Welp, that was fast. The e-mail said we’d get a confirmation within 1-3 business days once the order’s been processed. It’s been less than 24 hours and we have a tracking number. I wonder if the process’ll be as smooth and as fast if we ever end up returning this thing? Not that I want to. I just want to wake up feeling like I’m seventeen and supple again, with a spine that doesn’t scream when I get up in the morning. Did someone say exercise? I think the hubs is mouthing “treadmill” at me as I look him dead in the eye and wolf down some chips. You know, just to make a statement. Jesus. Aging is rough.
[UPDATE] Woke up to a notice on the door from UPS, who were sorry to have missed me. All told, that makes delivery within two days of ordering, which is pretty impressive. Not impressed with the hit and miss, but that’s more a courier issue, not an Endy one. I suppose I should just be grateful they didn’t leave it in the lobby. Endy’s website says the courier will make two attempts, so they’ll be trying again tomorrow. Their postman always rings twice! (Sorry. I had to.)
The mattress we’d purchased before moving in, once so brand spanking new, once so perfect, once thought to last for at least ten years, has had it.
We’ve had it.
Sleep has been shitty at times. There is nothing I dislike more than my sleep getting messed with and waking up feeling like someone’s been using my back as a trampoline. It can’t possibly be because I’m on the wrong side of my thirties and my body is ravaged by time and a few extra pounds, my masseuse says it’s my mattress and she’s licensed, so there. It’s the mattress.
I’ve spent the last two months researching mattresses. Trying this, that and the other, feeling like Goldilocks except all the mattresses were in different stores that were far apart. I was looking for a bed without coils, or memory foam or all the little extra doodads that are supposed to help you float into dreamland but are, in actuality, a complete waste of time. The best mattress I ever had was a solid block of foam that was almost as hard as the floor, and I’ve despaired of ever finding one close to it, short of shipping a king-sized mattress from Mandaue Foam all the way across the world.
Finally, after months of subliminal messaging from Casper and Endy, the hubs suggested jumping on the bed-in-a-box bandwagon. I trust his instincts when it comes to buying certain things; he doesn’t hem and haw quite as much as I do. When he knows, he knows. We chose Endy because the price point isn’t too painful and it’s made in Canada (yay, patriotism!). Yes Endy, your ads, which are EVERYWHERE, are working.
And no, Endy isn’t paying me to write about it, or give it any reviews. No one is holding a gun to my head, I just felt like documenting the first hundred nights (not EVERY night, I’m not Scheherazade), because that’s their trial period. Like Casper, Endy gives its customers 100 nights to see if the mattress is worth it, and if it isnt, they’ll take it back and refund in full, no questions asked. That’s what their website says, anyway. So in the grand tradition of throwing money at the problem, here goes nothing!
That the cable holding up the elevator doesn’t fray.
That the train will be on time.
That no one pushes you off the subway platform.
That the person on the escalator two steps up won’t fart in your face.
That the bus arrives.
That the guy at Tim’s won’t spit in your coffee.
That cars honour the pedestrian lane and the walk sign, and resist plowing into you as you mince across the street checking Twitter, oblivious to everyone and everything.
That you’ll get to go home, go to sleep and wake up the next day, ready to do the whole thing over again.
I saw a joke about The Wasp that was floating around Twitter a few weeks ago involving Armie Hammer. Specifically that Armie Hammer should play The Wasp because he’s a WASP so he should be The Wasp.
*crickets*
Well that fell flat and it read better as a Twitter post which I can no longer find the link to, so let’s just shrug it off and move on, shall we? Ant-Man is back and this time he’s brought a partner! But before I get into the whys and wheretofores, a quick multiple choice doubling as refresher course:
Paul Rudd is:
an ageless vampire
the guy who played Josh in Clueless
the winner of the same genetic lottery as Keanu Reeves
all of the above
I used to think aging like fine wine was only limited to Sean Connery, but Paul Rudd, who is just a year shy of fifty, is still hot, still funny and just fiiiinnneee, girlfriend. Paul Rudd can. I would let Paul Rudd, but Paul Rudd would definitely not let me, and neither would my lawfully wedded spouse if we’re being entirely honest here, so I’ll just have to settle for crumbs by paying the entry fee at the local Cineplex to see him as Ant-Man. Who says money can’t buy everything?
