a collection of funny moments

August 11, 2012 | 43 Comments

Close up of Shannon Fisher's wide open eyes

bumblebee, bc

Marisa, a friend from San Francisco, emailed me:

“Soooooooo I’m going to Vancouver the 16th to the 19th of August. Would a person who lives in Bumblebee, British Columbia be able to visit that place?”

I’m thinking Marisa is soliciting my help to see if it’s reasonable to expect a visit from her friend in Bumblebee while she’s in Vancouver. A wee hurt she didn’t inquire about me and puzzled my tech savvy friend wouldn’t employ the internet herself (or enlist her friend from Bumblebee), I pull up Google Maps and punch in “Bumblebee, BC,” because I’m helpful like that. It’s cute there’s a Bumblebee, BC. Why have I never heard of it?

Google Maps also hasn’t heard of it. I respond:

“Bumblebee is a place? I cannot find it on a map. What will you be doing here? I want to get excited, but Steve has that week off and there’s a chance we might be away. Now I’m just sad.”

NOT THAT YOU ASKED ABOUT ME ANYWAY.

Marisa responds:

“That is literally the worst thing ever! We will be celebrating our wedding anniversary. I suppose if you left us restaurant recommendations, we could go there and I could pretend I was smelling your scent memory in the seats.”

Worst thing ever, my booty; seeing me wasn’t even on the Vancouver/Bumblebee itinerary. What’s so great about Bumblebee friend? Why can’t Bumblebee-face and I both get Marisa time? I get cheeky:

“I don’t buy it. You were all, “Hey, I’ll be in Van. Any idea how I can hang hookup with Mr. Bumblebee?” NO MENTION OF ME, ASSHOLE. Why is Van your locale of choice for a celebration? Where will you be staying? I can tell you where we ate for our anni in April. It was YUM. But what do you like? I mean, there’s still a chance we’ll be here… so you better legit be sad IN CASE WE ARE HERE. After all, I just started reading “Lying” by Sam Harris. It’s good. It’s free from amazon right now. Worth the snatch. Seriously, Bumblebee is a place?”

Marisa realizes my synapses are misfiring and has mercy:

“It’s a place in my heart that I will try and remember is called Burnaby. Although that still sounds like candyland.”

OH IT IS ME SHE’S BEEN WANTING TO CONNECT WITH THIS WHOLE TIME. Burnaby… Bumblebee. I GET IT NOW. Cute, Marisa.

It took five emails and Burnaby literally being spelled out for me to understand. I shared the story with Steve. As soon as I said “Bumblebee,” he knew Marisa was talking about seeing us.

WHAT. EVER. I’m really really smart at other, non-Bumblebee related things.


where’s your pointy purple hat?

I attended Creative Mornings the first Friday of August. Steve asked the night before who the speaker was. I had only briefly checked the website; I was excited just to be going.

“I’m not sure. Omer something?”

“What will he be speaking about?”

“No idea!”

“What does he do?”

“I don’t know. On his website he was in a room with books floating around him.”

“Books floating around him?”

“Ya. Books. Floating. He’s probably a wizard.”

Sharolyn, who was my date for creative mornings, helped me brainstorm wizard-related questions while we waited for Omer Arbel to start his presentation.

Where is your hat?

Do all wizards have hats?

In your opinion, was Harry Potter an acurate representation of the world of wizardry?

Would you be willing to make something float for us this morning?

What do wizards eat for breakfast?

Is the wizard community in support of your presence here this morning?

Shar and I didn’t get a chance to ask any of our brilliant questions because people were too busy asking shit like, “How do you define creativity?” and “Do you have to sacrifice your ideas to please the client?”

Idiots. DON’T YOU KNOW HE’S A WIZARD.

(In all seriousness, Mr. Arbel is a genius and had Shar and I all goose-bumpy by the end. On our way out of the building we saw him unlocking his bike and I was all, “That was awesome!” Because, clearly, there is nothing more intelligent to say to a highly successful artist. Awesome indeed.)


played by a two year old

Our neighbours and best friends from Alberta came for a visit last week with their 2 year old son, Seth. Emma and I decided to play a game of memory with him, using four pairs of cards from Emma’s Old Maid deck. I shuffled the cards and arranged them face down on our coffee table. Emma and I took turns coaching Seth to turn them over, two at a time. Seth’s first round didn’t match, so Emma took her turn. Seth got a pair the second time, which meant he got to go again. He turned over a chicken and a mouse, offering me his biggest smile.

Me: Do a chicken and a mouse match, Seth?

Seth: Yes. (The kid is grinning like he just ate the mouse.)

Me: Is a chicken the same as a mouse? (Now I feel like I’m talking to my grandpa after he went into the old-folk’s home and could never find his hearing aid.)

Seth: Yes.

Me, speaking louder and more slowly, waving the cards in the air: Does this chickennnnnn look like this moussssse?

Seth: Yes. I can play this all day, lady.

Me: If you have a chicken, do you have a mouse?

Seth: Yes.

That might actually be plausible logic. On a farm. With chickens and mice.

Me: Does this chicken match this mouse on this card right here in my hand?

Seth: Yes.

Me: Okay! You have a pair.

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