1. Cast On
2. Quirks and Quarks
3. On the Media
4. BBC Radio Newspod
5. The Skeptic's Guide to the Universe
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The Prof Roll
I like to give my profs nicknames, because it (hopefully) lessens the chances of one of those uncomfortable "right beyond you at the theater" moments. You vent to someone, as a healthy outlet of rage, and the cause of that rage is standing right behind you, waiting to pay for their tickets. So, this semester's crop are, in the order that I have their classes:
-Prof. Woodlouse: I would rather have him just be an asshole, then work so hard at it. Always keeps the top button of all of his shirts undone, which annoys me. Likes Lenny C, dislikes yours truly.
-Prof. Bootcut: The cutest of the bunch. Favors that cut of jeans. Seems like a nice guy, very eager to help and please, but still very green.
-T.Awesome: My most beloved TA. Was my course instructor for a class last semester. Likes me, and therefore possibly mentally unsound. She's a sweetheart, though.
-Prof. Bogatyr: She's pretty much the opposite, as a petite female prof, from the legendary bogatyrs of Russia- big burly man-types who looked like the could stop a tank, and then eat it. But she says the word with such verve- ba-gaht-TEER!!!!! that I associate it with her.
-Prof. Hammy: Drama prof. Every lecture is an oration. Had a hilarious meltdown with a student that led to him bellowing "Are you saying this is a bad play? Are you saying they've been performing a bad play for 120 YEARS!?!?"
-Prof. Vole: The most adorable thing, ever. Perennially ten minutes late to class, he's an older man in a sweater, peering over round glasses and holding his hands up to his chin as he hopes we'll laugh at his joke about Kant and Schiller. Surprisingly passionate about McGill life. My favourite so far.
And there we have it. Let's see if any of these names change, shall we?
-Prof. Woodlouse: I would rather have him just be an asshole, then work so hard at it. Always keeps the top button of all of his shirts undone, which annoys me. Likes Lenny C, dislikes yours truly.
-Prof. Bootcut: The cutest of the bunch. Favors that cut of jeans. Seems like a nice guy, very eager to help and please, but still very green.
-T.Awesome: My most beloved TA. Was my course instructor for a class last semester. Likes me, and therefore possibly mentally unsound. She's a sweetheart, though.
-Prof. Bogatyr: She's pretty much the opposite, as a petite female prof, from the legendary bogatyrs of Russia- big burly man-types who looked like the could stop a tank, and then eat it. But she says the word with such verve- ba-gaht-TEER!!!!! that I associate it with her.
-Prof. Hammy: Drama prof. Every lecture is an oration. Had a hilarious meltdown with a student that led to him bellowing "Are you saying this is a bad play? Are you saying they've been performing a bad play for 120 YEARS!?!?"
-Prof. Vole: The most adorable thing, ever. Perennially ten minutes late to class, he's an older man in a sweater, peering over round glasses and holding his hands up to his chin as he hopes we'll laugh at his joke about Kant and Schiller. Surprisingly passionate about McGill life. My favourite so far.
And there we have it. Let's see if any of these names change, shall we?
Saturday, January 20, 2007
The Top 5: Dorktastic Things in My Room
1. My Broadway Classics calendar: It was either this or an Ansel Adams calendar. That I chose this one probably says everything about me. To those of you who would judge: I have a big picture of Ethel Merman as Madam Rose from Gypsy staring at me. Everyday. I think I win.
2. Catwoman Fold and Mail Stationary: I like Catwoman. I like Catwoman a lot. In fact, if I were a fabulously beautiful, athletic, immoral socialite (or flight attendant or prostitute or whatever depending on which version you're working with), cat burglar supreme would be my first career choice. She had everything- a vinyl suit, pretty jewels, and Batman to mack on. I like the stationary because it doesn't require envelopes, and its bright comic-book colours look so jaunty when I go to post them.
