Faust

I did something terrible -- and perhaps unforgivable -- today.

After my waxing, I had some free time to walk around the mall, which, in my defence, is a tiny shopping centre and has very little in terms of decent stores.

In a moment of weakness, I held my breath and went into Liquidation World. (Not breathing is essential for the first few moments in this musty, rotten-smelling, factory-seconds warehouse of a store.)

I walked around, trying not to touch anything, lest I be contaminated.

But then I saw knitted yellow sweaters on sale for 60 cents. I mantain that it was their fault; they lured me into the ghastly clothing section.

It was there that I saw the shoes. It was there that I happened to notice they were only $2.00. And it was there that I compromised my snobby shopping mores and tried them on.

And then I traded a little piece of my soul to buy the beautiful sweatshop leftovers.

(The Lonely Photographer is refusing to take a picture of them, so unless you try some gentle coersion I'm afraid I can't show you the extent of their cuteness.)

Just so you know, I may die today

I am about to voluntarily have pain and humilition inflicted upon myself.

It's my first ever professional leg waxing appointment today. And I'm getting nervous.

Ankle hairs hurt when you rip them out. Even if you rip them out one by one, they still hurt. When there's a hundred hairs being yanked out at once, I think I might have to yelp and/or cry and/or sue for damages.

I thought about taking Advil before going but decided against it because that seems too wimpy. Bet I'll be regretting that in less than an hour.

****

I survived! It wasn't so bad afterall, with the exception of the dreaded ankle hairs.

Maybe all the martial arts my masseuse likes to do on my back have increased my pain-tolerance levels.

Officially not dumb

Through some happy mystery and questionable mathematics by the academic office, I will be graduating with distinction!

Yipee!

Now I won't be embarrassed when I walk across the stage.

That few seconds between when the dean announces the graduate's name, sans distinction, and when the audience starts clapping after waiting to see if the student is getting honours would be unbearable for me.

Those few seconds must last forever. And what if everyone was simultaneously giving their hands take a break from clapping?

Avoiding that dreaded silence is the reason I did my homework.

All I have left to worry about is falling off the stage.

My promise

I spent the summer before Grade 10 here.

Timbuktu, Mali, West Africa

I worked with a group of about 30 others to build a church out of sand, gravel, water and cement powder.

(Squinting won't help; I'm not in the picture.)

It was grueling and we saw things I couldn't have imagined:

We heard villagers banging drums all night in a religious ceremony.

I had tea in a grass-mat hut with an old man who didn't speak English and a translator.

I rode a camel (and almost fell off). Later I ate a piece of really-chewy greenish camel meat.

I ate sand because of how thickly it blew in the wind.

A villager yodelled for us while we shovelled.

We shopped in the local market.

I showered with a bucket.

I swam in the Niger River and we played Chicken on each others' shoulders. We could hear hippos grunting in the distance.

I felt alive.

While boarding the plane to leave, I turned to say goodbye. The sun was sinking, the sky was pink and the sand was glowing. And I promised I would be back.

Bamako, Mali, West Africa

Side effects

I had a terrible case of tonsillitus about a month and a half ago.

When I started feeling better after a few days of pills, I had a wisdom tooth removed. It took about a week to be able to eat big-people food and left my face sore for a long time.

While my face was recovering, my tonsillitus came back.

Then I got another wisdom tooth removed.

Then a cold set in which I've been battling for two weeks now.

And then all those rocks were thrown at me.



But on the bright side, my little belly is going away just in time for going to the beach, roller blading and wearing sundresses.

Your friendly reminder

I am convocating in one week and 14 hours.

You may be wondering if it's too late to get me a lovely graduation gift, or you may be worried that I won't like what you've selected. (I'm quite picky, so there's quite a good chance I wouldn't actually like it. I strongly recommend that whatever it is, you take it back to the store immediately.)

You needn't worry any longer; I've compiled a gift registry to alleviate any uncertainties as to the most appropriate presents and am willing to overlook any tardiness that could potentially be blamed on Fed Ex or Canada Post.


Official Convocation Registry:

- a plane ticket anywhere far, far away and warm

- a pink fluffy towel set exactly like the one The Lonely Photographer has (used is fine dear, as long as they're freshly laundered and smell like lemons)

- a marmot (see Help save ... everything from May 18th)

- fresh-picked peaches, cherries and apples from the trees in your yards (anyone not living in the Okanogan will be excused from this one)

- a job (preferably not as a plumber, electrician or circus pooper-scooper technician)

- a gift of hope from World Vision's Gifts that change lives catalogue

*for $30 a disadvantaged family in a poor country will get 2 ducks to help provide them with food and an income
*for $35 you could give a pig
* for $35 you could give four families all the seeds and tools they need to become self-reliant for years
* the catalogue is here http://www.worldvision.ca/gifts, and it's full of excellent ideas


Note:
It would be prudent if you could leave a note in the comments section saying which item you will be purchasing to keep my lovely readers from filling my house to the brim with huge bath sheets.

Note II:
Seriously, I do not want that cutlery set. Kindly keep those forks to yourself.

My fiance

I went for coffee with my fiance today. I'd think you'd all like her. She is lovely, brilliant, witty and kind. She is also white wine, Brie cheese and the symphony classy.

We've had heated arguments about punctuation, and the Oxford comma remains a point of contention. (The Oxford comma: We love semi-colons, regular colons, and the apostrophe. The red comma is optional and we disagree about when it should be used.)

