 | |
| Love the stitches |
-Strawberry
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Post-iTuesday
-Strawberry
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Post-iTuesday
 | |
| Makin' treads |
Aww, what a lonely guy. I love the motion, how he's leaned back because he's scooting along at a fair clip. One of my favorites.
-Strawberry
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Friday Friends: ALL The Owls
I have a lot of owls. I love them, I can't get enough of them.
When I visited my grandmother's house when I was young I always admired a mirror in my aunt's old bedroom. I don't actually know who the mirror belongs to, but I do hope one day it will be mine. The mirror has a big purple owl painted on it. You can still see the mirror, but the majority of the space is occupied by that big-eyed owl.
Since then, owls sort of crept out of popularity. I still remember loving that mirror, and looking at it in the bedroom every time I would visit.
Recently the surge of owl popularity has risen again, and I eagerly acquired every owl item that I fancied. I've since gotten a lot of owls in my possession, but of course not nearly enough. I got lucky to find that Garden Works was in an owl sort of mood this past Christmas, and I quickly stocked up on lots of fun owl friends.
Here are photos of all the owls I own (minus a few if I've forgotten them) numbered to show where they came from.
-Strawberry
When I visited my grandmother's house when I was young I always admired a mirror in my aunt's old bedroom. I don't actually know who the mirror belongs to, but I do hope one day it will be mine. The mirror has a big purple owl painted on it. You can still see the mirror, but the majority of the space is occupied by that big-eyed owl.
Since then, owls sort of crept out of popularity. I still remember loving that mirror, and looking at it in the bedroom every time I would visit.
Recently the surge of owl popularity has risen again, and I eagerly acquired every owl item that I fancied. I've since gotten a lot of owls in my possession, but of course not nearly enough. I got lucky to find that Garden Works was in an owl sort of mood this past Christmas, and I quickly stocked up on lots of fun owl friends.
Here are photos of all the owls I own (minus a few if I've forgotten them) numbered to show where they came from.
- Little Owlets (Kiwi on the left, me on the right) from Urban Outfitters. These were bought online. They came in identical boxes, so you'd never know which owl you got until you opened it! When Kiwi left at the end of August last year, he took me (the green one) with him as a little reminder. I got to keep the gray one. They kept us company while we were apart.
- Door hanging owl! Brought home for me from Hawaii by my very good friend (who knows about my owl obsession)
- Owl catch-all. Another Urban Outfitters purchase. I went a little crazy one day and bought a lot of things online for when I moved out on my own.
- Tiny owl necklace from Suzi Shier. My mom bought me this one.
- Odd gold owl figure. Thrifted.
- One of the owls from Garden Works sold as Christmas decor. I had a woodland tree theme, and stuck owls, butterflies, twigs and birds in the branches. This fluffy guy was one of them.
- Twig owl, another one from Garden Works. He sits in my peace lily for now.
- Rhinestone owl necklace from Forever 21. Kiwi bought this for me.
- Two small porcelain owl place card holders from Garden Works (on sale after Christmas.)
- Owl ring from Urban Outfitters. The first thing I ever bought from them.
- Owl piggy-bank from Urban Outfitters. Love the colour most of all!
- Sleepy owl painted on a log cut from a Christmas tree. I painted it myself.
- Gold owl necklace on a long chain from Suzy Shier, another one my mom bought me.
- White fluffy owl from Garden Works (also part of my tree decor.)
- Three owl necklace. Gorgeous sparkly owls! This one, Kiwi's sister bought for me and mailed it from New Zealand. I get thousands of compliments on it.
- Big hollow owl necklace with really long chain, from Urban Planet.
- Strange owl carving out of soapstone, it looks like. Thrifted.
-Strawberry
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Move
It started with a look.
Kiwi and I had stepped into the suite for the first time, and gave each other a sideways look that was of mutual appraisal. We both loved the space from the moment we walked under the Mexican plaster ceilings. The masonry wall that greeted us with a fireplace and large hearth, the bar that separated the kitchen from the living space, the small raised area that I immediately hoped to put my office in...
But I am getting ahead of myself.
July 1st, Canada Day, Kiwi got the day off work. My mother and I had spent nearly the entire day previous packing and moving my clothes and kitchen, stacking boxes and boxes of stuff into the back of my dad's pickup. I was sweating, panting, my arms had never ached so much. Another sore reminder of how out-of-shape I am. Our hard work paid off, by having nearly moved half our house in one giant load. With scrapes and bruises to show for it (one large scrape in particular on my mother's behalf, was earned by a hilariously slow fall on the sidewalk beside our house, as she tried to protect our coffee table from hitting the ground). Later that evening, Kiwi and I already having the keys to the new suite, made another two loads with my hatchback. We went to bed that night, I nervous for the events to come the next morning.
At 7:30 my brother arrived and took me to pick up the 1 ton truck I had rented for 4 hours. I have never in my life driven such a large vehicle. I have had my fair share of experiences in different automotives, but nothing of this caliber. After the associate had backed out the truck, I was told to hop in and check the kilometers and gas level. With nothing more than a quick overview of the truck's features, I was sent on my way, alone; my brother having already gone to await my arrival and assist me with backing up the leviathan that was the 1 ton truck.
