Day 247
So, as you can see from the title and that means two things: 1. I am not sober, at all, really. and 2. This will be brief.
All of today comes back to me in flashes right now. I said goodbye to my adopt-a-brother today when he dropped off a giant airbed for me to watch for him until fall. He said that he was glad that we hung out all year, I think that means that he thinks I am alright. I met his father, who looked like a giant mouse and expressed a huge love for Garrison Keillor which he told me about in the 2 minutes that we talked.
The middle of my day was spent at the Post Office. Something clicked today--okay, so I really just stopped caring if I was doing my job correctly--and things were much better. I found myself taking letters and packages and saying, "I'll make sure it gets there for you" and knowing that it was a lie. I have no idea if any of these items will "get there" what do they think I am a psychic?
Most of my day was spent at a gay club watching a Lady Gaga impersonator contest. Here are a few things I remember from the evening:
-The impersonator with the lace face had a sexy man dancing with her that looked like a token Spanish soap star, but even beefier. His shirt read, "Monster Balls."
-When an older queen took the stage a very drunk gay man started screaming, "Get off the stage Mom!"
-A member of my department showed up wearing something strappy and black, that could only be purchased in some sort of stripper/bondage gear store, coupled with a blonde wig. She told me not to tell my friends who didn't know her that she was involved with my department. I chose not to tell her that I already told them.
-My friend took lewd pics with a banana.
-The bathrooms are co-ed and when I looked under the stalls I saw two feet pointing the other way.
-The bartender told me that he loved my shirt. I just so happened to be wearing a shirt for a bath haus-type sex club for men that says, "Where the bears are." He told me I did an awesome job of cutting it up. I didn't tell him that I watched 30 minutes of youtube vids on how to cut up shirts.
-The host of the event was the bingo caller from Drag Queen Bingo Night, a nearly 7 foot tall fat, queen with huge hair and tons of makeup who guzzles jack and diets. Someone came too close to her and she said, "Look at me, you don't want to mess with somebody this large."
-I nearly got into a fight with some girl who insisted on sitting in the chair directly behind me and having her purse push me into the rail. Instead, I shoved back her purse with my ass, gave her dirty looks and said, "Cunt" and "bitch" often and loudly. She left.
-One Gaga impersonator was so good/lifelike (or I had so much vodka) that I truly believed that she was Gaga. My friends told me otherwise, but it's like Santa, it doesn't hurt to believe.
-We took a friend of ours who hadn't even really heard of what a drag queen was until like last week. Turns out, everyone, even sheltered, sweet souls love drag queens.
-After the club we went out and ate breakfast food. When I was telling our waiter that I wanted my eggs scrambled he said that they didn't really let you specify. I told him, "If my eggs are runny, I'll barf!" "So, you like 'em hard?" Emphasis on "hard." I swear he winked at me. On the way out of the restaurant, I looked back to see the cook staring me down, and I began to wonder what I had eaten.
Tip of the Day: If your computer screen is so dirty that when you are watching a Lady Gaga video you wonder why she gave herself thigh freckles only to realize that it is really just dirt and not a fashion statement, it may be time to clean your screen.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Dollhouse, Sandcastle Morning, Hotties, Ode to My High Schoolers, Cricketing, Bike Peeping, Hank
Day 246
In the book that Diablo Cody wrote about stripping she said that one of her gigs was to work "The Dollhouse" which was basically a room in a sex shop where people would pass by and pick out women to bring into separate rooms for dances with themes of their choice. When I open the blinds to my bedroom I feel like I am that woman in The Dollhouse behind the window that doesn't get anyone tapping on the glass for more. That's okay, I can't afford the costumes and the toys for it anyhow.
This morning I woke up from a dream about being felt up by my bodyguard, only to shut off the alarm and go back to sleep, not to rise again until noon. As I was waking up and trying to start my day, the buzzer for my doorphone rang. My friend wanted to come and eat her yogurt in my room and then we had an Oprah moment when she saw me without makeup for the first time. Her response, "You look better than I do without makeup." My response, "What are you some kind of monster or something?" Later, after she finished rinsing out her yogurt container she held it up and said, "Hey, look at this! You know what this is?" I mumbled a response, something to the effect of, "that's more trash you are gonna leave in my room." She beamed and said, "Sandcastle!"
This afternoon I was in one of my favorite neighborhoods waiting for my co-teacher to pick me up. When I arrived at the location we were meeting at I ran into the hottest boy in the Creative Writing program who just so happened to be wearing his hottest jacket--think somewhere between Johnnny Depp and Heath Ledger. I am not gonna lie, I pretended like he was my boyfriend for a moment. Later, after my friend picked me up, she said that when she was approaching our table she wondered who the hot guy I was talking to was, until she saw it was our friend.
Later on a crowded bus, I was standing within the arms of many cute men who were holding the pole I was next to and wanted to lean back into their arms like an idiot. When a seat finally opened up, I sat down and was joined by a wonderful giant of a man (I have a thing for giants) who was eating an apple. I listened to him crunch on his apple and realized that it sounded just like every cartoon dinosaur that had ever eaten leaves on a screen before, and then he turned into some sort of brontosaurus and became even hotter. Geez, I'm in heat.
Once again I went to a high school this afternoon to "teach" high schoolers how to write. Translation: Bullshitting with them about books, making fun of their English teacher for not knowing what manga is, writing a story, and giving them suckers to make me even more popular. Yeah, I'm not above baiting them to make me seem cool. The best part was the creation of the story. The kids wanted to play a writing game, so I suggested that we each write a sentence and pass it on. They modified that we would not peek at the previous sentences and at the end we'd unfold the papers and read what we'd gotten. When we read all the stories we'd created I realized that the most effed up sentences came from the English teacher himself and that I was the only one vicious enough to write a sentence about anyone in the group. I wrote, "(my co-teacher's name) is a doo doo head!" Why am I surprised that in a room of teenagers I'm still the youngest?
After supper I was invited by some South Africans to play some cricket. Being an American I grew up with a baseball bat in my hand. I had never even seen a cricket bat until this evening. Somehow, not knowing how to play meant that I needed to be a wicketkeeper. To me this meant, throw the ball if it comes at me and make remarks about how, "wicketkeeper" sounds like something out of Harry Potter. Apparently, this was wrong, as I was moved out into the field after just a few minutes. Being in the field was awesome, it was all heckling and little effort, two things I have tried to master in my 26 years. We played for quite sometime and without fully understanding the game still, I went up to be a "bowler" which just means, dopey version of a pitcher. It was then that I found my true calling in life: to pitch for a cricket team.
This evening I responded to an email that someone sent out to the list of residents in my rez hall that said she was trying to sell a bike. Little did I know that this would involve holding a rusted-out bike frame for a half an hour while she fiddled with the chain that will never be able to go back on with freakish fingernails, some were long and some were short, but all were yellow. Finally, I told her I had to leave, luckily I didn't say, "I have to leave because watching you try to put that chain on is like watching a six-year old repeatedly chicken out at getting their ears pierced."
Status of Hank (the plant I won at drag queen bingo): So, I was pretty concerned that the drag queens killed my new plant Hank. I was so concerned that I had a plant expert come in to take a gander. Turns out, Hank is doing really well, his flowers are dying because it was their time to die and he will flower again someday. I hope he's a metaphor.
Tip of the Day: Just because you made your first two pitchers of Iced Tea for this summer, doesn't mean you have to drink them both in one day.
-Canadian Castaway
In the book that Diablo Cody wrote about stripping she said that one of her gigs was to work "The Dollhouse" which was basically a room in a sex shop where people would pass by and pick out women to bring into separate rooms for dances with themes of their choice. When I open the blinds to my bedroom I feel like I am that woman in The Dollhouse behind the window that doesn't get anyone tapping on the glass for more. That's okay, I can't afford the costumes and the toys for it anyhow.
This morning I woke up from a dream about being felt up by my bodyguard, only to shut off the alarm and go back to sleep, not to rise again until noon. As I was waking up and trying to start my day, the buzzer for my doorphone rang. My friend wanted to come and eat her yogurt in my room and then we had an Oprah moment when she saw me without makeup for the first time. Her response, "You look better than I do without makeup." My response, "What are you some kind of monster or something?" Later, after she finished rinsing out her yogurt container she held it up and said, "Hey, look at this! You know what this is?" I mumbled a response, something to the effect of, "that's more trash you are gonna leave in my room." She beamed and said, "Sandcastle!"
This afternoon I was in one of my favorite neighborhoods waiting for my co-teacher to pick me up. When I arrived at the location we were meeting at I ran into the hottest boy in the Creative Writing program who just so happened to be wearing his hottest jacket--think somewhere between Johnnny Depp and Heath Ledger. I am not gonna lie, I pretended like he was my boyfriend for a moment. Later, after my friend picked me up, she said that when she was approaching our table she wondered who the hot guy I was talking to was, until she saw it was our friend.
Later on a crowded bus, I was standing within the arms of many cute men who were holding the pole I was next to and wanted to lean back into their arms like an idiot. When a seat finally opened up, I sat down and was joined by a wonderful giant of a man (I have a thing for giants) who was eating an apple. I listened to him crunch on his apple and realized that it sounded just like every cartoon dinosaur that had ever eaten leaves on a screen before, and then he turned into some sort of brontosaurus and became even hotter. Geez, I'm in heat.
Once again I went to a high school this afternoon to "teach" high schoolers how to write. Translation: Bullshitting with them about books, making fun of their English teacher for not knowing what manga is, writing a story, and giving them suckers to make me even more popular. Yeah, I'm not above baiting them to make me seem cool. The best part was the creation of the story. The kids wanted to play a writing game, so I suggested that we each write a sentence and pass it on. They modified that we would not peek at the previous sentences and at the end we'd unfold the papers and read what we'd gotten. When we read all the stories we'd created I realized that the most effed up sentences came from the English teacher himself and that I was the only one vicious enough to write a sentence about anyone in the group. I wrote, "(my co-teacher's name) is a doo doo head!" Why am I surprised that in a room of teenagers I'm still the youngest?
After supper I was invited by some South Africans to play some cricket. Being an American I grew up with a baseball bat in my hand. I had never even seen a cricket bat until this evening. Somehow, not knowing how to play meant that I needed to be a wicketkeeper. To me this meant, throw the ball if it comes at me and make remarks about how, "wicketkeeper" sounds like something out of Harry Potter. Apparently, this was wrong, as I was moved out into the field after just a few minutes. Being in the field was awesome, it was all heckling and little effort, two things I have tried to master in my 26 years. We played for quite sometime and without fully understanding the game still, I went up to be a "bowler" which just means, dopey version of a pitcher. It was then that I found my true calling in life: to pitch for a cricket team.
This evening I responded to an email that someone sent out to the list of residents in my rez hall that said she was trying to sell a bike. Little did I know that this would involve holding a rusted-out bike frame for a half an hour while she fiddled with the chain that will never be able to go back on with freakish fingernails, some were long and some were short, but all were yellow. Finally, I told her I had to leave, luckily I didn't say, "I have to leave because watching you try to put that chain on is like watching a six-year old repeatedly chicken out at getting their ears pierced."
Status of Hank (the plant I won at drag queen bingo): So, I was pretty concerned that the drag queens killed my new plant Hank. I was so concerned that I had a plant expert come in to take a gander. Turns out, Hank is doing really well, his flowers are dying because it was their time to die and he will flower again someday. I hope he's a metaphor.
Tip of the Day: Just because you made your first two pitchers of Iced Tea for this summer, doesn't mean you have to drink them both in one day.
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
LATE!, I-Ching Guy, Japanese Shopping, Organic Lies, Gossip, Stains, Youtube Exercise
Day 245
There is nothing like sleeping in and waking up to a quasi-beautiful day and turning on your computer to discover an email from your boss that reads, "Where are you???????????" I called her up and told her that my shift began at 2. She said, "Nooo, you were supposed to be here at 9:30." I looked at my clock, it read, 11:30. Quickly, I cracked a joke and made her laugh and promised I'd be there in 15 minutes. When I arrived she laughed when I said, "Good morning--I mean, I guess it's not morning anymore." She even said, "You were saying you wanted shorter shifts."
An hour later, she informed me that she is going to resign this Thursday. That explained her lackluster approach to me being over 2 hours late to work. But the explanation for the reason she is going to resign was far more interesting than her forgiveness of me. She told me that she went to some old Chinese guy she knows and he threw some stones and read them (something to do with I-Ching) and he told her that she must either quit or she will be fired. So, she's decided to quit. I wonder what other important life decisions she's left up to this guy. I wonder if this guy inspires others in what to do with themselves. I wonder if there have been heart throb movie stars that went to him and asked if they should pursue acting and he told them that they must either be janitors or used car salesmen.
This afternoon I went to an Asian mall. The purpose of going to the Asian mall was to go to a giant Japanese dollarstore. Little did we know that this dollarstore would involve 2 floors of junk where everything cost at least 2 dollars, and pushing Asian people. Here is a few of the things that we found:
Winnie the Pooh-patterned Q-tips
A puppy-head purse with a curious stain on its forehead.
A notebook that has 3 cute mice on it and reads, "Merry Afternoon Three Mischievous Rats."
pre-opened lipsticks
A wall of keychains and cellphone danglers. (Note: This area was inaccessible due to a hoard of Japanese people crowding into it)
A wall of garbage cans with patterns on them
A wall of lacy, giant women's underwear.
A million glowsticks, including ones that could be put into a headband and be glow-in-the dark Mickey Mouse ears.
And finally, surgical masks with cartoon mouths on them where they would cover your actual mouth.
This evening I applied for a job at an organic grocery store. This is hilarious as I know very little and care very little about organic foods and I am pretty sure if the people at this store found out that I didn't celebrate Earth Day or turn out my lights when I leave my room I wouldn't get the job.
Tonight my friend in the writing program informed me, via facebook chat, that someone had written a facebook note (whatever the fuck that is) about the other night when a few writers were hanging out. This note said that the writers had been gossiping "negatively" about someone else in the writing program. Apparently, after awhile of bashing this unnamed person, a quiet writer was asked what he thought of the situation. His response: "I don't like to talk about people behind their backs." This scenario was detailed in the note and the writer of the note went on a tirade about how we shouldn't gossip and speak bad things. Hello! We are in a writing program, this is what we do. If we didn't spread scandal and lies and hate we would be boring, therefore we wouldn't be writers, we'd be accountants. Besides, what the hell else are we supposed to talk about? Anyway, my friend and I spent all night chatting about how ridiculous this person who wrote the note was and we gossiped about other people and tried to find out who they were belittling in the first place and asking others on chat and thus, gossiping more.
I worked a half an hour on my second job today. This job is where myself and a few others move around furniture in the college to set up for events in my residence hall. Tomorrow's event needed 75 chairs. I noticed two things when we were setting up tonight. 1. When someone comes into the room and asks what we are doing, and looks like they want to help, I should get to them first and accept their help. And, 2. The chairs that we use for events are the same chairs as we have in the dining hall area, and they are covered in stains. I asked my fellow set-up crew member if they had ever been cleaned. "Never," was her answer. "And, they only get thrown out if they are broken." I am wondering if it is my duty to break a few chairs?
I have spent the last hour or so watching people exercise on youtube videos. Actual exercise time I have spent exercising: 2 minutes. I even got a lecture on how you cannot just lose belly fat and that people are shaped either as apples or pears. I am not sure how any of this has been helpful. But, my favorite video was the one with the old guy telling the viewer that when first starting out in running you should do it every other day. Then he said, "Say if you start on a Monday, then Tuesday is an off day, and then Wednesday you run, and then Thursday is an off day, and then Friday you run, and then Saturday is an off day, so then Sunday you run." If you don't know what running every other day means then maybe your first concern in life shouldn't be acquiring a running habit, it should be getting some aid with your idiocy.
Tip of the Day: Spending 29 bucks at a Japanese dollarstore is sort of unacceptable.
-Canadian Castaway
There is nothing like sleeping in and waking up to a quasi-beautiful day and turning on your computer to discover an email from your boss that reads, "Where are you???????????" I called her up and told her that my shift began at 2. She said, "Nooo, you were supposed to be here at 9:30." I looked at my clock, it read, 11:30. Quickly, I cracked a joke and made her laugh and promised I'd be there in 15 minutes. When I arrived she laughed when I said, "Good morning--I mean, I guess it's not morning anymore." She even said, "You were saying you wanted shorter shifts."
An hour later, she informed me that she is going to resign this Thursday. That explained her lackluster approach to me being over 2 hours late to work. But the explanation for the reason she is going to resign was far more interesting than her forgiveness of me. She told me that she went to some old Chinese guy she knows and he threw some stones and read them (something to do with I-Ching) and he told her that she must either quit or she will be fired. So, she's decided to quit. I wonder what other important life decisions she's left up to this guy. I wonder if this guy inspires others in what to do with themselves. I wonder if there have been heart throb movie stars that went to him and asked if they should pursue acting and he told them that they must either be janitors or used car salesmen.
This afternoon I went to an Asian mall. The purpose of going to the Asian mall was to go to a giant Japanese dollarstore. Little did we know that this dollarstore would involve 2 floors of junk where everything cost at least 2 dollars, and pushing Asian people. Here is a few of the things that we found:
Winnie the Pooh-patterned Q-tips
A puppy-head purse with a curious stain on its forehead.
A notebook that has 3 cute mice on it and reads, "Merry Afternoon Three Mischievous Rats."
pre-opened lipsticks
A wall of keychains and cellphone danglers. (Note: This area was inaccessible due to a hoard of Japanese people crowding into it)
A wall of garbage cans with patterns on them
A wall of lacy, giant women's underwear.
A million glowsticks, including ones that could be put into a headband and be glow-in-the dark Mickey Mouse ears.
And finally, surgical masks with cartoon mouths on them where they would cover your actual mouth.
This evening I applied for a job at an organic grocery store. This is hilarious as I know very little and care very little about organic foods and I am pretty sure if the people at this store found out that I didn't celebrate Earth Day or turn out my lights when I leave my room I wouldn't get the job.
Tonight my friend in the writing program informed me, via facebook chat, that someone had written a facebook note (whatever the fuck that is) about the other night when a few writers were hanging out. This note said that the writers had been gossiping "negatively" about someone else in the writing program. Apparently, after awhile of bashing this unnamed person, a quiet writer was asked what he thought of the situation. His response: "I don't like to talk about people behind their backs." This scenario was detailed in the note and the writer of the note went on a tirade about how we shouldn't gossip and speak bad things. Hello! We are in a writing program, this is what we do. If we didn't spread scandal and lies and hate we would be boring, therefore we wouldn't be writers, we'd be accountants. Besides, what the hell else are we supposed to talk about? Anyway, my friend and I spent all night chatting about how ridiculous this person who wrote the note was and we gossiped about other people and tried to find out who they were belittling in the first place and asking others on chat and thus, gossiping more.
I worked a half an hour on my second job today. This job is where myself and a few others move around furniture in the college to set up for events in my residence hall. Tomorrow's event needed 75 chairs. I noticed two things when we were setting up tonight. 1. When someone comes into the room and asks what we are doing, and looks like they want to help, I should get to them first and accept their help. And, 2. The chairs that we use for events are the same chairs as we have in the dining hall area, and they are covered in stains. I asked my fellow set-up crew member if they had ever been cleaned. "Never," was her answer. "And, they only get thrown out if they are broken." I am wondering if it is my duty to break a few chairs?
