Buying a Hairdryer

It has been a long time since I did any sort of product review, so this seems like a good time to write about my hairdryer purchase experience.

I used to dry my hair with a super-awesome Philips 1200 hairdryer. But I took it for granted, from the power consumption to the handle design. Being approximately 17 years old though, it didn’t last, which forced me to go shopping in the girly aisle.

Zellers sells hairdryers right next to women's deodorant. Nearby is hair dye. It's the "Lookin' Good, Smelling Better" aisle I guess. There were only 2 brands for sale – Revlon and Conair. I preferred the Conair, since they are Canadian, but my biggest concern was the wattage.

I wanted a hairdryer that did not use much electricity, however, I was shocked (no pun intended) to learn that every hairdryer on the shelf was 1875 watts. There were no options, save for one small Travel hairdryer which only required the use of 1 coal-fired power plant at 1625 watts.

Since I do not like the gun-style, I settled for the only one that was the same style as my Philips. The Conair 1875 featured a thermal brush, a detangling comb, a styling comb, as well as dual ionic ports for frizz-free hair.

I don't know if this ion-thing is a gimmick or what, but I certainly did not feel my hair strands being soothed by a cloud of negative ions even though the LED light told me the ports were working. When finished, my hair did look pretty awesome though.

I really liked the way the motor sounded on both high and low settings. Sound is an important thing. I hate the wrist-slashing, sad, hollow whirl of the gun-style hairdryers.

The only thing I didn't like about the Conair (aside from the generous power suckage) was the handle design. Because the switch is recessed, and large, it leaves a gap when it is moved up or down. The black hole gap sucks my fingers in to the sharp edge left where the switch used to be - which digs into the tender flesh of my fingertips.

I predict my band-aid consumption will soon rise, and when it does, I'll post a review on them. For now, 1 Martini-thumb up for the $26.97 Conair 1875 with 'IonShine'.

No Bones For My Rocky

I am riding my bike in the Becel Ride For Heart on the DVP this summer, but I am not quite sure how I'll be transporting my bicyclette there. I do not have a bike carrier. And I absolutely do not have the Saris Bones bike carrier.

I bought the Saris Bones bike carrier from the bike shop where I used to work. Then, I returned the Saris Bones bike carrier to the bike shop where I used to work.

I forked over $150 smackers for the moulded bits of plastic and aluminum, a carrier so universal it's supposed to fit everything from Toyota Tercels to Chev Corvettes to Dodge Caravans. I mean this thing fits everything. It probably even fits the Bugatti Veyron, although the intense engine heat might melt the Bones' substantial rubber feet.

But it was not meant to be, and my $150 smackers were forked back to me. The factory spoiler on my not-so-factory Talon was too thick for the bike carrier's hooks. The curve of the hook suffered an intense amount of crushage and my paint nearly suffered an equal amount of chippage when I tried to close the hatch.

Chippage and crushage, like chips and Orange Crush, are not on Canada's Food Guide For Healthy Living, so I had to return the bike carrier. I suppose I will have to chuck my bike in the back, with the seats folded down, and hope I don't pop my L7 trying to lift it out on June 3rd.

Victoria Day Mishap

On Monday families celebrated Victoria Day by heading down to the water to watch the fireworks display while teenagers and older immature punkasses lit firecrackers in their neighbours mailboxes and chucked smoke bombs in doggy doors.

The sad part about the Victoria Day holiday is that most people don't know why we celebrate Queen Victoria's birthday, including me. All I know is that she died just over a hundred years ago, after a very lengthy period on the throne.

Anyhoo, following in the tradition of fireworks, before bed, I decided to light off a single firecracker. I set the Red Devil M-1000 in the middle of the road and lit the awesomely thick fuse – the kind you might find on a stick of dynamite. I walked back onto my lawn, with Suz nearby.

The M-1000 expoded with a joyous bang that echoed throughout the neighourhood. "Yay!" I thought. But before I could finish that thought, I was smacked in the face with this puppy. A greyish-white, delicious-smelling hunk of smoldering firecracker.

After checking for blood, I ran inside to grab my tape-measure. I checked the distance from ground zero to the spot where I stood. The innards of the M-1000 flew 22 feet, and would have flown a lot farther had my face not interferred.

