Day 35
I woke up today and first checked facebook (I know I'm a 14 year old) and then my email. After I sifted through all the passive aggressive messages from my boss I found an email stating that a professor of mine was to give a lecture...in the physics building. I slapped on my running shoes (yes, I have running shoes, you don't HAVE to use them for actual running) and trotted off to the physics building. I burst through the doors and looked around, it was perfect. The building looked exactly like a high school that should have been torn down 20 years ago because of an asbestos problem. It even had ugly green lockers lining the walls. Well, the lockers lined the walls except for where there were doors or giant framed photographs of physics students in matching sweaters. PARADISE.
After my buzz dropped I entered a huge lecture hall filled with 18 year olds and asked the girl next to me if I was in the right spot, she gave me confirmation and I joined her in the back row. She gave me her life story (this was her first college course, this was English 102, they were reading my professor's novel, she didn't like licorice, and she was an undecided Liberal Arts major). We became fast friends because for some silly reason she was mesmorized by the fact that I was a grad student who knew the author and wrote stories myself. I didn't tell her that if offered to wear a physics matching sweater and pose with geeky, vaguely Asian whizkids I'd switch programs immediately.
My instructor saw me and gave a wave, but my friend wasn't looking, damn she would've been impressed. Anyway, he started to speak and I watched the undergrads either text message secretly, or take diligent notes not knowing that what my instructor said was a well-polished speech, as he's said the same things every time he had been asked to speak. (At least that's what he said at the bar the other day) But, the magic was enticing, I was jealous of not being able to live in that illusion anymore. Everything was rolling along and it started; the girl in front of me with the stringy black hair started to cough.
Being obsessive compulsive I marked down a tally. Then it began, every thirty seconds someone else in the room of 200 started coughing. The girl ahead of me winning out the contest. I watched people flinch a little and lean away from her. I had to quit the tally as I didn't have enough paper. I couldn't even hear the talk anymore. My mind was filled with the question, "How do I move seats without making a scene." I spent the entire rest of the lecture imagining tiny little bits of virus crawling all over my stuff and setting up camp in my throat. I wanted to yell, "Go home you selfish whore." In hindsight, I should've or at least put on rubber gloves and a surgical mask and dragged her out by her stringy hair. But, since the polite passiveness of Canadians has now set to invading my system I just sat there and didn't do a thing.
After I contracted a multitude of viruses I met up with some friends to go and visit the exotic environment of the Computer Science lab. Lately, I've had an obsession with laboratories, which could've been contracted from seeing a photograph of a pretty Scandanavian man in a lab coat holding his test tube. Every time I ask him to take me, he gives me an excuse or laughs as though I am joking so, I had to settle for the Computer Science lab. Which turned out to be quite the adventure.
I followed my guides (three men, yeah that's right) through a few corridors and into a door. Upon walking in you could see a large velour couch which I am certain everyone in the program dreams of having sex on but never does (I thought of it as well). I heard the Computer Science lab was just a room full of computers, it's true. But, what nobody told me was that it was also full of men. It was just like walking into a comic book store. I was gawked at and at the same time, pretended not to be noticed. It could've been my voice, but I'd like to think it was my striking beauty, that turned heads. Anyway, I asked if there were any women and was immediately met with the responses "the women sit over there at those two desks" and "we sent them to a conference."
After staring at the tape "chalk" outline of a body on the floor and thinking about how they said that they had sent the women away I decided that I had had enough of the Computer Science lab for awhile. Really, these men are there all day with themselves and they send away the only females around, freaky.
A friend and I decided after our hard day (her studying me adventuring and nearly getting mauled by blood-thirsty geek squads with keyboard weapons and dirty, slut couches) that we should rent a movie. She dragged me into a videostore on a shady street corner. I will never be the same. They had everything and it was organized to the point that one knew that the person who organized those movies spent years devoting their thoughts to what would be the absolute best system. Luckily, the man behind it all was there AND he liked crappy B horror spoof movies from the 1980's.
Having finally found my piece of utopia I was surprisingly full of questions...Would building countless shrines to the organizational man for the rest of my life fall under having false gods? Would it be ridiculous if I had to drop out of grad school because all I could do from today until I die is watch movies from that videostore? How do you ask someone if you can pay them 1,000 bucks a month to live in the American Directors section?
I strolled onto the bus wondering if it had all really happened. After awhile I realized that I didn't care if it did, I believed. My heart sank in grief, if only I would've been born in this glorious land years of my movie-obsessed life wouldn't have been wasted. If only, if only...
After supper a few friends and I watched the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland. I hadn't seen this flick in years. I can now fully understand why the "it was all a dream" endings are scruitinized for being lazy. But, I learned a valuable lesson contained in the subtext of this story, it's really just a pro-anorexia propaganda film. I should've known, how could I have missed it? If only could be a certain size she could fit into the world's she wanted to be in. If she was too big she couldn't move and if she was small she could fit through doors and hear the pretty flowers sing. Plus, when she wanted to get small she drank a liquid that looked like water (a staple beverage of anorexics) but, when she got big she usually ate something that looked more like a cookie and the message was clearly printed on it, "Eat Me".
I know what you are gonna say, but she did eat the carrot in the house to get small and she took a bite of mushroom to get big. Well, think about it...it's a Disney film she couldn't starve to death plus, anorexics like carrots and mushrooms are really just drugs. Far-fetched about the mushrooms, you say? Think about how f-ed up the Mad Hatter, Door Mouse and Rabbit were, what kind of tea do you think they were drinking in a forest...hmmm?
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Fire Alarms, Note taking, Under pressure, Why is everybody married
Day 34
So, this morning I decided to get stuff done, well, to hang out on youtube and do my laundry. Anyway, I went about my business blasting Me First and the Gimme Gimme's version of Earl and as soon as the music cuts off I hear a faint, yet distinct buzzing and then a man's voice. Now, since I've moved in the fire alarm has gone off several times, each time I try to ignore it. Usually I can't, seeing as the detector in my room is ridiculously loud, but today I was fortunate as the fire alarms were only buzzing in the hall. Oh happy day, I'd thought, little did I know.
I emerged from my room to retrieve laundry when I saw a man in the hallway who had a walkie talkie in hand, he smiled at me and started fucking with the fire alarm box on the wall, like he knew what he was doing and then the buzzing happened (AGAIN) and he said into his walkie talkie, "Smoke on the third floor." I smiled and waved at him, he did the same back to me, never once concerned about the alleged smoke. I returned to my room and again I heard the fire alarm's faint buzz, but this time the man's voice was clear, "Smoke on the third floor." Repeat this at least 14 times and you have my morning/afternoon. Sure, I could've left but really after the sixth time I wanted to see how many more times he'd do the same thing.
As usual today during class a friend and I exchanged silly notes about pretty boys. An activity that we engage in on a daily basis, but today I was sitting directly across from our instructor. Every time I slid the paper to my neighbor he was looking at me. At first I immediately looked away, but every time I checked to see if he was still looking he was. I tried really hard to change my approach and look directly at him and nod, but as soon as my eyes met his I knew he could see my (as he would put it) artifice.
He never once commented on our note passing I can't tell if it's because he'd had a brain tumor removed earlier in the week and because of his near death experience didn't (at least for now) didn't care about petty stuff OR maybe somehow he knew that by him not saying anything he'd make us feel even guiltier for our actions as they were too juvenile to even mention. I think we'll continue to pass notes and see what happens, unless of course we don't see any pretty boys to write about.
Tonight I was out with friends from my program and I was having a hormonal freakout (semi-different from my normal freakouts, in the sense that I could cry at any second). I whined endlessly to them that I was worried that I wasn't a good enough writer to be in the program and that I was fretted about submitting pieces. In an attempt to comfort me (I think) one said that I am a good writer or I wouldn't even be here. I asked him why and he told me (also by consensus of the table) that the program we are in is like third in the country prestige-wise. This comment became the antithesis of comfort. So, I got into this program by probably a computer error and now have to run with super awesome writers, great. And, then my sage like companions told me to relax!
So, if you read my blog post from yesterday (why would you it's self indulgent crap) you will note that I fell in love with a valiant giant. Today I got up enough courage and word power to tell this giant that he was my hero, before my face was full of hives and I skipped away like a 1st grader. Tonight a friend of mine sat beside him at supper, I spent most of meal time trying to get her attention to mouth to her how pissed off I was that she sat right next to the very guy that I had told her I was in love with. How dare she?
Tonight after coming home realizing what I got into (how awesome I am gonna have to be to play with the big writers) I checked my email hoping to find tons of my friends having written me gushy messages on facebook, but instead I found an email from my friend telling me that she, after having spoken to my gorgeous crush thoughout dinner, thought that he was probably married. If it weren't for beer and the fact that my zit on my face won't be able to pop until tomorrow I swear...
-Canadian Castaway
So, this morning I decided to get stuff done, well, to hang out on youtube and do my laundry. Anyway, I went about my business blasting Me First and the Gimme Gimme's version of Earl and as soon as the music cuts off I hear a faint, yet distinct buzzing and then a man's voice. Now, since I've moved in the fire alarm has gone off several times, each time I try to ignore it. Usually I can't, seeing as the detector in my room is ridiculously loud, but today I was fortunate as the fire alarms were only buzzing in the hall. Oh happy day, I'd thought, little did I know.
I emerged from my room to retrieve laundry when I saw a man in the hallway who had a walkie talkie in hand, he smiled at me and started fucking with the fire alarm box on the wall, like he knew what he was doing and then the buzzing happened (AGAIN) and he said into his walkie talkie, "Smoke on the third floor." I smiled and waved at him, he did the same back to me, never once concerned about the alleged smoke. I returned to my room and again I heard the fire alarm's faint buzz, but this time the man's voice was clear, "Smoke on the third floor." Repeat this at least 14 times and you have my morning/afternoon. Sure, I could've left but really after the sixth time I wanted to see how many more times he'd do the same thing.
As usual today during class a friend and I exchanged silly notes about pretty boys. An activity that we engage in on a daily basis, but today I was sitting directly across from our instructor. Every time I slid the paper to my neighbor he was looking at me. At first I immediately looked away, but every time I checked to see if he was still looking he was. I tried really hard to change my approach and look directly at him and nod, but as soon as my eyes met his I knew he could see my (as he would put it) artifice.
He never once commented on our note passing I can't tell if it's because he'd had a brain tumor removed earlier in the week and because of his near death experience didn't (at least for now) didn't care about petty stuff OR maybe somehow he knew that by him not saying anything he'd make us feel even guiltier for our actions as they were too juvenile to even mention. I think we'll continue to pass notes and see what happens, unless of course we don't see any pretty boys to write about.
Tonight I was out with friends from my program and I was having a hormonal freakout (semi-different from my normal freakouts, in the sense that I could cry at any second). I whined endlessly to them that I was worried that I wasn't a good enough writer to be in the program and that I was fretted about submitting pieces. In an attempt to comfort me (I think) one said that I am a good writer or I wouldn't even be here. I asked him why and he told me (also by consensus of the table) that the program we are in is like third in the country prestige-wise. This comment became the antithesis of comfort. So, I got into this program by probably a computer error and now have to run with super awesome writers, great. And, then my sage like companions told me to relax!
So, if you read my blog post from yesterday (why would you it's self indulgent crap) you will note that I fell in love with a valiant giant. Today I got up enough courage and word power to tell this giant that he was my hero, before my face was full of hives and I skipped away like a 1st grader. Tonight a friend of mine sat beside him at supper, I spent most of meal time trying to get her attention to mouth to her how pissed off I was that she sat right next to the very guy that I had told her I was in love with. How dare she?
Tonight after coming home realizing what I got into (how awesome I am gonna have to be to play with the big writers) I checked my email hoping to find tons of my friends having written me gushy messages on facebook, but instead I found an email from my friend telling me that she, after having spoken to my gorgeous crush thoughout dinner, thought that he was probably married. If it weren't for beer and the fact that my zit on my face won't be able to pop until tomorrow I swear...
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, September 28, 2009
Breakfasting with Bathrobe Girl, Boring Lunches, Afternoon Beers and Supper with Giants
Day 33
So, I just got off the phone with my mother. I was bitching to her about how a fat girl like me couldn't possibly join the Ultimate Frisbee team because there is too much running involved. (Something that was later brought up to me much like the conversations I've had that end in, "It's not a hike, really.") My mother said to me, "You need to quit eating and drinking beer." Tonight's blog is now dedicated to eating and beer drinking. Bite it, Ma.
This morning I finally sat next to the girl who always wears her bathrobe to breakfast. Her and I started chatting and she laughed at my jokes. I told her that not always do people find me amusing. She laughed and said in a vaguely Asian accent, "That's because you're too much of a controversial character for this place." This after I asked a guy at our table how old he was and she threw an hysterical whooping fit when he said he was 24 and said, "No way, I thought you were 34, it must be your hair." She also told us that she had no problem pleasuring her boyfriend and we awkwardly toasted her bedroom triumph. Oh, and did I mention, she was wearing only a BATHROBE. Finally I got her to admit she was a controversial character as well. She told me that she was moving in with this boyfriend that she knows how to pleasure and that I would have to take her place and be the new controversial character. Does that mean that I have to wear a bathrobe to breakfast or do I have to one up her and go naked?
Lunch was not nearly so exciting. I ate lunch with my fellow writers. Writers are supposed to be a real thrill, right? Wrong. I spent more time talking to the squirrel lurking on the hill than I did to my classmates. I can never remember what the hell we talk about anyhow. And, just imagine these are the types of people who are filling our shelves with stories, scary. Maybe I'll have to go naked to lunch as well and spark them up a little.
Lately I've been mucking around calling myself a drunk. Compared with most of the people I live with my near daily beer seems like a severe addiction problem. I used to look at it as back home I had a car and therefore couldn't really drive around after I'd had more than one drink, but now I don't have to worry because I don't have a car here, drink up I thought. This excuse worked well for the first two weeks. I told myself two days ago that from that moment on I would be good and ground myself without booze, until...after my second class of the day my friend asked, "Do you want to go get a beer." My mind said, "No" but my mouth spouted, "Of course I do". Looks like I'm gonna have to tie myself up again and put in a gag, damn I need to learn some self control or petition for prohibition.
Tonight at the supper table I fell in love with a valiant giant. The dining hall was all aflutter with wimps bitching about the cold and pointing up at the windows that were open nearly 20 feet overhead whining, "We should close those." The president of our college (the white-haired guy who is king of where we live who does god knows what) listened to the complaints and said, "I have a long pole, would you like me to go get it?" NOTE: I am the only person who found this hysterical.
Anyway, the president returned with a long pole (hahaha) and handed it to a short guy and instructed, "Get up on that table and try to hook the window on the pole and pull it shut." The short guy tried, not really getting close, meanwhile, down in the shadows lurked the superhero to be a 6'8" wonder watching the action. He let the shorty try for awhile and then silently took the pole climbed atop the table and within only a few seconds the window was closed. People were clapping and cheering on the giant, but he didn't gloat. In fact he closed the other windows without any fanfare from the outside. Now all I need to do is get him to fall in love with me.
I had never thought of the responsibility involved with being freakishly tall. I wonder if at some point you reject your gift and refuse to reach things for people or rescue cats and small children out of trees? Would that be a good pick up line? Or maybe I should ask him if he likes girls who eat and drink beer.
-Canadian Castaway
So, I just got off the phone with my mother. I was bitching to her about how a fat girl like me couldn't possibly join the Ultimate Frisbee team because there is too much running involved. (Something that was later brought up to me much like the conversations I've had that end in, "It's not a hike, really.") My mother said to me, "You need to quit eating and drinking beer." Tonight's blog is now dedicated to eating and beer drinking. Bite it, Ma.
This morning I finally sat next to the girl who always wears her bathrobe to breakfast. Her and I started chatting and she laughed at my jokes. I told her that not always do people find me amusing. She laughed and said in a vaguely Asian accent, "That's because you're too much of a controversial character for this place." This after I asked a guy at our table how old he was and she threw an hysterical whooping fit when he said he was 24 and said, "No way, I thought you were 34, it must be your hair." She also told us that she had no problem pleasuring her boyfriend and we awkwardly toasted her bedroom triumph. Oh, and did I mention, she was wearing only a BATHROBE. Finally I got her to admit she was a controversial character as well. She told me that she was moving in with this boyfriend that she knows how to pleasure and that I would have to take her place and be the new controversial character. Does that mean that I have to wear a bathrobe to breakfast or do I have to one up her and go naked?
Lunch was not nearly so exciting. I ate lunch with my fellow writers. Writers are supposed to be a real thrill, right? Wrong. I spent more time talking to the squirrel lurking on the hill than I did to my classmates. I can never remember what the hell we talk about anyhow. And, just imagine these are the types of people who are filling our shelves with stories, scary. Maybe I'll have to go naked to lunch as well and spark them up a little.
Lately I've been mucking around calling myself a drunk. Compared with most of the people I live with my near daily beer seems like a severe addiction problem. I used to look at it as back home I had a car and therefore couldn't really drive around after I'd had more than one drink, but now I don't have to worry because I don't have a car here, drink up I thought. This excuse worked well for the first two weeks. I told myself two days ago that from that moment on I would be good and ground myself without booze, until...after my second class of the day my friend asked, "Do you want to go get a beer." My mind said, "No" but my mouth spouted, "Of course I do". Looks like I'm gonna have to tie myself up again and put in a gag, damn I need to learn some self control or petition for prohibition.
Tonight at the supper table I fell in love with a valiant giant. The dining hall was all aflutter with wimps bitching about the cold and pointing up at the windows that were open nearly 20 feet overhead whining, "We should close those." The president of our college (the white-haired guy who is king of where we live who does god knows what) listened to the complaints and said, "I have a long pole, would you like me to go get it?" NOTE: I am the only person who found this hysterical.
