Ori's Glob.

Money's Too Tight.

2012-02-17T14:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

What do you mean I've been away for ages? I've been posting consistently for weeks!

Okay, no more lies.

I'm sorry for my absence. This is the part where I tell you I'm going to write more and try harder and explain why I've been gone.

And this is the part where I write like nothing's happened.

-----

My brother got a job yesterday. My itty bitty baby brother is not so itty bitty anymore, it seems. Though he's 16 years old and as tall as my mom, he'll always be my little brother. (It is likely that there are, as we speak, readers laughing at the thought that something might be little compared to me. Well, ha ha ha I never hit my head on anything because I'm too tall to be alive okay? That's right! TOO TALL TO BE ALIVE.) Moving on... He'll be working as a car-wash boy at a dealership in town.

Oh, the poor baby. He'll have to make nice cars look even nicer, and he'll even have to sit in $100,000+ cars sometimes. Because physically touching and sitting in fancy cars is so not what Adrian has been dreaming about ever since he was an infant. He'll be like the dealership's Stig! Except instead of high-speed racing he'll be doing 10km/h and moving cars back and forth. He has to start somewhere...

He'll be working 8 hours per week, a full day once a week, which is the same amount of time that I work per week. I usually get two 4-hour shifts, which isn't much but it's a good amount with school. The funny thing is he'll be making more than minimum wage. And more than me.

This ties in nicely with what I've been talking about with a number of my friends, though I've only really talked about the difference between pay in Alberta vs. BC. People in Alberta tend to make lots of money. There are a lot of manual labour jobs that, on average, men tend to do. Some friends of my friends do mindless jobs, pushing buttons, sitting on their butts, and they get paid $20/h or more. I hadn't thought about it much until Adrian got his job, but it's possible that the situation can be local as well.

It bothers me. I'm sure there are plenty of retail establishments where the employees do nothing and care about nothing, and maybe they don't deserve $20/h, but those who do their job well... do. In this business, there are a lot of responsibilities - probably more than many manual labour jobs. Money is handled, inventory has to be kept accurate, and fraud must be dealt with. Little mistakes can have costly impacts. Theft is a real thing that, of course, everyone tries to prevent, and knowing what to do during and afterwards is important as well.

So maybe, on the surface, it seems like providing fashion advice really isn't that worthy of higher pay. After all, they're just clothes. Everyone has clothes. You put on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and you're golden! (Except you're not.) What's the big deal? Well, it is a big deal, and it's harder than you think. In any case, how is fashion advice worth less than pushing a few buttons? Especially when you add on all those responsibilities I mentioned, while still making sure every customer leaves the store wanting to come back and knowing that we actually care. Real emotion goes into it. Actual thought. Physical exertion. But most retail companies only offer minimum wage, whereas manual labour will pay significantly more.

The cost of living is too high for minimum wage to be so low.

And, wow. Amazing. They're finally increasing it. Except wages should have been going up as steadily as the cost of living has. Going from $8.00 to $10.25 is a good thing, and I suppose it's better late than never, but it really should have come in much sooner. And employees who serve liquor will only earn a minimum of $9.00 as of May 2012. [source]

I'd like to draw you a little picture:
Someone who works full time and earns $10.25 will earn a maximum of $21,320 in a year, assuming they worked 8 hours a day, five days a week, 52 weeks per year - no sick days, no holidays. One semester at school costs over $3,000 (5 courses), not that you could work that much and go to school full time. But let's say you're a wizard and you do. $6,000 goes to school for two semesters. That leaves you with about $15,000. Paying $700 each month for rent leaves you with $6,600, which you can use to pay bills and groceries. That might cost you $300 per month (maybe more), which means you would have $3,000 at the end of it all, assuming you had no other expenses like toothpaste or socks or shoes or prescription medication.

Which is why young people have four options after high school: a) get a student loan and acquire serious debt; b) go to school, live at home, and maybe work some; c) don't go to school and just work; d) have mommy and daddy pay for everything.

It's not a very nice picture.

And if we think about the kinds of jobs women typically do (customer service) and the types of jobs men typically do (manual labour), it's probably safe to assume that the majority of male workers earn more than female workers. I'm being very general, and I don't have all the stats, but from what I've seen and heard, this seems to be the case quite often. What are typically man-jobs pay better than typical woman-jobs.

I'm happy for my brother. I'm glad that his first job gets to be something he'll probably enjoy and actually earn a decent wage from, even if it's only once a week. And I'm not making the case that my employer should pay me more, but rather that the difference in pay between certain kinds of jobs is something we should be thinking about, especially since the cost of living is so high.