We got engaged last year after a conversation where I used the word "hence" and she said "juxtaposed" in her answer. At that point we realized were both doomed to being single forever. (We have since stopped seeing being single as a bad thing and are glad to be quite selective in those whom we choose to date.)

We aren't getting married unless we are 40 and both of us are still single. If we are, which I am quite certain we will be, we are uncertain about our plans until retirement. But that's one plan we have solidified.

We will be moving to Switzerland and living in a cottage high up in the mountains. Our cottage will have a red water wheel on one side and a small chocolate factory in the basement (that will be for me, as I plan to be delighfully robust when I'm old).

She will knit with wool from our sheep that will frolic in the Alps with golden bells tinkling from around their necks. We haven't decided for certain if we will make our own cheese, but there is a very good possibility.

Fun treats I recommend

1. staying in the tub until all the water drains away except for the little puddle trapped under your back. If the leftover water is just right, it works with your back to make delightfully-loud farty noises.

2. waging candy necklace wars at the playground, particularly if the enemy isn't certain of the best shoooting methods.

3. having perfume wars in the aisles at Zellers.

4. asking two year olds questions like, "How come birds don't fall down when they're flying?"

5. dancing in the rain, but maybe that's too obvious.

6. eating Lipton Tomato Vegetable noodly soup. It's almost as good as my memories of chicken noodle soup.

7. poking your finger into other people's food to ruin it. This is particularly effective with mushy foods like potatoe mounds.

8. mop dancing.



(The situation I mentioned in my last post is still not fine, and I doubt things will ever be as good as they were. Good thing I'm made of the durable kind of glue.)

The three-step guide to winning me over

What could a guy dating one of my friends do to convince me to approve of him and their relationship?

1. For starters he should definately mention how he'd like my friend and I to make out. Bonus points if this is a recurring theme throughout the evening.

2. Then, when stealing flowers for his new girlfriend from the planter outside the restaurant we've just eaten at, he should make sure to rip out a petunia for me too.

3. Also, he should make sure to have an abundance of dirty socks and plastic bags on the floor of his truck. Nothing says "great boyfriend" better than a travelling sock collection.

(He's not actually that bad and I'm already starting to like him, petty theft and lewd comments aside. Good thing my friend is the one dating him, not me.)

Blech

You know what's gross?

"Light" cheese.

But at least it's better than no cheese. And at least I have fond memories of cake to look back on as I chew this calorie-reduced rubber.

Yum

It was my mom's birthday yesterday. Our little family party was fun, but paled in comparison to the splendour of the layer cake I made for her.

As is my custom when there is cake in the house, I had a big heap of chocolate-y, bananna-y and vanilla-y deliciousness for a pre-breakfast snack.

And for breakfast.

And again for lunch.

Now the cake is gone and I have to have carrots and lettuce and cucumber for dinner. Too bad. I could have gone for a nice big slice of cake. Guess I'll have to wait for the next birthday.

Poor eyes

My functional smart-looking chunky brown plastic glasses broke about two months ago when the frame over one of the lenses snapped.

At first I was too busy to try to get them fixed so I kept wearing them, hoping the lense wouldn't fall out.

Three glasses repair shops said they couldn't do anything to put them back together, but the fourth shop was much more helpful. The worker melted the plastic and squished the frame together until it held. It's just a temporary fix, he said, but it could last a few months.

So now it's time to make a decision.

Glasses cost me about $650 a pair and usually last 3-5 years. Contacts and I don't get along well, but I still buy them and they cost about $200 for two years because I barely ever wear them.

That would add up to an estimated $1050 every four years. In 12 years, if the costs stayed the same, I would have paid enough for laser eye surgery.

$3,000 is a lot to pay for something that might not work, could leave me blind, or could stop working after a few years. It's also a lot to pay considering I'm really cheap to start with, unemployed, and in debt to the government.

It's quite a big risk, but I would really love to see my alarm clock when I wake up in the morning, to stop needing to clean my glasses every few minutes, and to be able to go swimming without worrying my contacts will get lost in my eye sockets.

I think I'll go glasses shopping today and see if I find a pair I can't live without. That would make my decision easier.

(photo courtesy of The Photographer)

Standard badness

Somedays it's embarrassing to be me. Like today, for example.

I was driving on a major road (that's me in the silver car with the 'X' on the roof) when all of a sudden the light turned red.

That may not be a crisis situation for most drivers, but for a regular staller like myself it sure is.

There was construction blocking one of the lanes and I wasn't turning, so there was only one lane for me to be in. Two cars were ahead of me waiting for the light to change, and when it did they drove right through. I tried to follow and stalled.

And stalled again.

And again.

And maybe another time, but I can't remember because my mind is already trying to repress the incident.

There were about four cars that passed me -- illegally in the right hand turning lane, I might add -- before I was finally able to get started. And by that time, the light was yellow, seconds before turning red again.

The moral of the story is don't ever get into my car. Ever.

Papa bear's lessons

I just sold out by accident.

I clicked on the 'okay' button to agree to the AdSense terms and conditions, expecting another page to come up asking for my personal information. But that next page didn't come up and now I have random ads on my blog and have no say on what they're selling.

.

Time to write a frantic e-mail, I suppose.

Let this be a lesson to you, little bear: don't click on things you don't agree with.

Ode to stinky

Here's a little snipet that sums up the relationship the photographer and I have:

As I was heading out the door on the way to the Big Interview, my sister called out, "Bye. Good luck."

Confused, I turned, looked at her and asked, "Are you serious?"