Anyway, the president returned with a long pole (hahaha) and handed it to a short guy and instructed, "Get up on that table and try to hook the window on the pole and pull it shut." The short guy tried, not really getting close, meanwhile, down in the shadows lurked the superhero to be a 6'8" wonder watching the action. He let the shorty try for awhile and then silently took the pole climbed atop the table and within only a few seconds the window was closed. People were clapping and cheering on the giant, but he didn't gloat. In fact he closed the other windows without any fanfare from the outside. Now all I need to do is get him to fall in love with me.
I had never thought of the responsibility involved with being freakishly tall. I wonder if at some point you reject your gift and refuse to reach things for people or rescue cats and small children out of trees? Would that be a good pick up line? Or maybe I should ask him if he likes girls who eat and drink beer.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, September 27, 2009
symptoms, deadlines, horrid dinners, choir vs. the movies
Day 32
This morning I awoke with a stuffed up nose. Two days before I had a dry throat. The panic set in with this new development and I finally did it, I googled, "Swine Flu symptoms". I checked out the first hit on this list it contained a garden variety of symptoms that one could have. On the bottom was a link to let you know if your symptoms were just a common cold, fever, or seasonal allergies. I clicked on there hoping I wouldn't start oinking or sprouting a curly tail in the next few days (items not on the list). I skimmed the lists of symptoms for these different ailments and realized that they were the exact same as the symptoms for the swine flu...guess, I'll never know (until the snout grows and I start rolling in the dirt).
This morning the scorpio forecast stated that I would have a resurgence of willpower and get things accomplished. So, I started to make a "To Do" list. When I double-checked the due dates for my assignments I realized that my first workshop(translation: the entire writing class slams your story in front of you for an hour and you aren't allowed to speak) story was due the not this class period but the next. I sighed in relief and then gasped in terror, that meant that I had to finish it by tomorrow to hand out copies for my classmates. My swine flu and I were placed on lockdown eating whatever scraps we could find, the unfinished to do list at our side, and a pot of coffee on. And so the quest for a coherent 16 pages began. And, three hours later with bloodshot eyes, an empty box of Kleenex and three new zits I conquered the task. And, felt all the better for it. In fact, I don't think I'll ever try to accomplish anything in advance ever again everyday will be a stacked conquest...unless, I failed to complete a task under the pressure (eh, I'd just blame it on the swine flu and everyone would believe me because there are so many symptoms that I'm guaranteed to have at least one lurking all of the time).
When I first moved into the residence hall I was thrilled at the prospect of not having to cook, ever. This was in the blissfilled days before I found out about Sunday night suppers. Every Sunday night we have rice and a vaguely unidentifiable Asian meal (VUAM) that doesn't taste like anything at all. That's fine I can live with that. But, there's more, the worst part is the "Chinese cabbage" that accompanies the VUAM. It is a a dark green with stalks that have a diameter of roughly one inch. They taste like wet wax. Tonight I entertained myself by asking the Chinese women at my table if they enjoyed the greens. They all answered that they did. I said, "Remind me to never move to China or I'd starve to death." Apparently this was an offensive remark to the non-Chinese woman at my table I found this out when she sneered, "That's so close-minded." The looks on the faces of my tablemates (except the Chinese women, they were laughing) surprized me. They looked at me as though I'd asked them if they had ever wanted to grease down a sheep in hot butter and make a little freaky love. My next comment of something like, "What it's the truth, these greens are terrible," didn't seem to improve the morale, at all. Oh well.
After dinner my residence hall had it's first choir practice of the year. I decided to check it out, thinking it'd be just like the movie Sister Act 2. You remember the one with Lauyrn Hill and all the ghetto kids that turned out to be kick ass singers and all of them in love and yada, yada. I learned three important lessons tonight, life is not always like Sister Act 2, nobody appreciates my running commentary of what is going on or my imitation cheerleader like whoops and "Great job's", and finally choir is about singing notes, not words. We spent all night learning the note progressions for our song. I have never been so confused. But, the good news is that one of the other altos sings REALLY loud, so I can just fake it, plus she sort of drowns out my running commentary. I think me and choir could work, but I am still going to pretend I'm Lauryn Hill everytime I go to practice.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I awoke with a stuffed up nose. Two days before I had a dry throat. The panic set in with this new development and I finally did it, I googled, "Swine Flu symptoms". I checked out the first hit on this list it contained a garden variety of symptoms that one could have. On the bottom was a link to let you know if your symptoms were just a common cold, fever, or seasonal allergies. I clicked on there hoping I wouldn't start oinking or sprouting a curly tail in the next few days (items not on the list). I skimmed the lists of symptoms for these different ailments and realized that they were the exact same as the symptoms for the swine flu...guess, I'll never know (until the snout grows and I start rolling in the dirt).
This morning the scorpio forecast stated that I would have a resurgence of willpower and get things accomplished. So, I started to make a "To Do" list. When I double-checked the due dates for my assignments I realized that my first workshop(translation: the entire writing class slams your story in front of you for an hour and you aren't allowed to speak) story was due the not this class period but the next. I sighed in relief and then gasped in terror, that meant that I had to finish it by tomorrow to hand out copies for my classmates. My swine flu and I were placed on lockdown eating whatever scraps we could find, the unfinished to do list at our side, and a pot of coffee on. And so the quest for a coherent 16 pages began. And, three hours later with bloodshot eyes, an empty box of Kleenex and three new zits I conquered the task. And, felt all the better for it. In fact, I don't think I'll ever try to accomplish anything in advance ever again everyday will be a stacked conquest...unless, I failed to complete a task under the pressure (eh, I'd just blame it on the swine flu and everyone would believe me because there are so many symptoms that I'm guaranteed to have at least one lurking all of the time).
When I first moved into the residence hall I was thrilled at the prospect of not having to cook, ever. This was in the blissfilled days before I found out about Sunday night suppers. Every Sunday night we have rice and a vaguely unidentifiable Asian meal (VUAM) that doesn't taste like anything at all. That's fine I can live with that. But, there's more, the worst part is the "Chinese cabbage" that accompanies the VUAM. It is a a dark green with stalks that have a diameter of roughly one inch. They taste like wet wax. Tonight I entertained myself by asking the Chinese women at my table if they enjoyed the greens. They all answered that they did. I said, "Remind me to never move to China or I'd starve to death." Apparently this was an offensive remark to the non-Chinese woman at my table I found this out when she sneered, "That's so close-minded." The looks on the faces of my tablemates (except the Chinese women, they were laughing) surprized me. They looked at me as though I'd asked them if they had ever wanted to grease down a sheep in hot butter and make a little freaky love. My next comment of something like, "What it's the truth, these greens are terrible," didn't seem to improve the morale, at all. Oh well.
After dinner my residence hall had it's first choir practice of the year. I decided to check it out, thinking it'd be just like the movie Sister Act 2. You remember the one with Lauyrn Hill and all the ghetto kids that turned out to be kick ass singers and all of them in love and yada, yada. I learned three important lessons tonight, life is not always like Sister Act 2, nobody appreciates my running commentary of what is going on or my imitation cheerleader like whoops and "Great job's", and finally choir is about singing notes, not words. We spent all night learning the note progressions for our song. I have never been so confused. But, the good news is that one of the other altos sings REALLY loud, so I can just fake it, plus she sort of drowns out my running commentary. I think me and choir could work, but I am still going to pretend I'm Lauryn Hill everytime I go to practice.
-Canadian Castaway
Neighbor (without the u), Canadian yahoo news, United States cravings
Day 31
This morning my tiny little Chinese (I think she's Chinese) neighbor lady decided to move around furniture and close drawers. At first I was annoyed and tried to ignore it, then I pounded on the wall and then I bolted upright in bed and started to wonder exactly how much furniture she had and exactly how many drawers her room contained. I stopped pounding back when I realized someone with 23 chests of drawers and countless furniture items of all varities may not be mentally stable. I decided to wake up and not mess with her, the only problems now are that I am tired and spent my entire day thinking of ways to get into her room to see it's contents.
Canadian observation of the day: Today I spent most of my time watching youtube videos of Dame Edna but during breaks I checked my email (and looked at facebook, and wondered why people don't write me more often). I have an account with yahoo. In the U.S. I sometimes read the "news" stories on the main page of yahoo, most of the news topics being split between the realms of politics and scientific breakthroughs. However, when I am in Canada and type in yahoo.com I am immediately redirected to yahoo.ca. And, the news pieces are much funnier and more off-key. Today I noticed that the two main items were a puppy bulldog who couldn't roll over and a piece on why save pandas from extinction (title: "Worth Saving?").
The first video was a puppy who really couldn't flip over, he just rolled from side to side on his back. The panic in his eyes increased with every attempt. What was cute at first became torturous, what kind of person could just put a camera on the dog and not help him to flip himself after a minute an a half of his backbone grinding into a hard wooden floor. Two other videos followed this one, one with a cat stuck in a coat sleeve being tormented by it's owner dangling a bell in it's face and the other, a pug forced to push a baby stoller on walking on his hind legs like a person. One of the first signs of a serial killer is that he/she tortures animals. Hmm...what does that say about Canadian society that they have this as front page news and yet so few killers?
The panda article was humourous when you considered the environmentalist freaks that were cringing all over the provinces as they watched the news clip and heard a man say that pandas are costing too much money to keep alive and that we should just let them take the evolutionary path and die off already. What was even better was how they interviewed the panda supporters and all they had to say was that we should save pandas because they're cute. Now that's real news.
Tonight a couple friends and I were going out to dinner at an Indian restaurant. The restaurant had been endorsed by our Indian friend. We discussed how it's sort of silly that people move their entire lives to another country to attend school and get a fresh start on life and yet they spend a good amount of time and money trying to find the cuisine of their homeland. As we were speaking of such things we passed a Denny's and I wondered if I should feel compelled to enter based on this logic. Then I realized that people from other cultures craved the food of their motherlands not only because it was comforting but more so because it tasted good. After this realization I didn't feel so bad to walk past the Denny's without so much as a glimpse inside, but my internal patriotism meter dropped.
A few more feet up the block the brightly lit signs for a Toys R Us shined. Pride filled my eyes. We may not have gourmet cu sine at home but we sure do have awesome chain toy stores filled with the cheap handicrafts of foreign 12 year olds. My heart lit up like a tacky pinball machine. This is my version of an American comfort food, shameless commercialism. God, I feel satiated.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning my tiny little Chinese (I think she's Chinese) neighbor lady decided to move around furniture and close drawers. At first I was annoyed and tried to ignore it, then I pounded on the wall and then I bolted upright in bed and started to wonder exactly how much furniture she had and exactly how many drawers her room contained. I stopped pounding back when I realized someone with 23 chests of drawers and countless furniture items of all varities may not be mentally stable. I decided to wake up and not mess with her, the only problems now are that I am tired and spent my entire day thinking of ways to get into her room to see it's contents.
Canadian observation of the day: Today I spent most of my time watching youtube videos of Dame Edna but during breaks I checked my email (and looked at facebook, and wondered why people don't write me more often). I have an account with yahoo. In the U.S. I sometimes read the "news" stories on the main page of yahoo, most of the news topics being split between the realms of politics and scientific breakthroughs. However, when I am in Canada and type in yahoo.com I am immediately redirected to yahoo.ca. And, the news pieces are much funnier and more off-key. Today I noticed that the two main items were a puppy bulldog who couldn't roll over and a piece on why save pandas from extinction (title: "Worth Saving?").
The first video was a puppy who really couldn't flip over, he just rolled from side to side on his back. The panic in his eyes increased with every attempt. What was cute at first became torturous, what kind of person could just put a camera on the dog and not help him to flip himself after a minute an a half of his backbone grinding into a hard wooden floor. Two other videos followed this one, one with a cat stuck in a coat sleeve being tormented by it's owner dangling a bell in it's face and the other, a pug forced to push a baby stoller on walking on his hind legs like a person. One of the first signs of a serial killer is that he/she tortures animals. Hmm...what does that say about Canadian society that they have this as front page news and yet so few killers?
The panda article was humourous when you considered the environmentalist freaks that were cringing all over the provinces as they watched the news clip and heard a man say that pandas are costing too much money to keep alive and that we should just let them take the evolutionary path and die off already. What was even better was how they interviewed the panda supporters and all they had to say was that we should save pandas because they're cute. Now that's real news.
Tonight a couple friends and I were going out to dinner at an Indian restaurant. The restaurant had been endorsed by our Indian friend. We discussed how it's sort of silly that people move their entire lives to another country to attend school and get a fresh start on life and yet they spend a good amount of time and money trying to find the cuisine of their homeland. As we were speaking of such things we passed a Denny's and I wondered if I should feel compelled to enter based on this logic. Then I realized that people from other cultures craved the food of their motherlands not only because it was comforting but more so because it tasted good. After this realization I didn't feel so bad to walk past the Denny's without so much as a glimpse inside, but my internal patriotism meter dropped.
A few more feet up the block the brightly lit signs for a Toys R Us shined. Pride filled my eyes. We may not have gourmet cu sine at home but we sure do have awesome chain toy stores filled with the cheap handicrafts of foreign 12 year olds. My heart lit up like a tacky pinball machine. This is my version of an American comfort food, shameless commercialism. God, I feel satiated.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Riding the b-line, Taxation, libraries, ridiculous coincidences, recycling sucks, and pussy vs. vag
Day 30
Today I thought I'd be super efficient and ride the b-line bus, as this bus only makes a few selected stops. The b-line has always blown past me at every stop but this morning I made a special effort to find out where it goes. I was so excited to ride the bus that I had no idea it would suck. It's true that it is faster than the buses that stop every couple blocks but, it is filled with boring people. The types of people who ride the fast bus are horrid. They are all clones of one another with their ear buds in and their noses in newspapers. What's the fun in that. No crazies, or old people, or bag people, chatty neighbors, or even mothers with babies that lighten up the gloominess of public transport. What a crock. I guess it will take me twice as long to get places but at least I'll have someone to talk to or be afraid of to share my ride with.
So, I hopped off the express bus and found a clothing store that I had passed by a week ago, a clothing store that actually carried above a size 10. I was so excited to meet up with my fatty sisters that I didn't even care that the clothes were hideous, dull and excentuated the belly. In fact, I found a sweater to purchase. I was so proud of my sweater when I brought it up to the cashier I almost forgot that it's price tag read, $56. When the clerk rang it up and wanted nearly $62 for it I nearly started vomiting all of the healthy shit I was forced to eat for breakfast. "You tax clothes here?" I asked. The French girl working behind the counter said something I couldn't understand and I handed her my credit card. My over-priced sweater and I dragged ourselves out of the store. I was homesick for the first time for my country of unaffordable health care and tax-free tax clothes. If it weren't for the dentistry here I would've packed my bag, I swear.
After the shopping adventure I went to the library today and settled into my favorite carrel. After many failed attempts at writing I looked down and noticed something down my shirt. I was wearing a low-cut shirt so I reached in to discover what I had seen (a white fleck of deodorant). I picked if off and the lights began to flash. The library was closing in a half an hour I thought nothing of it, as turning off lights in places, like stores, is a great way to move the customers out without having to get verbal. But, the light came back on after flickering. I tried to write again but then wondered if there was anything else in my cleavage, again I dug around. The lights flickered. I tried not to notice. Eventually, I gave up on attempting to write anything and decided I'd go to the pub and check my schedule for next week. I packed up my things, the lights didn't flicker at all. Then, as I rose a crew-cutted, chunky woman security guard came up to me and thanked me for leaving the building before closing and made me take a bookmark. I walked out, her smile etched into my brain, could it have been...
After I left the library I hiked to the pub to check the schedule as I was looking at next week I was greeted by a co-worker who starts telling me all about the function (banquet) that evening. I asked him why he was telling me all of these things and he said, "Because you're working." "When?" "Right now." I looked at my clothes and down at my sandal-clad feet and at the schedule and there I was. "I have to run home and get my shoes and shirt," I said. And, run I did. I felt like a chubby freaking Pocahontas. I tore ass up the street, my heart rate increased and sweat beaded everywhere. On the way back I thought better of such a display, fat girls can easily be harmed while exerting themselves with needless physical activities like running. But, damn what a coincidence that I had went to check the schedule and didn't have any plans (well, I never have any plans, I did hear of several parties going on this evening and even asked the guest of honor of one of them why I hadn't been invited, she said, "Because it's for my close friends.") Who knew being unpopular would come in so handy.
After the event tonight which was a party for the physical therapy students (translation: a creepy masked ball that led to horrid singing, high-schoolish dancing, men drunk on peach cider, and a few girls crying). When we finally closed the shutters to the bar we had to clean up and move everything out. Not a problem until I realized how many used f-ing bottles there were. It was my duty to put them, all of them, into boxes. You never realize how disgusting your job is until you are covered in the spray of sediment left in a strangers beer bottle. I hate fucking recycling, all those pseudo-hippie green freaks can ram a strangers slutty beer bottle up their assholes and walk it to their motherfucking "recycling" bin.
After a night of masked torture I had a beer with my co-workers. We started chatting and I brought up the fact that I have been calling things, people, and situations "pussy" a lot. And, then I relayed that not only have I been saying this word, people around me have started to pick it up and use it (mostly when insulting me). That's when my fellow drink schleper said, "Why don't you start saying vag instead?" "Why?" "Because if you start saying vag then everyone will say vag and then you can start saying pussy all over again." I almost asked him to marry me.
Also tonight (gee, today was a real thrill, huh?) I ordered a safewalk. Safewalk is a program on campus that provides the caller with a two person walk team to ensure that theyd make it to their destination...safely. I was made fun of for calling them. My buddies joked that the people who are on walk teams are pussies (I mean, vag-s?) and that I would be safewalking them. I was thrilled to meet these walking geeks and see what they had to say, how they behaved and what they looked like. I imaged that they wore safety vests, goggles, and flashlights and proudly sported badges or sashes. I waited for their arrival. They never came. I safewalked myself home wondering why nobody wants to hang out with me, ever, not even complete geeky strangers, especially complete geeky strangers. Maybe they saved my number, my heart leapt, and they 'd call to see if it was alright...damn, rejected again.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I thought I'd be super efficient and ride the b-line bus, as this bus only makes a few selected stops. The b-line has always blown past me at every stop but this morning I made a special effort to find out where it goes. I was so excited to ride the bus that I had no idea it would suck. It's true that it is faster than the buses that stop every couple blocks but, it is filled with boring people. The types of people who ride the fast bus are horrid. They are all clones of one another with their ear buds in and their noses in newspapers. What's the fun in that. No crazies, or old people, or bag people, chatty neighbors, or even mothers with babies that lighten up the gloominess of public transport. What a crock. I guess it will take me twice as long to get places but at least I'll have someone to talk to or be afraid of to share my ride with.
