Joyful Noise

Apathy

2007-02-06T15:32:00.000-05:00

You know those Livestrong bracelets? Well, I have one that says Apathy. It pretty well sums up my attitude this year. I drop the apathy on occasion, but mostly it's overwhelming.

I'm even too apathetic to keep up this blog. I might start a new one eventually, but for now - in the immortal words of Cher Horowitz - I'm outie.

My Spidey Sense is tingling

2007-01-23T00:41:00.000-05:00

About a week ago, I discovered that people have been talking about me. The strange part is that they're not talking about my scandalous escapades, but my future employment. Now, I'm excited to be all new-jobified, but it's certainly not the first thing on my mind at the moment. I haven't really talked about articling since August, when interviews happened. And yet, it's January, and a variety of people mysteriously know the latest addition to my resume.

I suppose I'm flattered, and also relieved that people aren't approaching me with rumours that I got knocked up or that I killed a man, or that I killed the man who knocked me up.

In other news, the Dutch apathy followed me back to Canada. At first I thought it was merely the lingering plague. However, I can breathe with both lungs now and I still seem to be incapable of doing work. Oh, fear, why hast thou forsaken me?

Deadpan vs. the Plague

2007-01-11T18:30:00.000-05:00

My return to Canada has been marked by snow, drinking, gambling ... and the plague. The post-Law Games virus has completely taken me over, to the point where after three days of sucking it up I surrendered to the temptations of my couch and TMNOnDemand.

The plague isn't helping my adjustment to a country where I'm actually expected to do work, and attend classes more than twice a week. I think my brain cells are infected. That or I killed too many of them during Law Games.

Thank god for 3L apathy.

I'll be home for Christmas

2006-12-23T04:12:00.000-05:00

Remember that Disney movie starring Jonathan Taylor Thomas, about a teenager's wacky adventures to get home in time for Christmas? I'm no JTT, and I'm not a teenager, and this adventure isn't particularly wacky ... but what I am is still in Europe, not at home snug in my bed.

Thankfully the airline sprung for hotel rooms, so I did get some sleep, but not enough. Plus, the 7-hour wait at the gate before they finally admitted that the flight was postponed didn't do anyone any good.

Anyway, hopefully in about 10 hours I'll be in a plane that's landing on the tarmac at Pearson. Fingers crossed.

The Final Countdown

2006-12-18T21:34:00.000-05:00

My life as a globetrotter is drawing to a close. I'm a Pepsi-Max-driven bundle of emotion these days, although naturally my complete lack of facial expression disguises the thoughts churning within. And I would love to be poetic and profound about saying goodbye, but my words - like my attention span - seem to have deserted me.

And yet, I continue to write.

What will I miss? The people. The seemingly never-ending stream of new experiences. The freedom to pack a bag and go practically wherever I want, whenever I want (this near-complete absence of responsibility has been refreshing and tremendously gratifying, and my "real" life seems stultifying and dull in comparison). The overwhelming sense of history and culture. Making each new city my own, even if it's only for one day. Temporary hostel friendships. More permanent residence friendships. Self-discovery. Navel-gazing. A sense of anonymity.

What am I looking forward to? The people. Christmas. My first haircut in four months. My massive library. Sharing a kitchen with only 2 other people, instead of 43 other people. The gym. Having goals, and routines, and a semblance of a life plan. Not feeling the need to edit myself. Nerf swordfights, inside jokes, and that sense of sleek, well-loved satisfaction (like a pampered kitten) that I can only find at home. Permanent friendships. Yeah, some self-discovery and navel-gazing. A sense of being known.

Of course, mingled with the sadness of leaving and the happiness of returning home, there's the fear. As usual, the fear is primarily exam-driven; my overwhelming reluctance to abandon this two-month vacation has left me with just under 36 hours in which to learn practically an entire course. However, the fear is tempered with irritation - partly at myself, for doing next-to-nothing in the past week - but also, irrationally, at school's relentness need to reduce students to a number on a page.

In other news, my jacket was stolen on dance-off night. In my jacket pocket were the keys to my bike, and to my house. The house keys were easily replaced, but I am sans wheels. I don't mind walking - this town is really small - but every time I go downtown, I see my bike, looking forlorn that I can't unlock it. I hope someone steals it soon, so that it won't seem so reproachful every time I walk past.

Deadpan's advice for single guys

2006-12-13T06:34:00.000-05:00

Gentlemen, listen up. There's a revelation a-brewin', and it could change your life. Forget The Game ... Deadpan's brand-new, patent-pending system will make your next trip to the bar a sure-fire pick-up experience. Or, at the very least, it will make your next trip to the bar more entertaining for everyone involved.

How do I know it works? Because it worked on me, and I'm a true-blue, bona fide girl.

Forget pick-up lines. You don't even have to buy the girl a drink - although you can if you want to. There are no special skills required - just a certain ballsiness that you can, in all likelihood, fake if you don't actually have the stones. Alcohol may help you, but only if you're not falling-down drunk. Falling-down drunk doesn't help anyone.

So here it is: the one simple move that will change your romantic life forever. First, find a likely candidate. Then, make sure that some good music is playing - pay a visit to the DJ booth if you have to. It will help if your target is already on the dance floor, but it isn't necessary. In fact, the move might be more effective if executed at the bar, but unfortunately I can't speak from direct personal experience on that one.

All you have to do is challenge your girl of interest to a dance-off.

Every girl loves a challenge, especially when it comes to their dancing prowess. Me? I'm a terrible dancer. But even if my competitor had been worse than me, he would have still won me over. Because ... a DANCE-OFF! Yes, I'm pretty sure he won. We were our only judges, but he was a very good dancer. I like me a man who can dance. But more than that, I like me a man who challenges me to a dance-off. It's sexy and hilarious, and that's a deadly combination. So, guys, work on those moves. Perfect the smoky-eyed gaze. Throw in a turn or two, and she'll be eating out of your hand.

Bonus points if you challenge the girl to a dance-off in a bar that is randomly full of blonde men wearing togas.

Channelling Dick Clark

2006-12-05T18:45:00.000-05:00

I could write about the Sinterklaas party, but isn't it fun being kept in suspense? Sure it is. So instead, I will share with you all the soundtrack to my life ... or, "if my life was a movie, what would the soundtrack be?" Yup, putting my 61 hours of music on shuffle, and playing along. It's like "Random Rules" on The Onion AV Club, except that I don't have an iPod and I'm not famous. Oh, and I should mention that my Winamp playlist doesn't include nearly half the music I own ... but I'm too lazy to copy my hundreds of CDs onto my computer. Deal with it, and try not to judge. Unless you judge in love, in which case it's ok. You can judge because you love. I do it every day.

Opening Credits:
Cody -- Mogwai
I can only assume this would be a particularly gory shot of either a) my conception, or b) my birth. I'm going with the latter, because my parents have never told me the story of my conception (and for that I thank them profoundly). So, this dreamy slow music is the backdrop for a scene straight out of Grey's Anatomy or ER, full of distressed baby (that would be me) almost strangling to death, because my umbilical cord is wrapped around my neck, and if my mom pushes, I will die. So, cue emergency C-section, resulting in the triumphant delivery of a baby who, according to my baby pictures, bears a striking resemblance to a 3-pound, 8-ounce, drowned rat. An excellent beginning.

Waking up:
Nuclear War (Version 1) -- Yo La Tengo
Well, my mornings (or afternoons, of late) bear little resemblance to nuclear war, but, as Yo La Tengo so eloquently sings, "it's a motherfucker", and "your ass got to go". Which is usually what is running through my head when I wake up. And the lyric "so push that button" could refer to my incessant stabbing at the snooze button. All in all, a catchy way to start the day.

First Day at High School:
One Blood -- k-os
I don't think I was into hip hop on my first day of high school - in fact, i was almost certainly not, because i was waaaay too nerdy to be into hip hop. However, i like this music for my first day of high school, because i think it encapsulates the nerves and unease of the first day of high school - not least because i wound up sitting next to my grade's Certifiably Insane Girl. An auspicious beginning.

Falling In Love:
Only Heart -- John Mayer
Ok, I told you not to judge me. Sometimes I feel the need for sappy pop music that pretends to be angsted out ... which is actually perfect for my first love. Love in high school should be accompanied by John Mayer, don't you think? So far, so good.

Fight Song:
Goodnight L.A. -- Counting Crows
Well, this would really be a better break-up song ... but I can see this working for a fight scene, especially because I've never really been in a physical fight. This could be a catfight scene, where I'm pissed off at some random girl, and we happen to be having a sleepover, and it starts with hair-pulling and screaming and degenerates into a pillow/tickle fight ... and it would be all slow-mo, for the boys in the audience. Because who doesn't love a good slow-mo tickle fight? Of course, the only times I have intentionally inflicted physical pain on someone are: 1) kicking my friend's little brother in the balls, in grade 3, and 2) slapping my friend across the face (pretty hard) at Wasaga Beach, when we were about 13 ... but he asked me to. I don't remember why. This song could work as the backdrop to either of those scenes. Or, if we wanted to really milk the angst, this could be my fight song for my reaction to the news that my parents were splitting up ... that reaction being a very drunken first year of university. Dreamy lyrics about not getting enough love betraying the truth in the tequila benders and random make-outs at the Ridout (R.I.P. Slide-out)? Perfect.

Breaking Up:
What's the Frequency Kenneth? -- REM
Again, I like it, partly because I'm usually the one doing the breaking up ... so the whole "I never understood the frequency" and the final "don't fuck with me" is somewhat apropos. Hmmm, I wonder if I'm a bad girlfriend? Nah, I'm awesome ... until I dump the guy, that is.

Prom:
I'll Fly Away - Kanye West
Huh, I don't remember quasi-gospel being played at my prom ... but I remember wearing long white satin gloves, a maroon dress and matching lipstick to my prom, so I'll take it. Actually, that wasn't my final prom, but I'll take it anyway.

Life:
22: The Death of all the Romance -- The Dears
Well, that's a little depressing, because I'm past 22 and I sincerely hope that all of the romance in my life is NOT dead. But I really like this song, and I think it's kind of reflective of people blithely ignoring various elements in their lives ... plus, it's kind of a kicky tune, with lots of great layering, and the over-the-topness that is great about the Dears, so I'm ok with it.

Mental Breakdown:
Religion -- Bif Naked
Perfect. Seriously, perfection. If I ever totally wig out and someone happens to film the men in white coats coming to take me away, I hope this song is playing for the padded-white-cell-montage. It's all ragey, but in a still-controlled way, which is the way I'd like to enjoy my mental breakdown. Plus, the song is almost 13 minutes long, which means it has a hell of a build - the way any good breakdown should.

Driving:
Lua -- Bright Eyes
I don't actually drive, but this song conjures visions of me driving aimlessly through suburbia at dusk in a Green VW bug, and I like it.

Flashback:
Stutter -- Elastica
Huh, I didn't know I had this song on my computer. It's probably a flashback to high school, so this song fits. It's kind of Veruca Salt, and it could totally work in a flashback to a party - maybe the post-prom party, with the mixing of many substances and the invention of so very many inside jokes ... or the infamous Montreal trip, with such memorable lines as "excuse me, people are trying to SHOWER in here". Yup, perfect.

Getting Back Together:
Papa Don't Preach -- Madonna
Well, apparently we're getting back together because I got knocked up ... but it's ok, because we're really in love. Awww.

Wedding:
Little Room -- The White Stripes
I'm not sure I want my wedding documented by a song that's less than 60 seconds long, but maybe it's a wedding montage. I do love me a good montage. Plus, if the bridesmaid's dresses are really hideous (and I would not put it past myself to choose pink taffeta, because it's hilarious), you wouldn't have to look at them for very long.

Birth of Child:
Mysterious Ways -- U2
This totally works in that whole "the miracle of life" way. Plus, maybe it's a sign that Johnny Depp is the father of my baby. I could deal with that.

Final Battle:
President of What? -- Death Cab for Cutie
Well, this isn't really battle music. But if my final battle was a crusade against an army of tiny robots (which, by the way, I would love), then it's good battle music.

Death Scene:
We Both Go Down Together -- The Decemberists
Awww, my death is all cheerful-sounding! Plus, it sounds like someone's going down with me - my love, no less - which I kind of enjoy. Who said everyone dies alone?

Funeral Song:
Like Herod -- Mogwai
Apparently everyone at my funeral is going to be confused and slightly terrified. I don't even really like this song, because I have to turn it up real loud for the quiet bits - which, while quiet, aren't exactly funereal - and then have a minor heart attack and flail about for the volume control when Mogwai decides to get all punk rock with the electric guitars. Oh well, maybe it means that in the movie of my life, all of my loved ones will be quietly weeping away, and then their grief will overwhelm them, and they will have to flail about, rending their garments and pounding their chests. OH! Or, EVEN BETTER, this is my funeral music and it's all creepy and shocking because I'M A ZOMBIE, and I burst out of my coffin in search of braaaaains. Yesss. I knew my love of zombie movies wouldn't let me down. Everyone at my funeral IS going to be confused and slightly terrified.

End Credits:
Shine -- Collective Soul
I've got nothing against this song, but it's kind of meh. Actually, that's kind of good for the credits. You won't mind sticking around to see who the best boy and key grip are this time, but if you want to meander back to daylight, this song will see you on your way. Plus, if the movie of my life has just ended with a zombie funeral, I kind of like the irony in "heaven let your light shine down".

Santa has slaves

2006-12-04T07:52:00.000-05:00

For the past five years, I have been sick during the holiday season. Of course, I usually have a cold or two before Christmas rolls around, but this year I thought my luck was changing. I foolishly thought that maybe, just maybe, I could get home without being sick once. Obviously, I was wrong. And, to make matters worse, I'm sick just in time for the holidays ... the holiday in this case being Sinterklaas.

Sinterklaas happens on St. Nick's Eve, and is remarkably like Christmas Eve, only 19 days earlier and with shades of racism. Fun times! Have a seat on the carpet around the rocking chair, and I'll tell you the story of Sinterklaas and his Black Petes. No, I'm not making this up.

A long time ago, in a place far far away, there was a man called St. Nicholas. He lived in Spain - which is not so far away as, say, the North Pole, but there you have it. One day, he decided to travel by boat to the Netherlands, where he would give gifts to all of the nice Dutch children. Of course, naughty Dutch children get nothing. However, there are so many nice Dutch children that St. Nick - or Sinterklaas, as he's known in the Netherlands - couldn't distribute all of the gifts himself. That's why he brings Zwart Piet, or Black Pete, with him. Legend has it that Black Pete is one of the following:
a) The devil, who was captured and became Sinterklaas's slave on Dec. 5th, or
b) An imported African slave.

I'm not making this up.

That's why, wherever I go these days, I see grown men who have painted themselves black and dress up kind of like giant jesters. It's all very strange, but nobody bats an eye. I know that the idea of elves carries its own negative connotations, but to me there's just nothing like Black Pete.

Our student house is having a Sinterklaas party tomorrow night, complete with Secret Santa gifts and candy. Of course, with everything coming up holidays, I'm starting to make my Christmas list for my family (yes, we do lists. It's all horribly materialistic, but it saves guesswork.). Most of my list will be CDs, DVDs and books - but I found a hilarious gift that I kind of want. I won't add it to the list, due to the ridiculous factor, but y'all know how much I love to nap. As it turns out, there is a $60 pillow specifically designed for napping. Check it out: it's the PowerNAP pillow!

Damn, I'm out of Kleenex. This requires a trip to the grocery store. I wonder if fudge will make me feel better? Only one way to find out ...

Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years

2006-12-01T18:33:00.000-05:00

It's hard to know what to say after you've been gone for awhile. Time passes, stuff happens, but how do you sum that up? How do you possibly encapsulate a month of travelling in a single blog post?

Answer: you don't. You don't even try, because you are in full slacker mode, and you don't get out of bed until 1 pm and even then you take a nap at 6 because you have nothing better to do with your time. Even though you have an exam in 3 weeks and a paper to write. Except that you have never once in your life studied for an exam 3 weeks in advance - oh, maybe in law school, but that's just pretending to make summaries while really you watch Iron Chef marathons or entire seasons of Buffy. And the paper, even though it must be 18 pages long and you don't really know what it will be about, and no mom it will not write itself, can wait another day. Especially because you just rented an Edward Norton movie and nothing is better than Ed Norton without a shirt. Also, the paper has no due date.

I went to a lot of places. They were all nice. Some were nicer than others, but everywhere lived up to the hype. I saw an opera in Vienna, I climbed countless spiral staircases. I took innumerable photos of Prague and experienced true foreigner-syndrome in Bratislava. I ate chocolate and drank beer in Brussels. I ate crepes in France and everything came drizzled in cream. I marvelled at Luxembourg's incredibly high minimum wage and navigated our way around Normandy many a time in the dark.

I came home and promptly watched as much TV as I could handle. I am pickling my brain. I don't think I'm done yet. I got hooked on Battlestar Galactica and wondered if my love affair with Heroes was over - but it's not. For once I am the one at home while my friends travel, and it's kind of delightful. I think my muscles are beginning to atrophy. I love that you never forget how to ride a bike. I love that the random Dutch law firm didn't charge me anything to commission my Bar Ads documents. I love being away but I also love that Christmas is coming and it's almost time to go home.

I went to the real London and got a little homesick. For the first time in 3 months I had sushi, and indian food, and proper chinese food, and I loved it. It seems like all I do is eat. More importantly than the food, I also saw old friends, which was lovely and reminds me that the only thing I really miss over here are the people who really know me. I love that things can be the same even when you haven't seen someone in over a year.

They say a change is as good as a rest, and I think they might be right.