Maybe there is such a thing as too much sarcasm afterall.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The photographer and I were talking yesterday about vegetarianism.

The conversation went something like this:

Photographer: "Why won't you stop being stupid and start eating eggs?"

Me: "Why don't you stop being such a disgusting carniverous beast?"

Photographer: "I just really think you should start eating mass-marketed food. That's what it's designed for. If you cared about the natural environment, you would prove it by not eating it. You need to stop digging up carrots and eating them; that's cruel to the earth."

Me: "Huh?"

Beautiful shoes, beastly feet

See, I told you my feet are hideous. My sister, the photographer, cropped the shot to give the finger toes minimal exposure.

But what gorgeous too-small shoes, no?!

Welcome to the playground

The big kids just called to see if I want to come out and play.

And I sure do.

Big interview at 3:00.

Stay tuned.

*********************************************************

The interview went really well.

Fingers crossed tightly.

I need to apply for some other random jobs to take the edge off in case I don't get this one.

Je deteste

1. when older men wear shorts, sneakers and navy-blue socks pulled half-way up their calves.

2. when people write lol, lma, omg, btw, c u l8er, and all other ghastly non-dictionary approved abbreviations. 'Etc.' is still allowable provided it is spelled etc. and not ect.

3. when I'm chewing gum and accidentally bite my tongue. (This happens remarkably often.)

4. when I sign release forms for people and they use them for the agreed upon purpose which I haven't read. (I didn't know you were going to put my pictures up on the internet, Lonely Photographer, and I am shocked and appalled -- unless you win the photo contest, in which case I'll forgive you after you give me your winnings.)

5. when I make a new blog friend and he disappears after making me like him. (That's you, carino parasite.)

6. when I convince myself that the last gorgeous pair of on-sale shoes fits even though they're a full size too small and I can only wear them while sitting.

7. when people in movies always fall in love/ get married/ run off into the sunset together. Once in a while, one of the main characters should die, like in Titanic. I really wish this would've happened in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Matthew Hay would have been so much more likeable if he had been tragically wounded in a motorcycle crash while driving across that crowded bridge.

Then the movie wouldn't be so 'they meet, they're attracted to each other, oh wait, his ex-girlfriend likes him too/ her parents don't like him/ one or both is caught lying, the guy dances around and makes a fool of himself, the girl cries, they realize they're madly in love and kiss while convieniently on a yacht in the twilight drinking champagne.'

8. learning to drive standard and stalling in front of police cars, guys in nice trucks, frustrated old men in parking lots, kids younger than me driving their own cars while laughing, etc.

9. sweaty feet.

Brokeback Mounties*

The cutest male gay couple is getting married next month. They are Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers and have been dating the last eight years. They will be the first gay police couple to get married in Canadian history.

Looks like the Mounties always get their men.*

*I didn't come up with either of these jokes; they were both on the news. That can't be very politically correct, can it?

Embarrassingly lazy

1. After walking in the mud, I kicked off the sandals I was wearing and left them on the porch, intending to clean them off later that day. Four years later, they're still waiting. And I loved them. They were my favorites.

2. When I do my laundry, I leave it in the laundry room because it's sooo much work carrying it back upstairs to my room. I will run down two flights of stairs every morning and back up with the day's outfit. Or, if I'm feeling especially lazy or rushed, I'll just get dressed in the laundry room.

3. I threw out all the letters the university has been sending about my upcoming graduation because the papers were boring and confusing. I have every intention of going to the ceremony, so I suppose I should let the office know soon. But will I?

4. When I was about 14, I hit my head on the trunk of a car (long story) and got a pretty bad headache. I came home and went to bed but I kept waking up needing to throw up. Instead of running to the washroom, I just leaned over the side of my bed and puked on the carpet. At least three times. Needless to say, my mom wasn't very impressed. She also wasn't happy when I ripped the uncleanable carpet out of my room and decided to go with the always popular plywood and nails flooring option.

Okay, now it's your turn....

In memorium

I'd like the memory of me

to be a happy one.

I'd like to leave an after glow

of smiles when life is done.

.

I'd like to leave an echo

whispering softly down the ways

of happy times and laughing times

and bright and sunny days.

.

I'd like the tears of those who grieve

to dry before the sun

of happy memories I leave

when life is done.

- author unknown

.

I went to high school with Ashley and in the fall after we graduated, she died. We were never really friends, but in a school with a graduating class of about a hundred every knows everyone. And everyone certainly knew Ashley.

She was the popular one, the one everyone wanted to be, the one whose future was absolutely unlimited. She was so beautiful and so bubbly. Six years later, I still remember how her nose wrinkled up when she laughed.

Our chemistry teacher did her eulegy and read this inscription from Ashley's yearbook: "Everyone hates Ashley because she has no zits and no hips." You could watch her for hours and not find fault with her.

For six years she has been laying in a box underground after a car accident stole her away. I wish I could know that she's happy and having a great time floating around in the sky. I wish I could know that she knows I care. I wish I knew that heaven exists.

I miss you and your beautiful soul.

Puppy puke

I was climbing upstairs just now because it seems like I should be dressed by 1:38. One stair had a fun visual waiting for me. I would take a picture of it for you, but I might throw up.

Resting near the railing was a little pile of bubbly foam with several inch-long pieces of grass. Little Faunty's dog had puked up his dinner.

I'm so glad that I don't own anything capable of producing vomit besides my own innards.

The things I do for fondue

I was an old married suburban mother of four on Friday night.

One of my friends hosted a card-making party and lured me there with the promise of a chocolate fondue. And I never say no to fondue. Never.

