Back in Canada, Flight Lessons, Dream First Date, Salami Solution

Day 126

I have made it back to Canada. It was a long trip that began in my native airport where the nearest McDonald's is always on the opposite concourse but seems like a good idea (it never is). The good news is that my luggage came down the chute (actually, it clogged the shoot) and the glass of my framed cow picture didn't break. Plus, I found a wayward friend who wanted to share a cab with me. The cabby drove a minivan and had a cartoonish turban on. I need to look up turbans on wikipedia because I have a feeling they aren't just for joking purposes.

Anyway, after boarding the plane we (my fellow passengers and I) were forced to wait for a half hour for 6 passengers who had not yet boarded. One of those passengers happened to be my seatmate. I learned the following things from her during our 3 1/2 hour flight:

She is 24 her husband is 29 and their baby is 20 months.

They had four dogs traveling with them. They were the reasons why we had to fly at a lower altitude, so they won't turn into shitzusicles.

Her mother and her sister both like Coach brand and both have Coach umbrellas. My seatmate likes Gap umbrellas but her Dad stepped on hers and "killed" it.

Her husband used to slick back his hair and wear cargo pants until she got ahold of him.

The reason why her baby looked at her with hatred was because she had just woken up from a bad dream about her mommy. So she says.

She likes Old Dutch brand potato chips.

She was in labor for 40 hours and 47 minutes.

She was called Satellite Head and Slinky Head when she was in public school.

She once drove all around town wearing those tiny eye protectors that you get from tanning salons.

Her kid has watched at least two Shrek movies per day for the past 365 days.

There are too many more things to list here. She did ask me what I wrote about...I told her I make up stories. It just sounded better than saying, I write about people I meet who tell total strangers their life stories.

While waiting for my baggage I watched as many goofy-looking items came down the carousel. Tonight I got to thinking that packing a picnic and watching ugly luggage come out of a shoot would make a great first date. It'd be a little better than going to a McDonald's when you are a vegetarian and sitting by the Playland you can no longer play in (don't worry he dumped me after awhile).

I invited myself to a Persian dinner this evening. My friend called me up and told me to bring chicken for myself. I said, "Okay." After I hung up I realized that I haven't eaten meat in the past seven years and I don't remember much of yesterday let alone purchasing any uncooked chicken seven years ago. How do you know what to pick out? Is there some kind of trick to it. I just bought a package of peppered salami. It's easy to tell if salami is good all you have to do is read the label and if it reads, "salami" it's fine. I don't see the need to go meddling around with unidentifiable chicken parts imagining if they are tender or not you have to do that too much with men when you are single.

Well, I think I am off to bed. The more you sleep the greater your odds of having a steamy John Stamos dream, right?

Goodnight Canada, I love you almost enough to learn your anthem.

-Canadian Castaway

Dead Bugs to Tupperware to Breakdowns and with Salami

Day 123 (aka the day we ran out of mixers for the Malibu)

So, here we are again. I really wasn't going to write anything tonight. For an entire hour I tried to remember what happened yesterday and nothing at all came to mind. Finally, I remembered that yesterday was the day that my mother really did kick me out. It started off all nice and sweet with a, "Why don't you get out of the house for awhile." But it ended with, "And don't worry about coming back."

This was a few hours into cleaning out her pantry. This was quite the excursion for example: there was food in there that expired in 1999. There were also bugs. Not the scary alive ones but the scary dead ones. Seriously, we should've left everything the way it was and brought in school buses of elementary kids to show them a museum of every plague of house pest from the past 12 years. The worst part of all was that my mother insisted on keeping 128 pieces of Tupperware. Sure she stacked them all together to try and make it look like she wasn't keeping all that much but, I knew better. I tried to make her pledge to me that she would never, ever purchase anymore Gladware. Her response was in the form of a sneer. I went back to bug carcass identification and was eventually kicked out.

On the road I blasted classic rock and called my friends to tell them how my mother told me not to come back home. I was thrilled that my mother no longer wanted me around and thrilled that I had already put 11 miles between me and mother and her Tupperware and that was when the car died. I limped it back to the gas station a mile back down the road and my parents came to switch cars with me. When I told them that I would follow them in the broken car they insisted that I take the good car and get the hell out of town. Never in my life have I loved them more.

The rest of the night is kind of a blur of trying not to obviously stare at the cute-ish guy writing a script in the coffeeshop and stopping by to see my friend where we had a discussion on how to properly groom our pubic hair. According to her it's all about "maintenance." This is the same friend I visited this evening. She invited me to a dinner which she made but I made a velveeta cheese sandwich instead and it was incredible. It was the type of sandwich that made you want to get high just so you could eat it and prove that it was just as incredible as you'd originally thought.

So today was pretty much a repeat of yesterday except I kicked myself out and drove a working car as a getaway and there was no hot guy to oogle at the coffeeshop and I miss Canada slightly more than yesterday. For the past few weeks I have been trying to identify why I miss the great north so much. I toiled over the answer as though it were my excuse for not spending my time producing writing and reading books. I have finally came to the answer and it's a simple one: Canada is not here. Pretty boring, huh? That makes writing about dead bug removal seem like The Return of the King.

The other main difference between today and yesterday was that today I ate salami. My life has forever changed. For years I was a vegetarian. I wasn't the annoying sort of vegetarian who decides not to eat meat as some sort of political statement though, I just did it mostly to piss off my father (it totally worked). Seven years later I finally have gone back to the meat. But, it wasn't until today that I discovered the reason why we eat meat. It's not about the protein or any of that garbage, no. The reason we eat meat is so that we can eat salami. The king of all meats. I asked my parents what the salami is made from and they had no idea. But, that's not what is important, in fact, don't even look at it or think of calories just let it mingle with your saliva glands in the space under your tongue and next to your teeth and you can throw out all of your dildos and never have to buy batteries again.

Anyway, tomorrow I will be interviewing the candy man in St. Paul (my chocolate smore dealer). So maybe there will be more exciting news. Until then I will hang out on facebook hoping that my suitor will chat with me and dreaming of my arrival back to my (dare, I say) homeland. I will imagine a thousand people cheering me on as I get off the plane while they wave Canadian Flags and I will be dressed as a giant, red maple leaf doing the princess parade wave to my welcome back committee. Oh, Canada...

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

A Few Examples of What Actually Happens Over Christmas

Day 121

Today I watched my brother vacuum his car. Merry friggin Christmas. This was one of the most exciting events that have occurred over the past two (Christmas) days, here are a few others:

We went to go visit my grandmother today. My mother gave her a cranberry-colored sweatsuit and she cried tears of happiness while in the other room another resident was making all sorts of racket. I spent most of the visit trying to discern whether he was moaning, puking, crying, or yelling. I guess I'll never know.

Yesterday we had tacos for Christmas dinner. While we were consuming these tacos my brother accused my father of being a racist. My dad said he didn't like "shit for people." This is his term to describe all different sorts of ethnic minorities and white people who make meth. I kind of wish I would've pointed out that the taco he loved so much was a food from another culture.

Also yesterday I watched the movie, 13 Going on 30 which stars Jennifer Garner. It was an alright film (confession: I am a sucker for Romantic Comedies) except that it starred Jennifer Garner. I can't watch a film with her in it without spending the entire 112 minutes wondering what she eats, when she eats, and when and how she works out. Maybe I'll hold a telethon in her honor: Let's Buy Jenny G a Double Cheeseburger and Fries. Maybe if that succeeds we could move on to feed others like Kiera Knightly.

Tonight I watched the Charlie Brown Christmas movie. I love how it starts out: Charlie moping around saying that he is sooo depressed. I love how Lucy uses the word, "Incidentally." I love that when Linus is asked what he is gonna do with his blanket when he grows up he says, "Maybe I'll turn it into a sportcoat." I love how when Charlie Brown is super depressed to the point of maybe being suicidal nobody listens to him and calls him a "Blockhead.". But most of all I love that when I was a little kid I didn't understand any of this.

Tonight the weatherman wore a holiday sweater-vest over a holiday turtleneck. It was exciting.

I almost forgot, tonight when my mother was about to open a present from my father he said, "I bet you can't guess what it is. You'll never guess." She smiled and I rattled off, "I bet it's suet cakes for the birds." Guess what it was... I should walk on over to the nearest psychic studio and tell them I have the gift just like my friend did a few years ago, except I would be saying it for real. Hey, if they were so psychic why didn't they know my friend was coming and booby trap the door with a bucket of water? Maybe they don't have abilities like my suet premonitions.

I finished reading a huge book this evening only to have the last few pages be a dream. Not the Alice in Wonderland sort where the entire story was a dream, but still. I get enough of people recounting their dreams. The past month or so has been the "Recount my Dream on Facebook" chain reaction month. It's almost gotten to the point where I only check my account twice a day instead of ten times. I wonder if I could possibly dream that everyone on facebook who writes their dreams down as their status updates would get warts and boils...and then write it on my wall and then have it come true.

Wait, my mother just said, "Go away, I hate you," to me. That may be the most exciting thing that happened all Christmas, but it's hard to beat watching your brother vacuum his car.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Sorry!, That's How I Life It, Updating Life, Christmas Missives Make Us Miss Out on Nothing (damn), Cougar Roaming

Day 119

There are two things I have learned about in the past two days: cheating and Christmas mail.

I had the pleasure of playing a game of Sorry! and my personal fav, The Game of Life. While bringing back fond memories of my childhood spent slurping Kool Aid and staying indoors with television, books and the occasional board game. But all that crap is folklore of the ages what is important is what's being lived today. Well, in this case what was lived in yesterday. Yesterday I learned that playing these games as an adult isn't so much about having a good old bonding time (come on, did this ever happen like the pics on board game boxes with the happy brunette families) but more so about creating your own personal jollies through cheating.

Here are some tips I'd like to share:

When playing Sorry! it is pretty hard to cheat, except by:
-Keeping quiet when a player doesn't see a move. (classic yet unreliable cheating tactic)
-Volunteering to move another players piece for them and neglecting to move it all of the required spaces (pro-active approach). Note: You will usually get caught so if you can pull this off know that it is either a big victory or you are playing with idiot 4 year olds who cannot count properly.

