Just Another Day at the Office…

When I was a kid, my dad would sometimes have to drag my sister and me out of bed in the morning and bring us into work with him. Maybe my mom was busy that day or out of town and he couldn’t find anyone else to watch us hooligans. Either way, from time to time, Madison and I would find ourselves in my father’s office; an incredible exercise for the imagination, pulling eight hours of excitement out of typewriters, fax machines, photocopiers, office chairs, filing cabinets and all of the fun stuff that exists in the office world.

The day would begin with my sister and I surrounded by stacks of dot matrix printer paper and a slew of highlighters and pens and pencils and paper clips and anything else that we could fiddle with and not cause too much trouble. My dad would generally be in his office all day long with clients; the same with all the other lawyers in the very small building on Dalhousie St.

They were fools to think that the pens and paper would last us for very long.

You see, my sister and I are only one year apart, and first class troublemakers to boot. We were holy terrors blessed with hippie parents who let us wear 50 barrettes in our hair at any given time and bathing suits and feather boas all summer long. They let us wear what we wanted and do what we wanted and made every attempt to let our creative juices ebb and flow like a Hawaiian Punch tidal wave.

The first and most pressing matter to a child after they are done scribbling through a spectrum of highlighters is, “How long until I can get my hands and face on that photocopier?” Which ultimately leads to, “How long until my dad’s secretary leaves for lunch and I can get my bare bum on that photocopier?” These are the questions that plague the brain of an office-bound five year old. Once Darlene had left for lunch, we knew that there were only a few precious moments until my dad would be making his way out of his office and asking us what we wanted to do for lunch. In those brief though blissful moments of laughter, Madison and I would take hilarious copies of our backsides and later use them to draw inappropriate yet equally hilarious pictures of our bums eating people or excreting rainbows. We would squeal with delight if one of us drew a particularly funny picture of our bum squishing someone or something. Ahh, the joys of a day at the office.

Once we had finished lunch and the photocopies had lost their near legendary luster, we moved on to the next most wonderful toy at the office: the office chair – wheels necessary. If you recall, early 90s office terrain more often than not was made of that hard plastic spread which was placed beneath chairs and desks. For what purpose, I know not. But I do know that it made for some excellent gliding and sliding; you could dash and zip faster on that hard plastic than on any other indoor landscape I can think of – even linoleum. Madison and I would play some mean games of bumper chairs, later having to conceal some fairly serious injuries from our mom and dad. We would each choose our chair; trying to find the one with the most padding or the best lubricated wheels. We would make our decisions based on both performance and protection. Old chairs often had wily wheels that would change directions out of nowhere, causing you to zig or zag out of control. Others had no arms, offering no protection to our sides or legs. It was a fairly lengthy and thoughtful process picking the best chair to pummel your sister with.

Days at the office were so much fun that it would definitely be worth creating an office playground in your very own home, and you can find everything you need at Cymax.com! Oodles of fantastic filing cabinets, perfect for hoisting yourself atop a photocopy machine. A wealth of office chairs to choose from, some with wheels, some without, but all perfect for a little sister bashing. From computer desks to office panels to conference table, Cymax has everything you need to have fun at the office again.

April Showers Bring May Brides - and the Chicken Dance

April showers. They bring, of course, May flowers. They bring the promise of spring and hope and new beginnings. The promise of a prosperous garden and sunny days. The jubilance of a summer getaway and backyard dining. They also bring, according to my mailbox, wedding invitations. Brace yourselves: wedding season is arriving! Granted, this summer so far is a quiet one, but over the past two years, I have been invited to eleven weddings. All have taken place between May 30^th and August 30^th. That’s a whole pile of confetti and rice. And don’t get me started on how many buffet lines I’ve shuffled through.

Don’t get me wrong – I love weddings. My friends generally follow the same school of thought as I do on party planning: fun over formal. A few cocktails and a chicken dance or two surrounded by old friends and a happy couple are enough for me to donate a precious summer weekend. No, it’s never been about having to go to a wedding; it’s more about the gift.