A "professional" card-maker came to teach my friend and the ladies present how to stamp the proper word onto the proper card and how to properly layer the pre-cut paper.

I only lasted about five minutes following the proper instructions, before I got in trouble for doing one of my cards the wrong way. I guess I'm too A.D.D. ish to follow rigid instructions. Also, I might be wrong, but I thought the point of making homemade cards was to give them a personal, non-generic touch.

(Please note that I'll be annoyed if anyone compliaments me on these cards. All I did was glue and cut what the lady told me to.)

Soon enough the repression was over, the card lady left, and the fondue fun started. Delicious.

Also delicious was the midnight cheap-theater movie a few of us went to afterwards. We went to Failure to Launch just to see Matthew Mik-Conna-Hay. (Why didn't he change his last name to something like Hay to make things easier for the illiterate?) The movie was not so good, the close-ups, exquisite.

Terrible irrational fears

I am sometimes am afraid that...

1. a bug will fly into my ear, flap around my ear canal, and die.

2. when I get a sore throat, I will talk too much, strain my larynx, and lose my voice forever. (This actually did happen to an old woman I met once. She told me she lost her voice when she was about 18 and never got back more than the tiniest whisper.)

3. my silent farts are only silent to me.

4. one of my charming stalker-y ex-boyfriends will find my blog, know it's me, and play more fun jokes on me. (An example of one of these little pranks was when the university called to make sure I wanted to drop all my classes, as per the letter "I" had sent them, one semester a few years ago.)

5. my sarcasm doesn't come across in print and everyone thinks I'm the opposite of myself.

Now that you're wondering just how pasty I am....

My sister, the photographer extrodinaire, took this lovely photo where I blend nicely into the background. (I'm not quite this see-through in regular lighting, but pretty close.)

The skinny on skin

I was reading the New York Times eariler this week and came across a story about an Asian woman who used a chemical cream to lighten her skin. Her face reacted to the lotion and is covered in blotchy patches of pink and brown and her doctor doesn't think it can be fixed.

Apparently a lot of Asian women wish their skin was lighter and try all sorts of dangerous procedures to be as pasty as possible.

I have a brown friend whose skin is only slightly darker than mine. She showed me a picture of a girl with Nicole-Kidman-ghost-white skin and was telling me how beautiful she finds transluscent skin.

We watched a few Baliwood movies and the stars are so light-skinned you can barely even tell they're brown. Meanwhile white stars dye themselves orange to look healthy(ie. Jessica Simpson). What a strange world we live in where everyone thinks they would look better if they were the opposite of themselves.

Here's to me putting on sunscreen and to you enjoying your gorgeous perma-tan.

Congratulations to me

So it's official; the internet likes me.

My profile has now been viewed over 500 times, which means I must not be boring and may, in fact, even be popular. Yipee.

Or else all it means is that I've been clicking on my own profile obsessively to the detriment of the poor mouse. (If asked, I would not necessarily be able to deny that.)

Turkish Delight

My new hair is neat. And it should wash out in 8-12 shampoos, so it's not too scary for me.





(My hair is naturally strawberry blonde -- or as I like to call it Zanzibar Sunset -- so it's three or four levels lighter than in the picture.)

I once dyed my hair so black it had a blue-ish glow. That didn't look so cute when it started to grow out, and ever since then I've been nervous about going a different colour.

I used Colour Flirt and probably bought it because of the name. Nothing like a little temporary fun :)

Help save ... everything

I made a foolish mistake when I made a donation to Red Cross shortly after the tsunami -- I gave them my mailing address.

I don't mind the Red Cross and haven't minded the few letters they've sent. The problem I have is with the other non-profit organizations they shared my address with. In the last week I've gotten letters asking me to save the marmots from extinction, help find a cure for arthritis and to protect Canadian wildlife.

Everyone wants my money, and that might make sense if I actually had any.

What bothers me about these other non-profits is that they spend money trying to convince me to help them. With more sets of address labels than I can count, several note pads, Christmas cards with pictures of endangered species on them, calenders, artwork quadrapelegics (sp) created with paintbrushes in their mouths, etc., I'm sure I've gotten more in free gifts than I donated in the first place.

While donating to the Red Cross made me feel like a good person, I feel terrible every time I keep my new presents and throw out the donor cards. I feel like I'm stealing from all these poor organizations that are trying to do good work.

Anyone want me to adopt a marmot in honour of your birthday?

"Not waving, but drowning"

I couldn't breathe this morning when I woke up, and I keep feeling like I'm suffocating.

I finished school one month and three days ago and can't figure out anything that I'm even mildly interested in doing now.

I've applied for jobs with three different organizations and thought my chances for getting one of the positions were pretty good. Now I'm worried they won't call. But I'm even more worried that they will, because I don't really want to be on contract to sit behind a desk for a year.

I have hundereds of options, but none of them make my heart race.

So here I am: 23 years old, living in my parents' house, surviving off the excess money Student Loans shared with me, and slowly drowning.

Another thing that worries me about this situation is that from the time I was 8 years old, I haven't had a favorite colour. I've tried picking one, but as much as I like green, I've never been able to commit to it. I like red, pink, orange, yellow, white, lavender, turquiose, black and even brown. I like basically every colour except vomit shades of yellow, brown and green.

I can't even make food choices when I go out to eat. Being a picky eater and a vegetarian usually only leaves me with two or three options, but it still takes a lot for me to make up my mind and once I decide on one thing, I always wish I'd ordered the other.