When playing The Game of Life there is a series of steps the elaborate cheater can take to assure winning but more so for the thrill of getting away with it. Here are my tips:
1. Play with your mother.
2. Volunteer to be the banker. Don't wait for a response, just start taking charge you are less likely to be stopped.
3. When a player lands on your mother's stock numbers give her a 5,000 bill with confidence. She will never look down to her stock card right in front of her to realize that it should be 10,000.
4. When your mother passes a Pay Day and doesn't notice, don't pay her.
5. Repeat steps 3 and 4 throughout the game.
6. When your mother gets to the Millionaire Estates offer to exchange her small bills for larger ones so as to make it easier for her to count them. And finally;
7. Give her less money than she had in her pile when doling out large bills, careful to put her small ones directly into the bank piles so she cannot deny that you are being honest.

The above provides the ultimate in cheating satisfaction and is not recommended for the weak of heart or the plain nice. If you are at all concerned with winning or losing games then you should probably re-assess your value system. It's not who wins that is important it's what you can get away with. That's the game of life.

I wonder when they are going to update The Game of Life. And in the new version are they going to make getting married an option not a mandate? Are you going they going to put a condo in the House Deed cards? Or replace Travel Agent as a career with Software Developer? Instead of making the choice between college or start a career will the players have to decide whether to only get a 4 year degree or an advanced degree? Will they somehow replace the old school station wagon cars with mini vans or SUVs? Will they keep the Salary Cards the same? Why is it that you get the full years salary every time you just pass a Pay Day? Perhaps I need to whip off a letter to whomever owns Milton Bradley these days outlining my concerns and offering options for updating. I would but really my only main concern is when and if they do update the game (who knows they may have already) my only request is that they keep the Superstar Career Card but slap Paris Hilton's face on it. With my luck the creator of Life would be dead.

My mother and I were sitting around the table tonight, me with a glass of beer and, her with a pile of letters. Instead of having the stack consist of half-paid bills it was filled with envelopes with handwritten to and from addresses and half-paid bills. This is Christmas mail. Christmas mail can come in several forms such as a Christmas card with a personal message (the best and most rare) or what is most common and popular are the traditional Christmas photo and/or the Christmas Letter.

The Christmas picture sheet with boring holiday wishes used to be a big deal as it would take much time and preparation (choosing matching outfits, driving to Sears and driving back to Sears to pick up the prints) but now anyone with a computer can make and usually print a decent picture card so they are as abundant as people hitting deer with their cars in the Midwest. The only difference is that there is a hunting season to thin out the deer population not so with the photo card senders. Usually everyone looks older than last year and if there are tiny children they look adorable. If you are lucky enough to receive a photo card from a family with teenagers you are in for a special treat as they have two look options: slutty or zitty. Both are equally entertaining. In any case how is sending off someone a cheezy, posed picture of yourself in anyway a gift?

My personal favorite is the Christmas letter. There are so many varieties of Christmas letter. The three that stuck out from my mother's stockpile (before she threw them away) were written by an ancient great grandmother, a young, new grandparent, and a woman who has lived alone for years but still has a daughter nearby. Looking at the three letters the great grandmother's was the best because it displayed her unique voice with little metaphors laced with quilting details (plus who can really be annoyed by a great grandmother who can still type, or even knows how to type). The younger, new grandmother gushed about her grandkid and mentioned her and her husband's and her mother's lives like boring character descriptions, most likely copied from last year's letter only changing the illness of her mother to accommodate this year's ailment.

In a lot of ways my favorite letter was the one penned by the woman who lives alone. The first section was observations about the weather. The second section was about how the enclosed card was made from a close up photo she took of her cacti. Note: We did not receive this card. She listed the fun things she'd done all year. There were six. It must have been a good year. And finally, on the last few lines she writes where her daughter works and how she has her own apartment now and then she gives out the address to her daughter's new apartment for an unexplained reason. Perhaps so that her daughter could receive our Christmas photo or letter. If we had one.

After perusing these letters I learned a few things, like typos could be expected such as: "Jim is has a new tractor." or "breath taking" (two words) or four dot ellipsis. There are random 3rd person tense shifts when the narrator is writing about what they themselves did over the past year as though the entire family was really writing it. I also learned that people who live in the Midwest really do like to go to Branson (the book "I Love Ranch Dressing: And Other Stuff White Midwesterners Like" was right). I learned that if you get your name handwritten on the top on one of these typed Christmas letters then you are extra special. Sometimes if you are extra, extra special the sender will write something like this (actual message on one of my mother's received letters), "Hope you and family are doing okay. I think about you." I learned a good many things about how people have spent their past year. But, I've mostly learned that these people actually think I care. They think I care so much that they sat down and wrote a Christmas letter and xeroxed it and sent it out to 30 people knowing in their hearts that doing this was cheaper than buying Christmas cards (even if you bought them by the box on clearance).

Go green tip: Do not bother printing out and sending off your Christmas letter, nobody cares and if you are lucky enough to have anyone that does give a shit that you went to the International Harvestor's Collector Conference don't they deserve more than a generic letter?

In other exciting news a cougar is roaming around different residential neighborhoods not the fun 40-something female WASP preying on High School boys but the eat-your-dog kind. This was shown on the ten o'clock news accompanied by pics and video footage of the vicious Lion King extra. How much of a redneck am I showing when I say, "You can shoot film of this creature but not shoot a shotgun?"

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Capturing Cookies, What is Stalking, Wet Hand Monster, Wedding Rings, Cologne Cootchie, Imported Goods, Scrabble Repression

Day 117

Until a few days ago there was only one reason to eat cookies: the frosting. This was all fine with me I especially when the frosting was twice as thick at the cookie. But, when you are finished with the cookie (as no matter how much willpower you think you have you always finish it) all you have is a sinking fatty feeling and a faded memory of the good times you had. This used to be the case until just a mere two days ago I discovered the importance of cameras and cookies. First you go out and buy the giant Santa cookie loaded with frosting, second you take out your digital camera and after every couple of bites you snap a photo, making sure to save the eyes of your Santa until the end. After all of that you scroll through the life of your cookie and post it on facebook to show your friends who don't comment on it and then repeat.

I am a freakshow who is constantly trying to improve her act and audition for new ones.

A friend and I were sitting in a bar playing with our laptops yesterday, she doing important legal homework and I was diddling around on facebook. "He just popped up chat as soon as I got on facebook," I said. "He's like totally stalking me." My friend looked over our nest of HP computer screens and said, "But you are the one watching for him to come onto chat so you are stalking him." Awhile later after he and I were chatting a pause went by after I asked, "What are you doing?" so I added, "Besides ignoring me." And he then wrote me a message that read, "I would never ignore u !" I told my friend what he had written and she said, "Ask him if he's stalking you. Ask him right now." "No," I mumbled. "Why?" "Because I kind of like that he's stalking me." Or am I stalking him? I need to wikipedia stalking.

So, I have been absent for a few days from the blog, whatever I am sort of on a vacation. Well, visiting your parents is usually more like a punishment which is reason number 38 of why I miss Canada. Anyway, I have been doing exciting things like going to supper and attending Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles birthday parties and going to Taco Bell.

One of my suppers involved my niece, her brother and her mother. My niece is a lovely little 5 year old creature. She calls me an "Underwearhead" and loves to make me take her to the bathroom and then hold my hand on the way back to the seat making sure that the wetness of her undried hand dampens my own hand. And when I let go in protest she chases me through the restaurant trying to touch me. Her mother is never amused by this which makes me want to take out my niece and bring her back with a sugar high.

Another supper I had involved huge pre-planning, it was a year in the making. It involved going with a friend of mine who is mentally challenged (PC?). When I yelled at my father for asking if he was "like retarded" he apologized saying that he doesn't know "the proper term for it these days" and proceeded to ask, "Well, is he a twit then?" Anyway, this friend of mine (who is waaay less challenged than me or my father) got into his head that this waiter at the Olive Garden who I said was a hot (a year ago) is my lover and I should ask him to marry me.

So, we all piled in the car to seek out this waiter, let's call him Trick. On the car ride there my friend suggested that I go to Target and buy Trick a wedding ring. I remember Trick being quite cute and if I had any money that may have been an option. I got kind of excited to be embarrassed by my friend's in front of Trick, thinking of it as a movie plot where two lovers meet. Anyway, we ate our entire meal and kept our eyes out for Trick as he wasn't waiting on us. There was no Trick in fact there was only one man working in the entire place. And according to our waitress Trick doesn't even work there anymore. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't go to Target and pick out a wedding ring.

My large friend hates cologne. But, when I pulled out a sample given to me earlier in the day for the hot guy pictured on the front she whipped around in the driver's seat and seized it. She immediately started to bellyache about the odor until she saw what the perfume was. She grinned and said, "I have to get me some of that." She sniffed. "The one for men?" "Yep." Why?" " Because..." she proceed to tell us that she was in love with the guy promoting the fragrance on TV. When we finally guessed who the guy was she said, "Yep, Matthew. I gotta get some of that and spray it." "Where?" I asked. "Everywhere I need to." If all it took for sexual gratification was scenting up your cootchie with perfume the world would be a much happier place.

The final supper I had out was at Taco Bell. This was after the Olive Garden and an opportunity to consume my second supper of the evening. I declined, but my friend was hungry. We went inside as the window of the car I am driving doesn't roll down. We walked in and were met with glaring florescent lighting, a confusing color scheme, and a man with horrible teeth, a mustache, and nasty fingernails. And after I asked this creature what exactly is in an Enchirito I realized I had found who I wanted to become my new best friend. He knew exactly what is in an Enchirito and described it like he was doing a voice over for a commercial on it. He also gave us coupons to try some sort of Cinnamon Twist and didn't show any signs of irritability when we took over 10 minutes to figure out what to order.

He gave us some sort of phone number to call so that we have a chance to win like 1000 bucks. There was something downright mystical in his description of how you never know when you could just call up and be a winner. This was all fine but there was something about the way he said, "Somebody up in the cities won it last year and I'd like to see someone closer to here win it this year." Who would ever have thought that not going through the drive thru would change your life. I wonder if it'd be weird to call and get his work schedule.