I have spent the last hour or so watching people exercise on youtube videos. Actual exercise time I have spent exercising: 2 minutes. I even got a lecture on how you cannot just lose belly fat and that people are shaped either as apples or pears. I am not sure how any of this has been helpful. But, my favorite video was the one with the old guy telling the viewer that when first starting out in running you should do it every other day. Then he said, "Say if you start on a Monday, then Tuesday is an off day, and then Wednesday you run, and then Thursday is an off day, and then Friday you run, and then Saturday is an off day, so then Sunday you run." If you don't know what running every other day means then maybe your first concern in life shouldn't be acquiring a running habit, it should be getting some aid with your idiocy.
Tip of the Day: Spending 29 bucks at a Japanese dollarstore is sort of unacceptable.
-Canadian Castaway
No Joke Breakfast, Creative Writing Reality, Learning From Kids, The Bike and Odd Questioning
Day 244
I made it to breakfast this morning. I sat at a table with a friend of mine. A friend that I used to think was a total creeper, but have grown to love. But, sometimes, especially in the morning, it's hard to come up with something to start off our conversations with so, I told him awhile back that I was always collecting jokes. This morning he told me several, and I kept egging (haha) him on to tell me more and more, figuring he was on a roll. Finally, he said, "I need some time to think about this and I'll get back to you." Again, I egged him on, "Come on, you know more. Tell me more!" And he said, "You know, I had to tell jokes at knife point once." "What?!" I asked in bewilderment, half-thinking that this was a joke as well. "Yeah, the bullies at my high school held a knife to my throat and made me tell them jokes."
Okay, so apparently, I hadn't read the chapter in Emily Post in how to deal with unexpected traumatizing tales at the breakfast table. So, I tried to dilute the situation by telling him part of the reason that I ask him to tell me jokes all the time. I said, "You know, I used to hear you tell the bartender at the pub jokes all the time and I was jealous." Granted, this wasn't the reason I had him tell me jokes, but I had to say something. And to that he responded, "I only told him jokes because I thought he'd cut me off otherwise." I would've laughed at this had I not known that it was the plotting of a serious alcoholic. After that, there wasn't really much else to say.
Creative Writing Reality Check #124: Grief. I am getting an application ready to apply for a TA-ship for next year. As part of this application you must send in a sample of your writing. This I'd thought to be of little concern considering that I had just written and rewritten a couple pieces a million times, including a piece that I had sent into a contest and was quite proud of. But, apparently, NOTHING is ever as easy and carefree as it seems. As I went through the pieces I discovered that there were more than several mistakes in both of them and at least two major mistakes in the one I had sent out to a contest, fully thinking I had a shot at winning the 500 bucks. Let's hope that I caught enough of the errors this go around to ensure that I'd be considered for a TA job and if not, let's hope that the people who have to read my manuscript get a few good laughs.
This afternoon my high school kids came over to read as part of a joining of the after school programs me and my peers have been teaching. Not only were they eager to show up and explore the disgusting asbestos-ridden old shack my department is located on, they were excited about reading. A few of my kids braved the crowded room and read their work in front of total strangers and their friends. I had never been so proud.
There were a few other kids that stuck out from the fold. Kids that I had never seen before. One was a boy who brought up his friends to act out a skit of him interacting with a vampire. The other one that got my attention was one of the girls from another school. She said she didn't really want to read. Finally, she gave in and read as the second to last slot of the evening. She read an excerpt from a bigger piece of science fiction she was working on and blew everyone's mind with her storytelling. After she was done reading, the emcee of the event asked her what grade she was in. "Nine," she responded.
I wanted to tell her that at Grade 9 she was already a superior writer than over half of the MFA students. I wanted to adopt this brainchild, but mostly I wanted to be her. When I realized that this wasn't possible it hit me, this kid's better than me. This either makes me want to work super hard day and night on craft, or drop to my knees and say, "I'm not worthy."
After the reading we all ate cake, and everyone chatted. The kids read to small groups and the other teachers mingled. Just before my kids were leaving they came up and hugged me one by one. Did I mention, we'd never hugged before? Who knew that volunteering to wrangle teens in a musty library after school one day a week could be so gratifying. They make me wish that I could have a whole pack of teenage children. Who needs babies, they are so boring. I wish there was a hilarious observation to be made about this reading but there isn't. These kids are wonderful and have taught me many ways in how I should live my life. I look forward to learning how to bake a cake so I can give it to them.
Tonight, like many nights, my friend from next door came over. Also, like many nights, we were drinking together. We went up to the games room. Turns out that the exercise bike that I had wanted to steal the other day has already been stolen, or possibly thrown out. Though, call me paranoid, I suspect that it now resides in someone else's room. Hmm... Anyway, we drank and played cards and then were interrupted by a resident who flirts with me quite a bit. He spoke about cookies, and booze and his homeland and then he said to me, "You've never had a boyfriend before, right?"
I was shocked at the question, not really sure how it related to booze and such. I told him that I have had several boyfriends and asked him why he'd like to know. "He said, "Because I am your friend." A few minutes later he added, "You just seem really immature." Immediately, my friend came to my aid. Asking him if he knew that he was being rude. I just sat there in wonderment. What would compell you to say something like that? Was he trying to offend me? Does he really think so much of himself that I would care if he judged me? It took everything I had to stop from laughing out loud. "What do you mean, exactly?" I remarked, interested in how far he'd go. He said, "I don't want to get into a deep conversation."
Tip of the Day:Living in a residence hall is like living with a whole bunch of brothers and sisters. Don't get crushes on anyone, because the same as brothers and sisters, you will always find them a little fucked up.
-Canadian Castaway
I made it to breakfast this morning. I sat at a table with a friend of mine. A friend that I used to think was a total creeper, but have grown to love. But, sometimes, especially in the morning, it's hard to come up with something to start off our conversations with so, I told him awhile back that I was always collecting jokes. This morning he told me several, and I kept egging (haha) him on to tell me more and more, figuring he was on a roll. Finally, he said, "I need some time to think about this and I'll get back to you." Again, I egged him on, "Come on, you know more. Tell me more!" And he said, "You know, I had to tell jokes at knife point once." "What?!" I asked in bewilderment, half-thinking that this was a joke as well. "Yeah, the bullies at my high school held a knife to my throat and made me tell them jokes."
Okay, so apparently, I hadn't read the chapter in Emily Post in how to deal with unexpected traumatizing tales at the breakfast table. So, I tried to dilute the situation by telling him part of the reason that I ask him to tell me jokes all the time. I said, "You know, I used to hear you tell the bartender at the pub jokes all the time and I was jealous." Granted, this wasn't the reason I had him tell me jokes, but I had to say something. And to that he responded, "I only told him jokes because I thought he'd cut me off otherwise." I would've laughed at this had I not known that it was the plotting of a serious alcoholic. After that, there wasn't really much else to say.
Creative Writing Reality Check #124: Grief. I am getting an application ready to apply for a TA-ship for next year. As part of this application you must send in a sample of your writing. This I'd thought to be of little concern considering that I had just written and rewritten a couple pieces a million times, including a piece that I had sent into a contest and was quite proud of. But, apparently, NOTHING is ever as easy and carefree as it seems. As I went through the pieces I discovered that there were more than several mistakes in both of them and at least two major mistakes in the one I had sent out to a contest, fully thinking I had a shot at winning the 500 bucks. Let's hope that I caught enough of the errors this go around to ensure that I'd be considered for a TA job and if not, let's hope that the people who have to read my manuscript get a few good laughs.
This afternoon my high school kids came over to read as part of a joining of the after school programs me and my peers have been teaching. Not only were they eager to show up and explore the disgusting asbestos-ridden old shack my department is located on, they were excited about reading. A few of my kids braved the crowded room and read their work in front of total strangers and their friends. I had never been so proud.
There were a few other kids that stuck out from the fold. Kids that I had never seen before. One was a boy who brought up his friends to act out a skit of him interacting with a vampire. The other one that got my attention was one of the girls from another school. She said she didn't really want to read. Finally, she gave in and read as the second to last slot of the evening. She read an excerpt from a bigger piece of science fiction she was working on and blew everyone's mind with her storytelling. After she was done reading, the emcee of the event asked her what grade she was in. "Nine," she responded.
I wanted to tell her that at Grade 9 she was already a superior writer than over half of the MFA students. I wanted to adopt this brainchild, but mostly I wanted to be her. When I realized that this wasn't possible it hit me, this kid's better than me. This either makes me want to work super hard day and night on craft, or drop to my knees and say, "I'm not worthy."
After the reading we all ate cake, and everyone chatted. The kids read to small groups and the other teachers mingled. Just before my kids were leaving they came up and hugged me one by one. Did I mention, we'd never hugged before? Who knew that volunteering to wrangle teens in a musty library after school one day a week could be so gratifying. They make me wish that I could have a whole pack of teenage children. Who needs babies, they are so boring. I wish there was a hilarious observation to be made about this reading but there isn't. These kids are wonderful and have taught me many ways in how I should live my life. I look forward to learning how to bake a cake so I can give it to them.
Tonight, like many nights, my friend from next door came over. Also, like many nights, we were drinking together. We went up to the games room. Turns out that the exercise bike that I had wanted to steal the other day has already been stolen, or possibly thrown out. Though, call me paranoid, I suspect that it now resides in someone else's room. Hmm... Anyway, we drank and played cards and then were interrupted by a resident who flirts with me quite a bit. He spoke about cookies, and booze and his homeland and then he said to me, "You've never had a boyfriend before, right?"
I was shocked at the question, not really sure how it related to booze and such. I told him that I have had several boyfriends and asked him why he'd like to know. "He said, "Because I am your friend." A few minutes later he added, "You just seem really immature." Immediately, my friend came to my aid. Asking him if he knew that he was being rude. I just sat there in wonderment. What would compell you to say something like that? Was he trying to offend me? Does he really think so much of himself that I would care if he judged me? It took everything I had to stop from laughing out loud. "What do you mean, exactly?" I remarked, interested in how far he'd go. He said, "I don't want to get into a deep conversation."
Tip of the Day:Living in a residence hall is like living with a whole bunch of brothers and sisters. Don't get crushes on anyone, because the same as brothers and sisters, you will always find them a little fucked up.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Not Quiet Neighbors, Goals List, Period!, Souvenir of Canada, Ohh Hank, The Shall Not Be Named
Day 243
My neighbor is officially doing something strange with her wall. It sounds like she is polishing it with a giant chair that is moving across her wall horizontally in broad strokes. It's always the quiet ones who do the strangest things. Hell, if that's true then I would be the gray crayon. Wait! She has finally stopped, just as I was getting used to it. Damn, now I kinda miss it. Couldn't she just be getting laid, so I won't have to guess what's going on over there. Wait--it's been to long, I probably don't know what that sounds like anymore. Damnit, oh well, I love this guessing game she has me playing.
I did a few things today and one of them was make a list of goals that I want to accomplish this summer. On this list were things like, "exercise" and "read at least 5 non-writing craft books," and "organize papers." Now that I look over it I don't see things like, "brush your teeth more" or "don't become a drunk." I guess they are the misfit, not cute/inspired sounding goals. Perhaps I could blanket list them as, "Do all of the unglamourous things that don't sound as wonderful as exercising."
So, today I got my period. Don't go all "TMI!" on me just yet, there is a story. Not a story about blood flow, though I would be happy to talk about the dropping of the unused egg, but this is a of supper. At supper I sat a table that was incredibly dull for conversation. I was pretty hateful and thought I'd explain myself for my stark, snarky comments that stood out from the boring pleasantries. "I have my period, okay!" Someone actually did say, "TMI!" But, if anyone approached me after that or was shocked at my bitchery the guy sitting next to me would say, "She's got her period." It was like a warning flare. I commanded that he follow me everywhere AND get a t-shirt that reads, "She has her period" with an arrow pointing to me, or he could just get a bullhorn.
Tonight I watched a movie that I found at the library. The movie was called, Souvenir of Canada. It was made about Douglas Coupland's take on Canada and the creation of his art project, Canada House. I learned a few things about Canada while watching this film. Here are few of the knowledge niblets:
-An ookpik is a fuzzy, ugly little haystack-looking creature that was popular in Canada awhile back and is supposed to look like an owl. And, I want one for my next birthday.
-Douglas Coupland is EXTREMELY ugly. I am no beauty queen, but when I read, Girlfriend in a Coma so many years ago I never expected him to look like someone arrested on child pornography possession charges. I know that may be a terrible thing to say, and I really do love him, but damn he's more than a little scary.
-You can fit three Frances in one Quebec. I don't know why this is important, but maybe that's because I am not Canadian.
-The person I should've known about Canada but didn't was, Terry Fox. I had no idea he even existed. What an inspiring man. After hearing his story I would stand up and thump my chest and declare how proud I am to be Canadian, but I am not Canadian...yet. (tee hee hee) Alright, I never will be I am too strangely patriotic and as much as I love their anthem I don't think I could ever learn all the words to the verses.
-I must say though, that my favorite part was when Dougie's mother says that she really doesn't want to read the books that he writes. My mother is not the only one who doesn't want to read what her offspring writes. I wonder if every writers parents have been the same way throughout history. What about Marquis de Sade's parents?
Status of Hank (the plant): So, Hank's flowers keep wilting and dying off. I am going to assume that the drag queens who overwatered him are responsible for this death, not nature.
My job at the Post Office is now referred to by my friend as, The Job That Shall Not Be Named, as I told her that I could not hear "your Post office job" without a wave of hatred and deep depression striking me. Seriously, the job is so bad that everywhere I go like dollar stores and bubble tea shops and drugstores I wonder if working at them would be as bad as working at The Job That Shall Not Be Named. Everytime I compare these places of commerce and employ I always think, "Nope, working here would be better." This evening my friend and I entered some kind of underground food court with paneling everywhere and florescent lights and no windows. Immediately I thought, "Better than the post office?" I looked around at the dank space full of Chinese people slurping greasy noodles and thought, "Umm, yeah."
Tip of the Day: Talking to your cousin about crochet hook size is not getting anything done, including your afghan.
-Canadian Castaway
My neighbor is officially doing something strange with her wall. It sounds like she is polishing it with a giant chair that is moving across her wall horizontally in broad strokes. It's always the quiet ones who do the strangest things. Hell, if that's true then I would be the gray crayon. Wait! She has finally stopped, just as I was getting used to it. Damn, now I kinda miss it. Couldn't she just be getting laid, so I won't have to guess what's going on over there. Wait--it's been to long, I probably don't know what that sounds like anymore. Damnit, oh well, I love this guessing game she has me playing.
I did a few things today and one of them was make a list of goals that I want to accomplish this summer. On this list were things like, "exercise" and "read at least 5 non-writing craft books," and "organize papers." Now that I look over it I don't see things like, "brush your teeth more" or "don't become a drunk." I guess they are the misfit, not cute/inspired sounding goals. Perhaps I could blanket list them as, "Do all of the unglamourous things that don't sound as wonderful as exercising."
So, today I got my period. Don't go all "TMI!" on me just yet, there is a story. Not a story about blood flow, though I would be happy to talk about the dropping of the unused egg, but this is a of supper. At supper I sat a table that was incredibly dull for conversation. I was pretty hateful and thought I'd explain myself for my stark, snarky comments that stood out from the boring pleasantries. "I have my period, okay!" Someone actually did say, "TMI!" But, if anyone approached me after that or was shocked at my bitchery the guy sitting next to me would say, "She's got her period." It was like a warning flare. I commanded that he follow me everywhere AND get a t-shirt that reads, "She has her period" with an arrow pointing to me, or he could just get a bullhorn.
Tonight I watched a movie that I found at the library. The movie was called, Souvenir of Canada. It was made about Douglas Coupland's take on Canada and the creation of his art project, Canada House. I learned a few things about Canada while watching this film. Here are few of the knowledge niblets:
-An ookpik is a fuzzy, ugly little haystack-looking creature that was popular in Canada awhile back and is supposed to look like an owl. And, I want one for my next birthday.
-Douglas Coupland is EXTREMELY ugly. I am no beauty queen, but when I read, Girlfriend in a Coma so many years ago I never expected him to look like someone arrested on child pornography possession charges. I know that may be a terrible thing to say, and I really do love him, but damn he's more than a little scary.
-You can fit three Frances in one Quebec. I don't know why this is important, but maybe that's because I am not Canadian.
-The person I should've known about Canada but didn't was, Terry Fox. I had no idea he even existed. What an inspiring man. After hearing his story I would stand up and thump my chest and declare how proud I am to be Canadian, but I am not Canadian...yet. (tee hee hee) Alright, I never will be I am too strangely patriotic and as much as I love their anthem I don't think I could ever learn all the words to the verses.
-I must say though, that my favorite part was when Dougie's mother says that she really doesn't want to read the books that he writes. My mother is not the only one who doesn't want to read what her offspring writes. I wonder if every writers parents have been the same way throughout history. What about Marquis de Sade's parents?
Status of Hank (the plant): So, Hank's flowers keep wilting and dying off. I am going to assume that the drag queens who overwatered him are responsible for this death, not nature.
My job at the Post Office is now referred to by my friend as, The Job That Shall Not Be Named, as I told her that I could not hear "your Post office job" without a wave of hatred and deep depression striking me. Seriously, the job is so bad that everywhere I go like dollar stores and bubble tea shops and drugstores I wonder if working at them would be as bad as working at The Job That Shall Not Be Named. Everytime I compare these places of commerce and employ I always think, "Nope, working here would be better." This evening my friend and I entered some kind of underground food court with paneling everywhere and florescent lights and no windows. Immediately I thought, "Better than the post office?" I looked around at the dank space full of Chinese people slurping greasy noodles and thought, "Umm, yeah."
Tip of the Day: Talking to your cousin about crochet hook size is not getting anything done, including your afghan.
-Canadian Castaway
It's 4 am, again...
Day 242
Around lunchtime today my friends showed up with two bags and a case of beer. In the bags were food items like generic Kraft Singles, hot dogs, marshmallows, and brownies. They came to drink and grill. Turns out grill operation is something way beyond my capacity of existence. Luckily, I knocked on the door of the right man for the job. He came and saved the day and we got ate beyond our fill. This was all wonderful, marshmallows were even toasted, but little did I know that it would mean that I would get two buzzed people with full bellies nearly falling asleep on my couch and chair at 4 pm.
I am wide awake and it is 4 am. It could be the fact that I drank a vodka-infused can of Rockstar this evening. Yeah that's right, I totally bought the can of it for 3 bucks, the one with the cool labeling that looks like it could be the design on Avril Lavigne's tour bus. At the party I attended this evening everyone else bought fancy, grown up red wines and inquired what my drink of choice was, the only person I felt truly comfortable with was the girl who brought Smirnoff Ice. I told her that I thought it was cool she brought Smirnoff Ice and someone said, "It's like so high school." The girl replied, "I like it." We were good friends the rest of the night with our losery beverages.
Other things that happened at the somewhat snobby gathering:
There were mountains of books people could take home. Every Canadian in the room tried to force the Alice Munro on me, but I wound up with a thick Joyce Carol Oates and an H.G. Wells book called, "The Passionate Friends."
A neverending discussion took place about The Neverending Story. This led to someone pulling out an I-Phone to play the theme song for me, despite my disinterest in talking at length about a horny luck dragon that nobody in that room, except me, found creepy.
There was a conversation that I began as soon as one of my Canadian friends started extolling the virtues of Friends. It really astounds me that nearly everyone I have met outside of the U.S. references and holds this show as some sort of pinnacle of entertainment. It wasn't even really funny. I asked my American friend from Florida why that is, and she said that it's popular in the U.S. but it is only popular on the coasts. She said that because I come from the heartland, we don't put up with that unfunny TV. I think this was a compliment.