(Yes, this indecisiveness also transfers over to my dating life, but that's another story all together.)

If I can't even pick a favorite colour, a date, or choose between soup and a sandwich or salad and pasta, how am I ever supposed to decide on the beginning of my future?

Solace

I cried when Bush won. But at least his tyranny won't last forever.

And then the house fell down

The woman who lived here was getting renovations done on her basement. Bet this wasn't exactly in the blueprints.





You can't really tell from the picture, but one of the beams holding the house above the basement broke, letting the right side slide into the basement. The metal fence is to keep people from getting in and being crushed and there is a police man just outside the photo, making sure no one climbs over.

Flowers and muscles

Proving what a wonderful daughter I am, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some flowers for my mom this morning. Good thing there were still some left!

Outside of the store was a very attractive man selling hot dogs, so naturally my sister, the photographer, decided she desperately needed some food.

The smell of roasted flesh doesn't appeal to me, so I didn't pay much attention until my sister got back in the car and recounted a few details from her conversation with the vendor. It turns out I had interviewed the beautiful man earlier this year about his body-building career.

When we met, he was preparing for Mr. Universe and expected to place in the top ten in his weight category. (When I interviewed him he was 154 pounds, so he isn't one of those monstrous overly-muscled beasts.) I haven't found out what place he finished in, but I'm sure he did well.

It seems funny that a Mr. Universe competitior, and possibly Mr. Universe himself, is spending his Mother's Day in a mall parking lot. But what a treat for the mothers out shopping:)














(This picture is from one of the many newspaper articles about him, not from my sister's private collection. My sister is a photographer, but not the one who took this particular picture. She is convinced his right arm recieved some delicate enlargening.)

A confession

After having suffered through one of the terrible embarrassments that go along with being the first to fall asleep at a sleepover, my indignant grade-seven self displayed itself in a most unbecoming manner. (Actually I was probably in grade eight or nine, but I would rather not admit to that.)

When I awoke with my face covered in toothpaste, I was relatively certain the perpetrators were not doing me a favour by trying to clear up my teenage pimples with the drying properties attributed to certain types of toothpaste.

Instead, it seemed clear to me that the others involved were declaring their disdain for me and were prepared for war.

So I gathered my wits about me and prepared a course of action. To be deemed a sucess, I decided my plan would have to involve public humilitation and facial desecration.

As a member of the planning committee for the youth group the three of us belonged to, it was not long before an opportunity showed itself and I was given the responsibility of coming up with a series of games for the group.

After much scheming, I was ready. That night I asked one of the offenders to help me demonstrate the game, which involved licking Lifesavers and sticking them to a partner's face. The person with the most Livesavers attached would be declared the winner. Poor little Jen looked so cute with candy saliva-ed to her face.

(Sorry dear. I forgave you after that. And you too Amanda.)

Baked

My sister pushed me into the oven today.

Let me back up a bit. Our kitchen has two stoves: a medium-old one that isn't working right now, and a really old one that was used to tuck away the bread while it was rising. This oven is so old that the outside heats up whenever it's being used.

My sister, the photographer, was making cookies. I moved to grab something off the counter beside her and she, likely thinking I was moving in to grab a handful of dough, slammed her entire self back against me, and flung me against the burning-hot edges of the oven.

I let out a shriek of pain and then started laughing too hard to yell at her.

If my sister bakes a house of cookies, I sure won't be snapping off any siding or eating any gum drop windows.

Lights, camera, no action

So I'm on the on-call list for the movie about the stripper killer. I waited too long to send in my pictures and the casting director has everyone she needs for this week's filming.

The movie will take about a month to shoot, so there's a possibilty, however unlikely, that I could still be in it.

But for now I'm an extra for a boxing movie. Nowhere near as exciting, but it could be fun anyway. What do people wear to boxing matches? Jeans and t-shirts with mustard stains?

Last night the rain spoke to me

- by Mary Oliver


Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,

what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again

in a new way
on the earth!
That's what it said
as it dropped,

smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches

and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing

under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,

and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment,
at which moment

my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars

and the soft rain.




forgiveness sometime in 2005











(I cut the poem off three lines early, but I think it's more beautiful this way.)

Backwards sacrifice

I don't usually do anything for Lent because I always regret giving up chocolate and never make it all the way until Easter without losing my resolve.

But this year was different. A lot of the girls in my class were going on a rigid diet and others were committing to all sorts of self deprivation. So I chose to give up something too -- my scale.

Instead of being obsessed with my weight, I decided to ignore it, be happy and see what would happen. About half way to Lent I started to worry about what kind of catastrophe I was headed for. I started to panic and Easter took a very long time to arrive this year.

But when I finally weighed myself, the numbers were exactly the same as they had been earlier.

Somewhere along those 40 days I stopped caring about how much I was eating and let myself relax. Now I eat whenever I want to and have as much ice cream as I feel like having, but without even trying to discipline myself I've stopped getting carried away. I've stopped seeing treats as proof of weakness and started to enjoy them for what they are.

And I'm finally becoming healthy.

Temporary decision

I tested out a sociology class this morning and loved it.

The prof is cute, young and seems really nice. She was wearing beige beaded sandals, denim capris, a bright blue tank top, and a wildly-patterned long spring jacket. She was wearing huge silver rings and beaded braclets and had sunglasses resting on her fake blond, fake curly hair. She looks so eccentric and her teaching style matches the way she looks.

And it doesn't hurt that she loves me already. I approached her after class to see if I could write a newspaper feature instead of doing the big essay everyone else has to do. She agreed in a second and was impressed by the topic I chose.