Yes, it's an exciting way to celebrate the birthday of Queen Victoria. But what if I was born 125 years ago? What if I lit off that firecracker on the Queen's front porch? Would she clap her hands in appreciation of the event? Or would she give me a ripe slap across the face?

SHOs Over Folks

Goodbye awesomeness. Goodbye rust. Goodbye useless CD player. Goodbye broken windshield. The Taurus SHO is gone. I sold it Tuesday night.

My dad tried to sell his SHO about 2 years ago, before the windshield cracked and the rust army overtook fort fender in the battle for the sheetmetal stronghold. He wanted $1500 for it, and it was worth it. People came, people looked, people left. No offers.

I put an ad in the paper last week for it, asking $700 and stating the honest truth – 327,000 kms. It's a quick way to weed out the tire-kickers, as my dad wanted rid of it so badly that he was on the verge of giving it away to his hot-rod building cousin, to see if he could transform it into something wild.

We didn't get any calls for the first few days, then, suddenly, I was barraged with potential buyers on Tuesday. I had two messages, and one fellow who was willing to buy it sight-unseen, albeit for half the price we wanted. While I was negotiating with him and his hostages, another SHO-hunting dude left a message. And while I was between calls with the 1 st buyer and my dad, another interested buyer telephoned. I had to tell him, "It's sold you retarded-ass mofo! Now get off my dang phone!"

A price war would have been nice, but nobody would go that far once I told them about the windshield. Most didn't mind the rust – in fact, they expected as much. There was even one man, who may or may not have been wearing ladies undergarmets, who called after it was sold and said, "windshield-schmindshield. I'm a convertible kind of man-girl."

Regardless of what the other Tuesday night bargain-hunters wanted, the SHO was sold to a dude whose only concern was how much gas was in the tank. Now she's gone. And she SHO will be missed. Hyuk.

Wicked Ass Training

Last night I rode 7.3 miles, (nearly 12 kms) – in my bedroom. I'm training for the Becel Ride For Heart on Toronto's Don Valley Parkway for June 3rd.

Since I can't walk anywhere anymore due to my stupid-ass "disease" I’ve started to get seriously out of shape. To rectify that problem I patronized a local bicycle emporium and puchased a Tacx Ecotrack Roller. It's a pretty sweet trainer with its tiny PVC rollers which put it close to the floor, allowing for ladderless bike mounting.

Given the progression of the stupidity in my feet, I figured this might be my last chance to do something like this.

Anyway, after 12 kms my buttcheeks gave out. My hard-as-concrete Vetta Lite seat with its patented "sheet of paper" padding just plain sucks. Granted, it's as light as an empty juice box, but the pain in the derriere isn't worth the weight savings.

The ride I am doing is 50 kms. My stick legs are capable of making the trek, but it's my ass I'm worried about. I can't even ride half the distance now, and the Becel Ride For Heart is only 18 days away.

I've come to the conclusion that the training I'm doing isn't for my legs, my heart, or stamina. It's conditioning for my ass.

Keeping Firemen Busy

On Saturday night we travelled to Toronto to have a nice dinner with our friend Tonton, following the directions spoken by our sweet silver NAV-U GPS, which we've dubbed "Lady". And yes, the Styx song routinely gets sung whenever we say her name.

Anyway, about ¾ of the way there I noticed a fire engine in my rearview, lights blazing.

I've never had a fire engine blast up my rear end on a six-thousand lane highway, so I wasn't sure what to do. Some people were pulling over, while others were slowing down. I was in the middle and had nowhere to go, so I slowed down and let the truck pass me.

Within 3 seconds, literally, the fire engine (A) stopped in front of us, partially blocking our view of the accident and the tow truck (B) who, not-surprisingly, greedily arrived at the scene first.

It would seem that Jimmy Dillnuts, driving a VW Golf this time, decided he didn't want to use his brake pedal, and gave a Nissan Murano his patented move - a good butt-ramming. From what I could see as I rubbernecked, the Golf suffered extreme damage to the hood and bumper area while the Nissan was relatively unscathed.

After dinner with Tonton, we sped through the downtown in his diesel Golf, and landed at the trendy Foundation Room. It was dope. When we left I snapped this picture of a Chrysler 300C whose owner decided parking on the sidewalk was trendy.