And, finally there was a futon which people were sitting on that collapsed. The best part of this was that the super pretty, proper-looking wife of one of my fellow writers laughed the hardest and went on at great length about how funny it was that someone had a misfortunate occurrence, and she loved laughing at misfortunate occurrences.
After the party I met up with a few friends at a bar. I spoke with the bartender about how cheap some of their daily specials were. He said, "Yeah, tomorrow's gonna be busy." I made a remark about how cheap the beer was on Sundays. He gave me an odd look, and then explained that he was talking about the hockey game. But, he said it like I was an idiot for not knowing there was a hockey game going on tomorrow night. It is true about Canadians and their hockey.
But, my favorite part of the evening was when I was riding the bus home. At nearly 2 am the bus is quite crowded, but when I get an aisle seat, I don't usually get hit, repeatedly with the girl standing in the aisle's purse. Now, I don't mean that she hauled off and smacked me. It was much more boring than that. She just didn't seem to realize that the thing that her purse kept brushing up upon was me. Who does that? Seriously. I felt like she was the cheerleader and I was the nerdy girl she walked all over to get the answers to the math quiz. Bitch, don't you know the nerds always win!
Tip of the Day: Skip the Rockstar, it won't do you any good, besides you are more of a Monster person anyhow.
-Canadian Castaway
Around lunchtime today my friends showed up with two bags and a case of beer. In the bags were food items like generic Kraft Singles, hot dogs, marshmallows, and brownies. They came to drink and grill. Turns out grill operation is something way beyond my capacity of existence. Luckily, I knocked on the door of the right man for the job. He came and saved the day and we got ate beyond our fill. This was all wonderful, marshmallows were even toasted, but little did I know that it would mean that I would get two buzzed people with full bellies nearly falling asleep on my couch and chair at 4 pm.
I am wide awake and it is 4 am. It could be the fact that I drank a vodka-infused can of Rockstar this evening. Yeah that's right, I totally bought the can of it for 3 bucks, the one with the cool labeling that looks like it could be the design on Avril Lavigne's tour bus. At the party I attended this evening everyone else bought fancy, grown up red wines and inquired what my drink of choice was, the only person I felt truly comfortable with was the girl who brought Smirnoff Ice. I told her that I thought it was cool she brought Smirnoff Ice and someone said, "It's like so high school." The girl replied, "I like it." We were good friends the rest of the night with our losery beverages.
Other things that happened at the somewhat snobby gathering:
There were mountains of books people could take home. Every Canadian in the room tried to force the Alice Munro on me, but I wound up with a thick Joyce Carol Oates and an H.G. Wells book called, "The Passionate Friends."
A neverending discussion took place about The Neverending Story. This led to someone pulling out an I-Phone to play the theme song for me, despite my disinterest in talking at length about a horny luck dragon that nobody in that room, except me, found creepy.
There was a conversation that I began as soon as one of my Canadian friends started extolling the virtues of Friends. It really astounds me that nearly everyone I have met outside of the U.S. references and holds this show as some sort of pinnacle of entertainment. It wasn't even really funny. I asked my American friend from Florida why that is, and she said that it's popular in the U.S. but it is only popular on the coasts. She said that because I come from the heartland, we don't put up with that unfunny TV. I think this was a compliment.
And, finally there was a futon which people were sitting on that collapsed. The best part of this was that the super pretty, proper-looking wife of one of my fellow writers laughed the hardest and went on at great length about how funny it was that someone had a misfortunate occurrence, and she loved laughing at misfortunate occurrences.
After the party I met up with a few friends at a bar. I spoke with the bartender about how cheap some of their daily specials were. He said, "Yeah, tomorrow's gonna be busy." I made a remark about how cheap the beer was on Sundays. He gave me an odd look, and then explained that he was talking about the hockey game. But, he said it like I was an idiot for not knowing there was a hockey game going on tomorrow night. It is true about Canadians and their hockey.
But, my favorite part of the evening was when I was riding the bus home. At nearly 2 am the bus is quite crowded, but when I get an aisle seat, I don't usually get hit, repeatedly with the girl standing in the aisle's purse. Now, I don't mean that she hauled off and smacked me. It was much more boring than that. She just didn't seem to realize that the thing that her purse kept brushing up upon was me. Who does that? Seriously. I felt like she was the cheerleader and I was the nerdy girl she walked all over to get the answers to the math quiz. Bitch, don't you know the nerds always win!
Tip of the Day: Skip the Rockstar, it won't do you any good, besides you are more of a Monster person anyhow.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, April 24, 2010
English, 28 Dollar Man, Shit Dogs, The Land of Tiny Cups, Dancing Queen
Day 241
There is always a line at the bank. Usually this line makes me want to shove rusty nails into my fingernails, but today it was intriguing. Working as a teller was a muscle-y young Asian man. He was helping an older Asian lady. She seemed frustrated and had one of those Chinese accents that my fellow Americans mock for laughs. Here is what I heard:
Her: "Why you not speak Chinese?"
Him: "Why don't you speak English?!"
Then I found out I only had 37 bucks in my account. I got a little panicky. But, when I got home I watched a video on yahoo.ca news that showed a 29 year old man who had just won 258 million in a lottery jackpot. When he won the lottery he only had 28 dollars to his name. This made me feel both better and jealous.
My friend and I are grilling tomorrow. She came over last week and saw that my residence has a grill. She was excited and wanted to take advantage of it. During her excitement I didn't mention to her that I know nothing about grilling and don't really desire to be much more than a spectator and taste-tester when it comes to barbecue operation. I hope she can figure this out. Anyway, I met her outside the food market. She had gone in in search of grill-worthy hot dogs. She came out and declared, "They have some, but they aren't shitty enough." She had me go in for a second opinion. She was right, they were no Corn King or generic Ballpark Franks. Geez, Canada can't you do a shitty hot dog right? You know, with artificial flavoring and coloring and animal hair.
Today I went into a coffeeshop on my way to a rock show and asked for a tiny coffee. The clerk produced literally a kid cup of joe. I looked at the cup and over at my friend and said, "I love Canada, their little glass sizes are just so cute." Apparently, this was offensive as the clerk made some sort of passive agressive statement that I couldn't really hear and gave me the stink eye. Geez, Canadians can be so touchy.
At the rock show me and my friend were nearly mauled by a dancer. She was a fluffy-haired woman wearing a small hockey jersey. She danced like she was in Africa at a traditional, tribal ceremony. She stomped all around and swung her head below her waist and back again toward the ceiling. There was always a three foot space cleared when she neared people despite the crowd being so close together you could smell each others farts, even the little ones. You know it's bad when your friend looks over at you and says, "I just got her hair in my mouth." with a monotone annoyance voice most commonly used when kids do something annoying on repeat.
Tip of the Day: A quarter pounder with cheese may sound like a good idea, but in Canada they are like over 4 bucks. Somehow a cheap burger doesn't taste quite as awesome when it isn't really that cheap.
-Canadian Castaway
There is always a line at the bank. Usually this line makes me want to shove rusty nails into my fingernails, but today it was intriguing. Working as a teller was a muscle-y young Asian man. He was helping an older Asian lady. She seemed frustrated and had one of those Chinese accents that my fellow Americans mock for laughs. Here is what I heard:
Her: "Why you not speak Chinese?"
Him: "Why don't you speak English?!"
Then I found out I only had 37 bucks in my account. I got a little panicky. But, when I got home I watched a video on yahoo.ca news that showed a 29 year old man who had just won 258 million in a lottery jackpot. When he won the lottery he only had 28 dollars to his name. This made me feel both better and jealous.
My friend and I are grilling tomorrow. She came over last week and saw that my residence has a grill. She was excited and wanted to take advantage of it. During her excitement I didn't mention to her that I know nothing about grilling and don't really desire to be much more than a spectator and taste-tester when it comes to barbecue operation. I hope she can figure this out. Anyway, I met her outside the food market. She had gone in in search of grill-worthy hot dogs. She came out and declared, "They have some, but they aren't shitty enough." She had me go in for a second opinion. She was right, they were no Corn King or generic Ballpark Franks. Geez, Canada can't you do a shitty hot dog right? You know, with artificial flavoring and coloring and animal hair.
Today I went into a coffeeshop on my way to a rock show and asked for a tiny coffee. The clerk produced literally a kid cup of joe. I looked at the cup and over at my friend and said, "I love Canada, their little glass sizes are just so cute." Apparently, this was offensive as the clerk made some sort of passive agressive statement that I couldn't really hear and gave me the stink eye. Geez, Canadians can be so touchy.
At the rock show me and my friend were nearly mauled by a dancer. She was a fluffy-haired woman wearing a small hockey jersey. She danced like she was in Africa at a traditional, tribal ceremony. She stomped all around and swung her head below her waist and back again toward the ceiling. There was always a three foot space cleared when she neared people despite the crowd being so close together you could smell each others farts, even the little ones. You know it's bad when your friend looks over at you and says, "I just got her hair in my mouth." with a monotone annoyance voice most commonly used when kids do something annoying on repeat.
Tip of the Day: A quarter pounder with cheese may sound like a good idea, but in Canada they are like over 4 bucks. Somehow a cheap burger doesn't taste quite as awesome when it isn't really that cheap.
-Canadian Castaway
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Scholarship, Indoor Learning, Drugstore Whore-ing, Stranger Stalking, Violet Death, Hoarding-achondriac, Food Buddy
Day 240
Today I went to the financial aid office to see if there was any money there. Unfortunately, they didn't have any money to give away yet. My department gives out several "End of the Year" scholarships based on merit/performance/ and whatever the hell they feel like. Immediately, I thought, 'Maybe they will give me one because they all know that I am laid off from the pub.' I didn't think, 'Gee, maybe I have given a good performance in all my classes and so maybe I'll be considered."
The bulk of my horrible I-hate-my-job hangover (translation: the four or so hours after leaving my four hour shift when I am feeling the most suicidal) I spent lying on my bed reading Diablo Cody's book about her stripping year. Did I mention that it's probably the nicest day, weather-wise, of the year and I had my blinds closed and my eyes stuck to the peepshow stories, hoping they'd get freakier. Nearly, jumping for joy that some wacko called the "Cum Licker" actually tongue-mopped strangers giz. At least I was learning things.
The most exciting part of today was the part where I went to the drugstore and looked at lipstick I couldn't afford. I picked up just the necessities: cheap box of tissue with the least annoying dorky pattern on it, a huge thing of generic toilet paper, and a bag of 100 lollipops. When I got up to the counter I told my friend who was with me that I should probably just work at the drugstore. Then I leaned in and asked the guy if they were hiring and he pretty much said they are always hiring. This could be a very bad thing. But, it doesn't matter, because the next thing I asked was, "Do you like working here?" He said, "Yeah, you get a thirty percent discount." I said, "I'm in."
How terrible are you if you go onto your awesome dorky friend's facebook page and look up her even dorkier friends? I love that the most unattractive woman in the world is her friend and she lists her hobbies as, "sewing" and "studying the bible" and her favorite tv shows start off with, "Knight Rider, Knight Rider." After I got done laughing I realized that I really want to befriend this bucktoothed wonder, at least she's not boring.
Today I told my mother about drag queen bingo. She laughed for a half an hour. After she was done laughing she started to tell me how to take care of Hank (the African violet I won at bingo amongst the lube and porn). I let her say a few things, that I already knew from the internet research I did this morning. Despite putting Hank in the window, lots of his flowers died during the course of today. I told this to my mother. She said that Hank needed water, I told her Hank was super wet (tee hee hee). Then I said, "Mom, you have killed every single plant you have ever had." "They overwatered it," she said, totally ignoring my murderess accusation. As a killer herself I think she would know. Those drag queens killed Hank! I would seek revenge, but those queens could kick my ass, plus I think I like them better than I like African violets. Sorry, Hank.
Tonight I watched my first episode of Hoarders. Not only am I completely addicted to it, I am fully convinced that I am a hoarder. I told this to a friend of mine when she came over and said, "Dude, there isn't any shit on your floor." Weird that a show about a mental illness can give you a mental freak out. It makes me want to clean out my drawers.
I realized why my BFF is my BFF tonight. Not only did she come over with candy tonight, she and I weighed ourselves, and went on and on about what kind of fat each of us are, then we wound up at McDonalds. I wonder if me and that bitch will both drop 40 pounds when she goes back to her home country.
Tip of the Day: Try not to think it's a good or bad day based on the volume of facebook notifications you receive or the amount of horrible drunken photos that not only get posted of you, but tagged.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I went to the financial aid office to see if there was any money there. Unfortunately, they didn't have any money to give away yet. My department gives out several "End of the Year" scholarships based on merit/performance/ and whatever the hell they feel like. Immediately, I thought, 'Maybe they will give me one because they all know that I am laid off from the pub.' I didn't think, 'Gee, maybe I have given a good performance in all my classes and so maybe I'll be considered."
The bulk of my horrible I-hate-my-job hangover (translation: the four or so hours after leaving my four hour shift when I am feeling the most suicidal) I spent lying on my bed reading Diablo Cody's book about her stripping year. Did I mention that it's probably the nicest day, weather-wise, of the year and I had my blinds closed and my eyes stuck to the peepshow stories, hoping they'd get freakier. Nearly, jumping for joy that some wacko called the "Cum Licker" actually tongue-mopped strangers giz. At least I was learning things.
The most exciting part of today was the part where I went to the drugstore and looked at lipstick I couldn't afford. I picked up just the necessities: cheap box of tissue with the least annoying dorky pattern on it, a huge thing of generic toilet paper, and a bag of 100 lollipops. When I got up to the counter I told my friend who was with me that I should probably just work at the drugstore. Then I leaned in and asked the guy if they were hiring and he pretty much said they are always hiring. This could be a very bad thing. But, it doesn't matter, because the next thing I asked was, "Do you like working here?" He said, "Yeah, you get a thirty percent discount." I said, "I'm in."
How terrible are you if you go onto your awesome dorky friend's facebook page and look up her even dorkier friends? I love that the most unattractive woman in the world is her friend and she lists her hobbies as, "sewing" and "studying the bible" and her favorite tv shows start off with, "Knight Rider, Knight Rider." After I got done laughing I realized that I really want to befriend this bucktoothed wonder, at least she's not boring.
Today I told my mother about drag queen bingo. She laughed for a half an hour. After she was done laughing she started to tell me how to take care of Hank (the African violet I won at bingo amongst the lube and porn). I let her say a few things, that I already knew from the internet research I did this morning. Despite putting Hank in the window, lots of his flowers died during the course of today. I told this to my mother. She said that Hank needed water, I told her Hank was super wet (tee hee hee). Then I said, "Mom, you have killed every single plant you have ever had." "They overwatered it," she said, totally ignoring my murderess accusation. As a killer herself I think she would know. Those drag queens killed Hank! I would seek revenge, but those queens could kick my ass, plus I think I like them better than I like African violets. Sorry, Hank.
Tonight I watched my first episode of Hoarders. Not only am I completely addicted to it, I am fully convinced that I am a hoarder. I told this to a friend of mine when she came over and said, "Dude, there isn't any shit on your floor." Weird that a show about a mental illness can give you a mental freak out. It makes me want to clean out my drawers.
I realized why my BFF is my BFF tonight. Not only did she come over with candy tonight, she and I weighed ourselves, and went on and on about what kind of fat each of us are, then we wound up at McDonalds. I wonder if me and that bitch will both drop 40 pounds when she goes back to her home country.
Tip of the Day: Try not to think it's a good or bad day based on the volume of facebook notifications you receive or the amount of horrible drunken photos that not only get posted of you, but tagged.
-Canadian Castaway
Dealing and Drag Queens
Day 239
Okay, can I be honest? I am about to puke from booze consumption, I just ate a cookie bar that may have had pot in it (who knows, it was left at my door), and I just got home from a long bus ride and off the phone with a friend of mine whose best friend died like an hour ago. I am tired, I am sad, and I am grateful, and not very funny right now. Her friend I had only met once just last week, but he liked me so much that he begged me (literally) that I stay at the party we were at. I went home that night. I thought of the stories he told me and the way he drew in strangers with his warmth.
I know it sounds all high school death scene (you know, when a classmate you barely know dies and all you can think about is how sad you are) but really, high school death scenes are just reality checks. Little knocks upside the head to say, "Hey motherfucker, we all die. Live your life. Quit letting your pettiness destroy you. Be nice to people."
While my friend was in the hospital with a horde of mourners recounting stories of better days and sharing a disbelief in circumstance, my other friends and I were playing bingo with drag queens. I won twice. I guess this is unprecedented. I am lucky. Here is a sampling of the loot I scored and shared:
2 posters with stupid paintings on them
2 bath haus packages with cum rags and a beach ball in them
1 tester tube of lube
2 key chains, one was for a travel agency, the other was a pig that had a bath haus logo on it
1 double disc gay porn called, Woodsmen (for Earth Day)
a 50 dollar gift certificate for tanning
1 used-feeling beach towel
1 gift certificate to a room for men (whatever that means)
and 1 plant named Hank.
On the bus ride home I thought I was going to pass out. When my friend finally called me back she was at a Wendy's and trying to figure out how to order. She asked about drag queen bingo. She didn't cry. She did say, "I wish I could turn back time, be a better friend, be a nicer person." I told her that her friend had said wonderful things about her. I suggested she get a cab home and that she order the Spicy Chicken sandwich. And I kept saying, "It's just so sad" over and over again, like it would've helped.
I thought about what she said. I thought about being a better friend and being nicer. She is the nicest person I know. I thought about what I should've said. Somehow things like, "At least it happened quickly" didn't seem helpful or appropriate when you are talking about a 29 year old. I thought about telling her what I was thinking, "We could all die at anytime." But, I didn't say that. It didn't need to be said. I thought about how I didn't offer her anything, but there was nothing to offer. If only I was magical like the drag queens seemed to be tonight. While we were playing tonight someone had said, "Drag queens can cure anything." But, as I found out when going up to claim my prize, they were just regular people in cracked cake makeup and plastic dresses downing cocktails because they had to.
Tip of the Day: Be in that high school death scene when it arrives. Remember that death is a huge part of who we are. And know, there is no right thing to say. And, no matter how nice you try to be you'll never be able to avoid the, "I wish I had been nicer." But, you can always be a better friend, even if in a crisis all you have to say is, "get the spicy chicken," and "take a cab tonight."
-Canadian Castaway
Okay, can I be honest? I am about to puke from booze consumption, I just ate a cookie bar that may have had pot in it (who knows, it was left at my door), and I just got home from a long bus ride and off the phone with a friend of mine whose best friend died like an hour ago. I am tired, I am sad, and I am grateful, and not very funny right now. Her friend I had only met once just last week, but he liked me so much that he begged me (literally) that I stay at the party we were at. I went home that night. I thought of the stories he told me and the way he drew in strangers with his warmth.
I know it sounds all high school death scene (you know, when a classmate you barely know dies and all you can think about is how sad you are) but really, high school death scenes are just reality checks. Little knocks upside the head to say, "Hey motherfucker, we all die. Live your life. Quit letting your pettiness destroy you. Be nice to people."
While my friend was in the hospital with a horde of mourners recounting stories of better days and sharing a disbelief in circumstance, my other friends and I were playing bingo with drag queens. I won twice. I guess this is unprecedented. I am lucky. Here is a sampling of the loot I scored and shared:
2 posters with stupid paintings on them
2 bath haus packages with cum rags and a beach ball in them
1 tester tube of lube
2 key chains, one was for a travel agency, the other was a pig that had a bath haus logo on it
1 double disc gay porn called, Woodsmen (for Earth Day)
a 50 dollar gift certificate for tanning
1 used-feeling beach towel
1 gift certificate to a room for men (whatever that means)
and 1 plant named Hank.