For the size of the truck, you'd never know it. Well, maybe on turns (as I found out on the first one I took overtaking the sidewalk a bit) but I was enjoying my otherwise smooth trip back to my house. Avoiding the quickest route that involved a giant hill (where a cement truck had lost control of it's brakes a few months previous) I took the long route and arrived unscathed and giddy at my accomplishment.
Kiwi and his friend Arsh, were more than amazing. Moving all the heavy and awkward pieces of furniture, my brother and I were left with organizing and stabilizing everything inside the beast. With less than half the truck bed full, I realised that a 1 ton truck probably wasn't necessary afterall. Not sure what the alternative would have been, though.
Another trip in the bouncy cab of the truck to our new suite, the narrow street offered little assistance with reversing into a small driveway. As I was pulling the nose of the truck up just past the rear of a gray car, a man walked into my view (our new neighbour and owner of said car) and asked me (as I was reversing) if I was new to the neighbourhood. "Yes," I replied hastily, "Welcome to the neighbourhood!" his thick accent cooed back, "Oh! Thank you!" as I cranked the wheel tight and shimmied past his car.
Kiwi and Arsh were left alone as my brother had other matters to attend to, and we finished the move in record time. It took them no time to move the rest of the furniture into the suite already brimming with stuff. We locked up and I set off to return the truck.
Arsh and Kiwi walked down to the local restaurant, where we were going to treat Arsh to lunch to thank him for all his fantastic work. I took the truck for one last spin down to the rental office. I returned the truck with an hour to spare, and the girl working there praised me for doing so. She did a quick sweep of the truck, read the kilometers and stated with fondness that she was not going to charge me for the gas as we had traveled a very short distance and I had been so punctual. I beamed with pride.
Now, without my brother's assistance I was left stranded at the office. The girl working there told me there was a bus that could take me to meet up with Kiwi and Arsh, and it was only a 2 minute walk down the street. The 157, she said. So off I set. A ways down the road, I saw a bus speed past me with the number 159. Oh, well that can't be my bus I thought and trudged down to the bus stop. The sign above me read that there were only two buses that stopped here: the 158 and the 159. I thought maybe the 157 must make a turn farther up the street, so it wouldn't stop at this one. I figured the bus stop for the 157 must be a short ways, so I set off again on the street. I had been walking a fair distance before approaching another bus stop that read the same thing: 158, 159. I begrudgingly hopped on the next 159 that stopped at the skytrain. A quick one-stop trip away by skytrain, I arrived at the restaurant sweaty and exhausted. After lunch, Arsh departed and Kiwi and I took a bus back to our old suite to pick up the last of our things.
We squashed as much as we could into the little Kia hatchback, having a small mishap with a bottle of soy sauce. At 4pm, we were finally done outside. Kiwi and I began to slowly shuffle things about the suite, still exhausted, we managed to set up my office and the living room area. I also washed 3 loads of laundry that included our sheets. By 9:30 we both could feel the tiredness sink in. We went to bed early that night in fresh sheets.
Fresh sheets, and a fresh start.
-Strawberry
Kiwi and I had stepped into the suite for the first time, and gave each other a sideways look that was of mutual appraisal. We both loved the space from the moment we walked under the Mexican plaster ceilings. The masonry wall that greeted us with a fireplace and large hearth, the bar that separated the kitchen from the living space, the small raised area that I immediately hoped to put my office in...
But I am getting ahead of myself.
July 1st, Canada Day, Kiwi got the day off work. My mother and I had spent nearly the entire day previous packing and moving my clothes and kitchen, stacking boxes and boxes of stuff into the back of my dad's pickup. I was sweating, panting, my arms had never ached so much. Another sore reminder of how out-of-shape I am. Our hard work paid off, by having nearly moved half our house in one giant load. With scrapes and bruises to show for it (one large scrape in particular on my mother's behalf, was earned by a hilariously slow fall on the sidewalk beside our house, as she tried to protect our coffee table from hitting the ground). Later that evening, Kiwi and I already having the keys to the new suite, made another two loads with my hatchback. We went to bed that night, I nervous for the events to come the next morning.
At 7:30 my brother arrived and took me to pick up the 1 ton truck I had rented for 4 hours. I have never in my life driven such a large vehicle. I have had my fair share of experiences in different automotives, but nothing of this caliber. After the associate had backed out the truck, I was told to hop in and check the kilometers and gas level. With nothing more than a quick overview of the truck's features, I was sent on my way, alone; my brother having already gone to await my arrival and assist me with backing up the leviathan that was the 1 ton truck.
For the size of the truck, you'd never know it. Well, maybe on turns (as I found out on the first one I took overtaking the sidewalk a bit) but I was enjoying my otherwise smooth trip back to my house. Avoiding the quickest route that involved a giant hill (where a cement truck had lost control of it's brakes a few months previous) I took the long route and arrived unscathed and giddy at my accomplishment.