Now all I have to do is convince the paper I interned for to buy it from me and my summer class will have paid for itself. I really like school, and free school is even better!


Update:

It turns out that this class is less of a sociological look at gender constructs and more of a feminist recruitment camp. I am technically a feminist because I believe in equality, but I'm not particularly interested in learning how disadvantaged I am being a white female in a wealthy country.

The sad part of dropping the class is not being able to see the rest of the prof's sandal collection. Yesterday she was wearing flat, thin-soled sandals with tiny pink straps. They were gorgeous.

Decisions by default

I'm terrible at making decisions. I always wait until it's too late to pick one thing and end up stuck with the other. Now that my decisions could shape the way the rest of my life turns out, the choices are that much harder.

Here are just a few of the options (in no order at all):

- work for a crappy newspaper in a small town long enough to get some good clippings and a few years experience before getting hired on contract for a better paper

- join with an environmentally-friendly group on a one-year contract to write, edit and get government and corporate donations for a book of advice on local environmental options

- go anywhere in Asia and teach English
(I don't really like the idea of being a teacher, but the return flight and accomodations are paid for and the pay on top of that isn't bad.)

- try to convince a production company to hire me to do some shooting

- go anywhere in Africa and volunteer, spending all the leftover student loan money on a flight and appealing for intrest relief for the rest of my life

- get a Master's Degree in English since I aleady have a minor and could go straight into the Master's program

- get a Master's Degree in sociology because I love it, even though I would have to take probably another year of classes before getting into the Master's program

I have to pick something, and soon. I feel like I'm being smothered by all these choices and I don't want to pick the wrong one. Summer classes start tomorrow and I might take one just to buy me a few more weeks of decisionlessness.

Why no one thinks I'm an artist

(...And why I disagree.)



untitled April 2006




judgment August 2005




unspeakable




peas sometime 2005



The reasons I like my so-called art are the same reasons no one else likes it.

I love scribbling, using the brightest colours in the box - that's right, the crayon box, having a picture finished withing 15 minutes of starting, and having secret, likely incomprehensible, meanings for each one.

So you may think they are amatuer and childish, but I like them best that way.

My best kid (part 2); also known as the horrible walk

My baby sister and I went for a walk today at dusk. It was a beautiful evening with a light, but warm breeze.

We took our other sisters' two dogs with us, which was, as always, a horrible mistake. Every time we take the dogs for a walk, one or both of them ends up getting away. She has trouble holding on to their leashes; I think it's funny to let them go and watch her catch them. (These are clearly not the most well-behaved dogs around, and I am clearly not the best big sister.)

We hasn't been walking more than three minutes when the inevitable happened; she let go of the bad one's leash. He took off down the street and headed to a busy road. We chased him, calling him, but with no success.

Did I mention that this little bad beast has a fascination with cars? He barks at them and runs directly towards them, always aiming for the wheels.

A car came by, as always happens when this dog is on the loose. And had the driver not been so alert, the problem of this dumb dog could have been resolved. (I don't really mean that; he's stupid, but still cute and sweet.) We fianlly caught him and continued on the walk.

Then my sister began complaining that her foot was hurting. Turns out she had a mean blister. So, being wise, I suggested she take off her shoes and walk on the side of the road. She couldn't handle the little gravel bits and began walking in the grass.

Soon she stepped on a thistle. I was trying to pick the spikes out from the bottom of her foot when we were surrounded by a cloud of mosquitoes. She is terrified of mosquitoes because they always bite her.

So she asked me to pick her up, since she couldn't walk on her blistery, thistley foot, and carry her home. I held her, her shoes and the dog leashes and set off for home, trying to run faster than the mosquitoes could fly. Finally we made it back to safety.

Poor kid; her mosquitoe bites and blister are still bothering her.

But it wasn't so bad for me: I came away from the adventure with zero mosquito bites (they hate my vegetarian blood) and a ridiculous story. Not too bad for a night of babysitting.

My best kid (part 1)

My eight-year-old sister came and sat next to me on the couch today and looked ready to start a serious conversation.

"Guess how much sex I have?" she asked.

"Guess how much what?" I asked, trying to stay rational. She couldn't have said what I thought she said. Could she???

"How much sacks I have," she said, getting impatient with me and pulling her little pink purse out from behind her back.

When I still looked confused, she reached into her purse and pulled out two drawstring bags of change. Sacks of change.

Phew. I'm not going to be ready for that conversation for at least 10 more years. Actually that's still too soon. Maybe when she's 30.

Fat face (graphic and potentially disturbing)

On Thursday I watched silver tools flash while a woman cut my jaw open, digging for my last wisdom tooth that lay beneath the surface of the gum.

Normally the dentist prefers to wait until the tooth starts to come through the gums, but mine needed to be taken out sometime and my insurance is quickly running out.

So the dentist cut my jaw open, found the tooth, which, by the way, was the same size as the middle bone in my pinky, and began to wrestle with it.

One of my roots was wrapped around my jaw bone, anchoring it into place so she couldn't get it loose. So there was a lot of drilling, where I had the unfortunate experience of swallowing some tiny flecks of bone, a lot of gross sounds, a resounding crack when she broke my tooth in half, a lot of, "Are you okay, dear? You're doing great," and finally it was over.

The end of my long and bitter battle with giant teeth and a tiny jaw is here. Or it will be when the swelling is gone.