On the bus ride home I thought I was going to pass out. When my friend finally called me back she was at a Wendy's and trying to figure out how to order. She asked about drag queen bingo. She didn't cry. She did say, "I wish I could turn back time, be a better friend, be a nicer person." I told her that her friend had said wonderful things about her. I suggested she get a cab home and that she order the Spicy Chicken sandwich. And I kept saying, "It's just so sad" over and over again, like it would've helped.
I thought about what she said. I thought about being a better friend and being nicer. She is the nicest person I know. I thought about what I should've said. Somehow things like, "At least it happened quickly" didn't seem helpful or appropriate when you are talking about a 29 year old. I thought about telling her what I was thinking, "We could all die at anytime." But, I didn't say that. It didn't need to be said. I thought about how I didn't offer her anything, but there was nothing to offer. If only I was magical like the drag queens seemed to be tonight. While we were playing tonight someone had said, "Drag queens can cure anything." But, as I found out when going up to claim my prize, they were just regular people in cracked cake makeup and plastic dresses downing cocktails because they had to.
Tip of the Day: Be in that high school death scene when it arrives. Remember that death is a huge part of who we are. And know, there is no right thing to say. And, no matter how nice you try to be you'll never be able to avoid the, "I wish I had been nicer." But, you can always be a better friend, even if in a crisis all you have to say is, "get the spicy chicken," and "take a cab tonight."
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Today Is The Kind of Day When...
Day 238
Today is the kind of day when you wake up an hour and a half late for breakfast go through moderate hell and wind up moping on a stuffed chair wishing you had someone to hug.
Today is the kind of day when you think your skin has cleared up, only to discover a giant boil.
Today is the kind of day when your super cool new friend on facebook didn't respond to your comment.
Today is the kind of day when you watch an episode of the teen reality show you are addicted to and weep when the big kid gets the girl. Then you watch that scene 6 times in a row, every time you tear up.
Today is the kind of day when you eat supper next to a man and his wife from Kentucky. They tell you that they got funny looks when they checked into a fancy hotel carrying a six pack. But, when you tell them that you hated your visit to the aquarium because fish are kinda boring and the belugas didn't know any tricks they will give you a look like you are some sort of ignorant honky who spat on their mama's grave.
Today is the kind of day when you realize that there is no way you can lie hard enough and believably enough to make your CV look presentable, let alone to have it land a 29 buck an hour job.
Today is the type of day when you need to buy toilet paper but you come home with wine and rockstar mixed with vodka in a can because you truly believe that it will make you cooler. I guess when you are drunk you won't realize that you are wiping your ass with paper towels.
Today is the type of day when you finally resort to playing scramble. Gee, there is nothing like coming in at 16th place, and then being bumped to 17th.
Today is the type of day when you do your laundry, vacuum the floor, and do your dishes, but you forget that you did any of it and are still hateful. I mean, it's not like you won't have to do them all over again.
Today is when you customize your gmail chat status to read, "sadface" and expect someone to notice but nobody does.
Today is the kind of day when you tell the guy you'd like to mess around with that you are engaged. You are, but it's totally a My Best Friend's Wedding sort of thing and he'll probably marry the girl that treats him like shit. But, the guy who heard "engaged" thinks that means, "unfuckable."
Today is the kind of day when you work at the post office and want to kill every living thing on earth with a spoon. Coincidentally, it is the kind of day when you actually have to work, because the girl you work with is much better at avoiding work than you are.
Today is the kind of day where the girl who out-slacked you will invite you to come over to hang at her house sometime. And, though you hate her for making you do all the work, you are inexplicably flattered that someone wants to hang out with you.
Today is the kind of day when you skip going out to a party because you have better things to do, like write CVs and cover letters. But, you end up drinking your wine and leaving your room to go watch Glee only to sit in between the guy you were mildly interested in but only talks about himself, and the guy who keeps trying to get you to go to his house to watch a movie, but you don't really want to because it is disgusting and you are afraid you'd strangle him because he wiggles his leg when watching movies.
Today is the kind of day when you need to go to bed early so that it will end sooner.
Tip of the Day: If you don't have any friends to vent to, feel like nobody gets you, or you do have some friends left but they are probably sick of your whining, start a blog and write entries entitled, "Today is the kind of day when..." because, somehow it makes you feel like you are a creative cool kid, not just a sulky friendless fucker who hasn't gotten laid since--it doesn't matter. hmph.
-Canadian Castaway
Today is the kind of day when you wake up an hour and a half late for breakfast go through moderate hell and wind up moping on a stuffed chair wishing you had someone to hug.
Today is the kind of day when you think your skin has cleared up, only to discover a giant boil.
Today is the kind of day when your super cool new friend on facebook didn't respond to your comment.
Today is the kind of day when you watch an episode of the teen reality show you are addicted to and weep when the big kid gets the girl. Then you watch that scene 6 times in a row, every time you tear up.
Today is the kind of day when you eat supper next to a man and his wife from Kentucky. They tell you that they got funny looks when they checked into a fancy hotel carrying a six pack. But, when you tell them that you hated your visit to the aquarium because fish are kinda boring and the belugas didn't know any tricks they will give you a look like you are some sort of ignorant honky who spat on their mama's grave.
Today is the kind of day when you realize that there is no way you can lie hard enough and believably enough to make your CV look presentable, let alone to have it land a 29 buck an hour job.
Today is the type of day when you need to buy toilet paper but you come home with wine and rockstar mixed with vodka in a can because you truly believe that it will make you cooler. I guess when you are drunk you won't realize that you are wiping your ass with paper towels.
Today is the type of day when you finally resort to playing scramble. Gee, there is nothing like coming in at 16th place, and then being bumped to 17th.
Today is the type of day when you do your laundry, vacuum the floor, and do your dishes, but you forget that you did any of it and are still hateful. I mean, it's not like you won't have to do them all over again.
Today is when you customize your gmail chat status to read, "sadface" and expect someone to notice but nobody does.
Today is the kind of day when you tell the guy you'd like to mess around with that you are engaged. You are, but it's totally a My Best Friend's Wedding sort of thing and he'll probably marry the girl that treats him like shit. But, the guy who heard "engaged" thinks that means, "unfuckable."
Today is the kind of day when you work at the post office and want to kill every living thing on earth with a spoon. Coincidentally, it is the kind of day when you actually have to work, because the girl you work with is much better at avoiding work than you are.
Today is the kind of day where the girl who out-slacked you will invite you to come over to hang at her house sometime. And, though you hate her for making you do all the work, you are inexplicably flattered that someone wants to hang out with you.
Today is the kind of day when you skip going out to a party because you have better things to do, like write CVs and cover letters. But, you end up drinking your wine and leaving your room to go watch Glee only to sit in between the guy you were mildly interested in but only talks about himself, and the guy who keeps trying to get you to go to his house to watch a movie, but you don't really want to because it is disgusting and you are afraid you'd strangle him because he wiggles his leg when watching movies.
Today is the kind of day when you need to go to bed early so that it will end sooner.
Tip of the Day: If you don't have any friends to vent to, feel like nobody gets you, or you do have some friends left but they are probably sick of your whining, start a blog and write entries entitled, "Today is the kind of day when..." because, somehow it makes you feel like you are a creative cool kid, not just a sulky friendless fucker who hasn't gotten laid since--it doesn't matter. hmph.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, April 19, 2010
Kentucky Breakfast, Friend Abuse, Killer Dud Accountant, 3rd Job, The Great Heist Part 1, Facebook Friend
Day 237
This morning one of my rez mates from Kentucky brought her parents along to breakfast. Now, it is a rare occasion that I attend breakfast, but I am so glad I did today. There is nothing like talking to a man with a Southern lilt, especially when he is talking about the proper way to hunt squirrels and pull the legs off a frog. Plus, it was tater tot and bacon day. Breakfast is amazing.
Today I learned that my friend will yell and hit me when I bring up the fact that my friend takes FOREVER to come over so that we can go to the beach. Yeah, that's my best friend. The one who I think understands me the most. Guess they say that you only feel strong emotions about people you love. She must really love me. But, I swear if it gets to the point of me having to say I fell down the stairs as a cover story for my pair of black eyes and broken teeth I'll kick her ass. But damn, I'm gonna miss that bitch when she goes back to her non-English speaking country.
It's been a few weeks since I ventured out to the "Clothing Optional" beach. The last time I went the nakeds were quite far from me and quite humorous with their drunken banter while they stood in a tinfoil screen so as to make sure the bottoms of their scrotums were tanned evenly. This time there were was only an occasional old man laid out and a happy, naked family flopping around. Until...
A man walked by me and my friend. You know the type, could be a serial killer or an accountant (same thing sometimes). He said hello, I ignored him on reflex. My friend made a tiny amount of small talk with him about how there was more logs washed ashore than usual. Then our killer accountant set up a nasty burlap-ish blanket, while making a can-you-hear-me-over-there-I-am-trying-to-impress-you phone call repeating, "Get that contractor in there." He dropped trow and then sat himself up in a position to eavesdrop. Every time I looked up at my friend I couldn't help but look over her shoulder to see him smiling, listening. You'd think this would be creepy or annoying, but I really just think the fucker was lonely. The whole scene was pretty sad. Except when when my friend was discussing the naked peoples need to flaunt themselves. But, even then, he didn't do anything nutty. Seriously, he made the crazy old guy with the cock that may have turned me into a full-time lesbian look like an exciting show.
So tonight I worked my third job. My third job is moving around tables and chairs in the residence where I live. It pays 15 smackers an hour. It's super easy and sort of fun. But, it only takes like 15 minutes per time and there are only maybe 3 times per week they need us to do set-up. My co-workers work fast and therefore I have a hard time even busting 15 bucks per week. The biggest issue I face is finding a way to tell them to be lazier. One of my fellow chair movers said, "Yeah, this job is pretty much my beer money." What the hell? Doesn't he know that beer costs a shit ton of money in this country? Anyway, I figure that if I can get him to be an alcoholic then he will work extra slow to make more booze money and because he'll be drunk and then we will all make more money.
My second master plan of the evening involves a heist. I am going to steal the shitty exercise bicycle in the game room of my building. I have just finished making final plans for the grand theft to come this week. My only concern is what will I say if and when someone notices it missing and reports it to the email list serve? Will I spend all night long with darty eyes, jumping at every noise, grasping the bike? Or, will I confess, sending out a tell all about how I stole the bike so that I could ride it while I watched TV and sometimes I steal like Winona Ryder because of my smug childhood, and I was arrested that one time for shoplifting and I have since become addicted to getting away with petty crime, but have never once had the guts to steal from stores again, and that the teabag collection I currently own came half from the pub I used to work at and half from the dining hall? Nah, I'd probably just return it in the middle of the night wearing a disguise.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning one of my rez mates from Kentucky brought her parents along to breakfast. Now, it is a rare occasion that I attend breakfast, but I am so glad I did today. There is nothing like talking to a man with a Southern lilt, especially when he is talking about the proper way to hunt squirrels and pull the legs off a frog. Plus, it was tater tot and bacon day. Breakfast is amazing.
Today I learned that my friend will yell and hit me when I bring up the fact that my friend takes FOREVER to come over so that we can go to the beach. Yeah, that's my best friend. The one who I think understands me the most. Guess they say that you only feel strong emotions about people you love. She must really love me. But, I swear if it gets to the point of me having to say I fell down the stairs as a cover story for my pair of black eyes and broken teeth I'll kick her ass. But damn, I'm gonna miss that bitch when she goes back to her non-English speaking country.
It's been a few weeks since I ventured out to the "Clothing Optional" beach. The last time I went the nakeds were quite far from me and quite humorous with their drunken banter while they stood in a tinfoil screen so as to make sure the bottoms of their scrotums were tanned evenly. This time there were was only an occasional old man laid out and a happy, naked family flopping around. Until...
A man walked by me and my friend. You know the type, could be a serial killer or an accountant (same thing sometimes). He said hello, I ignored him on reflex. My friend made a tiny amount of small talk with him about how there was more logs washed ashore than usual. Then our killer accountant set up a nasty burlap-ish blanket, while making a can-you-hear-me-over-there-I-am-trying-to-impress-you phone call repeating, "Get that contractor in there." He dropped trow and then sat himself up in a position to eavesdrop. Every time I looked up at my friend I couldn't help but look over her shoulder to see him smiling, listening. You'd think this would be creepy or annoying, but I really just think the fucker was lonely. The whole scene was pretty sad. Except when when my friend was discussing the naked peoples need to flaunt themselves. But, even then, he didn't do anything nutty. Seriously, he made the crazy old guy with the cock that may have turned me into a full-time lesbian look like an exciting show.
So tonight I worked my third job. My third job is moving around tables and chairs in the residence where I live. It pays 15 smackers an hour. It's super easy and sort of fun. But, it only takes like 15 minutes per time and there are only maybe 3 times per week they need us to do set-up. My co-workers work fast and therefore I have a hard time even busting 15 bucks per week. The biggest issue I face is finding a way to tell them to be lazier. One of my fellow chair movers said, "Yeah, this job is pretty much my beer money." What the hell? Doesn't he know that beer costs a shit ton of money in this country? Anyway, I figure that if I can get him to be an alcoholic then he will work extra slow to make more booze money and because he'll be drunk and then we will all make more money.
My second master plan of the evening involves a heist. I am going to steal the shitty exercise bicycle in the game room of my building. I have just finished making final plans for the grand theft to come this week. My only concern is what will I say if and when someone notices it missing and reports it to the email list serve? Will I spend all night long with darty eyes, jumping at every noise, grasping the bike? Or, will I confess, sending out a tell all about how I stole the bike so that I could ride it while I watched TV and sometimes I steal like Winona Ryder because of my smug childhood, and I was arrested that one time for shoplifting and I have since become addicted to getting away with petty crime, but have never once had the guts to steal from stores again, and that the teabag collection I currently own came half from the pub I used to work at and half from the dining hall? Nah, I'd probably just return it in the middle of the night wearing a disguise.
My favorite comicbook artist/author friended me on facebook. Turns out this author doesn't have a fan page, but a real facebook page. Guess, Indie comics are not that popular nowadays. Anyway, I milled around her not-fan page page, and noted that I could not comment on her photos, but I could post to her wall. It's weird because I have read what she said about strangers posting to her facebook wall and how she responded to them was with hatred and disinterest. I refrained from posting for nearly one whole day...until a few minutes ago. I figure, I've got nothing to lose, and damn it'd be nice if she put her nasty comics on cards for Christmas. We'll see if tomorrow she unfriends me, writes a "fuck you" retort, blocks me from her wall, deletes my comment, unfriends me, or writes something wonderful in reply expressing her like for my wit. How come so many of those options sound bad?
Tip of the Day: If you need to blow your arm on your sleeve try not to do so in front of a cute boy even if he is like 19 and has a beautiful girlfriend, and would never look at you.
-Canadian Castaway
L-Spot, Strippers Beat Sci-Fi, Monetary Decision-Making, Face Masking, Addiction #32, Game-ing, Gossip
Day 236
There was an invasion today. The undergrads have occupied my library, including my L-Spot. This forced me to realize two things: 1. I need to seek out back-up L-Spots and 2. I am the oldest person in the library. One at a time though. I secured a spot not to far from my original spot. This spot was not so close to the weird huge banks of carrels, and it had "Lady Gaga" and "Sex is like a velociraptor..." scrawled in it along with "Study Hard" which had accompanying comments that involved boners. This new space was pretty amazing, the only thing was is that I didn't realize that an undergrad occupation meant constant small, annoying noises that Soul Asylum at a reasonable volume could not drown out. The age thing? Well, there are two ways to look at it, 1. Be depressed that you are old. Or, 2. Become a cougar. I chose two.
After I sort of got used to the new library noise factor--I pretended like I was training to be a parent (Lord knows why)--I got out my reading material. For tomorrow I am supposed to have read a couple short stories (I did) and a 100 page manuscript. I started in on the giant manuscript. After 3 pages I was a little bored, so I started to look at a book I bought yesterday. Turns out that reading about a woman who had a career as a stripper is much more interesting than reading my classmates story about a boy who writes sci-fi. I wonder what I will say in class about his story though? Maybe I should talk about strippers?
So, my friend came over for supper this evening. My friend likes to read books. I know, it's shocking that I have literate friends. Anyway, I proudly handed her the stack of all the books I have recently purchased. She mulled them over and said, "I thought you said you didn't have any money." I said, "I really freaking don't. I don't even know how I am going to pay rent all summer." She looked at me and then the books, and back again. Then I realized that I am a junkie.
My friend and I went to the game room of my building and found a Monopoly card game. I started reading the instructions and got bored, opting to ride a shitty exercise bike, root through a hat drawer, and spray silly string. She took up learning how to play the game. I looked over at her from the exercise bike and said two things: 1. "This exercise bike is making my cooter hurt." (She loves when I say "cooter) and, 2. "That's funny, I can't figure out the instructions so I give them to someone whose third language is English and they are written in English." She told me that I have ADD.
Tonight I finally put on my new face mask from Lush. Apparently, it was made by some guy named, Lou. Turns out the blueberry mask makes my face super clean and makes it break out. Lou is lucky he didn't put his address on the mothereffing label as well. I bet he's laughing his ass off right now. That fucker is probably making every sucker stupid enough to spend 7 bucks on a jar of smelly goop have a zit festival on their face.
Besides my book buying addiction, I am also addicted to watching Gilmore Girls episodes that I have seen at least six times each while eating sunflower seeds with the conspicuous label, "Seasoned." I am not sure if this is a bad thing. I guess you never really know until you come home to an intervention.
So, the guy that always winks at me and constantly asks me to "make him companionship" on his late night McDonald's runs and I have been engaged in an email conversation. He sent out an email to the list serve for my building asking for change to buy a snack with as McDonald's was closed and he was going to get his late night junk fix from the machine in our building. I emailed him back and asked him why he didn't come over to the game room when I banged on his wall earlier (his wall shares a wall with the game room). He said that he didn't come over because he has been running into people that make him want to puke. Seriously, he couldn't say hi right next door but he is willing to run willy nilly to the snack machine down two halls and two staircases from his room. He deserves to puke.
Tip of the Day: Always be the banker when playing any form of Monopoly or Game of Life.
-Canadian Castaway
There was an invasion today. The undergrads have occupied my library, including my L-Spot. This forced me to realize two things: 1. I need to seek out back-up L-Spots and 2. I am the oldest person in the library. One at a time though. I secured a spot not to far from my original spot. This spot was not so close to the weird huge banks of carrels, and it had "Lady Gaga" and "Sex is like a velociraptor..." scrawled in it along with "Study Hard" which had accompanying comments that involved boners. This new space was pretty amazing, the only thing was is that I didn't realize that an undergrad occupation meant constant small, annoying noises that Soul Asylum at a reasonable volume could not drown out. The age thing? Well, there are two ways to look at it, 1. Be depressed that you are old. Or, 2. Become a cougar. I chose two.
After I sort of got used to the new library noise factor--I pretended like I was training to be a parent (Lord knows why)--I got out my reading material. For tomorrow I am supposed to have read a couple short stories (I did) and a 100 page manuscript. I started in on the giant manuscript. After 3 pages I was a little bored, so I started to look at a book I bought yesterday. Turns out that reading about a woman who had a career as a stripper is much more interesting than reading my classmates story about a boy who writes sci-fi. I wonder what I will say in class about his story though? Maybe I should talk about strippers?