I guess I should just write a best-selling series that gets turned into seven movies and makes me lots of money.

No problem-o!

Computers in Class.

2012-01-08T22:04:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

I wish there was a PC version of this, too, just so I could mess with all the people checking their Facebook in class.

Image from: www.geeksaresexy.net/2012/01/08/how-to-troll-mac-users

There's nothing more distracting. Could they not at least have the decency to sit at the back of the class? Because when they're on Facebook and they're on Tumblr, and images of parties and flashy .gifs are flickering in front of you, you get distracted. You may not stare at the screen over their shoulder, but you'll look over and miss a slide or a helpful tip from the prof.

As much as I'm for the use of technology in school, especially for assignments and checking grades, taking good old-fashioned notes is still the best way to go. Until people are responsible enough to turn off the internet while they're in class (Microsoft Word doesn't require internet access!), then I don't think taking a laptop/Macbook to class is a great idea. Do it if you promise to leave the internet alone. But if you're going to check Facebook and browse Tumblr, sit at the back. The very back.

Frothy.

2012-01-04T20:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

Have you Googled "Rick Santorum" yet? Because if you haven't, you are behind. Behind. Behind, like a bum. Behind, like your rear end. Behind, like it was almost some kind of pun. A frothy, frothy pun.

Do it now. I'll wait. I'll just sit here until you've Googled it. You might have to scroll down a couple of links due to his recent surge of popularity.

Seriously? You want me to do it for you? Okay, but only if you promise me you'll do it on your own and share it with all your friends...

The definition comes up sooner when you search "Santorum," but I don't feel like re-screen-shooting.

"What is this? How vile. What could have this senator done to deserve this?"

Well.

Ricky, it's the 21st century. People can't get away with saying things like this anymore (nor should they ever have):

“If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything… It all comes from, I would argue, this right to privacy that doesn't exist in my opinion in the United States Constitution... You say, well, it's my individual freedom. Yes, but it destroys the basic unit of our society because it condones behavior that's antithetical to strong healthy families... In every society, the definition of marriage has not ever to my knowledge included homosexuality. That’s not to pick on homosexuality. It’s not, you know, man on child, man on dog, or whatever the case may be. It is one thing."

(Emphasis added by me.)

Maybe "can't" isn't the right word, because the recent Iowa caucuses imply that they can. Santorum didn't win, but Mitt Romney only won by eight votes. Eight votes. Not eight percent. Eight votes.

(You should follow the @BorowitzReport if you aren't already. Hilarious and clever political tweeter guy.)

If this is all you know about this U.S. Senator, I'll be happy with that.

Christmas: Ori's Version 2011

2011-12-22T12:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

I work in retail. We don't say "Merry Christmas" when we answer the phone or when we say goodbye to customers, we say "Happy Holidays." Not everyone celebrates Christmas at this time of year, but it's a rather pathetic attempt to be politically correct. There are Christmas trees everywhere, Christmas decorations, Christmas music, Christmas sales, Christmas clothes, and everyone is shopping for Christmas presents. Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. It's inescapable. For some, it's too much and they hate it. Others like it, and some don't care too much about it.

When a customer says "Merry Christmas" to me, it's physically impossible for me to reply with "Happy Holidays."

Not everyone knows the true origin of Christmas or the reason we celebrate the way we do at this time of year. But Christians believe it's the time to celebrate the birth of Jesus, which is fine. However, a lot of the Christmas-y things we do don't have much to do with this religion. You could then say that Christians celebrate their own version of Christmas, perhaps with Jesus at the centre.

Many others celebrate their own version of Christmas, too, even if they're not Christian. The only difference is that Jesus isn't the star of the celebration. Christmas has turned into something that everyone can participate in.

I'm an Atheist, and I love Christmas. I really do. I love the lights, the decorations, the pictures of snowy scenes with merry children building snowmen, and I like Christmas carols - even the religious ones. I love getting together with my family, dressing up a little, making a big deal about the delicious meals we'll eat. But the main event at Christmastime, after we've stuffed our faces with the most delicious foods that we've been waiting all year to eat, is the gift-giving.

Absolutely, stores love this time. Consumerism is bad, bla bla bla. And maybe some people do get carried away. But to sit around a beautifully lit-up tree with the people you care about to give them gifts that you have lovingly wrapped, and watch their faces light up when they find something that they really wanted tucked inside tissue paper that has been used for at least three Christmases already, is just really nice. The look on their faces when they find a perfect gift, or a funny gift, a gift that has some kind of meaning or that shows that you care and have been listening, is probably my favourite thing. This can include things you've made for them, too: their favourite treat, a mixed CD of their favourite kind of music or new music, a decoration, a photograph, whatever. It's so they know that you've thought of them. It's so that they feel loved.