My favorite book (at least for today)

One Hundred Wishes, by Rohan Candappa, is a fantastic little piece of sunshine. Candappa devotes a page to each wish he has for his loved ones, and I'd like to pass some of those smiles on to you.

"I wish that no matter how much it rains your socks never get wet."

"I wish you a kiss in the moonlight from someone you love."

"I wish that no one ever makes you eat brussel sprouts again."

"I wish you friends that love you for who you are."

"I wish you a mountain to climb and the will to do it."

"I wish you the strength to see the opportunities in your adversities."

"I wish you a big squashy sofa with a cat sleeping on its arm."

"I wish that you see that beauty lies in the shadows as well as in the sun."

"I wish that you find your own path through the forest."

"I wish that whenever you draw you fill the page and use all the colours."

"I wish you the abandon to dance badly at weddings."

The one where Faunty is right

One of my sisters, the one that's in her third year of university, recently lost an argument with her friends, in which she said: "Capitalism causes hurricanes."

It may be easy to laugh at initially, but it's true.

Capitalism causes:
-global warming*
-sweatshops
-terrorism (indirectly)
-tsunamis
-toxic waste
-the depletion of natural resources
-hopelessness
-unsafe exploitation of nuclear power (particularly in Saskatchewan, which has the third largest uranium deposit in the world)
-famine and disease in Africa and other poor countries
-overpopulation in third world countries
-unsustainable growth in wealthy countries
-hatred
-foolish waste
-drought
-homelessness (in wealthy countries)
-unemployment ( " " ")
-a sense of entitlement in the wealthy (and by wealthy I mean anyone who can access the internet)
-disenfranchisment of minorities
-illegal wars
-genetically modified food
-agricultural degredation
-dairy companies being able to agressively promote cow's milk to be given to children daily, resulting in various illnesses
-soy being sold as a health food, when really it's toxic waste and actually depletes the body's protien and B vitamin stores
-government and corporate propeganda
-holes in the ozone
-uncontrollable governments
-uncontrollable poverty
-etc., etc., etc.

When people are given unlimited power to amass wealth by any means, they do it. They lie to manipulate both their customers and their sweatshop workers. They exploit others, caring only about their stock profits, and leaving the rest of the world to suffer.

And through capitalism, consumers benefit from the exploitation of those across the world, without even realizing it. Capitalism creates greed and creates a sense of inferiority in those who have less while encouraging those with more to demonstrate their wealth.

Consider this:

Would you rather make $100,000 thousand a year and have everyone else make $80,000 a year, or would you rather earn 150,000 a year if everyone else made $170,000? Even if you were able to pick the second option, wasn't it a hard choice? That insatiable desire to have more, be more and live more than others is rooted in capitalistic principles.

Money eats people's souls. And capitalism started it all.

*If you want the logic behind these comments, just ask. I have proof for each of these examples that I'd be more than happy to share.

Scarcity

In economics the idea of scarcity means that the less there is of a given product, the more consumers will be willing to pay for it and the more they will want it.

For example, the cafeteria in the newsroom I used to work for sold delicious-looking cinnamon buns. But they only made a limited number of the treats and only on specific days. Every time they made them, my coworkers would hurry to the cafeteria to snatch them up before they were gone. Several coffee break discussions centred around how decadent the cinnamon buns were and how those who missed out couldn't stop droooling.

Yet there were always leftovers when it came to the equally delicious baking that made its way into the office for everyone to share.

Why this is relevant:

Since school ended I haven't found (or really even looked for) any viable means of employment, and I've had quite a bit of freetime as a result. That's why I've been able to post so much lately. And I have dozens more posts that I'm holding back so as not to flood the internet with my mundanity.

Perhaps if my posts were more scarce, they would become more valuable. Or perhaps since supply and demand always meet at a fixed point regardless of how vast the supply is, I should continue as is. I think the later is the option I will follow.

Free cinnamon buns here, and lots of them!

Irrefutably right

I love being irrefutably right -- especially when up against a worthy opponent.

A few years ago I was taking a full course load of classes when suddenly it was the end of the semester. My family had been planning on a holiday during the time I was scheduled to write my finals and, up until the weather turned gorgeous, I didn't really care that they were leaving me behind.

But I had a severe case of spring fever, which I get each year, so I asked all my profs if I could write my exams early. All but one, a very serious, young political science instructor who taught my Canadian Politics class, agreed.

And even with all my powers of persuasion and sad eyes, I could not convince him.

So instead of writing my final papers, I tried to come up with something to convince him. Finally brilliance struck when I was reading a copy of the Canadian Constitution. This prof was very Kant-ian; he loved rules, lived by rules, and shared that strange passion in each class.

So I wrote him a letter, explaining how he was personally breaking the rules of the country in refusing to let me write the exam early. I explained how he was unconsitutionally limiting my rights to associate with those of my choosing (ie. my family), to move unimpeded across the country at will, and to gather to discuss political and religious thought (again with my family).

I sat and watched him read the letter. When he finished he turned to me, frowned, and said, "So when do you want to write the final?"

Sweet victory. And it turned out to be a lovely holiday, thank you.

Sunday School leftovers

This is my favorite verse:

"Whether you turn to the left or the right, you will hear a voice always behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." Isaiah 30:21 (Thanks for the reference P.)

I love it and am trying to live by it. If that verse were the whole Bible, it would be a religion I'd devote my entire life to.

I'm even thinking of getting a little tattoo saying "This way" on the bottom of my right foot.

Anyone know what language Isaiah was written in?