Luxury is a double bed and heavy cream

2006-11-02T16:47:00.000-05:00

I'm currently in Luxembourg with my mother and my aunt. This means that I'm sleeping in a double bed for the first time in 2 months, and oh man is it sweet. It also means that I'm eating more than usual and exercising less than usual - which is saying a lot, because I exercise rarely and eat a fair amount. The food here is ridiculous though - so much heavy cream that I feel like I'm about to explode. Yup, food coma. Kind of awesome, kind of gross.

Today we walked around Luxembourg City. I have a bunch of pictures that I'll upload eventually, but I neglected to bring my USB cord with me, so for now just use your imagination, or the internet. We saw some churches, spent a few hours in a pretty awesome museum, and then we wandered around the casements of a 1,000-year-old castle/fortress thing. Luxembourg is really pretty - all of my pictures look like postcards.

Tomorrow we're driving through a valley that apparently has 7 castles in it. I swear every city in Luxembourg has a castle, or the ruins of one. Following that we're driving to Epernay, which is in the Champagne region of France. Then on Saturday we're headed to Normandy, where there is much to do. We'll be staying near the town where Joan of Arc died, and where the heart of Richard the Lionhearted is kept. We'll also be visiting Paris and Versailles.

I would write funny stories but my belly is too full and my brain is too empty. Hilarity and pictures to follow.

It's 3 am I must be lonely

2006-10-25T23:38:00.000-04:00

Ok, it's not 3 am anymore. But it was when I wrote this post - Blogger just happened to not be working at that point in time. Pretend it's 3 am.

Remember when Matchbox 20 was on the radio all the time, before Rob Thomas embarked on his one-hit-wonder solo career? I know he's married to a supermodel and all, but I just don't think he's pretty enough or talented enough to generate huge outpourings of sorrow if his career never goes past that song with the line "I don't wanna be lonely no more, I don't wanna have to pay for this" - I have no idea what the rest of the song is about, but that line just makes him sound like one of those creepy guys who goes to the Red Light District in Groningen instead of Amsterdam.

Yes, Groningen has its very own Red Light District. I see it whenever I ride my bike to the train station. It's small and creepy and while I haven't gone into it properly, I have to wonder if the ladies are doing well. I'm sure a window costs less to rent here than in Amsterdam.

Also, I can't quite get over the daytime hooker concept. You gotta give the girls in the windows at 10 am some extra credit. Even some afternoon delight seems more ... acceptable than a 9 am quickie with a complete stranger.

Anyway, I'm getting totally sidetracked. The point of my title wasn't Rob Thomas, or prostitution, but the fact that I am, once again, pulling an all-nighter. There's just something about school that makes me incapable of sleep when exams roll around. I was well prepared for my exam on Tuesday, and still couldn't sleep until 4:30 a.m. This time, I'm under-prepared (although looking at past exams takes some of the fear away), and so there will be no sleep tonight. Story of my life. Right now I thank god for the insomnia. I'm sure I'll be sleepy come 9:00, but since I'll be writing my exam at that time I'm counting on the adrenaline to kick in.

Right, 3:30. 4.5 hours of study time remaining until I hit the showers and gear up. Then 2 hours of feverish writing, a nap, and right back into studying. I hate back-to-back exams. I especially hate back-to-back closed-book exams. Hello, Netherlands? I know you've got a civil system and all, but that doesn't mean that your lawyers have to memorize the entire freaking BW (the Dutch civil code).

Here's to pass-fail.

And then, one lucky girl's dreams began to come true

2006-10-22T08:14:00.000-04:00

It's finally here. And by "here" I mean "ready to pre-order".

Today is a day for rejoicing.

Surreal/So real

2006-10-21T05:05:00.000-04:00

As some of you know, I'm not at my best in the morningtime. It takes me a little while to shake off sleep, and usually until I get my first hit of caffeine or fresh air I stumble around like a zombie - a zombie without the overwhelming desire to eat brains.

The other day, I woke up at 7:30 for some reason, and promptly stumbled my way into the kitchen for a hit of caffeine and sugar. Breakfast that day was the appallingly un-nutritious gem of Nutella on toast. The Dutch put chocolate sprinkles on toast and call it breakfast though, so maybe Nutella isn't so bad. Plus, all those commercials say it's good for you, or that it gives your kids energy, or something. I mean, sure, it gives your kids energy because of the sugar high, and it's part of a complete breakfast where the other parts are milk, orange juice, bacon and eggs ... but it's still breakfast.

Anyway, the cleaning guy was in the kitchen, and somehow missed the classic signs that I was in morning badger mode - all scruffy, with claws at the ready and eyes asquint, waddling and stumbling along. Are badgers graceful? I don't think so. So, Mr. Cleaning Man - who's plenty nice and all, but it was 7:30 in the morning - decided that it was an opportune time to ask me a bazillion questions about Canada. His Grandma lives there, which is nice, and he should visit her like a good grandson - but the last thing I wanted to be doing was providing a list of tourist attractions in Toronto.

This morning I woke up at 10:00, a far more sane and reasonable hour. Of course, exam-induced insomnia kept me up until 2 or 3 - not so late, but late enough that I was still groggy when I oozed my way out of bed. Thankfully there was nobody in the kitchen, so I made my giant egg-white omelette in peace, and then retreated to the common room to watch TV while my brain uncurled its neurons and set them to firing once again.

TV in the Netherlands is kind of funny. There are tons of old American shows running in syndication - Fresh Prince is on every night at 5:30, for example. While I was cooking I could hear a laugh track, and I was secretly hoping that it was, in fact, an episode of Fresh Prince - I had forgotten how awesome that show is. Uncle Phil is a gem. Anyway, I sat down and unglued my eyelids just enough to see that it was an episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Had I had more energy I might have mustered a search for the remote control, but as it was I sank into the questionable couch cushions and focused most of my attention on moving fork to mouth. As time passed, I gained sufficient consciousness to comprehend what was on the screen before me ... well, kind of.

I think it was the best episode of Sabrina that could have possibly been on. Let's just say that, at the end of the episode (which I started watching with 10 minutes to go, thank god), Sabrina turned a bunch of dirty pirates into 'N Sync.

I love when my mornings start off surreal.

In other news, Degrassi High was on after Sabrina. I only watched about 3 minutes of it, because I was done eating, but I have the following things to say:
1. I miss the old Degrassi. The new one is too slick and I don't identify with the kids and their wacky problems.
2. It's probably for the best that I don't identify with the kids and their wacky problems, since I left the teenage wasteland many, many years ago.
3. I've definitely been away from home too long. The character played by Jake Epstein - who happens to be the kid brother of one of my choir friends - gets a packet of money from his abusive father. The first thing I thought when I saw the 20-dollar bills was "huh, are our twenties really green?" I anticipate reverse culture shock in a couple of months.

Excess

2006-10-16T19:42:00.000-04:00

You know that phrase "everything in moderation"? Let's just say it isn't how I live my life. I eat too much, I sleep too much. I drink too much. I study and exercise too little. While I'm currently on the detox and study train, due to looming exams, this wasn't the case a few weeks ago.

In the spirit of experiencing one another's cultures, it was decided that we should have a crayfish party. Karen (Karin?) is from Sweden, land of Ikea, crayfish and vodka. Actually, I think every land is the land of vodka, but Sweden definitely has Ikea and crayfish covered.

So, in Sweden (Finland, too), there's this tradition where people come to your house, you feed them crayfish, sing drinking songs and drink shots of vodka. It sounded like my kind of tradition, so naturally I went along.

I had never had crayfish before. They're like tiny lobsters, and they come with their heads still on, which is a little disturbing ... especially since one of the things you have to do to eat a crayfish is tear its head off. Then, if you're so inclined, you can eat the yellow goop inside the head (I'm pretty sure it wasn't brains). The Swedish call this goop "butter". I tried it, of course - "try everything once" is my food motto - and it was ok, but not my favourite part. Therefore, the evening quickly degenerated into many people asking Karen if she wanted more head.

It also, naturally, degenerated into crayfish fights.

With the vodka-drinking, the evening also rapidly deteriorated into earnest drunken conversations - mostly dirty ones. I think the head jokes took us all in a slightly sinful direction. However, the immature fun tapered off and things got serious, and the evening ended in tears - apparently not an uncommon happening at these parties. I wasn't the one crying, and I think everything is ok, but it's not my story to tell so I'll leave it at that.

One of the brilliant ideas voiced at the crayfish party was that of the Century Club. Of the people in attendance that night, I think I was the only one who had previously participated in such an event. Therefore, I had a reputation to live up to ... so when Lizzie proposed that we drink our faces off, how could I refuse?

The evening started early - probably a blessing for our sanity the following day. Representing were contestants from New Zealand, Sweden, Finland, Australia, America and, of course, Canada.

Team Finland (after making it to the finish line ... or Finnish line, oh man I'm soooo clever).

There were a number of spectators, as well as a benevolent referee who blew her whistle promptly every minute.

The before picture.

For the un-initiated among you, let me briefly explain the concept of the Century Club. The goal is to drink 100 shots of beer in 100 minutes. This doesn't sound difficult - indeed, it's a simple concept - but drinking roughly 7.5 bottles of beer in under 2 hours isn't as easy as it sounds. Possible hazards include bloating, slurring of speech, loss of balance and general hilarity.

Team America.

Happily, most competitors were successful in their quest. Team America had to briefly empty their stomachs before finishing the event, but managed to vomit and get back to the drinking within the allotted 1 minute. It's kind of like that time when that guy ate too many pancakes, and then puked and went back for more ... only slightly more debauched.

In my mission to kill as many brain cells as possible, I somehow decided that it was a good idea to match Thomas' goal of 200. Obviously, this was a terrible idea, and one that would not come to fruition. However, I did become a Kiwi legend by being "that crazy Canadian girl who drank 140 shots of beer in 145 minutes", there being a 5-minute break after shot #100 to regroup.

This is shot #50. Note that my eyes are still open.

At this point in the night things get a little fuzzy. Lizzie made me a delicious sandwich and I drank as much water as I could. On the way home I ran into the other Canadian kids. We talked - well, they talked, and I focused on staying upright. We made plans to meet up in Prague in November - a detail which I had completely forgotten the next day, but which nonetheless is actually happening. I also made plans to ride the train to Amsterdam with Gary - which is funny, because before that night I think I had spoken to Gary maybe all of 2 times. Ah, the power of alcohol.

Lizzie made me a delicious sandwich.

So there you have it: two evenings of excess - or, as ALW calls it, "making the most of your exchange experience".

Besides the drinking, there has been much travelling, but for now there is more studying to be done. Further updates to follow (now that I have procrastination fodder, expect more frequent posting).

(In) Justice

2006-09-26T15:03:00.000-04:00

Warning: this blog entry has been rated PG for the use of strong language. Parents strongly cautioned.

So, I live in a student house called Moesstraat. The house itself is nothing special - peeling paint, single beds, not enough forks - but the people here are lovely. There are few cliques and many friendly faces. I feel at home here, which is a joy.

Moesstraat likes to party. That's no secret. Hell, that's one of the reasons I asked for this house. With 45 people and only one common room, parties pop up out of the blue all the time. Occasionally, however, we like to party a little harder than usual, which is when we ask our student manager for permission to have a party. Interested house members pitched in 5 euros each for booze and decorations. Invites went out, costumes were planned, and so far as I can tell the first hour or so went off without a hitch.

Our student manager was actually in Spain the night of the party. I was in Berlin. However, hearsay is that when 4 other student managers showed up to check on things, they asked everyone to stop the party and go home. No one was allowed entry to the house after that, and things got a little out of hand. Some of the guests became belligerent (drunk and belligerent? wow, didn't see that one coming) and behaved aggressively toward said student managers.

The po-po were called, and finally showed up, ordering all Moesstraat residents back to their rooms. That's right, burly men with guns told everyone to go to their rooms without dinner.

The party continued in more abated fashion, but in typical student style everyone made the best of a bad situation and didn't come home until 6 am (in some cases, 9 am). I was, of course, still in Berlin.

When I returned the party was all the buzz. Mostly people were bemused, until vaguely threatening letters arrived from the housing office. The letters were addressed to two residents of the house - with no apparent reason as to why they had been singled out. Meetings were had, and the students were asked to come up with a suitable punishment for themselves. An apology was insufficient. Proposals were made but were found wanting, and the students were given 9 days to find new accomodations. Needless to say, everyone is fucking pissed.

The social justice lawyer in me - hell, in everyone - is seething. If I weren't so deadpan I would be frothing at the mouth. I mean, seriously people, what the fuck??? My (least) favourite part about the whole debacle is that, while the party was apparently "illegal" (news to us), the party itself is not grounds for the eviction. No, instead two awesome people are being held responsible for the behaviour of an unknown number of visitors, who might not even be friends of theirs.

Things in the house are less than pleasant. If I wasn't petrified of not finding a new place to live, I'd evict myself out of solidarity ... not that it would do any good. My real inclination is to sue, but because I don't know Dutch law and because I doubt I'll be here long enough to see the case through, this isn't really a viable option.

There was a party. When you tell drunk people to leave the party, especially if you're not a cop, chances are one or two people will be upset. Yes, it sounds like some behaviour got out of hand. So press fucking charges, for pete's sake. Don't evict uninvolved parties just because they're the only people who's names you've got.

Also, perhaps you should tell people that eviction is a possible consequence for any "offence" - despite the fact that our house rules (and possibly even our contracts) state that punishments will increase for continued bad behaviour - from warning to fine to, eventually, eviction. Oh, and here's a thought: maybe you should give people who AREN'T FROM THIS COUNTRY more than 9 days to find a new place to stay, especially when the housing office had so much demand that there are international students living in a fucking trailer park 20 minutes outside the city.

Fuck.

Cycle Mania

2006-09-24T18:57:00.000-04:00

Holland is full of bikes. Well, Groningen, anyway. I went to Maastricht this weekend (in the south of Holland), and there were fewer bicycles. However, that's another story to be told another day.

My second weekend in Groningen was fairly quiet. After all the partying I opted to take it easy and explore a little. Rob & Andrea had picked up a cycling brochure promising a pretty trip around a lake, so we decided to explore the countryside.

Of course, we got lost - well, not lost, but we didn't exactly follow the path suggested by the brochure's broken English. It was ok though, because what we did find was a real Dutch windmill.

It was pretty.

Groningen is surrounded by farmland. There isn't much around here except for cows, horses and sheep. We saw many of these animals on our travels. Brian thought it was a good idea to feed them.

I guess the grass really is greener on the other side, because the ponies started to follow Brian when we went back to our bikes.

Having seen most of what Groningen has to offer, I decided to go to Germany ... but that story will follow tomorrow.

2006-09-17T16:17:00.000-04:00

I don't even know where to begin, but, as Julie Andrews sings in The Sound of Music, "let's start at the very beginning (a very good place to start)".

When I arrived in Holland, I was tired and unkempt and generally antisocial. The nice people on the train guided me through the various de-couplings and made sure I arrived in Groningen instead of some random smaller town in this province. Yes, sometimes half the train stays in one place while the other half continues to the destination listed on the schedule. And frequently the announcements are only in Dutch.

My mentor met me at the train station (thank god). She is very bubbly and perky, and speaks with both volume and enthusiasm. However, she got us on a bus and helped me carry my increasingly heavy bags, which I only had to lug up one flight of stairs to get to my room.

I would post a picture of my room, but I just got back from Germany - and I packed in a rush, so the place is a mess. It's smaller than most of the other rooms here, but that also means that it's a lot cheaper.

The next week is kind of a haze of assimilation and jet-lag and too many new faces and names, plus too much 50-cent beer. I cannot get over how cheap the beer is here. I can buy a six-pack of beer (11% Belgian, no less) for 4 euro. However, to avoid the belly, I need to start drinking more 3-euro wine. I never said I was a classy lady.

I bought this beer for the Finnish/Swedish "drinking party" (at least they're straight-up about it), because hey ... everybody likes pirates.

I think I went out 10 days in a row when I got here. First it was the never-ending O-Week, then it was getting to know my res, then it was the fact that I only have class 2 days a week and there isn't a lot to do in Groningen.

One of these nights - I think it was a Thursday - we were at the bar until about 4:00 am. After a night like that, everyone needs something greasy and delicious. The answer to the drunken hunger ... is FEBO.

FEBO is deep-fried everything that you take out of a glass box in a wall. It sounds sketchy - hell, it is sketchy - but at 4 a.m. even fried cheese with too much mayo is delicious.

Nina ate meat, I ate fried cheese.

There is much more to say, but for now I'll leave you with a photo of my bike. It's a sweet ride and if it gets stolen I may cry.

Yes, I'm a slacker

2006-09-11T10:20:00.000-04:00

There's a lengthy post that's long overdue, but it's quite simply too gorgeous outside to sit at my computer. Therefore, I will now attempt to cycle 40 kilometers. My bike only has 3 speeds but Holland is so flat that it doesn't really matter.

Sleep when you're dead

2006-08-30T15:40:00.000-04:00

So it's my second night in Holland and I'm still freaking exhausted. I did go out last night, but there were all these crazy Spaniards who seemed very intent on picking up girls, and I just wasn't feeling it... so I had 2 beers and left early. Lame, I know, but some other girls left with me, so I didn't feel so bad.

The debate now is whether I go out tonight, or try to get a good night's sleep. In favour of avoiding lameness, the choice is probably to go out again, and try to drink enough to become gregarious but not enough to get hammered. It's a fine balance, but I don't want to appear anti-social. Problem is that I suck at small talk, and without some alcohol to help me on my way I get a little bit quiet, especially in large groups of people I don't know.

I'm not complaining, don't get me wrong. I also knew that this was something I would have to deal with. So, here I go, avoiding lameness.

Gotta get ready.

Groningen

2006-08-29T13:59:00.000-04:00

Groningen is nice. It's very green, and there are a bazillion bicycles. The people in the grocery store spoke Dutch to me - I really need to learn how to say "I'm sorry, I don't speak Dutch" in Dutch - but they also speak English, so the crisis of what kind of apples I was buying was averted.