I loved the first Ant-Man movie. It sits right in the top five of my mental list of best Marvel Studio offerings, next to the first Iron Man and Thor: Ragnarok. So I came prepared to be amazed and left the theatre a trifle disappointed, which made me sort of wonder: is Marvel losing its touch? Is Ant-Man and The Wasp a victim of the dreaded sophomore slump?
Now that I’ve had some time to ruminate, I realize it doesn’t quite feel like a Marvel movie because the stakes are refreshingly small. In Thor: Ragnarok, Asgard was at stake. In Black Panther, it was the future of Wakanda. In Avengers: Infinity War, it was the existence of Earth and everyone who lives in it. After that crazy collision of galaxies, superheroes and mystical jewels/ingots/McGuffins, we’re suddenly in San Francisco, where the only things at stake are a magically shrinking building and an electronic part available on the black market. (Cue the always arresting Walton Goggins as one of the baddies: “I got the lab!”). It’s peanuts. And that’s the genius of Ant-Man as a superhero.
Ant-Man is all about scale. It’s life viewed from the perspective of someone who can grow and shrink at will, and it’s the little things that make it funny, like blowing up a Hello Kitty Pez dispenser and using it to wreak havoc through the streets of San Francisco. At it’s core, Ant-Man is really a story about an ex-con who really, truly, wants to make good and be a good dad but somehow life keeps getting in his way.
Japan, a country that has gifted us with the truly grotesque and the truly inspired, has also produced a perfect example of the unholy union of grotesque and inspired: watermelon ice cream sandwiches. South Korean ice cream chain Milkcow has taken the idea and run with it. Now that they’re in town, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, the kind that precedes the realization that I’m about to join another hour-long queue just to have one of these, even though part of me thinks it’s a horrible idea and harbinger of the apocalypse. Why do I have to be so damn susceptible to attractive packaging? – Blog TO
Speaking of grotesque and inspired (but really more grotesque and sad) this story of a mother giving her son her blessing with the aid of a bullet is somehow tragic, darkly comic and proof that you don’t mess with old people, because they’ve run out of fucks to give – CNN
Those poor kids. This is why I confine my spelunking to the insides of my refrigerator – CTV News
Speaking of spelunking, take a deep dive into the life and times of one Johnny Depp. It’s a long read and mostly interesting journey into the unpredictable unknown, and unlike exploring a Thai cave in the middle of monsoon season, it’s an adventure you’re likely to survive. Yes, I would like to apologize to the trapped boys in the Thai cave for the completely tone deaf jumble of words I just wrote – Rolling Stone
I was there for the match, I was there for the book, and now I’m there for its in-depth documentary, released in honour of the 10-year (it’s been 10 years?) anniversary of the match and the 150th anniversary of the All England Lawn Tennis Club, home of venerable Wimbledon. Someday Wimbledon, someday… for now, Strokes of Genius: Federer, Nadal and the Greatest Match Ever Played is $10.99 on iTunes, with a few bonus extras – Sports Illustrated
What is with being a mermaid these days? Everyone is like my childhood friend who was so obsessed with Ariel from The Little Mermaid, he grew up, moved to Australia, became a drag queen and put together a show called The Little Merdrag. I’ve never been one for a tail, but I can see the attraction. Half naked, perpetually wet, sings like a nightingale? Boom, sex. And sex sells. Mermaids are everywhere, and my only explanation for the obsession with this particular magical creature is that we all came from the sea and some buried part of our subconscious yearns for it again. Or it could just all boil down to one word: pretty!
Cher, The Shoop Shoop Song (It’s in His Kiss)
What better way to introduce this particular k-hole’s theme than Cher, with the theme song to the movie Mermaids? My mom rented this on VHS back when Tops and Bottoms had a whole section devoted to movies you could rent, like Dumaguete’s very own bootleg Blockbuster. (In hindsight, I don’t think any of those tapes were originals at all.) She got this along with Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken, and I remember a young me having a raging crush on Michael Schoeffling, the cute gardener Winona Ryder obsesses over. I don’t blame her one bit for going crazy and seducing him in a bell tower on the day JFK was shot. To this day I still have no idea why the movie was called Mermaids although Cher dons a mermaid costume for Halloween and little Christina Ricci is a swimmer who almost drowns, but who cares?
