The Newtonator

And Bob's Your Uncle

2006-09-18T17:35:00.000-04:00

I'll explain the title later, but first I just wanted to reassure everyone that, in spite of having to get up every morning at 6:30, I am still alive. I work. I'm a worker. I have a job.

A job at a school, mind you. This may not sound good, but here's a little perk that will totally blow your mind: snack time. That's right, folks! Working in a place where kids aged from 8 to 18 years go means that snacks are an integral part of the general environment, and boy, they are a godsend. I roll in at 8:00, get some coffee, head to my office, drink the coffee, go down for snack time at 10:00, eat whatever school-lunch-quality-gem they have sitting out there on the tray in the staff room (usually toast, but on Friday it's bacon and eggs--bacon and eggs!), head back up to the office, goof off--i mean work, head back down at 12:45 for my free school lunch, and then try to stick it out until 5:30 or 6:00. It's a beautiful system.

Ok, now on to the title of this post: "And Bob's your uncle." This phrase is repeated at least 4 million times a day by my boss, who is thus far a sane and reasonable human being. However, in wrapping up any sort of spoken progression, such as "Ok, I'm going to go into my office, sit in my chair, get some work done," he will polish the whole thing off with, "And Bob's your uncle." So, in development parlance, a typical sentence would be, "Richey McDaddywarbucks has three kids at the school, we're going to nail him for $10 million, he's going to agree to it because he's got more money than he can possibly spend in a lifetime, [and here we go] and Bob's your uncle." It's the verbal equivalent of brushing one's hands off in a self-satisfied way, and I have to say, it gets really annoying.

And, back to work. Three hours to go. Not that I'm counting.

What is the Canadian Equivalent of "Taps?"

2006-09-08T10:10:00.000-04:00

(Insert dire, somber song here, preferably played by a lone musician standing in a tattered tuxedo on a dark street corner in a cold, drizzling rain.)

I just got a job.

The Horror, The Horror!

2006-08-30T10:57:00.000-04:00

I totally humiliated myself on behalf of our dog this morning (not as rare an occurance as you might think, actually). It's bad enough that we have to walk around with her on her Halti collar since without it she'll pull our arms off chasing squirrels, but she actually caught one of the hapless rodents this morning. As she was trying to throttle the squirrel to death on our back patio at oh, 9:00 a.m. this morning, I was screaming, "NO! Suki! Ephraim!" at full force. The neighbors love me now, and I think I've done a really great job of smoothing over some of the not-so-friendly Canadian-American relations that have been festering here, too.

I would like to point out that the reason we have tens of thousands of squirrels around our house is that there is a strange, bowl-cutted man who comes around with bags of breadcrumbs to feed the hungry throngs. I saw him the other afternoon, joyously flinging handfulls of crusts out to the waiting vermin, and trust me, I narrowed my eyes at him something fierce. He happened to walk by past us just seconds before Suki unleashed her wrath upon the squirrel this morning, and the guy actually came running back to see what was going on. I didn't see him come back--Eph told me about it, as he had watched everything from our bedroom window and couldn't intervene because he was wearing only his underoos (yeah, I know). However, had I been aware that the rat-feeding jackass was behind me, I would have thrust my bleeding pooch into his arms and said, "See? See? DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE? Your hands, the blood is on YOUR HANDS!"

Or maybe not. But I would have wanted to.

We Canadians Know Stuff...Really!

2006-07-23T23:13:00.000-04:00

At intermittent intervals throughout the day, Eph and I say to one another, "Do we really live in Canada? Really?" And the answer appears to be "yes" to that one.

So far, Toronto is really awesome, but we're still getting used to Canada in general. It's deceptive, because you expect things to be identical to the US since for all intents and purposes things are identical (i.e. Starbucks on every corner, hysterical local news stories about the minute risk of getting E. coli poisoning from apple cider), but I am surprised on a daily basis to learn how different everything is.

Case in point: Canadians have a HUGE inferiority complex about not being American. I am not making this up. They have a run-of-the-mill stand-up show on TV that showcases strictly Canadian comics, and all the material is about how Canadians are different and distinct from Americans. This would also explain why the Canadian flag is so prominently displayed on luggage overseas. And, tangentially, it would also explain why wussy American tourists totally sell out and iron those patches on so their stuff doesn't get looted, but that's beside the point. Since we're broke and have none of our stuff with us (it's coming up in August), we watch a lot (A LOT) of television, and shows such as "Canadian Idol" and "Canada's Next Top Model" further reinforce my (possibly--probably?--false) impression. There are requisite clips in each show with one person after the other explaining how much harder and longer Canadians need to work to "make it" in such sterling fields as pop icon and supermodelling.