So, I hopped off the express bus and found a clothing store that I had passed by a week ago, a clothing store that actually carried above a size 10. I was so excited to meet up with my fatty sisters that I didn't even care that the clothes were hideous, dull and excentuated the belly. In fact, I found a sweater to purchase. I was so proud of my sweater when I brought it up to the cashier I almost forgot that it's price tag read, $56. When the clerk rang it up and wanted nearly $62 for it I nearly started vomiting all of the healthy shit I was forced to eat for breakfast. "You tax clothes here?" I asked. The French girl working behind the counter said something I couldn't understand and I handed her my credit card. My over-priced sweater and I dragged ourselves out of the store. I was homesick for the first time for my country of unaffordable health care and tax-free tax clothes. If it weren't for the dentistry here I would've packed my bag, I swear.
After the shopping adventure I went to the library today and settled into my favorite carrel. After many failed attempts at writing I looked down and noticed something down my shirt. I was wearing a low-cut shirt so I reached in to discover what I had seen (a white fleck of deodorant). I picked if off and the lights began to flash. The library was closing in a half an hour I thought nothing of it, as turning off lights in places, like stores, is a great way to move the customers out without having to get verbal. But, the light came back on after flickering. I tried to write again but then wondered if there was anything else in my cleavage, again I dug around. The lights flickered. I tried not to notice. Eventually, I gave up on attempting to write anything and decided I'd go to the pub and check my schedule for next week. I packed up my things, the lights didn't flicker at all. Then, as I rose a crew-cutted, chunky woman security guard came up to me and thanked me for leaving the building before closing and made me take a bookmark. I walked out, her smile etched into my brain, could it have been...
After I left the library I hiked to the pub to check the schedule as I was looking at next week I was greeted by a co-worker who starts telling me all about the function (banquet) that evening. I asked him why he was telling me all of these things and he said, "Because you're working." "When?" "Right now." I looked at my clothes and down at my sandal-clad feet and at the schedule and there I was. "I have to run home and get my shoes and shirt," I said. And, run I did. I felt like a chubby freaking Pocahontas. I tore ass up the street, my heart rate increased and sweat beaded everywhere. On the way back I thought better of such a display, fat girls can easily be harmed while exerting themselves with needless physical activities like running. But, damn what a coincidence that I had went to check the schedule and didn't have any plans (well, I never have any plans, I did hear of several parties going on this evening and even asked the guest of honor of one of them why I hadn't been invited, she said, "Because it's for my close friends.") Who knew being unpopular would come in so handy.
After the event tonight which was a party for the physical therapy students (translation: a creepy masked ball that led to horrid singing, high-schoolish dancing, men drunk on peach cider, and a few girls crying). When we finally closed the shutters to the bar we had to clean up and move everything out. Not a problem until I realized how many used f-ing bottles there were. It was my duty to put them, all of them, into boxes. You never realize how disgusting your job is until you are covered in the spray of sediment left in a strangers beer bottle. I hate fucking recycling, all those pseudo-hippie green freaks can ram a strangers slutty beer bottle up their assholes and walk it to their motherfucking "recycling" bin.
After a night of masked torture I had a beer with my co-workers. We started chatting and I brought up the fact that I have been calling things, people, and situations "pussy" a lot. And, then I relayed that not only have I been saying this word, people around me have started to pick it up and use it (mostly when insulting me). That's when my fellow drink schleper said, "Why don't you start saying vag instead?" "Why?" "Because if you start saying vag then everyone will say vag and then you can start saying pussy all over again." I almost asked him to marry me.
Also tonight (gee, today was a real thrill, huh?) I ordered a safewalk. Safewalk is a program on campus that provides the caller with a two person walk team to ensure that theyd make it to their destination...safely. I was made fun of for calling them. My buddies joked that the people who are on walk teams are pussies (I mean, vag-s?) and that I would be safewalking them. I was thrilled to meet these walking geeks and see what they had to say, how they behaved and what they looked like. I imaged that they wore safety vests, goggles, and flashlights and proudly sported badges or sashes. I waited for their arrival. They never came. I safewalked myself home wondering why nobody wants to hang out with me, ever, not even complete geeky strangers, especially complete geeky strangers. Maybe they saved my number, my heart leapt, and they 'd call to see if it was alright...damn, rejected again.
-Canadian Castaway
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Canadian Dentistry, Trick-sy busses, and Prankin'
Day 29
Today I went to the dentist and it was awesome. At first, I didn't know how it would turn out as they stared by making small talk like, "Where is the pain? How much pain are you in? What do you study here?" I played along. Finally, the dentist turned to me after his 19th pain-related quiz and said, "Emily, you are confusing me." After that my visit was bliss. The climax being when my head was leaning against the chest of the dentist and he and the dental hygenist peered into my mouth, he called for yet another instrument. (He had already tapped my teeth with a metal stick, picked and poked, put dry ice on them and heat asking me all the while how much pain I was in.) When she handed him the next tool he said, "We have all kinds of torture devices." What a riot. I can't wait to go back even though I didn't get a free toothbrush he did say, "I was nice to meet you." (translation: I had fun fucking with your mind and mouth please give me all your money, sucka) God bless Canadian denistry. BTW, the entire thing cost less than a Days Inn hooker.
The busses have joined the rest of the world in trying to rid the chubby girl of her exotic fatness. I waited forEVER for them to pick me up and finally, started to huff it to the next stop, repeat this action for 20 blocks and you have some great cardio workout. Maybe I should tip them. Or maybe, they will promise to pick me up if I swear to a strict diet of rice cakes and air.
On my lively walk from bus stop to bus stop I popped into a dollar store. Inside the shady storefront lurked a wonderland of Halloween items. They had glow-in-the-dark rats, oversized chains, 29 wigs, slutty costumes, crepe paper, inflatable trees, and finally, as me and my cheap items were in line to check out I saw them...a bin full of rubber bats. I picked one up and held it by the string pretending it could fly and strained to remember a conversation I'd had in the recent past (too much pot for too long can fuck with your memory...or is it the booze). I remembered that a friend had said that back home he'd had a rubber bat hanging in his room or some such thing (you know just a regular, every day conversation). Anyway, the cashier glared at me and I slapped the bat on the counter.
When I got back to the Rez I had plotted a plan to sneak up to my friend's door and leave it hanging on the knob. As I climbed the stairs to his door (the bat out of sight) my heart pounded fast. I was gonna do it. And, get away with it. I tiptoed to his door and slid the string over the knob then ran down the hall. On the stairs I imagined him coming home and seeing it, never quite sure what his face would do. Only ten minutes later he walked up to me and a group of friends and inquired about the bat on his door. I proceeded to do my best acting job to date, but had I not been wearing sunglasses and he could've seen my eyes it would've all been over. I asked if it was a baseball bat and stated that the individual who did such a thing was "demented" and "fucked up". I made some excuse and walked away, still a suspect but perhaps not the dreaded bat-hanger.
When I got back to my room I thought about the deed I had commited, it was genius. Had I not had to chase down a bus and ride for half an hour I would go back and buy that entire basket of bats and bat the entire place one doorknob at a time. Then I thought about if it were reversed, had I come home to a bat on my doorknob I would surely have thought the culprit "demented" and "fucked up" so what does that make me?
Ahh, who cares when my loan check comes in I'm batting the place, getting a car, and going to the dentist every week.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I went to the dentist and it was awesome. At first, I didn't know how it would turn out as they stared by making small talk like, "Where is the pain? How much pain are you in? What do you study here?" I played along. Finally, the dentist turned to me after his 19th pain-related quiz and said, "Emily, you are confusing me." After that my visit was bliss. The climax being when my head was leaning against the chest of the dentist and he and the dental hygenist peered into my mouth, he called for yet another instrument. (He had already tapped my teeth with a metal stick, picked and poked, put dry ice on them and heat asking me all the while how much pain I was in.) When she handed him the next tool he said, "We have all kinds of torture devices." What a riot. I can't wait to go back even though I didn't get a free toothbrush he did say, "I was nice to meet you." (translation: I had fun fucking with your mind and mouth please give me all your money, sucka) God bless Canadian denistry. BTW, the entire thing cost less than a Days Inn hooker.
The busses have joined the rest of the world in trying to rid the chubby girl of her exotic fatness. I waited forEVER for them to pick me up and finally, started to huff it to the next stop, repeat this action for 20 blocks and you have some great cardio workout. Maybe I should tip them. Or maybe, they will promise to pick me up if I swear to a strict diet of rice cakes and air.
On my lively walk from bus stop to bus stop I popped into a dollar store. Inside the shady storefront lurked a wonderland of Halloween items. They had glow-in-the-dark rats, oversized chains, 29 wigs, slutty costumes, crepe paper, inflatable trees, and finally, as me and my cheap items were in line to check out I saw them...a bin full of rubber bats. I picked one up and held it by the string pretending it could fly and strained to remember a conversation I'd had in the recent past (too much pot for too long can fuck with your memory...or is it the booze). I remembered that a friend had said that back home he'd had a rubber bat hanging in his room or some such thing (you know just a regular, every day conversation). Anyway, the cashier glared at me and I slapped the bat on the counter.
When I got back to the Rez I had plotted a plan to sneak up to my friend's door and leave it hanging on the knob. As I climbed the stairs to his door (the bat out of sight) my heart pounded fast. I was gonna do it. And, get away with it. I tiptoed to his door and slid the string over the knob then ran down the hall. On the stairs I imagined him coming home and seeing it, never quite sure what his face would do. Only ten minutes later he walked up to me and a group of friends and inquired about the bat on his door. I proceeded to do my best acting job to date, but had I not been wearing sunglasses and he could've seen my eyes it would've all been over. I asked if it was a baseball bat and stated that the individual who did such a thing was "demented" and "fucked up". I made some excuse and walked away, still a suspect but perhaps not the dreaded bat-hanger.
When I got back to my room I thought about the deed I had commited, it was genius. Had I not had to chase down a bus and ride for half an hour I would go back and buy that entire basket of bats and bat the entire place one doorknob at a time. Then I thought about if it were reversed, had I come home to a bat on my doorknob I would surely have thought the culprit "demented" and "fucked up" so what does that make me?
Ahh, who cares when my loan check comes in I'm batting the place, getting a car, and going to the dentist every week.
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Canadian Tipping, Yerba Mate, Raccoons Part 2
Day 28
The Canadian adventure continues and I go to work. As usual, I work in a pub ( the fancy name that intellectual drunks put on a bar). It's funny how you move to a different country to change your entire life and all that happens is that you end up doing the same shit in a different postal code (God is a man, for sure). Anyway, today was my first real shift and I learned a few things about Canadian Tipping (no, not a version of cow tipping, though it would be funny to find Canadians asleep and tip them over, we could drug 'em, it could work). Here is a list of how to tip in a Canadian pub (according to observed Canadian behavior):
1. If your server/bartender is nice to you do not tip.
2. If you are from a foreign country and in Canada, tip normally.
3. If you are charging to your credit card round up to the nearest dollar but make sure to NEVER do the math on the slip. Hey, if you're giving them a tip they should have to add it up on their own.
4. If your friends don't tip, continue their pattern.
5. If you do decide to tip make a big show of giving your dime to your server/bartender as though to say, "You owe me one."
6. If you get bad service tip generously as a result of your Canadian-niceness guilt.
Gee, it's fun to be an immigrant worker with a few shiny twoonies in her pocket after you got shot in the neck by a beer tapper gone nuts and had to kowtow to bratty 19 year olds for seven hours. Why the hell am I going to grad school at all when there are exciting work opportunities like this?
Moving onward, I have always been addicted to yerba mate (South American Tea). My everyday poision is a gallon of coffee but there is nothing like the potent stimulant of mate; it puts your mind on hyper alert without getting jittery. Tonight I was offered to join in on a tea drinking session and learned that the way people in South America drink mate is dangerous. Not only do they drink it at near boiling temperatures they only use one cup. Apparently, they all sit together and pass the funny little strawed cup around to every person gathered around. Gross, huh? I did it anyway. But, the fucked up thing is that the person holding the cup has to drink the whole cupful before passing it. It's bad enough having to share germs without getting some tongue action but really, do I have to wait my goddamn turn?
I know that I've ranted on raccoons before about how people here think that they are cute and harmless when really they are nasty scavengers who carry disease like trendy people carry macbooks (everywhere and all the time). And, they're huge I saw one lurching along the building today that looked like a goddamn German Shepard. Then, my tiniest friend turned to me before heading out the door and said, "I'm going raccoon hunting." Her friend with crutches followed, excited by the possibility of being near these creatures. Seriously, aren't either of them smart enough to know that in nature the small and the injured are the first to go. The eerie thing is that I haven't seen either of them since...
-Canadian Castaway
The Canadian adventure continues and I go to work. As usual, I work in a pub ( the fancy name that intellectual drunks put on a bar). It's funny how you move to a different country to change your entire life and all that happens is that you end up doing the same shit in a different postal code (God is a man, for sure). Anyway, today was my first real shift and I learned a few things about Canadian Tipping (no, not a version of cow tipping, though it would be funny to find Canadians asleep and tip them over, we could drug 'em, it could work). Here is a list of how to tip in a Canadian pub (according to observed Canadian behavior):
1. If your server/bartender is nice to you do not tip.
2. If you are from a foreign country and in Canada, tip normally.
3. If you are charging to your credit card round up to the nearest dollar but make sure to NEVER do the math on the slip. Hey, if you're giving them a tip they should have to add it up on their own.
4. If your friends don't tip, continue their pattern.
5. If you do decide to tip make a big show of giving your dime to your server/bartender as though to say, "You owe me one."
6. If you get bad service tip generously as a result of your Canadian-niceness guilt.
Gee, it's fun to be an immigrant worker with a few shiny twoonies in her pocket after you got shot in the neck by a beer tapper gone nuts and had to kowtow to bratty 19 year olds for seven hours. Why the hell am I going to grad school at all when there are exciting work opportunities like this?
Moving onward, I have always been addicted to yerba mate (South American Tea). My everyday poision is a gallon of coffee but there is nothing like the potent stimulant of mate; it puts your mind on hyper alert without getting jittery. Tonight I was offered to join in on a tea drinking session and learned that the way people in South America drink mate is dangerous. Not only do they drink it at near boiling temperatures they only use one cup. Apparently, they all sit together and pass the funny little strawed cup around to every person gathered around. Gross, huh? I did it anyway. But, the fucked up thing is that the person holding the cup has to drink the whole cupful before passing it. It's bad enough having to share germs without getting some tongue action but really, do I have to wait my goddamn turn?
I know that I've ranted on raccoons before about how people here think that they are cute and harmless when really they are nasty scavengers who carry disease like trendy people carry macbooks (everywhere and all the time). And, they're huge I saw one lurching along the building today that looked like a goddamn German Shepard. Then, my tiniest friend turned to me before heading out the door and said, "I'm going raccoon hunting." Her friend with crutches followed, excited by the possibility of being near these creatures. Seriously, aren't either of them smart enough to know that in nature the small and the injured are the first to go. The eerie thing is that I haven't seen either of them since...
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The slacker meets grad school, the benefits and downsides of general bitchery, nerd games, word walling
Day 27
Today I found out you can't just slide by faking it when you reach grad school. No sir, there is actual work and cognitive processes that one must not only endure but exhibit in the classroom. What this means is that you can't just show up hung over, with three hours of sleep and a badittude. This shit is tough and listening to your peers drone on with their fancy strings of inflated words and everyone totally buying it is downright terrifying. I may have to add words like, convoluted, subtextual implications, thematic undercurrent and the like to my list of usual words (slut, bitch, shit, ass, hate).
My peers reassured me that one day I would feel comfortable getting in on the workshopping and be able to speak just like they do. I smiled and nodded and bit my tongue until I became drunk on my own blood. "You know academia isn't for everyone," one said, I'd heard that before. But, he was a Canadian and had to undercut his bitterness with a, "but, you'll be okay, you'll do alright, you just gotta learn the jargon."
Gee thanks, I can't wait to either fail or be just like everyone else, bite me motherfucker. Learn my jargon. Let me know how it goes for you when you drink the Kool-Aid and moments before your last gasp realize that maybe you'd have been smarter not to have fallen into the ways of your "academia" brethren.
Whew, obviously today I am a bitch (what can I say it's Tuesday). But, it ain't so bad being a bitch, especially around Canadians. They listen to you moan and nod, slowly their smiles fade as they realize their incessant "I'm sorry's" won't be enough, offer some kindly upbeat catchphrase and wander off. Their actions make your bitchiness worse but also make you feel powerful (you overtook their smugginess).
But, when it is your day to be the bitch it is rare that you are out-bitched. Today it happened. My bitchiness and I found a seat at our own table in the cafeteria with our comic section at the ready when the only other true bitch on campus took her seat at the table (despite their being plenty of open seats). I questioned her tactic. We sat in silence and finally, when I couldn't take it, I made a comment about the food and she responded (witchily, yet civil) I was stupified. Why was she talking to me? This went on for sometime. When she attempted to pack away a ridiculous amount of carrotsticks I said,
"Let's see if she can do it."
"You can watch, but don't ask me any questions." Her word cut like a dull knife going through the web between your fingers. She wheeled me in and then POW smacked me with a graceful level of condescension. I will miss my crown, but I have to admit it when I am shamelessly out-bitched.