Kiwi and his friend Arsh, were more than amazing. Moving all the heavy and awkward pieces of furniture, my brother and I were left with organizing and stabilizing everything inside the beast. With less than half the truck bed full, I realised that a 1 ton truck probably wasn't necessary afterall. Not sure what the alternative would have been, though.
Another trip in the bouncy cab of the truck to our new suite, the narrow street offered little assistance with reversing into a small driveway. As I was pulling the nose of the truck up just past the rear of a gray car, a man walked into my view (our new neighbour and owner of said car) and asked me (as I was reversing) if I was new to the neighbourhood. "Yes," I replied hastily, "Welcome to the neighbourhood!" his thick accent cooed back, "Oh! Thank you!" as I cranked the wheel tight and shimmied past his car.
Kiwi and Arsh were left alone as my brother had other matters to attend to, and we finished the move in record time. It took them no time to move the rest of the furniture into the suite already brimming with stuff. We locked up and I set off to return the truck.
Arsh and Kiwi walked down to the local restaurant, where we were going to treat Arsh to lunch to thank him for all his fantastic work. I took the truck for one last spin down to the rental office. I returned the truck with an hour to spare, and the girl working there praised me for doing so. She did a quick sweep of the truck, read the kilometers and stated with fondness that she was not going to charge me for the gas as we had traveled a very short distance and I had been so punctual. I beamed with pride.
Now, without my brother's assistance I was left stranded at the office. The girl working there told me there was a bus that could take me to meet up with Kiwi and Arsh, and it was only a 2 minute walk down the street. The 157, she said. So off I set. A ways down the road, I saw a bus speed past me with the number 159. Oh, well that can't be my bus I thought and trudged down to the bus stop. The sign above me read that there were only two buses that stopped here: the 158 and the 159. I thought maybe the 157 must make a turn farther up the street, so it wouldn't stop at this one. I figured the bus stop for the 157 must be a short ways, so I set off again on the street. I had been walking a fair distance before approaching another bus stop that read the same thing: 158, 159. I begrudgingly hopped on the next 159 that stopped at the skytrain. A quick one-stop trip away by skytrain, I arrived at the restaurant sweaty and exhausted. After lunch, Arsh departed and Kiwi and I took a bus back to our old suite to pick up the last of our things.
We squashed as much as we could into the little Kia hatchback, having a small mishap with a bottle of soy sauce. At 4pm, we were finally done outside. Kiwi and I began to slowly shuffle things about the suite, still exhausted, we managed to set up my office and the living room area. I also washed 3 loads of laundry that included our sheets. By 9:30 we both could feel the tiredness sink in. We went to bed early that night in fresh sheets.
Fresh sheets, and a fresh start.
-Strawberry
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Day of Days
Part #1: Departing
This year, for my first (27th) birthday outside of my native New Zealand, Strawberry, in her infinite kindness, treated me to a day of firsts. While most of the firsts were unintentional, and some were firsts even for the eloquent redhead herself, Saturday the 2nd of July became quite the momentous day. We had moved house the day before, which I've no doubt Strawberry will be eagerly posting about soon, so with the new place scarcely organized we took a brief look at the pile of boxes and quickly departed.
Actually, the departing wasn't quite so quick as that. First, we had to go over the technicalities of securing the hatch on Strawberry's car half-way down so as not to block the view of fellow movie goers later in the day. More on the drive-in later, but I will say that this particular model of hatch-back was not designed with the drive-in movie goer in mind and figuring out how to tie it down is quite the ordeal. It was a rather irritating experience but not so much as banging my head for the third time in three days.
Part #2: Lunch
Our first stop had intended to be the Lost In The 50's diner (where the opening scene of Hot Rod takes place, among a couple of other films), however we were dismayed to find it quite closed. Hungry, and somewhat pressed for time to make our first appointment a good hour's drive from there, we determined to keep a look out for anywhere decent, alas it wasn't to be and we ended up at a McDonald's not ten minutes drive from our destination.
I like McDonald's, I really do. Not just the food, I like the screaming kids and sticky floors and flustered staff, the stressed manager who moves at superhuman speed and the seven dissatisfied customers all waiting impatiently to talk (yell at) him because they were short a fry or something. Not a pleasant environment, closer more to hell actually, but you know what to expect when you walk in so you might as well try and enjoy it. Still, even for someone who takes a modicum of humor in the chaos that is your average Micky D's, there's always something new that can grate at your soul, as Strawberry and I discovered the moment we entered.
On the other side of the counter, off to the side where nothing in particular was occurring (as opposed to everywhere else behind the counter which was the apocalypse) stood a shrill sounding manager who's conversation dominated even the regular hustle and bustle of a fast food restaurant. The young woman, who we didn't realize was the manager until several minutes later, shrieked at the person standing right next to her in an otherwise perfectly friendly manner. I certainly appreciate that you have to raise your voice in order to communicate in a busy kitchen, even the customers have to use several decibels above their indoor voice to place an order, but even when we took our seats at the far opposite end of the building we could hear her banshee's cry.
Part #3: "Okay, so it feels like razor blades..."