Which brings us to today. My friend and I spent most of our time shopping in a nearby town flitting from shop to shop and looking at expensive bobbles and owl-shapped handbags in fancy boutiques. Most of the items we purchased though came from K-mart. You just can't beat a cheaply made purse for 10 bucks and if it's made in China or Bangledesh it's imported, right?

No matter how much I should like to play Scrabble I will always hate it. I will always think that I should be a better player that I should find bigger words than my opponents and get bingos. Instead I play words like tit and try for laughs while clenching my teeth at my spoiled potential. The only difference (at least according to home video evidence) betweeen me at 5 and me at 26 is that at 5 I cried and refused to play the games that made me feel like a loser. Well, at least I was being honest then and flailing around your arms is fun. I sense a return to my former self coming on. Hopefully I will get to wear ugly party dresses with bows on the ass and lace-bottomed panties again.

More adventuring tomorrow.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Bloated Barbie Brat, I-Tunes, Children Moneymakers, Cat joke, Like like like, Merkin story, Oh Canada

Day 114

Today started off with me trying on every shirt I own and being completely shocked that they don't make me thin. I do this every week or so and am always amazed and disgusted. If I am not listening to death metal while this occurs I feel moody and bloated the rest of the day. Today I didn't find any King Diamond, Sabbath, or Dio to play but I did find and upload my Aqua CD that I owned in 8th grade. There's nothing like a little Barbie Girl on repeat. I wish they'd join back together and write a tune about those freakish big-headed ghetto Bratz dolls.

Yesterday was much more exciting than today. After a morning of listening to Conservative talk radio with my father during which he screamed at me (he thinks if you are uploading CDs in your I-Tunes it somehow gets charged to his high speed internet bill) I went two towns over to get a haircut. My regular hair stylist (a gorgeous big-tattooed hottie named Michael) was no longer with the salon so I had to chose someone else. As it turns out the woman I chose was quite pleasant and while she wasn't hounding me to get highlights or buy mousse we spoke about The New Kids on the Block and her boyfriend and kids. After she cut up my hair I thought about her kids. If I were a stylist I would totally milk the shit out of that. What a good way to make tips. Is that unethical? Nah, if you have to sit and bullshit with someone the whole time you are doing your job they would surely come up, right? If it were me I would tell the customer that they really want a robo-raptor for Christmas but I thought they were pretty expensive. Shit, I should be doing that when I bartend, nobody'll know I don't have kids. Sometimes you have to make your own Christmas bonus.

After the hair salon I popped into Target (what I miss most when I am in Canada, sorry Mom and Dad but you can't offer those kind of sales in such a welcoming environment). While in Target I found a few items and overheard a kid reading a joke from what may have been a Laffy Taffy wrapper. He said, "What do cats read every day?" His parents made lame guesses like, "The Kitty Paper." The little boy smiled and said, "The mews." I want to meet the person who made up this joke.

I went to grab a coffee at my favorite coffeeshop which, as you may have read, is now filled with creeper old men. But, while I was there a young couple was sitting behind me. They must both attend one of the two exclusive private schools in town. The girl was gabbing on and on peppering her sentences with 9 too many likes. She spoke of all the money her grandfather was giving her in a trust and about a recent vacation to Florida, "Universal Studios is like soooo boring, seriously." The boy just sat there and listened. She said, "So like I was thinking the other day how there is chocolate cheesecake right?" No response. "And, like I was wondering what if there was like chocolate cheese?" No response. "That's just like how my brain works." I prayed for them to be replaced by a horde of creepers.

This afternoon I remembered that I promised a friend that I would spend Christmas break writing a story about a merkin dealer. I've decided to place our main character in a flea market and have rednecked, toothless fools come up and ask what a merkin is. I think it could work and if not it could be a future career opportunity for me.

Well, my bloated ass is off to watch a little Muppet Christmas Carol and think about how much I miss the great North country. You know, if they got a few Target stores up there I just may apply for citizenship well, assuming I could find a coffeeshop filled with rich idiot undergrads and creepers.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Yeah, Well, The Old and the Rested, Bathrooms and Liquor, Dildos, I'm Fine, Thanks, Santa?, Wrap Up

Day 112

It's one of those days that starts with the woman your mother thinks is your father's mistress coming over and cleaning the bathroom and ends with you drinking Malibu mixed with a Fresca derivative out of a used McDonald's cup. All said, not a total waste of a day.

This morning while I was munching Count Chocula I mocked how my father says, "Yeah, well." all the damn time. Usually he smiles when he hears me imitate him as though I were his little girl again and marching in with his huge boots on. But today was different, today he was saucy. He started with, "You say it waaaaay to fast. Yeah, well...like that." The how-to-mock-me-properly lesson ended with, "You need to work on your inflection more. You need to sound like you just don't care." Mocking someone isn't as fun when they give you lessons on how to do it. Yeah, well...

So, after the lesson and Chocula my parents' friend showed up. I have known this woman since I was a child (once there was a Kool-aid pitcher in her cupboard that had a live mouse in it). She is a tiny spitfire with red hair. She verbally roughhouses my dad and talks about drinking, a lot. Apparently, my father is hiring her to help clean the junk out of their house. This is something he has done before. When this has happened in the past my mother has shown a ridiculous jealously and suspicion for this activity despite her being friends with the spitfire. I used to think that the jealously was ridiculously hilarious; who would want my racist, lazy father besides my mother. And most of the time she doesn't want him anyway. But, after my father took a shower and put on jeans for the first time in weeks, (usually he wears sweatpants that fall off his ass and act as a museum to what he ate that week) I understood. She is jealous of how he acts toward the spitfire. This makes more sense. Except that when he got out of the shower and dressed he came up to me and said, "Your mother is going to like that I showered and put on clean clothes." Hmm...it's like I am living in a horribly boring cheap soap opera except there are no hot actors taking off their shirts.

Anyway, so the spitfire shows up and bullshits and talks about drinking for a time. She then asks my father, "Where do I start working?" She eyes the living room that is so full of mysterious boxes and expired near beer that there is no longer a pathway in. He says, "You do bathrooms?" She said she did. And before I knew it my parents' old friend was scrubbing their shower and toilet all the while relaying rules to my father, "No smoking around me." "Rule number four don't question me." Between all of these things she is telling me about all the kinds of alcoholic beverages she enjoys and then my father appears. She says to him, "Hey, you could be my designated driver." He responds, "It's like I always say, lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine." What the fuck is that supposed to mean? She said, "What was that?" And he said, "Nothing, I gotta run up town." Commercial break, followed by a to be continued... I think this show may lose it's funding.

After my mother showed up on the scene we went to the big city a few towns over. She went to a doctor appointment that resulted in her saying to me, "And that surgery he's suggesting is not the good kind," and I went got dropped off at the mall. In the mall I went into the Spencer gifts store. I had not been in one of those stores since I was a teenager with fresh piercings. In the back corner of the store I noticed that they had cheap dildos. Just as I pulled one off the rack for inspection this huge store clerk woman snuck up behind me and loudly asked, "You finding everything you need?" I said, "Yeah, thanks." I put the dildo back on the shelf and kept browsing. When I walked past the counter on my way out she called, "You still doing alright?" I left, dildoless.

The rest of the mall trip involved countless other clerks rushing me and asking how I was and if I was looking for anything. I always responded, "I'm fine, thanks." or "Nope, I am just browsing, thanks." Why the fuck am I thanking them for I wondered all day. I am starting to think it's the Canadian influence. Geez, just think if I was back in Canada right now I may get the politeness enough to apologize to these people for not needing anything AND thank them for asking. That is the day I move to New York City and regain my inner asshole.

The mall had a Santa who was later spotted at Applebees telling children that he wasn't Santa that he was just some guy who makes his toys. How confusing that must be for them. I bet he told the other kids the same thing in the mall from his big chair while he was creepily dandling them. I am sure their parents told them that they were going to see Santa and all they get is some lackey that looks just like him. No wonder all those Aryan-looking, bug-eyed mall kids looked so disenchanted and possessed. It's hard enough to lie to everyone that you were good all year and write a Christmas list when you can't even spell but throw Santa imposters and lying parents into the mix and you are creating a destructive human being.

The rest of the evening was me and my mother trying on clothes that were too small for us and milling around Target where I am pretty sure that she stole a voice recorder despite my warnings about how they come down on shoplifters (I should know). After that I ate a bag of cheesy jalapeno puffcorn and downed a McFlurry, whatever I ate a salad for supper.

Until tomorrow, unless I get drunk and have to sleep on a thin used mattress at my friend's house where she doesn't know the internet password. Maybe tomorrow I will eat a Blizzard instead of a McFlurry. I am getting my haircut so who knows maybe I'll be feeling fancy.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Cart Chaos, Habitat for Humanity, Girly Movies Blow, Future Plans

Day 111

Still on the home front. Today my father decided that I should tag along while he went to make a house payment. The entire fiasco was not all that thrilling and I am willing to bet that the amount of cigarettes he smoked during our few hours together has the same impact on my health as my entire 9 years of smoking. You could catch emphysema from just rubbing on his jacket.

Anyway, after we went to the bank where we stole a calendar and Christmas tags and he went to the bathroom for the 8th time today we went to the Super Wal-Mart. My dad decided to trade in his walker for a motorized cart. This is where the nightmare began. He thought it was hilarious to ram into my shopping cart with his motorized cart. He would push it until it got hung up and knocked over soup cans and stuffing boxes that I had to pick up. He also enjoyed backing the cart halfway up an aisle which is fine except for the obnoxious beeping but that beeping was nothing compared to what happened in the checkout line. So my father, after ramming my thighs with the cart, pulls up to write a check an event that takes him a minimum of 14 minutes. He has a check card at home that he has never used; it's too modern. Just as he begins writing the check his cart starts to have an almost siren-like beep go off, continuously. This did not speed up the check writing and he assured everyone around that it surely wasn't his cart making such a ruckus. That was when I walked away.