So, my friend came over for supper this evening. My friend likes to read books. I know, it's shocking that I have literate friends. Anyway, I proudly handed her the stack of all the books I have recently purchased. She mulled them over and said, "I thought you said you didn't have any money." I said, "I really freaking don't. I don't even know how I am going to pay rent all summer." She looked at me and then the books, and back again. Then I realized that I am a junkie.
My friend and I went to the game room of my building and found a Monopoly card game. I started reading the instructions and got bored, opting to ride a shitty exercise bike, root through a hat drawer, and spray silly string. She took up learning how to play the game. I looked over at her from the exercise bike and said two things: 1. "This exercise bike is making my cooter hurt." (She loves when I say "cooter) and, 2. "That's funny, I can't figure out the instructions so I give them to someone whose third language is English and they are written in English." She told me that I have ADD.
Tonight I finally put on my new face mask from Lush. Apparently, it was made by some guy named, Lou. Turns out the blueberry mask makes my face super clean and makes it break out. Lou is lucky he didn't put his address on the mothereffing label as well. I bet he's laughing his ass off right now. That fucker is probably making every sucker stupid enough to spend 7 bucks on a jar of smelly goop have a zit festival on their face.
Besides my book buying addiction, I am also addicted to watching Gilmore Girls episodes that I have seen at least six times each while eating sunflower seeds with the conspicuous label, "Seasoned." I am not sure if this is a bad thing. I guess you never really know until you come home to an intervention.
So, the guy that always winks at me and constantly asks me to "make him companionship" on his late night McDonald's runs and I have been engaged in an email conversation. He sent out an email to the list serve for my building asking for change to buy a snack with as McDonald's was closed and he was going to get his late night junk fix from the machine in our building. I emailed him back and asked him why he didn't come over to the game room when I banged on his wall earlier (his wall shares a wall with the game room). He said that he didn't come over because he has been running into people that make him want to puke. Seriously, he couldn't say hi right next door but he is willing to run willy nilly to the snack machine down two halls and two staircases from his room. He deserves to puke.
Tip of the Day: Always be the banker when playing any form of Monopoly or Game of Life.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Post Office Hate Continues, Canadian Pricing, Bookstore Adventure, Crappy Chinese Food, Lush-ish, LeAnn's Hair or, Why I Love Canada
Day 235
I am supposed to either be at a party celebrating some sort of mechanical squid or at a party for a fellow American right now. What am I actually doing? Sitting at my desk listening to people yell outside my window, hoping the rustling is not a raccoon scoping out my window for the entrance to its thievery addiction. I'd like to keep my stale arrowroot cookies.
This morning I woke up from a dream where I had sex with a guy I consider my brother and made out with a girl I barely know. That plus 6 cups of coffee and leftover meatballs and noodles began my day. Then came the shift at the Post Office. Like all of the other days at the Canadian Post Office I learned a few things. I learned that I hate working with the cute little Asian kid. I mean sure he does know everything and he isn't rude and he's super patient, but does he really have to loom over me and not laugh at anything all day, and smack his friggin gum? I also learned that in the same building where I work at the very expensive canteen-type store they sell giant Mr. Freeze pops. But, most importantly, I learned that rearranging the oversized packages in the backroom is a great way to not have to help customers.
Today marked my first trip to a store called Chapters. Chapters is basically the Canadian equivalent of Barnes and Noble. The only difference being that instead of paying the U.S. dollar price you pay the Canada price. This makes me feel like a sucker as the Canadian dollar is probably worth more than the American dollar. So, not only do I feel like I am getting screwed, I am actually getting screwed.
While at the bookstore I piled on books about bible salesman and strippers, but noticed that one of the books that I wanted was not on the shelf. I asked a sales clerk to help me. She said that it was in the stockroom still. Apparently, I am super quick on the new book draw. She said she'd fetch it for me. I told her I'd be in the "Biography" section. In the "Biography" section I discovered a woman who was using that aisle to breastfeed a baby. I left before my book could be delivered. Guess, I will never know if it was found, or what sections S through W of the "Biography" section holds.
Tonight me and my fellow American friend skipped out on the going home party one of our American friends. We missed out on this party for very American reason: there was tons of cheap Chinese carry out food to be found. The mission was accomplished when we spotted a crappy yellow awning. When inside we discovered my first Canadian crappy Chinese joint. It is so crappy that the menu is handwritten and taped to the wall and not only was there a shrine to some devilish god and one of those golden waving cats, there was a tacky wall clock that must have been from the 1970s that was in the shape of a life preserver and read, "Welcome Aboard." Also, there was the lady who didn't speak English who was making some sort of meat wontons. She was sitting at one of the chintzy tables from IKEA while 2 men yelled at each other in Mandarin from the kitchen area. I think I found paradise.
Also today my friend and I went to visit a mutual friend of ours at a little store called, Lush. Lush is a ritzy soap store for freaky, hip people who use ridiculously expensive bar soap. I have been to one of these stores in the States before with a friend who insists that their little hunks of rub-on deodorant are amazing. I thought this place was ridiculous and strange. Anyway, while I was at the store today I gave it a half-hearted second chance. Turns out the store is good for something, it is good for me to smell things and make disgusted noises while the snobby salesgirl glares on at me like I am Roseanne Barr at a rich person's house crossed with a petty thief. It's even better when you buy the cheapest thing in the store and ask for tons of free samples. I am going to be legendary to that salesgirl, she will bitch about me for years to come.
According to yahoo.ca news, LeAnn Rimes "was rocking a sleek new look." Translation: She has pretty much the same length hair, but it is straight, not wavy, and she has added bangs. This is a true example of why I love yahoo.ca news. I am sure that it's American equivalent isn't quite so daring as to cover a topic as a slightly new hairstyle on a washed up country singer. It's almost enough for me to learn the words to the Canadian national anthem, almost.
Tip of the Day: That cookie you left on the floor of your friend's car the other day is still good, try it.
-Canadian Castaway
I am supposed to either be at a party celebrating some sort of mechanical squid or at a party for a fellow American right now. What am I actually doing? Sitting at my desk listening to people yell outside my window, hoping the rustling is not a raccoon scoping out my window for the entrance to its thievery addiction. I'd like to keep my stale arrowroot cookies.
This morning I woke up from a dream where I had sex with a guy I consider my brother and made out with a girl I barely know. That plus 6 cups of coffee and leftover meatballs and noodles began my day. Then came the shift at the Post Office. Like all of the other days at the Canadian Post Office I learned a few things. I learned that I hate working with the cute little Asian kid. I mean sure he does know everything and he isn't rude and he's super patient, but does he really have to loom over me and not laugh at anything all day, and smack his friggin gum? I also learned that in the same building where I work at the very expensive canteen-type store they sell giant Mr. Freeze pops. But, most importantly, I learned that rearranging the oversized packages in the backroom is a great way to not have to help customers.
Today marked my first trip to a store called Chapters. Chapters is basically the Canadian equivalent of Barnes and Noble. The only difference being that instead of paying the U.S. dollar price you pay the Canada price. This makes me feel like a sucker as the Canadian dollar is probably worth more than the American dollar. So, not only do I feel like I am getting screwed, I am actually getting screwed.
While at the bookstore I piled on books about bible salesman and strippers, but noticed that one of the books that I wanted was not on the shelf. I asked a sales clerk to help me. She said that it was in the stockroom still. Apparently, I am super quick on the new book draw. She said she'd fetch it for me. I told her I'd be in the "Biography" section. In the "Biography" section I discovered a woman who was using that aisle to breastfeed a baby. I left before my book could be delivered. Guess, I will never know if it was found, or what sections S through W of the "Biography" section holds.
Tonight me and my fellow American friend skipped out on the going home party one of our American friends. We missed out on this party for very American reason: there was tons of cheap Chinese carry out food to be found. The mission was accomplished when we spotted a crappy yellow awning. When inside we discovered my first Canadian crappy Chinese joint. It is so crappy that the menu is handwritten and taped to the wall and not only was there a shrine to some devilish god and one of those golden waving cats, there was a tacky wall clock that must have been from the 1970s that was in the shape of a life preserver and read, "Welcome Aboard." Also, there was the lady who didn't speak English who was making some sort of meat wontons. She was sitting at one of the chintzy tables from IKEA while 2 men yelled at each other in Mandarin from the kitchen area. I think I found paradise.
Also today my friend and I went to visit a mutual friend of ours at a little store called, Lush. Lush is a ritzy soap store for freaky, hip people who use ridiculously expensive bar soap. I have been to one of these stores in the States before with a friend who insists that their little hunks of rub-on deodorant are amazing. I thought this place was ridiculous and strange. Anyway, while I was at the store today I gave it a half-hearted second chance. Turns out the store is good for something, it is good for me to smell things and make disgusted noises while the snobby salesgirl glares on at me like I am Roseanne Barr at a rich person's house crossed with a petty thief. It's even better when you buy the cheapest thing in the store and ask for tons of free samples. I am going to be legendary to that salesgirl, she will bitch about me for years to come.
According to yahoo.ca news, LeAnn Rimes "was rocking a sleek new look." Translation: She has pretty much the same length hair, but it is straight, not wavy, and she has added bangs. This is a true example of why I love yahoo.ca news. I am sure that it's American equivalent isn't quite so daring as to cover a topic as a slightly new hairstyle on a washed up country singer. It's almost enough for me to learn the words to the Canadian national anthem, almost.
Tip of the Day: That cookie you left on the floor of your friend's car the other day is still good, try it.
-Canadian Castaway
I Am Terrible At Titles When It Is 4 am
Day 234
It is nearly 4 am. It is the week from hell. You know, the last week of classes, which for most students would be spent studying for tests in the library pounding Red Bulls. Okay, who am I kidding? I have no idea what it is like to be "most students" as Creative Writing students never have to take exams and learn anything beyond speculation. Instead we have and attend many gatherings at the end of the term. These gatherings always involve booze and occasionally reading (mostly reading from booze bottles). What is the hell you ask? The hell is not staying in your room watching TV and realizing how much actual writing you aren't doing, and being hungover. I wonder if it's easier and more satisfying just taking exams so that at the end of the week you have accomplished something tangible instead of the fact that you didn't puke. Maybe I should switch to Physics.
So, I went to work at the Post Office again today. I came across a few more survival/avoiding having to work tactics:
When someone asks you how long it will take to mail a parcel to Toronto just lie. But, lie with conviction.
The Post Office I work at is attached to a gift shop-type store. So, when I am working I will slip out and try on sweatshirts and hats and model them for my co-worker. If that doesn't hold their attention I will find things that they may like, or are interesting to bring over to them to see.
Yesterday I mentioned foraging for food as a good tactic to get out of working. This is especially awesome when the sandwich joint in the building is having an end of the week sale. Make sure to get one of the half price dessert bars to split with a co-worker and tell them all about how you are going to eat sandwiches all weekend and they will forget that you aren't working.
When you are counting out the tills at the end of the day and your co-worker makes a comment how your till did significantly less sales say, "Oh well, I mostly just helped a lot of people buying just single stamps."
So, tonight was pretty much me and a few friends going to an obligatory outing. The outing was pretty dull despite the 2 pitchers of margaritas we had along the way and the giant bottle of cheap champagne. Here were the two interesting things that happened:
In the elevator to my friend's apartment we rode up with a guy. This guy looked familiar and so I said, "Hey, haven't we met before?" He said, "Yes, twice and you said that the last two times we met."
My favorite snarky gay man and I were sitting in the corner judging people on a scale from 1-10 on how interesting they may be. One of the people that we judged as a 1 was a guy who is the roommate of a friend. I went up to give this guy a chance (and because I was drunk and bored) only to find that he is a titty talker, as in only talks to tits. The other 1 in the room turned out to be much more interesting, after a little coaxing from his boyfriend he told me that he used to masturbate to pictures of dead bodies from the Holocaust. I guess that bumps him up to being more than a 1 on the interesting scale and a 10 on the Disturbed Individual Scale.
On the bus ride home from the party I ran into yet another guy I knew I had met somewhere but couldn't place. One of his friends, the one who seemed super horny, said his name during a break from grilling me with personal questions. Then he asked how we had met, so I played dumb and made the guy I vaguely remember answer him. He said that we had met at a friend's party. I said, "Yeah! You were the guy drinking tons and tons of beer!" What I wanted to say was, "You were the tiny, little short man who drank to the point of tackiness, but did offer to share, but you are still a creeper." Anyway, the conversation finally moved on to the beer drinker telling me that one of the Spice Girls was fat and that they are all fat now. Luckily, my gorgeous Scandinavian friend came onto the bus. Then I didn't have to walk home and hear about who else the beer drinker thought was fat. Though, I am curious as to whether he thinks Britney Spears is fat, but I am content with not knowing.
My mother: "So, did you do any writing today?"
Me: "No."
The above mixed with a night of swilling miscellaneous booze is the definition of what it's like to be in a writing program.
Tip of the Day: Walking the edge of the sidewalk while being far from sober is exciting and dangerous.
-Canadian Castaway
It is nearly 4 am. It is the week from hell. You know, the last week of classes, which for most students would be spent studying for tests in the library pounding Red Bulls. Okay, who am I kidding? I have no idea what it is like to be "most students" as Creative Writing students never have to take exams and learn anything beyond speculation. Instead we have and attend many gatherings at the end of the term. These gatherings always involve booze and occasionally reading (mostly reading from booze bottles). What is the hell you ask? The hell is not staying in your room watching TV and realizing how much actual writing you aren't doing, and being hungover. I wonder if it's easier and more satisfying just taking exams so that at the end of the week you have accomplished something tangible instead of the fact that you didn't puke. Maybe I should switch to Physics.
So, I went to work at the Post Office again today. I came across a few more survival/avoiding having to work tactics:
When someone asks you how long it will take to mail a parcel to Toronto just lie. But, lie with conviction.
The Post Office I work at is attached to a gift shop-type store. So, when I am working I will slip out and try on sweatshirts and hats and model them for my co-worker. If that doesn't hold their attention I will find things that they may like, or are interesting to bring over to them to see.
Yesterday I mentioned foraging for food as a good tactic to get out of working. This is especially awesome when the sandwich joint in the building is having an end of the week sale. Make sure to get one of the half price dessert bars to split with a co-worker and tell them all about how you are going to eat sandwiches all weekend and they will forget that you aren't working.
When you are counting out the tills at the end of the day and your co-worker makes a comment how your till did significantly less sales say, "Oh well, I mostly just helped a lot of people buying just single stamps."
So, tonight was pretty much me and a few friends going to an obligatory outing. The outing was pretty dull despite the 2 pitchers of margaritas we had along the way and the giant bottle of cheap champagne. Here were the two interesting things that happened:
In the elevator to my friend's apartment we rode up with a guy. This guy looked familiar and so I said, "Hey, haven't we met before?" He said, "Yes, twice and you said that the last two times we met."
My favorite snarky gay man and I were sitting in the corner judging people on a scale from 1-10 on how interesting they may be. One of the people that we judged as a 1 was a guy who is the roommate of a friend. I went up to give this guy a chance (and because I was drunk and bored) only to find that he is a titty talker, as in only talks to tits. The other 1 in the room turned out to be much more interesting, after a little coaxing from his boyfriend he told me that he used to masturbate to pictures of dead bodies from the Holocaust. I guess that bumps him up to being more than a 1 on the interesting scale and a 10 on the Disturbed Individual Scale.
On the bus ride home from the party I ran into yet another guy I knew I had met somewhere but couldn't place. One of his friends, the one who seemed super horny, said his name during a break from grilling me with personal questions. Then he asked how we had met, so I played dumb and made the guy I vaguely remember answer him. He said that we had met at a friend's party. I said, "Yeah! You were the guy drinking tons and tons of beer!" What I wanted to say was, "You were the tiny, little short man who drank to the point of tackiness, but did offer to share, but you are still a creeper." Anyway, the conversation finally moved on to the beer drinker telling me that one of the Spice Girls was fat and that they are all fat now. Luckily, my gorgeous Scandinavian friend came onto the bus. Then I didn't have to walk home and hear about who else the beer drinker thought was fat. Though, I am curious as to whether he thinks Britney Spears is fat, but I am content with not knowing.
My mother: "So, did you do any writing today?"
Me: "No."
The above mixed with a night of swilling miscellaneous booze is the definition of what it's like to be in a writing program.
Tip of the Day: Walking the edge of the sidewalk while being far from sober is exciting and dangerous.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, April 16, 2010
Morning and Evening: a Night Cap Recap
Day 232
Alright, so it's 2 am and I am already feeling hungover. This is the part that I would like to sleep through. So, I will be brief. Here's an overview:
Morning (translation: after 10:30 am):
I pretty much wasted the morning chatting online with a friend about which courses she was taking next year. I suppose I should've been sad as these will be probably the last courses I will ever take. But, I wasn't.
After the chat session and after I listened to my dad tell me that he is going to buy a soccer mom van, I went to work at the post office. I learned a few valuable lessons about surviving the post office as a workplace. Here is my survival guide thus far:
Show up a few minutes late. No one will notice, and every little bit of avoiding work helps.
Go to the bathroom during your shift. Make sure to go to a bathroom on a different floor of the building and take your time. When you come back make a jibe about how long the line always is when you go to the toilet.
Eat, alot. You won't actually be able to avoid working while you eat, but your search for food will get you out of helping customers for awhile. Once again, complain about the lines. If you are super smart share your food. Your co-workers will love you for it, and won't mind so much if you pretend that you cannot help someone due to your mouth being full.
Volunteer to wash the floor. Not only will you not have to assist customers, you will be able to use the super cool Swiffer Wet Jet mop. I don't know what can be more fun than pushing a button and having a machine squirt out cleaning product.
Joke around with your co-workers, this will both make you popular and less bored.
Volunteer to read the booklet on money laundering. It may be repetitive and boring, except for the part where they say that drug dealers spend their money on "jewellery, boats, and expensive real estate," but at least you can sit down and avoid telling lies to people that ask you how long it will take for a package to get to Finland. Seriously? Who can say?
And most importantly: Let your boss go on and on about her hair salon. Let her tell you the history of how she cuts her hair and how the place she goes to is filled with Japanese girls learning to cut hair, and once you finally find stylist you like she will go back to Japan forever.
Evening:
This evening I had to attend a reading. Apparently, when you are a Creative Writing MFA student you must go to these sort of events. This particular one took place in a bookstore where the owner sells cans of hard cider and beer without a license. Other than that it is pretty much an adult version of story hour. The only differences being that you don't have to sit on the floor, there are no pictures, no snack, and you usually have to listen to terrible poetry. Here's a few highlights from the reading:
I accidentally hit on one of the guys selling beer. My pick-up line: "I really like your glasses, they look like Sally Jessy Raphael's."
There was a pirate theme, so one of the hosts threw out gold coins. And, when you looked at them up close you realized that they were foil-wrapped chocolates and when you looked even closer at them you realized that they were loony-inspired golden chocolate coins.
Not only did the dippy grad secretary show up, she wore a full pirate outfit and came in shooting up the place with a plastic antique-looking revolver.
Since the reading takes place in the storefront of a bookstore next to a bar, people walk by on the street and look into the windows. One of these people was a drunk Asian kid who danced in front of the window and lingered, winking at me and all of the other females.
Night:
After all the excitement from the reading my fellow writers and I headed to a Foreign Legion bar. These bars are much the same as the American Legion bars I go to back home except here you actually have to sign in when you walk in the door. I signed in as "Barbara Boiles."
Highlights:
While we were all drinking I got a lecture on how judging a person's character based on their zodiac sign is being prejudiced. Apparently, calling Capricorns pussies is akin to hating all white people.
