most- with both arms. What happened to cause moms around town to start announcing “I love you more than my arms can reach” or “I love you this much times x infinity”. It’s just not right.

After a short period of investigation I think we can say with certainty that LOVE itself is the culprit. Love, being the greatest and most confusing of all human emotions, creates in humans a bloated sense of importance. Love, you see is the ceiling. On a scale from 1-10. Love is 10. It’s as good as it gets. But that’s not good enough for love. Love makes people want to be 200% sure of each other and taunts you into saying things like “I love you more than more”. Before you know it, your standing in triage at the hospital describing your appendicitis to a nurse as “11 out of ten”. Because it’s as painful as your lover is hot. If the nurse were to ask you “How much do you hate this pain”. You might answer “more than more!” “Are you sure you need to see a doctor?”, “Yes, a trillion percent sure! And I need it like yesterday!”