When we got back my father had me pull off to the newer part of town. He wanted me to see how horrible (his words) the Habitat for Humanity houses looked. We pulled up to one and he told me to look at the house next door to the Habitat house. "If that was my house I'd be pretty darn mad about that shit for house next door sitting there knocking down my property value. And, the people who live there well, they are just shit for people from the Phillipines or some damn place." My father is the only person I know of (thank God) who could put down the Habitat for Humanity. I chuckled to myself at the ridiculousness of his comments and he said, "What's so funny?" How do you explain to your father that he is a satire come true?

In an effort to not watch a horrible primetime crime show with a city in the title with my parents (see how they turned out) I decided to watch a movie called, Because I Said So starring Diane Keaton. I knew it would be girly but I like the cheesy sentimentality of that sort of thing. I started the movie and watched it and watched it and realized something was missing. It took another ten minutes and while Diane Keaton's character was having an emotional episode I realized what it was: I didn't give a damn about the characters. What an odd thing. Usually I can drum up some sympathy for any character I see on screen (i.e. Paris Hilton) but not this time. I was all like, "Shut up you whiny rich bitches who tell your mother how many orgasms you have in a night. So, main character, you have to guys vying for you are you are successful and pretty, must be real rough." Am I jaded or did this movie suck? I would ask someone but I really don't care. (jaded)

I am a huge grump who has eaten a year's worth of frosted cookies and brie today so I am going to bed to sulk and eat mints and pray that I have a John Stamos sex dream.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Slow Reader, Tunnels vs. Treats, Screwy Kids or Parents, Creeper Coffee, Coughing is Funny, Clooney vs. Connery

Day 110

Yesterday I didn't update this damn thing. The friend I stayed with has an internet connection at her new place but doesn't know the password. So, I spent most of the night after she went to bed reading. I learned something: I read SLOW. Not slow like I am analyzing the book for structure and such but slow like I could be beaten in a reading race by the drooling kid who sleeps and pees his pants in the back of the third grade classroom slow (this kid can't even spell his own name). Seriously, I read at a rate of only 22 pages per hour and it's not like I was reading in Spanish or something or like I was reading Chaucer. Thank God I dropped out of Literature when I did. Can you imagine how long it would take someone like me to read that shit? How did I do so well at Book It? Well, pizza is an excellent motivator and I think there were less words per page back then, right? Geez, and to think the book I am reading right now is over 500 pages. I better cancel next semester right now.

I am still shoveling snow. Today I dug the dog a new tunnel into the backyard. She is too small to venture out there where the snow is nearly a foot deep. I worked real hard on it and got barked at by the neighbor dogs and gawked at by my parents' neighbors. Finally, I set the dog outside and she, from what I could tell, looked excited to go out. She didn't even notice my new tunnel before she turned back to the step and pawed at the door. It was then I realized that she doesn't care about my tunnels all she cares about is the treat she receives for having gone outside. But, the odd thing is that I think I will continue the tunneling.

Tonight my parents and I were talking. I told them about a friend of mine who is taking care of an autistic boy. My father looked at my mother and said, "Autistic, aren't those Anderson kids autistic they're pretty screwy." My mother said, "I think so." My father said, "Yep, I bet that's what they are," and then he turned to me and said, "They are worse than regular old twits." I looked at my mother to confirm how unbelievably rude my dad was and she nodded. "He's right they sure are screwy." Did I mention my mother is a nurse? God, I turned out well considering...okay, I did laugh just a little at all of this.

One can always tell when I am having my period (yes, I am going there). The way you can tell well, other than the fact that I can't simply talk to anyone without threatening them and that I am constantly inhaling alternately chips and chocolate, is on facebook. No, it's not like I write, "I have my period! Die you motherfuckers!" But, I take it upon myself to put up sappy status updates. Today's update had to do with me romanticizing about being in the same coffeeshop I used to go to and write while I was a teenager. It's kinda goofy that I make all these threats and say nasty things to people, but pop up facebook and I will shit flowery phrases until it's time to go scavenge for more Dove bars.

While I was at my favorite old coffeeshop today I realized two things: 1. The barista that I have had a crush on since I was 16 is still there and I still have a crush on him. And, 2. Nearly the whole place is filled with old creeper men. The kind of old men that stare at you with beady eyes looking through their long, white bushy eyebrows and could easily serve jail time for the stuff they have taking up their hard drives on their stained computers. Or am I just imaging this stuff? Is it the seething period hatred, the caffeine? Who cares, it's not like I can stop going there well, at least I can't until my barista man either quits or becomes one of these creepy codgers.

I am forever mocking how my father hacks up phlegm. It is a universal joke in our family. My father, being as he smokes 2+ packs a day, coughs up phlegm quite often and one day I mocked his very distinctive way of doing so. I haven't thought much of it until today when my mother started coughing and my dad, at the same time, started coughing immediately I took this as him mocking my mother so I started to mock his mocking my mother and we were all coughing. Turns out he was really coughing at the same time as her with no intention of making fun of her. I felt a little silly and laughed. I told him that I thought he was mocking her cough so I was mocking him and then I realized that this was pretty demented. If I were a morally upstanding citizen I would feel terrible I thought for making fun of someones physical ailment and then I grinned, I am not a morally upstanding person hell, I couldn't even pull off being one on Halloween.

Conversation between my parents after seeing George Clooney in a movie preview on television:

"So mother you hot for George Clooney?"
"Yep, but he's got nothing on Sean Connery."
"Oh, he's just an old craphead."
"But, have you seen his ass?"

That says it all, goodnight.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Threats, Driving Wild, Dad's Legacy and Cheesy Nativity Scenes, No More Turkish Delights, Skinny Pregos

Day 108

Yesterday (more on that later) I almost killed my brother. I didn't kill him but when I saw that he returned the only car I could drive 5 hours late and without gas it took everything I had not to turn around and fly up the snow-covered hill to at minimum kick his shins. Some day I will come through on my physical threats. The only problem right now is if I get arrested they won't let me back into Canada and I miss Canada.



The only thing I don't miss about Canada is the not driving part (and how everyone says bean instead of been). I was so excited to be driving again that today I called everyone I know around here and let them aware that I was indeed on the road. I exclaimed, "I am driving in a car." No one was impressed and I sometimes forgot to look at the road during my frenzied dialing. What's worse is that I remembered I had a camera in my purse. I pulled it out and while flying down the highway at 65 mph took photos of the countryside and myself. If that wasn't bad enough I remembered my camera has a video function so I took videos exhibiting how I drive my car. Luckily, or by some miracle/freak occurrence, I did not video me driving into a head-on collision or me diving directly into a ditch. I am so American sometimes it terrifies me.

Two days ago I asked my father if he wished he ever lived outside of my hometown and he told me he didn't and of course he added, "And, let me tell you why..." He went on to explain that when he was young boy him and his father went into the local cafe and everyone who came through the door not only greeted his father but stopped and had conversations with him. He told me that this was special to him and this was the sort of life that he wanted to live and that is why he never left his hometown.

Fast forward to this evening we went out to the local (only) cafe for supper. And, wouldn't you know it, everyone who walked in greeted my father. First, a fella and his family came in and stopped by the table. My father had words with all of them ending with the patriarch who agreed to come by and plow out my dad's driveway. The next couple were both extremely short and extremely old. My dad greeted the man by name and exchanged pleasantries with him and his tiny wife (eye level to my short and sitting dad while she was standing) lingered until her husband called, "Come on now, hurry it up." The last guy who came by perched himself next to my father's table and announced, "I quit using public bathrooms altogether. Yup, you'll never see me go into another one of those, I tell you." "Why's that?" Dad asked. "They got them signs in there right up next to the sink that say, 'Wash hands before returning to work.' And, I never want to return to work." I let my father chat with this fellow about how his mother died and who is going to chemo and which days of the week they are going while I ran to the grocery store to purchase pudding pops for my dad. On my way out his friend called, "It was nice to see yah." I said, "Oh, I'll be coming back." "Oh, that's a shame." He grinned. I wonder what they talked about in my stead or what other creatures ambled up to my father.

I guess he got what he always wanted; to be recognized in the local cafe. I did feel a tad guilty though for not really wanting the same thing enough to stay in my hometown forever. Don't tell him. But, I am good at retrieving grocery items and driving him around town to look at the Christmas lights. We drove around a horse and buggy and back through town to see what my father described as, "the best lighted nativity scene in town." It was four plastic figurines from the 1970's. I guess my inspiration extends beyond the cafe, I think my dad is special period. Well, I think that in the few moments of the day when I can overcome him being a bossy old bastard.

Yesterday I finally got to break out of my parent's house and drive to the big city to see my friends. The weird thing about going back was not that I felt out of place but that everyone asked me, "So, how's your life going?" And when I answered, "Fine." They all looked at me like I jabbed them with a spork in the spleen. How are you supposed to answer that? When I asked them that they looked at me like I was a fruitcake from 1987. Am I being a witch? Why don't they just ask me what Canada is like? But, after our first awkward exchange nearly everyone told me that I looked like I lost weight. So, either I have lost weight or they remember me as some blobby fat ass.

More Yesterday: First we went out for coffee at the usual coffeeshop there was a loony looking dude there whose, I am assuming, doctor came in and had a pack of papers in front of him that read, "The Emily Program." Later we ate at the Turkish restaurant that had an overly friendly waiter who kept saying, "How is everything, Emily?" Finally, while paying I asked him, "How do you know my name?" thinking that he was some sort of old acquaintance or drunken make out session person to me. He said, "I heard your friend say it." "Oh," I said, trying to not sound too creeped out while shoveling all sorts of candies from the candy dish into my purse. He said, "Are you paying the whole bill?" I nodded. "You are a nice friend." I said, "Well, she bought the liquor." And he said, "Nicer friend." Then he tried to make me learn his unpronounceable name and said that next time I came in he would quiz me. Guess I can't eat Turkish anymore.

Back to Today: So, after a few friends and I went out for breakfast me and my pregnant friend went on to the thriftstore. While at the thriftstore we looked at clothes for her. Apparently, buttons bursting of her tight clothes are a common occurrence for her lately. I pulled out coats and shirts for her to consider, both were a size too small for me. She looked at them and said, "They are too big." I am bigger than a woman who is about six months pregnant, time for starvation. Or, maybe I should try bulimia but that Reeses I just ate was so good going down I don't want to see it come up.

