Out damn Spot

I have devised a plan to win my never-ending battle against the Stupid Mutt. Or at least to lose gracefully while still maintaining my dignity.

It involves running away. In fact, that's pretty much the entire plan right there.

Yesterday, I took full advantage of my surrogate families and friends and was in my house for a total of less than 30 minutes from the time I woke up to the time I hightailed it out of the city at night to seek further refuge from el doggo.

Had breakfast at church, followed by the most energetic and enjoyable Easter service I have ever been to in my life, followed by Easter coffee with the prodigal young folk in my life, Easter lunch with a co-worker, Easter dinner with one of my favourite Vdot families, and Easter dessert with friends of a friend in Langley.

I am almost certain that I never need to eat again.

But I do need to work. Which is why I am crashing at the aforementioned friend's house.

So today I am in sunny Coquitlam: where the houses are large, and quiet, and free of large pyschotic canines who chew through the doorframe in an attempt to do only God knows what. And also where other people's Mom's make you lunch. And also where other people exist and you are not forced to make polite conversation with a frog and a dog with splinters in her mouth.


~this is exactly why God didn't give mangoes dominion over the amnimals

Dogs are definitely not mango's best friend

I lied in my last post. Louis and I are not holding down the fort tout seuls.

First, there is the Basement Dwelling Roomie (BDR). Or so I hear. He's more of a legend than an actual person. He keeps odd hours, and we very rarely see him. But the garbage gets taken out and the kitchen floor gets mopped every Tuesday in the middle of the night. So he must really exist. But seeing as he's rarely here, he definitely does not count.

Second, there is the Stupid Mutt. One of the girls who works here is on vacation, so I get the joy of dealing with her dog until April 5th. Not that it's my responsibility to actually dog sit. Because there exists no place in this mango's heart for furry domestic amnimals. Especially those of the canine variety. Especially those who come to my house/office every day. Because Everyday is Bring your Mutt to Work Day here at the laid backest working environment in the history of forever.

I hate that there is always a dog in my house. And I hate that I can't do anything about it. But at least she usually goes home at night. But there is no home to go to when your owner is vacationing in sunny California.

Anyway, the deal is the mammoth horse-dog gets to stay in the house if other people come and take care of her. In return, I promised not to kick, kill, murder, or otherwise molest the thing. But, right now, I really do want to kick, kill, murder AND molest the Stupid Mutt. Because in the 24 hours that she has been here she has:

• been caught on the one freaking couch in this house that I sit on precisely because she is not allowed on it
• barked a blue streak during the wee hours of the morning
• refused to poop
• peed all over the upstairs hallway*

*Where she is NOT EVEN ALLOWED, and where she KNOWS SHE IS NOT EVEN ALLOWED BECAUSE SHE IS HERE EVERY BLASTED WEEKDAY and does not break this rule.

How she even got upstairs is a mystery to me. Because I double checked that the door to the upstairs living area, as well as the one to the basement, were locked. Because I don't want that Stupid Mutt all up in my stuff.

On the bright side, after much scrubbing, and Shout, and Rug Doctor juice, the upstairs hallway now smells wonderfully. I, however, smell like dog urine and eight different kinds of soap.

Dog, your days are numbered.


~g. mango is entertaining bad thoughts about a dog, a bottle of BBQ sauce, and a trip to chinatown

Home alone: Easter in the Vdot

Tonight starts my first holiday sans mi familia. All the noisy teenagers are gone. And the Intern should be docking in Victoria shortly.

So that leaves me and Louis to hold down the fort and be strong.

But no worries, the benefits of having surrogate families in the Vdot are definitely making themselves known this weekend. I've been invited to a plethera of Easter meals, so I should be well-fed and over-socialized by the time I have to be back at work on Wednesday.

Wish me luck.

~g. mango thinks food tastes better when it's shared. . . or stolen. . . or both

Happy Easter

FROM THE DESK OF GREEN MANGO

Dear, kind readers,

May you be blessed this Easter, knowing that you are loved and cared for. I encourage you to take time to reflect on the sacrifice made on Good Friday, and the joy experienced on Easter Sunday. May your time with family and friends be sweet and may the chocolate that you consume be enjoyable.

Sincerely,

G. Mango

Nothing beats that new farm smell

1A) SPRING BREAK

It is Spring Break here in Beautiful British Columbia. Which at my job means one thing: Spring Break Trips. Yay!

This weekend was the grade 5 to 7 farm trip. So I spent the entire weekend in the constant presence of small children and farm animals. Both of which cause me undue stress and premature exhaustion. Still, much fun was had. And also much swimming, much movie going, much mall scavenging, much go karting, and much avoidance of all things bovine (at least on my part).

There were nine leaders for 22 kids. Which is even more excessive in real life than it sounds on paper. In any case, I am glad to have come out the other side with my life and most of my sanity.

The rest of my sanity was restored thanks to Matthew who drove in from Abbotsford on Monday evening for a much postponed shopping date (wherein we were both reminded of our low tolerance for shopping), an enjoyable chat at my favourite coffee shop on the Drive (wherein we relished in our deep appreciation of chocolate whip cream), a walk down the Drive (wherein I froze half to death), and a scary movie chez moi (wherein the Intern and I laughed at Matthew for being such a wuss).

