Update:

~ I was attempting to set the record for the world’s longest intermission. I think I succeeded.

~ I have gained almost ten pounds since the spring. This is an amazing feat for me, as I have hovered around the same weight since graduating high school.

~ I will not admit that I am sorry about my lack of updates, but I am.

~ I will not bow to your conventions regarding self-contradiction.

~ I once attended a self-contradiction convention, I had mixed feelings.

~ Ba-domp ching!

~ I actually wrote up another post about a month ago but I never posted it because it was derivative of a lot of earlier work.

~ We are being sprayed for pharoah ants. For some reason the only place I’ve seen them is in the bathroom.

~ Actually, it’s not a spray, it’s poison so that they grab it and die.

~ I scored a minus 4 recently on my fantasy soccer league. I did much better in the weeks that I was not playing.

~ I sent the following text message to my sister, Rachel, recently: “Hey Rachel, I hope school is going well. Don’t talk to strange boys, ok smarty pants?”

~ I received the following response: “Hola John. I hope life is going well. School is good. The language barrier keeps me from talking to strange boys, don’t worry. (I translated that from this normal texting syntax for your benefit: sup. Skul iz gud. I dunno frnch so cant talk 2 craZ bois lolz!)”

~ I have no idea how to respond cleverly to this, if you have any ideas please put them in the comment section below.

~ I think the extra ten pounds may be inhibiting my brain functions.

~ Is there any pizza better than pizza with pineapples on it? I will answer this for you. No, there is not.

~ Sarah Palin makes George W. Bush look smart.

~ Did you know that there are scorpions in Canada? I didn’t, and there are.

~ Guess which province is the culprit? Yeah, that’s right, British Columbia with their mild weather and hippie ways.

~ There is no direct link between scorpions and hippies – THAT WE KNOW OF.

~ Was that dramatic? Did it establish doubt in your mind about possible links between scorpions and hippies? I hope so. I used capitals, and I don’t do that too often.

~ I tried to wash my jacket by hand with detergent and water and now it just smells like a damp coat. I would like to apologize to all of my fellow passengers on the OC Transpo buses for smelling like a damp coat.

~ What does a damp coat smell like? It really is incomparable to any other scents, sorry.

~ I like it when the bus lurches suddenly and the guy leaning coolly against the door gets thrown off balance. Is that bad?

~ This has been a Boerisbwoy joint. Johnny out.

Intermission.

Update

~ Whaaaaaaaat?

~ Yeah, that's right. It's update time.

~ Just so you know, here are the standings for the blog hits from various countries:
1) Canada (CA) 1,461
2) United States (US) 1,139
3) Netherlands (NL) 165
4) United Kingdom (GB) 133
5) Bahamas (BS) 65
6) France (FR) 42
7) Germany (DE) 41
8) Australia (AU) 37
9) Brazil (BR) 37
10) Italy (IT) 17

~ As you can see, Canada and the United States have a commanding lead. Even if Europe combines its member scores it fails to even match a quarter of Canada's extremely impressive tally.

~ Mongolia is tied for 26th with a bunch of other countries. I was hoping they would do better.

~ I have been trying to scare pigeons away from our balcony for months. Our friend threw water at the pigeons on his balcony and they never came back. I've tried that, but the pigeons are too fast/I'm too slow/the water spills everywhere.

~ I have been married for four years now and I have been with Laurianne for nine years.

~ We broke up once for about a week, but that didn't really work out so well.

~ I saw a woman with a tattoo that said "born to lead." I thought it was funny because she was a fast walker and her boyfriend was a slow walker and she kept having to stop to wait for him to catch up. This is to say that her tattoo was true.

~ I have come to terms with the reality that this summer is simply not going to have a lot of summer weather.

~ Imagine if the woman with that tattoo was struck blind? Then she would have to get a seeing eye dog and her tattoo would seem a little ridiculous in that particular context.

~ Laurianne, ndagukunda cane.

~ My Kirundi really has not progressed.

~ My Arabic has progressed by two words since I started my job. Not bad.

~ One day, I will tie my tie the first time and I will not have to tie it again. This is my dream.

~ I like cheese sandwiches.

~ Good night.

Mrs. Z (that's Mrs. Zed, for you Americans)

"She's a bit demanding. You have to know when to say no," she warned me.

She was speaking of Mrs. Z, her former neighbour. Having been entirely to slow in coming up with a reasonably believable excuse, I had just agreed to shovel snow for Mrs. Z.

After the first snowfall, I dutifully knocked on Mrs. Z's door. After several moments, the door creaked open and a short, solid, old woman with striking light-blue eyes could be seen through the crack.

"Oh, my dear, are you John?" Her voice was slightly shrill and she had an accent that I could not quite place.

I confirmed that I was, in fact, John.

"Come in, Come in, I must explain to you how to remove the snow," her hair was grey and white with tinges of light brown.

I leaned my shovel against the wall, not quite sure how complicated snow removal could be.