3. Nancy Pearl action figure: A gift from my most-beloved roommate, Katie. She comes with shushing action and a stack of books, including her own, Book Lust. Librarians are awesome people, and I'm not just saying this because my Dad was one. They regulate access to the holy books, and are usually helpful, kind sorts of people with brains the size of elephants. Mr. Mills, my terrible high school "librarian" does not count. He was barely human, much less a librarian. Plus, her preferred the term "library technician", as if to prove his twatwaffle status. Nancy Pearl isn't afraid of being a librarian, of dressing the way she wants, or of reading the books she wants, and I love her for it.
4. My nameplate from my old job: Every summer, I usually work with my Mom at the teacher resource center cataloguing books. All of the other ladies had a professional name tag, with their name and the Upper Grand District School Board logo. The logo, depending on your interpretation, is either two children happily cheering in front of the Grand River, or two children caught in some crazy alternate dimension full of visible currents, where one false move could mean death. As a joke, I used to steal my mom's nameplate and cover up her first name with mine, written on a Post-It note in marker. After a while, my mom got them to make one for all the students so she could get her nameplate back. I keep mine on my desk, in case anyone should be in my room and be confused as to who I am.
5. A Big Stuffed Wolverine: No, not a taxidermied animal. Or a stuffed Michigan mascot. Rather, a stuffed version of the X-Man, of the kind that tends to come in those grab-a-toy arcade games. A birthday gift from my friends, it's the perfect representation of my bargain brand of nerdiness. I like superhero books, but not to the point of paying hundreds of dollars for the Wolverine vs. Sabretooth ceramic sculpture, hand painted in a limited edition of four hundred. Or, actually, enough to spend money following a book each month- comic books have gotten too damned expensive.
I Need a New Title
Hmm, maybe I should call my blog "The Weekly Protagitron", or perhaps "The Fortnightly Protagitron". What happened during the week? Well, just a few big updates. I decided to keep my boots, since they've been rather comfortable since the day of pain- maybe they just needed to be broken in. I signed up for swing dance classes with my wonderful friend, Diane. Currently the odds are good that I'll cry after my first lesson, so I'm planning to take the drinking offense. Which means the odds are now good that I'll seriously injure Diane. Oh well. I'm taking the class through the McGill gym, which apparently also offers Equestrian classes. Diane and I already have plans to take that next year. I finally broke down and checked my grades from last semester, and was... mildly distressed. Then I bought a bottle of JD's and watched Road House. Things then seemed better. I still haven't got around to finishing the bottle.
And the biggest news of all... today my much-beloved room mate and I are getting a cat. Not a permanent cat, alas, but a foster cat. Still, Katie and I bought a bunch of supplies for the fuzzball. My contribution was a toy shaped like a shrimp, but looking rather more like a shrimp with a horrible skin condition and bug eyes. Katie's contribution was pretty much everything else, and since the food dishes, litter scoop, box, and toy were bought at Dollarama, they pretty much cost as much as my hideous shrimp toy. Whatever. When the kitten is having night terrors imagining mutated shrimp eating his feline flesh, he'll know who to thank.
And the biggest news of all... today my much-beloved room mate and I are getting a cat. Not a permanent cat, alas, but a foster cat. Still, Katie and I bought a bunch of supplies for the fuzzball. My contribution was a toy shaped like a shrimp, but looking rather more like a shrimp with a horrible skin condition and bug eyes. Katie's contribution was pretty much everything else, and since the food dishes, litter scoop, box, and toy were bought at Dollarama, they pretty much cost as much as my hideous shrimp toy. Whatever. When the kitten is having night terrors imagining mutated shrimp eating his feline flesh, he'll know who to thank.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Dead Socks and the Living
My beloved pair of Koigu Jaywalkers gave up their lives in the service of keepi
ng my feet toasty yesterday. Look at that gaping heel- it's like another mouth! How did I manage not to notice it when I put them on? Can holes that large suddenly appear? Oh well, they gave me a good year of service, which isn't too bad for an all-wool sock that goes through the sock hell I put all of my socks through. My first pair of exciting socks, made in a wavy rib from a pattern in a one-off grocery store magazine, died two months ago. They too were all wool, a lovely copper and green handpaint from Shelridge Farms, so I guess we have proof of the longevity of wool blends, since my very first pair of socks is still going strong, even if they are getting a little thin in parts. However, I had them around for about two and a half years, so I guess the Shelridge superwash wool is a bit sturdier than whatever base yarn Koigu is using.