2B) PEOPLE IN MY HOUSE

There are eleven high school students staying in my house this week.

They make too much noise.

And also, they make me realize that though I absolutely love working with youth, I love sending them home even more.

3C) FROG UPDATES

Despite our past issues with pets, LL Cool Frog continues to live. He was on a hunger strike for three days after we brought him home, but seems to be eating now. We even got him some rocks and shells for his mayo maison. And also, we have come up with a nickname for him, since everything else in the house has two names, and also since it takes too much effort to say LL Cool Frog a million times when one is trying to coax an amphibian to eat his bloodworms in the morning.

So anyway, we call him Louis* Grenouille. Grenouille being the French word for frog (pronounced gre-NOU-y).

*Pronounced Louie, as in the French King(s). Not Lewis, as in the American bastardization of a perfectly good French name.

4D) THE END

Well, that was rather abrupt.

~g. mango went a courtin' and she did ride, uh huh

A new addition

The Intern and I are pet parents again. We weren't able to replace Sammie with an exact look alike, but we still tried to find another pet to fill the Sammie-shapped hole in our hearts.

Introducing Mr. T.


I pity the fool!

I lie. I don't pity any fools. And also, that's just Sammie garbed in fetching e-habiliments courtesy of my sister S. Who is my favourite sister named S in the history of sisters. And also the only sister named S who will kill me if I don't give her credit for her unmatched creativity and cyberartistic prowess.

So, yes, turns out that the reason Sammie died was because Samuel L. Fishes cannot, in fact, spend their days in a mayonaise jar. All you naysayers can now recommence your saying of nay. But it really wasn't our fault. I blame the Pet Expert that sold us Sammie, who obviously was seriously lacking in expertise.

So this new Pet Expert explained that Sammie needed a ten gallon tank. But when I found how much said tank would cost, I decided that I am not willing to part with the inordinate amount of cash required to acquire a glorified punch bowl. So our choices were as follows:

1. Buy another Sammie; keep him in a mayo jar; return a fish carcass to the pet store every 48 hours, ad infinitum.
   
2. Buy another pet that can actually survive in a jar.

Sam was so cute that I really did want to go with option 1. Until the clerk at the pet store began yelling "DEAD FISH! DEAD FISH COMING THROUGH!" as we walked sheepishly past a plethera of eager pet-purchasing, and successful pet-maintaining customers.

So, by embarassing default, I am pleased to present our new natatory comrade.

Introducing LL Cool Frog.

Mama said knock you out!


Seriously, she totally said to knock you out.

He's decidedly less cute than Sam, but hopefully he will last more than 2 days. So far so good!

~g. mango is a caribbean amphibian

Alas poor Sammie, I knew him well

WORDS

Sammie died on Friday, the day after we got him.

But with some creative fishie CPR, and some clean burial water, he miraculously resurrected half an hour later. The roomies coined him the Miracle Fish. Not only because of his supernatural recovery, but also because he lives in a Miracle Whip jar.*And no, he wasn't just sleeping.

And I have the proof on home video.** Both the death and resurrection. In fact, I have lots of home video of Sam. And about one million still shots of him.

Because I am obsessed with my fish like that. The Intern likens my relationship to Sammie as that of a new parent and her first born.

Which is why I am slightly upset that Sammie died again last night. Never to be revived. Not that I tried to revive him this time, because, really, it's too traumatic. . . and we can just take his little, lifeless fish body back to the pet store and get another little, life-full fish for free within 30 days of original purchase.

And as luck would have it, before The Littlest Roomie flew back to life in Ontario this morning, and even before Sam bit the bullet again, she gave us a name for a new fish. You know, just in case.

*I don't want to hear anything more about the evils of keeping a fish in a mayonnaise jar, and how they need more space, blah, blah. Sammie was fine in his industrial sized mayo mansion. We followed all the directions that were given to us by the Pet Experts at his former home. And after his second death, I have concluded that he must not be able to handle the kind of food we gave him. 'Cause he died every time he ate. So take that you naysayers!

**Unfortunately, I can't post the videos here because I have no way of uploading them to Blogger. I can email them to you if you so desire. In the meantime, here are some photos.

PHOTOMAGRAPHS: SINCE LAST WE SPOKE

I thought better of putting a picture of a dead fish on the internet, so here is a reenactment instead.


Gasp!


Post-resurrection contemplation


Surprised Sammie and his Pepperidge Farm stunt double.


Back to square one.

~g. mango loves fishes 'cause they're so delicious

A woman needs a fish likes a mango needs a bicycle

Introducing Samuel L. Fish.

He swims under the pseudonom "Myopia". But the Intern and The Littlest Roomie call him Oppy for short.

I call him Samuel L. for long.

Really, he'll just answer to anything. He's easy going like that.

~g. mango is pretty sure a fish by any other name would smell as sweet

The people have spoken: Part Two

New Zealand

• Has more sheep per capita than New Brunswick has Tim Hortons
• Has more sheep than pretty much anything else
• Wishes it was Australia

~g. mango wishes she was australia too.