Couples now, more than ever, are choosing to live together before marriage. They get their feet wet, so to speak, over little spats about taking out trash and dirty footprints and socks on the floor. If they can make it through a flu bug and visits from in-laws, it’s settled. But cohabitating prior to nuptials generally means an already furnished home: no need to register for every little thing at the local department store. Cash is always appreciated, but is so impersonal. Sometimes, to celebrate the new lives of your friends and family, you want to get them something tangible they will forever regard as a “wedding gift”, not just cash that will be spent on groceries or a mortgage.

Before I hit the summer wedding trail, I have already decided what I’ll be giving to my lovebird pals: gifts from Cymax!

Why not start with the gift that is always appreciated – surround sound! Too exhausted from months of wedding planning and activities will leave the happy couple in need of some good movie nights. Or, try an external hard drive. This will provide them ample memory to store every second of their wedding day and allow them to watch it again and again to capture the romance. If you really want to spoil your friends, go ahead and purchase a china hutch so they can display their newly acquired wedding china.

Always remember though, it really is the thought that counts, and if you just think about your friends and who they are as a couple, you’ll be sure to come up with the perfect wedding gift idea. And if you need a little extra help, there’s always Cymax.

From Cradle to Queen: Human Progression and the Philosophy of Beds

There are plenty of significant stages in a life: changes, decisions, and lifestyle choices – all things that are the make-up of who we are. I know, this sounds like a heavy topic, especially for a Monday, but it is that kind of day; maybe because my Sunday was spent with my two nieces and little nephew. My brother and his wife had a family brunch yesterday and I got to hang out with the kids. The great thing about being an aunt is that you have your allotted visiting hours where you become a human trampoline, sit through spur-of-the-moment plays performed from on top of the coffee table, become the subject of scribbled paintings with rainbows, butterflies, flowers and a big bright yellow sun surrounding you, and play with Dora the Explorer toys, but you can give the kids back to their rightful owners at the end of the day – hyper and filthy.

The kids change every time I see them, even if it has only been a week. It is both awesome and scary to watch. Laura, who just turned four, can write the names of everyone in the family and made place cards for the table. Michael, at only eleven months, runs around the house and is not far behind both sisters when he takes a stab at climbing the stairs. But it was Fiona, the two-year-old, who showed the most change yesterday.

I opened their front door, and as Fiona came running at me with a hug, she exclaimed in a very proud voice, “I got a big girl’s bed!” Before I could grab a (much needed) coffee from the kitchen, the two girls and I were on our way upstairs to Fiona’s room. Close to the ground, with a bed rail for safety, there was her new bed, gleaming almost as much as Fiona, who stood beside it, shoulders back, proud as could be.

Next, I was lead by the hand into Laura’s room, where I was faced with a loft style bunk bed, complete with a ladder (a ladder!) to get up to the mattress. Laura giggled with excitement, grabbed onto the ladder and started to climb. Out of habit, I stood behind her, hands shadowed around her body, ready for a fall. But up Laura went and I had to accept that this girl – who now comes up to well past my belly button when she stands in front of me – has taken the leap, has made the change from toddler to a competent, sturdy little girl. For reassurance, I peeked into Michael’s room next, and was relieved to see that his baby crib was still in use. I don’t think I could have handled three bed changes in one morning.

I was unusually quiet through brunch, looking back and forth from niece to nephew to other niece, wondering when the hell they grew up without me noticing.

Beds aren’t usually associated with philosophical thinking, at least not for me. At least not until yesterday. But it did get me thinking: the type of bed we have goes hand-in-hand with the stage of life we are at, even when we are well past our childhood. There is a natural progression of bed styles with the natural human progression.

We are born and we spend three months in an infant’s crib at the side of our parents’ bed. We start moving a little too much on our own and are put in a bigger crib, like Michael’s, where we can pull ourselves up with the help of the bars. We turn two or three and the cage disappears; we get a “big kids bed” like Fiona’s, with a bed rail for the first little while, until we get used to the blissful openness. Lucky kids get the privilege of a cool bunk bed or loft bed, like Laura’s, and when we reach our teens, we graduate to a day bed, and the last stage of young adulthood is spent in that terribly uncomfortable, but perfectly multi-purpose futon.

Ah, the futon. The futon that followed us through college to our first apartment; the futon that acted as a best friend: the one piece of furniture that lasted through move after move, apartment after apartment, bedroom after living room after bedroom. Childhood years bring multiple changes in beds for sure, but I think the most significant jump in one’s stage of maturation is leaving the futon behind.