All of this is to say that, between the dead socks and the lonely singles, I need more handknit socks. Unfortunately, I've had sock ADD. Right now, there are no less than four socks on different needles. One of them is almost finished, it's just been waiting for the toe of the 2nd sock to be stitched together. Waiting... for months. I've got one twisted-rib cuff of the Ripple Weave socks from Fall 2006 Vogue complete in a pink Koigu, but I'm not sure if I'm all that keyed-up about that pattern right now. Then, there's a pair of denim-y self-striping socks I started over Christmas break, since the yarn was a present. But I think I'll finish these first, Broadripples in some Regia yarn whose name a
nd colourway have been lost to time. I think the self-striping and the dork lace pattern work together here, and the colours remind me of a Swedish kindergarten. Like, they would paint the walls these colours, and seeing them would fill you with the calm satisfaction of knowing your child would be learning to live together in harmony and without prejudice, and only play with independently-produced, lo-tech, educational toys. After all, if they can get such bright colours to work together, what can't they do with your offspring? Plus, I really like the pattern. Simple, but just intriguing enough not to bore.
ng my feet toasty yesterday. Look at that gaping heel- it's like another mouth! How did I manage not to notice it when I put them on? Can holes that large suddenly appear? Oh well, they gave me a good year of service, which isn't too bad for an all-wool sock that goes through the sock hell I put all of my socks through. My first pair of exciting socks, made in a wavy rib from a pattern in a one-off grocery store magazine, died two months ago. They too were all wool, a lovely copper and green handpaint from Shelridge Farms, so I guess we have proof of the longevity of wool blends, since my very first pair of socks is still going strong, even if they are getting a little thin in parts. However, I had them around for about two and a half years, so I guess the Shelridge superwash wool is a bit sturdier than whatever base yarn Koigu is using.All of this is to say that, between the dead socks and the lonely singles, I need more handknit socks. Unfortunately, I've had sock ADD. Right now, there are no less than four socks on different needles. One of them is almost finished, it's just been waiting for the toe of the 2nd sock to be stitched together. Waiting... for months. I've got one twisted-rib cuff of the Ripple Weave socks from Fall 2006 Vogue complete in a pink Koigu, but I'm not sure if I'm all that keyed-up about that pattern right now. Then, there's a pair of denim-y self-striping socks I started over Christmas break, since the yarn was a present. But I think I'll finish these first, Broadripples in some Regia yarn whose name a
nd colourway have been lost to time. I think the self-striping and the dork lace pattern work together here, and the colours remind me of a Swedish kindergarten. Like, they would paint the walls these colours, and seeing them would fill you with the calm satisfaction of knowing your child would be learning to live together in harmony and without prejudice, and only play with independently-produced, lo-tech, educational toys. After all, if they can get such bright colours to work together, what can't they do with your offspring? Plus, I really like the pattern. Simple, but just intriguing enough not to bore.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
The Top 5: Worst Songs I've Listened To On My iPod Repeatedly
1. Physical- Olivia Newton John: This song always conjures images in my mind of thirtysomethings dating in the eighties. They would go to see Tarzan, the Ape Man, eat at an Italian restaurant with real napkins on the table that advertises on TV, then go home and have AquaNet hair sex. It also makes me think of Noam Chomsky. Ahem. Only because it was stuck in my head when I was taking a course on Chomsky, so every day it was all "language must be innate I TOOK YOU TO AN INTIMATE RESTAURANT anarchosyndicalism THEN TO A SUGGESTIVE MOVIE manufacturing consent I WANNA GET PHYSICAL." And this is a problem, since Noam Chomsky getting physical is something I would rather not think about, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
2. One Night in Bangkok- Murray Head, from Chess: This should be number one, but then it would be the first thing anyone would see. Everything about this song is just painfully, painfully bad- the mid eighties attempts by white people, the heavily synthed-out score, and the dated politics. I hated it so much, I would let out a shudder whenever "the ultimate test of cerebral fitness" would roll around, and yet I couldn't help playing it over and over and pretending I was some sort of Thai hooker. I hope the blinds were down. Please send help.