Gift-giving around the Christmas tree (and eating) is what my Christmas is centred around. For some it's about the food or the company or Santa or the kids waking up early to open their presents, and for others it's about Jesus. But for a lot of people, it's a combination of these things. The variations of Christmas traditions are endless, especially when you factor in other traditions like having the Yule Log or mistletoe, both of which I never recall seeing in our home.

But whatever your version, whether you have a ceramic nativity scene set or a Flying Spaghetti Monster tree-topper, Christmas is for everyone. Call it Saturnalia, call it Yule, call it Pastamas - whatever the name, the sentiment is the same. Get together with the people you love (this means friends, too), set your differences aside, decorate a tree, share meals, give gifts, and spread joy during some of the darkest and coldest days of the year.

And I know I've posted this before, but I especially feel like this when I'm putting together a box for a customer:

Oh, and ~~Happy Holi~~ Merry Christmas!

All work and no play.

2011-12-21T23:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

All work and no play makes my glob a dull blog.

I'm sure you can understand. Before, it was school, and now it's work-work. I'm begging for lots of hours and putting off fun things. It's been too long, though. And all the blog posts stewing in my mind are kind of blending into one. I would anticipate a very long Christmas post in the near future. I'll have to make the time in the next few days. I need to post at least one more before the new year.

And for the record, I do feel terrible for not posting more. I miss it. I really do. Which is why, for an unlimited time, you can now donate thousands of dollars directly to me. Just leave a comment on this post with some contact info and we'll go from there.

Maybe I should set up a paypal account.

I only need two grand. I'm sure you have that lying around somewhere in your New York loft...

Swiss Wedding?

2011-12-12T15:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

There is only one person in the entire world whose marriage proposal I would accept. Her name is Marissa. And some of you might wonder, "What about her is so special? Why her, and why not me? Why, why, why? Why couldn't it be me?"
And I understand that. But unless you can prove to me that you are of equal of greater value than Marissa, it's impossible. And this is why:

(Asha is her sister.)
Original image:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/howzey/6049620705/

Perfect Endings.

2011-11-09T11:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

Apparently I got 50 pageviews the other day. I checked the sites people have been using to find my blog, and, well...

Really?

From Google searches:
"FSM touching"
"nude thirty nine year old women"
"draw a naked woman showing her charms"

And referring URLs:
"naked Jean MacLeod"
"big booty porn"

Awesome. But still, 50? Who are you and where do you come from and why don't you stick around and comment? I'll love you forever.

In other news...

(Lucy, what an awful segue...)

In my WRIT100 class, I found myself defending the creative nonfiction genre. I can't say I loved the CNF section. It was alright. But my classmates have something against creative nonfiction, it seems. In fact, I had to correct them every time they called the genre "Nonfiction." I demanded that it's CREATIVE nonfiction.
"Right, right. Creative nonfiction. In fiction, you can do this, but in nonfiction - "
"Creative nonfiction!"
"Creative nonfiction."
"Creeeaaaative... nonfiction."
"Whatever."

There's a difference. A microwave manual, technically, is nonfiction. A science textbook is nonfiction. Creative nonfiction is something different entirely. I have more to say on this, but for now I'll just bring up the quote I found that made me think of this.

“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next." - Gilda Radner

This is what can really separate fiction from creative nonfiction. Real life can be just as interesting as fantasy, if the story is told right. The mundane, as I have said before, can be just as intriguing as the grandiose. The end doesn't have to be the end. Sometimes, the fact that life rarely turns out the way we expect, the fact that shit happens, the fact that humans have flaws and are ungraceful and make mistakes, reminds us of our humanity. And there can be beauty in that. There can be meaning in that. We don't have to go to Oz or to Cloud City or Mordor to find these things. Sometimes we just have to go to the bus stop.