Anyway, it's late more tomorrow.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

Abandonment, Restaurants with Dad, Giggles, Ode to Howie

Day 106

So, I am still in the U.S. and I don't have much to report as I spent the day with my father. He had a doctor appointment and didn't trust that I could drop him off safely due to my winter driving skills (NOTE: I have been driving every winter for 10 years without an accident) so he dropped me off at a ShopKo (like a Target store but not quite so fancy) where I had to stay for nearly 3 hours before he came to get me. By the time that was over I should be able to apply for a managerial position in the store as I know where everything is and almost had enough time to memorize the prices and barcode numbers.

We finally made it to a Baker's Square. I tried to keep him from harassing the waitstaff and failed. He bitched loudly about the slow service BEFORE we got our food. This made me second guess the motives of our server when she came by and asked how my meal was tasting and commented that my particular salad had "so many things" in it. Hmm... Thanks, Dad. He also commented on the manager type lady who was hanging a Christmas garland. He made sure she knew that she was doing it wrong as though he'd personally hung garland there every year.

But, he did say two things today that made me giggle:

1. I asked him why he never shelled out the dough for me and my brother to get braces on our teeth and he said, "we got you shoes, couldn't have both." So apparently my brother and I have crooked teeth so we could have covered feet. My parents were both middle class working folk when I grew up and it's not like they were Evangelical with 10 kids.

2. When my father was driving he went on a rant about cellphone bills and how he booted my brother off the family plan because he wanted the newest gadget-y high tech phones. After 20 minutes of ranting he said, "Send him to Target with a 20 dollar bill and he can get a fricking Trac phone."

Other than those things nothing all that thrilling occurred. I shoveled out my brother's car and played some cards with my mother and watched most of Craig Ferguson. Howie Mandel was on the show and he came out wearing some sort of wannabe punk rock trendy ninja outfit and went on and on about how he doesn't touch anything, ever. He even wrote a book called, Don't Touch Me and told a story about how he used to wash his hands in sanitizer buckets when he had a talk show and how he got warts from it. I was impressed Howie is waaaaay creepier than I thought possible and to think he has children. How do you have sex without physical contact? I want to see a Howie sex tape. Does that make me a perv?

Well, I probably won't be blogging tomorrow as I will be attending a ridiculous karaoke party thrown in my honor. Well, is it thrown in your honor if you are the one throwing it? Who cares there may be an ice cream cake there.

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

My apologies for not keeping up with things but I am on a vacation, I guess. Matt Groening was quoted in Reader's Digest saying, "Families are about love overcoming emotional torture." Let's hope I don't run out of love.

Snowed in Day 3, Shoveling Sucker, Walters vs. Lambert

Day 105

Today both of my parents and me were snowed in for the third day in a row. I spent the day cleaning out my little brother's bedroom while he spent the day with a man who is allegedly going to turn him into a millionaire. In his bedroom many boxes are stored from several houses my parents have cleaned out. There was a box of old pictures of relatives my mother secretly threw away half of them. She said, "Don't tell your Dad."

The craziest thing we found in the room was a garbage bag filled with my late uncle's briefs. When you think about your death you imagine who would come to your funeral not where your underwear is going to end up. Maybe we should all reassess our priorities or include an underwear clause in our wills. But the worst part about the entire thing is when my mother called, "Hey Dad, what size underwear do you wear?"

The only other exciting thing that happened today was me shoveling snow. I went out with my Dad's size 13 boots on and a hat that kept sliding down into my eyes while the snow blew off the roof trapping me in a real life snowglobe. All of this was fine even a little nostalgic (I ate some snow). But then I saw her. I saw my parents 85 year old neighbor outside alternately blowing and shoveling snow. That is great I thought, that she is out there doing it. After 10 minutes of shoveling I looked over and wondered how much I would have to pay her to finish my job.

This evening my mother and I watched a Barbara Walters special on the 10 most fascinating people of the year. There were some that were predictable like Michelle Obama and Sarah Palin but what shocked me was that Adam Lambert made the cut. Are we really all that shocked that he kissed someone onstage and faked oral sex? Seriously, anyone ever watch a Britney Spears video. Her sexual overtures are much more vivid than little Adam playing sucky face. Barbara Walters should've replaced him with herself, 80 years old and still reporting and looking younger than she did a decade ago now that is fascinating. Especially how there is a line bisecting her face near her mouth that makes her look like a ventriloquist dummy.

Tomorrow I am venturing out into the world with my father. That ought to be much more exciting especially if I get him preaching on illegal aliens (his favorite topic).

-Canadian (U.S.) Castaway

What I miss about Canada today is: Absolutely everything.

Note: For those of you who read my blog yesterday my bodyguard did finally write me and he said that the party was, "lovely."

"I love you", 5 Year Old Birthday Party, Boring Stuff

Day 104

I just saw a commercial for a jewelry company on TV. It involved a whole bunch of couples. In each couple one of the members of the couple said, "I love you." This is all fine except the looks on the "I love you" recipient's faces looked variants of confused, sad and pissed off. I am not sure how this sells jewelry. Why would you buy someone who looks quite disturbed at your love confession an expensive, generic-looking diamond stud set?

The above is pretty much how exciting my day was today.

I was so bored I dug out a home video of my 5 year old birthday party. This doesn't sound boring but after you've seen this home video around five times...Anyway, I noticed something on this viewing: the games. My mother decided that we should play games at this party this seemed like a good idea. But, I realized that no one was having fun playing these games. I personally cried at least 4 times and screamed, "I don't want to play." We kept playing as we were promised a prize at the end. These prizes must have been awesome but they weren't in the video. After the cake and ice cream (we were very happy then) my mother let me hand out balloons and then one of my pig-tailed childhood friends asked, "Is it the end of the party?" And it was and I never even got to see these bribery prizes that were allegedly won for sitting on chairs and dropping clothespins into a jar.

Not much else happened today as I am without a car and snowed in due to the biggest blizzard of the year but here are a few things I did or thought about (note: they may bore you to death):

-I watched Vacation the original. There is nothing like when that crazy Aunt Edna is alive. I wonder what would've happened had she lived through the entire movie. It would've been much funnier than dropping off her dead body on a lawn chair. I would make a "Save Aunt Edna" t-shirt but I think it's a little too late now.

-I just saw another commercial on TV (yeah, I am watching TV during this blog, it's that boring to write about today) for something called, "Auto Finder." It is a remote control type thing that points you in the direction of your car. The commercial started out with a statistic about how many crimes occur in parking lots and thus the need to find your car fast. But if you are carrying a bright green flashing arrow that makes noises and staring at it to try and find your car are you really all that safe? The crazy thing is that whoever is making this thing is charging 100 bucks for it.

-I spent most of the day checking my facebook waiting for my bodyguard to write me details about a party that happened on Saturday. He didn't. You know I am bored when I am waiting for him to write me because whenever I ask him about anything all he says is, "It was lovely." I have no idea what that means and I wonder if he even knows. What would be lovely is if he could dish the shit a little more.

-While I was waiting for my bodyguard to write me I wrote to my friend and asked if he would marry me if I killed my father (he is driving me batty) as the Canadian government won't let me back in with a criminal record. It all started as a joke but we commented on each other's posts to the point of who would be our pool boy and who would take care of our pets though I am still wondering who would cook for us.

Well, here's hoping tomorrow will be more exciting and that I will be able to travel farther than the mailbox from home I may have to tunnel through the drift in front of the door but I think it would be worth it.

-Canadian Castaway

Rustic Living, Boring Airport Peeps, Plane-ing, Taco Heaven, Friends and Stuffed Animals, Dad, Town Hottie

Day 103

My apologies about not posting yesterday. Most of the day was spent commuting to the airport and then on the plane to get here. Where am I you ask? I am finally back in the hick town where I came from and yesterday I had no car, no cellphone, and no internet. Today I have no car or cellphone. Hopefully tomorrow will get progressively better even though I already appended my name on facebook to show a status that reads, "misses Canada." The only solace thus far has been that I hooked up a TV in my old room and watched some Roseanne and Dawson's Creek (whatever, it's a good drama, sorta). By the way since my parents refused to get wireless internet I am typing this on a computer that is from 1993 (the same year as the Chevy Cavalier I had that had a fire under the hood, maybe this Dell will have the same fate).

So yesterday I woke up at 7:30 after closing down the pub and miraculously remembered to throw out my bag of fresh carrots before I left (well, they weren't that fresh really, I have good intentions with produce but candy tastes better). I got on a bus and then a train and then a plane. After sitting in the airport for quite sometime sneakily studying the people around me: pacing white-haired man, group of meathead men who probably drive Yukons, and a woman whose was fairly pretty except that she had a GIANT second chin on her face, I decided to play Chuzzle on my laptop for an hour.

The plane ride was awesome as I had a row to myself. I stretched out and knit for awhile hoping someone would comment on it, nobody did. I wrote a letter to my aunt and snuck peeks at the Asian dude kitty corner to my seat and wondered why he was staring at me (duh, cause I was staring at him, this didn't occur to me). Finally, I got off the plane, walked the equivalent of seven blocks to retrieve my baggage and went out to the curb to wait for my friend to pick me up. I waited and WAITED. I felt the cold air paralyze my lungs and thought about finding a phone to call a cab and cursed and asked strangers for the time like I was assaulting them. I saw my friend's car whiz past after 20 minutes of waiting and I took my giant bag and sprinted for another four blocks to get it. I flung open the door and screamed, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Maybe I should go back to cigarettes or start kickboxing.

We went straight to Taco Bell. After two 7 layer burritos and a soda I was all better. The car ride was an hour long to get home which was not enough time for my friend to spill all the details about what I had missed at the restaurant back home. But, my favorite story was not about people at the restaurant it was an exhibit of my driver's laziness. She told me that she never cooks and that two days ago she had decided that she wanted chicken wings and had found some at the store that she could make in the microwave. She brought them home and they fell in the crack between her stove and her counter. She bent over the counter and grabbed at them and tried to stab the bag with a broom handle and failed so there is a bag of used-to-be-frozen chicken wings rotting in her kitchen.