So, in order to distinguish itself from the US, Canada has chosen to make a name for itself in mindbogglingly annoying stacks of paper work and limitless bureaucracy. We had to get THREE different car inspections to register and insure the Subaru. And, since our customs form was totally incorrectly filled out by the customs officers when we landed at the border in Windsor, we thought we would have to get a 4th inspection and enter into the national Registry of Imported Vehicles for which we would have to pay sh*tloads of money and get minor but expensive alterations done to the car to conform with Canadian auto standards. Only after I called the Registry to ask where the hell our paperwork was did I learn that, since we're in the country on work permits, we don't have to do any of the above. Ah. Information I could have used two weeks and three fun-filled visits to the DMV ago. Cheers, Windsor Customs. You got me. It felt really terrific when the guy at the DMV finally handed over our Ontario license plates (I know, I know) and was like, "Yeah, those idiots in Windsor have no idea what they're doing."

And, for the last rant of the evening, a six-pack of Budweiser costs $10 here, and you have to go to the oh-so-imaginatively named "Beer Store" to get it. If you want good beer, you're in for at least $12. For a SIX-pack. And, there's no price break if you buy a case, it'll just be twice the six-pack amount. And you get slapped with a 15% duty if you bring any alcohol in from the US, so what I'm telling you is this: visit, bring booze, and for the love of God, hide it well. Sure, you could be fined quite stiffly, but that's a risk I'm willing to take.

Go Jays!

2006-07-23T22:41:00.000-04:00

I am now the biggest Blue Jays fan ever to exist. Why, you ask? Because of their stellar skill? Their exemplary sportsmanship? Those smart uniforms? Nope! I'm devoted forever because we went to a game on Friday night and a) they beat the Yankees (Johnny Damon, you are dead to me) and b) everyone in the stadium won a free piece of pizza. Rock ON! The only downside was that, after we scalped two $9 upper-deck tickets for a whopping $25, we arrived at our seats and the people sitting next to us were like, "Did you scalp those? We got four tickets for $10. How much did you pay?" Oh, just shut up.

I learned a lot about Canada and discovered some universal truths about humankind at that game. For instance, people everywhere hate the Yankees. "Yankees suck" is a phrase that really crosses some political and cultural boundaries, and I can't tell you how reassuring it is to have that confirmed once and for all. Similarly, people everywhere are total suckers for free food. Pizza Pizza, which is seemingly the Canadian equivalent of Domino's, has a promotion where if the Jays' pitcher du jour gets seven strike outs, everyone in the stadium wins a free piece of pizza. Well, right there in the 8th, our man (no idea who it was) did everyone a solid and nailed a seventh strike out, and I'll be honest, I haven't cheered that loud and long in quite some time. I'm sure I speak for everybody in the stadium as well. I'm also sure the Pizza Pizza CEO was sitting at home in his smoking jacket screaming profanity at his flat screen, but it's about time some of the little people got a piece of the pie, right? GET IT?

And finally, drunken 20-year-old men are obnoxious. Period. We had the pleasure of sitting in front of four such specimens, and it made me wonder how I survived college without jamming an ice pick into my ear and calling it quits. The running commentary on the state of each guy's beer buzz was enough to send me over the edge, but then they started dipping and actually dribbled spit onto Eph's seat. If I were a totally different person, things could have gotten ugly, but well, you know. It did make me feel better that not only were they the lowest form of fan: "face painters" (and I'm using that Seinfeldian term to refer to the painting of all body parts), but they actually applied the letters with a ROLLER to spell out "Jays" on their chests. And, best part, the "S" was backward.

Um, yeah, if you're trying to locate me tomorrow at lunch time, no dice. I'm going to be here, getting the slice I earned:

Woo Hoo!

2006-07-15T17:14:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday, Ephy Eph! Hope it's the best one yet. It would be nice if we had some friends here in Toronto, but please be assured that Suki wishes you many happy returns.

Heh. You're now "in your thirties."

Visa: It's Everywhere You Want To Be

2006-07-06T20:09:00.000-04:00

Except in flippin' Canada! I just got back from the grocery store, which for all intents and purposes, resembled exactly any given American counterpart, but for one small, miniscule, itsy-bitsy little detail. A certain symbol is conspicuously absent from the list of credit cards accepted, an omission I failed to notice. Yeah, you can pay with Mastercard, you can pay with American Express (which, come on, is totally in last place when it comes to credit cards), but Visa? Nooooooo...