3. The House of the Rising Sun- Santa Esmeralda: I can't help but love Santa Esmeralda, even though all of their songs are about 20 minutes long, broken up into seven minutes segments of them repeating the same thing. I think House deserves a special nod, however, since I think it has the least vocals of any of their songs, and one part that's at least six minutes long, of just the bass playing the same couple of notes over and over again. Then the Mexican horns kick in.
4. My Oh My- Aqua: Clippy-clop hooves. Robin Hood-esque story, where Robin Hood has "no time for luhvehng". Clearly Maid Marian is a clingy bitch. I think Barbie Girl, in its way, is a perfectly good pop song, but this one sucks so hard. And yet I love it so much.
5. Gimme Gimme Gimme- ABBA: Wait for the synth breakdown. I had a whole dance routine set to that. It utilized the ugly couch in my family's basement.
"What Fresh Hell Is This?"- John Waters
People. People. Aliens.
Ahem.
I'm just taking a moment to, collect myself after this week. I would say that after this week, the semester can only be looking up. If not at the peaks of heroic mountains, then at least the gutter level of a well-kept suburban street. But then I remember that I said almost the same thing Wednesday morning, which somehow led to me falling jauntily down the stairs at Sherbrooke 688, McGill's language building. It was kind of like the scene in Gone with the Wind where Scarlett cartwheels down the stairs, except with less miscarrying. I don't even know what happened- I was fuming in a dark mood over another unpleasant event of the day, when I suddenly could feel my feet slipping. I reached out to the hand rail to steady myself, but it was too late- I was suddenly rolling down the stairs like a goddamn barrel, as part of my brain screamed "Mayday! Mayday! Abort mission! Abort mission" in a futile attempt to initiate shutdown and spare myself the embarrassment, and another part was all "God, this is going slower than expected", as I could hear people going "Wow" and "Whoah". Finally, some kind boy stopped me by grabbing my head. I had somehow gone from standing straight up, walking downstairs, to lying on the stairs with my head pointed towards the bottom. As if to highlight the ridiculous absurdity of the situation, my quasi-saviour was from my just-completed Russian Studies class, sure to make any future classes an exercise in staring fixedly at only the most interesting scuff marks on the classroom floor.
I went home, and had a good, long cry. I'm not going to lie- my reserves of self-control and patience, had pretty much been used up by that point. It was a fairly low point, not because of the isolated weight of the whole stairway adventure, but because of its place in the aggregate, the proof that my life was playing as a black comedy for everyone but me. But I think I'm almost pulled together now- or maybe it's just the therapeutic act of writing. It was such a silly, high school-esque piece of business, and something I thought I was far away from. But, apparently there's no age limit on my glorious, unworldly, clumsiness. I'm ready to face another week in a few days, but I'm keeping an eye out for all of the light fixtures. At this rate, one will fall on me.
Ahem.