Mrs. Z first explained that she had been a widow for twenty years, her light-blue eyes looking slightly sad. She was Latvian, her husband had liked to shoot at targets for sport, did I? She was worried about young people breaking into her home, her son lived in Toronto. She explained that the neighbours, who were renting from the woman who had first recommended me for the job, were "nice, but liked to play boom-boom music."

"Please, my dear," she said, "take off your hat."

I took off my touque.

I must explain, that at this point in my young life I had allowed my curly hair to form into dreads. I thought they were rather cool.

"Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, touching a hand to her cheek, "you are wearing the hair, I see the black people wearing this hair. Why are you wearing your hair like this?"

"I like it," I explained.

She did not seem satisfied with my answer, her wrinkles crinkling as her light blue eyes searched my face. When no further explanation came, she moved on to describe her husband's snow shovel.

"I have a snow shovel," I stated.

"Oh yes! I know, my dear, but for scraping the ice you will need this shovel," she nodded gravely, "I am worried about ice, my dear, because I cannot fall down."

"My shovel will scrape the ice, and I don't think there is any today," I reassured her.

"Oh no, my dear, your shovel is plastic. My husband used a metal shovel and he attached some metal to the end so it scrapes very well," she gestured behind her, "I will get you this shovel, don't worry, my dear."

I felt I could not dishonour the hard work her husband had put into making the perfect shovel.

I waited, her house smelled of fish, the air was warm and slightly moist. She emerged several minutes later bearing a red shovel with a grey piece of aluminum welded to the end.

"That's a nice shovel," I commented, not really liking it all that much.

"Thank you, my dear, my husband made it."

I started reaching for the shovel.

"Oh, my dear!" she laughed, "You are rushing so. I have yet to explain how the snow is to be shovelled."

I nodded, "Oh, okay."

She beckoned towards the window, pointing to her porch, "After you shovel, you must sweep . . ."

"Sweep?"

"Oh, my dear, I will give you a broom," she patted my arm, "You must sweep the porch all along the edges so there is no snow. If the snow melts and freezes it will make ice and I cannot fall."

"So, my dear," she continued, "You must, you must clear the snow all along my pathway. I need a clear path to the sidewalk. Sweep this path after you shovel. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"You see behind my porch," she arched her hand to indicated the area hidden from our view, "You must remove the snow from this area and put it," she pushed her hands forwards like a bulldozer, "put it to the other side."

"But," she raised her eyebrows seriously, "this pile on the other side of my walk cannot be too tall. I must be able to see the sidewalk."

I began putting my touque back on, as a signal that I was ready to begin shovelling the snow.

"Are you listening, my dear?" she tapped the glass, peering at me seriously with those light blue eyes, "make sure the catchbasin is clear."

"Make sure what?"

"My dear, the catchbasin, on the side of the sidewalk, needs to be clear so that when the snow melts it can travel into the catchbasin."

"The getchbayysun?"

"Yes, my dear, the catchbasin."

"I will remove the snow from the getchbayysun." I was still completely unsure as to what a getchbayysun might be.

"Good," she smiled in satisfaction, "now, on the other side of my driveway, you must not throw the snow onto the lawn of the neighbour, you understand?"

"I can't throw the snow on the neighbour's lawn?" I queried incredulously.

"Yes, my dear, there is a hydro line there. My neighbour, he is not a nice man, he becomes angry when the snow is put there. The city will make him pay the money to remove the snow if something goes wrong with the hydro," she shook her head.

I immediately thought he was, perhaps, a liar. "No snow on that side," I repeated, wondering how this would work logistically.

"Also, remove the snow from in front of the gate so that I can open it to go to my patio."

"Your patio?"

"Oh, yes my dear, the patio must be cleared of snow and ice because I must go to my compass and laundry line."

"Your compass?" I must have been hearing wrong.

She looked at me in surprise, "Your mother, she doesn't have a compass?"

"In the back yard?" I asked, frowning.

"I put my veg-e-tab-les in the compass," she said, "it is good for the soil."

"Oh, yes, we have a compost," I smiled.

She smiled back, but she didn't seem to believe me, her eyes peering at me with careful calculation, "Yes, a compass is very good, I put fish in there as well."

"Now, I will need a pass from the patio to the compass and the laundry line. Also, the window wells must be cleared from the snow so that the damp does not come through the wall," she held my arm as she spoke, the shovel still in her other hand.

I began rubbing my forehead vigorously, a habit I engage in when I am overwhelmed, annoyed, or frustrated.

"But don't worry, my dear," she seemed to perceive my state of mind, "I will explain this to you again after you finish the front."

I noticed a crumb on her chin.

When I finally stepped outside, I used the metal shovel for all of two minutes before it's inability to actually scoop the snow made me thrust it aside. Then, using my plastic shovel, I heaped snow on her neighbour's lawn, vainly searched for the getchbayysun, and piled the snow onto her lawn to a prohibitive height.

"My dear, my dear," she called from the door, "You must flatten this snow in the pile on my lawn. Have you shovelled the sidewalk my dear? What about the catchbasin?"

