From The Files of Minor Annoyances

There are many things about the world that confuse me. Fundamentalist Christianity. The economy. Personal relationships. The Burger King burger that comes with mashed potatoes and fried onions as garnishes.

And another thing: girl versions of sports team merchandise. In other words, is there no team logo safe from be-pinkening? I wanted a birthday present for a friend, a simple Canadiens shirt, and what did I find? Rhinestones. Rhinestones, and hunter green, and black, and pink, and then more pink, and then a shirt that had multiple Habs logos scattered over the shirt with a big tattoo rose in the middle that said "Montreal Canadiens." Does Quebec have an equivalent to Chavs? If so, here's a FrancoChav costume for Halloween: bleached hair, tight acid wash jeans, and that shirt. Note how sneaky that crafty NHL is:
Oh, what a cute ringer shirt... you might think. However, on closer inspection:
Rhinestones! Unnecessary rhinestones!

I will not stand for this. Well, not until they pay me great big wodgers of cash for my distressed fuchsia on rose Detroit Red Wings design, complete with matching glitter logo pin.

VIA Strikes Again

I have my… issues with transportation. I have been screwed over on a plane, in a bus, on a boat, and in a train. Oh God, how I have ever been screwed over on a train. If you’re not Canadian, and if you have never experienced, you probably have never experienced the joy of a VIA trip, you poor thing. The limitless joy of watching a seven hour trip stretch out to twelve, the exquisite beauty of sitting on a broken-down train in the middle of Ontario’s armpit, and the wonder of the four dollar chips are all part of the VIA experience.

I would go on the bus, but the bus experience has involved staring at a grease patch, with one single white hair smack dab in the center, a former seat tenant had left until Toronto. Which, really. I can forgive the grease patch, but the perfectly placed, thick, white hair just seems premeditated.

So I go by train, to limited degrees of success. I’m actually writing this on my way home from Guelph for Thanksgiving, on the train. This trip has gone, all things considered, reasonably well. We are a mere ten minutes late, and I got to sit next to my roommate for most of the trip. However. I needed glorious Internet access for a school project, which Via conveniently offers on most of its trains, if you pay nine bucks for a full 24 hours first. Rather inconveniently, this service is apparently a fickle beast that doesn’t like the Toronto-Montreal corridor. Yep, right after I had cited (in appropriate MLA style) my last source, I switched trains, but apparently left Internet access behind. I had hoped it was a temporary measure, but temporary is now going on five hours, so I guess VIA got me again.

Their welcome e-mail wished me a “productive day.” Now they’re just being mean. 

(Posted after I got home to functional Internet and the cats.)

My Future Beckons, And I Think It Has an STD

My roommate and I have made a pact- by the end of the week, we'll have some kind of rough idea of what we're doing with our lives. WHICH IS WHY I'M CURRENTLY HYPERVENTILATING INTO A BAG. We're not talking a detailed narrative here- who knows what the ETA on the house in the suburbs and the one kid in Montessori will be- but at least a general plan for the next year. OH GOD I AM OLD. I'm currently vacillating between grad school and a year off teaching abroad, but important details, like which grad program, where, what country I want to teach English in, and so on, are still blank.

Katie is doing much better, and has actually narrowed down her schools to a shortlist. While she's been doing that, I've watched the Celine Dion made for tv movie. I might have some catching up to do, particularly now that I'm traumatized by what turned out to be, to quote Iris, "soft porn about their relationship." "Their" meaning Celine and Rene, or rather Celine and a creepy older Quebecois man who managed her since she was twelve. Played by an Anglo actor in a bad wig.

My procrastination isn't because I'm scared of growing up- that's a fate I've accepted with stoic resignation- but of getting letters of recommendation. I hate writing CVs, and I hate harassing people to lie and write something about how original and engaging I am. BUT I DO NOT WANT TO BE A FAILURE. If they were all more honest about this, mine would read something like "Protagitron does her work semi-competently, and even spells her name correctly sometimes. She will probably not make any major or minor contributions to her field, but she will pay her tuition on time, and generally smells inoffensive."

Come to think of it though, I don't know if I could even get that far. Most of them don't know who I am, and if they do, they know they hate me. I was keeping one professor in reserve, the ever-delightful Professor Mole, but ruined it all by talking to him outside of class a few days ago. Here's how that conversation went:
Protag: Hello, Professor!
Mole: Protagitron, how are you doing?
P: ... I'm... here. That's, uh, half the battle, right?
Mole:... Yes. Yes it is.
P: ...
Mole: ...
P: Have a nice day?
... and scurry. At this rate, even my application to CDI College isn't going to be processed.