Tonight I played a game where you build cities and roads and entire countrysides. And then I thought about it, isn't it funny that almost all nerd games are about building new civilizations and taking them over? Is this because essentially this is what nerds will be doing with their lives? Or, is it because they are so far removed from the world in which they are forced to exist that this creates a space for them to play God to their own societies? Or, are they just bored and afraid that Candyland would beat down their IQ every time they pass through the Candy Cane Forest?
Also tonight a friend and I created a "Word Wall". We took over a stretch of hallway wallspace and started a collage of words we didn't know and their meanings. I sent out an email inviting others to contribute to our words. I reveled in the possibilities, all sorts of words maybe from all different languages mingling together in a semi-public space. A word freak's dream. But then I thought of it, I didn't state that people couldn't put up "naughty" words. My heart sank, not because someone may befoul my "Word Wall" but because I want that person to be me. Like the idiot I can be I vocalized my concern and desire to several peers they shunned me for even thinking of doing something so juvenile. I conceded, for now. But, that doesn't mean I won't be up all night making naughty word lists and trying to think of ways to sneak them onto the wall... before someone else does.
This sneaky action would display my jargon, make me bitchier, and allow me to play God to my own society. What more could I ask for? (besides unlimited Blackberry jellybeans) If only I could decide on one word. I suppose I could tag it with all of them, but they might know it was me, hmm....
-Canadian Castaway
Today I found out you can't just slide by faking it when you reach grad school. No sir, there is actual work and cognitive processes that one must not only endure but exhibit in the classroom. What this means is that you can't just show up hung over, with three hours of sleep and a badittude. This shit is tough and listening to your peers drone on with their fancy strings of inflated words and everyone totally buying it is downright terrifying. I may have to add words like, convoluted, subtextual implications, thematic undercurrent and the like to my list of usual words (slut, bitch, shit, ass, hate).
My peers reassured me that one day I would feel comfortable getting in on the workshopping and be able to speak just like they do. I smiled and nodded and bit my tongue until I became drunk on my own blood. "You know academia isn't for everyone," one said, I'd heard that before. But, he was a Canadian and had to undercut his bitterness with a, "but, you'll be okay, you'll do alright, you just gotta learn the jargon."
Gee thanks, I can't wait to either fail or be just like everyone else, bite me motherfucker. Learn my jargon. Let me know how it goes for you when you drink the Kool-Aid and moments before your last gasp realize that maybe you'd have been smarter not to have fallen into the ways of your "academia" brethren.
Whew, obviously today I am a bitch (what can I say it's Tuesday). But, it ain't so bad being a bitch, especially around Canadians. They listen to you moan and nod, slowly their smiles fade as they realize their incessant "I'm sorry's" won't be enough, offer some kindly upbeat catchphrase and wander off. Their actions make your bitchiness worse but also make you feel powerful (you overtook their smugginess).
But, when it is your day to be the bitch it is rare that you are out-bitched. Today it happened. My bitchiness and I found a seat at our own table in the cafeteria with our comic section at the ready when the only other true bitch on campus took her seat at the table (despite their being plenty of open seats). I questioned her tactic. We sat in silence and finally, when I couldn't take it, I made a comment about the food and she responded (witchily, yet civil) I was stupified. Why was she talking to me? This went on for sometime. When she attempted to pack away a ridiculous amount of carrotsticks I said,
"Let's see if she can do it."
"You can watch, but don't ask me any questions." Her word cut like a dull knife going through the web between your fingers. She wheeled me in and then POW smacked me with a graceful level of condescension. I will miss my crown, but I have to admit it when I am shamelessly out-bitched.
Tonight I played a game where you build cities and roads and entire countrysides. And then I thought about it, isn't it funny that almost all nerd games are about building new civilizations and taking them over? Is this because essentially this is what nerds will be doing with their lives? Or, is it because they are so far removed from the world in which they are forced to exist that this creates a space for them to play God to their own societies? Or, are they just bored and afraid that Candyland would beat down their IQ every time they pass through the Candy Cane Forest?
Also tonight a friend and I created a "Word Wall". We took over a stretch of hallway wallspace and started a collage of words we didn't know and their meanings. I sent out an email inviting others to contribute to our words. I reveled in the possibilities, all sorts of words maybe from all different languages mingling together in a semi-public space. A word freak's dream. But then I thought of it, I didn't state that people couldn't put up "naughty" words. My heart sank, not because someone may befoul my "Word Wall" but because I want that person to be me. Like the idiot I can be I vocalized my concern and desire to several peers they shunned me for even thinking of doing something so juvenile. I conceded, for now. But, that doesn't mean I won't be up all night making naughty word lists and trying to think of ways to sneak them onto the wall... before someone else does.
This sneaky action would display my jargon, make me bitchier, and allow me to play God to my own society. What more could I ask for? (besides unlimited Blackberry jellybeans) If only I could decide on one word. I suppose I could tag it with all of them, but they might know it was me, hmm....
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, September 21, 2009
the outdoors, dinner insults, dear santa
Day 26
I had my second round of classes today, which included the dreaded class. The dreaded class is taught by a "calm" woman (translation: a woman with a voice better suited for conducting meditation class). We had met out on the lawn for our first class as it was per her tradition to hold the first class outside. An effect that I feared would carry into the next class...it did. So there we sat with ourbooks settling into the soggy wet grass and our asses soaking dew through to our underwear. Bugs crawled all over me and my homework, the sun scorched the backs of my calves. Would it be inappropriate to ask before signing up for a course if it would be taught by a soothing woman who prefers nature to the safety of deteriorating classrooms filled with rotting books? What does that mean if it is your main choice for not taking that course no matter how intriguing the subject matter is?
Suppertime always guarantees an interesting mix of people. The conversation changes quite often but I am always assuming the role of resident comeback queen, practicing casual insulting of my companions and I like it that way. Today I was set up by a genius of astrophysics. He whipped out his wallet and showed me a picture of a kid. I asked who the kid was. He replied, "My sister's kid, remember? The sister that reminds me of you." I did remember, without thinking I said, "Oh, the sister that looks just like me except I'm fatter." (his words) "Yes, you are," he said. I will never be able to show my face at the dinner table again, but at least I'll lose a few pounds from the onset of anorexia. Spit on your sister's kid!
In an effort to avoid dealing with the difficulties of the real world I've decided to compile a wish list for santa...
Dear Santa-
I want one of each of the following:
1. 198 more facebook friends.
2. Superpowers (any variety would work, but it would be awesome to read minds).
3. A kingdom.
4. My own laboratory with a gorgeous scientist at my disposal. Who only knows the words, "As you wish" and is named, Westley.
5. A drive to do awesome things and the ability to carry them to fruition.
6. A wine bottle that no matter how much you pour out of it never goes empty.
7. A dinner of mac and cheese and fish sticks that I will eat with Abe Lincoln, Flannery O'Connor and the Powerpuff Girls.
8. Good-looking, normal-sized feet and an extra finger on each hand.
9. Kevin Smith at my door with Jeff Dunham and Peanut and a shit ton of junk food and a week to kill.
10. And finally, I want a new Pez dispenser.
I promise I'll be good, Santa...someday.
-Canadian Castaway
For the official record may it be noted that today I saw my first Canadian in a "Canadian Tuxedo" and when I pointed it out to him he didn't find it humorous...at all.
I had my second round of classes today, which included the dreaded class. The dreaded class is taught by a "calm" woman (translation: a woman with a voice better suited for conducting meditation class). We had met out on the lawn for our first class as it was per her tradition to hold the first class outside. An effect that I feared would carry into the next class...it did. So there we sat with ourbooks settling into the soggy wet grass and our asses soaking dew through to our underwear. Bugs crawled all over me and my homework, the sun scorched the backs of my calves. Would it be inappropriate to ask before signing up for a course if it would be taught by a soothing woman who prefers nature to the safety of deteriorating classrooms filled with rotting books? What does that mean if it is your main choice for not taking that course no matter how intriguing the subject matter is?
Suppertime always guarantees an interesting mix of people. The conversation changes quite often but I am always assuming the role of resident comeback queen, practicing casual insulting of my companions and I like it that way. Today I was set up by a genius of astrophysics. He whipped out his wallet and showed me a picture of a kid. I asked who the kid was. He replied, "My sister's kid, remember? The sister that reminds me of you." I did remember, without thinking I said, "Oh, the sister that looks just like me except I'm fatter." (his words) "Yes, you are," he said. I will never be able to show my face at the dinner table again, but at least I'll lose a few pounds from the onset of anorexia. Spit on your sister's kid!
In an effort to avoid dealing with the difficulties of the real world I've decided to compile a wish list for santa...
Dear Santa-
I want one of each of the following:
1. 198 more facebook friends.
2. Superpowers (any variety would work, but it would be awesome to read minds).
3. A kingdom.
4. My own laboratory with a gorgeous scientist at my disposal. Who only knows the words, "As you wish" and is named, Westley.
5. A drive to do awesome things and the ability to carry them to fruition.
6. A wine bottle that no matter how much you pour out of it never goes empty.
7. A dinner of mac and cheese and fish sticks that I will eat with Abe Lincoln, Flannery O'Connor and the Powerpuff Girls.
8. Good-looking, normal-sized feet and an extra finger on each hand.
9. Kevin Smith at my door with Jeff Dunham and Peanut and a shit ton of junk food and a week to kill.
10. And finally, I want a new Pez dispenser.
I promise I'll be good, Santa...someday.
-Canadian Castaway
For the official record may it be noted that today I saw my first Canadian in a "Canadian Tuxedo" and when I pointed it out to him he didn't find it humorous...at all.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Hockey, Hauling Ass, and my favorite thing about Canadians
Day 25
Today I went to a hockey game...a Canadian hockey game. For a people so devoted to the sport that they would fly to another country and pay thousands of dollars to see their losing NHL team for the 67th time they sure don't give a flying puck about their college players. The arena contained 27 fans, total. But, I did learn a few things about going to see college hockey in this country:
1. They don't fight, enough. The players would shove each other around just a little before being broken up and penalized for "roughing". Had I paid for my ticket I might have tried to get a no- blood-or-teeth-on-ice refund.
2. I am on the borderline and quickly crossing into creepy. There is only a small sliver of time when you can legitimately oogle 19 year old men. I think I'll buy a season ticket to maximize my time. But, I could always aspire to being creepy, it might be dirty but that only means that it has the potential to be a ton of fun. I already plan on being an old woman who squeezes asses of men that could be my grandchildren, might as well get in a little practice.
4. And that's another thing, it's really hard to judge how big a hockey player's ass is. I stared for over an hour trying to imagine how thick the padding was...imagining, tiny little rail-ish men emerging from their gear in the locker room. Envisioning tiny little men in a locker room may just cure me of my addiction to looking at barely legal men, though.
5. There are some tall-ass players. I looked over at our opponents and thought that somehow we'd been sent middle-schoolers to make us look good. Upon consulting a program I found the average height per player to be around 6'6". An oddity until you see one how quickly a giant can snatch a puck from a hobbit-sized player just by skating over to him.
6. I was overjoyed when I read that students could purchase season tickets for $10, but understood why when I tried to buy a coke and they wanted nearly $5 per cup. Tricky, indeed.
7. But, the best part about Canadian high school hockey is the dj. Throughout the game he played a mix including; Usher, Green Day, M.I.A., Rush, and a snarky snippet of Tom Petty. When the Thunderbirds (our team) were up 6 to 1 and the opposing team scored he played only the lyric, "Even the losers get lucky sometimes".
Death March Part 2:
Yesterday I was tricked into an 80 kilometer death march (actually, I have no idea what a kilometer is, but 80 sounds about right). Today I was also duped, but was able to survive as my tiny trainer (fast-paced European) was asking me about what it was like to be/grow up fat. This was an ingenius plot, nothing gets a fat chick moving like telling repressed memories of brutal teasings based on weight/appearance to a pretty, thin woman.
Upon arriving in this country I noticed that every shop had multiple items with either a maple leaf or "Canada" scrawled across them. At first it was cute, but then I thought about it. Do Canadians really think that there will be that many tourists plowing through town, especially ones that fall for that sort of cheesy marketing gimmick (Come on, all of those types vacation in Cancun). But tonight was a special night, I discovered the absolute best part of Canadian culture...a Canadian man sporting a sweatshirt with a maple leaf AND "Canada" stitched into it. The Canadians buy that crap. Hmm...
-Canadian Castaway
Today I went to a hockey game...a Canadian hockey game. For a people so devoted to the sport that they would fly to another country and pay thousands of dollars to see their losing NHL team for the 67th time they sure don't give a flying puck about their college players. The arena contained 27 fans, total. But, I did learn a few things about going to see college hockey in this country:
1. They don't fight, enough. The players would shove each other around just a little before being broken up and penalized for "roughing". Had I paid for my ticket I might have tried to get a no- blood-or-teeth-on-ice refund.
2. I am on the borderline and quickly crossing into creepy. There is only a small sliver of time when you can legitimately oogle 19 year old men. I think I'll buy a season ticket to maximize my time. But, I could always aspire to being creepy, it might be dirty but that only means that it has the potential to be a ton of fun. I already plan on being an old woman who squeezes asses of men that could be my grandchildren, might as well get in a little practice.
4. And that's another thing, it's really hard to judge how big a hockey player's ass is. I stared for over an hour trying to imagine how thick the padding was...imagining, tiny little rail-ish men emerging from their gear in the locker room. Envisioning tiny little men in a locker room may just cure me of my addiction to looking at barely legal men, though.
5. There are some tall-ass players. I looked over at our opponents and thought that somehow we'd been sent middle-schoolers to make us look good. Upon consulting a program I found the average height per player to be around 6'6". An oddity until you see one how quickly a giant can snatch a puck from a hobbit-sized player just by skating over to him.
6. I was overjoyed when I read that students could purchase season tickets for $10, but understood why when I tried to buy a coke and they wanted nearly $5 per cup. Tricky, indeed.
7. But, the best part about Canadian high school hockey is the dj. Throughout the game he played a mix including; Usher, Green Day, M.I.A., Rush, and a snarky snippet of Tom Petty. When the Thunderbirds (our team) were up 6 to 1 and the opposing team scored he played only the lyric, "Even the losers get lucky sometimes".
Death March Part 2:
Yesterday I was tricked into an 80 kilometer death march (actually, I have no idea what a kilometer is, but 80 sounds about right). Today I was also duped, but was able to survive as my tiny trainer (fast-paced European) was asking me about what it was like to be/grow up fat. This was an ingenius plot, nothing gets a fat chick moving like telling repressed memories of brutal teasings based on weight/appearance to a pretty, thin woman.
Upon arriving in this country I noticed that every shop had multiple items with either a maple leaf or "Canada" scrawled across them. At first it was cute, but then I thought about it. Do Canadians really think that there will be that many tourists plowing through town, especially ones that fall for that sort of cheesy marketing gimmick (Come on, all of those types vacation in Cancun). But tonight was a special night, I discovered the absolute best part of Canadian culture...a Canadian man sporting a sweatshirt with a maple leaf AND "Canada" stitched into it. The Canadians buy that crap. Hmm...
-Canadian Castaway
Breakfast Nature, Death Marches, Facebook Anonymous
Day 24
I hate nature. That's right, I finally came out and said it, nature sucks. It's fucking everywhere, even at the breakfast table. It's one thing to go out into the wilderness just looking for trouble, but quite another when you're Jack Eggs are invaded by falling seed pods and the maple syrup belongs more to the bees than the humans. All of this outdoors-y business can really piss a girl off, can't we just keep it in the parks. Hey, if we did that then all of the crazed environmental freakoids would just stay in the parks and we wouldn't have to hear them bitch about driving cars or lack of low-flow toilets. Hmm....
Today my favorite green living freak suggested that we walk home from grocery shopping. I groaned and gave in. It was the whole, "it's not a hike" thing all over again. Except, this time, instead of hills we had to navigate broken sidewalks and walk along the woods with people in cars whizzing by, making it to their destinations without having to watch out for spiders and cracks. Lucky, bastards.
We walked on and on, for what seemed like days. She, at least a hundred pounds thinner than I, offered to take the groceries I was carrying. I put up a small hesitation to this, as the groceries were ours to share, and then gave in. It wasn't until we FINALLY could see our residence hall that I realized she looked like a Sherpa from a third world country hauling her entire life in cumbersome sacks and I just looked like the Sherpas demented good-for-nothing, non-bag-toting cow. I begged to carry the bags, she refused and I prayed that no one would notice, but deep down I know that I am useless livestock.
Is it bad when the first thing you do in the morning (even before going to the bathroom) is turn on your computer and pray that during your sleep someone wrote on your wall. Is it bad if you truly believe that if you went without facebooking for more than a couple of hours you'd die a painful internal bleeding-type death? What about quizzes? Isn't it valuable to take the 'What kind of Demented Old Woman Would You Be' quiz? It's called planning for your future, right? Is it so horrible if you follow conversations that your friends are having in their comment sections though you don't know what they are talking about or who they are talking with? Should what you are going to type as your status be something that is fretted over for several hours before you find the perfect words to post it? Would facebook addiction be considered a legit medical condition or would it just be a get a little self control fatty and put down that 19th Oreo-type thing?
The worst part is that I know the truth, I have a MAJOR problem, but the bliss is that I don't care. Why should I? I've got 109 friends.
-Canadian Castaway
I hate nature. That's right, I finally came out and said it, nature sucks. It's fucking everywhere, even at the breakfast table. It's one thing to go out into the wilderness just looking for trouble, but quite another when you're Jack Eggs are invaded by falling seed pods and the maple syrup belongs more to the bees than the humans. All of this outdoors-y business can really piss a girl off, can't we just keep it in the parks. Hey, if we did that then all of the crazed environmental freakoids would just stay in the parks and we wouldn't have to hear them bitch about driving cars or lack of low-flow toilets. Hmm....