I got married last summer, and my back has never felt better; I am sleeping better than I ever have (and not because my relationship is boring). We both came into the relationship with our trusty, worn-out futons, and soon realized that if we were going to make this “forever” thing work, the futons had to go. Not quite ready to part with them, our storage locker is at maximum capacity, but we both know that, despite the sentimental attachments we’ve made with our futons, we never want to spend a restless night on them again.

We looked through tons of mattresses from Cymax, and when the queen arrived, it was right then and there when I realized: I am an adult. I am leaving my childhood, my dorm life, my twenties behind, and I am a real live, well-rested adult.

My nieces and nephew will grow and their beds will change along with them, and although I hope to mature in the psychological sense, I’m 5 foot 3 inches with no hope of vertical growth, so on my luscious queen-sized mattress I will stay, happily and comfortably. Forever, even.

Taking a Sentimental Journey via the Television

April 4, 2008 is the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King. I was a child when he was shot on the balcony of a motel in Memphis, Tennessee, but I remember watching the funeral on television five days later. I didn’t know who he was really, except that he was one of the good guys, he had a dream and he spoke out against injustices and inequality. I didn’t understand any of the political nuances until I was much older, but that day, watching Martin Luther King’s funeral on television with my parents, I knew a light in world had gone out.

This was my first experience with how TV lets me peer through the windows of my world into the world around me without having to leave my living room.

One year later, sitting really close to the television—without any dire warnings about going blind—I remember very clearly, watching a man walk on the moon. In the middle of a lengthy, technical explanation about why people float in space, my father stopped talking. We continued watching for a long time in total silence. A man was walking on the moon!

In the early hours of the morning of July 29, 1981, my parents woke my sister and me up to see Lady Diana Spence marry Prince Charles. I barely could keep my eyes open, but I didn’t mind. She was one of us—she had worked for a living, had friends and drove an economy car—and now she was marrying The Prince. I couldn’t sleep through that; I had to witness it with my own eyes.

Another definitive television moment for me occurred on April 19, 1995 when the Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed. Someone had a beef with the way the government handled the Waco and Ruby Ridge incidents, so he bombed a federal building that housed a day care. All these years later, I still feel exactly the same way (very bewildered) as I did when I watched the coverage of Timothy McVeigh’s arrest and trial.

On September 11, 2001, I had the day off. I hadn’t slept very well the night before and so, early in the morning I admitted defeat and turned on the TV. Just in time to see the second plane fly through the second tower. It wasn’t a newscast or a replay; this happened as I watched. I know the world changed for everyone that day, but it felt personal; it felt like being betrayed by a best friend.

When I moved into a place of my own, I duped myself into thinking that I didn’t really watch that much TV and therefore didn’t need one. I was on a tight budget, and while my family did donate enough rec room rejects to keep me from sleeping and sitting on the floor, there were priorities and a television wasn’t one of them. I lasted three weeks, the radio being a poor substitute for Law and Order reruns. On a Sunday dinner visit, I casually asked my parents if they had a television they could spare, and could I please “borrow” it until I could invest in one of my own. They did indeed have one they could lend me—the screen was only marginally bigger than a matchbook and it was black-and-white. It didn’t matter—it was a television and it worked, well, sort of.

One day, as I vacuumed the living room rug with the television on, I realized that, as far away as I was from the TV, I was able to feel the heat emanating from it on my bare arms. I took the hint. I stopped procrastinating and bought a new one. However, when I brought my brand new color TV home, I made an amazing discovery. It would no longer fit on the tall wood hand-me-down plant stand that housed the old black and white. No problem. I sat it on the floor and plugged it in. I lasted three days. I stopped procrastinating and bought a TV stand. It was traditional in style, with cabriole legs, space for a VCR, a cord hole and a rich wood finish. It was perfect. I could once again watch television in comfort (and in color).