I carried out her instructions, until she felt the need to take a tour of the work site in order to offer more helpful hints to improve the snow removal.

"My dear, my dear, the snow on my lawn is still too high, you must shovel it to the centre."

I offered a weak objection but tired of her explanation. Eventually I just shovelled the pile into a more even distribution onto her lawn in order to avoid further lectures on the dangers of melting snow.

"My dear, you did not sweep this path to the sidewalk."

I bit my lip, scratching my forehead vigorously.

"I can sweep it tomorrow, my dear," she offered suddenly.

"My dear, you did not open the catchbasin!" - Apparently, a getchbayysun is a storm drain.

After the final inspection she finally called out, "Okay, my dear, you must walk through the house to go to the patio now."

I had arrived at her house at 4:30. When I had finally finished her patio, it was 7:30, I was hungry, cold, and annoyed.

"Thank you very much, my dear," she said as I stood in the kitchen.

"When did you start?" she asked, "how long did you work?"

I frowned, I guess I hadn't started until 5:30 but that was because I listened to an hour of instructions. "Uuh, two hours?"

"How much do I owe you?"

I glanced at my watch, at her clock, at the rows of vitamin capsules on her table. I looked at her light blue eyes, what can you charge an old widow for two hours of work? "ten dollars."

"I will give you eleven," she said, her voice swelling with pride at her generosity.

"Thank you," I mumbled as I fingered the change. She had given me five two dollar bills, bills which had already been out of circulation for about three years at this point.

"You will come next time it snows?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "I'll be here."

I do not know what to write.
I feel like writing something smart.
Problem: I don't feel particularly smart at the moment.
Of course, this has never stopped me before. Why should it stop me now? One merely needs to examine this blog in order to ascertain that the author is not exactly a gen . . .

"Hold up, hold up."

What?

"Listen, John, we at Boerishbwoy have spent a lot of time trying to establish you as a genius, or have you forgotten due to your complete and total lack of attention to us over the past year?"

Oh come on, complete and total lack of attention is a bit strong, don't you think?

"So is the intense and overwhelming feeling of neglect."

Wait a minute, so you're telling me that my blog has not only developed its own personality, but also a strong grudge towards me?

"You never updated us."

I'm updating you now, aren't I? I've updated you quite a bit over the last while, haven't I?

"It's just a little toooo late."

Are you singing a JoJo song? Honestly, how can anyone take you seriously?

"Italics are for wimpy writers."

You used them.

"We're the resentfully poignant disembodied voice of your blog. We could speak entirely in capital letters and people would weep from the depth of feeling that we communicate."

What does that even mean? And how is that an excuse for using italics? I don't even see anything wrong with italics.

"Maybe we should just get someone else to update us."

This is crazy, I'm arguing with my blog, and my blog thinks it's more than one person. Maybe you should just update yourself.

"Maybe we will. We're much more articulate than you are."

I CREATED YOU!

"You're not going to get them with the capital letters, John."

Whatever.

Update

~ My mother, father, youngest sister, and her friend came up to Ottawa on a camping trip over my birthday weekend. We went camping with them for my birthday. It used to be a den Boer tradition to be camping during my birthday, it was nice to revisit that tradition.

~ We went to see Ben Harper and Relentless7 at the Bluesfest here in Ottawa. They are relentless, but there aren't seven of them. There are three.

~ If you count Ben Harper as part of Relentless7 then there are more.

~ Our enjoyment was briefly interrupted by a gentleman for whom it might have appeared there were seven people on stage.

~ Bluesfest is great, although there seem to be more late night drunks bellowing from the street below on the weekends. One in particular was looking for Kristen (I heard Gretchen, Laurianne heard Kristen - we'll have to go with Kristen) to open the door for her. Kristen did not open the door for at least forty minutes.

~ I can hear Ice Cube right now. I think he might be angry.

~ I think he might not appreciate the unseasonably cold weather. But I got to say, Ice, at least it's sunny.

~ Thank you for the prayers.

~ I don't know if you've heard, but Michael Jackson has died.

~ I would like at least three scorchingly hot summer days this July. At least three.

~ Remember slap-on bracelets? Those were sweet.

I saw your Jesus

I saw your Jesus on a shirt
beneath a logo that said 'no more hurt'
I wondered aloud what he was worth
'$13.99, plus tax,' replied the clerk

I saw your Jesus the other day
he said the revolution was on its way
as he thrust his fist into the air
and combed a hand through his long blonde hair

I saw your Jesus as he told
his audience of his chains of gold
and how it could be theirs if they just showed
their faith through the seed they sowed

I saw your Jesus on the news
and he said that our nation would lose
unless ungodliness were cut down at the root
and crushed beneath our mighty boot

I saw your Jesus in some books
I thought I'd take a good hard look
chapter 2 was a new revelation on how he could
have been written down and misunderstood

I saw your Jesus, I saw him shine
I say he's yours because he's not mine