I have more to say but right now I'm completely exhausted, so I need another nap before drinking with - or at least meeting the rest of the people in - my residence.

Stay tuned for stories.

Speaking of the living dead ...

2006-08-02T01:25:00.000-04:00

They do come up in conversation, you know. More often than you'd think.

They also appear, in shambling hordes, on the streets of my hometown at 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon. The unexpected appearance of several hundred zombies - for no discernible reason - completely made my day.

I have since discovered - thanks to the power of the interweb - that the zombie walk was titled "zombies love kitties too!" and was in support of a cat rescue group. However, this bit of information reminds me more of our erstwhile Prime Minister's recent attempt at appearing human by posing with kittens (I think he was trying to shake the "you're an evil reptilian kitten-eater from another planet" comments that plagued some election debate, but my new theory is that he's a zombie, because zombies love kitties too!).

Much as I love zombies, I will become one soon if I don't get cracking on this memo. Over and out.

Return to the Living (Dead)

2006-07-19T01:59:00.000-04:00

Needless to say, it's been a busy summer. On the evenings that I get home before dusk, I'm more committed to eating, sleeping and generally vegging out than turning on the laptop. I don't even know if anyone reads this blog anymore, but if you've stumbled upon my site, welcome - or welcome back, as the case may be.

My braggadacio back in May was a good portent of the first half of my summer: good work with decent hours and plenty of time to run around in the sun and pursue other leisure activities. However, I felt somewhat guilty (although there was a large portion of glee, I'm not gonna lie) that many of my friends were working 16-hour days, growing paler and even more vitamin-D deprived than sufferers of SADS.

The guilt is gone. I have reaped my just desserts, and they taste like popcorn and Pepsi, with that slightly burned quality that only not-quite-paying-attention-at-1:45 can bring. Granted, the late night is mostly my own fault - I had too much fun on the weekend, and also succumbed to the heat, sleeping a whopping 16 hours on Sunday. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am a champion sleeper.

However, I've also been a champion of the all-nighter since way back when I was 12 years old, and I'm on yet another quest to conquer the dark. I do not rage especially against the natural dying of the light, and I am not rageful now, but a semblance of heroism helps to pass the wee hours. That, and the knowledge that I have to be in court in 7 and a half short hours, with a meeting in 12 hours regarding the memo I have yet to complete.

And so, gentle readers, another page turns as the quest for knowledge - or at least coherent analysis - continues.

80

2006-05-25T21:51:00.000-04:00

This is post #80 on the new blog (having retired the old one due to random internet stalking). When I am 80 years old I am going to chain-smoke and wear purple hats with pink high heels and fuschia lipstick, and tan all day in an orange fold-out chair that will stick to my leathery skin when I get up to mix another gin and tonic. Actually, by the time I'm 80 I probably will have moved on to straight gin, but will drink it out of teacups so that people think I'm sweet and elderly instead of cantankerous, drunken and elderly. They'll ascribe the shakes to age, not to withdrawal.

Posting will be sporadic throughout the summer, because this is the first night in over 2 weeks where I got home before the sun went down - and honestly, it's all I can do to brush my teeth some nights before falling into bed (I always do; oral hygiene is very important to me). Thankfully I am not kept out due to work - I'm still working 8-hour days, suckers! - but due to sports and social life. Can't complain, this is why I love the summer.

Drown

2006-05-14T12:45:00.000-04:00

I went to London on Friday, to finish packing, and arrange sublet money (he is adorable, all French accent and stubble and unpretentious chemical engineer), and to tri-date with sugar and flippancy and blowing stuff up. We didn't do the blowing up, but we did see Mission Impossible III, which is full of explosions and shaky camera and the great great greatness of Philip Seymour Hoffman. Violence suits him well - ok, he's PSH, everything suits him well - but I love him more than ever, having seen him be an amazingly underdeveloped (character-wise and otherwise) villain. If I met him I think I might just stare in awe, dumbstruck. Also, Tom Cruise runs real fast real good. For all the zany tabloid antics, he's pretty good at the summer blockbuster, and his desperate runs through streets (crowded and empty) have only become more convincing since The Firm.

I kind of want to be a movie critic.

I read on the bus ride. There were people in front of me reminiscing loudly about their glory days at UWO, but as soon as I sank into the story everything faded. I couldn't tell you what the words were on the page, but inside my head the story unfolded, thoughts and emotions and carefully crafted dialogue all coming to life. Every once in a while I would surface, staring about me bewilderedly, shaking off the fiction like a wet dog. The real world was too intrusive: the voices too loud, the lights too bright, so a few blinks of the eye and I held my breath and dove deep once again, only truly breaking the surface in the cab on the way to the restaurant, where the spell was shattered by country music at top volume.

I kind of want to be a writer - except that I never will, because I lack the ability to make others drown in my words, and I can't imagine what it is like to have that skill. It seems terrifying and alluring all at once.

Night terrors

2006-05-10T19:48:00.000-04:00

I awoke in the middle of the night, hot and dehydrated from boozing and baseball. Drinking some water, I turned on the fan and opened the windows. I fell back into bed, cooler and hydrated and ready for more sleep. As my eyes drifted closed, I was launched upright by terrifying noise. Sound travels remarkably well from the street to the 3rd floor, and so my room was suddenly filled with demon sound - as though I was standing on the edge of the hellmouth. It sounded as though the air was being ripped apart, with an eerie cooing in the background.

I think it was raccoons, but why such cute creatures need to sound like that is really beyond me. I'll be sleeping with the windows shut tonight.

Work, and life

2006-05-02T23:15:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was my first day of work. It was uneventful - a company orientation in the morning, followed by lunch with my mentor and further orienting. The most scintillating piece of info I learned at the morning session came from a charming gentleman working in another department, who kindly informed me that this Friday is no pants day. Do with it what you will. I would happily observe, but I'd really like to keep my job. If it's nice maybe I'll wear a skirt.

Work will be enjoyable, I think, but for now the getting up early part is the hardest, and I'm all tuckered out. More observations to follow.

PS: So far it really is an 8-hour workday. This will probably change once I learn how to do things.

The games people play

2006-04-30T14:54:00.000-04:00

I have been assigned the letter G in a meme-game of sorts. Therefore, the following list is comprised of words beginning with "G", in keeping with the rules. However, since I am still recovering from flu and moving, I am feeling less than inspired. You've been warned.

Gratitude - Which I feel most days that I bother to take stock of my life. Much as I love to complain (would I be a good law student if I didn't?) things are pretty good around these here parts.

Gravy - I love mashed potatoes and gravy. Can you make vegetarian gravy? I hope so, because otherwise holidays are never going to be the same.

Gink - This was the name of my first cat. We got her when I was 6. She was all black and so I named her after the cat in "The Little Witch" books, which I was actually convinced I had hallucinated (childhood memories are sometimes false) until I saw a televised version of the books awhile ago. The TV show didn't live up to my imagined version (does it ever?).

Games - Games games games! Points points points! Some people think that an evening or weekend of gaming (for money and otherwise) is dull, but I have to disagree. Yeah, I'm a little competitive. Who isn't? But I really don't care if I win or lose, most of the time. It's the play that is the fun. Besides, the games people play in ordinary life are way more complicated (although sometimes more fun) and it's nice to have the confines of rules, sometimes. I get unruly without the rules.

Groningen - Because I'll be moving there in a few short months, it's on my mind. I'm slightly terrified but also extremely excited. I like change.

Gambling - This kind of falls within the category of games, but I think it merits its own mention. When Gamblor takes over, Responsiblor falls back, reduced to hovering over my shoulder. I enjoy the opportunity to take (limited) risks (with my limited funds) within the confines of the game. As they say in Rounders, no limit hold'em really is the Cadillac of poker. It's all about the players, not the cards, and that's why I love it. Plus, it's the perfect opportunity to use the deadpan to its full advantage.

Grumble - This is what my stomach is saying right now. Apparently it's time for lunch.

Grey - Because nothing is black and white. Also, Grey's Anatomy is on tonight, and it's a new one. There were re-runs for the past two weeks, which was perfect - it's like my television *knew* that I was studying and couldn't afford the distraction.

Gryffindor - Because even though the Hat would probably put me in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, who doesn't want to be in Gryffindor?

Glib - Which I tend to be, as well as occasionally gregarious. Sometimes people take it the wrong way, but glib remarks or no - "I'm not mad at you, that's just my face".

Thoughts on the end of 2L later.

When the going gets tough, the tough get ghetto

2006-04-24T00:20:00.000-04:00

Spotlight on Heroine. Zoom in. She wears her hair in an unkempt ponytail that's been slept on at least twice. Her clothes are drab and baggy. She dons a Law & Order cap and boots with no socks in order to brave the outside world. She hasn't ventured from her house in more than 24 hours.

Outside:
Heroine locks the door behind her, is startled by Runner. Runner is equally startled: his eyes widen. Heroine does not know if Runner is startled by the suddenness of her appearance or her slovenliness.

Interior:
Store is brightly lit, aisles packed with goodies. Cashier hides behind counter, doing god-knows-what. Heroine enters quietly, walks the aisles deliberately. Heroine peruses options, selects 1 box of Kraft Dinner (original). Steps quickening, she approaches the fridge. Two cans of Rockstar energy drink complete her selections.

CASHIER: That's $9.05.

Heroine produces $20 from coat pocket.

CASH REGISTER: bleep blip zing zing.

CASHIER: D'you want a ...

Cashier trails off and silently bags purchases. Heroine accepts change.

HEROINE: Good night.

Exeunt omnes.

Birds are nuts

2006-04-23T04:41:00.000-04:00

So it's 4:39 am (where does the time go? seriously) and all is quiet hereabouts. My noisy neighbours put away their megaphone (!) about 2 hours ago and I can only assume that they've since passed out into drunken dreaming, spins and night sweats. My quiet roommates are snug abed, and while the occasional car passes by outside life is generally peaceful.

Well, it was, until about 3 minutes ago, when a crazy bird started singing its mad little head off. Now, I generally enjoy birdsong, and most things avian (pigeons are a category unto themselves). But when it's still dark outside - I don't even see false dawn yet - and I'm trying desperately to learn an entire subject, my whimsy is just slightly overshadowed with confusion. I do understand why the caged bird sings and all that, but I think that my brain has been caged by income tax for too long and is starting to forget how to sing (and to make coherent analogies).

The bird has since stopped singing, and now I feel guilty that it's not all a-twitter. However, Sarah has just asked me about reserves for future proceeds of capital gains, and therefore I must go. Life is oh-so-exciting in these here parts.

I like to hit things

2006-04-20T12:50:00.000-04:00

I played squash for the first time yesterday. It's my new favourite game, because it is fastfast and forces me to run around without thinking about running around and allows me to hit things (sometimes at Doughbot's head, sorry babe). Now I just have to recover the use of my right arm, so that I can play again.

Gripping a squash racquet tightly for an hour causes my underdeveloped forearm muscle to essentially cease working. I can type, barely: my right-hand fingers don't type so much as fall numbly onto the keys. My handwriting is nigh illegible, and I can barely brush my teeth.

Maybe I should learn to play left-handed squash.

In other news, I got my hair cut today. During the small talk (don't hairdressers ever get tired of the same old conversation?) I was told "you look too honest to be a lawyer". I can only assume this will help my career, and I'm seriously considering asking hair man to write me a letter of reference to this effect.

Fear

2006-04-18T10:42:00.000-04:00

I had an exam yesterday morning. It was like many a law school exam: too many issues, not enough time. The quality and legibility of my handwriting quickly disintegrated into a frenzy of half-sentences and lackwit scrawl.

I tend not to re-hash exams once they're done; I don't mind the occasional discussion, but I prefer to look forward, not back. After all, I can't re-write that exam, and I have two more to worry about.

But.

The more I think about it, the more I want to go back in time and re-write the whole thing. Of course, given that my predictive ability for law school exams is exactly 0, I may be pleasantly surprised sometime in May. However, right now my stomach does slow flips of fear whenever I think about what I should have said and didn't (and no, the flips are not a side effect of the many pitchers of margaritas last night). Even in my drunken dreams this exam reared its ugly head.

On the bright side, I'm extra-motivated to conquer the next two exams, to make up for the abysmal quality of the first one. Of course, give me a year or two and a job of some kind and I'll look back and wish for these trivial concerns.

Woman problems

2006-04-15T13:37:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, when I go to buy ink, I come home with three pairs of shoes.

And so, it begins

2006-04-12T16:03:00.000-04:00

I would wear pyjamas all day if I didn't occasionally have to be social. I study better in pyjamas. I kind of wish I had furry footie PJs, but I would probably scare my roommates by drifting about like a large-ish bunny in the middle of the night.

Classes ended yesterday. My 2nd year of law school is almost over. I would rejoice, but the fear of 1) failing exams and 2) failing in the real world are holding me back. I suppose actual failure won't happen, but 2006 might just be the year that the skin of my teeth isn't enough to hold me up.

On the plus side, my dreams are certainly interesting these days. The subconscious is really a marvellous thing.

Wacky for Wiki

2006-04-09T11:21:00.000-04:00

Meme this!

On the day of my birth ...

1692: Last people hanged for witchcraft in the United States
1869: Wagner's opera Das Rheingold debuts in Munich
1991: The Dead Sea Scrolls are made available to the public for the first time

1515: Anne of Cleves, Queen of Henry VIII, is born
1965: Tony Drago, a Maltese snooker player, is born

1828: Shaka Zulu dies

And a random fun fact: my birthday is car-free day in Europe. It is also Hobbit Day.

Time suck

2006-04-08T17:12:00.000-04:00

Ever wanted to look different? I just spent way too long playing with this face transformer. It really is more than meets the eye.

Cold comfort

2006-04-07T00:26:00.000-04:00

I've been hibernating recently - well, not really, since I can't sleep - but my anti-social behaviour has extended to the interweb. The rampant insomnia makes me crazy but leeches away the funny, leaving me grumpy and out of sorts. My roommates refuse to wake me up in morning-time, because when my eyelids first flutter open I bear an uncanny resemblance to an angry badger.

Now I'm an angry badger most of the time: cute yet feisty, and more than usually willing to bite. Actually, the "cute" part is debatable, since whenever I see people these days (when I emerge from the house) the first thing they say is "you look tired".

Of course, I can take comfort in the fact that I am hotter than a hobbit.

When I was house-hunting back in the summer of 2005, I saw many places to live. Many of them resembled hobbit holes (without the charm) but one place stood out. The roommate I met was nice and talkative, there was lots of space, and there was a turtle. I called back posthaste to say that I wanted to join the Slaughterhouse (even though I had to live in the Batcave).

I later found out that my application was accepted in part because I was more attractive than the previous candidate: a small hairy fellow with large feet, taciturn and wide-eyed. Thus the cold comfort when I emerge blinking from my badger burrow: I am hotter than the hobbit.

The dangers of musical theatre

2006-03-29T00:53:00.000-05:00

I love Rent. I do. I finally saw it on Broadway and it pretty much made my year. I was like a kid in a candy shop, I could scarcely breathe for the first five numbers I was so excited. But.

Whenever I hear "you look familiar", my natural response is "like your dead girlfriend".

Also, today's life lesson: if you want something done right, you'd better do it yourself. Ego-centric, yes, but like it or not that was, in fact, today's life lesson. Brought to you by the letters S and O, and the numbers zero and one thousand, four hundred and twenty-five.

The danger of television

2006-03-27T21:09:00.000-05:00

Today I took the bus to school. The girl sitting in front of me had lovely long brown hair. It was thick and shiny and lush and basically the kind of hair any girl would maim for.

Unfortunately, my first thought was "wow, her hair really looks like Cousin It".

Half-cocked, hare-brained

2006-03-20T23:57:00.000-05:00

A while back, when I was gainfully unemployed, I came up with a lot of half-cocked ideas to get rich quick while entertaining myself in the process. The ideas included writing historical romance novels set on the periphery of the lives of the great composers (abandoned due to research-intensiveness); writing, producing and recording a great album (abandoned due to laziness); joining the circus (abandoned due to cost: circus camp is expensive); and writing fan mail.

The idea was that I would write hare-brained fan mail to random celebs, and then eventually secure their permission to publish the results. The collection of tomfoolery would fly onto bookshelves worldwide and I'd be famous. Or, some celeb would be so taken by my dry wit and five-dolla words that I would be wooed and wed and supported in grand style. The idea fizzled due to laziness, although I'm still proud of the letter to Elijah Wood.

Anyway, because I've decided to skip the one hour of class I have tomorrow, and because I'm not entertained much by tv tonight, I'm attempting to re-begin the project.

Dear Joseph Gordon-Levitt,

I'm not a stalker. I know, not the most auspicious beginning to fan mail, but I figure there are a lot of crazies out there and I'd like to separate myself from the pack. Crazy I'm not, at least not in the "i love you from afar and stalk you from anear" sense of the word. So, breathe a little easier. Even if imdb.com provides me with such intimate details as your height and body of work.

Anyway, I'm not a big writer of fan mail. I've written one other letter to date, and I never even sent it. So you know that when I take the time to sit down and write a letter to a complete stranger, it's for a good reason. What's the reason? It's not really your acting chops (although from what I've seen, you're developing a mastery of sorts over broody and emotionally damaged, so good for you), but more the arc of your career to date.

I mean really, you deserve some mad ups for the trajectory from 3rd Rock and 10 Things to Mysterious Skin and Manic. I saw Skin having heard nothing about it - I like being surprised by film, and in this day of over-advertising it's really quite difficult - and while I knew you were in it I certainly didn't expect you to be playing the hustler. You hadn't crossed my mind since the last time I watched 10 Things (see, clearly not a stalker) but I suppose I had typecast you in my head as the kid with the awkward boyish charm. Then there you were, cursing up a storm and fucking men for money - gleefully, even.