When we made it home she flung open my parents door and turned the football game on the TV plopped down in my dad's lazy boy and ate my parents pickles out of the jar without using a fork (I thought my father would die). Did I mention that she's only been in my parents' house twice. I love her. During half time she demanded a piece of paper so she could map out what she called a "tenative schedule" for my entire visit home. I think today I was supposed to get my haircut.

Later on that night my parents had a fight about stuffed animals. My dad told me I was to help him bag up the stuffed animals in the basement to give away. My mother promptly told him that she didn't want him to do this without her consent because he may give away stuffed objects that she wants to keep (even though she hasn't been down to the basement to see these creatures in 10 years). He told her that he would take care of it that she wasn't around to help and that he had to do everything regarding getting rid of stuff. I pointed out that they have had this exact argument in the past but with reversed roles. They did not find this humorous and really didn't find the fact that I was tearing up from laughter funny either.

Since my brother is using my parents extra car and my dad doesn't work we got to spend the day together. By the time I got up he was listening to Dr. Laura on the radio and smoking cigarettes in the house (a habit that he said he didn't do anymore). He pointed to the ancient computer which I am now typing on and declared that they now have the internet (literally, for the first time ever).

I laughed and said, "Dad, you are the only person I know who doesn't have an email account. You gonna get one now?" "Nope, and let me tell you why..." And then he launched into this story about how everybody has an email account and all those people do all day is sit around emailing everyone they know. "And, they expect you to reply," he said. Then he told me that this was all these people (everyone?) did all day long instead of living. I guess sitting around smoking cigarettes and listening to Dr. Laura is living then? I couldn't take it anymore, this was rich material, so I started to write down his words especially after he said, "I went to the car show at a nudist colony." He saw what I was doing and said, "I was gonna tell you that story but I'm not going to anymore. You'll probably just put it on the internet. Don't put any information about me on the friggin internet." hehehe.

This evening my mother came home and took me to the next town over to go to Wal-mart. We milled around looking at cheap crap and later we went to the grocery store. I noticed two things about the town 1. It smelled like raw sewage. And, 2. Every person we encountered had at least one child and/or was wearing pajamas. All had unkempt ratty hair. No wonder that guy said hello to me at the grocery store I am the hottest chick in that town. Huh, maybe I should move there.

Well, I am held captive here for 20 some more days. I will try to keep this blog updated secretly at night unless I run off with grocery store guy.

-Canadian (US) Castaway

Internet Disconnect, Procreation 101, English Effing Muffins, Addiction Quiz, Diet Plan, Unisex, Getting a Clue, Paris Vs. Whistler, Goodbye Canadia

Day 101

Tomorrow I will leave Canada for the first time. I am a little sad to be leaving everything behind and go back to a land of Wal-Marts. But, I have decided to continue my blog while I am there, assuming my parents finally get the internet. This is something they have been putting off for around a decade. This weeks excuse was, "Well, we were going to have the guy come and set it up on Tuesday but your father had a doctor appointment. But, it's almost ready." How is an internet connection, "almost ready?"

I guess there is always the public library internet what could be more fun than writing snarky things with boogery children running around? What's creepy is that some of those snotnosed brats may be the offspring of my graduating class. Seriously, did they offer a class on breeding in high school? Perhaps it is my calling to start one up called, "You do not have to procreate and you probably shouldn't." If I have to look at another facebook profile with a picture of a pregnant classmate or read a list of status updates and comments trying to decide whether or not your 4th child should have the surname of his father that you are divorcing I swear I am going to go around stabbing people with birth control shots.

Anyway, I plan to continue my blog with a new theme called, "Why I Miss Canada." I am guessing I will miss Canada because my parents don't live there. I hope I will survive the holiday mayhem without becoming an alcoholic homicidal smoker. I love my parents, but it is the type of love that could best be observed and spread through a cellphone (well, had I not killed my cellphone in a washing machine yesterday).

Today I went out to my favorite breakfast spot in town with a friend. My friend is from Iceland but she could easily pass for Canadian or American (of the US persuasion). I almost forget that she is foreign at all until moments like what happened today. Sometimes she won't know what English words mean which is fine because as writer I can explain these things and feel confident (most of the time). She asked about home fries and I explained they were diced potatoes that are fried up in the same fashion as hashbrowns. But, when she asked me what an English Muffin was all I could say was, "Like a round toast with air bubbles in it." She didn't get it and in my mind I had a breakdown, how am I supposed to write anything if I can't describe a simple food item? My depression didn't last long though, luckily we were in a restaurant so I could take a few bites of egg in hollandaise and feel much better.

You know you are addicted to a candystore when...
You go in before you leave town and when you are saying your goodbyes to the clerk you tell her, "I will miss you," and mean it.

When my friend and I were at the candystore, after just having snarfed down a enough calories to last a supermodel a year, we browsed. I started making a pile up on the counter of sweets I had to have. I noticed my friend didn't have anything I asked why and she informed me that she was too full to buy candy. Hell, if I had the ability to think like that I would be a very thin person. Instead I kept making a candy mountain and giving her the secret evil eye.

On the way back we saw a fellow resident of mine sitting in the window of a coffeeshop and popped by to say hello. He is the guy that people I work with call, "The Creeper." Anyway, he had just come back from having his longish hair chopped. I told him he looked wonderful and then the creep began. His creep is that he lays on too much detail like not only did we get the exact location of his hairstylist we also found out that he had a semi-pointy head that would make him look like a baboon if his hair was short all over we also found out that the hair place he went to was what he called, "unisex." I love that word maybe Creeper should be changed ton Awesomer. Well, I would've thought that he was awesome had it ended with the word unisex but it went on for another 20 minutes because he had to give us all the details about the bakery where he bought bread. I wonder if it is a unisex bakery.

Tonight I had my final pack of Mr. Noodles (translation: what Americans call Ramen). As usual the first few bites were delicious and then the guilt set in as all of my friends have told me many times that it is carcinogenic. So naturally when I am told not to do something that is the thing I want to do. This was the case with Mr. Noodles until I realized that slowly giving myself cancer willingly was really quite stupid. But, Mr. Noodles gave me an idea on how I can make some money in this modern world: a new version of Clue. The suspects could be: Mr. Noodles, Mr. Clean, Little Debbie, Sara Lee and Chester Cheeto. I may be onto something even though I am pretty sure Mr. Clean doesn't belong on that list (I just like his muscles).

After I finally finished all of Paris Hilton is My New BFF I tried to find another show to watch. I clicked on an episode of Peak Season thinking it would be appropriate considering my locale. All I learned from an episode of that show is that there are boys and girls in generic relationships in Whistler who like to drink and there is snow. This is further proof that Paris Hilton can put on a good show. Maybe I'll try and find a few episodes of The Simple Life.

Until next time when I am in another country (if I make the plane). Goodbye, Canada you have been quite hospitable.

-Canadian Castaway

100!, Wet Phones, Queen of the Spies, Careers Ick, Paranoid Woman, Oh Cinnamon Whiskey

Day 100

Hooray, I made it 100 days. I don't know why this is more significant than day 99 or 37 but it's something I guess. I need a little excitement every now and again. It's not like I am getting laid or anything, nevermind.

Anyway, today was horribly boring. I wonder if it would've been different had I known it was DAY 100 (imagine ominous voice saying that). The most exciting thing that happened is that I did laundry. Well, it wasn't exactly the laundry that was exciting but the thunk I heard in the washer when I was removing my sheets. It was my cellphone. You know the day is going to be generally horrible after such a thing happens. But, the idea of mediocre really gets pounded into your brain when you feel excitement from vacuuming your floor.

Other quasi-exciting things happened though like I went to the bank and waited in line forever secretly eavesdropping on some boring rich girl freshman talking to some boy in shorts and thong sandals. The only thing I remember about the experience (and this tells you how boring rich girls are) is that I had on my headphones as a decoy. I even bobbed my head a little to look more secretive. I was the spy queen of the world in that bank line, until...Hussein the short man who wears a suit to the bank everyday and stands behind an inexplicable podium saw me. Him and I have not been speaking (well, I haven't been speaking to him) since about a month ago when he got really pushy about me using the ATM machine to deposit checks. I told him that I didn't trust it and he didn't give up on trying to convince me for another 10 minutes. So, just as I saw him approach he says in a regular indoor voice, "Hi, how are you?" Without thinking that this was something a girl actually listening to headphones enough to make her head bob along would hear I said, "Fine, thanks." And with that my cover was blown, but no one seemed to notice.

After snarfing down a pita filled with vegetables and calories I chatted with my brother on facebook. He told me that he has a new job prospect with some sort of real estate franchise. He wrote about it and I wrote back things like, "B-O-R-I-N-G." And yet I was quite surprised when he wrote something like, "Thanks for being excited for me." (Not! being the implied subtext) It hit me, why would anyone take career advice from someone who wants to write stories for a living? Really, wtf? I mentioned this to him and all he wrote was, "hahahaha." I think we made amends and he'll go off and make money and continue to be able to say, "hahahaha."

After that advice-athon confessional I went out to meet up with my bodyguard for a final goodbye before I head back to the U.S. for a silly long break (like 26 days). I met him at a cafe and we bullshitted for awhile. We talked about what he will one day name the bulldog or boxer he will own. He said names like, "Gnome" or "Goblin" or "Monster." I mentioned, "Fang" thinking it was cool. He told me it was generic. We talked some more and before he left I said, "You better hug me in case I die in a plane crash." He smiled and drew me in a for nice hug, our ears touched and held. "You paranoid woman," he uttered like it was a wonderful thing and not a curse, goddamn he is growing on me.

And then there was the double shift. I had told a fellow bar employee who allegedly has the flu that I could cover for him even though I was already working a shift today. Good deeds, I can be a sucker, especially when there are tips and free Monster drink involved. I told my fellow floor staff that he was kinda boring compared to my other co-worker, a bullshit line mostly to flirt with him. He took it as an invitation for a competition of my love. So, in an effort to win and get fucked up he stole airplane-sized bottles of Cinnamon whiskey from the liquor room and we each carried around the little bottles in our front pockets. I wonder if anyone saw how many times I went to the bathroom?