Not only was TV a window to the world at large, but it entertained me as well. Just as breaking world news had marked some of the defining moments of my life, so too had weekly TV dramas and comedy shows. Through the years, I was there for all of the most important “last of” episodes: Mash, Seinfeld and Friends. And then there were the television shows that I wouldn’t miss. I don’t mean that if I wasn’t going to be home, then I would tape them. No! I mean that I found them so interesting and entertaining that I had to watch them in person so to speak, when they first aired. I can name them. The Education of Max Bickford with Richard Dreyfuss was about a history professor (played by Dreyfuss) and his adventures as a single parent and recovering alcoholic. It only lasted one season, and I was pretty upset when it wasn’t renewed. I was even more upset when, after two seasons of Joan of Arc was taken off the air. The show was really good television: it was very well written, funny and dealt with spirituality, individuality and other weighty contemporary issues. I enjoyed Six Feet Under for pretty much the same reasons, but at least it wasn’t canceled—it just ended, very satisfactorily, after six seasons.

And then of course, there were the Oscars. Since I am the daughter of a projectionist, I have missed the seeing the live broadcast of the Academy Awards four times since I was eight. I was there (via the magic of television) on February 19, 1974, when a streaker, flashing a peace sign, ran from one side of the stage to the other, behind David Niven who was about to speak into the microphone. My mother became slightly hysterical, urging me to put my hands over my eyes. By the time she got up to change the channel (in the Dark Ages, before remotes), the miscreant had vanished. I was watching in the spring of 1978 when, upon accepting her award the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for her role in Julia, Vanessa Redgrave expressed her support for the Palestinian cause, causing the audience to boo and applaud at the same time. I was there when Adrian Brody kissed Halle Berry, leaving every woman (married or otherwise) watching the Oscars that night wondering (if they had never received one before) when they, too would experience the exhilaration of a just such a knee-bending kiss.

Whenever something goes wrong with the television or the cable provider changes the lineup and messes up all of my pre-programming or they cancel a show that I really enjoyed watching, I threaten to get rid of the TV. I don’t need the aggravation. But then I realize that I’d miss watching the news, breaking stories, old movies, newer movies I’ve seen at the theatre but just have to watch again because the story is so good, and of course The Oscars. Some (TV) habits are too hard to break.

The Top Three Greatest Bad Horror Movies That Would be a Shame to Miss on Your Home Theater System

3. Hellraiser – For some bizarre and inexplicable reason, the overweight gothic girls and the hopeless, bespectacled geeks who love them have rewarded this steaming pile of crap with a modicum of undeserving renown and acclaim. Stretching over three ghoulish hours, Hellraiser provides the average viewer with some of the most hilariously bad acting ever to grace the silver screen, coupled with the most nonsensical dialogue of all time. I recognize the fact that these kinds of horror movies are generally awful, featuring convoluted story lines and brutal one liners, but the fascinating thing about this movie is that it has a decent rating according to most respectable movie websites, as well as a slew of unfortunate people who deem it to be one of the most frightening movies of all time. Of course, I have only ever watched it on an ancient VCR chugging along feverishly, dangerously close to sputtering to its death; the whir of its mechanical bits humming at increasingly louder decibels. In other words, maybe I haven’t given this movie the proper viewing it deserves. This kind of cinematic garbage warrants the real deal; like sitting back in a luxurious Bass Ambassador Home Theater Chair, watching a massive flat screen television and enjoying only the finest Orville Redenbacher which I like to bastardize with ketchup seasoning, butter employed only as an adhesive for the deliciously and dangerously sodium filled flavoring.

Tagline: Satan’s done waitin’.

2. Sleepaway Camp – Sadly, there is not a self respecting movie theatre in the world that would soil their screens with the highly disturbing yet laughably crappy final scene of this complete cow pie of a movie. So it looks like you will have to rent it when and if it ever comes to DVD and play it on your boss home theater system. The plot of this outrageous tale revolves around a troubled young girl named Angela. She is quiet yet seemingly disturbed and suffers endless torment from the other kids at the camp. When mysterious, violent deaths begin to occur, no one would ever suspect young Angela; young Angela who is so quiet, “she could be dead!” You don’t hear that kind of subtle foreshadowing anymore which is really why this movie needs to be enjoyed on a big screen in HD, with surround sound; especially for the revolting climax. For the ending, picture The Crying Game only with phenomenally worse acting and some of the worst special effects of all time; if I had had anything to do with the she-thing creature that exposes itself at the end of this movie professionally I would probably jump off a building. It looked as though a four year old crafted this final terror with MSPaint. The head of the female lead, Angela was sloppily placed atop the neck of the body of a man with absolutely no regard for realism or authenticity. Angela’s head was simply a picture of the lead actresses face contorted into a wicked, unmoving grin, and the body which was of a completely different skin tone was also immobilized in nudity. This is the kind of garbage that needs to be enjoyed in a top of the line home theater; one to rival even Tony Soprano’s.