The interweb - that sweet sweet cocoon of learning and porn - tells me that you're also in Havoc, which I've been resisting seeing due to the Anne Hathaway factor. However, since it's on TMN OnDemand I figured I'd end up watching it eventually ... and now eventually will probably come sooner. I'm still not a stalker, but I'm curious if you'll be continuing to explore the emotionally stunted bad-boy type.

Oh, you should really eat a sandwich sometime soon. In fact, how about now? You can take the letter with you, I don't care if you spill mayonnaise on it. 'Cause really hon, long and lean is a good look and all, but we have endo-skeletons, not exo-skeletons. Put some flesh on that ribcage of yours.

Anyway, congratulations on breaking your previous mold. Of course, if the choice wasn't yours at all, but your agent's, please forward this letter to him or her. However, I'm going out on a limb here and assuming that sometimes actors choose projects because they're trying to build an image or a reputation, not just make a buck (although I really did love Sarah Polley in Dawn of the Dead, and she did that for the chedda. So don't let that stop you from straying from the indie path).

I'm looking forward to Brick - I stumbled across an ad while reading pajiba instead of paying attention to my Evidence professor. Yes, I'm in law school, further evidence that I am, in fact, not a stalker. I may have too much time on my hands, but not enough to spy on you. Besides, I'm pretty sure I'd eventually be disbarred (assuming I make it through law school intact) for stalking. I do, however, like fan mail. Feel free to write me some. My oeuvre is perhaps not impressive as yours, but because I was once going to be an opera star I have 200 headshots strewn about. Here's one for you, for choosing interesting films that require you to act and shed clothing, and for putting up with my drivel.

Yours truly,
Deadpan

A series of [adjective] events

2006-03-19T15:20:00.000-05:00

Recently I visited Cleveland, Ohio, to participate in a contest for baby-lawyers (it just doesn't have the same ring as baby-doc, but then LLB doesn't have the same ring as MD either). Unable to fight off my girlish inclinations, I packed too much (including three pairs of shoes) and thereby became the helpless wench, standing by as the men-folk lugged my luggage (how appropriate) about.

Note to aspiring movie-makers: Cleveland is the ideal setting for a zombie movie. It's eerily deserted, with boarded-up buildings and broken windows and ramshackle denizens lolling about. One might even call it post-apocalyptic.

Cleveland does have two things of note: the Rock'n'Roll Hall o'Fame, and ponies. A pony is a tiny horse. It is also a tiny beer. Observe:

Every girl wants a pony. We summarily disposed of a dozen before venturing back onto the deserted street in search of lotions and potions and cheese in a can. Oh wait, the canned cheese food had already been purchased. My mistake. (Apparently it was consumed in a late-night food orgy, squeezed lovingly onto Buffalo Wings With Blue Cheese-Dressing potato chips ... a fiesta of unnatural colours and flavours).

The lotions and potions were found in a strangely upscale mall with the most security I've ever seen. The men-folk ran amok with glee, it being their first time in a Bath & Body Works. Keisha the jolly retail drone introduced the boys to all kinds of good smells, and they in turn made her dreary day a little more cheery. I absconded with bottles that make me smell like flowers and candy. Every girl wants flowers and candy, and a pony. Those Niagara boys sure know how to please a lady.

Of course, the Niagara (affectionately nicknamed Viagra) boys are also respectful of the ladies, and therefore kept to themselves in the king-sized bed:

They don't call it "Brokeback Mooting" for nothing.*

In the end, we brought shame upon our families when we came up empty-handed. Sorrows were appropriately drowned in the warehouse district, where the boozes flowed aplenty and the men resisted the wiles of the girls from Loyola. They did, however, dance most impressively, especially when Vanilla Ice came on.

Sunday became a day of inadvertent rest, as our intrepid travellers spent 8 long hours in airports. (Note that it takes about 6 hours to drive to Cleveland) In true Niagara fashion, however, we kept laughing right to the end.

*It should be noted that the men in the bed are comfortable with their sexuality. It should also be noted that they all love the ladies.

Yeah, ok, I have no life.

2006-03-17T22:23:00.000-05:00

But it's the small accomplishments that keep me going. Sarah, please redouble your efforts to claim the crown, because I need to kick this addiction ASAP.

Throwdown

2006-03-14T16:03:00.000-05:00

Dare I? Dare I throw down the gauntlet?

Level 33. I was impressed with level 31, and I still am. But this could be considered a challenge, of sorts. They don't call me the procrastination sensation for nothing.

Chronic

2006-03-13T21:01:00.000-05:00

I love movies. Thanks to the Movie Network, I watch far too many of them. Because everyone loves a good top-5 list, and because I'm too lazy to post properly about Cleveland, this is the "this is your brain. this is your brain on drugs" top 5 list. All of these movies were watched in complete sobriety. Note that every David Lynch movie ever made should be on this list, but that would be too easy.

5. Sixteen Candles
Almost everything about this movie seems like it should happen in a dream sequence. The best part is that none of it does. Personal favourite: Three-apples-tall church lady.

4. Donnie Darko
Mostly for the giant rabbit, but also for Jake Gyllenhaal's perfectly spaced-out grin. Personal favourite: Noah Wyle and Drew Barrymore in completely meaningless roles.

3. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
An ode to drug abuse, Johnny Depp and Benicio del Toro. Add in Hunter S. Thompson and Terry Gilliam and you have celluloid perfection. Personal Favourite: Lizards.

2. Waking Life
Philosophy, dreams and animated real footage. The journey made me sleepy and hungry and confused and enlightened all at once. Yup, sounds like a trip. Personal Favourite: The voice of Wiley Wiggins, probably best known as Mitch Kramer in Dazed and Confused.

1. Better Off Dead
This movie makes the least sense of anything pretending to have a plot. Homicidal paper boys, random drug addicts, foreign exchange students, boiled bacon and animated hamburgers? Yeeeaahh. Personal favourite: Vincent Schiavelli as the best geometry teacher EVER.

Sleep deprivation: not just on purpose anymore

2006-03-03T00:58:00.000-05:00

So apparently I'm now an insomniac. This whole week I've tried to go to bed early in the hopes of getting up at a "normal" time ... only to lie awake for hours on end. Tonight I finally gave in and got up. The sad part is, I didn't get up to do anything fun.

Maybe I'm secretly stressed out (although you'd think I'd notice, it being my brain and all). I do have moots coming up, and a midterm, and I haven't done any reading in a while. But what else is new? Stupid brain, ruining all my fun ...

Unfortunately, I've already slacked off plenty today. Two movies, some television, finished a (non-law-school-related) book ... I'm a model law student, yessir. Maybe the fear is feeling neglected. Fuck it, I might as well do some work since it looks like I'll be up for a while. Never did I think the all-nighters would be involuntary. First the John Tesh show, now this ... my world is officially torn asunder.

I'm not mad at you, that's just my face.

2006-02-24T23:03:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder what kind of impression I'm giving out. At OCIs I suspect I came across as being bland and insincere - but I'm game-savvy now, d'ya hear? I've interviewed enough in the past few weeks to have a thicker skin and (I hope) a more approachable demeanour. But never did I expect the following:

I walk down Queen Street in my pointy shoes, post-interview and sagging slightly from the aftermath of being "on". I'm doing my Toronto walk: slightly brisker than usual, avoiding eye contact at all costs - and in this case feeling somewhat like an imposter amid the detached-irony-hipster types in my suit. Today, I am the man, and it's a bit odd. Then I am slowed - not stopped - in my tracks. "Hi! Hi there! You look cute, girl! You single?" The stranger veers into the MuchMusic parking lot and I assume he's passed out of my life for good. Of course, assuming makes an ass out of you and me ... because lo and behold, the scruffy one has hurried up beside me, quite silently, only to scare the bejesus out of me when he speaks out of the blue. "Hi! How's it going? Man, Toronto's weird. You're cute! Seriously man, I don't get Toronto. You won't even look at me! What's up? Hi! So this girl tells me she's all in love and shit but then next thing I know she's having sex with some tall guy, trying to have some weird baby and shit. I don't get this city, man. What, you still won't look at me? I'm just trying to say hi!"

I adore Toronto. However, back in London, the cab driver somehow gleans from my tired surliness that I'm the type of girl who listens to the John Tesh show. At top volume. What has the world come to? And why hast it forsaken me?

My life is really boring.

2006-02-23T19:12:00.000-05:00

Most of the time I want pie.

But today I want cake.

Arlene's Grocery

2006-02-14T20:59:00.000-05:00

This one time, I went to New York City. And on the first night in this great city, there was mysteriously half-priced Afghani food. There was a copy of "Time Out NY" that promised live rock karaoke at a nearby drunken establishment called Arlene's Grocery... because regular karaoke is just so pre-recorded. When we arrived, however, the band providing the karaoke backup was packing up. A new band was onstage testing their mics so we decided to have a chilly overpriced beverage and stick around to see what the night would bring. What it brought was unexpected and delightful.

The three man-boys on stage were finicky about their sound check. They adjusted monitors, asked for cleaner tone and generally fussed about. The two frontmen were wearing acid-washed jeans that matched their guitars and hair - streaks of black for the bass player; streaks of red for the lead guitarist. The hair was big and the sound was pumping out of the speakers at a level that made conversating nigh unpossible. We entertained ourselves by observing the fan-base: a mix of older types (we think the parents) who had stepped right out of the 70s (mullets and all), 30-something single men in suits who knew every word and cutesy boppy poppy girls wearing slightly too-tight clothing. Me in my pointy boots and C in his khakis stuck out like mildly swollen thumbs but the room was dark.

The light show started with the first power chords. The guitarists had clearly practiced their moves in front of a mirror, coordinating jumps and pretending to kick each other. The show was full of original gems - a brave mix of 70s rock and 00s irony. The audience sang along lustily and the vocal heights were dazzling. Arms pumped in the air and the intimate atmosphere made the Grocery seem more crowded than it was.

I started out laughing at ZO2, and by the end of the set I was rocking out. If I had been drunker and wearing my hot pink sneakers I would have danced up a storm. As it was I sat in quiet glee and drank it all in. I leave you with a visual and a link to these talented man-boys, for your edification and entertainment.

Sing, sing, sing

2006-02-11T19:31:00.000-05:00

Dear everyone who takes public transit:

What is it about the second set of doors? Why must you crowd around them like bees guarding their hive? The back of the bus is cool, yo. You get to sit down back there. Personally, I don't like to rub up against my fellow (unknown) man until I've had a few drinks, or at least a coffee to clear the cobwebs. So why the crowding? Are the two steps that take you to the next level that daunting? Yes, I know that backpack of yours is heavy. But if you just climbed two measly stairs, you could take a load off instead of abusing your shoulders for the next 7 to 10 minutes.

And another thing. I know those doors have some kind of weird attraction - is it the whiff of fresh air every two minutes? - but if you're not getting off, why are you standing directly in front of them, impeding the progress of everyone else? The alcove in front of the doors isn't for standing, but for efficiency. I think.

So, back of the bus, y'all. Save your poor beleaguered driver some yelling for once.
Yours with mild rage,
Deadpan

I heart NY

2006-02-04T01:04:00.000-05:00

I'm back and weary so this will be short. But let me state for the record that New York City is my new favourite place.

Reading Week isn't just for reading anymore

2006-01-29T13:14:00.000-05:00

Actually, Reading Week has never been for reading. Universities should really just adopt the true name of Slack Week and leave it at that.

January term ended in a blaze of anti-climactic with a side of apathy. The final edit is done, the end product is out of our hands. I still have mild anxiety that we've missed something mega but I refuse to be no-fun girl. Sometimes it's good to surrender.

Although the Original Poon told me not to change my hair it is now 2 inches shorter and more brown than blonde. There are highlights but they're subtle and I rather like the new me. It's the kind of thing that perhaps nobody but me will notice. Funny how when you live in the same skin every day some changes seem monumental but others go unnoticed for years, until one sees a photo of oneself and realizes that one has gained, or lost, weight.

Also funny that people give compliments on beauty - you have such gorgeous eyes - and the response is thanks, when really the recipient had nothing to do with his eyes. If I could have designed myself in the womb I'm sure I would have come out looking somewhat other than I do.

Story of the stagette to follow, but there is New York tomorrow and today there must be working. Which means mostly sloth.

Not About Love

2006-01-16T23:15:00.000-05:00

I do my best work at night. There's something about the dark and quiet, knowing that most everyone in my area code is sleeping, that allows me to focus. Daytime is too full of distraction, a frenzy to absorb too much, to get too much done that sometimes chokes the productivity. Sometimes I succumb to medication and napping. Sometimes I take too long to wake. Sometimes I surrender to the daydreams, to the idiot box, to friends. Whatever the reasons, I long for night.

Knowing my time is limited makes me push harder. It is a weakness that I work best under pressure. There's something about squeaking by that makes me nervous, but there's glory in the rush. Also, I'm really lazy.

Just call me Martha

2006-01-15T20:45:00.000-05:00

It's January term, and because I'm mooting I don't have class. Not having class is delightful. It allows me to continue with my holiday habit of sleeping 10 hours a night. However, it hasn't motivated me to change my slacker ways. Sometime soon I will continue figuring out why taxing US beef is a sensible response to human rights violations. However, because I am plague-ridden, I am very very stupid today and everything except movie-watching, sleeping and drinking tea is excessively difficult.

On the bright side, today I made bread. From scratch. And it's delicious. It's called "super health bread", and I had to buy wheat germ to make it. We now have a bread loaf pan. Good thing, because I have 1L minus 1 cup of buttermilk to use before it expires on January 28th. I think I'll be making a lot of bread in the next few weeks.

Want some super health bread? Or some wheat germ? I'm your lady.

I also bought some quinoa, because I have a recipe that uses quinoa, and I love me some ancient grains. However, note to self: quinoa costs $10. This recipe had better be worth it.

Used to be one of the rotten ones, and I liked you for that

2006-01-09T00:02:00.000-05:00

Fake holidays are sometimes better than the real ones, and Rickmas-Jonukkah ranks right up there. Besides Hallowe'en, it might be my all-time favourite holiday. It requires no greeting cards, and it is the opposite of schmaltzy in every way. Like Deceaster, it is a celebration of the negative in life. Belligerence is highly valued, and humping unwilling victims (inanimate or otherwise) gets you bonus points.

The theme of this year's festivities was BALLS. There was a capon - which actually has no balls, because the rooster was castrated for our enjoyment. However, everything else was spherical and The Bad Jew's special meatless dumplings were particularly scrotal.

There were many displays of belligerence throughout the evening, evidenced by frowns and the thrusting of digits toward the sky. Many celebrants were forced into compromising positions, frequently unwillingly. The humping was especially enjoyed by all.

Things were dropped on the unsuspecting from above. There was throwing of words and gauntlets and general mayhem. The fire kept our outsides toasty while our insides were suffused with the warmth of rage and alcohol. My appetite for destruction was sated after seven hours, so I succumbed to the siren call of my bed. Before I stumbled into the night, however, I witnessed the demise of a great and powerful beast: the cheetah, reduced to slumber by the wayward force that is Rickmas-Jonukkah.

rubber arm

2006-01-06T18:59:00.000-05:00

Today, I was sitting on the couch, thinking about doing some more work. Then this exchange occurred.

Me: Holy fuck, I need to do some work.
Sara: No!!
Me: Maybe you're right.

Button, button, who's got the button?

2006-01-05T17:41:00.000-05:00

On December 30th, I went curling. Curling is great. It's a quintessentially Canadian sport, so much so that there is a movie about it starring Paul Gross. He played a Mountie, so clearly he's also quintessentially Canadian.

Quintessential. Does this mean essential, but five times moreso?

In curling, the skip tells you where to throw your rock. Once you get your rock off, your teammates sweep, or don't, to speed up your rock, or not. Sweeping may not actually achieve anything, but it is hard work and gives you something to do when you're not getting your rocks off.

You are trying to get your rocks into the house. The best place in the house is the button. If your rock is closer to the button than your opponent's, you get points. You can throw your rock at your opponent's rock to get it out of the way. You should also yell things like "yup!" and "off!" and "sweep!" and "hurry! hurry hard!" This makes it sound like you know what you're doing, and gives you something to do while everyone else is rocking and sweeping. It's all very exciting.

I had never been curling before, but I watch it on TV sometimes, so I knew that I'd be good at it. And I'm great. How do I know? I hit the button.

Now, instead of aspiring to become a professional bowler, I have my sights set on professional curling. I hope UWO has a curling team. I might try out. Although I do have to work on my sweeping. Curling is way more fun than golf. At MY law firm we're going to have bonspiels instead of golf tournaments.

holiday

2005-12-26T22:20:00.000-05:00

Christmas has come and gone once again. As usual, it took 6 people nearly 3 hours to open gifts. I'm less than happy with the consumerism but my black little capitalist heart is pleased with the loot nonetheless. At least the music I got will support independent artists signed to small labels, instead of fuelling the Sony-BMG machine of rootkit nonsense.

Gifts of note that the family received include birdseed, suet, enough Body Shop goods to open a store, a digital camera (notable for my cousin's response: "how many pictures do I get before I have to throw it away?") and a bag of rocks.

Today I went to a Boxing Day open house feast. Hosted every year by a good friend's parents, this event has all the necessary requirements for festive cheer: mulled wine, homemade cheesecake, homemade yule log, roast beef, turkey, roast ham, various breads and (of course) copious amounts of alcohol.

Although I have been spending time with this family since I was 12, the man of the house failed to recognize me. Funny, I didn't think I looked that different - even from early childhood, when he didn't know me.