If the little bottles weren't bad enough the evening head bartender came in and I had to hide my tipsiness since he takes his work seriously (fool). But, later on in the shift he made a shot for all of the workers which we took in secret and while trying to not throw up (this was like my 7th shot of the day) I somehow faked like he was doing something really bad ass and cool and shocking. Sucker.

Anyway, it is approaching 3 am and I have a lot of packing to do tomorrow for the trip home. More on that tomorrow evening.

-Canadian Castaway

GRAPES, High School Part 2, Cuban?, I Am Listening, Readingz, and Truck Talk

Day 99 (How exciting)

Usually when I wake up and roll myself near my computer to check facebook with half open crusty eyes there are no notifications for me or there are only notifications from friends having their own conversations on one of my pictures. I start the day with a dash of loneliness that can't be scrubbed off in the shower while I weep. Ha! I am kidding dear reader, it is not that bad (I don't actually cry in the morning I save that for the evenings). But, today was different.

Today I checked my facebook to find that the famous-y author I had written to had written me back. I had asked him for a Steinbeck recommendation as I am willing to give that descriptive coot one more chance, considering that this author (the famous-y one I'd written to) liked him. The author I wrote to shares many of the same favorite books and movies as I do well, except that he loves Steinbeck. Anyway, there were three interesting things about the message I receieved in response:

1. He wrote that he loved The Replacements and has loved them since he was young. I too loved them and gave him a chronological history of my love for them in my reply to him.

2. He knew how to properly punctuate titles. He knew that song titles should have quotation marks around them and book titles should be in all caps. Well, I am assuming these things are correct. I usually just pretend like I know (which is a VERY bad thing considering I was a writing tutor for years). I made sure to use his punctuation when I wrote my reply.

3. He used the word, "Booyah" in closing his letter. Had I eaten before reading I may have had to use the warranty on my computer and have to write an accompanying letter saying that yes this is puke. The only bad part would be that I can't fully explain why "Booyah" makes me want to hurl.

Anyway, he recommended THE GRAPES OF WRATH (I think that is proper punctuation, it looks good). He instructed that if I could get past the turtle in the beginning that it would be worth the read. Turtle, hmm. Was telling him in my reply that just as soon as I finish your "giant book" (511 pages) I'll get right on it rude? Who should I send my bill for eyeglasses to the famous-y author or Steinbeck's estate holder?

This afternoon a friend and I went to the high school we went to last week to hang out with some nerdy writing kids. Which would've been cool, had they shown up. Instead we spoke to the English teacher. He is a harried man who is eager to please and has a classroom stocked with YA books and desks from the 1970's. My friend had told him that she loved school as a child after he had commented on how wonderful she was with teaching kids. I brought up my background of skipping school to read scandalous novels. I can't help but wonder maybe teaching is like being a cop. What?! I wonder if the best teachers are not only the ones who always loved school but often (and sometimes more so) the ones who were the naughty kids like me. The best cops (if you can say such things about cops) are the ones who were naughty kids. Almost makes me want to be a teacher to prove this theory. But, not right now I've got to finish Paris Hilton is My New BFF before I get a teaching degree. A girl has got to have her priorities straight.

After our talk with the teacher my friend and I grabbed a Cuban supper. I am not quite sure what is Cuban about a Chicken Wrap sandwich and Pesto Linguine but there was writing on the walls just like every other (the only other) Cuban restaurant I've been to. That must be the Cuban part. After that my friend dumped me on a street corner and I found a coffeeshop to kill some time. I often write in coffeeshops, Harriet-The-Spy style. I opened my notebook wrote the date and the time but realized that I had been sitting in a coffeeshop that I didn't know the name of but that didn't stop me from carrying on. I sat next to two guys (boring) and two girls (not so boring). The guys were talking about the Olympics. And, the women's topics ranged from the struggle of being young school teachers to, "Seriously, how hideous do I look right now?" After that comment one said to the other, "Just imagine if someone was recording this right now." I smiled.

So, when you start going to school for Creative Writing nobody tells you that you will be required to participate in readings, which is fine it's not that hard. What is hard is having to sit through them. This was my task tonight. I am not saying my colleagues didn't read exciting things about nude beaches and grape rape and teenage girls. But, it is terribly hard to pay attention when you are sitting next to shelves filled with glossy books you want to read and you look off to the side to see that there are people staring into the window watching you like you are captive lemur. Those must be the types of people that never get embarrassed by anything. What didn't help was the hard cider you could purchase by the can for 3 bucks. Being slightly drunk you'd think would numb you but really it just makes you have to pee AND it doesn't make poetry sound any better.

I got a ride home from the boyfriend of a friend. Not only was his ride a truck, it was also a manual. The best kind of truck. We talked about how truck radios never really work. I wonder why that is. I make a mental note that when I buy a truck (someday when I am a whole lot cooler than I am now) it should have a broken radio. He told me that the only car he'd ever seen catch fire was a Fiero. I told him I had a Cavalier that lit up under the hood one day. I left out the part that it happened in the parking lot of the restaurant I worked in at the time and nobody believed me until they could see huge flames and the fire department. All in all it was an excellent night AND he didn't get pulled over for a missing headlight. But I did impart on him the skill of stupidity just in case he got pulled over. "Oh really officer my headlight is out? Oh my, I had no idea." A skill I have learned from my mother. Her line is, "I was going 92 miles per hour! No! Oh, that is dangerous. I was just on my way to work and I--wow, 92 I've never gone that fast!" This works even better now that she looks like a little old lady, I guess she leaves out the part about owning a corvette and driving her kids to Sunday school in it going 100 miles per hour.

So, I am off to watch a little Paris Hilton and be reminded what sort of entertainment my homeland produces.

-Canadian Castaway

Oh Daddy, Coat Trick, The Bus, Namesakes, Pop Rockin' Duet Style, Research

Day 98

It's funny how one can spend the entire day watching TV shows and movies and eating and not really feel all that guilty about it. Maybe I'm just turning into my father. I did speak with him today on the phone shortly after my mother put me on hold to wipe her ass he got on the line. He told me that he was, "counting down the days" until I returned home. And, after two minutes of conversation curtly said, "Alright well, I've had enough talking to you."

After I hung up I realized that if I was turning into my father it would be alright--he says and does hilarious things. But now I wonder, does he think it's funny, too? Does he realize what he is saying comes of as silly? I think the answer to that is: probably not. I had better change my ways. Maybe it's too late. I mean we already have so much in common like candy and a general disdain for people and taking out our nonsensical emotional outbursts on the wrong people. Plus, what started out as me mocking his sayings has faded into his sayings becoming part of my daily vocabulary. Yeah well...(shit, he says that)

So earlier today my bodyguard showed up to go with me to lunch. As soon as I walked out to meet him he started going on a tirade about how the night before he was so drunk that he put on someone elses "overcoat" at the bar. We walked to the bar to investigate the situation. The entire time he whined about how he didn't like this "overcoat," he asked my opinion and I told him that it looked funny. He whined that he would have to replace his "overcoat" or get used to this one. He said "overcoat" 26 times during the 5 block walk to the bar. He spent 2 blocks whining, 1 block convincing himself that this new "overcoat" wasn't so bad, that he could get used to it. The fourth block he dug into the pockets looking for clues. He found a airline ticket stub with the name of a professor of our program on it in the pocket, a professor he happens to work for. The final block was a mix of laughter at finding the owner so easily and dread that his coat wouldn't be at the pub.

Of course his coat was at the pub. We returned the other one and instead of getting fired the professor declared that he was giving him a five dollar per hour raise. Which is funny seeing as the coat didn't really matter to the professor as he had only walked two blocks in the cold last night before passing out in our building being too drunk to get home. Anyway, we finally got on the bus to go to brunch. On the bus ride, before our mutual bitching about being hungry, a guy and 5 trash bags full of bottles and cans got on. I was just telling my bodyguard that I was thinking about switching my writing focus to nonfiction, that there was just too much brilliant shit going on in real life that I couldn't make up anything that would be better. The entire time the can guy rearranged his bags of cans and bottles behind our heads and blew his nose into a never ending supply of brown paper towels. In a pause in conversation my bodyguard turned to me and said, "It smells like beer on here." I pointed to the cans behind our heads. He smiled.

We got to the restaurant where I met the place's namesake and nearly curled into a ball on the floor due to her celebrity. My friends took the opportunity to make fun of me for this display. My friends do not aspire to be cafe owners who are cute little old ladies that still greet customers. We sat near the kitchen so as for me to have a view of the delicious cooks. I sang and ate and freaked out about silverware scraping on teeth. All in all it was quite wonderful but, the owner of the cafe kept her distance. Does that make me a creep or was she just busy? I don't want to know. All I know for sure is that when I become a little old lady cafe owner I should wear green dresses and have white hair.

After dinner my bodyguard and I went to the candystore where he didn't buy anything. He never does. That didn't stop him for asking for candy as soon as we got out the door. He even specified which type of gummy he wanted, refusing the fangs that I offered and opting for the soda bottles. But, I must admit that I was grateful for him on the bus ride home. Eating Pop Rocks alone isn't nearly as fun as putting your ear up to a friend's mouth to hear the crackle while a group of high class teenagers watches, making mental notes of snarky remarks to say to each other about how ridiculous we were as soon as they got off the bus. They're just jealous.

The rest of my day was spent watching Paris Hilton is My New BFF, a movie called Stay Tuned, and Gilmore Girls episodes. Come on, I'm in the writing program it's called, "Research." I love grad school. This morning I visited a friend I hadn't seen in quite some time. I asked how she was doing and she gave me a long list of papers and exams that she needs to complete and she asked me what I had been up to. I said, "Oh you know, going to parties and I think today I will just lounge." She gave me a hard look and said something to the effect of, "That must be nice." And I realized yeah it ain't so bad, except Onch was eliminated from Paris Hilton is My BFF.