Strawberry's birthday present, which we had talked about for some months and I had thought about for some years, was a tattoo. The design I had decided on was a variation of the classic "Made In New Zealand" logo. Rather than grab a needle, some ink and take a whirl at it ourselves we aired on the side of caution and drove to Craftsman Tattoos in White Rock, right on the main road and overlooking the ocean. After a short wait I was lead into another room where the incessant buzzing of a needle made its way around a heavily painted woman's shoulder blade. After a quick clean, I lay down and the friendly artist went to work, but not before warning me of the pain to come.
Razor blades was an overstatement which the artist soon corrected, telling me it felt more like a burning and/or itching sensation. There wasn't much sensational about it, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as I had initially thought. Thinking I'd bought myself some credit by not wincing, nor once shedding a tear, I'm sure all tough guy points earned were soon quashed as I spent the bulk of my forty minutes under the needle talking almost exclusively about Strawberry. It was an altogether pleasant experience, I do wish there had been enough room to take pictures during the operation but that's hardly a complaint toward the work, which as long as I take care of it properly will come out exactly as planned.
Part #4: What We Want, and What We Got.
With quite some time left to kill before our movie began (roughly 5 hours) Strawberry and I returned to familiar ground, all be it briefly. Not far along from White Rock, near the Peace Arch border crossing, is a small road along the coast, home to small beach houses and a lot of over grown grass. Never having been more than a few hundred meters we set out to explore a little further. As we continued up the road the beach houses fell away and turned to piles of garbage, passing through a small bone yard of unused (see: probably stolen) vehicles and eventually into a peculiar little community with two churches and sparse housing.
An uneasy feeling had washed over Strawberry early on, but at my insistence we pressed on until I too felt the strange and peculiar vibe and we turned back in a church car park. Curious about one car in particular, we slowed to a stop midway through the bone yard of dead cars and with my camera out the window began taking rather shoddy pictures. The one good picture, taken specifically, was of a white sedan with reflectors along the bumper, looking very much like a police car. Putting my arm out the window again we heard the sudden and rage fueled (also, possibly alcohol fueled) yelling of a man who I assume was shirtless screaming "What do yeh want?!" in our direction. Strawberry put her foot down as we quickly sped away, the engine on the small hatch back revving loudly, which to our delighted surprise wasn't coupled with the sound of a shotgun peppering the tail lights.
Part #5: Killing Time
Having had our first attempt to waste time dashed by an angry guy who's probably appeared on both Jerry Springer and Cops (at the same time) we ventured onward, well away from the area. After a brief detour through farm land the highway appeared, and a short time later we arrived at the drive-in. Curiously we drove up the quiet road, behind the large looming screen, cautiously paranoid of any more explosive outbursts from peevy locals. Without a soul in sight and the complex very much locked Strawberry pulled a U-turn and we headed toward the near-by A&W restaurant.
For those of you unfamiliar, A&W is a fast food joint famous mostly for their root beer. Not particularly hungry we settled on a root beer float each. A short debate ensued as to whether the guy who served us looked like the character Blaine from 1986's Pretty In Pink (he totally did), after which we sat leisurely and enjoyed the warm sun beaming through the window. Roughly half an hour had passed when a 50-something year old woman parked her near identical car (including the exact same numberplate surround) one space over from Strawberry's. Much to our amusement, upon her return she stood with one hand full of food about half a foot from our car, pressing her alarm button adamantly and wondering why her car wouldn't unlock.
Shortly after the woman disappeared to parts unknown in her clone car, a stern looking grey haired police officer marched with a determined pace across the car park. Standing around ten feet tall with dark glasses and a military style hair cut he appeared to keep more crap on his belt than Batman. I swear, the guy had so much stuff on him he had to keep his gun wrapped around his thigh. Where I come from the cops don't even carry guns, so it's quite a sight to see a fellow stomping around looking like a heavily armed one-man band.
"Is that your red car outside?" the officer's voice boomed as he cast a shadow over Strawberry and myself. Of course, it wasn't, and he went on his merry way. The issue had been the car was parked in a spot for disabled persons, without a tag. Ironically, as we were leaving, we saw the occupants of said red car, I assume the officer let them off with a warning as they both wobbled awkwardly around.
Picking an arbitrary direction we continued onward in search of nothing in particular. Pulling into a quaint suburban neighborhood, which had every Stepfordesque cliche one could hope for, bar the white picket fence, we stopped at near by park. I'd spied a wooden bridge from the road and we became excited at the photographic possibilities. Exiting the car we were off to a good start, there was a small grassy area with a large rock embedded with the park's name on a plaque, a picnic table and two large signs on either side of the grassy area stating the park rules. No motor vehicles, etc. Lining the back of the small area was a forest ready to be explored and right smack in the middle sat the ever inviting bridge, we ventured forth.
And that was it. The bridge followed over to a small gravel path that ran behind a fence, behind some houses and finished at a dead end street. For all the signs and rules the entire park consisted of a grass patch, a rock, a table and a bridge. If you wanted to take a motor vehicle in the park and break the rules, you certainly could, but you wouldn't get very far.