This is something I found on Wiki when I looked up Gilda Radner:"Gene Wilder had this to say about her death:

She went in for the scan – but the people there could not keep her on the gurney. She was raving like a crazed woman – she knew they would give her morphine and was afraid she’d never regain consciousness. She kept getting off the cart as they were wheeling her out. Finally three people were holding her gently and saying, "Come on Gilda. We’re just going to go down and come back up." She kept saying, "Get me out, get me out!" She’d look at me and beg me, "Help me out of here. I’ve got to get out of here." And I’d tell her, "You’re okay honey. I know. I know." They sedated her, and when she came back, she remained unconscious for three days. I stayed at her side late into the night, sometimes sleeping over. Finally a doctor told me to go home and get some sleep. At 4 am on Saturday, I heard a pounding on my door. It was an old friend, a surgeon, who told me, "Come on. It’s time to go." When I got there, a night nurse, whom I still want to thank, had washed Gilda and taken out all the tubes. She put a pretty yellow barrette in her hair. She looked like an angel. So peaceful. She was still alive, and as she lay there, I kissed her. But then her breathing became irregular, and there were long gaps and little gasps. Two hours after I arrived, Gilda was gone. While she was conscious, I never said goodbye."

This is nonfiction, and it's one of the most powerful things I've read in a while. Having read this, I feel like I've learned all I needed to know.

How I Don't Start Writing.

2011-10-28T12:32:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

In my last WRIT100FictionSection class, we talked about how we start the writing process. One person said they go to sleep, because they find dreams to be a good source for ideas.

Well.

I had a dream last night where I was drunk. Surprise, surprise. And the city I was in was a triple-city combo: Victoria, Portland, and San Francisco. And maybe some third world country, too, at some point. First, I was in downtown Victoria. Similar to what happens in real life sometimes, I couldn't remember what order the streets were in because the intersections are all similar, and they get jumbled up in my head. I said, standing on Johnson Street, "I've lived here for two and a half years; I should know the streets like the back of my hand by now." Was I with someone? And I've been here longer than that. But I lived in Chile for two and a half years.

Then, I was waiting for the #14 bus, the one I take almost every day, but on the #6 route way out in Esquimalt, and when I realized this, I hopped on the #4 going down the cross street, and then I was in San Francisco. A couple of friends were on the bus, too, and I said, "This bus is not going to UVic, is it?" And they were like, "No, to Hillside." Which might have actually made sense if I hadn't been in San Francisco, because Hillside Mall and UVic are on the #4's route, but the scenery, of course, was totally different.

I jumped off the trolley (yes, trolley now) and started running to Yates Street, because I knew the #14 would go down it (in the opposite direction from UVic, mind you). I ran, and I ran, and I remember there was a lot more running after that. I ran past the courthouse on Blanshard Street in Victoria, and could see where I needed to get to again. My face was bright red, I was out of breath and drenched in sweat, so I stopped at the Red Lion Inn on Douglas Street, except it was actually a colourful tent in a China Town I didn't recognize. There was Johnny, the owner of the dim-sum restaurant in the Red Lion Inn, who we see every six weeks after we get our hair done. There were a lot of old Chinese men, and they all looked at me.
Gasping for air, I said, "Can I have a glass of water, please?"
Johnny turned around, and turned back with a glass in his hand.

At this point, I distinctly remember thinking whether or not I should chug the water, or drink it slowly so that my thirst would be better quenched. A compromise: I chugged half of it. The men were staring at me. I was wearing a black suit (somehow I realized this at that moment). I sloshed a sip of the remaining water in my mouth. The men kept staring. I swallowed the water, took another long sip, sloshed the water around in my mouth some more, letting every corner of my mouth get a little water, and I swallowed again. I'm surprised I didn't gargle. I did this four or five times, still being stared at, still in silence.

"Thanks," I said, and wiped my face with my black blazer, put on a pair of badass black sunglasses that I don't actually own. Then, remembering I was drunk, I thought about how drinking water and sweating would help me sober up. When I started running again, I dropped my iPod, keys, and sunglasses, which were now my mom's brown sunglasses. I picked up my stuff and shoved it in the ridiculously deep pocket of my black trousers.

And then I woke up.

I think I'll stick to other means of story idea formation.

I'm Gonna Live Forever.

2011-10-28T11:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

BM47F6HT76WP

By posting this code, apparently I'm going to get famous.

Or, you know, not.

(How have 17 people looked at my blog today? Who are you silent, mysterious people?)

Or better yet:

I confess. For the longest time I thought it was "Babe" Bowie was saying, and not "Fame." That's how brilliant I am. Like you didn't already know.

Ori

Storytime.

2011-10-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

After completely over-thinking my creative nonfiction story for the last several weeks, after trying to work with the truth as creatively as possible, the other day in my scriptwriting class, I wrote a short fictional scene for the first time in ages. And man, did it feel good. It felt like I didn't have to worry about anything. I just wrote. I just became that serial killer who walked into the Starbucks. I became the redhead for whom he held the door open. I became that 16 year-old girl he kept looking at in an overly nice but ultimately creepy way. Come to think of it, I should have become the girl's boss a little more, but it was just a scene. And I have the power to change things as I please.