Today my favorite green living freak suggested that we walk home from grocery shopping. I groaned and gave in. It was the whole, "it's not a hike" thing all over again. Except, this time, instead of hills we had to navigate broken sidewalks and walk along the woods with people in cars whizzing by, making it to their destinations without having to watch out for spiders and cracks. Lucky, bastards.
We walked on and on, for what seemed like days. She, at least a hundred pounds thinner than I, offered to take the groceries I was carrying. I put up a small hesitation to this, as the groceries were ours to share, and then gave in. It wasn't until we FINALLY could see our residence hall that I realized she looked like a Sherpa from a third world country hauling her entire life in cumbersome sacks and I just looked like the Sherpas demented good-for-nothing, non-bag-toting cow. I begged to carry the bags, she refused and I prayed that no one would notice, but deep down I know that I am useless livestock.
Is it bad when the first thing you do in the morning (even before going to the bathroom) is turn on your computer and pray that during your sleep someone wrote on your wall. Is it bad if you truly believe that if you went without facebooking for more than a couple of hours you'd die a painful internal bleeding-type death? What about quizzes? Isn't it valuable to take the 'What kind of Demented Old Woman Would You Be' quiz? It's called planning for your future, right? Is it so horrible if you follow conversations that your friends are having in their comment sections though you don't know what they are talking about or who they are talking with? Should what you are going to type as your status be something that is fretted over for several hours before you find the perfect words to post it? Would facebook addiction be considered a legit medical condition or would it just be a get a little self control fatty and put down that 19th Oreo-type thing?
The worst part is that I know the truth, I have a MAJOR problem, but the bliss is that I don't care. Why should I? I've got 109 friends.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, September 18, 2009
Ugg-ly, I fell in love, Why writing programs suck, Dance-mania
Day 23
What the hell is going on with Ugg boots? I thought they were sooo two years ago. Are things going out of fashion and coming back into fashion at a more rapid pace than usual. If that's the case then my flare jeans should be safe to wear (I wear 'em anyway). I always dreamed Canada was the land of beautiful winters (not true, all rain), gorgeous trees (true, but you don't even notice them after you've been here a few hours), nice people (true, if you actually believe they are sorry every two minutes otherwise they seem like jerks), but never did I think it would be the land of outdated fashion. Jesus, it's not like we're in Utah here, there are major urban areas filled with expensive trendy shit from fashion designers all over the world. I guess there are people here who dress in a trendy and timely fashion, until you look at their feet. It's bad enough that they wear Uggs still but would it be too much to ask that they at least wear a pair that remotely matches their outfit (brown Uggs DO NOT go with an all black outfit, seriously).
On a lighter note today I fell in love. Oh, it was one of those typical situations where it happens when you least expect it. Here I was cleaning my room (translation: doing everything I could to avoid writing) and it happened...I'm in love with the vaccum cleaner. Seriously, I have lived in old shitty buildings for the past six years that had hardwood floors. Although there was one exception, I did live in a room with carpet, but I was never sober enough to vaccum it's floor. Before you go sending the loony wagon my way here me out, it wasn't just any vaccum it was one of those ones that look like a Pac Man ghost AND have a long hose (that looks like an elephants trunk) AND a huge wand. That baby and I danced all over the floor leaving it better for our being their, and each of us unable to accomplish this effect without each other. What more could you ask for?
Writing programs suck because you have to read other writers. It should be a growing experience (and, it may turn into one) but in reading other writers you realize two things 1. How much your own writing stinks and 2. That you'd better figure out a way to be clever enough to at least fake being as good as your peers. All of this might be able to be achieved if you don't spend all of your time serenading your household helper. Shit, I could just give up...but then I would move away and my vaccum would have to stay. I guess I'll just learn how to fake it. Maybe if I fake it long enough other people will start believing it and it'll come to me. (Nah)
The good news about living where I do is that not only do we have a vaccum cleaner we have a film buff (translation: really strange dude who sings along to the movie soundtrack while the movie is playing) who comes over with his projector and blue ray discs. The only bad part is you have to hear him say the words, "High Def", a lot. Tonight's movie was a bonus one in memory of Patrick Swayze. Of course, it was Dirty Dancing. I had never seen the film in it's entirety before and let me just state this in writing, Patrick Swayze (in that film) was the hottest guy with a bad haircut and high rise pants that I've ever seen. The way that guy could move. I think I'll quit faking this writing thing and start dancing there has got to be another Patrick Swayze out there (maybe his archetype is back in style, wearing Ugg boots AHH!).
Note: As you may have noticed (that's taking for granted anyone at all reads this garbage) that it says Day 23 instead of Day 22, turns out I had two 17's. What can I say? I'm totally tanked up...all the time. But, if you read that you probably take that for granted.
What the hell is going on with Ugg boots? I thought they were sooo two years ago. Are things going out of fashion and coming back into fashion at a more rapid pace than usual. If that's the case then my flare jeans should be safe to wear (I wear 'em anyway). I always dreamed Canada was the land of beautiful winters (not true, all rain), gorgeous trees (true, but you don't even notice them after you've been here a few hours), nice people (true, if you actually believe they are sorry every two minutes otherwise they seem like jerks), but never did I think it would be the land of outdated fashion. Jesus, it's not like we're in Utah here, there are major urban areas filled with expensive trendy shit from fashion designers all over the world. I guess there are people here who dress in a trendy and timely fashion, until you look at their feet. It's bad enough that they wear Uggs still but would it be too much to ask that they at least wear a pair that remotely matches their outfit (brown Uggs DO NOT go with an all black outfit, seriously).
On a lighter note today I fell in love. Oh, it was one of those typical situations where it happens when you least expect it. Here I was cleaning my room (translation: doing everything I could to avoid writing) and it happened...I'm in love with the vaccum cleaner. Seriously, I have lived in old shitty buildings for the past six years that had hardwood floors. Although there was one exception, I did live in a room with carpet, but I was never sober enough to vaccum it's floor. Before you go sending the loony wagon my way here me out, it wasn't just any vaccum it was one of those ones that look like a Pac Man ghost AND have a long hose (that looks like an elephants trunk) AND a huge wand. That baby and I danced all over the floor leaving it better for our being their, and each of us unable to accomplish this effect without each other. What more could you ask for?
Writing programs suck because you have to read other writers. It should be a growing experience (and, it may turn into one) but in reading other writers you realize two things 1. How much your own writing stinks and 2. That you'd better figure out a way to be clever enough to at least fake being as good as your peers. All of this might be able to be achieved if you don't spend all of your time serenading your household helper. Shit, I could just give up...but then I would move away and my vaccum would have to stay. I guess I'll just learn how to fake it. Maybe if I fake it long enough other people will start believing it and it'll come to me. (Nah)
The good news about living where I do is that not only do we have a vaccum cleaner we have a film buff (translation: really strange dude who sings along to the movie soundtrack while the movie is playing) who comes over with his projector and blue ray discs. The only bad part is you have to hear him say the words, "High Def", a lot. Tonight's movie was a bonus one in memory of Patrick Swayze. Of course, it was Dirty Dancing. I had never seen the film in it's entirety before and let me just state this in writing, Patrick Swayze (in that film) was the hottest guy with a bad haircut and high rise pants that I've ever seen. The way that guy could move. I think I'll quit faking this writing thing and start dancing there has got to be another Patrick Swayze out there (maybe his archetype is back in style, wearing Ugg boots AHH!).
Note: As you may have noticed (that's taking for granted anyone at all reads this garbage) that it says Day 23 instead of Day 22, turns out I had two 17's. What can I say? I'm totally tanked up...all the time. But, if you read that you probably take that for granted.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
amateur pranksters, the non-art of the poster, and why I'd rather be a janitor
Day 21
This morning I was just about to drift back off to sleep when I heard the piercing sound of the fire alarm. I sighed and sat staring at the box on my wall emitting such a shriek and tried to decide if it was bearable or if I had to leave. I thought about this for ten minutes, comparing it to the decibel level of certain concerts I'd been at and finally deciding that I didn't have the proper ear plugs to remain indoors. I put on a haphazard outfit and eye shadow. I trudged down the hallway with my fellow sleepyheads thinking all the while that I should've put on eyeliner.
We finally made it outiside and were met with a neighbor saying, "Jesus, you would've been dead by now, it took you long enough." I asked her if this were a drill she said she didn't know. Everyone camped out only a few feet from the buzzing building. A girl in a bathrobe inquired as to if the sprinklers were going to go off. I laid down on the sidewalk and wondered what my computer would do after being covered in water. We finally found out the alarm was set off by a low rate prankster in the pool table area. Everyone trudged back into the building. I couldn't tell if I was more pissed that I couldn't find out what my wet computer would be like or that the prankster didn't choose an awesome time (like 4 am) to pull their shenanigans. Really, we're in grad school pull something slightly more dangerous.
After I finally left the intact building for good today I met up with a friend in the Student Union Building. I walked in the door and had to go back out to check the signage to see if I was in a head shop. The entire walkway system was covered by double decker poster displays. Students milled around checking out the selection and tried to decide if they were the Bob Marley pot-smoking type (Marley blowing smoke), Beer bottles from around the world type (pictures of beer bottles), low rate sex kitten celebrity women type (Jessica Alba), guy movie type (The Big Lebowski), "artsy" type (Van Gogh, Warhol, Abstract Flowers), or the odd Audrey Hepburn type (Audrey Hepburn, literally).
But, the best parts of this adventure were the "Where's Waldo" poster and the guy at the check out line. While I waited to purchase my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles poster (turtles in a half shell, turtle POWER!) a short, chubby guy with a sneer edged the line along. He found posters from his stash and rolled them up. For one kid he rolled them with the colorful side facing inward, "This is so no one can see that you actually bought a Twilight poster." I almost asked the chubby man to marry me but I was too afraid he would turn me down based on my choice of poster.
After working another function (translation: job where I haul ass for no money under the guise of being a "bartender") I decided that I would much rather be a janitor in a medical laboratory filled with feral rats. Here is a partial list of why:
1. I might actually get tipped, whatever the rats don't eat is fair game, right?
2. I won't have to deal with people telling me exactly how much ice they want in their free soda.
3. I won't have to wash glasses, plates, or silverware.
4. I won't have to get the rats drunk simply for my own entertainment; they are already fucked up.
5. Rats can't talk.
6. They would never tell me how to do my job (see Reason #5).
7. They probably have some totally fucked up medication lying around those labs.
8. I would have friends.
9. No snobby Lit major co-workers.
10. Job security. No matter how psychotic the environmentalists get they will always test stuff on rats.
The expanded version of this list will be published in 14 volumes by Knopf in 2017, please contact me with a foreign bank draft to reserve your copy.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I was just about to drift back off to sleep when I heard the piercing sound of the fire alarm. I sighed and sat staring at the box on my wall emitting such a shriek and tried to decide if it was bearable or if I had to leave. I thought about this for ten minutes, comparing it to the decibel level of certain concerts I'd been at and finally deciding that I didn't have the proper ear plugs to remain indoors. I put on a haphazard outfit and eye shadow. I trudged down the hallway with my fellow sleepyheads thinking all the while that I should've put on eyeliner.
We finally made it outiside and were met with a neighbor saying, "Jesus, you would've been dead by now, it took you long enough." I asked her if this were a drill she said she didn't know. Everyone camped out only a few feet from the buzzing building. A girl in a bathrobe inquired as to if the sprinklers were going to go off. I laid down on the sidewalk and wondered what my computer would do after being covered in water. We finally found out the alarm was set off by a low rate prankster in the pool table area. Everyone trudged back into the building. I couldn't tell if I was more pissed that I couldn't find out what my wet computer would be like or that the prankster didn't choose an awesome time (like 4 am) to pull their shenanigans. Really, we're in grad school pull something slightly more dangerous.
After I finally left the intact building for good today I met up with a friend in the Student Union Building. I walked in the door and had to go back out to check the signage to see if I was in a head shop. The entire walkway system was covered by double decker poster displays. Students milled around checking out the selection and tried to decide if they were the Bob Marley pot-smoking type (Marley blowing smoke), Beer bottles from around the world type (pictures of beer bottles), low rate sex kitten celebrity women type (Jessica Alba), guy movie type (The Big Lebowski), "artsy" type (Van Gogh, Warhol, Abstract Flowers), or the odd Audrey Hepburn type (Audrey Hepburn, literally).
But, the best parts of this adventure were the "Where's Waldo" poster and the guy at the check out line. While I waited to purchase my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles poster (turtles in a half shell, turtle POWER!) a short, chubby guy with a sneer edged the line along. He found posters from his stash and rolled them up. For one kid he rolled them with the colorful side facing inward, "This is so no one can see that you actually bought a Twilight poster." I almost asked the chubby man to marry me but I was too afraid he would turn me down based on my choice of poster.
After working another function (translation: job where I haul ass for no money under the guise of being a "bartender") I decided that I would much rather be a janitor in a medical laboratory filled with feral rats. Here is a partial list of why:
1. I might actually get tipped, whatever the rats don't eat is fair game, right?
2. I won't have to deal with people telling me exactly how much ice they want in their free soda.
3. I won't have to wash glasses, plates, or silverware.
4. I won't have to get the rats drunk simply for my own entertainment; they are already fucked up.
5. Rats can't talk.
6. They would never tell me how to do my job (see Reason #5).
7. They probably have some totally fucked up medication lying around those labs.
8. I would have friends.
9. No snobby Lit major co-workers.
10. Job security. No matter how psychotic the environmentalists get they will always test stuff on rats.
The expanded version of this list will be published in 14 volumes by Knopf in 2017, please contact me with a foreign bank draft to reserve your copy.
-Canadian Castaway
Nerds, bookstores, why I hate undergrads part 266, and fancy parties
Day 20
There is nothing more horrifying than a fake nerd. I don't mean poser nerds like myself but people who are relied upon to be nerds like anybody who is entrusted by society to solve medical dilemmas. I know there is a fancified version of medical researchers and professionals glorified by American television, but, when it really comes down to it would you rather have a pretty boy Noah Wyle-type ripping apart and reconstructing your innards or a super geek? While it's nice to have the eye candy it isn't gonna mean shit if you're dead, right?
This was my mentality today when a harmless breakfast conversation went astray. We were all speaking about Halloween when one of us turned to the other (a medical professional wannabe) and said, "You should be Gandalf." His reaction was, "Who's Gandalf? Was he like the wizard on Harry Potter?" I feel sorry for the sucker who is going to pay mega bucks to have him save their life one day. Maybe sending in college transcripts shouldn't be enough to guarantee admittance to medical school, maybe their should be a nerd aptitude test.
Anyway, today I went to three bookstores. The first stop was a comic book shop. I love walking into comic book shops. It is so fun to be the only female. It almost makes me want to be anorexic for 6 months to drop 40 pounds and be able to actually keep the attention of the super geeks. It is one thing to make them turn their heads but quite another to make them drool onto a Vintage Superman. Hell, if I lost 40 pounds I would hit on "more attractive guys" and wish later that they had the hearts and minds that the men clinging to 1st edition Spidermans have.
The second bookshop was a used store that didn't have the book I was looking for. But, it did contain many of my favorite books and a wiry, white-haired man with six earrings in one ear, a lisp, and a hatred for Hemingway. In other words, I found paradise. I listened as he patiently put in an order for a book that was recently made into a movie and watched as he pulled out a book for an old woman who had seen the cover in the window. I watched like he were a master magician capable of great magic, even though he couldn't produce the book on my list.
The third bookshop was the University bookstore. I dread going to this behemoth of over-priced headphones, boring textbooks, and expensive marketing tools, but I promised a friend a red and a green pen. I found what I was looking for and joined a serpentine line filled with co-ed undergrads the young couple behind me actually had this conversation:
"I like, can't believe they are charging me $150 for this book."
"Yeah, it's like ridiculous. I bet all of the people who write textbooks are millionaires."
"Totally. What I want to know is how they can charge so much."
"Yeah, you should like vandalize the book before we get to the cash register and tell them it was like that and they might give you a discount."
"I should, that's a good idea I'd be all like, 'It was like this I swear.' And, like the cover would be ripped off." pause "I still can't believe they want $150 dollars for it."
"Maybe one of your friends took the class before and you could borrow their book."
"Yeah, I don't know."
"Or, you could like check it out online."
"Yeah, but--"
"Who's paying for it."
"My parents."
"Oh, nevermind. Do you want some chocolate?"
"Yeah, I want this huge box, it's thirty bucks do you think I should get it?"
After my bookshopping excursions and an afternoon nap I had to go to a meet and greet party at my department. My department is housed in a building that is filled with asbestos, rats, broken glass, defective smoke detectors and lead paint. But, they know how to throw a shindig. We may not be able to have the broken windows repaired or the toxic wall stuffing removed but, we were able to afford a long table filled with fancy cheeses. An impressive feat considering that cheese in this country is so expensive that the spread they had going was valued at enough money to buy a decent used car. Throw in the cost of the special tiny grapes and we could've purchased a brand new Prius who needs a new window or clean air?
In conclusion, nerds are not always nerds, comic book geeks and people who work in bookstores are alright but not too attractive, undergrads suck, and the arts maybe aren't that underfunded, just careless with their money.
-Canadian Castaway
There is nothing more horrifying than a fake nerd. I don't mean poser nerds like myself but people who are relied upon to be nerds like anybody who is entrusted by society to solve medical dilemmas. I know there is a fancified version of medical researchers and professionals glorified by American television, but, when it really comes down to it would you rather have a pretty boy Noah Wyle-type ripping apart and reconstructing your innards or a super geek? While it's nice to have the eye candy it isn't gonna mean shit if you're dead, right?
This was my mentality today when a harmless breakfast conversation went astray. We were all speaking about Halloween when one of us turned to the other (a medical professional wannabe) and said, "You should be Gandalf." His reaction was, "Who's Gandalf? Was he like the wizard on Harry Potter?" I feel sorry for the sucker who is going to pay mega bucks to have him save their life one day. Maybe sending in college transcripts shouldn't be enough to guarantee admittance to medical school, maybe their should be a nerd aptitude test.