Part #6: The Cost of Doing Business
Continuing on down the Frasier Highway it wasn't long before we passed an honest to goodness lemonade stand. Four kids with colourful signs stood offering both lemonade and iced tea, Strawberry immediately got excited and broke the road rules in order to return back there as quickly as possible. I sat in a quiet state of disbelief, having never actually seen a lemonade stand outside of the movies, and upon arrival I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that it was one of the greatest things I had ever seen.
Crossing the road quickly (but carefully!) the children appeared slightly bewildered and perhaps even a little frightened at our wild enthusiasm. For the very fair price of 75cents each we purchased a lemonade and ice tea respectively. The young lad took care of the lemonade, filling it about a quarter of the way and handing it to me with such pride I didn't have the heart to complain. Strawberry, in a bout of spontaneous education handed one of the girls $2 and asked them to work out the change themselves. Much umming and hmming ensued until they worked it out, at which point Strawberry let them keep it as a tip which sent all four of them into a cheerful dance.
As they lined up for a photograph another young lad arrived on a bike. While his knee was scratched from a recent loss of control the sign advertising their lemonade stand was well intact, Strawberry and I were more than a little impressed at their marketing plan. When asked what they planned to do with the money, they informed us matter of factly that sometimes they give it to charity "but this time, we're keeping it for ourselves!"
Part #7: Aldergrove
Enticed by a shady looking bowling alley Strawberry made another stop, this time in the small town of Aldergrove that surrounds the highway. Parking a couple of blocks away we wandered the eerily quiet streets, all be it to the sound of through traffic ripping down the main road. A couple of old second hand stores and at least one furniture place appeared to be going out of business, in fact the only place in town that appeared to have any semblance of booming business was a semi-busy car/dog wash. Even the local bar had one or two cars out front, and this was around 5pm on a Saturday night.
Strawberry, having worked in one, has a curious interest in bowling alleys. Not that I'm complaining, it's much more interesting and entertaining than my habit of examining people's kitchen cabinets. The windowless building sported black walls that matched the dark doorway. I expressed my concern for what may be on the other side, images of large and easily irritated bikers boggled through my over active brain. With Strawberry egging me on, I opened the door.
It was dead. The two staff members on duty leaned lazily against the bar watching some garbage movie and smiled as if we were the first people they'd seen in weeks. We walked in slowly expecting something else, or someone else, but there was not a soul to be seen. Without ten pin, we tried our hand at the five pin game and Strawberry trounced me by 7 points. Returning our shoes, but keeping the socks which we were glad to learn weren't renters, Strawberry and I walked casually back to the car happy in the knowledge we'd successfully murdered the last 4 hours.
Part #8: Grease
Like the neighborhoods with white picket fences, and lemonade stands, a drive-in movie theater was one of those classic North American stereotypes I'd only ever experienced through fiction. An hour before they were due to open there was already a 30-40 car line up. Children played giddily atop the back of their father's trucks and staff flew by the line in a fit of lateness. It wasn't long before they let us enter, and it was perfection down to the smallest detail.
After paying the small price of $25 to enter (as opposed to $30+ at a regular cinema) we picked our spot, with plenty to choose from. Nearer the front end we parked and set up, raising the hatch as rehearsed and securing it midway. Strawberry took charge of laying out the assortment of cushions and blankets and we made ourselves comfortable. We sat starring at the enormous blank screen for several minutes as other patrons drove in and made, what were more often than not terrible, attempts at parking.
Parking at the drive-in isn't a terribly complex concept, however as with anything to do when humans and cars are combined even the simplest maneuver can turn into a riotous debacle. One woman, for example, proudly parked her large 4x4 in the front spaces, clearly marked for lower cars. Another obnoxious prat, who had obviously not read the rules, parked their car and took up another space with lawn chairs. Fortunately the idiotic and inconsiderate actions of a few were swiftly put to a stop by the all seeing staff, who ran frantically back and forth among the cars in search of the slightest infraction.
The concession stand was a sight in itself, with a friendly old man out front making balloon animals to boot. The menu had everything you'd expect, overly large portions of everything, foot long hot dogs and the local touch, good gooey poutine. With a hotdog each, a medium sized (apparently) coke and a tub of poutine Strawberry made our way back to the car, and what followed was a combination of hilarity, potential disaster and extraordinary luck.
Getting into the trunk/boot of a small hatch back is quite the trick, especially without banging your head (which we both did). Getting into the trunk filled with cushions and hand fulls of food is something even Copperfield would find challenging. Somehow, even with my own personal tendency to routinely spill things, we managed to work our way in and sit, somewhat awkwardly, without letting a drop hit the floor. A rogue spot of cheese or two may have found it's way to a piece of clothing here and there, but over all the poorly thought out eating arrangements worked out surprisingly well.
Five minutes before the movie began we packed our rubbish into the small plastic bag provided by the drive-in (very clever) and tuned in the car radio to the theater's own frequency. It was a sellout night, the DJ told us, and announced the evenings three movies, the final of which would be ending at 4.15am. Not quite that dedicated to cinema we determined to *maybe* stay for two, but neither of us were particularly interested in the second film anyway.