I'm certainly not as wide-eyed and innocent (this photo was taken on Easter morning; my mom surprised me reaching for chocolate) but I think there's still a passing resemblance to the old me. I'm feeling my years these days - not that I feel old, not at all, but there were people at the open house I've known since they were as tall as my waist. They now tower over me and I wouldn't recognize them if I saw them on the street. J and I were joking tonight that we're well on the road to being cougars ... but the Cocktail Dress Project is undergoing a new beginning tomorrow, so hopefully I'll be a hot cougar. All I need is a leopard-print dress, a boozy leer and some liquid eyeliner and I'll be set.

I must get back to my heavy relaxation schedule, for tonight is the last night of freedom before the real world collides with the impending bender. Stay tuned for tales of woe and wonder, as your brave heroine faces the perils (and joys) of karaoke, high school reunions, Rickmas/Jonaka and the ringing in of 2006.

words words words

2005-12-22T12:15:00.000-05:00

Home is good. I'm enjoying the solitude of it, the anonymity, the brief interactions with complete strangers that Christmas shopping entails. Usually at this time of year I'm rushing around frantically trying to see everyone I love. While I'm starting to feel the pressure to re-connect I have deeply deeply enjoyed the past 5 days.

I spent all day Sunday on the couch, reading - another form of re-connecting with old friends. I had a hunger for the written word, for fiction, a form of escape. I devoured 4 books as quickly as possible while still savouring every image. My appetite has subsided somewhat as the real world begins to intrude. Now I'm at one, maybe two books per day. It's an addiction, this fiction.

Despite all the solitude there has been very little introspection, except to consider how vastly lucky I am and leave it at that. I am well-rested for the first time in weeks and feel much like our cats, sleek and content and easy in my skin. If I had a tail it would curl around myself lazily and twitch every once in awhile, subconsciously. I would purr.

Ferbee

2005-12-14T17:11:00.000-05:00

Instead of writing the paper that's due on Friday, I'm sitting on the couch catching up on my advent calendar and generally indulging in laziness. The paper will get done, they always do, but having finished exams the Xmas apathy has set in. All I really want to do is alternately sleep and binge drink.

I was reading Ryan's blog as entertainment to accompany 9 days of advent chocolate. I don't actually know Ryan, but he's a friend of Sarah's and I feel justified in e-stalking people with 2 degrees of kevin bacon. Anyway, Ryan blogs about everything. I love it. However, almost everything he does is relatively interesting because he is in Japan. I can't blog about everything I do, because my life is tremendously boring and I am in Lametown.

One of the things I used to do, back when my body was more than a sack of meat to carry around my increasingly exhausted brain, was play ultimate frisbee. I opted not to play with the UWO women's team this year, because I do too many things. But thanks in large part to MH, I received occasional updates on the team.

Back in September, MH sent me the following story:

I have never wanted to get a tattoo, but if I did, it would be a rabid moose with fangs, bloodshot eyes, and blood dripping from its fangs. So I sent an email to the team requesting a new logo and expressed my interest in the fanged moose. There were 5 responses/submissions. At practice we had a moose call vote and the loudest moo won.
Our new team name is the Moostangs.
Our favourite song is Moostang clan ain't nothing to fuck with.
Our favourite drinking game is the moose game.
Obey the call,
MH

The mascot (pictured above) inspired me to write the team song, Moostang Clan Ain't Nothin to Fuck With. It has been reproduced below for your edification and enjoyment. Apologies to the Wu-Tang Clan.

Moostang clan ain't nothing to fuck with (x3)
There's noplace to hide when we step on the field
Unconcealed, prepare to yield
BAM! The hammer we SLAM
We're JUICED so call like a MOOSE

We be tossin, hard forcin, our style is awesome
We're so intimidating that you'll wanna play possum
And the moose all said - ya dead
Fatal Flying Layouts chop off your fucking head
Oh my god what was that? Aiiyyo the moose are whack
Makin teams go loco like they on crack
We fear no one, oh no, here come
The Moostang shogun, killer to the eardrum!

END WITH MOOSE CALL

Like prison sex, but way less fun

2005-12-12T07:02:00.000-05:00

In two short hours, I will be writing my final exam in Company Law. Now, having put myself through two weeks of assignment hell, this exam is worth only 25%. Compared to my 100% exam I wrote last week, this exam is worth - well, 75% less. But I care infinitely less about this exam than I do my other two. The lack of caring is due in part to a new tendency toward fatalism: even on the days I actually attended class (more than I thought, judging from my class notes), I appear to have written down the professor's words with nary an understanding, much like a trained monkey.

One time I hired a monkey to take notes for me in class. I would just sit there with my mind a complete blank while the monkey scribbled on little pieces of paper. At the end of the week the teacher said, "Class, I want you to write a paper using your notes." So I wrote a paper that said "Hello, my name is Bingo. I like to climb on things. Can I have a banana? Eek eek." I got an F. When I told my Mom about it she said "I told you never trust a monkey!" The end.

With that in mind, I would like to share with you all the things I know about Company Law:

-The law says nothing about how fast bears can drive.
-Corporations are 9:00-5:00 body-snatchers.
-We stopped believing in magic a long time ago.
-Some people might think that a corporation looks like a box full of dancing people. Those people are wrong. Corporations really resemble invisible robots.
-Corporations have minds.
-People can wear lots of different hats.
-There is no magic in the label.
-The law is simple. People are complicated.
-Everything is dead easy. Don't let nobody tell you different.
-My short form for "fiduciary obligations" is "Fido".
-Putting the cart before the horse is an expression that comes from the days of rear-mounted Wankel engines.
-It is not the business of the court to run every brewhouse and playhouse in the kingdom.
-I will attend the exam.
-I will read the questions before I answer them.
-There are two possibilities. Either I will fail this exam, or I will not.

Fashion zombie

2005-12-10T23:12:00.000-05:00

I just took a study break on overheard at western. Now, instead of pondering why I waited until Saturday to begin studying for Monday's exam, I am consumed by a far more important question: what is my opinion on Uggs?

Ugg boots are ubiquitous on UWO campus, and OAW takes full advantage of that. Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason, and the little faux-blonde Ugg-boot-wearing girl says some pretty stupid things. This isn't to say that everyone who is wee, dyes their hair blonde and makes questionable fashion choices is dumb. Far from it. But I was atonished by the somewhat mild-mannered vitriol that was, like, being spewed on the comments to this post.

Now, there have been a number of questionable fashion trends in the past. Consider the following:

I don't generally ascribe to trends - ok, except for snap bracelets, those I loved - but I try not to judge those who blindly follow trend-spotters and consumer magazines and decide to look like everyone else. My uniform of choice is pyjamas - and, failing that, when I have to appear in public, I'm a fan of the jeans + t-shirt. I'm not exactly a fashion icon.

But I can't help wondering what people are thinking. Do they think that Uggs - or even worse, those new mukluk-boot-things-that-frighten-small-children-because-they-look-like-dead-yaks - are pretty? If they're comfortable, by all means wear them. But spending $400 on ugly comfort seems, well, more like retail therapy and blind herd mentality than anything else.

Now, admittedly our role models - bastions of society like Mischa Barton, Nick Cannon and the Hilton sisters - aren't doing much better:

(Thanks to the babes at go fug yourself.) But is this really any excuse? Even if a trend has style, that style doesn't belong to everyone. So to the fashionistas and fashionistos out there, I have a mission for you: combat fashion zombies. Fight the good fight against the drooling, mindless drones that practice endless retail therapy in seach of braaaaiiiins ... or at least the acceptance of the herd.

And to the Ugg girls and boys: your feet may be warm, but was it really worth $400? At the very least you could have used your OSAP on a kicking stereo system.

Leisure suite

2005-12-09T08:11:00.000-05:00

I am officially in love.

She sounds like Julie Delpy a little. All soft consonants and song trippingly lovingly off her tongue. Best impulse buy ever. Feist is on permanent repeat in my bedroom. And she makes my bedroom feel like a boudoir. What more could a girl ask for?

Different names for the same thing

2005-12-06T04:16:00.000-05:00

Fear is a great and powerful motivator. As a 1L I was full of fear. I was afraid that I would hate law school and that law school would hate me. I was afraid I wouldn't like the people, and that the people wouldn't like me. I feared change, and losing touch, and the return to starving. My biggest fear had nothing to do with my environment, but with myself: I was afraid I couldn't hack it, that I would be an abject failure.

The fear kept me going. It didn't hurt that I simultaneously feared and respected my professors (and even some of my classmates). It kept me holed up in the batcave, running on caffeine and adrenaline, wading through cases night after night. I was convinced that I didn't know anything and that I would never know anything. Therefore, I was caught up. I had a study group. I lived and breathed the law out of fear and love.

Consider the following from December 2004, my first season of law school exams:
I still loved pie. On Dec. 4, 2004, I ate a piece of pie "roughly the size of my foot".

Apparently, I also enjoyed taking exams (perhaps because I was on top of things): "With the exception of contracts, I've been walking into classrooms genuinely feeling like I know very little. Then I turn over the exam, read it, think 'oh god, I'm screwed'. Then I re-think and generate about 3 issues that need addressing. Then I spend roughly 1.75 hours writing about the issues. I use cases that I read once upon a time. I synthesize the facts and churn them out with spin. It's amazing" (Dec. 10, 2004).

Ah, I've discovered why I almost failed Foundations: My post of Dec. 12, 2004 was titled "Procrastination". Why? "Because almost anything is better than memorizing 57 pages of notes about English kings".

For the most part, the fear kept me on top of things last year. This year though, I lost the fear. September was spent partying, doing work-work and applying for summer jobs. October was spent in a frenzy of mooting and job anxiety. November was a complete blur - there was some more mooting and even more job anxiety, and then I had a 2-week case of the wallows and spent most of it on the couch.

Thankfully, the fear is back. It looks a little bit like this:

I am wide-eyed, never blinking. My eyes express nothing but vacuousness (with a touch of paranoia). My face is fixed in what looks like a grin (but it's really a grimace). My skin is glowing, reflecting the light from my computer screen. Oh, and I've gone completely bald.

Ok, so I'm not bald. And I do blink, sometimes. But for the most part, my fear is a bunch of severed Barbie heads, propelling me ever forward. Sleep is but a distant memory. Welcome back, fear. I've missed you.

Up All Night

2005-12-03T23:10:00.000-05:00

As documented earlier, my recent efforts at the dreaded all-nighter have been massive, horrifying failures. However, it's go time, and all I've been doing is going ... to sleep. Having slept for 12 hours last night, I thought that today I would be a maven of productivity. Instead I opted for crispy spicy salmon rolls, which induced the well-known sushi coma, which in turn induced another 2 hours of sleep. Upon awaking, I was beset by a case of the wallows, so I had to eat chocolate cereal and watch these two fine young gentlemen yell at each other for 90 minutes.

The 24th Day wasn't bad, actually, although I did watch it for the man factor. When I returned to my laptop, having neglected it for 16 hours (!!!), Try-Hard invited me to an all-nighter party. This is where you can witness the journey. Visit try-hard online for a different take on our evening.

8:20 pm: I get the invite. Having confirmed that I need to bring nothing than my unclean self and some microwave popcorn, I pack my bag with the requisite supplies, which include cabbage rolls, fork and knife, 2 bags of microwave popcorn, 4 mandarin oranges (scurvy prevention ranks high on my list), toothbrush and toothpaste (i can tolerate being unwashed, but not brushing my teeth makes me mental), headphones, books and laptop.

8:35 pm: I leave the house and reach the bus stop, only to realize that I have forgotten my laptop cord. My mom was right, I would forget my head if it wasn't attached.

9:30 pm: I arrive at school and hunker down for the evening.

11:08 pm: Rock-out session the first. First bag of microwave popcorn consumed.

11:15 pm: Singing session the first. I love these girls, and Wicked.

11:56 pm: Watching Try-Hard paste someone's head onto Chuck Norris' body. I heart photoshop.

12:31 am: I just watched this, and you should too.

12:49 am: Tooth-cleaning the first. I'm beginning to have the sallow complexion of a wee pigtailed zombie, but at least my breath is minty fresh. This way, when I rip off your skin in search of braaaiiiiiins, at least you'll die from the carnage instead of diet Coke breath. Also, it's important to have fresh breath in case I meet my future husband. At the law school. At 12:49 in the morning. Heck, at least the pizza delivery man might appreciate it.

1:31 am: Sweet delicious pizza, midnight snack of champions. I think the security guard thought the pizza man was here to kill me, or to have illicit law building sex with me, and stood guard until it was evident that the man was just here to feed me and leave. The pizza was supposed to be free - it was 4 minutes late - but the delivery guy didn't speak English and didn't understand what I was telling him, so I took pity on him and just paid. I'm a sucker, but I'm a sucker who's eating pizza and rocking out to AC/DC, guilt-free.

2:55 am: I just took a walk through the judicial portrait gallery to pep myself up and get the blood flowing. These Chambers stools sure are uncomfortable, I'm contemplating a move to the Closed Student Lounge. Anyway, I've selected my top three favourite judges from the portrait gallery. They are:
1) Edward J. McGrath, for his truly devilish lighting scheme. "I'm the judge ... from HELL! Look at me grin!"
2) Edgar Sexton, for his love of his chair. "It's green, and leather, and I never ever sit in it ... I just embrace it lightly, lovingly, the way I'm doing now."
3) Richard M. Clarke, for his high-falutin' pink fashion scheme. "Pink is the new black. It's still dignified, but way more fun ... who can argue with my judicial opinion? Everyone's blinded by my gigantic pink arm-warmer thingies, pink zipper on my judicial robe and ... yes, those are pink ribbons."

4:17 am: Fem-Rage has submitted to the temptation of her bed. Try-Hard has taken her first nap of the evening, and I'm still trucking. I almost succumbed to a nap, but then I put on some Kanye and now I'm full of the hip hop motivation. After I fuck up the manager I'm gonna shorten up the register...

5:45 am: I just had a "nap", which wasn't actually sleeping but more of a lying down in a vain attempt to take the pressure off my ass. According to my baby-doc roomie, sitting for this long causes stage 1 bedsores. Ain't studying grand? To take my mind off my ass, I'm making some tea. I'm too damn lazy, and it's too damn cold, to trek all the way over to the UCC, so instead I'm heating up water in the sketchy microwave, in styrofoam cups. I worry about the carcinogens, but mostly I'm chilly and we're all gonna get cancer anyway.

6:46 am: I desperately want to go home. However, I can't abandon Try-Hard's belongings, and she's talking to an early-bird professor. Also, apparently Mr. Security Guard was supposed to evict us from the building. I hope his failure to do so won't get him in trouble; he was nice and tried to protect me from the pizza delivery man.

7:12 am: I could stay here, but instead I'm going to suck it up and call a cab to take me home. It's been a largely productive evening and hopefully I'll be able to keep up this pace throughout exam season. The Master Plan is completely out of whack but hopefully I'll get back on track by the end of Sunday. For now, home, bed, building of gingerbread houses and lots more studying fun. In the immortal words of Mr. West: Bitch bend over, I'm here for a reason.

Peace out.

Montreal Calling

2005-12-01T21:59:00.000-05:00

The family that plays together stays together. Therefore, in keeping with one of my surrogate families - the triumvirate - I will document my recent efforts at the dreaded all nighter. My motto used to be "sleep when you're dead". Unfortunately, my new motto is "sleep whenever possible". Behold.

On Tuesday night, having spent the day in a wasteland, I finally settled down to do some work at 11:34 PM. I was on the third lecture of my PIL summary. We had a review class the next day. I had done the readings until approximately mid-October and the exam was 7 days and 9.5 hours away. Normally this would be fine, but I foolishly told a lawyer I would do some work for him, I have a paper to write and two other exams to write two weeks from now, for which I have done practically no reading and practically no summarizing. In other words, I might be living in a box in the not-too-distant future.

However, none of this stopped me from accomplishing the following tasks on Tuesday:
- Attending my 9:30 am lecture
- Sitting in the library for 1.5 hours
- Working in the library for 30 minutes
- Napping for 2 hours
- Watching 2 episodes of Friends, “Pump Up the Volume”, The Biggest Loser finale, Gilmore Girls and half of the evening news
- Consuming bagel with cream cheese, curry, 4 caramel rice cakes, 1 red pepper, 1 bag of popcorn, 1 can organic tomato soup, 2 pieces toast, 1 slice pumpkin pie, 1 chicken breast, ½ head broccoli

11:37 pm: I sat down to complete my summary. I planned to do it all that night, but my bed was a mere 1.5 feet away, tempting me silently.

11:41 pm: Email check. No new email since last check (approx. 11:32 pm).

11:42 pm: Changed into PJs. Work is far more palatable when done in relative comfort.

12:24 am: Not having finished the 3rd lecture, I became incredibly bored. The law isn’t boring, but making summaries is. I also discovered that my room echos when I type.

12:26 am: Email check. Also, naptime.

7:00 am: Awoke from nap, looked at clock, promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.

Today hasn't been much better. I made a master plan, which involves finishing two summaries by Saturday. However, other things continue to take priority. Consider today's events thus far:

- Class
- Leisurely breakfast
- Leisurely shower
- Master planning
- Inadvertent nap
- ER, The OC and CSI

Oh well, maybe I can get a really big box and you can visit me sometime. I may be a slovenly slattern but I'll still have charm and wit... right?

The Polar Express

2005-11-29T20:47:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Claus,

Does it bother you when people call you Santa? You're kind of like a celebrity, in that everyone knows you (and refers to you) by your entire name. SantaClaus. It's kind of like the Dutch, I guess, good old Sinterklaas. Which, by the way, is a really strange contraction of St. Nicholas, but English doesn't make any sense either.

So I think it's really great that you've evolved from being a saint who saved some girls from slavery or prostitution to a bastion of commercialism. That being said, can I please have an X-Box for Christmas? Just kidding. What I'd really like is to give a village some goats, or some water, some kind of sustainable resource. Could you help out with that? Could you give out five less skateboards in favour of two hens and a rooster? Heck, if you could exchange some kid's Barbie for hot meals for homeless kids here, that would be really great. Thanks, big guy.