I'm just taking a moment to, collect myself after this week. I would say that after this week, the semester can only be looking up. If not at the peaks of heroic mountains, then at least the gutter level of a well-kept suburban street. But then I remember that I said almost the same thing Wednesday morning, which somehow led to me falling jauntily down the stairs at Sherbrooke 688, McGill's language building. It was kind of like the scene in Gone with the Wind where Scarlett cartwheels down the stairs, except with less miscarrying. I don't even know what happened- I was fuming in a dark mood over another unpleasant event of the day, when I suddenly could feel my feet slipping. I reached out to the hand rail to steady myself, but it was too late- I was suddenly rolling down the stairs like a goddamn barrel, as part of my brain screamed "Mayday! Mayday! Abort mission! Abort mission" in a futile attempt to initiate shutdown and spare myself the embarrassment, and another part was all "God, this is going slower than expected", as I could hear people going "Wow" and "Whoah". Finally, some kind boy stopped me by grabbing my head. I had somehow gone from standing straight up, walking downstairs, to lying on the stairs with my head pointed towards the bottom. As if to highlight the ridiculous absurdity of the situation, my quasi-saviour was from my just-completed Russian Studies class, sure to make any future classes an exercise in staring fixedly at only the most interesting scuff marks on the classroom floor.
I went home, and had a good, long cry. I'm not going to lie- my reserves of self-control and patience, had pretty much been used up by that point. It was a fairly low point, not because of the isolated weight of the whole stairway adventure, but because of its place in the aggregate, the proof that my life was playing as a black comedy for everyone but me. But I think I'm almost pulled together now- or maybe it's just the therapeutic act of writing. It was such a silly, high school-esque piece of business, and something I thought I was far away from. But, apparently there's no age limit on my glorious, unworldly, clumsiness. I'm ready to face another week in a few days, but I'm keeping an eye out for all of the light fixtures. At this rate, one will fall on me.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Ow. Vomit. Repeat.
God. Damn. I'm waiting for tomorrow to see what fresh hell it will bring. Swarm of locusts? Herpes? WHAT?
Sorry. I'll write more tomorrow. Right now I have to finish reading an Ibsen play and finish my dessert of Jell-O. Dinner was a generous bowl of... plain chicken broth. Tomorrow I get to have solids again. And what a feast it will be, from the main course of white rice to the dessert course of some "easy to digest foods like apple sauce", all expertly complimented by "clear, easy to digest juices like apple juice". Double the apple, double the flavour has always been my motto. Well, anything to reduce vomiting.
I also have to take my super cute and much adored boots back to the store. Oh, my darling Fluevogs, black and tan of sole and brown of leather, a twist on the classic engineer boot with brio- why must you hurt me so? You see, sometimes, stupid, stupid people will try on boots they really want, and find out that they are very close to fitting, and yet seem somehow- off. And these same people would have had an earlier experience in the day where another pair of boots, the historic Fryes, looked like ass on their feet, for she apparently has a high instep as the shoe salesperson said. What the shoe salesperson did not say is that she also has fatty fatty monster calves*, but anyway. So, she will try and tell herself that some of her favorite shoes, from the ugly but comfortable Blundstones to my very favorite heels, were tight in the beginning but, being leather, they stretched. In fact, since the last pair of shoes were bought at the very same store, clearly this bodes well. She will even ignore the adorable pair of heels that fit well and buy these instead, even though this stupid person has money for neither. And this fairy tale will end with all of the stupid people getting gigantic, pillow-like blisters stretching across their heels, throbbing rhythmically as they try to read Russian history. It doesn't help that our library looks like a gulag, adding to the whole "Eau de la Torture" that wafted about the proceedings. Hooray.
Tomorrow will be better. I insist on it!
*Note: I don't usually think of my calves as fatty fatty monster. If I'm not trying on boots, I don't even notice them, much less mind them. In fact, I rather like the earthen solidity. And the weird diet regime is illness related, not some sort of wacky diet. I like my (meant and cheese) solids.
Sorry. I'll write more tomorrow. Right now I have to finish reading an Ibsen play and finish my dessert of Jell-O. Dinner was a generous bowl of... plain chicken broth. Tomorrow I get to have solids again. And what a feast it will be, from the main course of white rice to the dessert course of some "easy to digest foods like apple sauce", all expertly complimented by "clear, easy to digest juices like apple juice". Double the apple, double the flavour has always been my motto. Well, anything to reduce vomiting.