There were no trailers, only a small advertisement for the concession stand followed by a strange video informing us of the slowly dying trend of the drive-in cinema. The 3-4 minute video followed a montage of closed cinemas to the tune of intense melodramatic music, I began to wonder if they were about to ask for a just a dollar a day to sponsor them. It all seemed rather unnecessary, given we were already there it would have served better showing the video to people who had yet to try out the drive-in experience. The first film began quickly afterward and the audience, I'm sure, soon forgot all about it.
With an hour or so's drive, in the rain no less, back home, we decided not to stick around for the second film. We did however stay for the vintage style concession stand ads with dancing food, including a hotdog leaping into a hotdog bun. The audience, Strawberry included, all honked wildly on their car horns every time that cartoon hotdog made it's suggestive jump.
Part #9: And Now, My Final Thought
Most days are good, certainly better than average, such is life with someone as consistently lovable and charming as Strawberry. Every weekday I look forward to the moment she arrives to pick me up from work, and every weekend I'm practically jubilant to be the one lazily sleeping in beside her. Then, there are days like Saturday the 2nd of July. Days like the day we met, or our first date. That time at Grouse Mountain or that one summer's afternoon at Allouette Lake.
It's days like those that you know, even while they're happening, will make you smile forever.
This year, for my first (27th) birthday outside of my native New Zealand, Strawberry, in her infinite kindness, treated me to a day of firsts. While most of the firsts were unintentional, and some were firsts even for the eloquent redhead herself, Saturday the 2nd of July became quite the momentous day. We had moved house the day before, which I've no doubt Strawberry will be eagerly posting about soon, so with the new place scarcely organized we took a brief look at the pile of boxes and quickly departed.
Actually, the departing wasn't quite so quick as that. First, we had to go over the technicalities of securing the hatch on Strawberry's car half-way down so as not to block the view of fellow movie goers later in the day. More on the drive-in later, but I will say that this particular model of hatch-back was not designed with the drive-in movie goer in mind and figuring out how to tie it down is quite the ordeal. It was a rather irritating experience but not so much as banging my head for the third time in three days.
Part #2: Lunch
Our first stop had intended to be the Lost In The 50's diner (where the opening scene of Hot Rod takes place, among a couple of other films), however we were dismayed to find it quite closed. Hungry, and somewhat pressed for time to make our first appointment a good hour's drive from there, we determined to keep a look out for anywhere decent, alas it wasn't to be and we ended up at a McDonald's not ten minutes drive from our destination.
I like McDonald's, I really do. Not just the food, I like the screaming kids and sticky floors and flustered staff, the stressed manager who moves at superhuman speed and the seven dissatisfied customers all waiting impatiently to talk (yell at) him because they were short a fry or something. Not a pleasant environment, closer more to hell actually, but you know what to expect when you walk in so you might as well try and enjoy it. Still, even for someone who takes a modicum of humor in the chaos that is your average Micky D's, there's always something new that can grate at your soul, as Strawberry and I discovered the moment we entered.
On the other side of the counter, off to the side where nothing in particular was occurring (as opposed to everywhere else behind the counter which was the apocalypse) stood a shrill sounding manager who's conversation dominated even the regular hustle and bustle of a fast food restaurant. The young woman, who we didn't realize was the manager until several minutes later, shrieked at the person standing right next to her in an otherwise perfectly friendly manner. I certainly appreciate that you have to raise your voice in order to communicate in a busy kitchen, even the customers have to use several decibels above their indoor voice to place an order, but even when we took our seats at the far opposite end of the building we could hear her banshee's cry.
Part #3: "Okay, so it feels like razor blades..."
Strawberry's birthday present, which we had talked about for some months and I had thought about for some years, was a tattoo. The design I had decided on was a variation of the classic "Made In New Zealand" logo. Rather than grab a needle, some ink and take a whirl at it ourselves we aired on the side of caution and drove to Craftsman Tattoos in White Rock, right on the main road and overlooking the ocean. After a short wait I was lead into another room where the incessant buzzing of a needle made its way around a heavily painted woman's shoulder blade. After a quick clean, I lay down and the friendly artist went to work, but not before warning me of the pain to come.
Razor blades was an overstatement which the artist soon corrected, telling me it felt more like a burning and/or itching sensation. There wasn't much sensational about it, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as I had initially thought. Thinking I'd bought myself some credit by not wincing, nor once shedding a tear, I'm sure all tough guy points earned were soon quashed as I spent the bulk of my forty minutes under the needle talking almost exclusively about Strawberry. It was an altogether pleasant experience, I do wish there had been enough room to take pictures during the operation but that's hardly a complaint toward the work, which as long as I take care of it properly will come out exactly as planned.
Part #4: What We Want, and What We Got.