Oh wait, I'm getting ahead of myself here. I haven't checked yet to see if I was naughty or nice this year. I know you have the list and all, and lots of little helper elves to check up on me, but there's always time for some self-evaluation, wouldn't you agree? So let's see. Naughty or nice?

To be perfectly honest (I think everyone should be honest with Santa Claus), I think I should be on both lists. I try to be nice, I really do. But sometimes the naughty slips out - ok, frequently the naughty slips out, much as I try to restrain it. But life would be boring if we weren't naughty once in a while, don't you agree? I bet the North Pole has plenty of naughty - I mean, making toys and playing with the reindeer must get boring after awhile. Plus, you've got to have a hot tub with all that snow.

But I'm digressing. I try to be equally nice and naughty, and so I think I should be on both lists. If nice and naughty are anything like math, they probably cancel each other out, which means I don't get anything. I'm ok with that. What I want doesn't come in a giant red sack anyway ... unless you're carrying around some motivation in that bag of yours. If I fail out of school, can I apply to be a Santa's helper?

It wouldn't be Christmas if I didn't have a gift for you - I used to leave you milk and cookies, and carrots for the reindeer, when I was a kid - so I've enclosed a little something. It's a headshot, because I don't need them to be a lawyer. I hope you enjoy it and that my raised eyebrow raises your Christmas spirit just a little.

Happy Holidays,
xo Deadpan

***

I am actually sending this letter. You can write to Santa too! Just mail
Santa Claus
North Pole HOH OHO
Canada
If you provide a return address, he will write back. Yes, this is supposed to be for kids, but I think Santa loves grown-up kids just as much. We'll see if I'm proved wrong.

Guest post

2005-11-28T20:27:00.000-05:00

It's a very exciting day here at Joyful Noise. I'm making some joyful noises right now, in honour of the occasion. You there, in the back, get your mind out of the gutter. Anyway, we have a very special guest for you this evening. She puts the "ha" in "try-hard", the "ass" in "sassy" (oh wait, that's me) and the joy in my heart. She completes my eye and she's here to entertain you.

Members of the triumvirate share similar interests. I am addicted to pie. Mo, however, is addicted to pi. And thus follows her tribute.
***
Last night, there was a post about pie, and the deliciousness thereof. I agree that pie is delicious, but I think our host did us all a disservice by failing to note the deliciousness of PI - yes, that's right, 3.14159265... We all know of it (I hope), but how many of us truly appreciate the beauty of π?

It should here be noted, before going any further, that I am a nerd. A giant nerd, even. I love it, I cherish it, I revel in it. And as a nerd, I own a pi t-shirt. This shirt doesn't just have the symbol, though - it has the symbol composed of the first 4493 digits of pi! Now that is something!

(To order, visit ThinkGeek.)

But enough about me - this is about pi. For starters, what is it? Simply put, it is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. That is its definition, but I hope you realize that π is so much more than that. Mathematical properties: pi is both irrational and transcendental. Wow.

Do you realize how spectacular this number is? It kicks the exponential from here to Tuesday! Without pi, how would we find the area or circumference of a circle? How would we find the volume of a cylinder? And think how hard double-integration could get without polar coordinates! It would be really super-hard!

I'm clearly tired, but I'll close out with a little bit of poetry dedicated to my (and, I hope, your) favourite Greek symbol. I found it on the Internet.

An Ode to π
~A Shakespearean Sonnet~
by Bryan Beyer

Oh π, every night I think of you,
Your perfect circles wander through my dreams.
I would like to deny it, but it's true,
Forever I will adore you, it seems.
Squares just can't shape up; triangles are lame.
A heptagon is just too hard to draw,
Each hexagon looks exactly the same.
But I will not forget the time I saw
That enchanting ratio in your eyes.
Your diameter to circumference
Will never change, would not dare to surprise,
And that, dear π, makes all the difference.
I commit you to my heart evermore-
Alas, my π, you are three-point-one-four.

Beat THAT, pie!
***
Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause, please. Mo, thank you for coming, and have yourself a great night.

why thank you kanye, i will get down

2005-11-28T01:36:00.000-05:00

There's a thing about us law students. Everyone seems to be slightly type A, slightly prone to addiction and especially prone to binge drinking. I didn't used to think I was type A - high school beat the try-hard out of me (I pulled my first all-nighter in grade 7) - but I've come to the conclusion that, at the very least, I have an addictive personality.

Yes, I've come to accept it. I am addicted to pie.

I talk about pie. Sometimes I dream about it. More frequently I dream about the crispy spicy salmon rolls at Wonder Sushi, but as food dreams go pie is a close second. When my roommate calls me from her car to ask if I want anything from Swiss Chalet, my only request is pie. Rotisserie chicken is for suckers.

All I did today was eat and sleep. Despite the constant consumption I still had mouth-hunger (you know what I'm talking about) and my mouth needed pie. I've been talking about pie for the past two weeks. Finally my roommate got so fed up that she drove me to the grocery store specifically for pie. I must have looked like a fat kid at the checkout, with lemon meringue, pumpkin and a gingerbread house kit. If this addiction keeps up I will be a fat kid - but memo to 50 cent: your lyric really should have been "I love you like a fat kid loves pie".

toast and tea isn't nearly as fun as punch and pie

2005-11-22T20:54:00.000-05:00

Deer Perfesser,

Normally I'm not one for the spelling errors. In fact, I consider myself somewhat of a spelling and grammar nazi. I prefer grammar to spelling though, not least because I know a little ditty that combines my love of spelling, grammar and pirates:

G-R-A-M-M-A-R, that's the way you spell Gramm-arrrrr!

But I digress. I know that the salutation "dear" is spelled D-E-A-R. See, I just proved it. Twice. However, you are not currently "dear" to me. You aren't especially deer to me either - the lack of antlers, cloven feet and various other attributes of family Cervidae is a good indicator - but today, to me, you are more deer than dear.

Admittendly, you're more of a professor than a perfesser, but I like consistency and therefore I thought the entire salutation should be misspelled somehow, for the laff riot, cuz it's rilly rilly funny. Kinda like you.

You are funny, and caustic, and clever, and that's why you're still getting fan mail even though your current assignment is somewhat akin to the 5th circle of hell in all of its brain-breakery. It makes me wrathful and sullen, hence the 5th circle. But that is ok. I will learn things even if it kills me. Until then, you get "fan" mail.

Thank you for drawing robots. Thanks especially for drawing robots that look like this.

I also enjoy your diagrams of people dancing in boxes. Do you ever dance? Yes, you totally do! In fact, before Ciara, it was you who spawned the one-two-step. I knew it! You do deserve my fan mail.

I like that you're somewhat misanthropic, and that you consider it your personal mission to ward off winter by the sole power of your disdain. While it somewhat disturbs me, I also like that you remind me of my father - in the sense that you might also be a crazy opium-den dweller raising an army of cats to take over the world. Oh my god, if your office is any indication, you are raising an army of cats - GIANT cats. That cat picture is bigger than my head.

Anyway, thanks for all the fun. This would be longer and more praiseful but I have a pesky assignment to be working on (thanks, buddy).

Yours truly,
Deadpan

alone in the dark

2005-11-19T20:52:00.000-05:00

Dear Professor,

There isn't enough academic fan mail, don't you agree? Academia is so caustic, with conflicting case comments and book reviews and the politics of it all. Therefore, welcome to law school fan mail. What is better than getting a letter from someone you don't know - or barely recognize - praising your various attributes? Plenty of things are better. Winning the lottery, saving the world, making out, eating cheese ... but fan mail is pretty awesome. So here you go.

I admire your ability to combine two Weezer songs on a daily basis through your personal style. I hope you're familiar with Weezer - they have immortalized your glasses and torso-drapery in "Buddy Holly" and "The Sweater Song", and their buoyant garage rock is full of dry wit, just like you.

I crave your ability to write reference letters. As a prospective employer, nothing would please me more than to receive a masterful example of brevity. The conciseness is all the more enhanced by your ability to leave out words that an amateur writer might include - yet you rise above it, keeping only words of importance. Amazing! Not only that, but you embrace the value of white space, mysteriously tabbing between words. Finally, your ability to combine two completely disparate skills - getting to the heart of a matter and being funny - is truly something to which I aspire.

You make 8:00 class - well, not engaging, exactly, but the perfect place to doze while being occasionally entertained. I enjoy stories about stupid criminals and your various daughters, especially the transition between those stories and the occasional comparisons of their protagonists. I also like that you enjoy gentle mockery of tired 1Ls, some of whom are so tired and/or befuddled that they don't even notice the mocking.

Finally, I respect your ability to grade exams by throwing them down a flight of stairs. There is no other way to explain my grade in Criminal Law, and the one tiny checkmark on the inside flap of the booklet cover indicates that you perhaps glanced at that blank page and saw something there that you enjoyed. I'm pleased to have entertained you somehow. Let it be known that you also entertained me and made my 8:00 classes a little more bearable last year. You will be greatly missed when you finally reach that retirement you've been waiting for.

With all this in mind, I attach my headshot in gratitude. I have 100 of them kicking around and I have no use for them at law school, although I do occasionally debate putting one up on top of those judicial portraits that line the 2nd floor walls. Do you think anyone would notice?

Thanks for the awesome,
Deadpan

It's amazing I get anything done around here

2005-11-14T03:00:00.000-05:00

How long since I last posted? Long enough to perhaps have too much to say. The week in review:

Bowls of rabbit stew consumed: 3
Smores consumed: innumerable
Shindigs skipped: 2
Bottles of wine consumed: unknowable
Amount of cream sauce consumed: at least the weight of my head
Old friends seen: too few
Interviews had: 1
Job offers received: 0
Lawyers met: many
Learning done: none
Movies watched: at least 10
Hours slept last weekend: 24
Hours slept tonight: 0
Hours of self-pity: 3
Hours spent on couch on Thursday: 10
Amount of feelings consumed: 1 waffle with ice cream and hot fudge
Number of times contemplated whether hot fudge is actually fudge: 3
Hours spent lazing about in bed this weekend: 25
Assignments due tomorrow: 1

I am a wasteland. Knowing that I had 3,000 words to write today, I finally got out of bed at 3:00 pm. I ate, ate again, ate some more. I watched TV. I did some writing. I went grocery shopping. I ate again. I watched TV. I did some writing. I talked on MSN. I did some writing. I had my first cup of coffee in a month. I watched TV. I did some writing. I got bored and made curry. Now it's time to get back to writing.

It is perhaps worth saying that, regardless of the mark I get on this assignment, I'm pleased to say that I've written 3,000 words in about 5 or 6 hours. I have more work to do, and curry to stir, but I'm pleased with my progress considering that I had no clue what to write as of 3:00 this afternoon.

Also: pomegranates are delightful. Each new section unfolds like a flower blooming in fast forward, revealing a cornucopia of tiny ruby seeds that are just on the tangy side of sweet and ripe, staining my hands and mouth like red wine and leaving tingles on my tongue. And to think that I'm also preventing scurvy! Miraculous.

sometimes

2005-11-05T21:38:00.000-05:00

i sleep the day away. sometimes i have only two meals, both gigantic and full of heavy cream. sometimes i have functions to attend but in the interest of self-preservation opt instead for some much-needed personal time. this is my life at home: sleep, rich food, self-congratulation and catching up with the nearest and dearest. sometimes there is too much to say but nothing actually new, sometimes the updates are short and sweet but just right (call me goldilocks). sometimes i worry about regrets but shake them off quickly. with all this talk of balance i need to recognize where to draw the line of debauchery. sometimes a large gathering full of randomness just won't cut it. sometimes i need intimacy and the opportunity for conversation without the benefit of alcohol. this is perhaps one of those times, an evening that is dark and damp and somewhat unforgiving, an evening when my own company is the best. this is perhaps a time that could be characterized as "welcome to lametown. population: me" but i am long familiar with my lameness and in the long run, you gotta do what you gotta do. and so tonight i will stay in and be missed (or not), and miss out (or not), but find fulfillment instead in fictions. the real world can recede into the background and i will capture my imagination before venturing all too soon into reality (i hear it bites).

calendar girl

2005-11-03T17:32:00.000-05:00

I should buckle down, buckle in, buckle up and fly right. Instead I wobble to and fro, waking up chipper but the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. I am still stuck in September and nobody woke me up when it ended. Only the good die young and while I am insufficiently the devil I am plenty devilish, which makes for an abundance of good in some instances but not good enough. Or am I?

I was homesick last week but now that I am going home I dread packing and preparing. I worry about whiskey consumption and assignments and the interaction thereof. I am however excited for reunions and debauchery and perhaps a co-mingling, intertwining, compromising whathaveyou. This is the last hurrah before I strap in, strap down, get the strap (you'd better watch yourself, little girl): the work will not go away and while the fear is conspicuous in its absence some kind of something must be done. I refuse to fail.

Once upon a time I was capable of keeping my head above water, now it's all I can do to stay afloat. I love cliches, don't you? But if you're happy and you know it you need to clap-a your hands, if the devil doesn't like it he can sit on a tack (ouch!). Sometimes I sing like a grown-up and I don't recognize my own voice. Thankfully it has been captured on video, maybe now I will understand what happens on my face. My resonances happen at various frequencies and with the correct aperture you can even track my vowel formation, I heart technology. I need to find a Cole Porter song. Do you think I have time to do a show in February? Only two performances but do I have time to re-learn two audition songs by Wednesday? I suspect the answer is no, must must must abide by my answer to "what's your greatest weakness?"

I am a joiner, too easily twisted about by the rubber arm and that pesky notion of giving, or at least not succumbing to the succubi of apathy, luring you in with their sweet sweet lies and songs (or are they sirens?). Of course there is no such thing as true selflessness, altruism doesn't exist, it's all about the immaterial feeling of personal satisfaction: look how great I am. Even beyond the braggart there is the sense of quiet accomplishment, a desire to learn and share and grow, a desire to "explore: nerd".

The funny thing is I don't even drink coffee anymore, I worry that I'm getting an ulcer or something. How terribly grown-up of me, that's an adult affliction. Is this what maturity feels like? Whatever, there is too much good in my life to get down (get down and move it all around, or to jump around, jump around, jump up jump up and get down). So I will continue to slide up and learn, or at the very least wield my highlighter with might and main (what's main?). The library needs foam swords, clearly that is where my tuition money should go. Foam swords. What educational experience is complete without a nerf swordfight?

ok, yeah, teeth in the wall equals weird

2005-10-31T19:56:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Cab Driver,

You were the perfect culmination to the girl-date last night. When you made me sing your Hallowe'en song along with you, I loved it. Everyone now: "Hallowe'en (uh) Hallowe'en (uh), Vive Hallowe'en (uh)". I love that your laugh was a bizzare combination of Woody Woodpecker and Fat Albert. I love that you called me "my daughter" and that you told me all about your kids, and that you prophesied that I would be a happy lawyer. Thank you for being friendly, and for making my ride home a delight.

***

Dear Trick or Treaters,

Thank you for making my Hallowe'en a little more scary and silly. Thanks especially to the guy who jumped out of the bushes to scare the original poon, to the tiny scarecrow who threatened me with terror and tried to scare me (even though he was accompanied by a tiny Spiderman) and to the young'un in the Scream mask who tried to claw his way through our screen door, in an effort to frighten. Thanks also to all of the childrens for taking away the candy so that we don't eat it all.

***

Dear TMN,

Thank you for offering films like "The Guardian". I will watch Donnie Darko instead, but this was very tempting: A young couple hire a nursemaid for their newborn, unaware she's a murderous Druid with a penchant for feeding babies to trees.

***

Happy Hallowe'en, everyone.

Wrong Turn

2005-10-27T14:30:00.000-04:00

Man, I love horror movies. A bunch of inbreeders with some kind of facial deformity string barbed wire across the road, splitting up a random group of peppy college kids who get lost camping. Some of the young pretty people head off to find a phone while the others stay behind to get stoned. You know this is going nowhere good - and it's only the first 7 minutes of the movie. Hallowe'en season is the best.

Life right now is a bizarre combination of mostly good with brief flashes of stress. Responsiblor kicked into action and managed to get through one mid-term and an assignment (so far) scot-free.

What does that mean, scot-free? What's a scot? I mean, it could refer to a Scot, but that doesn't make any sense. By the power of the interweb, I proclaim it to be a Scandanavian word meaning "payment". Thanks to World Wide Words.

I will be re-visiting the 80s for the mystery pub crawl tomorrow, and if I can get in touch with the old roomie I will implement the outer space plan for actual Hallowe'en. I love this holiday.

Darkness

2005-10-20T20:25:00.000-04:00

Hallowe'en is just around the corner, which means that TMN is full of awesomely terrible horror movies. I have resolved to detox this weekend, starting tonight. Therefore I am resisting the urge to dance the night away - instead I am settling in for an evening of work and scared-dom and maybe even going to bed before midnight. Lame, yes, but I'm pleased with my decision.

Nothing new is of note, except that all kinds of people are full of job stress. Personally I keep waffling between extreme nerves and bouts of complete ambivalence. If I don't get a job out of this process I will work for a hippie law firm or start my own, and provide justice from the heart (best tagline ever, too bad it's already taken).