I was ethnically profiled by two writers in my program. The first instance being that one of the other writers had a spliff in his pocket and, according to my bodyguard, only the Americans joined him in smoking it. Not true. I refrained. The second instance was when I met someone I hadn't met before and we laughed and joked around until he found out I was an American. Then he refused to be nice and banter with me. I bet he's a Taurus. (tee hee hee)
So, I went to pay for my drink and realized I was missing one of my loonies. But, me saying, "I can't find enough money" only caused one of my profs to purchase my drink, which made me look like a total loser.
But, when we were all waiting for the bus my friend mooned me and for a second I forgot about being a total loser. Apparently, in my mind, being moon-able is being not loser-y. Weird.
Tip of the Day: Do not drink a ton of hard cider and beer and then come home to eat tons of salami, it is not that good.
-Canadian Castaway
Alright, so it's 2 am and I am already feeling hungover. This is the part that I would like to sleep through. So, I will be brief. Here's an overview:
Morning (translation: after 10:30 am):
I pretty much wasted the morning chatting online with a friend about which courses she was taking next year. I suppose I should've been sad as these will be probably the last courses I will ever take. But, I wasn't.
After the chat session and after I listened to my dad tell me that he is going to buy a soccer mom van, I went to work at the post office. I learned a few valuable lessons about surviving the post office as a workplace. Here is my survival guide thus far:
Show up a few minutes late. No one will notice, and every little bit of avoiding work helps.
Go to the bathroom during your shift. Make sure to go to a bathroom on a different floor of the building and take your time. When you come back make a jibe about how long the line always is when you go to the toilet.
Eat, alot. You won't actually be able to avoid working while you eat, but your search for food will get you out of helping customers for awhile. Once again, complain about the lines. If you are super smart share your food. Your co-workers will love you for it, and won't mind so much if you pretend that you cannot help someone due to your mouth being full.
Volunteer to wash the floor. Not only will you not have to assist customers, you will be able to use the super cool Swiffer Wet Jet mop. I don't know what can be more fun than pushing a button and having a machine squirt out cleaning product.
Joke around with your co-workers, this will both make you popular and less bored.
Volunteer to read the booklet on money laundering. It may be repetitive and boring, except for the part where they say that drug dealers spend their money on "jewellery, boats, and expensive real estate," but at least you can sit down and avoid telling lies to people that ask you how long it will take for a package to get to Finland. Seriously? Who can say?
And most importantly: Let your boss go on and on about her hair salon. Let her tell you the history of how she cuts her hair and how the place she goes to is filled with Japanese girls learning to cut hair, and once you finally find stylist you like she will go back to Japan forever.
Evening:
This evening I had to attend a reading. Apparently, when you are a Creative Writing MFA student you must go to these sort of events. This particular one took place in a bookstore where the owner sells cans of hard cider and beer without a license. Other than that it is pretty much an adult version of story hour. The only differences being that you don't have to sit on the floor, there are no pictures, no snack, and you usually have to listen to terrible poetry. Here's a few highlights from the reading:
I accidentally hit on one of the guys selling beer. My pick-up line: "I really like your glasses, they look like Sally Jessy Raphael's."
There was a pirate theme, so one of the hosts threw out gold coins. And, when you looked at them up close you realized that they were foil-wrapped chocolates and when you looked even closer at them you realized that they were loony-inspired golden chocolate coins.
Not only did the dippy grad secretary show up, she wore a full pirate outfit and came in shooting up the place with a plastic antique-looking revolver.
Since the reading takes place in the storefront of a bookstore next to a bar, people walk by on the street and look into the windows. One of these people was a drunk Asian kid who danced in front of the window and lingered, winking at me and all of the other females.
Night:
After all the excitement from the reading my fellow writers and I headed to a Foreign Legion bar. These bars are much the same as the American Legion bars I go to back home except here you actually have to sign in when you walk in the door. I signed in as "Barbara Boiles."
Highlights:
While we were all drinking I got a lecture on how judging a person's character based on their zodiac sign is being prejudiced. Apparently, calling Capricorns pussies is akin to hating all white people.
I was ethnically profiled by two writers in my program. The first instance being that one of the other writers had a spliff in his pocket and, according to my bodyguard, only the Americans joined him in smoking it. Not true. I refrained. The second instance was when I met someone I hadn't met before and we laughed and joked around until he found out I was an American. Then he refused to be nice and banter with me. I bet he's a Taurus. (tee hee hee)
So, I went to pay for my drink and realized I was missing one of my loonies. But, me saying, "I can't find enough money" only caused one of my profs to purchase my drink, which made me look like a total loser.
But, when we were all waiting for the bus my friend mooned me and for a second I forgot about being a total loser. Apparently, in my mind, being moon-able is being not loser-y. Weird.
Tip of the Day: Do not drink a ton of hard cider and beer and then come home to eat tons of salami, it is not that good.
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Photo Opp, Italian Hoagie + Bus = Disaster, What If Notebook, A Few Things
Day 231
This morning, I should've been writing. But, I was to busy taking photos of myself. If that's not bad enough, I posted 10 of them on facebook, under the guise of showing my friend my new haircut. Pretty sure it only takes one or maybe, two pics to show someone your haircut. Anyway, I am not going to lie; I have turned into that girl that likes when people comment on her photos and tell her how hot she is, the only problem being that I don't want half of those comments to come from my first cousins. Shit, I need non-family friends.
After my photo shoot, the day started off with me learning something of great importance for survival: do not wolf down an Italian hoagie sub and get on the bus for an hour long bus ride, sitting on the side in the sunlight next to the shifty bus knuckle. The good news is that you can move next to the sleeping Asian boy across the aisle. The bad news is that you can't undo an Italian Sub unless you are wearing a toilet seat crown and dedicated.
I read in an ancient book about writing television that tv writers often suck at coming up with original ideas. This is how I know that I am destined to be a tv writer. Anyway, in this chapter the author says that to combat this lack of ideas a writer of tv should carry a notebook with them EVERYWHERE and write down whatever they are thinking and any "What if" scenarios that come up during the day. And, when you get stuck, you should type up the notebook notes and find something to write about. Yesterday, after a half hour of trying to decide which notebook to get, I purchased my own notebook for ideas.
Now, I am two days into writing notes. There are 3 ideas for books, one even has a last line, "Hey Lady, we're closed." There is a dialogue: I overheard two teenage girls speaking on the bus today during my Italian sub coma.
"So, are you gonna get a job there?"
"I dunno. They want somebody full-time and I just want to work like part-time."
"Well, if you and someone else both work part-time then both of you will equal one full-time."
This may sound boring, obvious and ridiculous, but to the girl looking for part-time work, this idea was revolutionary. Then there are other comments like, "$1 Hot Dogs!" and some rambling about teens blogging about their recently deceased school janitor. I am not quite sure how any of this will tie together for a show idea--no, wait--this would make a good episode of Degrassi Junior High, except there was no blogging then, and the show went off the air in 1991. I need to make more modern notes.
A few other things that happened today:
-The dining hall served Jello. Apparently, mixing it with fruit and serving it in a wine glass makes it fancy. (I don't buy it)
-I introduced a dozen high school kids to Chuck Klosterman. Okay, so not to him in person, but to his work. I wonder what the parents will say when they see their children reading a book entitled: Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs.
-I walked up and down a super urban part of town today and tried to pretend that I didn't come from a town where two drug addicts aren't walking around picking up and inspecting discarded cigarette butts in mid-conversation.
-Tomorrow I will return to the hell that is the post office job. I wonder if I will survive. My guess is no.
-I am crocheting a giant afghan that is hideous and mildly watermelon-themed. Somehow the idea of that is depressing.
-There was a big deal physics talk today in one of the rooms of my rez. And, I am not gonna lie, I actually thought about going in there and picking up a physicist. But, have no idea how one goes about doing that.
Tip of the Day: When your mother asks you to provide the answer for a clue on a crossword she is doing, she'll be mad when you look it up on the internet, because the slight pause over the phoneline certainly must mean that you are playing on the internet and ignoring her. She'll still be mad even when you give her the answer.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning, I should've been writing. But, I was to busy taking photos of myself. If that's not bad enough, I posted 10 of them on facebook, under the guise of showing my friend my new haircut. Pretty sure it only takes one or maybe, two pics to show someone your haircut. Anyway, I am not going to lie; I have turned into that girl that likes when people comment on her photos and tell her how hot she is, the only problem being that I don't want half of those comments to come from my first cousins. Shit, I need non-family friends.
After my photo shoot, the day started off with me learning something of great importance for survival: do not wolf down an Italian hoagie sub and get on the bus for an hour long bus ride, sitting on the side in the sunlight next to the shifty bus knuckle. The good news is that you can move next to the sleeping Asian boy across the aisle. The bad news is that you can't undo an Italian Sub unless you are wearing a toilet seat crown and dedicated.
I read in an ancient book about writing television that tv writers often suck at coming up with original ideas. This is how I know that I am destined to be a tv writer. Anyway, in this chapter the author says that to combat this lack of ideas a writer of tv should carry a notebook with them EVERYWHERE and write down whatever they are thinking and any "What if" scenarios that come up during the day. And, when you get stuck, you should type up the notebook notes and find something to write about. Yesterday, after a half hour of trying to decide which notebook to get, I purchased my own notebook for ideas.
Now, I am two days into writing notes. There are 3 ideas for books, one even has a last line, "Hey Lady, we're closed." There is a dialogue: I overheard two teenage girls speaking on the bus today during my Italian sub coma.
"So, are you gonna get a job there?"
"I dunno. They want somebody full-time and I just want to work like part-time."
"Well, if you and someone else both work part-time then both of you will equal one full-time."
This may sound boring, obvious and ridiculous, but to the girl looking for part-time work, this idea was revolutionary. Then there are other comments like, "$1 Hot Dogs!" and some rambling about teens blogging about their recently deceased school janitor. I am not quite sure how any of this will tie together for a show idea--no, wait--this would make a good episode of Degrassi Junior High, except there was no blogging then, and the show went off the air in 1991. I need to make more modern notes.
A few other things that happened today:
-The dining hall served Jello. Apparently, mixing it with fruit and serving it in a wine glass makes it fancy. (I don't buy it)
-I introduced a dozen high school kids to Chuck Klosterman. Okay, so not to him in person, but to his work. I wonder what the parents will say when they see their children reading a book entitled: Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs.
-I walked up and down a super urban part of town today and tried to pretend that I didn't come from a town where two drug addicts aren't walking around picking up and inspecting discarded cigarette butts in mid-conversation.
-Tomorrow I will return to the hell that is the post office job. I wonder if I will survive. My guess is no.
-I am crocheting a giant afghan that is hideous and mildly watermelon-themed. Somehow the idea of that is depressing.
-There was a big deal physics talk today in one of the rooms of my rez. And, I am not gonna lie, I actually thought about going in there and picking up a physicist. But, have no idea how one goes about doing that.
Tip of the Day: When your mother asks you to provide the answer for a clue on a crossword she is doing, she'll be mad when you look it up on the internet, because the slight pause over the phoneline certainly must mean that you are playing on the internet and ignoring her. She'll still be mad even when you give her the answer.
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Contestasaurus, Mail Genius, DPS Reprise, Pre-Raccoon Takeover, Attention Spanned, Sexy Classical Music?, Podium Skillz
Day 230
I spent all morning washing my underwear and editing a story that I've read way to many times. Alas, this is grad school. What's weird is that it's not all that unlike what I was doing before moving here. Except: I don't have a car, I don't have any money, I don't have a kitchen, I don't feel like I should visit my parents, I am popular (no, seriously, I am), I am in a different country, I am not the smartest person here (at all), there are no screens on the windows, and I go to a giant room to eat my dinner with fellow nerds from around the world. Well, all that AND I entered my first of probably many writing contests today. Yeah, I could win 500 bucks. Well, minus the 37 bucks it cost to buy stamps, an envelope, a money order and and extra fiver for the processing of the money order. There is only one problem: I am not sure that my 37 dollar package will reach the contest.
This is both good news and bad news. The post office branch I went to is the one that I currently work at. You know, the one where I don't even know how to sell someone a stamp, let alone determine how many grams something has to be to be considered a "small packet" versus a "parcel." The good news is that I am not alone. One of the girls working today had no clue how to do anything either. The bad news is that she was the clerk helping me. But, as in all aspects of life, if you look hard enough the good news can outweigh the bad news. She was so lost that I helped her figure out how to do things. The good news: I felt like a genius and sometimes in this life that is worth 37 dollars no matter what the outcome.
So today was a first and a last: the first contest I have entered in and the last Creative Non-Fiction class. Creative Non-Fiction is taught by my favorite professor. The last class was cut short as he had to leave immediately to go on a book tour. The last two pieces we workshopped went wonderfully. Then he gave us an amazing speech offering that he would help us go through our first book contracts, line by line. The offer, as he said, doesn't expire. Well, he is 64 years old and, as he told me, takes caffeine pills. Shit.
Anyway, after his speech about book contracts he said that the class had been a pleasure for him to teach. He said it in a sincere endearing manner. After he was finished I started to applaud, after I started to applaud the entire room started to applaud. It was like The Dead Poets Society except that we weren't standing on the desks, we aren't prep school boys, and he was getting fired and we didn't study poetry in a cave. Okay, so it wasn't really like The Dead Poets Society. The best part though was that the professor soaked up a few seconds of it, and then ran out of the door. Makes you kind of wonder if he really meant what he said about liking the class. Hopefully he didn't fall down the stairs and kill himself. Oh well, that would get him out of looking at contracts we don't have.
I learned something terrifying at supper this evening: my upstairs neighbor throws her old food out the window. I suppose I should be mortified to think that she throws it down to rot in front of my window, but I am not. What I am more concerned about is that this food will draw raccoons. And these raccoons will eat the food. Then, these raccoons will climb up the side of the building and come into my window. And, the main problem I have with raccoons coming into my room is that I will be home when they come in. They will go to my window, take one look at me, and think "I can defeat this, bitch." And then, I will have to move. How inconsiderate can my neighbor be?
After supper I ended up at one of the rez hall's talks. Translation: Every couple of weeks someone who lives here gives a speech about what they are studying. Usually, I avoid these talks. Honestly, the only one I have been to was the one with the cute New Zealand couple playing all sorts of trumpets. Tonight's talk was given by a friend of mine who is getting a PhD in Education and has a music background. His talk was basically him reading an academic paper he had written that contained works like, "furthermore" and "phenomenology." During his reading of 15 pages, I had approximately 14 day dreams, examined the freaky toenails of the guy next to me, debated the age of a certain audience member who held her wine glass exactly how someone who is underage and thinks they are cool would hold their wine glass, and wondered if phenomenology was a word.
Luckily, after reading the paper, the person giving the talk started to play the piano. Now, I am not one for classical music, as it doesn't usually have words or a catchy beat. I blame my rock n roll upbringing. But, somewhere in the middle of this frigging Bach song I imagined a lurid sex scene set to the emotions of the music. Afterward, I went up to my friend who had played the song. He was surrounded by a group of people. He paused to ask me what I thought of it. I told him, "I liked it, that one part was like sex." Judging from shocked faces of the people around, this was the wrong thing to say. And, apparently, saying, "What? Was that the wrong thing to say? Should I not compare the music to sex--or, what I remember of sex?" was the not the right thing to say either.
This evening was my second evening working on the set-up crew. Turns out the set-up crew is super easy when there is a huge Norweigan viking to save you from being crushed under the podium that you are trying to pull around. Not only does he rescue you, but he puts the podium in place. Apparently, I made 5 bucks for that 15 minutes of work that he did. Man, am I exhausted.
Tip of the Day: The Canadian government website is set to auto-hate on Americans applying for work permits. There is no winning it over, do not try to woo it. It will just ignore you and make you re-register 10 times and tell you that you cannot go on until something magical happens, like you getting an EVN.
-Canadian Castaway
I spent all morning washing my underwear and editing a story that I've read way to many times. Alas, this is grad school. What's weird is that it's not all that unlike what I was doing before moving here. Except: I don't have a car, I don't have any money, I don't have a kitchen, I don't feel like I should visit my parents, I am popular (no, seriously, I am), I am in a different country, I am not the smartest person here (at all), there are no screens on the windows, and I go to a giant room to eat my dinner with fellow nerds from around the world. Well, all that AND I entered my first of probably many writing contests today. Yeah, I could win 500 bucks. Well, minus the 37 bucks it cost to buy stamps, an envelope, a money order and and extra fiver for the processing of the money order. There is only one problem: I am not sure that my 37 dollar package will reach the contest.
This is both good news and bad news. The post office branch I went to is the one that I currently work at. You know, the one where I don't even know how to sell someone a stamp, let alone determine how many grams something has to be to be considered a "small packet" versus a "parcel." The good news is that I am not alone. One of the girls working today had no clue how to do anything either. The bad news is that she was the clerk helping me. But, as in all aspects of life, if you look hard enough the good news can outweigh the bad news. She was so lost that I helped her figure out how to do things. The good news: I felt like a genius and sometimes in this life that is worth 37 dollars no matter what the outcome.
So today was a first and a last: the first contest I have entered in and the last Creative Non-Fiction class. Creative Non-Fiction is taught by my favorite professor. The last class was cut short as he had to leave immediately to go on a book tour. The last two pieces we workshopped went wonderfully. Then he gave us an amazing speech offering that he would help us go through our first book contracts, line by line. The offer, as he said, doesn't expire. Well, he is 64 years old and, as he told me, takes caffeine pills. Shit.
Anyway, after his speech about book contracts he said that the class had been a pleasure for him to teach. He said it in a sincere endearing manner. After he was finished I started to applaud, after I started to applaud the entire room started to applaud. It was like The Dead Poets Society except that we weren't standing on the desks, we aren't prep school boys, and he was getting fired and we didn't study poetry in a cave. Okay, so it wasn't really like The Dead Poets Society. The best part though was that the professor soaked up a few seconds of it, and then ran out of the door. Makes you kind of wonder if he really meant what he said about liking the class. Hopefully he didn't fall down the stairs and kill himself. Oh well, that would get him out of looking at contracts we don't have.
I learned something terrifying at supper this evening: my upstairs neighbor throws her old food out the window. I suppose I should be mortified to think that she throws it down to rot in front of my window, but I am not. What I am more concerned about is that this food will draw raccoons. And these raccoons will eat the food. Then, these raccoons will climb up the side of the building and come into my window. And, the main problem I have with raccoons coming into my room is that I will be home when they come in. They will go to my window, take one look at me, and think "I can defeat this, bitch." And then, I will have to move. How inconsiderate can my neighbor be?
After supper I ended up at one of the rez hall's talks. Translation: Every couple of weeks someone who lives here gives a speech about what they are studying. Usually, I avoid these talks. Honestly, the only one I have been to was the one with the cute New Zealand couple playing all sorts of trumpets. Tonight's talk was given by a friend of mine who is getting a PhD in Education and has a music background. His talk was basically him reading an academic paper he had written that contained works like, "furthermore" and "phenomenology." During his reading of 15 pages, I had approximately 14 day dreams, examined the freaky toenails of the guy next to me, debated the age of a certain audience member who held her wine glass exactly how someone who is underage and thinks they are cool would hold their wine glass, and wondered if phenomenology was a word.
Luckily, after reading the paper, the person giving the talk started to play the piano. Now, I am not one for classical music, as it doesn't usually have words or a catchy beat. I blame my rock n roll upbringing. But, somewhere in the middle of this frigging Bach song I imagined a lurid sex scene set to the emotions of the music. Afterward, I went up to my friend who had played the song. He was surrounded by a group of people. He paused to ask me what I thought of it. I told him, "I liked it, that one part was like sex." Judging from shocked faces of the people around, this was the wrong thing to say. And, apparently, saying, "What? Was that the wrong thing to say? Should I not compare the music to sex--or, what I remember of sex?" was the not the right thing to say either.