Sade, No Ordinary Love
The alluring Sade Adu is a sea siren who seduces a sailor during Fleet Week. I’m assuming it was Fleet Week, why else is he in that fun little costume? Running barefoot through the gritty city streets because mermaids are immune to tetanus, Sade throws her own rice grains in anticipation of her own wedding, but Fleet Week is over, the sailor is gone and she’s left on the dock sadly chugging seawater, unaware of how plastic bottles would soon come to pollute the ocean. (It was the nineties, we hadn’t trashed this world quite as much just yet.) With that lovely, seductive beat, Sade’s sultry vocals and the alternating themes of sadness and hope, this is still the best depiction of a music video mermaid.
Lady Gaga, Yoü and I
Never mind Nebraska being completely landlocked, here’s Lady Gaga with fins and a tail thrashing around in a bathtub somewhere outside Omaha, because art! Art, and Taylor Kinney. Although anatomical realities make human to mermaid sexy times an impossibility, I’d try doing it anyway if it was with Taylor Kinney, wouldn’t you? Yoü and I is a mess, but it’s a glorious mess, all bionic haute couture, boy drag and piano-playing in the middle of a cornfield. Gaga toes the line between avant-garde and just plain weird, a balance only she could get away with. Ah, the halcyon days before Artpop.
Nicki Minaj feat. Ariana Grande, Bed
And finally, the clip that started this particular k-hole. Nicki Minaj goes from one slithery creature to another in her latest music video, from anaconda to mermaid! Bed, which features preternaturally pony-tailed Ariana Grande, has all the hallmarks of a Nicki Minaj video – boobs, butt, and highlighter for daaaaaaayyys. Other than that, it’s your standard girl on the beach/sea-side condo, inviting you over for a little Netflix and chill. If Sade’s version was about true love, Nicki’s version is a drunken Tinder hook-up that’ll last for all of two hours before you’re both bidding each other goodbye, washing the sand out of your nethers and booking an appointment at the free clinic the very next day. Oh well. Mermaids!
I decided to do a new thing on here where I share random links because lord knows I spend enough time whiling away on the internet despite my best intentions, so I may as well share. Also, I may or may not have been inspired by the glorious Michael K of Dlisted, but don’t worry this isn’t going to turn into a gossipy sort of blog. Just think of me as the friend who messages you out of the blue with some random bullshit you can check out while you’re stuck in traffic. Or pretend you’re reading over my shoulder on the subway while I’m hastily scrolling up on my phone trying to hide the outright porny Instagram posts I keep getting without any advance notice, which is what I get for having a raging homosexual as a best friend. So here we go!
They’re rebooting Daria, that immortal MTV classic, because nothing is off-limits. Or sacred. To be fair, nothing in or about my high school puberty was off-limits or sacred anyway, so go ahead and ruin it even more, damn you – Vice
Since that sicko ran a rented van into a bunch of innocents on a sidewalk in Toronto, this hateful subgroup of sadly misinformed, completely batshit individuals have been thrust into the spotlight, and boy is their slang an eye-opening education. Incels: A Lexicon – Vice
Excuse me for being really into Vice today, but someone tried to hide in the crawlspace above a convenience store to escape a cop and promptly fell through the ceiling. All this over a $1 can of pop. Alberta is fun, I really should go back sometime to see my lovely friend Karen – Vice
Just in time for Canada Day, Drizzy Drake dropped an album and Hotline Bling aside, I don’t really care, but he’s apparently milking the story of having a baby out of wedlock and how being a single parent is hard, because mining your rich, successful, dysfunctional man-whore life for all its worth is how to make money in music now. Who am I kidding? That’s always been how to make money, just ask the Carters – Rolling Stone
Big Dick Energy (BDE): three words that kind of go together and make sense, while making me wonder why it’s never really been a thing until the past twenty four hours, and we’ll probably continue to see it being used to death for the next few days until the next new phrase hits the internet. Anthony Bourdain just couldn’t resist contributing one last thing to humanity before going to the great kitchen confidential in the sky – Vox
Saving for Botox 
You must be logged in to post a comment.