Anyway, today I went to three bookstores. The first stop was a comic book shop. I love walking into comic book shops. It is so fun to be the only female. It almost makes me want to be anorexic for 6 months to drop 40 pounds and be able to actually keep the attention of the super geeks. It is one thing to make them turn their heads but quite another to make them drool onto a Vintage Superman. Hell, if I lost 40 pounds I would hit on "more attractive guys" and wish later that they had the hearts and minds that the men clinging to 1st edition Spidermans have.
The second bookshop was a used store that didn't have the book I was looking for. But, it did contain many of my favorite books and a wiry, white-haired man with six earrings in one ear, a lisp, and a hatred for Hemingway. In other words, I found paradise. I listened as he patiently put in an order for a book that was recently made into a movie and watched as he pulled out a book for an old woman who had seen the cover in the window. I watched like he were a master magician capable of great magic, even though he couldn't produce the book on my list.
The third bookshop was the University bookstore. I dread going to this behemoth of over-priced headphones, boring textbooks, and expensive marketing tools, but I promised a friend a red and a green pen. I found what I was looking for and joined a serpentine line filled with co-ed undergrads the young couple behind me actually had this conversation:
"I like, can't believe they are charging me $150 for this book."
"Yeah, it's like ridiculous. I bet all of the people who write textbooks are millionaires."
"Totally. What I want to know is how they can charge so much."
"Yeah, you should like vandalize the book before we get to the cash register and tell them it was like that and they might give you a discount."
"I should, that's a good idea I'd be all like, 'It was like this I swear.' And, like the cover would be ripped off." pause "I still can't believe they want $150 dollars for it."
"Maybe one of your friends took the class before and you could borrow their book."
"Yeah, I don't know."
"Or, you could like check it out online."
"Yeah, but--"
"Who's paying for it."
"My parents."
"Oh, nevermind. Do you want some chocolate?"
"Yeah, I want this huge box, it's thirty bucks do you think I should get it?"
After my bookshopping excursions and an afternoon nap I had to go to a meet and greet party at my department. My department is housed in a building that is filled with asbestos, rats, broken glass, defective smoke detectors and lead paint. But, they know how to throw a shindig. We may not be able to have the broken windows repaired or the toxic wall stuffing removed but, we were able to afford a long table filled with fancy cheeses. An impressive feat considering that cheese in this country is so expensive that the spread they had going was valued at enough money to buy a decent used car. Throw in the cost of the special tiny grapes and we could've purchased a brand new Prius who needs a new window or clean air?
In conclusion, nerds are not always nerds, comic book geeks and people who work in bookstores are alright but not too attractive, undergrads suck, and the arts maybe aren't that underfunded, just careless with their money.
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Library graffiti, why drinking isn't fun anymore, how to hide you are a hack
Day 19 (I think)
My sancutary is being overtaken by kids who don't want to stay home and watch their roomates copulate. All five floors of the library (there may be a sixth floor, I was too out of breath to reach) were full of undergrads studying, allegedly studying. I ran up and down the aisles looking for a carrel that wasn't next door to a snot-nosed kid. Finally I found one. I set down my belongings and looked at the walls, they were covered in pen marks. A normal individual would find such debasement a zit on the face of academia. Did I mention that I am not normal and find zits fascinating?
Anyway, the first things I noticed were the band names ranging from Slayer to Miles Davis. There was even a nice depiction of the graphic on Oasis's first album. Then, I noticed the sporadic quotation from Frost and the "I come here to get away from the world of chaos" type crap. I smiled at the hole in the wall with the precaution that looking through here (arrow) will allow you to see into another dimension. And then I saw it, "Van Girls-BITCHY" and, "American Broads-FAT". I didn't even look around before I wrote, "Fuck you, pig" next to that comment. I could hardly read my boring short story for class because I was thinking of the war the "American Broads" guy and I would have with our pens.
I wish the legal drinking age was 86. Just think what it would be like to try and find somebody that old that isn't in a wrinkle ranch and has enough balance to carry out a 24 pack without busting a hip. That would be a challenge. Drinking would be bad ass and maybe we'd all have a different take on old age; we'd all want to get old. And, it would cut down on the number of people making drunk choices that lead to babies (to old to reproduce), STD's (can't get it up anyhow), car crashes (driver's license taken away 10 years ago), accidently peeing yourself (no longer an embarassment thanks to mandated use of adult diapers after you turn 76), saying things you regret (they are old they are expected to say horrible things and get away with it).
After a roaring good time in class today where I trashed on another writer's skills I went home to start my own autobiographical writing assignment. I wrote a few lines and stopped. I re-read what I had written and imagined the onslaught of hateful comments that could be made about it. I imagined my fellow classmates reading my work, sighing, scratching their asses, and reading aloud to their friends and lovers parts that they consider horrible beyond belief. So, I have two options 1. work my ass off to write a good story or 2. write a list of the ways I could disguise the fact that I am a hack. Guess which I'll pick...
1. Wear a mask to school.
2. Don't turn anything in, ever.
3. Plagarize.
4. Make up fanciful excuses as to why I wasn't able to attend my workshopping day. (i.e. I was bitten by a rabid squirrel while I was saving an old lady from being eaten by an alligator)
5. Tell the whole class that I'm having "Female problems".
6. Never go back to class, ever.
7. Start saying gushy things about all my classmates writing so as to make them feel to mean to comment on my own writing.
8. Make up lies. (Hey, no one can prove if my work is non-fiction without following me around day and night)
9. Get arrested so I have something to write about.
10. Try to find a youtube video that teaches you how to write a good story.
11. Pretend that I don't speak English.
12. Pretend that I had amnesia.
13. Dive into the shallow end of the pool and hope for an injury bad enough to illicit sympathy.
14. Overdose on painkillers.
15. Apply for the witness protection program, get moved to Indiana and have my new name be, "Gertrude Swenson".
There must be many more ways to disguise oneself, if only I wasn't such a fat drunk ass hack I could think of them.
-Canadian Castaway
My sancutary is being overtaken by kids who don't want to stay home and watch their roomates copulate. All five floors of the library (there may be a sixth floor, I was too out of breath to reach) were full of undergrads studying, allegedly studying. I ran up and down the aisles looking for a carrel that wasn't next door to a snot-nosed kid. Finally I found one. I set down my belongings and looked at the walls, they were covered in pen marks. A normal individual would find such debasement a zit on the face of academia. Did I mention that I am not normal and find zits fascinating?
Anyway, the first things I noticed were the band names ranging from Slayer to Miles Davis. There was even a nice depiction of the graphic on Oasis's first album. Then, I noticed the sporadic quotation from Frost and the "I come here to get away from the world of chaos" type crap. I smiled at the hole in the wall with the precaution that looking through here (arrow) will allow you to see into another dimension. And then I saw it, "Van Girls-BITCHY" and, "American Broads-FAT". I didn't even look around before I wrote, "Fuck you, pig" next to that comment. I could hardly read my boring short story for class because I was thinking of the war the "American Broads" guy and I would have with our pens.
I wish the legal drinking age was 86. Just think what it would be like to try and find somebody that old that isn't in a wrinkle ranch and has enough balance to carry out a 24 pack without busting a hip. That would be a challenge. Drinking would be bad ass and maybe we'd all have a different take on old age; we'd all want to get old. And, it would cut down on the number of people making drunk choices that lead to babies (to old to reproduce), STD's (can't get it up anyhow), car crashes (driver's license taken away 10 years ago), accidently peeing yourself (no longer an embarassment thanks to mandated use of adult diapers after you turn 76), saying things you regret (they are old they are expected to say horrible things and get away with it).
After a roaring good time in class today where I trashed on another writer's skills I went home to start my own autobiographical writing assignment. I wrote a few lines and stopped. I re-read what I had written and imagined the onslaught of hateful comments that could be made about it. I imagined my fellow classmates reading my work, sighing, scratching their asses, and reading aloud to their friends and lovers parts that they consider horrible beyond belief. So, I have two options 1. work my ass off to write a good story or 2. write a list of the ways I could disguise the fact that I am a hack. Guess which I'll pick...
1. Wear a mask to school.
2. Don't turn anything in, ever.
3. Plagarize.
4. Make up fanciful excuses as to why I wasn't able to attend my workshopping day. (i.e. I was bitten by a rabid squirrel while I was saving an old lady from being eaten by an alligator)
5. Tell the whole class that I'm having "Female problems".
6. Never go back to class, ever.
7. Start saying gushy things about all my classmates writing so as to make them feel to mean to comment on my own writing.
8. Make up lies. (Hey, no one can prove if my work is non-fiction without following me around day and night)
9. Get arrested so I have something to write about.
10. Try to find a youtube video that teaches you how to write a good story.
11. Pretend that I don't speak English.
12. Pretend that I had amnesia.
13. Dive into the shallow end of the pool and hope for an injury bad enough to illicit sympathy.
14. Overdose on painkillers.
15. Apply for the witness protection program, get moved to Indiana and have my new name be, "Gertrude Swenson".
There must be many more ways to disguise oneself, if only I wasn't such a fat drunk ass hack I could think of them.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, September 14, 2009
The return of thievery, why class isn't fun and why playing pool is fun
Day 18
Awhile back I had decided to start stealing food from the cafeteria under the idea that it would be a way to ecomomize, but mostly it was to feel like a bad ass. Everything was fine until I realized that not only was it not neccesarily wrong, it was almost expected, and all my peers were doing the same thing. My heart shattered. I'm getting old, therefore it's hard to find bad ass things I can do. It's hard to blame the stupidity of youth for bad ass deeds when you are not young anymore, which would just leave you stupid.
Anyway, today I went to fill my travel mug with coffee (yeah, damn environmentalists made me get a travel mug) when my least favorite Canadian pointed to a sign that clearly states that you are not allowed to bring beverages outside of the dining area. A wicked smile crept across my cheek. I had been doing this same thing for weeks without realizing it was bad ass, which made it ultra bad ass. When I came to I saw the flash on my least favorite Canadian's face, "I'm gonna tell on you" it said. Now, I can't decide if I should keep on being a bad ass (I need that coffee) and be destroyed by the guilt that bastard has put upon me or just quit the thieving altogether.
Class is not fun. What the hell was I thinking going to grad school. School has always been the same no matter how fancy it sounds; I show up, (sometimes) sit in a chair, and listen to what the teacher says. Well, my version of listening which involves taking funny little pictogram-ish notes, thinking of insults, and wondering if I rested my head on my hand would it disguise my tiredness of holding my own head up or would it look studious.
Today I had an exceptionally boring teacher akin to Charlie Brown's teacher (all of her words sounded like a horn playing the same sequence of notes). Luckily, we were outside on the grass, which at first seemed like a kindergarten-y type idea but turned out to be quite stimulating, even though I lost feeling to my leg. Outside there was many things to look and imagine about like people in trucks crashing, or, people on skateboards crashing, or people carrying large loads of crap wearing high heeled-type shoes, crashing. And, a bee almost crashed into the drone, I mean teacher. Maybe next time we have to sit on the grass in a circle like the potheads in Golden Gate Park a ninja squirrel will fly out of the tree and crash into the teacher.
Tonight I played pool. Pool is really not that fun. But, I learned that apparently some people play pool with rules and sometimes those rules are not universal. Rule talk sounds boring until you see a dispute over whose rule is correct. Sadly, there wasn't any violence, but plenty of tension. Perhaps tomorrow I will find a new calling as a bad ass, and with my stolen coffee securely in hand I will skip school, train ninja squirrels, AND get into a violent tangle over pool playing rules. If only I knew any pool playing rules.
-Canadian Castaway
Awhile back I had decided to start stealing food from the cafeteria under the idea that it would be a way to ecomomize, but mostly it was to feel like a bad ass. Everything was fine until I realized that not only was it not neccesarily wrong, it was almost expected, and all my peers were doing the same thing. My heart shattered. I'm getting old, therefore it's hard to find bad ass things I can do. It's hard to blame the stupidity of youth for bad ass deeds when you are not young anymore, which would just leave you stupid.
Anyway, today I went to fill my travel mug with coffee (yeah, damn environmentalists made me get a travel mug) when my least favorite Canadian pointed to a sign that clearly states that you are not allowed to bring beverages outside of the dining area. A wicked smile crept across my cheek. I had been doing this same thing for weeks without realizing it was bad ass, which made it ultra bad ass. When I came to I saw the flash on my least favorite Canadian's face, "I'm gonna tell on you" it said. Now, I can't decide if I should keep on being a bad ass (I need that coffee) and be destroyed by the guilt that bastard has put upon me or just quit the thieving altogether.
Class is not fun. What the hell was I thinking going to grad school. School has always been the same no matter how fancy it sounds; I show up, (sometimes) sit in a chair, and listen to what the teacher says. Well, my version of listening which involves taking funny little pictogram-ish notes, thinking of insults, and wondering if I rested my head on my hand would it disguise my tiredness of holding my own head up or would it look studious.
Today I had an exceptionally boring teacher akin to Charlie Brown's teacher (all of her words sounded like a horn playing the same sequence of notes). Luckily, we were outside on the grass, which at first seemed like a kindergarten-y type idea but turned out to be quite stimulating, even though I lost feeling to my leg. Outside there was many things to look and imagine about like people in trucks crashing, or, people on skateboards crashing, or people carrying large loads of crap wearing high heeled-type shoes, crashing. And, a bee almost crashed into the drone, I mean teacher. Maybe next time we have to sit on the grass in a circle like the potheads in Golden Gate Park a ninja squirrel will fly out of the tree and crash into the teacher.
Tonight I played pool. Pool is really not that fun. But, I learned that apparently some people play pool with rules and sometimes those rules are not universal. Rule talk sounds boring until you see a dispute over whose rule is correct. Sadly, there wasn't any violence, but plenty of tension. Perhaps tomorrow I will find a new calling as a bad ass, and with my stolen coffee securely in hand I will skip school, train ninja squirrels, AND get into a violent tangle over pool playing rules. If only I knew any pool playing rules.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Ikea adventures, sports suck, raccoons and other creatures of the night
Day 17
Today I discovered the best part about Ikea. Just as you enter the store and veer slightly to the left starts the zoo portion of the store (what, you didn't know they had a zoo at Ikea). In this wonderland hundreds of furry, low-maintenance (stuffed) pets dwell. And I thought Ikea was just full of cheap, crappy furniture that requires a funny little wrench. But no, this is a magical kingdom where you can find an ugly stuffed guinea pig for $2.99 and get hours of entertainment before you even leave the store. My new guinea pig and I frolicked through the "grown up" areas with me stuffing him into precarious places and taking photographs. Who knew that within the pseudo-rooms of the Swedish empire store would lurk a stuffed animal playground. I can't believe people go in there just to buy thrifty housewares. Suckers!
I used to play some sports growing up mostly so that my parents could get rid of me for an hour or two (I guess working full time jobs and having me in daycare wasn't enough time away from me). After I was allowed to stay home alone I discovered the joys of daytime talk shows like Jenny Jones, Ricki Lake, and Maury. In middle school and even high school I played a few sports, mostly so that I could get away from my parents. But, sporting activities after that seemed pointless. Who cares if you win a high school volleyball game, really.
If you'll notice (if you are still reading and if there is anybody reading this at all) in the paragraph above I refer only to myself and my views on sports, as I was reminded today others have differing viewpoints. Isn't it nice that we all have our own opinions. (gag) Anyway, friend of mine and I were lying on the grass studying when a fellow with soccer nets came over and asked if we could move as they were going to play a game. The only other grassy area was being occupied by a volleyball game, an, odd one at that, the players would clap for each other after EVERYTHING. We begrudgingly obliged trekking out stuff to the outter rim of the volleyball court.
All was fine until every two minutes we heard, "Watch out" as the ball would fly by our faces. Again, we moved as per their (and the ball's) suggestion. The only grassy area left was on the otherside of the building and was being tromped through by people coming back from the "clothing optional" beach. This wouldn't have been all bad if the beach goers could just pass you by unnoticed. But, among their steady parade was a few half-naked people and really, the ones who were clothed obviously came from the beach and you couldn't help but wonder what they looked like naked, a major distraction from studying (trust me these were not the types of people you actually wanted to think about without the cover of clothing).
You know, I am starting to understand a possible origin of the idiom, "Go take a hike." Hiking, that's a sport we all can enjoy, the jocks can leave and the nerds can be in peace.
You know Canada is supposed to be so beautiful, and it is, except for the critters. For some reason people here find raccoons (VERMIN) to be cute. Where I come from if you see a raccoon you take cover 'cause that bastard's got rabies and rabies mean a series of painful shots in the ass. But, it's not only the raccoons that infest this Northern land there are also the spiders. I've never seen so many varieties of spider in my entire life, each one as big as a twoonie. If giant spiders aren't bad enough there are cockroaches and the even more mysterious, miscellaneous bugs. I don't know what they are or what they could do, but you can rest assured that I will protect my guinea pig til the death or until a spider climbs onto him. Maybe I could suggest to the jocks the sport of bug extermination.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I discovered the best part about Ikea. Just as you enter the store and veer slightly to the left starts the zoo portion of the store (what, you didn't know they had a zoo at Ikea). In this wonderland hundreds of furry, low-maintenance (stuffed) pets dwell. And I thought Ikea was just full of cheap, crappy furniture that requires a funny little wrench. But no, this is a magical kingdom where you can find an ugly stuffed guinea pig for $2.99 and get hours of entertainment before you even leave the store. My new guinea pig and I frolicked through the "grown up" areas with me stuffing him into precarious places and taking photographs. Who knew that within the pseudo-rooms of the Swedish empire store would lurk a stuffed animal playground. I can't believe people go in there just to buy thrifty housewares. Suckers!
I used to play some sports growing up mostly so that my parents could get rid of me for an hour or two (I guess working full time jobs and having me in daycare wasn't enough time away from me). After I was allowed to stay home alone I discovered the joys of daytime talk shows like Jenny Jones, Ricki Lake, and Maury. In middle school and even high school I played a few sports, mostly so that I could get away from my parents. But, sporting activities after that seemed pointless. Who cares if you win a high school volleyball game, really.