With quite some time left to kill before our movie began (roughly 5 hours) Strawberry and I returned to familiar ground, all be it briefly. Not far along from White Rock, near the Peace Arch border crossing, is a small road along the coast, home to small beach houses and a lot of over grown grass. Never having been more than a few hundred meters we set out to explore a little further. As we continued up the road the beach houses fell away and turned to piles of garbage, passing through a small bone yard of unused (see: probably stolen) vehicles and eventually into a peculiar little community with two churches and sparse housing.
An uneasy feeling had washed over Strawberry early on, but at my insistence we pressed on until I too felt the strange and peculiar vibe and we turned back in a church car park. Curious about one car in particular, we slowed to a stop midway through the bone yard of dead cars and with my camera out the window began taking rather shoddy pictures. The one good picture, taken specifically, was of a white sedan with reflectors along the bumper, looking very much like a police car. Putting my arm out the window again we heard the sudden and rage fueled (also, possibly alcohol fueled) yelling of a man who I assume was shirtless screaming "What do yeh want?!" in our direction. Strawberry put her foot down as we quickly sped away, the engine on the small hatch back revving loudly, which to our delighted surprise wasn't coupled with the sound of a shotgun peppering the tail lights.
Part #5: Killing Time
Having had our first attempt to waste time dashed by an angry guy who's probably appeared on both Jerry Springer and Cops (at the same time) we ventured onward, well away from the area. After a brief detour through farm land the highway appeared, and a short time later we arrived at the drive-in. Curiously we drove up the quiet road, behind the large looming screen, cautiously paranoid of any more explosive outbursts from peevy locals. Without a soul in sight and the complex very much locked Strawberry pulled a U-turn and we headed toward the near-by A&W restaurant.
For those of you unfamiliar, A&W is a fast food joint famous mostly for their root beer. Not particularly hungry we settled on a root beer float each. A short debate ensued as to whether the guy who served us looked like the character Blaine from 1986's Pretty In Pink (he totally did), after which we sat leisurely and enjoyed the warm sun beaming through the window. Roughly half an hour had passed when a 50-something year old woman parked her near identical car (including the exact same numberplate surround) one space over from Strawberry's. Much to our amusement, upon her return she stood with one hand full of food about half a foot from our car, pressing her alarm button adamantly and wondering why her car wouldn't unlock.
Shortly after the woman disappeared to parts unknown in her clone car, a stern looking grey haired police officer marched with a determined pace across the car park. Standing around ten feet tall with dark glasses and a military style hair cut he appeared to keep more crap on his belt than Batman. I swear, the guy had so much stuff on him he had to keep his gun wrapped around his thigh. Where I come from the cops don't even carry guns, so it's quite a sight to see a fellow stomping around looking like a heavily armed one-man band.
"Is that your red car outside?" the officer's voice boomed as he cast a shadow over Strawberry and myself. Of course, it wasn't, and he went on his merry way. The issue had been the car was parked in a spot for disabled persons, without a tag. Ironically, as we were leaving, we saw the occupants of said red car, I assume the officer let them off with a warning as they both wobbled awkwardly around.
Picking an arbitrary direction we continued onward in search of nothing in particular. Pulling into a quaint suburban neighborhood, which had every Stepfordesque cliche one could hope for, bar the white picket fence, we stopped at near by park. I'd spied a wooden bridge from the road and we became excited at the photographic possibilities. Exiting the car we were off to a good start, there was a small grassy area with a large rock embedded with the park's name on a plaque, a picnic table and two large signs on either side of the grassy area stating the park rules. No motor vehicles, etc. Lining the back of the small area was a forest ready to be explored and right smack in the middle sat the ever inviting bridge, we ventured forth.
And that was it. The bridge followed over to a small gravel path that ran behind a fence, behind some houses and finished at a dead end street. For all the signs and rules the entire park consisted of a grass patch, a rock, a table and a bridge. If you wanted to take a motor vehicle in the park and break the rules, you certainly could, but you wouldn't get very far.
Part #6: The Cost of Doing Business
Continuing on down the Frasier Highway it wasn't long before we passed an honest to goodness lemonade stand. Four kids with colourful signs stood offering both lemonade and iced tea, Strawberry immediately got excited and broke the road rules in order to return back there as quickly as possible. I sat in a quiet state of disbelief, having never actually seen a lemonade stand outside of the movies, and upon arrival I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that it was one of the greatest things I had ever seen.
Crossing the road quickly (but carefully!) the children appeared slightly bewildered and perhaps even a little frightened at our wild enthusiasm. For the very fair price of 75cents each we purchased a lemonade and ice tea respectively. The young lad took care of the lemonade, filling it about a quarter of the way and handing it to me with such pride I didn't have the heart to complain. Strawberry, in a bout of spontaneous education handed one of the girls $2 and asked them to work out the change themselves. Much umming and hmming ensued until they worked it out, at which point Strawberry let them keep it as a tip which sent all four of them into a cheerful dance.
As they lined up for a photograph another young lad arrived on a bike. While his knee was scratched from a recent loss of control the sign advertising their lemonade stand was well intact, Strawberry and I were more than a little impressed at their marketing plan. When asked what they planned to do with the money, they informed us matter of factly that sometimes they give it to charity "but this time, we're keeping it for ourselves!"