Here's how it happened: I rolled into the parking lot, got a sweet spot, went in, started shopping. Cheese, olive oil, black beans, chips and salsa, the usual. All was well until, in the checkout line, I swiped my card several times and...nothing. The card reader didn't even say "Error" or anything like that. The cashier waited patiently until I looked up, and in a voice that indicated I was a total and complete moron, she said, "We don't take Visa." Being my normal cool, calm self, the panic level went from 0 to approximately 1,000,000 in .23 seconds. I bolted from the store, promising to return with cash.

But in the car, I was presented with a unique dilemma: do I just drive home, tell Eph the store was completely out of food and never darken the door of the store again, or do I actually follow through on my repeated declarations that I would come back? This was a tough one. Laziness vs. people-pleasing (and eventual hunger). I agonized, but ultimately deferred to my overwhelming need for people to like me and went to an ATM. This ploy definitely worked, as evidenced by the warmth in the cashier's tone as she looked at me standing there, holding my cash like a ceremonial offering, and said, "Oh. You're back."

Note to self:

2006-07-04T20:31:00.000-04:00

Learn how to recognize Canadian money by sight and feel. Eph and I really did the ol' U.S. of A. proud at the grocery store yesterday when, in the checkout line, we were unable to give the cashier $.80 in spite of the fact that Eph had an overflowing handful of coins. You'd think we would know to practice at home, given the fact that we just got back from GREECE, but no, not quite.

Other important things to remember: when attempting to wrestle bureacracies in a strange land, do not a) drive your station wagon to your destination and/or b) bring your dog. We attempted to go sign up for health insurance today, and I was like "oh, let's not take the trolley, let's bring the car." Agreeing with me, Eph added, "Ok, Suki, where's your leash?" Forty-five minutes later, having paid $6 for one hour's worth of parking, we were in a line of approximately 1 million other foreigners waiting for their health insurance cards. We bailed after about 5.7 seconds, just in time for a thunderous downpour of rain. We stood under the overhang of the building for a few minutes, being like, "Really? We brought the car? And the dog?" Apparently, the crack fumes from the neighborhood to our south have wafted over to our sublet, but we've got the fan going now and hopefully all will be clearer tomorrow.

So, needless to say, we're in Toronto. Other than the minor snafus with money and general common sense, all is good. The World Cup is huge here, and we're guessing that the Portugal vs. France game tomorrow is going to be insane, since it's pretty much required by law here to fly a Portuguese flag on your car, at your house and on your person at all times.

Who Am I?

2006-06-25T21:01:00.000-04:00

There comes a time in everyone's life when WalMart makes you question your very identity, and for me, it was such a time earlier today. There I was, cruising the health and beauty section, when I said to myself, "Self, you need to get deodorant." I have been using some kind of Suave invisible-we-promise-it-will-also-somehow-make-you-more-attractive stuff, but it had a complete system failure upon encountering June in Georgia. So, I figured I'd go back to the kind I'd used in North Carolina, Arrid Ultra Clear Gel in Morning Clean.

My time with Arrid Ultra Clear Gel in Morning Clean dates back to my college days. An underpaid, overworked undergraduate just trying to make it on the mean walkways of Duke University, I spent a good 30 minutes at Kerr Drug on Ninth Street in Durham trying to find a deodorant/antiperspirant that struck the delicate balance between smelling good and costing little. One whiff of that Morning Clean scent and, "Eureka!" Gold, I tell you, gold. I know what you're thinking, "Gel? GEL? That'll leave streaks all over your shirt, you idiot." Not so, my friends, not so. Just apply, let it dry for a couple of minutes while you brush your teeth, and then proceed with your day. (Insert me brushing my hands together in a "and that's that" motion here.) Also, I tried to switch to the white-but-it-turns-clear-later kind in several different brands, but for some reason my armpits swell up and hurt when I use it. Truth be told, the first time the swelling/hurting happened, I was certain I had developed cancer in my lymph nodes and I had a total nervous breakdown (I won't lie, there were tears) before coming to the realization that, "Oh yeah, I just switched deodorants."