If you'll notice (if you are still reading and if there is anybody reading this at all) in the paragraph above I refer only to myself and my views on sports, as I was reminded today others have differing viewpoints. Isn't it nice that we all have our own opinions. (gag) Anyway, friend of mine and I were lying on the grass studying when a fellow with soccer nets came over and asked if we could move as they were going to play a game. The only other grassy area was being occupied by a volleyball game, an, odd one at that, the players would clap for each other after EVERYTHING. We begrudgingly obliged trekking out stuff to the outter rim of the volleyball court.
All was fine until every two minutes we heard, "Watch out" as the ball would fly by our faces. Again, we moved as per their (and the ball's) suggestion. The only grassy area left was on the otherside of the building and was being tromped through by people coming back from the "clothing optional" beach. This wouldn't have been all bad if the beach goers could just pass you by unnoticed. But, among their steady parade was a few half-naked people and really, the ones who were clothed obviously came from the beach and you couldn't help but wonder what they looked like naked, a major distraction from studying (trust me these were not the types of people you actually wanted to think about without the cover of clothing).
You know, I am starting to understand a possible origin of the idiom, "Go take a hike." Hiking, that's a sport we all can enjoy, the jocks can leave and the nerds can be in peace.
You know Canada is supposed to be so beautiful, and it is, except for the critters. For some reason people here find raccoons (VERMIN) to be cute. Where I come from if you see a raccoon you take cover 'cause that bastard's got rabies and rabies mean a series of painful shots in the ass. But, it's not only the raccoons that infest this Northern land there are also the spiders. I've never seen so many varieties of spider in my entire life, each one as big as a twoonie. If giant spiders aren't bad enough there are cockroaches and the even more mysterious, miscellaneous bugs. I don't know what they are or what they could do, but you can rest assured that I will protect my guinea pig til the death or until a spider climbs onto him. Maybe I could suggest to the jocks the sport of bug extermination.
-Canadian Castaway
"It's not a hike", Snobbery,and I heart buses
Day 17
Today we were all sitting on the grass when a friend told me that she was going to with a group to some park. She invited me to tag along and I accepted. After I asked, "Is it like a hike? Cause I don't do hiking." I was met with the response, "It's not a hike." I should have known when I was instructed that I should probably wear shoes instead of sandals. Everyday I am reminded what an fool and a sap I am on top of the usual reminders of my one-mindedness and stupidity. We all gathered and were led to rented vans that would take us to this so-called park. Where I come from parks are full of swingsets and slides, not trees and spiders.
Everything was running along quite nicely I was in command of the radio and learning fun new English words like "cheeky" and "cock off" from my South African friend. We parked the van in a parking lot surrounded by trees and met up with the second van load. I introduced myself to the couple I didn't know and struck up a conversation with them. While I was talking I didn't so much realize that we had walked up a hill and were headed down a sandy sloped path. It wasn't until I stubbed my toe on a rock that I realized that we had been walking for over five minutes downhill, which was all nice and wonderful until I realized that we would have to walk back up. The panic set in. I looked behind us and nearly dropped. I looked at my new comrades and said:
"How much farther is it?"
"It's not too much farther."
"Like how far?"
"It's a little ways."
"Okay, you do realize that we have to walk back up."
"Yeah, yeah don't worry about it's totally worth it when you get there, you'll see."
"Okay, but if it's not I'm going to kill you."
I envisioned a land where the trees were lollypops and the clouds cotton candy. And there was a chocolate bay and Oom Pa Loompas in fancy boats beckoned me out to sea to catch Swedish Fish. When we got there all I saw was a pile of rocks. My fellow hikers scaled the sides like the spiders that lurked EVERYWHERE. I followed behind imagining that my group members would always have to live with the guilt of taking me to this place where I would surely fall, crack my head like an egg and die.
The rocks looked out over a tiny part of the sound with a boring lighthouse sticking out at the base. We all set up camp on the rock face and people stretched out like it were a white-sanded beach. I counted how many bugs bit my left arm and started to dread the return trip to the car. To occupy my mind I thought up impossible escape plans like becoming a mermaid and swimming to a lowland or catching a cruise ship to Alaska and then flying back in a plane with skis, or hopping into one of the giant backpacks of the passersby, unnoticed. Or building a sort of contraption out of wood that I could sit on and be carried back on by my fellow hikers like the queen of the forest.
But, I didn't do any of these things or kill the guy who said it was going to be spectacular instead, I huffed it back up and whined about how I was going to die. When I reached the top I picked a maple leaf from a tree after reading a sign discouraging destruction of any kind to the wildlife. Suckers. But, I did learn two things that yes, everyone is a liar and "parks" in Canada actually mean, "Nature Reserves". I miss my swingset and pavement.
If the hike wasn't bad enough on the drive back I was stuck in the van with a snob. Acutally, the biggest snob I've ever met. She had a politically correct opinion on everything and hated curse words. I should've known her type when she was bellyaching about how we should not have taken two vans to the park. That it was so not "environmentally friendly". I said, "Ahh, who cares it's one extra car." She snapped her head my way and said, "If everyone started to think like that just think what would happen to our planet." But, my favorite was when I changed the channels on the radio station and I said,
"Yuck, Classical, we are not listening to that shit."
The South African turned to me after Princess Snob let out an unapproving sigh, "You shouldn't say that, she's a classically trained musician."
"What? Rock and roll is way better than classical." (or some such shit, I don't remember)
Anyway, she said, "I'm not even going to give that a response."
I turned the station and ACDC blasted from the speakers in our rented mini van.
"This is just noise, God."
I could hear her mind coming unhinged. When Black Sabbath came on next I made sure to sing along.
So, once again I took the bus. This time was wonderful. I made two new friends, further proof that people love it when you talk to them on the bus. And, I learned how much fun it is to curse loudly when the bus is full. It's almost as fun as playing metal music to a high society pinhead with no sense of humor.
-Canadian Castaway (or for today, Ozzy Osbourne)
Today we were all sitting on the grass when a friend told me that she was going to with a group to some park. She invited me to tag along and I accepted. After I asked, "Is it like a hike? Cause I don't do hiking." I was met with the response, "It's not a hike." I should have known when I was instructed that I should probably wear shoes instead of sandals. Everyday I am reminded what an fool and a sap I am on top of the usual reminders of my one-mindedness and stupidity. We all gathered and were led to rented vans that would take us to this so-called park. Where I come from parks are full of swingsets and slides, not trees and spiders.
Everything was running along quite nicely I was in command of the radio and learning fun new English words like "cheeky" and "cock off" from my South African friend. We parked the van in a parking lot surrounded by trees and met up with the second van load. I introduced myself to the couple I didn't know and struck up a conversation with them. While I was talking I didn't so much realize that we had walked up a hill and were headed down a sandy sloped path. It wasn't until I stubbed my toe on a rock that I realized that we had been walking for over five minutes downhill, which was all nice and wonderful until I realized that we would have to walk back up. The panic set in. I looked behind us and nearly dropped. I looked at my new comrades and said:
"How much farther is it?"
"It's not too much farther."
"Like how far?"
"It's a little ways."
"Okay, you do realize that we have to walk back up."
"Yeah, yeah don't worry about it's totally worth it when you get there, you'll see."
"Okay, but if it's not I'm going to kill you."
I envisioned a land where the trees were lollypops and the clouds cotton candy. And there was a chocolate bay and Oom Pa Loompas in fancy boats beckoned me out to sea to catch Swedish Fish. When we got there all I saw was a pile of rocks. My fellow hikers scaled the sides like the spiders that lurked EVERYWHERE. I followed behind imagining that my group members would always have to live with the guilt of taking me to this place where I would surely fall, crack my head like an egg and die.
The rocks looked out over a tiny part of the sound with a boring lighthouse sticking out at the base. We all set up camp on the rock face and people stretched out like it were a white-sanded beach. I counted how many bugs bit my left arm and started to dread the return trip to the car. To occupy my mind I thought up impossible escape plans like becoming a mermaid and swimming to a lowland or catching a cruise ship to Alaska and then flying back in a plane with skis, or hopping into one of the giant backpacks of the passersby, unnoticed. Or building a sort of contraption out of wood that I could sit on and be carried back on by my fellow hikers like the queen of the forest.
But, I didn't do any of these things or kill the guy who said it was going to be spectacular instead, I huffed it back up and whined about how I was going to die. When I reached the top I picked a maple leaf from a tree after reading a sign discouraging destruction of any kind to the wildlife. Suckers. But, I did learn two things that yes, everyone is a liar and "parks" in Canada actually mean, "Nature Reserves". I miss my swingset and pavement.
If the hike wasn't bad enough on the drive back I was stuck in the van with a snob. Acutally, the biggest snob I've ever met. She had a politically correct opinion on everything and hated curse words. I should've known her type when she was bellyaching about how we should not have taken two vans to the park. That it was so not "environmentally friendly". I said, "Ahh, who cares it's one extra car." She snapped her head my way and said, "If everyone started to think like that just think what would happen to our planet." But, my favorite was when I changed the channels on the radio station and I said,
"Yuck, Classical, we are not listening to that shit."
The South African turned to me after Princess Snob let out an unapproving sigh, "You shouldn't say that, she's a classically trained musician."
"What? Rock and roll is way better than classical." (or some such shit, I don't remember)
Anyway, she said, "I'm not even going to give that a response."
I turned the station and ACDC blasted from the speakers in our rented mini van.
"This is just noise, God."
I could hear her mind coming unhinged. When Black Sabbath came on next I made sure to sing along.
So, once again I took the bus. This time was wonderful. I made two new friends, further proof that people love it when you talk to them on the bus. And, I learned how much fun it is to curse loudly when the bus is full. It's almost as fun as playing metal music to a high society pinhead with no sense of humor.
-Canadian Castaway (or for today, Ozzy Osbourne)
Friday, September 11, 2009
strangers on the bus, Canadian Government offices or comedy clubs, and the sports category of Trivial Pursuit
Day 16
I rode on a Canadian bus for the second time today. This ride was much better than the last one (I bitched about that ride in another blog entry). Despite the fact that no one was speaking to strangers I decided I should give it a go. I turned to the Chinese man next to me and asked him how many more stops until we hit Main. He smiled as he put down his paper and described each stop and the areas around them. He gestured to the street and told me that the only reason it is being repaired is for the Olympics, so that visitors from other countries will think Canada is a great country. I told him my life story and a guy who fake coughed for five minutes because he was too scared to say, "Shut the hell up," finally moved to the back where he could read his pulpy sci-fi trash novel without hearing our cheerful banter (dickwad). Meanwhile, my new friend and I chatted about foreign airports and trains until I had to dash out the closing door at Main. I miss him.
The reason I had to dash out was to walk to the Canadian Government Centre (actually, I have no idea what the proper name is, I just went to the brick building with a maple leaf on the side. When I told the receptionist that I had come to obtain my SIN (Social Insurance Number) I chuckled at the acronym. She had me sit with five other people in the waiting area and told me to wait for my name to be called. Halfway through writing a text message a bespeckled, salt-n-pepper haired woman stood at the front and called my name. I stood up, she pretended not to notice my presence (not easy to do when there is only 5 other people in a tiny space). I advanced toward her with my arm raised as though to say, "I'm Emily." I got within a foot of her and she asked if I was Emily. And, dashed off like a woman half her age would walk if she were late for a bus. She led me to her cubicle, number nine. She walked around the side fighting a hacking cough. She sat and said, "I don't know why I'm coughing, I'm not sick. I think I just need to eat lunch, you know? Anyway..."
She took my documents and everytime she turned to her computer to type in my information she did so with a sort of fear that she would do the wrong thing. At one point she asked me a question and I answered that I didn't know, that I just faked it (whatever it was). She said that everyone in Canada fakes it, then looked across the cube row to her co-worker. "Look, at Simon, he's been faking it for years." Simon looked up and smiled, almost as if it were a rehearsed scene.
The lady let's call her Karen, kept typing and I could hear her cubicle neighbor interrogate a Korean woman, "Did you claim your mother as a daycare credit?" Silence. "On your taxes." Silence. The Korean woman moves in closer as though it will help her understand. "Did you claim her as a babysitter on your taxes?" Meanwhile, the lady working on my SIN (ha!) shoved a Privacy Act under my nose, "I will be right back." I read the notice taking special attention to the "Old Age" Pension. When Karen returned I asked her what exactly "Old Age" meant. She said, "What? Do you want a number or a philosophy?" She laughed sharply and then turned to me and said with a too-serious face, "Sixty-five."
Before I left she handed back to me all of the letters I had to obtain and forms I had to fill out. I asked her if she was sure she didn't need to keep them. "No, it's kinda funny though...we make such a big thing about you having to provide them and then we just return them." She smiled like a kid accused of stealing lunch money who'd successfully taken the cash and then dropped the cash near the victim and pointed it out and became the hero. Long story. Anyway, she drew me a map to the bus stop (that didn't make any sense) and then thanked me for a little too long for coming in.
As I walked to the bus stop, not taking her suggested route, I wondered if I was just part of some elaborate act. A fake setting that the Canadian government has set up and behind the walls are Canadians laughing their asses off at the stupidity of foreigners. Maybe it's not even the Canadian Government behind it, maybe there is a whole horde of identity theives with nasty senses of humor squatting in the building with the real Canadian workers gagged in the basement. Hmmm, if my SIN card doesn't come in the mail maybe I can't blame the shitty Canadian Postal Service, but I probably will.
-Canadian Castaway
Final thought, why is there a "Sports and Leisure" category in Trivial Pursuit, why can't those snob-asses just call it like it is, "Golf and Tennis."?
I rode on a Canadian bus for the second time today. This ride was much better than the last one (I bitched about that ride in another blog entry). Despite the fact that no one was speaking to strangers I decided I should give it a go. I turned to the Chinese man next to me and asked him how many more stops until we hit Main. He smiled as he put down his paper and described each stop and the areas around them. He gestured to the street and told me that the only reason it is being repaired is for the Olympics, so that visitors from other countries will think Canada is a great country. I told him my life story and a guy who fake coughed for five minutes because he was too scared to say, "Shut the hell up," finally moved to the back where he could read his pulpy sci-fi trash novel without hearing our cheerful banter (dickwad). Meanwhile, my new friend and I chatted about foreign airports and trains until I had to dash out the closing door at Main. I miss him.
The reason I had to dash out was to walk to the Canadian Government Centre (actually, I have no idea what the proper name is, I just went to the brick building with a maple leaf on the side. When I told the receptionist that I had come to obtain my SIN (Social Insurance Number) I chuckled at the acronym. She had me sit with five other people in the waiting area and told me to wait for my name to be called. Halfway through writing a text message a bespeckled, salt-n-pepper haired woman stood at the front and called my name. I stood up, she pretended not to notice my presence (not easy to do when there is only 5 other people in a tiny space). I advanced toward her with my arm raised as though to say, "I'm Emily." I got within a foot of her and she asked if I was Emily. And, dashed off like a woman half her age would walk if she were late for a bus. She led me to her cubicle, number nine. She walked around the side fighting a hacking cough. She sat and said, "I don't know why I'm coughing, I'm not sick. I think I just need to eat lunch, you know? Anyway..."
She took my documents and everytime she turned to her computer to type in my information she did so with a sort of fear that she would do the wrong thing. At one point she asked me a question and I answered that I didn't know, that I just faked it (whatever it was). She said that everyone in Canada fakes it, then looked across the cube row to her co-worker. "Look, at Simon, he's been faking it for years." Simon looked up and smiled, almost as if it were a rehearsed scene.
The lady let's call her Karen, kept typing and I could hear her cubicle neighbor interrogate a Korean woman, "Did you claim your mother as a daycare credit?" Silence. "On your taxes." Silence. The Korean woman moves in closer as though it will help her understand. "Did you claim her as a babysitter on your taxes?" Meanwhile, the lady working on my SIN (ha!) shoved a Privacy Act under my nose, "I will be right back." I read the notice taking special attention to the "Old Age" Pension. When Karen returned I asked her what exactly "Old Age" meant. She said, "What? Do you want a number or a philosophy?" She laughed sharply and then turned to me and said with a too-serious face, "Sixty-five."
Before I left she handed back to me all of the letters I had to obtain and forms I had to fill out. I asked her if she was sure she didn't need to keep them. "No, it's kinda funny though...we make such a big thing about you having to provide them and then we just return them." She smiled like a kid accused of stealing lunch money who'd successfully taken the cash and then dropped the cash near the victim and pointed it out and became the hero. Long story. Anyway, she drew me a map to the bus stop (that didn't make any sense) and then thanked me for a little too long for coming in.
As I walked to the bus stop, not taking her suggested route, I wondered if I was just part of some elaborate act. A fake setting that the Canadian government has set up and behind the walls are Canadians laughing their asses off at the stupidity of foreigners. Maybe it's not even the Canadian Government behind it, maybe there is a whole horde of identity theives with nasty senses of humor squatting in the building with the real Canadian workers gagged in the basement. Hmmm, if my SIN card doesn't come in the mail maybe I can't blame the shitty Canadian Postal Service, but I probably will.
-Canadian Castaway
Final thought, why is there a "Sports and Leisure" category in Trivial Pursuit, why can't those snob-asses just call it like it is, "Golf and Tennis."?
Hawaiians, people who smile too much, and fancy nerd parties
Day 15
How one reacts to others in the morning is a decent indication of their overall personality...or so I found out this morning. After loading our giant trays with all varieties of starches, coffees, juices, and, if we're lucky, eggs we silently find out seats. Pleasantries are half-heartedly exchanged and people conduct mild conversations or hide behind newspapers they pretend to read. This is all nice and polite, these people will float through life unscathed (that is, if having high society busy work jobs, driving four door sedans and owning a house in a newer suburb is unscathed) but, they are not the only types to dine in the morning hours.