Part #7: Aldergrove
Enticed by a shady looking bowling alley Strawberry made another stop, this time in the small town of Aldergrove that surrounds the highway. Parking a couple of blocks away we wandered the eerily quiet streets, all be it to the sound of through traffic ripping down the main road. A couple of old second hand stores and at least one furniture place appeared to be going out of business, in fact the only place in town that appeared to have any semblance of booming business was a semi-busy car/dog wash. Even the local bar had one or two cars out front, and this was around 5pm on a Saturday night.
Strawberry, having worked in one, has a curious interest in bowling alleys. Not that I'm complaining, it's much more interesting and entertaining than my habit of examining people's kitchen cabinets. The windowless building sported black walls that matched the dark doorway. I expressed my concern for what may be on the other side, images of large and easily irritated bikers boggled through my over active brain. With Strawberry egging me on, I opened the door.
It was dead. The two staff members on duty leaned lazily against the bar watching some garbage movie and smiled as if we were the first people they'd seen in weeks. We walked in slowly expecting something else, or someone else, but there was not a soul to be seen. Without ten pin, we tried our hand at the five pin game and Strawberry trounced me by 7 points. Returning our shoes, but keeping the socks which we were glad to learn weren't renters, Strawberry and I walked casually back to the car happy in the knowledge we'd successfully murdered the last 4 hours.
Part #8: Grease
Like the neighborhoods with white picket fences, and lemonade stands, a drive-in movie theater was one of those classic North American stereotypes I'd only ever experienced through fiction. An hour before they were due to open there was already a 30-40 car line up. Children played giddily atop the back of their father's trucks and staff flew by the line in a fit of lateness. It wasn't long before they let us enter, and it was perfection down to the smallest detail.
After paying the small price of $25 to enter (as opposed to $30+ at a regular cinema) we picked our spot, with plenty to choose from. Nearer the front end we parked and set up, raising the hatch as rehearsed and securing it midway. Strawberry took charge of laying out the assortment of cushions and blankets and we made ourselves comfortable. We sat starring at the enormous blank screen for several minutes as other patrons drove in and made, what were more often than not terrible, attempts at parking.
Parking at the drive-in isn't a terribly complex concept, however as with anything to do when humans and cars are combined even the simplest maneuver can turn into a riotous debacle. One woman, for example, proudly parked her large 4x4 in the front spaces, clearly marked for lower cars. Another obnoxious prat, who had obviously not read the rules, parked their car and took up another space with lawn chairs. Fortunately the idiotic and inconsiderate actions of a few were swiftly put to a stop by the all seeing staff, who ran frantically back and forth among the cars in search of the slightest infraction.
The concession stand was a sight in itself, with a friendly old man out front making balloon animals to boot. The menu had everything you'd expect, overly large portions of everything, foot long hot dogs and the local touch, good gooey poutine. With a hotdog each, a medium sized (apparently) coke and a tub of poutine Strawberry made our way back to the car, and what followed was a combination of hilarity, potential disaster and extraordinary luck.
Getting into the trunk/boot of a small hatch back is quite the trick, especially without banging your head (which we both did). Getting into the trunk filled with cushions and hand fulls of food is something even Copperfield would find challenging. Somehow, even with my own personal tendency to routinely spill things, we managed to work our way in and sit, somewhat awkwardly, without letting a drop hit the floor. A rogue spot of cheese or two may have found it's way to a piece of clothing here and there, but over all the poorly thought out eating arrangements worked out surprisingly well.
Five minutes before the movie began we packed our rubbish into the small plastic bag provided by the drive-in (very clever) and tuned in the car radio to the theater's own frequency. It was a sellout night, the DJ told us, and announced the evenings three movies, the final of which would be ending at 4.15am. Not quite that dedicated to cinema we determined to *maybe* stay for two, but neither of us were particularly interested in the second film anyway.
There were no trailers, only a small advertisement for the concession stand followed by a strange video informing us of the slowly dying trend of the drive-in cinema. The 3-4 minute video followed a montage of closed cinemas to the tune of intense melodramatic music, I began to wonder if they were about to ask for a just a dollar a day to sponsor them. It all seemed rather unnecessary, given we were already there it would have served better showing the video to people who had yet to try out the drive-in experience. The first film began quickly afterward and the audience, I'm sure, soon forgot all about it.
With an hour or so's drive, in the rain no less, back home, we decided not to stick around for the second film. We did however stay for the vintage style concession stand ads with dancing food, including a hotdog leaping into a hotdog bun. The audience, Strawberry included, all honked wildly on their car horns every time that cartoon hotdog made it's suggestive jump.
Part #9: And Now, My Final Thought
Most days are good, certainly better than average, such is life with someone as consistently lovable and charming as Strawberry. Every weekday I look forward to the moment she arrives to pick me up from work, and every weekend I'm practically jubilant to be the one lazily sleeping in beside her. Then, there are days like Saturday the 2nd of July. Days like the day we met, or our first date. That time at Grouse Mountain or that one summer's afternoon at Allouette Lake.
It's days like those that you know, even while they're happening, will make you smile forever.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)