This evening was my second evening working on the set-up crew. Turns out the set-up crew is super easy when there is a huge Norweigan viking to save you from being crushed under the podium that you are trying to pull around. Not only does he rescue you, but he puts the podium in place. Apparently, I made 5 bucks for that 15 minutes of work that he did. Man, am I exhausted.
Tip of the Day: The Canadian government website is set to auto-hate on Americans applying for work permits. There is no winning it over, do not try to woo it. It will just ignore you and make you re-register 10 times and tell you that you cannot go on until something magical happens, like you getting an EVN.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, April 12, 2010
Meat Mishap, Playing Hair Salon, Bacon Police (tee hee hee), Facebook Attack, Gnome Hand Job, McDonald's Whore No More
Day 229
Today was a big day of learning for me: learning how to be ridiculously dumb. My favorite examples of this are as follows:
So, my friend told me that she would pick up my sandwich bill. She and I stood next to each other with the same lady making our sandwiches in front of us. My friend ordered a smoked beef and me my usual, pastrami. As we watched the meat laid on the bread my friend mentioned how wonderful the beef was at this establishment. I told her that since I had gone back to meat (yeah I recently got out of what I now call the 7 Lost Years Without Eating Flesh aka. I Was An Idiot) I hadn't been able to stomach beef. She gave me a funny look and said,
"What do you think that is?"
"Pastrami."
"What do you think that's made out of?"
"I dunno. Pork?"
"Pork?! It's made out of beef! Just look at our sandwiches, it's the same kind of meat."
If that wasn't bad enough, later today I decided that I should cut my own hair. I haven't had bangs since I was 14 (I am not gonna say how many years ago that was) and when I was growing up my dad often cut my bangs while I sat still on a kitchen stool. But, that's not all that interesting, what's interesting is the fact that I learned that cutting hair is not as easy as the stylist makes it out to be.
I thought I'd just snip the awkward side bangs I had acquired, and see if I could get them to blend in with my more normal-looking bangs. Okay, I'll be honest, I didn't want to bother straightening the strays so I thought it'd be easier to snip them. Now, I look like a 5 year old attacked me with grown up scissors. Actually, I wish a 5 year old had attacked me with scissors, at least then I wouldn't have had to confess to my neighbor that I had cut my own bangs. I also wouldn't have had her tell me it looked terrible. After I got over the shock of her honesty, I tried to convince myself that my bangs just look super 80s, which (somehow) means super awesome. I'll give it a day and if I can't convince myself of their choppy beauty I will go buy a hat.
Anyway, this morning was the first morning I actually made it to breakfast in over 2 weeks. To make up for this loss of breakfast consumption I have decided that ignoring the 2 slices of bacon per person masking tape and pen sign. I miss breakfast 4 days a week, minimum, therefore I can take four pieces of bacon, right? Actually, I don't really want or need 4 pieces of bacon, but I am secretly taking more than my share just to see if anyone tries to stop me. So far I have gotten away with my dirty deed and am comforted to know that there isn't (as of yet) some poor soul employed to make sure the nerdy know-it-alls don't take more than their share of breakfast meats. Although, should the position become available I may volunteer to be that poor soul. Given my recent fetish with writing cover letters I wonder if I could pull of why I would be a good meat enforcer, and cover my track record so as not to hinder my chances.
Tonight, while I was watching my first episode of Mad Men I was assaulted. Yeah, that's right, I was smacked around by the comments that I would soon discover after I discovered that the main guy in Mad Men was leading a double life. I popped onto Facebook and there it was, 27 comments from my friends on one wall post. The wall post was originally about candy, but winded up being about jacking off gnomes. Normally, I would've found this sick but yet humorous. Normally meaning, before I read the article on yahoo.ca news. The article was a reprint from Forbes magazine and it said that having your friends (or yourself) posting offensive comments could hinder your chances of getting a job as your prospective employer may see them when they are stalking you, just before they hire you. This leaves me in a predicament: either I can A. Unfriend all of my friends. or B. I could only apply for jobs whose hiring managers would approve of gnome ejaculation. Shit.
This evening I was messaged by a guy in my building I'd like to makeout with. You know, the guy who refuses to acknowledge my requests for a Battleship game but keeps asking me if I want to make him companionship (yeah, that's how he says it, like I am a low-rent escort) to McDonalds. This is what he wanted at 12:30 tonight. I told him, "No." Then I told him that I was angry with him for declining to play Battleship with me. He wrote, "I don't know how to play Battleship." I think this was supposed to make up for him ignoring me and make me feel sorry for him. My reaction was, "You are a fucking dumbass, it's a super easy game. And by the way, go to hell! And, P.S. I will NEVER go to McDonald's with you on five minutes notice, if you want companionship get a goddamn dog." What I actually wrote was, "Have fun at McDonalds. Night."
Tip of the Day: Looking up "masturbation" on wikipedia like some hell bent I-wanna-be-a-badass 12 year old kid isn't all that fun when you are in your mid-twenties, it just makes you feel old.
-Canadian Castaway
Today was a big day of learning for me: learning how to be ridiculously dumb. My favorite examples of this are as follows:
So, my friend told me that she would pick up my sandwich bill. She and I stood next to each other with the same lady making our sandwiches in front of us. My friend ordered a smoked beef and me my usual, pastrami. As we watched the meat laid on the bread my friend mentioned how wonderful the beef was at this establishment. I told her that since I had gone back to meat (yeah I recently got out of what I now call the 7 Lost Years Without Eating Flesh aka. I Was An Idiot) I hadn't been able to stomach beef. She gave me a funny look and said,
"What do you think that is?"
"Pastrami."
"What do you think that's made out of?"
"I dunno. Pork?"
"Pork?! It's made out of beef! Just look at our sandwiches, it's the same kind of meat."
If that wasn't bad enough, later today I decided that I should cut my own hair. I haven't had bangs since I was 14 (I am not gonna say how many years ago that was) and when I was growing up my dad often cut my bangs while I sat still on a kitchen stool. But, that's not all that interesting, what's interesting is the fact that I learned that cutting hair is not as easy as the stylist makes it out to be.
I thought I'd just snip the awkward side bangs I had acquired, and see if I could get them to blend in with my more normal-looking bangs. Okay, I'll be honest, I didn't want to bother straightening the strays so I thought it'd be easier to snip them. Now, I look like a 5 year old attacked me with grown up scissors. Actually, I wish a 5 year old had attacked me with scissors, at least then I wouldn't have had to confess to my neighbor that I had cut my own bangs. I also wouldn't have had her tell me it looked terrible. After I got over the shock of her honesty, I tried to convince myself that my bangs just look super 80s, which (somehow) means super awesome. I'll give it a day and if I can't convince myself of their choppy beauty I will go buy a hat.
Anyway, this morning was the first morning I actually made it to breakfast in over 2 weeks. To make up for this loss of breakfast consumption I have decided that ignoring the 2 slices of bacon per person masking tape and pen sign. I miss breakfast 4 days a week, minimum, therefore I can take four pieces of bacon, right? Actually, I don't really want or need 4 pieces of bacon, but I am secretly taking more than my share just to see if anyone tries to stop me. So far I have gotten away with my dirty deed and am comforted to know that there isn't (as of yet) some poor soul employed to make sure the nerdy know-it-alls don't take more than their share of breakfast meats. Although, should the position become available I may volunteer to be that poor soul. Given my recent fetish with writing cover letters I wonder if I could pull of why I would be a good meat enforcer, and cover my track record so as not to hinder my chances.
Tonight, while I was watching my first episode of Mad Men I was assaulted. Yeah, that's right, I was smacked around by the comments that I would soon discover after I discovered that the main guy in Mad Men was leading a double life. I popped onto Facebook and there it was, 27 comments from my friends on one wall post. The wall post was originally about candy, but winded up being about jacking off gnomes. Normally, I would've found this sick but yet humorous. Normally meaning, before I read the article on yahoo.ca news. The article was a reprint from Forbes magazine and it said that having your friends (or yourself) posting offensive comments could hinder your chances of getting a job as your prospective employer may see them when they are stalking you, just before they hire you. This leaves me in a predicament: either I can A. Unfriend all of my friends. or B. I could only apply for jobs whose hiring managers would approve of gnome ejaculation. Shit.
This evening I was messaged by a guy in my building I'd like to makeout with. You know, the guy who refuses to acknowledge my requests for a Battleship game but keeps asking me if I want to make him companionship (yeah, that's how he says it, like I am a low-rent escort) to McDonalds. This is what he wanted at 12:30 tonight. I told him, "No." Then I told him that I was angry with him for declining to play Battleship with me. He wrote, "I don't know how to play Battleship." I think this was supposed to make up for him ignoring me and make me feel sorry for him. My reaction was, "You are a fucking dumbass, it's a super easy game. And by the way, go to hell! And, P.S. I will NEVER go to McDonald's with you on five minutes notice, if you want companionship get a goddamn dog." What I actually wrote was, "Have fun at McDonalds. Night."
Tip of the Day: Looking up "masturbation" on wikipedia like some hell bent I-wanna-be-a-badass 12 year old kid isn't all that fun when you are in your mid-twenties, it just makes you feel old.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Lovely Bread Guy, Bulk Bin-ing, Self Checkout Criminal, Cashier of the Year, The 4th Step
Day 228
So, I went to the grocery store today. The one with the bread guy. The bread guy is a chivalrous giant whose ego I like to indulge. Not gonna lie, one of my favorite things to do is linger in the bread section just long enough for him to approach me. And, I can't say how many times he's taught me how to use the bread slicer. Or, how many times I oo-ed and awe-ed at his proficiency with it. Once I heard from my friend that he had asked her out. I pretended to be grossed out by the whole thing, but secretly I was jealous. She has skills with the bread slicer, maybe that's what he's looking for, not some girl playing dumb just to be rescued. But damn, I hate slicing my own bread.
This grocery store has bulk bins. Normally, I try to be sneaky and take organic cranberries but write the bin number for the cheapy cranberries. For some reason today I didn't try to pull any sort of heist. I don't know if I am getting old or bored with always getting away with it. Despite this turn of events the trip ended up being quite exciting. I stood in the checkout line for a few minutes after picking out crappy salami and cheese dip and shitty cranberries. The checkout lines in this place are never very long, usually only one or two people are ahead of you. And, I know I've mentioned this before, but these checkout cashiers in Canada are ridiculously slow. Checking out those one or two people always takes 20 minutes, minimum. It's almost like they are constantly running a contest to see who can deal with the least amount of customers in a shift.
Today I was brave and tried the self checkout. Now, I have used a self checkout in the past. I found them to be not nearly as fun as seeing a stranger fondle your purchases and see if they make small talk, and what sort of small talk they make, and you wonder if they have any other prison-style tattoos and such. But, the checkout lines here just take too goddamn long, and none of the cashiers at this store have roses tattooed on their wrists. Turns out the self checkout is wonderful and fun and quick. Plus, it provides me with a new way of scamming the store: they are trusting you to enter in a bin number for your bulk purchases. Now I only need to memorize the codes for the cheapest bulk items and Pow! I am a petty criminal once again.
Tonight, I went online and applied for a job with the aforementioned grocery store. I think I should work as a cashier. Not because I think it would be awesome to see how slowly I can check people out, but to bask to bask in my future glory of being the fastest grocery store cashier in Canada. I started to fill out the online application and found that it had 3 sections. The first section was putting in your email address and uploading your resume. The second section was filling in your availability and how you'd like to be contacted. The third section was uploading (and in my case, composing and saving, and then uploading) a cover letter. But what they don't tell you is that there is a sneaky fourth step.
The 4th step involves answering 20 questions. These questions have two possible answers: the one the employer is looking for in an employee and the one the employer is not looking for in an employee. Here is an example:
You are the type of person who:
a. prefers organization and tidiness.
b. doesn't mind chaos and messiness.
You are the type of person who:
a. likes to be shown new ways of doing things.
b. doesn't like to be shown new ways of doing things.
It was like taking a Seventeen magazine personality test but I knew exactly what answers to give based on the outcome I wanted. But, after awhile always giving the "right" answer gets boring. So I snuck in a wrong one, just in case they thought I was too smart to work there. Here is the one I answered "wrong."
You are the type of person who:
a. likes challenges and busy work.
b. likes predictable and easy tasks.
The thing is is that in picking the "wrong" answer I was picking the true answer.
Tip of the Day: It is possible to OD on chocolate chips and one day I will.
-Canadian Castaway
So, I went to the grocery store today. The one with the bread guy. The bread guy is a chivalrous giant whose ego I like to indulge. Not gonna lie, one of my favorite things to do is linger in the bread section just long enough for him to approach me. And, I can't say how many times he's taught me how to use the bread slicer. Or, how many times I oo-ed and awe-ed at his proficiency with it. Once I heard from my friend that he had asked her out. I pretended to be grossed out by the whole thing, but secretly I was jealous. She has skills with the bread slicer, maybe that's what he's looking for, not some girl playing dumb just to be rescued. But damn, I hate slicing my own bread.
This grocery store has bulk bins. Normally, I try to be sneaky and take organic cranberries but write the bin number for the cheapy cranberries. For some reason today I didn't try to pull any sort of heist. I don't know if I am getting old or bored with always getting away with it. Despite this turn of events the trip ended up being quite exciting. I stood in the checkout line for a few minutes after picking out crappy salami and cheese dip and shitty cranberries. The checkout lines in this place are never very long, usually only one or two people are ahead of you. And, I know I've mentioned this before, but these checkout cashiers in Canada are ridiculously slow. Checking out those one or two people always takes 20 minutes, minimum. It's almost like they are constantly running a contest to see who can deal with the least amount of customers in a shift.
Today I was brave and tried the self checkout. Now, I have used a self checkout in the past. I found them to be not nearly as fun as seeing a stranger fondle your purchases and see if they make small talk, and what sort of small talk they make, and you wonder if they have any other prison-style tattoos and such. But, the checkout lines here just take too goddamn long, and none of the cashiers at this store have roses tattooed on their wrists. Turns out the self checkout is wonderful and fun and quick. Plus, it provides me with a new way of scamming the store: they are trusting you to enter in a bin number for your bulk purchases. Now I only need to memorize the codes for the cheapest bulk items and Pow! I am a petty criminal once again.
Tonight, I went online and applied for a job with the aforementioned grocery store. I think I should work as a cashier. Not because I think it would be awesome to see how slowly I can check people out, but to bask to bask in my future glory of being the fastest grocery store cashier in Canada. I started to fill out the online application and found that it had 3 sections. The first section was putting in your email address and uploading your resume. The second section was filling in your availability and how you'd like to be contacted. The third section was uploading (and in my case, composing and saving, and then uploading) a cover letter. But what they don't tell you is that there is a sneaky fourth step.
The 4th step involves answering 20 questions. These questions have two possible answers: the one the employer is looking for in an employee and the one the employer is not looking for in an employee. Here is an example:
You are the type of person who:
a. prefers organization and tidiness.
b. doesn't mind chaos and messiness.
You are the type of person who:
a. likes to be shown new ways of doing things.
b. doesn't like to be shown new ways of doing things.
It was like taking a Seventeen magazine personality test but I knew exactly what answers to give based on the outcome I wanted. But, after awhile always giving the "right" answer gets boring. So I snuck in a wrong one, just in case they thought I was too smart to work there. Here is the one I answered "wrong."
You are the type of person who:
a. likes challenges and busy work.
b. likes predictable and easy tasks.
The thing is is that in picking the "wrong" answer I was picking the true answer.
Tip of the Day: It is possible to OD on chocolate chips and one day I will.
-Canadian Castaway
Bossy Ellen, Chilled Reading, Saving Face Goal, Yuppie Hockey Bar, Reading Rewrites, 4 AM Confession
Day 227
Okay not gonna lie it is nearly 4 o'clock in the morning and I have been putting this thing off for a few hours while I was watching Ellen DeGeneres scare celebrities. Then as I was clicking on a few other clips of her and her show on youtube when I stumbled upon a clip of a comedy show of hers where she describes procrastination. She says that she doesn't do what she is supposed to then she gets mad at herself, then she gets depressed because she still doesn't do what she is supposed to. Then I was like, "Fine Ellen, goddamnit I'll write the fucking thing!" So, here it is:
It was too cold to read today. When my bodyguard had once informed me that it was too cold for him to read outside I thought he'd gone mad. But, today when I was out on the balcony of my building, after I'd sat there in shirtsleeves, then in a sweatshirt, then just a little while after I put on my socks and then I finally realized that this time my ADD was caused by coldness, not by my constant sugar high and caffeine frenzy. Yeah, sometimes it's too effing cold to read. My bodyguard was right. That fucker.
I have a new goal, and that goal is to be so fucking productive with my own writing that I will only have time to go on facebook like once a week. I would be the coolest person I know if I didn't spend half my life on facebook. And for what? It's really goddamn boring looking at the page of a friend of a friend who you now know only has 34 friends. I can't believe I would settle for such mediocre entertainment. But, now that I have over 200 friends I suppose I should be basking in the ridiculous popularity. But really, is Kevin Smith my friend? I do not recall him coming out bowling for my birthday last year. And, I'm pretty sure if Kevin Smith was really my friend I wouldn't have to spend half of my time on facebook gathering up people I didn't talk to in high school, browsing their pics to see if they had anymore kids and playing a game where I score an imaginary point in an imaginary game each time I see that they have created more future facebook-aholics. I am going to pretend like I am just playing this game until I figure out how to win it, or until Kevin Smith calls me up.
Tonight I went to a birthday party at a yuppie restaurant. How can I tell it's a yuppie restaurant? Well, the staff wear black, are generically pretty, the food has beets in it for color reasons, and it is filled with tons of people who look exactly the same. The only thing I am really wondering about though is whether or not yuppie bars in the U.S. have TVs hanging on every wall and column showing hockey games. I do not have much experience in these situations but my guess is that in the U.S. yuppie bars may have TVs everywhere tuned to golf or tennis. Yep, every hockey bar that I've ever been to has beer signs on the walls, and people dressed in hockey jerseys, drinking beer not martinis with names like Wild Orchid or Viva Diva. Oh Canada and your pussy upscale hockey bars disguised as yuppie watering holes.
I spent most of the day reading rewrites for my classes. Rewriting is an excellent thing and like 90 percent of the writing process, therefore super important for one to do while in a Creative Writing Master's program. This means that when you are workshopping your classmates work (reading, making comments, and talking about it in class) you see the same stories sometimes. Who wants to read the same story (the one they didn't really like to begin with) a second time? For this reason alone I should never teach Creative Writing. I can't imagine actually taking the time to mark rewrites. Anyway, not only did I have to read re-writes I had to read the emails they were attached to, emails that said that the rewrites still had a long way to go and basically, the author thinks that their story still sucks. Gee, not only did I read it before, but even the person who wrote it thinks it sucks, can't wait to get started!
Confession: There I was coming home on a crowded bus and a good looking man was standing next to me and not only did I pretend he was my boyfriend, I tried to use telekinesis to get him to talk to me. Then a few stops later we broke up as he didn't offer me the seat that became available. It's all for the best though, it's not like he was all that talkative.
Tip of the Day: If you whine to your mother long enough that you don't have any socks without holes she will buy you new ones, but it may take many months of whining before she mails them to you.