Now, since I've been back in the States, I have not seen the Arrid Ultra Clear Gel in Morning Clean (or any other flavor) on the shelves any of the big box stores, which led me to the nagging suspicion that, oh sweet Lord, it may be discontinued. Such an occurrence wouldn't be the end of the world, just something akin to, oh, say, a major meteor hitting the earth and ending life as we know it. There in the aisle at Wally World, I steeled myself, trying with herculean effort to tear my eyes away from the magnet-like pull of the thousands upon thousands of tubes of Secret on the shelf. Seriously, whatever Secret's parent company is paying to have their product put at eye-level and in copious quantities, it's worth it because it took me about five minutes to recover from the tractor beam of Secret Invisible Solid. Finally, though, I broke through the anti-stink blindess and saw what I was looking for: that familiar, slightly-80's looking royal blue label, the silvery accents, the purple triangle denoting "Morning Clean" scent. But, hot pot of coffee, it was in the men's section. HAVE I BEEN USING MEN'S DEODORANT?

The panic was enough to make me want to rush over to women's section, grab the first thing of Secret I could lay my sweaty hands on, and rush over to the self check-out (which is awesome--you get your own conveyer belt!). But as I stood, trying to catch my breath and make some sense of the identity-shattering truth before me, I noticed that other scents of Arrid Ultra Clear Gel included "Powder" and "Flower Fresh." Now, not that I'm judging, but I really don't think those titles are meant to appeal to men of any persuasion. I gradually stopped gasping for air, relieved but newly outraged at the realization that my cheap antiperspirant is considered a second-class citizen to be placed on a gender-ambiguous section of the shelf. Walmart, you magnificent bastard.

Proud new owners of a...

2006-06-23T18:37:00.000-04:00

Outback
Originally uploaded by TheNewtonator.

...station wagon? Uh, yeah! Let me forstall all why-didn't-you-just-get-a-mini-van comments by saying a pre-emptive "Shut it!" to all detractors. As Dr. Eph says, "It's a Canadian dog car," with all-wheel drive, so we'll hopefully avoid any major wipeouts on the mean winter streets of Toronto. This news is blogworthy only because it's our first major married purchase. In fact, it was so stressful that Eph is outside right now, frantically watering the lawn to relieve the stress.

It's a 1999 with only 20K miles. All right. The asking price was $8,995, and Eph and I resolved to demand $8,500 or walk, but the dude was like "$8,700, take it or leave it," and we were like, "Yeah, sure, great, that works." We drive quite a bargain, my friends. Don't mess with us.

Finally, a HUGE "thank you!" goes out to Donald for arranging it all for us, since the car is in Birmingham. Donald, you are in for some serious free babysitting, and your kid(s) can spit up on Eph anytime.

Beds are Burning

2006-06-14T12:24:00.000-04:00

Yep, in the immortal words of Midnight Oil, "the time has come, to say fair's fair, to pay the rent now, to pay [my] share..."

In other words, I have applied for no less than TWO jobs in the past 24 hours, which means that a) I will hopefully be contributing to the Lytle Financial Fund sometime soon and b) my little heart is breaking. For real. I feel exactly like the woman in this picture...

...and I find it only mildy amusing that it comes from a website oh-so-happily entitled meaningofdepression.com. That's how sad I am.

Don't Do Me Like That

2006-06-04T14:03:00.000-04:00

I have been holding off on getting a haircut for way longer than I care to admit because I was afraid of getting an inadvertant mullet in Athens. (It's the prevailing style, generally coupled with platinum blonde dye jobs and dark, heavy eyebrows, and tempered with some gold chain belts and cowboy boots worn over the pants. Quite a look they've got going there.) So naturally, the first thing on the agenda after we touched down in Atlanta was for me to get a much-needed trim. Well, I got one here in rural Georgia, and I would like to state for the record that at no point in the conversation I had with the stylist did I say the words, "Please make me look like Tom Petty circa the release of "Breakdown." I'm too lazy to juice up the batteries for my camera, and quite frankly I would rather keep those types of photos out of the Google Images sphere, but in the front my hair looks roughly like this:

The good news is that my hair at least has a little more lift than ol' Tom's (does he not know about mousse? Weightless hold, Tom, tons of volume--just squeeze out a gob the size of a golfball and rub it into damp roots). Nonetheless, it's not quite the cut I was looking for. The hairdresser also told me, "If you have any problems, just come on back." Uh, thanks, but after you totally disregarded my painfully specific instructions on what I wanted done, I think maybe I'll keep the hell away from you and your I-still-live-for-the-1970's scissors.

And...Here I Am

2006-05-30T07:47:00.000-04:00

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who appreciate the own-picture and those who don't. All those in the latter category should stop reading now, 'cause it only gets worse from here on out.

I'm Just Reserving "The Newtonator" For Later!

2006-02-10T06:05:00.000-05:00

As the Party in Pangrati will one day be over, I thought I'd reserve this here name and address for the future. No one ever accused me of not being a dork, so deal with it.

Over and out.