One of these days my bloggery will be full of doggerol. Until then I am boring.

disko

2005-10-16T17:12:00.000-04:00

maybe i am trying to shoot myself in the foot. or maybe i just know that a task will take as long as it will take, no more, and so i am procrastinating because i know everything will be ok. even though it doesn't actually make sense outside of my head, i'm beginning to seriously think that my biggest weakness is that i work best under pressure. this is not answer i would give in an interview but it is true; sometimes i need the fear to bring on the productivity.

i have been productive in other ways: the fridge is full of tupperware full of delicious curry, the floor of my room is visible, my clothes are clean, i have new sweaters (ok, so shopping isn't productive)... but i have X more firms to research before 6:30 tomorrow morning. i will get back to it shortly, i'm sure, but there's something so delightfully lazy about sundays that all i really want to do is sleep.

my stress has been minor of late, but i am worried about friends. i know that everyone is tough and capable of dealing with various things and that everyone will be ok, but lately i feel guilty about being consumed with tiny glitches when there are far bigger things on the plates of others. and of course my problems are my problems and so they concern me, but i think i need to slide up to selflessness and remember why the notion of giving is embedded in my skin, why that resonates with me and reminds me who i want to be.

consumed

2005-10-10T20:39:00.000-04:00

We have too much food. Not only did the family not want very many leftovers, but the original Poon made a turkey this weekend. We are doped up on tryptophane, having lacklustre foam swordfights and screaming at one another in hilarity. Now I am hibernating, attempting to fight the never-ending fatigue in an effort at productivity.

One would think that all of the pie would make me complacent, but instead I am mildly rageful. The rage has evaporated for now, but the battles with the poltergeist are exhausting. For a while it was content to haunt us through our watery appliances, but I'm convinced that it has now turned its attention to our wireless network.

I can speak no more of this for fear that the binary code it perceives will infiltrate its murky consciousness and it will reign over our household. I'm holding out for 3:00 am - the witching hour. I will still be awake and therefore able to vanquish it for good. I'll throw turkey at it and the tryptophane will overwhelm its ghostly presence. A stupefied poltergeist is exactly what I need to make my weekend complete.

Despite all of the work still looming, this weekend was a fantastic mood-booster. I have seemingly returned to myself (sleeping a minimum of 10 hours a night works wonders). We'll see if it holds until Christmas.

Tiger and Crane

2005-10-08T21:38:00.000-04:00

I never melt down. I don't like emotion, it gets in the way of the sarcasm. That being said, of course I'm a girl - a chocolate center of angst and insecurity hiding in a candy shell of bitchiness and cynicism, all bundled up in a wee plastic bag of gossip, sloth, flirtation and standoffishness.

Of course, to most people I'm probably the opposite of mysterious, but I occasionally take myself by surprise - most notably when I'm at the end of my tether and it's 1:30 in the morning. Thankfully minor breakdown + friends + nap = quasi-sane girl once again, capable of working until 5:00 am and still making it to the 8:30 am class.

It caused a slight revelation though: my priorities this year have been really out of whack. Of course, recognizing that doesn't necessarily lead to new priorities, but hopefully I'm more realistic about things now. It's time to stop flying by the seat of my pants and buckle down.

Aside: there are a lot of random sayings in the English language that make no sense. I will let Flowerstroon do a complete post on the topic, but here's my favourite: making out. Because "hey, what are you making?" "Oh, you're making out, I'll let you get back to that". It makes no sense.

Monday is Thanksgiving. I'm home for the weekend, meaning that I do nothing in moderation. There is much wine to be consumed every night (with my mom), much food to be eaten and far too much shopping. Add in 11-hour sleep sessions and epiphany notwithstanding I continue to be slothful, if well-intentioned.

There are things that I used to be good at, at which I am no longer good. I blame lack of practice and/or caring, and don't know how to get past the hurdle. I'm sure the skills will come back - and if they don't, I will skulk back to being ambivalent (not that I've entirely left that realm). For those of you wondering: I'm not talking about sex. Let's just leave it at that.

Because it is Thanksgiving, I will take stock of what I am thankful for. The list includes:
- family, especially my mom, who remains my personal hero
- friends, old and new, not least because the filter is now broken for all groups of companions
- aging, despite all of its drawbacks; I am pleased to be 25 and stupid instead of 18 and stupid
- comforts and challenges, always juxtaposed
- re-discovering old loves, like singing

There are more things, but my bed is calling my name.

Don't Panic

2005-10-03T23:54:00.000-04:00

I'm restless in my idleness. There are things to be done but I am the queen of avoidance. The battle between conscious and subconscious - responsible and slothful - continues. I think I'm constantly treading the line of undermining myself, forcing the other shoe to drop (as I constantly think it will). How much can I get away with? So far, quite a lot. One of these days they will see through me and everything will come back to haunt me. I worry about karma.

I am rarely surprised but now somewhat distracted by the unexpected. One would think that my fond acquaintance with angst would stand me in good stead but instead my head is somewhat reeling (but only somewhat, I have a long-standing relationship with ambivalence that comes to the rescue most of the time). Comparisons rise up from the past and I question my motives, but I have learned that it's best to just go with it.

There are big decisions looming on the horizon, not unexpected since they've been cramming this down our throats since last year, but I am still woefully underprepared for the future. I can't bemoan my situation, I am extraordinarily fortunate but this adds somewhat to the stress I had hoped to avoid. It's funny, if there were no decisions to be made I don't know if I would have any stress. Now that there is the possibility of many choices I am overwhelmed and want to hide myself away. I distract myself with foolish daydreams and endless naps.

It has been a long time since a weekend of such debaucherous proportions was had. One of the surprises was the amount of fun had, despite the fact that I'm generally anti-social. Drinking away my inhibitions could have led to disaster but instead resulted in general contentment, if too much sloth. Taking a page from "how to be idle" I shared my hangover with friends and it was delightful. A word to the wise, however: don't order delivery from East Side Mario's. It will lead to much waiting, much anger (albeit subdued by the general apathy) and ultimate disappointment. Although the bread is good.

Lessons from the weekend: I am not stealthy. I have an enormous capacity for wine out of tetra-paks. Titanic is a terrible game and I do not understand the need to cause our friends pain. When people bring me drinks in line they cheer me enormously. I take inordinate comfort in old friends. New friends too. Joss Whedon is my hero. I am entirely graceless, both under pressure and not. I am uncouth, but I hope that it is endearing. The world is a mysterious place.

Don't Lie

2005-10-02T22:09:00.000-04:00

First it was the moot, then it was apathy and finally the fun. All things combined to make me more behind than ever, but generally happy. The moot was good, I did well enough to qualify for an external competition but not so well as to make the finals - perfection, in my mind.

This weekend was full of random, but again in so many ways that added up to near-perfect. C D & J arrived late, having trekked through the wilds of Cambridge on a vain quest. Their presence made this weekend complete and they deserve big ups.

There is too much to blog about, but life is good.

good is good

2005-09-23T17:26:00.000-04:00

Harry Freedman died recently. This makes me sad, and makes me also mourn the fact that I'm no longer in the music loop. For those not in the know, Harry Freedman was a phenomenal contemporary Canadian composer. His "Keewaydin" exposed me to the varied possibilities of musical notation at the tender age of 8. Thank you, TCC, for making me think outside the box so often. Because really, learning to read normal music wasn't enough of a challenge.

You can listen to Keewaydin here. And, for those interested, the first voice you hear ("wabigoon") is me, I think, at age 15 or so. You should really give it a listen - it's an amazing piece and everyone should listen to contemporary music. Challenge your ears. And I would love your opinion of the piece. The final bars send chills down my spine - Abigail's voice dying away, only to be echoed by a solitary loon on some distant lake.

I can still sing this entire thing from memory, without looking at the music. I wonder how much of my brain is filled with music? I know the words and music to probably hundreds of choral works, not to mention art songs and arias. I used to know entire operas.

I should probably be making myself pretty for the debacle that tonight will be. But I ask you to take a second and think about an experience - artistic or otherwise - that challenged your perceptions and demanded more of you than you thought you had to give. For the 8-year-old me it was Keewaydin, and this post is my brief tribute to Harry Freedman. The world needs more like him.

behind the music

2005-09-19T22:32:00.000-04:00

I love a good boy band arch-rivalry. Behind the Music is teaching me far more than I ever needed to know about the BSB. I'll be giving up this wasteland of pop culture shortly but I just finished watching The Final Cut, and in my drugged-up state the movie raised some interesting questions.

I sometimes think that I should have someone follow me around for a day with a video camera so that I can know how I appear to others. Facial expressions, body language, tone of voice - I'm really oblivious to my own little quirks, because they're mine.

On second thought though, maybe it's better to go through life not knowing what a tool I am. I have a multitude of dumb blonde moments and I know that frequently I can appear unfriendly or downright mean. Maybe I'm getting crotchety as I approach the quarter-century mark but I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm not an especially nice person. I have plenty of flaws but I have resolved to embrace them. However, I doubt that my resolution would hold up in the face of video footage.

How much of one's personality comes from one's appearance? The way others respond to one's behaviour? I often wonder how I would have turned out differently in different circumstances. Had I studied with another voice teacher throughout undergrad, would I even be in law school today? If I had stuck with gymnastics, would I have pursued singing? If I was prettier/thinner/fatter/differently shaped, would I be nicer/meaner/friendlier/whathaveyou?

I have a lot of thoughts. Some of them are profound.

germs

2005-09-17T10:43:00.000-04:00

Everyone is sick, and my immune system has been resisting surprisingly well. Unfortunately I think my constant abuse of it is leading to its decline. Thankfully the only thing I have to do this weekend is sit at home and do work. I'd much prefer it if my only responsibility was to sit at home and watch movies, but such is the life of this student.

I haven't been blogging recently because I have nothing of note to say. However, the girl who doesn't date might have dates in the near future. This is mostly a cause of concern and time management woes, although there is some excitement lurking behind the stress.

Must write memos, do readings and start preparing for the moot. More later.

28 days later

2005-09-13T17:37:00.000-04:00

Sloth Girl and Responsiblor have both been killed. I am a zombie.

I don't walk, I shamble. I am not hungry, except for brains. Braaaaaaains. BRAAAAAAINS.

Do you think if I start eating brains my own will work better? That would be a pleasant change. I think I'm starting to burn out and it's only the second week of school. I've decided - against what some might call better judgment - to take the evening off and maybe get a proper night's sleep.

Ever notice how once someone becomes famous you start noticing them in other movies? Cillian Murphy is everywhere - and I'm glad he is, he's fantastic. He's in 28 Days Later, which I'm watching now (learning how to be a good zombie, like my rageful friends).

BRAAAAAAAINS.

Don't phunk with my heart

2005-09-08T16:49:00.000-04:00

I thought it had been two weeks since I posted. Instead today I discover that it's been a mere few days. Needless to say, my life has been hectic these days. I'm surviving on snatches of sleep (I have a new mission: to use the word "snatch" as much as possible in regular conversation. This particular phrase caused a few double-takes at a recent liquid lunch) and eat intermittently. Oh, school, how I've missed you.

The new crop of first years (or "fresh meat", as they're affectionately known by some of the more ... discriminating upper years) seems awfully young and wet behind the ears. They're the usual mix of law school kids, ranging from the (surprisingly) hardcore partiers to the keeners. I have a certain affection for the keeners, given my own proclivity for big words and academia, but everyone I've met thus far has been awesome. I'm really enjoying seeing O-Week from the other side - while it's exhausting it's completely worth it.

Yesterday I crossed one more thing off my "things to do before I turn 25" list. Yes, gentle readers, I lost my jello wrestling virginity.

Because last night was the event I helped to plan, I was completely sober. I wasn't going to participate in the sticky madness, but then a certain Doughbot tried to lift me bodily into the pool. I changed and was challenged.

The story continues shortly ... for now I have to make myself pretty in time for the swanky dinner tonight.

The group who couldn't say

2005-09-05T00:24:00.000-04:00

My second year begins on Tuesday. It's hard to believe that one year ago today I was quaking in my boots, frantically trying to pack up all my belongings and venturing into the unknown. Now I'm not wearing any boots, frantically trying to finish all my research and cover letters and venturing merely into a change of pace. I'm looking forward to seeing old friends and making new ones, jumping in with both feet and adjusting to life on the 2L side of the fence.

This morning I thought about everything I have to do in the next few months and made the difficult decision not to play women's frisbee this fall. I might regret the lack of enforced exercise and miss out on the opportunity to meet still more awesome people, but I feel like I have sufficient responsibilities for the coming year. It's hard to say "no" to things - a lesson I learned a long time ago, when I first betrayed my promises to Elmer the Safety Elephant - but it's also quite liberating.

I think this newfound ability to say no is indicative of how I've changed in the past year. I have more confidence, (slightly) more maturity and a better sense of myself. Meeting new people and doing new things is a great way to figure yourself out. By no means do I understand the inner workings of my twisted mind, but at least I'm starting to make some choices and set some priorities. This might be a time to mourn the slow passing of my whimsy but instead I will see the glass as half-full and be proud of my steadfastness (or something).

Also, not playing frisbee is an excellent way to guarantee the continued battle between Sloth Girl and Responsiblor.

More travelogues to come, but before I sign off for a long long night of workohol I share some of the glee I find in the law: today I read a case in which the Polka King of Canada was subpoenaed as an expert witness. Yes, an expert witness in the accordion.

Another Travelin' Song

2005-09-01T17:31:00.000-04:00

Funny, I'm listening to Bright Eyes and stealing titles from song titles. How apropos - inspired by The New Step, I decided to post more complete travelogues.

I'm delving into the past because it's far more interesting than the present. I have stress and sickness these days, causing me to hibernate more than usual, watching terrible movies, eating my weight in pita chips and playing endless games of Life. I suspect that wading through my hazy memories will be an exercise in invention, but that's the thing about travelling alone: nobody will know if I'm full of lies.

JUNE 12, 2005
I arrive in London, bleary-eyed and questioning my packing skills. The problem with carrying a backpack 3/4 the size of my body is that it's 3/4 my size and 3/4 my weight. I successfully buy tickets for the Gatwick Express before boarding the train and begin my exercise in math, converting pounds to dollars and being consistently appalled. I buy a bagel and coffee for 2 quid 30 p., only to realize that I've just spent approximately $7 on a meager meal. Must learn to budget more effectively.

The walk from the train station to my hostel is not long, but I am jet-lagged and filthy and want to cry. The street my hostel is on is full of hostels and hotels and similarly attired grubby backpackers. When I arrive it is 10:00 am and I discover that I can't get into my room until 2:00. I deposit my bag in a tiny room that I lock with a skeleton key, consider checking my email but instead forge my way into the daylight.

I am mapless and in an adventurous spirit. I check my "to do" list and wander over toward Westminster Cathedral - not the Abbey, but its smaller sister. I walk in circles around Victoria Station, self-consciously taking pictures of things. I'm not a very good tourist - I'm too shame-faced to ask strangers to take pictures of me in front of various grimy landmarks.

In my wandering I stumble across "Little Ben", which is a dumb clock. It doesn't compare to Big Ben at all (random trivia: Big Ben is actually the name of the bell inside the clock tower, not the clock itself). Little Ben was first erected in 1892 and taken down in 1964. It was restored and re-erected on Dec. 15th, 1981 by the Westminster City Council, with the help of ELF Aquitaine UK. It is offered as a gesture of Franco-British friendship.

Someone whose initials are J.W.R. wrote "Little Ben's Apology for Summertime":
My hands you may retard or may advance / My heart beats true for England as for France.

Like I said, Little Ben is a dumb clock. It's nice that it symbolizes friendship between the Brits and the French, but personally I think there are better monuments to friendship than poor man's versions of famous clocks with bad rhyming couplets on the side.

Now I must go and drink copious amounts of wine with my boss, and maybe watch a puppet show later. I am now immortalized in finger puppet form, which may be worth checking out. More travels to come.

The Sporting Life

2005-08-29T08:53:00.000-04:00

I awoke smelling like hickory, my limbs splayed unnaturally and my mouth feeling thick. This was not the aftermath of a XXX-rated evening but the glory of Ark-B-Q.

The BBQ pit was dug in a fit of ambition, inspired by Rock Jesus but toiled over by the Boyz. The superheros of tarpaulin provided cover from precipitous onslaught and the roasting of flesh commenced.

Sadly, most of the animals on the Ark drowned, jumping overboard in a fit of flame-inspired terror. Not so lucky were a pig, a duck, a lamb, a goat, some quail and a number of frogs. Noah's family had been managing to eat a well-balanced diet, replete with portobello mushroom caps, tomatos, onion, corn, various hues of peppers and even tofu. Somehow two kinds of pie and a cheesecake escaped the fire unscathed.

The hosts of this meat-stravaganza were hospitable (as good hosts should be) and kept my plastic cup frequently filled with various libations. There were balloons and an enthused if unskilled rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. There were hugs and hilarity and a losing track of time, and despite my massive meat consumption there was a mild hangover the next day (only cured with copious caffeinated beverages and carbohydrates).

We sang to keep ourselves awake on the highway and arrived safely home.

Golden Years

2005-08-25T01:45:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I (like Sarah) intentionally fill myself with rage. Tonight I gave myself over to terrible chick flicks, a double feature of Little Black Book and Raise Your Voice. It was the latter that made me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a spoon (thankfully I had work to distract me).

I'm really not sure why I watched this movie. I don't like Hilary Duff at the best of times - she reminds me of Wonder bread: somewhat doughy, completely lacking any nutritional value (and neck) and verging on trailer trash. Like Wonder bread, Duff's pasty white exterior serves to hide the void within. Not only is she lacking nutritional value, she also lacks talent. Can you lack something in spades? Because baby, she sure does.

The premise of Raise Your Voice (warning: spoilers ahead, although if you were waiting with bated breath to rent this movie I'm not entirely sure I know you) is as follows:
- All-American dysfunctional family becomes even more dysfunctional when the saintly older brother is killed in a drunk driving accident.
- The saintly older brother isn't entirely saintly - he and little sis (the Duffster) sneaked out of the house to see a Three Days Grace concert. I should have stopped the movie there, but it gets "better".
- Little Miss Perfect is completely traumatized by the crash and has massive guilt (she's the one who made him sneak out). She has wicked flashbacks and can hardly speak, let alone sing.
- Duff Girl (I really wish she'd done the movie in DuffMan costume) gets accepted to a prestigious summer music program in L.A. and plays out the country mouse in the big city cliche, complete with new faux-hawk boyfriend.
- Scary Daddy finds out about the deception (the family conspired to keep the truth from Anger-Man) and tries to take his baby home, but has a change of heart and stays to watch her final performance.