The people have spoken: Part One

Edit: A few posts ago, I asked my beloved public what kind of new things they'd like to hear about. This was to appease my tens of fans who have had very little in the form of witty literary mango-centric infotainmnet of late. And also to help me overcome the writer's block that has taken over my life.

With out further ado, here is the first installment of new things.

New Brunswick

All I know about New Brunswick is that it is Canada's only officially bilingual province. Which I think is fantastic. Because you can never have too much bilingualism in your life.

And also, it is somewhere to the East of here. Oh, and also the capital is Frederiction. And it boasts "the [some adjective] Tim Horton's per capita." Most? Least? Smallest? Richest? Most frequented? Dirtiest? Tastiest? Wastiest?

And I'm sure they have some kinda of government and/or currency. But I'm not sure whose.

Every New Brunswick resident has, at more than one occasion, secretly wanted to move to either Toronto or Vancouver.

~g. mango is good to the last bilingual drop

One man's house is another man's something else

I need to find something recreational to do. I realized today that I rarely ever leave this place called home/work. And though that is partially because I make no money and cannot afford to do anything fun other than go for a walk, it is still very nearly driving me crazy.

The thing is, I live in the staff house at the place where I work. Which, it just so happens, is also the office of the place where I work. And though the office and the living space is theorectically divided (upstairs: three bedrooms; downstairs: continuous flow of people traipsing in and out, eating our food, pretending to be productive; basement: cold, dark sepulcher of inhabitability), in reality, there are some issues.

ISSUE ONE

My room upstairs is as cold as death. It has two outside walls, and as far as I can tell, negative insulation. When closed, my window lets in not only sunshine, but also freezing gusts of wind, and every form of skytrain/real train/busy major road/crazy neighbourhood noise. And also various small avian fauna. After two weeks of my suffering through ice cold sleepless nights, my gracious and kind roomie (henceforth known as the Intern) offered to let me crash in her room, which is huge, has an extra bed, and is at least 27 degrees warmer than my room at any given time.

Since I don't actually have an office downstairs, I converted my room into an office. And it has since been christened the Ice Cubicle.

The third bedroom at the end of the hall (Room Three) was our tv room/common space because downstairs is always full of people trying to look busy and feigning work until all hours of the night. And you can't really watch tv with all that distraction.

Since were getting another, pocket-sized, part-time intern type roomie for a few weeks, and had to clean up Room Three to make it all liveable and stuff, we decided to just make our room one big room of consolidation: Intern's room, my room, and tv room all in one! Enter The Consolidated Room.

So now the tiny new roomie (henceforth known as The Littlest Roomie) is in Room Three (which we should really rename), the Intern and I (who have perfectly good names), and the tv (which shall remain unnamed) are in The Consolidate Room, and my office is in the Ice Cubicle.

Our colleagues are all downstairs. And so our meetings are all downstairs. And also, my program thing that I'm kick startin', it meets in the basement.

So really, I never leave this place. Because when I'm home, I'm still here. And when I leave for work in the morning, I have to pass my office before I even get to the bathroom to have a shower. And when I'm doing the actual fun part of my job, the kids and I are still here.

I need to get out.

ISSUE TWO

Even though I'm always here, I feel like such a freakin' slacker. My hours are super flexible, and I only work 20 hours a week. Unfortunately, everyone else here works a lot more than 20 hours a week, so when I'm chillaxin' and getting used to my new life, they are all working hard downstairs.

And I'm in my PJs, eating granola and yogurt like a good newly assimilated West Coaster.

And that's okay, 'cause this place is the laid backest working environment in the history of forever, and I can choose my hours, and I choose not to work until I have had breakfast. Whenever that might be. Nine o'clock. Ten o'clock. Quarter after three.

So with a 20 hour work week, and a flexible schedule, and no real desire to go pay money to do something fun, I really could (and do) get away with working a few hours a week during real working hours, and a whole lotta hours a week during whatever the heck hours I want.

Unfortunately, I just look like a slacker compared to these 9 to 5ers, and 10-6ers who don't have the freedom of working at home. Or living at work.

~g. mango wants go out and do something free! dammit.

Indecision is the new black

I realize that I have been fairly lax with adding new and exciting things to my blogger-oo lately. But that's not because new and exciting things haven't been happening. I mean, I live in a new city, in a new house, with a new ('nother) roomie, and I'm working in a new job, kick starting a brand spanking new program, blah, blah.

But I can't decide what to write about.

So I turn to you, my dear, sweet readers, to ask you what I should write about.

Fill out these forms. Sign on the dotted line. Look both ways before crossing the street. I before E except after C.

WHAT SHOULD G. MANGO WRITE ABOUT?
(A SCIENTIFIC POLL IN ONE ACT)

• City
• House
• Roomies
• Job
• Program
• Kids on the Block
• Testament
• Brunskwick Brunswick
  
• Jersey
• York
• Zealand
• Black
• Subject

Please cast your votes by leaving a comment.



~ technically, g. mango is the new black