After coaching a little league soccer camp a few weeks ago, I received a ride home from a man named Doug and his granddaughter of five years of age - a fact that she made sure I was very clear on, as her birthday was only the week before.
The fifteen minute ride was one of complete and utter delight. One of my very favourite things about children is their innate and awe-striking capacity for imagination. I do believe that the very best stories in life could be crafted by children, if only they had the ability to appropriately use grammar, punctuation, and simply write.
One of our first conversations - after she told me of her age and birthday - was to let me know that the nearby building we were passing was Rapunzel's castle. It looked like a giant Catholic cathedral to me, but she informed me that this was most definitely not correct. I pondered to myself that there might be a slight possibility that Rapunzel could have lived there. Or at least, it was much more fun to think so. I do believe that there are times when it is okay to play along with the fanciful tales of children - they will only possess these things for so long before they disappear, and I think we should try to foster them as much as possible before they've lost it with their "adult-ness".
Our next conversation was on her recent camping trip with her family. She informed me that they had two great adventures. To be honest, I cannot remember the first, because the second fascinated me so much. She let me know that they had seen a skunk while they were out wilderness camping and all ran into their tents until it left. She let out a great sigh though, lamenting the fact that just before it left, it ate all of their cheetos.
I thought that the skunk was a great genius indeed. And very crafty. A cheeto-eating skunk is a rather humorous thought to me - sneaking around in the dark, scaring nearby wilderness campers, breaking open their cheeto bags, and eating all of those delicious simulated cheese-covered snacks until he was satisfied and wandered away. The very definition of brillance.
Best conversation of my life.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
The Tale of the Unfortunate Eyelash
Yesterday, I went to Starbucks to meet with a friend over a good cup of joe. Living in a family with only one car, I had to tag along with my younger brother, who was headed to our church - located next to the Starbucks - to practice his music. I packed my trusty coffee mug, as a good environmentalist should, and headed off to get my coffee that has been transported thousands of miles to my hometown in Canada.
Unfortunately for me, my brother Myles had to be at the church for 8 am, an hour ahead of my coffee date. I am not an early bird in general, so I ended up waking up later than I should have - approximately 15 minutes before leaving - and didn't have time to put on my make-up. Seeing as I have blonde hair, and my eyelashes have also decided to take on that rather transparent colour, I grabbed my make-up bag before leaving the house, deciding to admit my vanity and put it on the restroom at Starbucks. This is where calamity ensued.
Opening the door to the Starbucks, I glanced around quickly. 3 people and 2 baristas - thank goodness that most of the world also finds 8 am horrendously early. I could easily pass these people without them being scared away by my blonde-eyelashes. I quickly walked to the restroom.
Mirror - I carefully put on my eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara. I usually just put this on the top, but I was feeling particularly spicy and decided to put some on the bottom too. Perfect. I packed up my make-up bag, stuffed it back into my purse, and walked out the bathroom door.
Then it hit.
As I walked towards the counter, I felt a sharp pain in my eye that started to make my eyes water. "It's nothing," I thought to myself. I walked to the counter and ordered a coffee, two creams, two sweeteners - trying to keep things on the light side. As the barista turns her back to me, I realize that this sharp pain is, very likely, a rather unfortunate eyelash that has fallen into my eye. Suddenly, my eyes are watering, and tears are a-flowing like no other down my face. This was a bad day for mascara on my bottom lashes.
I realize that if the barista turns around, she will come to the conclusion that either: a) I have just gone through a harsh breakup, and am uncontrollably crying; b) I have stubbed my toe on the edge of the counter and am crying in pain, or c) I am so happy that I am able to have coffee that I am crying tears of joy. As none of the above ends up being true, I quickly tell her that I think I have something in my eye.
She turns around and looks like she's about to crack up in giggles. "Oh! I think I see that eyelash - just rub that eye a bit. There.... almost got it... okay, you're good."
I wondered what I looked like, and realized that this moment was much more embarrassing that any possible embarrassment would have been with my ever-so-blonde lashes without mascara. I pay, grab my coffee, and excuse myself to the restroom.
Oh bother. Upon first glances in the mirror, it looks as if I have undergone a huge fail of a face painting endeavour. My cheeks are nearly completely black from my mascara runs. These were not faint, watered-down black streaks, but nearly opaque, black streaks down my face. I suddenly felt as if my vanity was painted on my face to the world. How I wished for those blonde eyelashes now.
I washed my entire face with cold water. Off with all eye make-up, face make-up. Everything. If I learned one thing, it was that I should be happy with who I am 'oh natural.' So I put on some mascara. I wish I was kidding, but this is the truth. I went much lighter with the mascara this time though. One brush on the top, no eye shadow, and I was done. If I cried again, the black would, at the very least, not be opaque. Just a faint little run of black, and likely only around the top of my eye lids.
And such was the tale of the unfortunate eyelash. Curiously enough, I learned later that in my quest to be an environmentalist with my reusable mug, I failed to notice that the lid was broken and leaked. So I soon ended up with a puddle of coffee all over the book I was reading, and on my new shirt. I raced to grab the serviettes, and quickly wiped myself and the book off. No stains. Just the addicting smell of coffee all over my book - did I mention it was my bible?