An explanation

For those of you who may be wondering what's happening to the wholesome girl you once knew, an explanation may prove useful.

Five years ago something happened that changed me forever. It made me ashamed of parts of myself, and since then I've been trying to hide them, hoping no one would ever find out.

But after years of trying to heal, trying to trust, I'm starting to come to terms with myself. (Hence the photo shoot and the movie role I want.)

So don't worry about me. I'm still oatmeal-and-bananas wholesome, just expanding and learning more about myself.

A free portfolio

Two days ago I got the casting call e-mail looking for strippers. I was mildy concerned about getting an updated, more edgy photo in to the casting director because I look more like a scholarly geek than an exotic dancer.

This morning I helped my sister out with her final project for school. I had agreed to help weeks ago, and we booked the appointment well before the e-mail.

Fortunately my sister is a photographer, and a fantastic one. She wanted me to model for her last shoot, demonstrating various lighting techniques while her instructor watched and critiqued her abilities.

She is rather conservative and didn't think it funny when I suggested she try to be in the movie too. But with music blaring in the studio and her instructor's positive feedback, she relaxed and we got some fun dancing around pictures. There may or may not be a few photos our mother won't approve of!

The shoot lasted almost two hours and was quite fun. I'll have to see if I can figure out how to post a few shots.



That wasn't so hard after all. So there I am, on the internet.

Lower the flag -- either for the soldiers or for the country we once had

Anyone else find it creepy that Harper is trying to censor reporting on the Canadian soliders being killed while on "peacekeeping" duties?

If our country, a free and democratic society, allows the government to censor what's going on, it is acting as a dictatorship. We have the right to free speech, to celebrate the lives of those who died fighting to make the world a better place, and to know what the government is doing and why.

To send a letter to Harper and other party leaders, go to Ceasefire.ca/ActionCentre and click on "Fallen Soldiers."

Extremely dangerous intense pose

Yoga is supposed to be relaxing. It's supposed to be peaceful and filled with gentle but strong movements.

So I think it's safe to say that I was not actually doing yoga the other day. After having done a series of sun salutations, I was feeling quite bendy. So I decided to show off and impress my least flexible, inactive sister.

There's a pose, probably called something deep and meaningful like "hand-foot pose" where you bend over to touch your toes. Then you keep bending forward, lift your toes and slid your hands underneath. Ideally, your hands should be so far under your feet that your toes meet your wrists.

So there I was, bent in half with my hands under my feet. (In case you think I'm freakishly bendy, I'm not; I have to bend my knees to do that.) I called my sister to watch in awe, and wiggled my feet around to make the stretch even more impressive-looking.

And at that moment, I fell over. And my hands were under my feet, so I had nothing but one knee to break my fall. Now my knee is skinned and my pride also lost a layer.

It's a funny job, but somebody has to do it

A few years ago one of my sisters and I sent our pictures to a local production company that was looking for extras. I got called to act in a true-crimes story about a prison escapee who had stolen a car, crashed it in a ditch and flagged down a woman who was actually an off-duty cop. The woman felt bad for the man and offered him a ride -- little did she know it would be at gun point. She drove until her car needed gas and he directed her to pull into a service station. He took her keys from her and went to pay for the gas. But she, very conveniently, had another key in her purse. She locked her car and drove off to call for help.

What a cool woman. Of course I said yes when they asked me to play her character. But when I was stitting in a freezing car with a gun pointed at my chest (it was supposed to be pointed at my head, but the barrel was too long for the car and the shot had to be adjusted accordingly) and my window rolled down so the camera man could shoot inside the car, I hated it. Making movies is suppossed to be glamourous (ourous?), not miserable.

But today I got an offer too funny to resist sharing. Here are a few excepts from the e-mail the casting director sent looking for extras for another true-crime story :

"[W]hat we are looking for is a bit harder for me to find...well that is a lie...it is a bit harder for me to ask!!! We will be needing a lot of women, who are in their 20's and well ...here is where it gets hard...we need them to be strippers, well to portray strippers."

"Of course it goes with out saying that everyone will be clothed while we are filming but the clothing at times will not be church clothing if you get what I mean!"

"So I don't want to call up a young lady and say "Hey you look like you could be a stripper?!?!?!?", so I am putting out a call to anyone who would be comfortable portraying a stripper on set."

Initially I thought this was dumb and immediately dismissed the idea. But it's so funny. Almost too funny to pass up. And I love funny.

Here's an example of what I'm willing to do for funny:

Last summer, I volunteered to be a mascot for a big sporting event, just for laughs. I dressed up as a huge deer and danced around giving out hugs and high fives and stealing hats. I played basketball with some kids and, when I got hit in the head because they thought I saw out of the deer's plastic eyes, not out of its mesh mouth, I pretended to be in great pain, writhing on the ground. I didn't know there were photographers there, but the next day my big white-tailed bum was in the newspaper.

So I'm having a real dilemma about this "acting" opportunity. It's a potential story that I'd still be telling in the nursing home. If anyone has a problem with my wavering moral compass or my willingness to be filmed scantily clad for a whopping $7.00 an hour, please share your thoughts before it's too late!

The fourteenth minute

Despite a severe case of shaky leg, the interview went well. So well, in fact, that the host tried to recruit me.

I don't really like radio, but it was cool being in the studio with flashing lights showing how many seconds until air time and hearing the host's voice change from normal and friendly into his booming, blustering News, Weather and Sports Voice.

The doc is airing tomorrow and then our fifteen minutes of fame will be over. But I'll always look back at this part of my life and be proud of what my team created.