Tagline: The perfect place to meet young girls might just be the perfect place to die!

1. The Paperboy – This classic features the cinematic stylings of the great Alexandra Paul formerly known as Stephanie Holden from both the original Baywatch and the devastatingly lame (and thankfully short-lived) Baywatch Nights (lasting two seasons, this show featured The Hoff playing a ‘gritty’ private investigator, protecting the beach from the sands by day and the streets by night; apparently neon lights and high-waisted, pleated pants make you ‘gritty’. Who knew?). This gem of an actress plays sweet Melissa Thorpe, a divorced mother of one who moves into her elderly grandmother’s home after she mysteriously dies. Upon arrival, Melissa and her daughter are introduced to young Johnny, a paperboy whose workaholic father seems to never be around to hang out with him. Melissa feels sorry for the young boy and allows him to come over for dinner and to baby sit her daughter, but when Johnny begins to behave strangely and act out violently, Melissa tells him he is no longer welcome in her home. This is when the terror really begins. Johnny goes on a veritable killing spree, murdering all of those who keep him from who he considers his ‘real’ family, i.e. Melissa and her wee daughter. It is quite a sight to behold; watching all of these horrendous actors pretend as though they might really succumb to the wit and strength of a prepubescent, 80 pound paperboy. The kind of completely unbelievable tripe that must be witnessed on the big screen of your home theater.

Tagline: He’s bad news.

How can you possibly deny yourself the pleasure of these films? There is truly nothing more hilarious than a bad movie, so what could be better than a bad movie played in an awesome home theater? Treat yourself to some frightful gems of the late 70s to the early 90s; it’ll be a scream…

These are the People in my Neighborhood (Whether they Like it or Not)

Working on the 18^th floor of a downtown building means two things: 1. riding the elevator is annoying and 2. I have a bird’s eye view of everything that surrounds me. I can say, with little hesitation, that I have become a voyeur – but it’s not my fault. Hundreds of lives are exposed to me daily; some I like, some not so much. Some people I would truly like to meet. They make me feel like, were it not for the panes of glass, the two lanes of traffic, and social decency, we would be pals.

Take, for example, Naked Guy. This isn’t like “Ugly Naked Guy” from Friends; this is a handsome, young, executive-type who simply prefers to complete menial tasks as he was born. I’ve seen him tidy up and wash dishes; oddly enough, he wore gloves for the latter. I envision him to be the type to shout “Gotta run,” as he grabs keys and flies out the door.

Or Preggers: a lovely young woman and her husband, presumably living with her mother. The woman, slight and pixie-like, save for the giant protruding belly that forces her to walk like a duck, finally came home with their bundle of joy, wrapped in neutral yellow to hide the sex. All I’ve seen since are a mass of black hair and a much more comfortable looking mommy, relaxing in the sofa while she is catered to.

There are others who I’ve never really bonded with. The Bad Kid, who threw all his toys out his bedroom window when he was sent there, likely for poor behavior. Or Angry Man, who was either shouting very aggressively at someone, or was channeling his inner rap star, complete with wild arm gestures. My least favorite is the Realtor, who can’t quite sell the corner apartment, due surely to his surly nature; he refuses to wave back at me, no matter how high I jump or frantically I flail my arms.

These people, whether they like it or not, have invited me into their homes. For eight hours every day, I turn my head and peek into the open curtained rooms and visit with my friends. I hope to witness the baby’s progressions through life, or the Realtor’s finalizing handshake. I will, without doubt, be devastated should one of my friends become offended and force me to purchase an observation tool, like a classic Telephoto Lens or a convenient LED Nightlight. Perhaps the surest way to securing my new friendships in advance would be to invest in some Digital Audio Monitors so as to make supportive comments throughout their days. If I really commit myself to these friendships, the baby’s first word could be Cymax.