Now, whenever I read the word of God, it will remind me of my encounter with vanity and with false environmentalism. And perhaps stir up my caffeine cravings.
Just another Sunday morning.
Unfortunately for me, my brother Myles had to be at the church for 8 am, an hour ahead of my coffee date. I am not an early bird in general, so I ended up waking up later than I should have - approximately 15 minutes before leaving - and didn't have time to put on my make-up. Seeing as I have blonde hair, and my eyelashes have also decided to take on that rather transparent colour, I grabbed my make-up bag before leaving the house, deciding to admit my vanity and put it on the restroom at Starbucks. This is where calamity ensued.
Opening the door to the Starbucks, I glanced around quickly. 3 people and 2 baristas - thank goodness that most of the world also finds 8 am horrendously early. I could easily pass these people without them being scared away by my blonde-eyelashes. I quickly walked to the restroom.
Mirror - I carefully put on my eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara. I usually just put this on the top, but I was feeling particularly spicy and decided to put some on the bottom too. Perfect. I packed up my make-up bag, stuffed it back into my purse, and walked out the bathroom door.
Then it hit.
As I walked towards the counter, I felt a sharp pain in my eye that started to make my eyes water. "It's nothing," I thought to myself. I walked to the counter and ordered a coffee, two creams, two sweeteners - trying to keep things on the light side. As the barista turns her back to me, I realize that this sharp pain is, very likely, a rather unfortunate eyelash that has fallen into my eye. Suddenly, my eyes are watering, and tears are a-flowing like no other down my face. This was a bad day for mascara on my bottom lashes.
I realize that if the barista turns around, she will come to the conclusion that either: a) I have just gone through a harsh breakup, and am uncontrollably crying; b) I have stubbed my toe on the edge of the counter and am crying in pain, or c) I am so happy that I am able to have coffee that I am crying tears of joy. As none of the above ends up being true, I quickly tell her that I think I have something in my eye.
She turns around and looks like she's about to crack up in giggles. "Oh! I think I see that eyelash - just rub that eye a bit. There.... almost got it... okay, you're good."
I wondered what I looked like, and realized that this moment was much more embarrassing that any possible embarrassment would have been with my ever-so-blonde lashes without mascara. I pay, grab my coffee, and excuse myself to the restroom.
Oh bother. Upon first glances in the mirror, it looks as if I have undergone a huge fail of a face painting endeavour. My cheeks are nearly completely black from my mascara runs. These were not faint, watered-down black streaks, but nearly opaque, black streaks down my face. I suddenly felt as if my vanity was painted on my face to the world. How I wished for those blonde eyelashes now.
I washed my entire face with cold water. Off with all eye make-up, face make-up. Everything. If I learned one thing, it was that I should be happy with who I am 'oh natural.' So I put on some mascara. I wish I was kidding, but this is the truth. I went much lighter with the mascara this time though. One brush on the top, no eye shadow, and I was done. If I cried again, the black would, at the very least, not be opaque. Just a faint little run of black, and likely only around the top of my eye lids.
And such was the tale of the unfortunate eyelash. Curiously enough, I learned later that in my quest to be an environmentalist with my reusable mug, I failed to notice that the lid was broken and leaked. So I soon ended up with a puddle of coffee all over the book I was reading, and on my new shirt. I raced to grab the serviettes, and quickly wiped myself and the book off. No stains. Just the addicting smell of coffee all over my book - did I mention it was my bible?
Now, whenever I read the word of God, it will remind me of my encounter with vanity and with false environmentalism. And perhaps stir up my caffeine cravings.
Just another Sunday morning.
How this Blog Came to Be
Call me Roo. My real name is Rachel. But my friends are quite inventive with nicknames. What started in kindergarten with Rachie (to my current disgust) soon turned into Rach, later becoming Rachie Rach Rach, then became Rachie Roo. And now I am Roo. I feel that it is an accomplishment, because I have finally found a nickname shorter than my original name.
Herein, I will record the curious happenings of my life. Which is quite a bit more eventful than might, at first, appear. For you see, for whatever reason, be it the stars, my persistent clumsiness, my magnetism for crazy situations (and inability to handle them), or my quirky personality that battles between introversion and extroversion, I have many a curious moment.
I should also mention that I have always wanted to be a writer. But as I do not have the money to afford a literary agent, nor the fame to attract any publishers my way, I am seeking an audience via the inter-webs. If Justin Bieber did it, I can too.
As such, this is the beginning of my adventure. I hope my stories bring you a smile, a laugh, perhaps even a tear (we'll just keep those moments between us), because if I succeed with that, my goal shall be complete.
Herein, I will record the curious happenings of my life. Which is quite a bit more eventful than might, at first, appear. For you see, for whatever reason, be it the stars, my persistent clumsiness, my magnetism for crazy situations (and inability to handle them), or my quirky personality that battles between introversion and extroversion, I have many a curious moment.
I should also mention that I have always wanted to be a writer. But as I do not have the money to afford a literary agent, nor the fame to attract any publishers my way, I am seeking an audience via the inter-webs. If Justin Bieber did it, I can too.
As such, this is the beginning of my adventure. I hope my stories bring you a smile, a laugh, perhaps even a tear (we'll just keep those moments between us), because if I succeed with that, my goal shall be complete.
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