Talking dinosaurs

I am inspired to write tonight mainly because I just spent the evening crying with laughter. For some reason I decided it would be a good idea to waste my time after work watching the movie Jurassic Park 3, but I couldn't have been more wrong. It was a brilliant way to spend an evening! And it was all because of this little gem of a scene!

Now, I don't know why this scene of a talking dinosuar gets me laughing so much, but trust me I was laughing so hard I could barely breath. Check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VREfqK6Y2yk

Personally I think that it is the way that the dinosuar says "Alan!" He has a rather nasal voice--not at all frightening.

Even if you don't share my sense of humour I hope you can at least agree that it is the weakest forshadowing ever in a movie. Come on! A talking dinosaur? I'm shaking...with laughter...

In training

My boyfriend recently expressed his dismay over the fact that when he is out with me there are certain locations of a certain popular coffee shop that we are not "allowed" to visit. I can't disagree with him on the general observation, but I need to point out that it isn't that we are not "allowed" to go, just that I choose not to give my business to those locations after some particularly troubling experiences. (Futhermore, he can go wherever he chooses, but if it's a group decision then my vote would be "yes I want coffee but no I don't want that location.")

The reason for my reaction stems from the fact that I have suffered through some very frustrating customer service as of late from certain locations of the shop that shall remain nameless. Now, I understand that half of the staff is "in training" whenever I decide that it's coffee time and that more often than not they are learning the ropes of the business. My problem is not staff who are slow and unfamiliar with the menu. All of us have been "in training" at some time in our lives and a polite and friendly attitude more than makes up for any inconvenience. No, my problem is with staff who do not accept responsibility for an error and chose to blame me instead of correcting it.

Twice within the past several months I have returned to the counter after picking up my items and informed the staff that this was not what I ordered and would they mind correcting it:

-The first time the staff had given me the incorrect flavour of a treat. After checking the bag on the way out the door and seeing the wrong flavour, I brought the goodies back to the employee and asked her if she could change it for what I had asked for. She replied that I had already taken the bag from the counter and therefore accepted my order. She would not change it for me because it was my fault for having taking the treats.

-The second time I requested a coffee and a small milk from the individual helping me at the till. He was having quite a bit of trouble and call the manager over to assist him. When she read my order back to me she read "coffee...and milk". I told her that this was correct and was more than a little surprized when she handed me just a coffee (with milk added). When I explained to her that this was not what I had ordered she became upset with me and told me that I had confirmed to her that this was my order.


What is happening to the customer service standards of this francise? Why should I choose to spend my money at a place where I am scolded for somebody else's error? Can somebody please explain what is wrong with this picture?

Nevertheless, I still love the products and frequent many locations. I am fortunate that my boyfriend is a patient man and doesn't mind all that much when I add an extra five minutes to the drive in order to go to an "acceptable" location.

Jessica vs. George for the attention of parents

Lately I have been finding that my conversations with my parents have been somewhat...interrupted. It seems that something has recently entered my family household that warrants a total halt to my long-distance call and a break in the conversation and in the nature of our discussion.

That something is George. (I have included a photo of me and my rival pretending to get along for the cameras...)

Last year my parents adopted a dog whom they christened George (for Georgia in keeping with the tradition of my now deceased dog Missouri). Like most puppies (especially large puppies) George is like a small child and requires constant monitoring lest she get herself into something she should not.

Since her introduction to the family, George has consumed various household items such as a rather expensive earring, socks, pieces of baseboard (which she pries away from the wall with her nimble claws), rubber bands, paper, tin foil, a cactus, ski mitts (the big, puffy ones)etc. etc.... George doesn't chew either--she swallows things whole and then spits them back up. Disgusting! Mom says that she thinks it's a pack instinct ingrained in her mind to make sure that she brings her kill back to the den.

Some of these items have been consumed (or their demise discovered) during my phone calls from Vancouver to Saskatchewan. Although my parents both leap to attend to the dog if they sense that something is amiss, they both have different approaches to how they excuse themselves from our phone call. My mother excuses herself. My father does not.

Example of conversation with Mother:

Jessica: (In a state of conflicted emotion) I just don't now what to do Mom! What should I do? How can I go back in there and--
Mom: JustasecondI'llberightback...Justhangon...
Jessica: Mom?
Mom: (Slightly distant from the phone. Spoken in growly-bear type voice. Very loud and dramatic. ) NO! NO! You bad, bad dog! YOULETITGORIGHTNOW!
Jessica: ???
Mom: (Coming back on the phone) Yes, and you were saying?

Example of conversation with Father:

Jessica: I'm sorry to hear about Baba's friend. Did Baba have a nice time at her memorial?
Dad: (Spoken into the phone in threatening, snarling tone but without any real force) Nnnnnooooo!
Jessica: Pardon me?
Dad: (Still speaking into the phone) I said no! You can't eat that.
Jessica: ????


It seems that George has discovered that the squeaky wheel gets the grease around my parent's household. Acting up equals attention, and she knows how to use that axiom for all it's worth.

Although I might one day take this as my cue to rebel and gain attention, I can at least promise that I don't eat houseplants. I only kill them through neglect...

What's in a name?

Growing up I was not terribly fond of my last name. The strange spelling, the "foreign" tone, the way that it sticks in your tongue instead of rolls off...I couldn't wait to get married purely for the fact that I would be able to change my name. I longed to meet man with a good, simple name that was easy to pronounce and spell and difficult to make fun of.

Although I am not planning on marriage anytime soon, I have seriously re-considered my opinions now that I am comparatively grown up. I am starting to realize that in the end I may want to keep my last name after all.

I would like to stay first of all that I am fortunate to have the option of changing my name. If a man wants to adopt his spouse's family name as their new family name, I suspect that he would be forced to defend that choice and explain himself to the rest of the world. Even hyphenated names can attract that sort of reverse-sexism. Should I chose to take my husband's name, I would be far less likely to have to make that justification, and I am grateful for that.

The fact remains that I am, in the end, forced to make the decision. Should I chose to keep my own name, I have no doubt that I would have to face confusion and perhaps even disagreement from others. I might even disappoint my husband's family or even him. Should I chose to keep my husband's name, however, I will have to incur not only the expense of getting all of my ID reissued but the personal expense of losing what is part of my identity.

I like my last name. I like that it has taken me through wonderful and horrible situations. I like that it speaks to everybody I meet about my heritage and culture and origins. I like that the people I've met throughout my life know me, remember me, and love me by that name. My parents gave me the name, but I've made it my own. I've lived and worked and studied and encountered myself by it. I've made a name for myself if you will.

If I was to get married, I would certainly look forward to announcing that news to the world. I don't need to change my name to do that. That kind of new beginning signals a continuation, not an end. No man will ever change the fact that I have purpose and life all on my own with my own name to live it out by.


I cannot tell anybody else what she or he should do, and I don't even know what I would do if I was to find myself in that situation. But it's nice to have the choice.

After years of good-natured nagging from some dear friends (one in particular), my blog is finally here! One note to self: I promise that although I now have a blog which will demand hours of my precious, precious time I must continue to devote myself to actually having a life in order to make certain that I have something interesting to write about.

Hold on everybody! And welcome to the world of Jessica!