-Canadian Castaway

A Horridly Average Day

Day 97

So, I just got back from the pub where we were allegedly having a Christmas party for the Creative Writing program. This would be fine except that it was boring, awkward and there were no presents. The closest thing I had to a present was a free vodka cocktail from a friend of mine and more brie than I have ever eaten in my life. Before that, I had to help kick out a drunk undergrad and after that I had a conversation with the famous author in my program during which he detailed the six times he was arrested including one time where he put a Honda Civic on the roof of his high school. Other than that the evening was a total bore.
Who would've thought that a room full of supposedly creative people would be so boring?

Just a quick re-cap of the day (as you may have guessed that I had many vodka cocktails and glasses of beer and am feeling a little woozy so let's make this quick):

-This morning I wrote about a friend of mine. I detailed her life and when I stepped back I realized that it was all written in the past tense...eerie.

-I went one entire day without watching any of "Paris Hilton is My New BFF." I cannot say I am happy about this, in fact it may have been far more entertaining than the Creative Writing party, but there would've been far less free cheese.

-My favorite instructor who is prone to going on rants went on a rant today involving his knowledge of "Jumbo". Apparently, Jumbo was an elephant in the Barnum and Bailey circus who was hit by the train that was supposed to transport him and died. He was then taxidermied (he was held together with "two by fours" according to my instructor) and drug around to every show. My instructor was proud to be able to share his wealth of Jumbo knowledge but, at the same time, he couldn't hide his astonishment of us not knowing anything of his precious Jumbo.

Seriously, that is pretty much all that happened today besides a whole lot of facebooking that won't mean anything ever. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a much better day.

-Canadian Castaway

Scholars, Sushi Plates Lead to Merkin Talk, Candy is Sacred Don't Fuck With It, Gay Eskimo, Floor Duty

Day 96

The day started with tater tots and me harassing people in front of the new visiting scholar. Apparently, this old guy with nasty eyebrows is an Engineering genius. He told me that his students think he is incredibly intelligent. Which sounds incredibly arrogant but, the way he said it made him sound in wonder of it. He asked what I study and I told him Creative Writing and he said, "So, you want to be a journalist." "No, I want to write novels and screenplays." He said, "Not everyone can do that." I think me and old bushy face will become the best of pals. Plus, there were patty-style hashbrowns this morning how could I not be in a good enough mood to make a new friend.

I got to school feeling bloated (after the Monday tot-athon I usually feel like puking, but it's worth it). The topic of conversation ranged from women who are plates (Japanese high end sushi laid out on their bodies) and merkins. We had a wide-ranging discussion on merkins (pubic hair wigs). One person suggested that they came into existence to cover up the scabies of strippers. The best part of the discussion was when a classmate walked in and said, "Oh my god, you guys are talking about merkins. Isn't it a little early in the day for that?" Laptops were whipped out and searched for merkin photos and merkin dealers. The instructor walked in and told us (quite embarrassed) that she had heard the word merkin on an episode of The Sopranos. She said that she didn't know the word and had looked it up online. Finally, class had to begin but not before a friend of mine and I decided to compose stories over Christmas break whose main character had to be a merkin dealer.

The next class of the day was less exciting. In fact the only thing exciting about it was that I did not throw up when I tasted a tiny piece of dark chocolate. As a "treat" the instructor brought in a few snacks that she had thought were a special thing. The snacks were, hummus, rice cakes, healthy (dark) chocolate and digestive cookies. Gee, thanks I know I always go for health foods when I celebrate. I will never understand dark chocolate, though. Chocolate is supposed to be bad for you AND it's supposed to be delicious. If you are going to be a health freak don't try and take over candy by molesting the sugar out of it and trying to trick yourselves into thinking it's delicious. I don't go around taking the posturing out of your yoga and pretend to enjoy it. I would never even consider what a sun salute is.

This evening at supper a German friend sat down next to me. He is always in good spirits and usually it is fun to be near him. But, not tonight. Tonight I was telling him that he should be in a musical because he has a beautiful singing voice, which I have heard at the talent show and on the tape deck of his sedan. He sang popular songs in German with different lyrics like YMCA which had German words and was about a canal or some such thing and the chorus sounded like he was singing, "Gaaaaay Eskimo." This was all wonderful until tonight when he decided to show me a 19 minute video with German titles on his Ipod touch of him singing the same fucking songs in a poor quality video. Not only was the video quality poor, I couldn't understand what they were saying/singing AND, he sang with absolutely no flair at all. Luckily, I had to work tonight so I could excuse myself without stabbing a fork into his Ipod.

Work tonight was pretty good. The New Zealand security guard was working with the huge arms and crappy tattoos and constant smiles. He even threw out a guy tonight using only one hand, just for me. I thought it would make him look even tougher and thus even hotter (it did). Every Monday evening at the pub I work at there is an undergrad open mic night. There was the guy who sang the song, "Kiss Me" and played along with his ukulele. The twin boys who sang Tom Petty songs. I called them a "delicious combo pack." And, the tiny little white guy who thinks he is gangsta rapping along with a a guitar and a bongo player.

I was working floor duty so that meant that I got to catch a guy just before he peed outside and say, "Don't even think about it. We've kicked people out tonight for a lot less." And, if that wasn't enough, I swooped by a table of guys trying to hide a joint. I glared at them and uttered, "I am watching you."

Later on when the fucking DJ didn't stop his music I marched up to him and said, "If you don't stop that music right now I will strangle you TO DEATH with my bare hands, you understand?" He looked at me drunk-eyed. There were girls all around him purring for him to keep playing music and he said, "What am I gonna do?" I said, "You are going to stop this music right now or I will kill you. Got it? You are done." He stopped the music and the hundred or so people in the bar whined. I yelled, "Go home!" I actually sprayed a customer with cleanser and shoved another one (I started to apologize and realized that I was the opposite of sorry). Then I started to take half full beers away as soon as they were set down. At those moments I longed for sitting through a 19 minute German boring singer video, at least that didn't make me homicidal, just annoyed. I asked the New Zealand bodyguard whether or not I could hit people. I hope this made me seem hotter to him but, I am guessing it didn't. Damnit.

Anyway, I am once again seeing 3 am so, goodnight. I am off to dream about killing undergrads and DJs and being held by giant arms with ugly tattoos.

-Canadian Castaway

Stalking, Dear Author: Why Do You Like Steinbeck, Milling Around, South African Onlookers, Dinner Stories, Canadian Cinema, Paris!

Day 95

When I woke up this morning I rolled out of bed and began googling the author of the book, "Commonwealth." I had started his book last night, well at 3:30 am and ended staying up until 4:30. There is something about the premise of the main character selling junky action figures in a low rent flea market that greatly appeals to me. Anyway, all I could find was a youtube video of the author just after high school playing in a band and asking for seven rows of oranges and a website that had a picture of the young author and a link to his myspace and facebook pages.

I first clicked onto his myspace page and read through his interests in music and books. We liked a lot of the same stuff; his band list looked like my Itunes library and his book list contained two of my favorites, Winesburg, Ohio and my absolute favorite, Confederacy of Dunces. The only odd thing was that he had also included Steinbeck on that list. Wait a minute, I don't like Steinbeck, I thought. What the fuck?

So, I clicked onto his facebook page, requested his friendship and then promptly sent off a message with the subject head, "Steinbeck question." Just the other day a few friends of mine were at the pub (where else do you find writers) and someone had brought up Steinbeck. I spit on the very idea of it having made several attempts at reading his work and failing each time due to boredom. Really, I don't want to read about landscapes for a million pages I don't care how hills looked I care about what went on in those hills. But, I thought to myself if this author who I have so many things in common with likes Steinbeck maybe I should give him another shot. So I asked this stranger what his recommendation was for a Steinbeck book. Maybe I should write to famous authors all the time and ask for reading recommendations. Well, not all of those writers will have Freaks and Geeks as their favorite TV show or know who The Replacements were. Forget it.

Today was pretty boring. I basically did laundry and took out the trash. These chores had me walking across the courtyard of the building many times. Half of the residents' windows face the courtyard. I smiled as I made a million trips thinking, I wonder if anyone was watching me and wondering why the hell I am promenading through every twenty minutes. Usually these things exist only in my imagination and make me think I have a mental illness that has some form of paranoia in the title.

I finally emerged from my writing, cleaning, and facebook-athon and went to supper. I walked into the line to see the girl who lives directly above me. She is from South Africa. She said, "Hello," in her British English accent. I mocked her. She said, "I've been watching you all day." I said, "What?" "I saw you walking through the courtyard all morning." Who's the creeper now? This makes me sane, right? Don't answer, I can't handle the truth.

So besides the food fight between me and my big fat gay Hawaiian friend which ended up with me hitting the girl next to him like five times with an orange section (but, once it bounced off her head and hit his, it was truly amazing) the only other major event that happened at VAFN (Vaguely Asian Food Night) was that my Mexican friend told me a story. He leaned in close and said, "I realized how horny I am the other day." "Yeah?" "So, there I was walking down the street and I saw this woman and I was like, those are some hot legs. I looked at them for a second and then I looked up and the legs belonged to a mannequin."

Tonight I saw a Canadian film called, Bon Cop Bad Cop. And, it made my hatred to the Quebecois subside, just a tad. (Note: The only reason I say that I hate Quebec is because this nasty sleezeball who lives here is from there and it really pisses him off) The movie itself was alright despite all of the French. (by extension I hate French due to my hatred for my Quebecois rezmate) The best part was how hot the Quebecois male lead was. I think this had more to do with his grizzly looks and cigarettes and not his province of origin. But, I am not entirely sure.

I almost missed the entire film earlier because I somehow stumbled onto a site where you could watch full episodes of "Paris Hilton is My New BFF." I couldn't resist and now I am hooked. She is insane. This is the most American television I have ever seen. She makes these people get makeovers, do whatever she wants, and puts them in a mansion called, "The Dollhouse." I skipped all of my homework to watch two full episodes. The absolute best part so far was when she had her little wannabes write up and give toasts to her and her mother. I am completely hooked. I don't care who wins I just want to see what she'll make them do. Gotta watch one more quick ep before bed. So, as Paris says, "I have to get back to my life now so hopefully one day one of you will be a part of it."

-Canadian Castaway