Ok, so the plot sucked. That I can deal with. The rageiation enters the picture whenever Ms. Duff starts to sing. I know she's an All-American pop princess, but this girl SUCKS. And the best part? She's supposed to be a hot-shot in a classical music program. The choir is doing some songs from Handel's Messiah and she gets a solo by jazzing it up.

I have no problems with making classical music more accessible to the general public, especially younger audiences. However, everything about her singing is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Sticking with Handel, her private lessons center around "Caro Mio Ben" (which, by the by, is one of the Groovy Greats for a reason). She butchers it. Her Italian is terrible, her tone is completely straight and void of any kind of support. She's totally laryngal.

Sorry, music nerd rage-out. My rage is fueled in part by the fact that I had the best singing lesson of my life today, so I'm especially conscious of technique and what-not.

I have to prevent Hilary Duff nightmares so I'm going to watch Evil Dead.

Welcome to the gutter

2005-08-23T22:57:00.000-04:00

In the course of my reading this evening I stumbled across the term "lay minister". Surely you can make the same leap I did. Here's my question: if this job was everything I dream it could be, would it entail

a) ministering to those getting laid
b) ministering lay
c) laying the ministry
d) all of the above

Extra points will be given to those who can fully demonstrate the merits of their answer.

Try this next time you're bored or can't focus:

Tie your hair back so that it resembles the coiffure of a dishevelled librarian.
Wear tight black sweatpants, sneakers and a white dry-fit sweater. Think sweaty non-fashionable gym girl and you're on the right track.
Take a walk to the grocery store at 11:15 pm.

On the way there, you will be entertained by many honks from passing cars. The game: are they honking because they find the sweaty dishevelled librarian look sultry, or sad?

On the way back, carry heavy bags of cleaning products and food. You will still be entertained by honks, with occasional cat-calls and creepy slow drive-bys adding extra spice. You will be called "baby" by men in trucker caps.

Apparently drivers in London have really bad eyesight and nothing to do on Monday nights. Trust me on the bad eyesight: the Cocktail Dress Project is in full swing but results have yet to materialize. On the other hand, I don't think I'm going to be able to walk tomorrow. Spinning hurts.

Christmas Steps

2005-08-23T00:21:00.000-04:00

Spooky. I've gone grocery shopping twice in the past week (I keep running out of things, more on that shortly). Both times my bill has been exactly $55.58. I hope my grocery bills don't continue to be this amount - otherwise I'll be quite poor quite soon - but I enjoy a good coincidence. If it happens again maybe I'll start playing the lottery.

As for the running out of things: it has to do with becoming a hermit. I sit around all day pretending to work (and occasionally actually getting things done, it's true). The work I'm currently engaged in isn't so much interesting, meaning that I need something to occupy me. For a while it was movies, but now I'm reading and have to be comprehending things so I can't have that much distraction. Therefore I snack.

I only keep healthy things in the house - although I did buy pita chips on the last shopping trip, and organic cookies and some dark chocolate this time, sshhhh - but eating healthy things to excess will still cause one to gain weight. The hermitage should probably come to an end. My current habits do not bode well for The Cocktail Dress Project - and if things continue in this way, soon enough I will be one of those people being lifted by crane out of the house.

If that ever happens to me I want to go on Sally Jesse Raphael and cry. I would make a scene with the founders of Nature's Path Organic 8-Grain Synergy Flakes. Wait, I'm eating a product called "Synergy Flakes"? What does that even mean? Clearly I don't read things closely before I buy them. My flakes don't appear to be made out of synergy - they contain wheat bran, wheat meal, rolled oats, sugar cane juice and a whole whack of other things (including quinoa seeds, I love quinoa). No synergy though. I wonder if I could sue them for false advertising?

That would be perfect, I could get crane-lifted out of my house, have that stomach-stapling surgery paid for by talk-show-host du jour and then bring a tremendous lawsuit against the company. "I thought I was eating synergy! I was so synergized that I couldn't stop eating your delicious product! In fact, I'm suing you for the cost of lifting the roof off my house and hiring that damn crane, too!"

Yum, synergy. Tastes just like children - I mean, success. Sweet, sweet success.

Did I mention how I'm turning into a hermit? I live too much in my head these days, and my senses are becoming dulled by lack of stimulation. When I venture into the real world I'm overwhelmed with perceptions. Everything is terribly intense.

Who needs drugs? Not me, I've got synergy flakes and a good old-fashioned case of the crazies.

Best of You

2005-08-22T00:49:00.000-04:00

Saturday there were nuptials. Generally I'm sarcastic about the institution of marriage (after all, my future involves a castle full of hilarious single women and hairless cats) but when it comes to the weddings of my friends my inner sarcasti-bitch fails to materialize. The ceremony was beautiful - everyone was radiant, the music was perfect and the sermonizing was non-existent. The reception was also great. Usually wedding speeches don't engage me but this time everyone's words were genuine, heartfelt and interesting (if only speechifying was always full of these things).

Sometimes it weirds me out a little to watch my friends becoming "adults" and making life commitments - but not this time. These two people are perfect for one another - as all of my married friends seem to be, happily - and I have nothing but joy for them.

The gushing ends now. Apologies.

I am a wasteland. With nobody in the house to guilt me into working, I spent the day succumbing to our 300+ channels. Sadly we don't get the channel that had the 1991 Degrassi High movie on it (travesty!) but instead I distracted myself with The Gift. It was pretty awful and the ending was trite but (to quote Harold and Kumar) Katie Holmes does indeed display her rack.

I have to wonder sometimes how it feels to know that thousands of people have seen you naked. I suppose movie stars don't think about it much - it comes with the job, after all - but even strip poker and nude beaches are somewhat bizarre, in my limited experience.

I was watching poker on television and realized that I hadn't played in a few months. I may be freshly addicted - I've been playing on and off all day, and finishing in the top three in tournament play. It's fake money but hopefully it's gearing me up to fleece my colleagues this year.

Hmmm, I seem to have lost the funny. Maybe the upcoming lack of sleep will bring it back. That or the prospect of Ark-becue (it's like BBQ, but way way way better). It's the latest event in the JonRic line of celebrations - basically, imagine if Noah's Ark caught fire. Yup, tasty BBQ - a smorgasbord of two of each animal.* There will be vegetarian options also, of course, because Noah's family couldn't kill off ALL the animals - besides which, lots of animals are herbivores and therefore their food would have been on-board. Vegetarian ark-becue is totally justified. I, however, will be having meatatarian ark-becue.

*availability may be limited to the current stock of the St. Lawrence Market

Are there sheep?

2005-08-19T15:16:00.000-04:00

I think I want to see the Skeleton Key. I wanted to see it upon first seeing the trailers, because I love horror movies and I haven't seen a good one in theatres for a long time. Here's the problem: it's being billed as having a great twist, like the Sixth Sense.

This means that I will be trying to figure out the twist for the duration of the film. I really wish that reviewers/ad companies/whomever wouldn't tell people if movies have really great endings that can't be revealed. I much prefer to see films without the hype or any foreknowledge whatsoever. Trailers are great for filtering out the garbage - especially trailers that tell you the entire movie in five minutes. But a good trailer should be tantalizing. Think about lingerie - it's the same principle. You're always going to want something more if it's intriguing. Naked ladies are nice, but, like presents, it's more fun to discover what's underneath the wrappings.

I just mixed way too many metaphors. I blame my distended belly - all of the blood has left my brain and is dedicated to helping me digest all of the sushi I could eat. It was not the sushi showdown I had hoped it would be but we were all winners.

wasteland

2005-08-18T19:00:00.000-04:00

Our digital cable listing shortens the titles of shows. "Girls Behaving Badly" is shortened to "Girls Behaving". This would be the most boring show ever. A lot of girls behaving? It conjures images of the all-american type, untanned (because she always wears a hat and sunscreen, behaving) with gleaming white teeth (you could watch her floss, that's behaving) sitting primly at her job (well-behaved girls are employed, they don't have sugar daddies) with her ankles crossed neatly and her back iron-rod straight (good posture is a key element of good behaviour).

Speaking of posture (look, i'm the queen of the segue way), I had a voice lesson today. My new teacher is a hero of science, explaining everything I'm doing wrong in terms of physiology. For some reason this helps me and also reassures me. Unfortunately I'm doing a lot of things wrong.

I knew this, of course, and he hit the nail on the head when he told me that my singing for the past - well, my entire semi-adult life - has been an exercise in avoidance. It's a hard truth to face but I feel like maybe I'm finally at a point in my life where I can buckle down and do the necessary work to re-coordinate my body and my breath. It's also a relief to know that the frustration I've felt with regards to my singing wasn't unfounded. Even today, with a new and extremely supportive (albeit challenging) teacher and no expectations I found myself being emotional a number of times throughout the hour. I think I need therapy.

On the other hand, my teacher was kind enough to be reassuring and even excited at the prospect of working through the problems. I'm discovering new muscles that are necessary to keep my ribs elevated and my air travelling slowly enough not to blow my vocal cords apart. I'm also learning not to hyper-extend my back so much and to avoid taking tracheal breaths. And here I thought I had been breathing properly my whole life. Unfortunately what this means is that I'm going to have to fight 20 years of muscle memory. On the plus side, there are no problems with my actual voice - simply my diaphragm.

There was a birthday yesterday, a celebration of things intense and colourful (like the birthday boy). There were also hats and chocolate, witness exhibit one:

I hadn't had chocolate in about three weeks. I had forgotten how great it is. The combination of dark chocolate and red wine is perfect. I'm pleased I don't get migraines. I also wish that I knew how food tasted to other people. I wish I knew why some people love chocolate and others love salt. I also would like to understand how some people simply don't enjoy food - I wish I could eat all the time. I love that our bodies are designed to require nourishment, therefore requiring us to eat at regular intervals. Whatever your belief system - evolution, creationism or some other theory - you've got to admit that some elements of our design are fiendishly clever.

Speaking of eating, the triumvirate, the birthday boy and a small-town girl are eating all of the sushi they possibly can tomorrow for lunch. There will be a contest between Deadpan, TryHard, FemRage and the Heater for the sushi-eating crown. The Heater eats small children (but only on weekends) and therefore might have an edge, but I live in hope that my past training at Korean BBQ will stand me in good stead. The fatties taught me well - let's just hope that I can remember their teachings.

Low

2005-08-16T23:44:00.000-04:00

Here's the problem with having a big fat line of credit: spending money is suddenly much easier. When I'm digging myself into debt already, what's an extra $40 for new jeans?

What I should have bought was a new pencil sharpener. It wouldn't cover my ass or keep me warm but it would help me draw. My 6B pencil - with its soft lead - disappears quickly, which is sad because my most recent effort has a lot of dark in it.

I haven't done any drawing in about a year, but I'm on a new creativity kick to balance the workiness. It's quite soothing, and despite my complete lack of training or skill I like watching a blank page evolve into something quasi-recognizable. I don't have enough talent to do accurate likenesses so my work tends to verge on the abstract or explore different perspectives.

I give my art away but I will take photos of it and post it here for posterity or mockery.

I have a meeting with my new voice teacher on Thursday. If he makes me sing I hope I'm not too rusty, it's been about 4 months since I last did any real singing and I fear that my technique no longer exists.

I really want pink streaks in my hair but I have to look professional for the next few months - and perhaps for the rest of my life. Damn. My reckless youth is slipping through my fingers one rebellion at a time.

Basic Instinct

2005-08-13T23:53:00.000-04:00

I'm on what I think is my 5th or 6th movie of the day, I haven't been paying attention. Mostly I've been working so the television is simply for background purposes. The only movies I've watched today without working have been Cellular (I was hungover, anything would have occupied my drained brain. Be warned however, it's a terrible terrible movie) and National Treasure (I rented it, I know I'm an awful wasteland of Disney pop culture but there wasn't a good chick flick to rent).

I was doing quite well with the detox until last night. I hadn't had a drink in 5 days, had been going to the gym regularly and even eating heathfully. Then Sarah returned triumphant to Canada and naturally we had to celebrate. Nothing says "welcome home" like drinking until you're sick. Thankfully I escaped the nausea (I didn't even fall down, it was terribly exciting) but I did almost burn the house down.

Once the charred pizza made its escape from the oven to the backyard I didn't dare go to sleep until the smoke had cleared. Nothing would piss me off more than being woken by the fire alarm at 3 am. Thankfully our fire alarm isn't actually in the kitchen, but nonetheless I danced around the first floor flailing a blanket like a crazy person (it dissapates smoke, didn't you know? And the dancing is an integral part of the process).

In my dreams I was arguing with Amy about the total number of children in the world. There were other random things dreamt but they've escaped my sieve of a brain.

I fixed my rollerblades today and skated to the gym. Unfortunately my spectacular Superman fall has given me the fear: my brake is now perfectly stable but I'm reluctant to build up any speed. Hopefully the fear will evaporate with time (I'm sick of being a scaredy-cat).

I am becoming a hermit, there will be more on hermitage shortly. For now however I must watch horror movies in bed and succumb to eventual nightmares in the hopes of awaking early enough to actually go to a cardio class in the morning.

I think I broke myself

2005-08-10T00:11:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I blog too much, especially about fatigue. However this is the worst trip I've ever had and therefore I think it deserves recognition.

I tried to take a nap between 10:30 and 12:00, in preparation for memo-writing extravaganza the second. I couldn't sleep. I've never had insomnia before (that I can remember) and I hate it. My body is twitchy, I'm flailing about. My brain is racing at 200 miles per hour, covering everything from frisbee to law to god knows what else. All I can hear is the new NIN album, which is on permanent repeat in my ears. Even when I plug my ears in an effort to drown it out my breathing doesn't distract me.

I try counting, I try every position imaginable, but all I can manage is fitful minutes of rest. I gave up at midnight knowing that I want to get this paper done, but it's all I can do to sit at my desk. I finished the ice cream in our freezer in an effort to elevate my seratonin levels. I put on Mozart in an effort to drown out the NIN playback loop. I'm loaded up with diet Vanilla Coke but nothing seems to pep me up (yet I can't calm down).

I think I broke my brain.

This is my brain on research

2005-08-09T21:08:00.000-04:00

I used to be able to pull all-nighters without difficulty. Now the lure of my bed grows ever-stronger with each passing hour. I hit the wall at 3:30 am: my self-discipline evaporates every night at this time and I have yet to clear the sleep hurdle.

Today I forced myself awake again at 6:00 - 2.5 hours is plenty of sleep. That's what I was telling myself until the hallucinations kicked in. Of course I kept pushing to meet the self-imposed deadline, meaning that my conclusions probably make absolutely no sense and I might get fired. Damn. On the other hand, it's that fear that keeps me going into the wee hours.

My brain on research causes sudden flashes of irritability. It's times like these that I should live alone. Thankfully my bouts of rage are brief and silent, avoiding roommate alienation. If my future career requires me to work 18-hour days I hope for the sake of my co-workers that I don't have to interact with them while experiencing post-memo trauma.

Maybe my body will get used to the absence of sleep and I will once again live by the mantra "sleep when you're dead". Yes, that is the new mantra (that and "don't get fired"). I don't think I'm equipped to deal with consequences. It was terrifically exciting to have a job that required brainpower. Now it's simply exhausting, especially with the self-imposed high standards. When did i turn into such a TryHard?

The triumvirate titles appear to be shifting. I am no longer Deadpan (although the extreme fatigue leeches all expression from my voice and face) but TryHard. The original TryHard appears to have taken over some of the FemRage responsibilities (while remaining a TryHard and a SlowPack). Perhaps TryHard and I are in fact becoming the same person, for I too am a SlowPack. I have very little FemRage, all of my rage today was kitchen-related and very shortlived.

This is my brain on research. I learned long ago not to write things down when experiencing an altered state. I think the lesson needs to extend to the tireds.

the internet (is for porn)

2005-08-09T02:26:00.000-04:00

Dear Red Bull:

You do not give me wings. I do not feel like I'm flying right now, high or low or anywhere off the ground. A correction: I feel as though I might have been flying once, but am now hurtling headlong toward the cold hard ground and all I want to do is close my eyes so I don't have to watch my head explode.

[aside: i really want to go skydiving.]

It may not be entirely your fault - as "energy drinks" go you are not a complete failure. You are less sweet than the diet Vanilla Coke awaiting me in the fridge, less bitter than the coffee I could make, less diuretic than the pots of tea I could consume. However, you do not increase my ability to read 50 more pages about [boring legal stuff], nor to integrate those pages with 10 other papers on the subject.

Yes, I should have worked from home today, which would have prevented my needing you in my bloodstream right now. However, you promise me energy and all I have is fatigue. I'm considering becoming a speed addict. Thanks a lot. Of course if I do become an addict and eventually enter recovery, I'll have to make amends with you in step 9, so perhaps I'll have Responsiblor kill Sloth Girl once and for all to nip this addiction in the bud.

In sum, I have no wings. You are neither red, nor a bull, and while you may be a drink I doubt that you are an "energy drink". You are full of lies and too expensive, and while you may be all-natural I am hestitant to buy you ever again.

Slipping towards sleep,
AVN

PS: this is not your fault, but my brain somehow seems better able to play on the interweb than to focus on its job.

burned and bloody

2005-08-06T21:37:00.000-04:00

So I'm watching "Josie and the Pussycats" instead of going to the Ultimate party (the choice is not mine, although I'm wary of pounding too many shots before pounding the field again tomorrow). However, I'm happy to sit my tired ass down and take it easy - five games in a row are enough to bring me nearly to tears, especially when I play less than well. But there will be no pity party here, I will now instead take my battle scars to the bar since that is the choice that has been made.