I also have to take my super cute and much adored boots back to the store. Oh, my darling Fluevogs, black and tan of sole and brown of leather, a twist on the classic engineer boot with brio- why must you hurt me so? You see, sometimes, stupid, stupid people will try on boots they really want, and find out that they are very close to fitting, and yet seem somehow- off. And these same people would have had an earlier experience in the day where another pair of boots, the historic Fryes, looked like ass on their feet, for she apparently has a high instep as the shoe salesperson said. What the shoe salesperson did not say is that she also has fatty fatty monster calves*, but anyway. So, she will try and tell herself that some of her favorite shoes, from the ugly but comfortable Blundstones to my very favorite heels, were tight in the beginning but, being leather, they stretched. In fact, since the last pair of shoes were bought at the very same store, clearly this bodes well. She will even ignore the adorable pair of heels that fit well and buy these instead, even though this stupid person has money for neither. And this fairy tale will end with all of the stupid people getting gigantic, pillow-like blisters stretching across their heels, throbbing rhythmically as they try to read Russian history. It doesn't help that our library looks like a gulag, adding to the whole "Eau de la Torture" that wafted about the proceedings. Hooray.
Tomorrow will be better. I insist on it!
*Note: I don't usually think of my calves as fatty fatty monster. If I'm not trying on boots, I don't even notice them, much less mind them. In fact, I rather like the earthen solidity. And the weird diet regime is illness related, not some sort of wacky diet. I like my (meant and cheese) solids.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Die, Via, You Bitch!: My Day in Point Form
1. Wake up.
2. Take dreadful, dreadful pictures of myself in an effort to renew my ISIC card.
3. Realize I look like post-child star period Corey Haim.
4. Go to orthodontist, find out that my stubborn gap is still there after 4.25 years.
5. Consider calling my orthodontist a money grubbing quack.
6. Reconsider when I realize he has his hands on some very sharp metal equipment that happens to be near my mouth.
7. Go to train station to catch train to Montreal.
8. Train will be half an hour late.
9. Train will be forty-five minutes late.
10. Train will be one hour late.
11. Go with parents to the Bookshelf to check over the books.
12. Return. Train is still late, but they are holding the connection in Toronto.
13. Get on train.
14. Find out, twenty minutes before Toronto, that the have had to let the connecting train go. We will be accomadated on the 3:10 train.
15. It is about 11:40.
16. Told we must go to the information booth to change our tickets.
17. Find the information booth.
18. Ticket is now for 3:10. Via promises half-off the next ticket and gives me a free voucher to Harvey's.
19. I already ate lunch.
20. Phone parents to tell them I've been delayed.
21. Find out i left my keys at home.
22. Cry, rend garments, etc.
23. Have brainwave: "Hey, since I'm not leaving until 3:10, could my dad possibly drive the keys up here? It should only take about an hour and a bit, and I have... four."
24. Father has already mailed the keys to me.
25. Storm off to berate myself for my stupidity.
26. Handle breaks off my luggage.
27. Why?
28. It takes five minutes to shove the handle back in the suitcase.
29. Now I can't roll my heaviest suitcase.
30. I have four bags to deal with.
31. I only came down with two for Christmas- where did the others come from? Is my overindulgent Western lifestyle finally kicking me in the ass?
32. Ignore philosophical quandry. Choke down overcooked Harvey's grilled chicken sandwich to spite Via.
33. Wish I had gone with the hamburger instead.
34. With all of my bags, knock my French fries everywhere.
35. Brush the french fries off my shirt back into the cup.
36. Get on train.
37. Arrive in Montreal around eight or something. Constantly looking at my watch began to depress me.
38. Struggle with bags up the stairs.
39. Am hugged by my beloved roommate, Katie.
40. I love my roommate.
41. Receive footie pyjamas.
42. Have only kielbasa in return.
43. Hooray for Katie!
2. Take dreadful, dreadful pictures of myself in an effort to renew my ISIC card.
3. Realize I look like post-child star period Corey Haim.
4. Go to orthodontist, find out that my stubborn gap is still there after 4.25 years.
5. Consider calling my orthodontist a money grubbing quack.
6. Reconsider when I realize he has his hands on some very sharp metal equipment that happens to be near my mouth.
7. Go to train station to catch train to Montreal.
8. Train will be half an hour late.
9. Train will be forty-five minutes late.
10. Train will be one hour late.
11. Go with parents to the Bookshelf to check over the books.
12. Return. Train is still late, but they are holding the connection in Toronto.
13. Get on train.
14. Find out, twenty minutes before Toronto, that the have had to let the connecting train go. We will be accomadated on the 3:10 train.