Toronto. I should go there more often. I'll get great accident photos because the entire Dillnuts family must live there.

Spring Crash #2, in F Major

Incredible as it may seem, Jimmy Dillnuts cannot be stopped. It doesn't matter where you drive, be it city streets, quiet neighbourhoods or the highway. You will not escape Jimmy.

With her shit-ass 1 megapixel camera phone, my sister caught the devastation of Jimmy Dillnuts following in the wake of Saturday's accident. Yesterday morning she emailed this picture to me.

The Saturn Ion, or Hyundai Accent, or whatever the gosh darn heck this little silver wreckage is, appears to be another victim of the carnage-hungry Jimmy Dillnuts.

The vehicle is missing at least one front wheel, as you can see from the way the front of the car sits much, much lower than the back of the car. The engine compartment is munch-city, the hood is dented and the bumper has a scratch.

Firemen were busy at work here, earning the money they will use to buy their bacon bits for their fancy salads. As one fireman pulled the bodies of the dead midgets from the trunk another swept the sand they use to absorb the blood from the highway. Blood, you see is slippery, and the police don't want other motorists to slide in the blood and cause another crunchy accident.

In order to stop accidents like this, police should be more strict in the suspension of people's licenses. Following a second incident, idiot drivers should be electronically tagged and monitored. On the third offense, they should be swatted on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and have pickled eggs popped up their butts.

Unless, of course, they like that kind of thing.

A Fresh Spring Crash

On Saturday night I was meeting some friends from college for a dinner, followed by drunken Guesstures and deep conversations about ear wax and its incredible healing properties.

I was on my way to the restaurant when I encountered a familiar sight. That rapscallion Jimmy Dillnuts somehow got his licence back, and was on another destructive rampage.

Police directed traffic away from the accident while firefighters and witnesses stared at the wreckage of the black Mercedes. They were probably amazed that it suffered so much more crumplage than the plastic Cavalier which was also involved in the crash.

I could tell the cop directing traffic wanted to beat my ass for being so insensitive about the situation - so I avoided him by crouching on some stairs in order to take pictures.

I thought it rather humourous, and ironic, when I saw this sign in the background (on the right). I giggled a little bit, then turned around and headed back to my car.

That's when I ran into trouble. All of the occupants of the crunked vehicles were standing outside the restaurant where I had parked. The intense, angry stares were nearly enough to make me smash my own camera. Just kidding. But the daggers they shot at me were truly vicious.

I ducked as I sped away, causing no less than seventeen accidents as I made my slow, hybrid-style escape. At least the police and fire crews were handy.

Cable Guys Are Too Rough

Last summer the phone line/cable pole in my neighbour's backyard did what every post office employee will eventually do – it cracked. And then it fell on a 45 degree angle, held in place by the very cables and wires that were secured to it.

My elderly, talkative, please-Lord-help-me-guide-this-fork-into-my-ear-neighbour complained about it for days. I couldn't help her, but she insisted on complaining to me about it, as if I were the cable-pole-utility-commissioner or something.

Eventually someone cut the pole down. But the complaining didn't stop. Nope. I listened, for days, about the workmen who totally trampled my neighbour's poor Lily of the Pansy, or Goatweed or whatever the freakin' hell it was.

I felt bad for her. I'd hate if that happened to my garden too. But I wouldn't go over to her house and start bitching about it.

Anyhoo, the doorbell rang the other morning, waking me from my nightmares. It was Cogeco Cable. The man in the hard hat told me they were taking their cables down. He asked if he could enter my backyard to take the wires off my other neighbour's pole.

"You mean the really old rotting pole?" I asked in the ultimate gravelly, groggy, early-morning voice.

"Yes, that's the one." was his reply.

"Fine with me." I said. And with that he thanked me, gave a pleasant curtsy, and trotted off into my backyard with his spiffy ladder. I ran upstairs as fast as I could and propped myself in a chair by the window, waiting for the inevitable.

Within a few seconds, he had broken the pole. Being half-asleep, I wasn't fast enough with my camera and I cursed. Now I'm facing a week-long tirade from my other elderly neighbour about her bloody broken pole. Yay.