Other people come out, people who like to argue, people who like to say sun-shiny good things that should only be on "Inspirational" greeting cards, people who like to verbally announce their agendas for the day even though no one listens or cares, people who share their innane dreams and, my new favorite, rudely honest gay hawaiian men. I was lucky enough to witness one in top form, with his airy voice, darting eyes, and features that most closely resemble a cartoon mouse he managed to take charge of the table.
"And then, there's this girl in my program and like, she's got this fucking speech impediment and I fucking HATE her. God, it's so annoying...it's like, I had a speech impediment too, and like you should get that shit fixed when you're a kid, right?."
I would have given all the money in my wallet to record the procession of disgusted faces and half full trays that cleared out. I think I found a new best friend that isn't a book.
After breakfast I put on my I-Pod (that's filled with Norweigan music that I can't understand) and walked a long way (like 2 million kilometers) to get a coffee. I found a seat by the door and set to work. I was getting shit done, and then a woman walked in...a smiling woman. She was alone and looking smug, not one of those demented smiles of the delusional and dangerous, but a my-life-is absolutely-wonderful residual smiles. She waltzed around the coffeeshop with that fucking smile on her face. Her dancing happy eyes looked vaguely in my direction and I sneered, her smile continued. I tried to get back to work, but would look up every three minutes to find her. Everytime I saw her she was smiling. Why couldn't she just have been crazy, I thought as I packed up my things. I walked out the door and when I looked back there she was smiling at me, I wonder if she could read my lips when I said, "Bitch."
So, apparently every six weeks my residence hall hosts a "Formal Dinner". I was unable to attend the dinner portion of this event tonight (darn) but, from what I can tell wine was served, "important" people showed up, and a fancy dinner (expensive-sounding food slathered in BBQ sauce) was served between the "important" people's speeches. When I arrived, just in time for dessert, I found everyone to be dressed as though they were going to prom. And, then, I think I figured it out, maybe this IS prom for these poor, smarty pants people. Their were members of the opposite sex in attendence and Indian men singing karaoke (Leaving on a Jet Plane) and even a little dancing later on, what more would you need for a good prom night? Oh, yeah, plenty of booze. The nerd squadron managed to throw together their feeble reserves and around three people got completely smashed while the others watched, wishing they were drunk enough to let go of themselves even for a moment. Wait, it was exactly like prom but with multiple kings and a Hawaiian man for a queen.
-Canadian Castaway
How one reacts to others in the morning is a decent indication of their overall personality...or so I found out this morning. After loading our giant trays with all varieties of starches, coffees, juices, and, if we're lucky, eggs we silently find out seats. Pleasantries are half-heartedly exchanged and people conduct mild conversations or hide behind newspapers they pretend to read. This is all nice and polite, these people will float through life unscathed (that is, if having high society busy work jobs, driving four door sedans and owning a house in a newer suburb is unscathed) but, they are not the only types to dine in the morning hours.
Other people come out, people who like to argue, people who like to say sun-shiny good things that should only be on "Inspirational" greeting cards, people who like to verbally announce their agendas for the day even though no one listens or cares, people who share their innane dreams and, my new favorite, rudely honest gay hawaiian men. I was lucky enough to witness one in top form, with his airy voice, darting eyes, and features that most closely resemble a cartoon mouse he managed to take charge of the table.
"And then, there's this girl in my program and like, she's got this fucking speech impediment and I fucking HATE her. God, it's so annoying...it's like, I had a speech impediment too, and like you should get that shit fixed when you're a kid, right?."
I would have given all the money in my wallet to record the procession of disgusted faces and half full trays that cleared out. I think I found a new best friend that isn't a book.
After breakfast I put on my I-Pod (that's filled with Norweigan music that I can't understand) and walked a long way (like 2 million kilometers) to get a coffee. I found a seat by the door and set to work. I was getting shit done, and then a woman walked in...a smiling woman. She was alone and looking smug, not one of those demented smiles of the delusional and dangerous, but a my-life-is absolutely-wonderful residual smiles. She waltzed around the coffeeshop with that fucking smile on her face. Her dancing happy eyes looked vaguely in my direction and I sneered, her smile continued. I tried to get back to work, but would look up every three minutes to find her. Everytime I saw her she was smiling. Why couldn't she just have been crazy, I thought as I packed up my things. I walked out the door and when I looked back there she was smiling at me, I wonder if she could read my lips when I said, "Bitch."
So, apparently every six weeks my residence hall hosts a "Formal Dinner". I was unable to attend the dinner portion of this event tonight (darn) but, from what I can tell wine was served, "important" people showed up, and a fancy dinner (expensive-sounding food slathered in BBQ sauce) was served between the "important" people's speeches. When I arrived, just in time for dessert, I found everyone to be dressed as though they were going to prom. And, then, I think I figured it out, maybe this IS prom for these poor, smarty pants people. Their were members of the opposite sex in attendence and Indian men singing karaoke (Leaving on a Jet Plane) and even a little dancing later on, what more would you need for a good prom night? Oh, yeah, plenty of booze. The nerd squadron managed to throw together their feeble reserves and around three people got completely smashed while the others watched, wishing they were drunk enough to let go of themselves even for a moment. Wait, it was exactly like prom but with multiple kings and a Hawaiian man for a queen.
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Sleeping Weather, Bars, and Blogs of Note
Day 14
Everything was warm and sunny, until mother left. I know it's not that enticing to write about the weather, but too bad it's my blog and there is an odd coincidence going on. I know when most people bring up odd coincidences they are really just saying they are mentally unstable, but, the weather started to turn rotten when mother got on the airplane to leave. At first I thought I could cope, until I realized that not only does the rain make it easy to just lay around and do nothing, but, there is no cure. Getting out doesn't help, drinking 64 ounces of coffee doesn't help, taping your eyelids open with lined packing tape doesn't help, I'm starting to wonder if this type of situation would be a beautiful one in which to start selling Ritalin, if only I could get my ass out of bed. But, I think it would be alright if I could train my mind to only have pleasant dreams. Hook a feeding tube up to me and give me a dream where I can see Patrick Dempsey's ass and I'd be set for life.
Eventually, I left the comfort of bed to go to work. All of my peers here seem to have high profile bitch positions in their "departments" and I work at the bar. (Shit, maybe that is my department...scary) Anyway, while my fellow residents tackle the world's scientific dilemmas I fill disgusting mop buckets and count wine bottles. If the tasks weren't bad enough I had to work with a wiry Literature guy, who informed me that he doesn't read American authors. All I could do was stare at his cold sore the entire time that he wasn't exercising his new favorite pastime; watching fat new girls run up and down three flights of stairs. At one point, I apologized for being slow and saw the sly grin on his face (that he tried to hide). Then, when everything was FINALLY set up, (it takes a long time for a tired fat girl to run stairs) we were told to take it all back down. The event had been cancelled. When we were FINALLY finished again I asked if I could go home and the little twit actually turned to me and said, "You could go home, but why would you want to?" Did he really think I wanted to sit and have a drink with him? Those Lit people are more full of shit than I ever imagined. I turned to him and said, "No, I think I'll go home and write about your nasty cold sore and pompous attitude." Well, if I could do it all over again I would've said it...
I am new to this blogging thing and tonight I was bumming around my blogger account to find a section entitled, "Blogs of Note". I clicked into it, thinking there'd be some real gems, and, of course, wondering if I was on the list (writers are egomaniacs, not pompous like Lit Dicks). My heart hardened when I didn't see my blog on the list, just as it does everytime I find my mailbox empty like Charlie Brown does around Valentines Day. After getting over the shock and questioning whomever made the list's taste I clicked through a few of these so-called precious, "Blogs of Note". They all had one thing in common, they all had pictures. What? This goes against the definition of a blog.
Main Entry:
blog
Part of Speech:
n
Definition:
an online diary; a personal chronological log of thoughts published on a Web page; also called Weblog, Web log
Example:
Typically updated daily, blogs often reflect the personality of the author.
Etymology:
shortened form of Weblog
Usage:
blog, blogged, blogging v, blogger n
(from dictionary.com)
I am worried about the state of the word "diary". Do twelve year old girls still write crazy shit about boys in little books that have a lock and key? Do they have blogs full of photos instead? Do images alone reflect the personality of the author? Are people not going to be able to read actual words in ten years? Eventually will we all tote around computers and pop up images of what we are thinking because we won't have the words to define it, because the web was taken over by pictures? I'm going to go make a camp in my forest of dictionaries in the sub-basement of the library and clutch them like jewels...or pictures of jewels.
-Canadian Castaway
Everything was warm and sunny, until mother left. I know it's not that enticing to write about the weather, but too bad it's my blog and there is an odd coincidence going on. I know when most people bring up odd coincidences they are really just saying they are mentally unstable, but, the weather started to turn rotten when mother got on the airplane to leave. At first I thought I could cope, until I realized that not only does the rain make it easy to just lay around and do nothing, but, there is no cure. Getting out doesn't help, drinking 64 ounces of coffee doesn't help, taping your eyelids open with lined packing tape doesn't help, I'm starting to wonder if this type of situation would be a beautiful one in which to start selling Ritalin, if only I could get my ass out of bed. But, I think it would be alright if I could train my mind to only have pleasant dreams. Hook a feeding tube up to me and give me a dream where I can see Patrick Dempsey's ass and I'd be set for life.
Eventually, I left the comfort of bed to go to work. All of my peers here seem to have high profile bitch positions in their "departments" and I work at the bar. (Shit, maybe that is my department...scary) Anyway, while my fellow residents tackle the world's scientific dilemmas I fill disgusting mop buckets and count wine bottles. If the tasks weren't bad enough I had to work with a wiry Literature guy, who informed me that he doesn't read American authors. All I could do was stare at his cold sore the entire time that he wasn't exercising his new favorite pastime; watching fat new girls run up and down three flights of stairs. At one point, I apologized for being slow and saw the sly grin on his face (that he tried to hide). Then, when everything was FINALLY set up, (it takes a long time for a tired fat girl to run stairs) we were told to take it all back down. The event had been cancelled. When we were FINALLY finished again I asked if I could go home and the little twit actually turned to me and said, "You could go home, but why would you want to?" Did he really think I wanted to sit and have a drink with him? Those Lit people are more full of shit than I ever imagined. I turned to him and said, "No, I think I'll go home and write about your nasty cold sore and pompous attitude." Well, if I could do it all over again I would've said it...
I am new to this blogging thing and tonight I was bumming around my blogger account to find a section entitled, "Blogs of Note". I clicked into it, thinking there'd be some real gems, and, of course, wondering if I was on the list (writers are egomaniacs, not pompous like Lit Dicks). My heart hardened when I didn't see my blog on the list, just as it does everytime I find my mailbox empty like Charlie Brown does around Valentines Day. After getting over the shock and questioning whomever made the list's taste I clicked through a few of these so-called precious, "Blogs of Note". They all had one thing in common, they all had pictures. What? This goes against the definition of a blog.
Main Entry:
blog
Part of Speech:
n
Definition:
an online diary; a personal chronological log of thoughts published on a Web page; also called Weblog, Web log
Example:
Typically updated daily, blogs often reflect the personality of the author.
Etymology:
shortened form of Weblog
Usage:
blog, blogged, blogging v, blogger n
(from dictionary.com)
I am worried about the state of the word "diary". Do twelve year old girls still write crazy shit about boys in little books that have a lock and key? Do they have blogs full of photos instead? Do images alone reflect the personality of the author? Are people not going to be able to read actual words in ten years? Eventually will we all tote around computers and pop up images of what we are thinking because we won't have the words to define it, because the web was taken over by pictures? I'm going to go make a camp in my forest of dictionaries in the sub-basement of the library and clutch them like jewels...or pictures of jewels.
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
mold extraction, wicked words, Canadian words
Day 13
Today I came home to three people. A man, who loosens screws and operates a mold sucking machine, a woman who watches him do this, and a woman who speaks to the resident of the room, if said resident is around. I am unsure what the last lady's duties would've been had I not shown up. The man removed my vent cover and sucked up all the mold, that could be seen. (The duct, I'm sure goes on for many, many feet of what is unseen) The woman designated to speak to me finally said, "You can lock your door now." I asked if she were leaving, she said, "You can lock your door now," and was gone. I didn't lock it. I wanted to see if she'd somehow know or if there was a reason for her concern like stray werewolves or packs of preying mantis on the loose.
Also today I slutted it up at the library. I have been to many libraries before and have been known to run up and down the aisles, fingering the volumes and laughing. This is what most people do, right? Anyway, after I milled around for quite sometime and after I found the oldest volume on the shelf (an MLA guide from 1895) I played around in the dictionaries. Hidden within the hefty volumes was a jewel of moderate size, it's binding black and lettering the same kind of green that became famous from the Wicked Witch of the West's complexion. The words read, "Wicked Words" by Rawson. I have never had so fantastic a find on only one visit. The book and I stole away together to the quiet recesses of the library.
I flipped into it looking at words like; curmudgeon, geezer, fuck, and the four page entry for cunt. Then I saw the first treasure; monkey. Here's just a snippet of what it said;
"The uninhibited sex life of the monkey also has inspired such phrases as 'lecherous as a monkey' (William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601-1602) and 'hot as monkeys'..."
This was a tiny thrill, but it went on:
"The monkey also is a nineteenth century Americanism for the vulva; hence, 'to spank the monkey' is to masturbate. Because of the anatomical meaning, polite people in the Ozarks steer clear of using the phrase, 'monkeyin' around' in mixed company."
I started to chuckle and wonder what exactly was meant by, "mixed company". I continued to flip and came upon:
"Kazoo: The anus or vagina. 'He made this big blow up of her private parts...everybody looking up her old kazoo.' (Bruce Jay Friedman, Steambath, 1972).
That was the actual entry, it went on for a bit and then stated:
"Kazoo usually is associated with the instrument of that name, whose sounds are appreciated mainly by kazoo players."
I smirked and let out a chuckle and then I heard someone near me. "Wicked Words" and I snuck back into the appropriate shelving where I returned my new best friend, making sure to turn it the wrong way to see if anyone messes with it before I come back for a date. Maybe one day I will take my new friend home with me, it's a big step, but I think it could happen.
Speaking of words, today I took special note to the language of native Canadians. The language is quite similar with a few too many "Eh?'s" and "a-boot's" peppered in. While I was sitting in class, listening to the teacher and drawing funny pictograms and making up horrible nicknames for my classmates based on their nametags, I took a log of just how many times "Eh?" was said. Twelve. Then, I had supper tonight with a Canadian who doubled that number in under ten minutes. And, promised me I would be saying, "Eh?" regularly in less than a year. I retaliated by saying it on purpose and he would laugh, but it started to feel natural, even good. Assimilation is a much quicker process than I imagined. If only I had my "Wicked" friend here with me I could learn new and exciting words to try and counteract my Canadian-ness, or at least make fun of Canadians, secretly.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I came home to three people. A man, who loosens screws and operates a mold sucking machine, a woman who watches him do this, and a woman who speaks to the resident of the room, if said resident is around. I am unsure what the last lady's duties would've been had I not shown up. The man removed my vent cover and sucked up all the mold, that could be seen. (The duct, I'm sure goes on for many, many feet of what is unseen) The woman designated to speak to me finally said, "You can lock your door now." I asked if she were leaving, she said, "You can lock your door now," and was gone. I didn't lock it. I wanted to see if she'd somehow know or if there was a reason for her concern like stray werewolves or packs of preying mantis on the loose.
Also today I slutted it up at the library. I have been to many libraries before and have been known to run up and down the aisles, fingering the volumes and laughing. This is what most people do, right? Anyway, after I milled around for quite sometime and after I found the oldest volume on the shelf (an MLA guide from 1895) I played around in the dictionaries. Hidden within the hefty volumes was a jewel of moderate size, it's binding black and lettering the same kind of green that became famous from the Wicked Witch of the West's complexion. The words read, "Wicked Words" by Rawson. I have never had so fantastic a find on only one visit. The book and I stole away together to the quiet recesses of the library.
I flipped into it looking at words like; curmudgeon, geezer, fuck, and the four page entry for cunt. Then I saw the first treasure; monkey. Here's just a snippet of what it said;
"The uninhibited sex life of the monkey also has inspired such phrases as 'lecherous as a monkey' (William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601-1602) and 'hot as monkeys'..."
This was a tiny thrill, but it went on:
"The monkey also is a nineteenth century Americanism for the vulva; hence, 'to spank the monkey' is to masturbate. Because of the anatomical meaning, polite people in the Ozarks steer clear of using the phrase, 'monkeyin' around' in mixed company."
I started to chuckle and wonder what exactly was meant by, "mixed company". I continued to flip and came upon:
"Kazoo: The anus or vagina. 'He made this big blow up of her private parts...everybody looking up her old kazoo.' (Bruce Jay Friedman, Steambath, 1972).
That was the actual entry, it went on for a bit and then stated:
"Kazoo usually is associated with the instrument of that name, whose sounds are appreciated mainly by kazoo players."
I smirked and let out a chuckle and then I heard someone near me. "Wicked Words" and I snuck back into the appropriate shelving where I returned my new best friend, making sure to turn it the wrong way to see if anyone messes with it before I come back for a date. Maybe one day I will take my new friend home with me, it's a big step, but I think it could happen.
Speaking of words, today I took special note to the language of native Canadians. The language is quite similar with a few too many "Eh?'s" and "a-boot's" peppered in. While I was sitting in class, listening to the teacher and drawing funny pictograms and making up horrible nicknames for my classmates based on their nametags, I took a log of just how many times "Eh?" was said. Twelve. Then, I had supper tonight with a Canadian who doubled that number in under ten minutes. And, promised me I would be saying, "Eh?" regularly in less than a year. I retaliated by saying it on purpose and he would laugh, but it started to feel natural, even good. Assimilation is a much quicker process than I imagined. If only I had my "Wicked" friend here with me I could learn new and exciting words to try and counteract my Canadian-ness, or at least make fun of Canadians, secretly.
-Canadian Castaway
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