-Canadian Castaway
Okay not gonna lie it is nearly 4 o'clock in the morning and I have been putting this thing off for a few hours while I was watching Ellen DeGeneres scare celebrities. Then as I was clicking on a few other clips of her and her show on youtube when I stumbled upon a clip of a comedy show of hers where she describes procrastination. She says that she doesn't do what she is supposed to then she gets mad at herself, then she gets depressed because she still doesn't do what she is supposed to. Then I was like, "Fine Ellen, goddamnit I'll write the fucking thing!" So, here it is:
It was too cold to read today. When my bodyguard had once informed me that it was too cold for him to read outside I thought he'd gone mad. But, today when I was out on the balcony of my building, after I'd sat there in shirtsleeves, then in a sweatshirt, then just a little while after I put on my socks and then I finally realized that this time my ADD was caused by coldness, not by my constant sugar high and caffeine frenzy. Yeah, sometimes it's too effing cold to read. My bodyguard was right. That fucker.
I have a new goal, and that goal is to be so fucking productive with my own writing that I will only have time to go on facebook like once a week. I would be the coolest person I know if I didn't spend half my life on facebook. And for what? It's really goddamn boring looking at the page of a friend of a friend who you now know only has 34 friends. I can't believe I would settle for such mediocre entertainment. But, now that I have over 200 friends I suppose I should be basking in the ridiculous popularity. But really, is Kevin Smith my friend? I do not recall him coming out bowling for my birthday last year. And, I'm pretty sure if Kevin Smith was really my friend I wouldn't have to spend half of my time on facebook gathering up people I didn't talk to in high school, browsing their pics to see if they had anymore kids and playing a game where I score an imaginary point in an imaginary game each time I see that they have created more future facebook-aholics. I am going to pretend like I am just playing this game until I figure out how to win it, or until Kevin Smith calls me up.
Tonight I went to a birthday party at a yuppie restaurant. How can I tell it's a yuppie restaurant? Well, the staff wear black, are generically pretty, the food has beets in it for color reasons, and it is filled with tons of people who look exactly the same. The only thing I am really wondering about though is whether or not yuppie bars in the U.S. have TVs hanging on every wall and column showing hockey games. I do not have much experience in these situations but my guess is that in the U.S. yuppie bars may have TVs everywhere tuned to golf or tennis. Yep, every hockey bar that I've ever been to has beer signs on the walls, and people dressed in hockey jerseys, drinking beer not martinis with names like Wild Orchid or Viva Diva. Oh Canada and your pussy upscale hockey bars disguised as yuppie watering holes.
I spent most of the day reading rewrites for my classes. Rewriting is an excellent thing and like 90 percent of the writing process, therefore super important for one to do while in a Creative Writing Master's program. This means that when you are workshopping your classmates work (reading, making comments, and talking about it in class) you see the same stories sometimes. Who wants to read the same story (the one they didn't really like to begin with) a second time? For this reason alone I should never teach Creative Writing. I can't imagine actually taking the time to mark rewrites. Anyway, not only did I have to read re-writes I had to read the emails they were attached to, emails that said that the rewrites still had a long way to go and basically, the author thinks that their story still sucks. Gee, not only did I read it before, but even the person who wrote it thinks it sucks, can't wait to get started!
Confession: There I was coming home on a crowded bus and a good looking man was standing next to me and not only did I pretend he was my boyfriend, I tried to use telekinesis to get him to talk to me. Then a few stops later we broke up as he didn't offer me the seat that became available. It's all for the best though, it's not like he was all that talkative.
Tip of the Day: If you whine to your mother long enough that you don't have any socks without holes she will buy you new ones, but it may take many months of whining before she mails them to you.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Popularity Sucks, Shopping Slim, Writers or Drinkers, Recent Activity, The Ratings
Day 226
Today was mostly spent by me lamenting my own popularity. How fucked is it that I was actually whining because people wanted to hang out with me? Apparently, when you tell people on facebook that you are going to go to the coffeeshop they will join you. Betches. I am self-imposing an Emily Seclusion starting tomorrow. Shit, I have to go to a birthday party, damn this popularity.
After the coffeeshop fiasco me and the friends who joined me decided to fit in a little shopping before the improv show we were going to. Gee, there is nothing more fun than someone trying to include the fat girl in clothes shopping by holding up a dress that would not even fit over my head and saying, "You should totally try this on, it would be soooooo cute on you!" Then you will say, "That's way to small for me." Then for some unknown reason they will insist, "No, really it will!"
I am starting to wonder what came first the group of writers or the group of writers getting drunk together. Seriously, can we all sit at a table, besides in class, without it being littered with beer/mojito pitchers? Would we have run out of things to say to each other had we not started this whole drinking thing? A lot of times I get bored with us when we are wasted, I can't imagine us sobering up. What would we do if we weren't passing a flask under a table? This does not sound like the road to happiness or lasting friendship. But, at least we won't have to take the impending sadness and fleeting friendships while we are sober.
Tonight as I deleted my "Recent Activity" section on Facebook I wondered if everyone looks deletes their "Recent Activity" list when it gets long. Who wants to look like they spend all of their time commenting on other people's walls and photos or declaring that you just played fucking Farkle. Seriously, they should rename it, "Recent Evidence That You Are Wasting Your Life."
The best part of my day was having a Filet 'O Fish value meal with my fellow fatty. The meal was okay, but the game we played was the best. This was the game where you rate every male that you can see. 10 being: hot as hell 5 being: Eh, I'd fuck him, 3 being: I'd kiss him, and 0 being: John McCain. A few weeks ago my friend wrote an essay about abusive and harassing men she and her friends have encountered. The portion of the essay that the author relayed about her own life involved a bunch of guys playing this exact same game. I didn't tell her I was also a sexual harasser.
Anyway, we actually saw a 10. No shit, a gorgeous basketball player-type. We saw many 2-4s after that. Finally I looked around the crowded McDonald's and declared, "There is a whole lot of ugly in here." Standing directly in my sight line was a Canadian boy wearing a "Canadian Tuxedo" since I have moved here I had thought that Canadians actually wearing "Canadian Tuxedos" were a myth. This particular boy had shoulder-length brown hair and was carrying a Holy Bible and was trying to tell his friend, "You should be a Protestant, really, I will take you to my church." He was a 0, but I if there was a I Want to Follow You Around For a Day scale he would've been a 10.
Tip of the Day: As my friend said tonight when I offered to split a McFlurry with her, "If you are only eating half of it you are punishing yourself." I can't remember exactly what this means, but I do know that if you take the McFlurry cup that had the bottom half of the McFlurry in it, you will not get nearly as much Oreo chunks.
-Canadian Castaway
Today was mostly spent by me lamenting my own popularity. How fucked is it that I was actually whining because people wanted to hang out with me? Apparently, when you tell people on facebook that you are going to go to the coffeeshop they will join you. Betches. I am self-imposing an Emily Seclusion starting tomorrow. Shit, I have to go to a birthday party, damn this popularity.
After the coffeeshop fiasco me and the friends who joined me decided to fit in a little shopping before the improv show we were going to. Gee, there is nothing more fun than someone trying to include the fat girl in clothes shopping by holding up a dress that would not even fit over my head and saying, "You should totally try this on, it would be soooooo cute on you!" Then you will say, "That's way to small for me." Then for some unknown reason they will insist, "No, really it will!"
I am starting to wonder what came first the group of writers or the group of writers getting drunk together. Seriously, can we all sit at a table, besides in class, without it being littered with beer/mojito pitchers? Would we have run out of things to say to each other had we not started this whole drinking thing? A lot of times I get bored with us when we are wasted, I can't imagine us sobering up. What would we do if we weren't passing a flask under a table? This does not sound like the road to happiness or lasting friendship. But, at least we won't have to take the impending sadness and fleeting friendships while we are sober.
Tonight as I deleted my "Recent Activity" section on Facebook I wondered if everyone looks deletes their "Recent Activity" list when it gets long. Who wants to look like they spend all of their time commenting on other people's walls and photos or declaring that you just played fucking Farkle. Seriously, they should rename it, "Recent Evidence That You Are Wasting Your Life."
The best part of my day was having a Filet 'O Fish value meal with my fellow fatty. The meal was okay, but the game we played was the best. This was the game where you rate every male that you can see. 10 being: hot as hell 5 being: Eh, I'd fuck him, 3 being: I'd kiss him, and 0 being: John McCain. A few weeks ago my friend wrote an essay about abusive and harassing men she and her friends have encountered. The portion of the essay that the author relayed about her own life involved a bunch of guys playing this exact same game. I didn't tell her I was also a sexual harasser.
Anyway, we actually saw a 10. No shit, a gorgeous basketball player-type. We saw many 2-4s after that. Finally I looked around the crowded McDonald's and declared, "There is a whole lot of ugly in here." Standing directly in my sight line was a Canadian boy wearing a "Canadian Tuxedo" since I have moved here I had thought that Canadians actually wearing "Canadian Tuxedos" were a myth. This particular boy had shoulder-length brown hair and was carrying a Holy Bible and was trying to tell his friend, "You should be a Protestant, really, I will take you to my church." He was a 0, but I if there was a I Want to Follow You Around For a Day scale he would've been a 10.
Tip of the Day: As my friend said tonight when I offered to split a McFlurry with her, "If you are only eating half of it you are punishing yourself." I can't remember exactly what this means, but I do know that if you take the McFlurry cup that had the bottom half of the McFlurry in it, you will not get nearly as much Oreo chunks.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, April 9, 2010
Sealant Lies, Making Stories, Drunken Lesbian, Playing Distracted, After Party Blues, My Earring
Day 225
This morning I woke up practicing a lie. This lie was more like a theatrical scene that I was starring in. You see, it was like I was reprising the role of my former self. I was the aging musician who cleaned up and got back on stage. Okay, so I am just a girl who used to call in sick to work at her library job so she could stay home and read books. During that time I made up many a detailed story about things like getting food poisoning from a specific restaurant, a specific dish, and the just inappropriate enough gory details to make it sound believeable.
Today's version of an excuse, despite it being me getting back in the game, was quite a success. I pulled the dental appointment card and through around words like, sealant and cavity and "can you do me a favor" and "I am sorry." Not only did it work, but my supervisor at the post office laughed and thought it was funny when I told her it was go to the dentist or stop eating candy before I get a cavity, "and, I can't stop eating candy." I strung her along for a good 15 minutes on improvisation alone. She bought it all and agreed to me not working early tomorrow morning. I was free until she said, "If I let you have tomorrow off then you have to come in for three shifts next week." I learned something very important here, not only is my supervisor mean to customers, but she is also very, very clever. I think I ought to stick out this shit job for awhile to observe her, or at the very least, to come up with more clever story than going to the dentist for sealants. I mean shit, I am in grad school for Creative Writing I should be able to come up with something better than that.
Tonight was the second night of the 2 day play festival of produced plays by playwrights in my program. Here is a re-cap of the highlights:
Before the show my friend came over to have dinner. We gathered our food up and sat at a table on the far end of the dining hall, as at all three of the occupied tables sat at least one person I didn't want to talk to. For the first time ever I ordered a beer in the dining hall. Turns out you can get two not-too-crappy beers for only four bucks. So there we were sitting and eating and sipping cheap beers. The dinner crowd was starting to get settled in. The line grew, people emerged from the serving area with loaded trays, and all of them sat at other tables. I said to my friend, "I know it's hard to tell from tonight, but people normally do sit by me. I am not usually that girl in the teen movies who goes through hell but gets the guy of her dreams." (though getting the guy of your dreams would be quite awesome)
Finally, when we were almost through eating, my friend came by and sat somewhat near us. I asked him why no one would want to sit by us. He said, "It's the beer. Every single time I have ordered a beer in this dining hall at least one person has come up to me and expressed concern about me being an alcoholic." I brought our trays up to be cleared and I asked my friend on dish duty why he thought no one sat by me and he said, "Maybe they thought you were trying out for the other team." And, he gave me a nod-wink combination. I said, "I didn't know there were tryouts." So, now I may have became the alcoholic, sexually-experimental girl, maybe I will become that girl in the teen movies afterall.
The plays themselves were just fine, well, one had a teenage girl accolade pissing into a communion chalice so I guess some of them were better than fine. The best part though was the distracting hot guy that was at the festival last night wearing plaid and sitting across the way from me was back and wearing a different plaid shirt and still sitting next to girls that probably weren't his girlfriend. Everything was the same except tonight I realized that he may be gay. Anyway, the undergrad with the mohawk and the sexy hands was also sitting across the way, and then there is my friend's boyfriend who is very nice to look at. The other distractions were my friends sitting next to me. One of them had a farting problem, and the other had a sack of cookies in her purse that she was passing around. Shit, it's amazing I saw any of the plays at all.
After the play a group of writers went to the closest bar which was only the formation of four new blisters from wearing my dress shoes away. After we got there my bodyguard showed up, who I am still not talking to and who is still talking about how he wants to ask out random women but is too shy to do so, but not too shy to talk about it, loudly in a public place. Finally, after the other Emily accused me of being funnier than her and got kind of upset and after I realized that I wasn't running away with the cook I was making eyes at, I left.
On the torturous walk home in my fancy shoes (that btw, got uglier with each step, until I took them off and walked in stockinged feet) I pulled out my cell to call someone so that I didn't have to think about oozing blisters. I realized that most everyone I wanted to talk to was still at the bar or asleep until I ran across the name of a friend from back home that I hadn't talked to in months. I rang him up. Turns out him and his best friend (a guy who I had a drunken, heavy make-out session with) and their collective ex-girlfriend were all drunk and hanging out. The phone got passed around. Apparently, I am very popular with the drunk set.
So, the guy who I called asked when I was coming home and made a comment about my facebook status of looking good, while providing a cheery commentary of the people around him. He handed the phone over to the make-out session guy, who, for the 11th time, told me that he still has the earring that I lost at his house. Except that this time when he told me he said, "you know, the one you left at my house after the pool table action." I said, "Yeah, that was fun." He said, "Good call!"
The phone was then passed to the collective ex-girlfriend who had a drunken make-out session of her own. And, almost as if to prove how incestuous things are back home, she made-out with a guy who had a crush on me for the past few years. This huge nerdy guy (which is usually a plus, but read on) who still lives with his dad and doesn't work or have any plans for his life, and whose 'sexy' look is terrifying. Yeah, I know how to attract men. Anyway, unlike my earring incident, she doesn't remember the kissing and only found out about it when she turned on her camera the next day to find the photographic evidence. I told her that making out with him was a public service. I told her that she made his year. And, she believed me. Then, we hung up and I was home, with my shoes in my hand. And, I still can't remember what this earring I left at his house looked like.
Tip of the Day: Finish writing your blog by 1:44 am, not 3:44 am.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I woke up practicing a lie. This lie was more like a theatrical scene that I was starring in. You see, it was like I was reprising the role of my former self. I was the aging musician who cleaned up and got back on stage. Okay, so I am just a girl who used to call in sick to work at her library job so she could stay home and read books. During that time I made up many a detailed story about things like getting food poisoning from a specific restaurant, a specific dish, and the just inappropriate enough gory details to make it sound believeable.
Today's version of an excuse, despite it being me getting back in the game, was quite a success. I pulled the dental appointment card and through around words like, sealant and cavity and "can you do me a favor" and "I am sorry." Not only did it work, but my supervisor at the post office laughed and thought it was funny when I told her it was go to the dentist or stop eating candy before I get a cavity, "and, I can't stop eating candy." I strung her along for a good 15 minutes on improvisation alone. She bought it all and agreed to me not working early tomorrow morning. I was free until she said, "If I let you have tomorrow off then you have to come in for three shifts next week." I learned something very important here, not only is my supervisor mean to customers, but she is also very, very clever. I think I ought to stick out this shit job for awhile to observe her, or at the very least, to come up with more clever story than going to the dentist for sealants. I mean shit, I am in grad school for Creative Writing I should be able to come up with something better than that.
Tonight was the second night of the 2 day play festival of produced plays by playwrights in my program. Here is a re-cap of the highlights:
Before the show my friend came over to have dinner. We gathered our food up and sat at a table on the far end of the dining hall, as at all three of the occupied tables sat at least one person I didn't want to talk to. For the first time ever I ordered a beer in the dining hall. Turns out you can get two not-too-crappy beers for only four bucks. So there we were sitting and eating and sipping cheap beers. The dinner crowd was starting to get settled in. The line grew, people emerged from the serving area with loaded trays, and all of them sat at other tables. I said to my friend, "I know it's hard to tell from tonight, but people normally do sit by me. I am not usually that girl in the teen movies who goes through hell but gets the guy of her dreams." (though getting the guy of your dreams would be quite awesome)
Finally, when we were almost through eating, my friend came by and sat somewhat near us. I asked him why no one would want to sit by us. He said, "It's the beer. Every single time I have ordered a beer in this dining hall at least one person has come up to me and expressed concern about me being an alcoholic." I brought our trays up to be cleared and I asked my friend on dish duty why he thought no one sat by me and he said, "Maybe they thought you were trying out for the other team." And, he gave me a nod-wink combination. I said, "I didn't know there were tryouts." So, now I may have became the alcoholic, sexually-experimental girl, maybe I will become that girl in the teen movies afterall.
The plays themselves were just fine, well, one had a teenage girl accolade pissing into a communion chalice so I guess some of them were better than fine. The best part though was the distracting hot guy that was at the festival last night wearing plaid and sitting across the way from me was back and wearing a different plaid shirt and still sitting next to girls that probably weren't his girlfriend. Everything was the same except tonight I realized that he may be gay. Anyway, the undergrad with the mohawk and the sexy hands was also sitting across the way, and then there is my friend's boyfriend who is very nice to look at. The other distractions were my friends sitting next to me. One of them had a farting problem, and the other had a sack of cookies in her purse that she was passing around. Shit, it's amazing I saw any of the plays at all.
After the play a group of writers went to the closest bar which was only the formation of four new blisters from wearing my dress shoes away. After we got there my bodyguard showed up, who I am still not talking to and who is still talking about how he wants to ask out random women but is too shy to do so, but not too shy to talk about it, loudly in a public place. Finally, after the other Emily accused me of being funnier than her and got kind of upset and after I realized that I wasn't running away with the cook I was making eyes at, I left.
On the torturous walk home in my fancy shoes (that btw, got uglier with each step, until I took them off and walked in stockinged feet) I pulled out my cell to call someone so that I didn't have to think about oozing blisters. I realized that most everyone I wanted to talk to was still at the bar or asleep until I ran across the name of a friend from back home that I hadn't talked to in months. I rang him up. Turns out him and his best friend (a guy who I had a drunken, heavy make-out session with) and their collective ex-girlfriend were all drunk and hanging out. The phone got passed around. Apparently, I am very popular with the drunk set.
So, the guy who I called asked when I was coming home and made a comment about my facebook status of looking good, while providing a cheery commentary of the people around him. He handed the phone over to the make-out session guy, who, for the 11th time, told me that he still has the earring that I lost at his house. Except that this time when he told me he said, "you know, the one you left at my house after the pool table action." I said, "Yeah, that was fun." He said, "Good call!"
The phone was then passed to the collective ex-girlfriend who had a drunken make-out session of her own. And, almost as if to prove how incestuous things are back home, she made-out with a guy who had a crush on me for the past few years. This huge nerdy guy (which is usually a plus, but read on) who still lives with his dad and doesn't work or have any plans for his life, and whose 'sexy' look is terrifying. Yeah, I know how to attract men. Anyway, unlike my earring incident, she doesn't remember the kissing and only found out about it when she turned on her camera the next day to find the photographic evidence. I told her that making out with him was a public service. I told her that she made his year. And, she believed me. Then, we hung up and I was home, with my shoes in my hand. And, I still can't remember what this earring I left at his house looked like.
Tip of the Day: Finish writing your blog by 1:44 am, not 3:44 am.
-Canadian Castaway
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)