15. It is about 11:40.
16. Told we must go to the information booth to change our tickets.
17. Find the information booth.
18. Ticket is now for 3:10. Via promises half-off the next ticket and gives me a free voucher to Harvey's.
19. I already ate lunch.
20. Phone parents to tell them I've been delayed.
21. Find out i left my keys at home.
22. Cry, rend garments, etc.
23. Have brainwave: "Hey, since I'm not leaving until 3:10, could my dad possibly drive the keys up here? It should only take about an hour and a bit, and I have... four."
24. Father has already mailed the keys to me.
25. Storm off to berate myself for my stupidity.
26. Handle breaks off my luggage.
27. Why?
28. It takes five minutes to shove the handle back in the suitcase.
29. Now I can't roll my heaviest suitcase.
30. I have four bags to deal with.
31. I only came down with two for Christmas- where did the others come from? Is my overindulgent Western lifestyle finally kicking me in the ass?
32. Ignore philosophical quandry. Choke down overcooked Harvey's grilled chicken sandwich to spite Via.
33. Wish I had gone with the hamburger instead.
34. With all of my bags, knock my French fries everywhere.
35. Brush the french fries off my shirt back into the cup.
36. Get on train.
37. Arrive in Montreal around eight or something. Constantly looking at my watch began to depress me.
38. Struggle with bags up the stairs.
39. Am hugged by my beloved roommate, Katie.
40. I love my roommate.
41. Receive footie pyjamas.
42. Have only kielbasa in return.
43. Hooray for Katie!
Monday, January 1, 2007
... And A Happy New Year
I was going to start this year with a list of my resolutions, but I found it difficult to write them down. My track record when it comes to New Year resolutions? Craptacular. I think "Lose 20 pounds" has been in constant rotation for about, oh, six years. So, why not come up with a new goal every month? A new, easy to accomplish goal? Set the bar low people, and you never have to risk painful defeat. Or even defeat at all. And before someone ships me a bulk order of those motivational posters (Hey poster people, I have a proposal for you: "Success pays more than failure costs" and a picture of spawning salmon. Call me!), and highlight certain quotations, let me tell you: I'm not setting about winning hockey games, or conquering lands for empire. I just want to get through life and die with money in the bank, something funny on TV and not smelling too rank. So,
January's goal:
GET A HAIRCUT- AND TRY A DIFFERENT ONE WHILE YOU'RE AT IT.
This may seem like a perfectly reasonable, ordinary item on the monthly to-do list. I, on the other hand, am incapable of making hair appointments. Part of the problem is that my curly hair is kept fairly long, so any scruffy overgrowth blends in for a while. That still doesn't explain why I went a whole year without getting a new haircut. Every so often, my mom would ask me over the phone if I wanted her to book one back in Guelph for when I visited, and every time I would promise her I would phone the very next day, because it was important to find a place in Montreal since I was living there. What if a hair-related emergency emerged? There would be nobody in a charming angular cut and black clothes to guide me to safety. Well, April rolled around, I came back to Guelph to work for the summer, and got my hair cut at the same place I usually get my hair cut. That will not stand this time, however. A simple plan of easing myself into the job of phoning for hair appointments will be implemented: this year once a semester, next year twice a semester, and the year after I should graduate with the hair habits of the average girl. I'm also going to get a cut slightly different from my usual trim, but not too radical. The last time I asked for a change, I ended up looking like a dead musk ox had been stapled to my head.
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