It was an exercise we started in class. We created characters to walk into a coffee shop, gave them some physical description, came up with a few details of their past and character, and established why they were in a coffee shop at that particular moment. Then, we put our notes in a pile, mixed them up, and picked a page to create a scene from. The one I picked happened to be about a serial killer. Then, my prof said to make the character lose the struggle we create for them. Interesting, huh?

I missed writing like that - with just a couple of guidelines. It just flowed. I didn't have to stress over it. And I don't really know why, but I seemed to be really stressed out in my CNF class. To make matters worse, I don't think I did very well on the exam. I don't know what was up with that/me. Maybe I gave too much detail on the definitions and that's why I didn't have enough time for the essay question. At least my scene got 90%. I think my story will do well, especially since my friend Tom helped edit, plus at least 10% of the class's stories weren't actually creative nonfiction. I know my exam was only last Thursday, but I really want to know my mark, simply so I can accept it and move on.

While I have yet to move on, the class has. We're onto fiction now. The introduction to it consisted partly of bashing creative nonfiction. Apparently, I'm the only one in my class who likes the genre - or at least it seemed that way. I don't have to like a CNF class to like the genre. On one hand, I hope the class hasn't ruined the genre for anyone; on the other, if it did, that means less competition for me! Contrary to popular belief, reality can be just as emotional and sensitive and interesting as fantasy. CNF writers can't tell stories about aliens, so there are some limitations, but that doesn't make CNF dull. People are interesting. Beauty can be found as easily in the mundane as it can be in the grandiose. And sometimes it's the littlest of things, the quickest of looks, the sincerest of moments, that make real life interesting and worthwhile.

It is interesting, however, how little I wrote for the CNF section of WRIT100, and how little I'm expected to write for the fiction section. It's one story each. One story? Each story for WRIT100 has had a maximum word count of 1,500. I wrote eight or nine short stories for my fiction class at Camosun, and I believe each had the same maximum word count as these two stories. One of my short stories turned out to be over 2,000 words. I'm not trying to belittle what we've been doing in my WRIT100 classes because I do value it, but I wish we had more opportunities to actually write, as opposed to read and react. Why can't we do both? Read and react, and then workshop a thousand-word short story? A scene. Flash fiction. A conversation. The description of a town. A character sketch. Anything.

I'm probably just being impatient. To do so much at Camosun and then go to UVic to do much less has been weird for me.

But scriptwriting... Scriptwriting at Camosun is getting me thinking. I'm coming up with ideas again. It's like the CNF course sucked the life out of me, sucked the stories out of me. I couldn't think about anything else. All I thought about was, "Dear Lucy, how am I going to end this?" and "What am I trying to say with this piece?". But not anymore. I'll keep writing my own creative nonfiction, but now it's time for something completely different.

It's storytime, Globlets.

First Workshop of WRIT100

2011-10-25T11:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Great. They've changed the blogger interface and it now looks like a word document. When I couldn't stop over-thinking my CNF assignment, I started writing it as a blog post so that I could get out of that Blank Word Document of Disillusionment and Despair environment, but here it is again. It is nice and clean, however.

In other news...

In my Writing 100 class, the creative nonfiction (CNF) section, we workshopped our stories, just like we will in every Creative Writing class. The workshop exercise is fundamental and, I think, extremely valuable.

For those unfamiliar with the process, you usually read over a piece the first time to get a sense of the story. Then, you go over it again with a highlighter and/or pen, making notes as you go along. "This doesn't make sense," "This is too wordy," This is AMAZING," "The phrasing is awkward here," "Can you give some more detail?", and you make grammatical and spelling changes or suggestions. You scratch out adverbs and highlight powerful verbs. You suggest which parts need to be condensed and which need to be elaborated on, but you also point out the good parts. You tell the author which sentences add veracity and verisimilitude (what a word, eh?), which ones show character, describe setting, evoke emotion. And you write up the good along with the bad. Some people like to give "feedback sandwiches": What works, what doesn't, then what works again. You have to be honest, but you also have to have tact. Destroy the piece if you have to, but do it gently, and actually consider the possibility that the author may be emotionally attached to the piece.

Verisimilitude: a likeness or resemblance of the truth, reality or a fact's probability. (From Wiki.)

Workshops are great when you're struggling with a particular part of the story because the others will help you come up with ideas, and they're great when you need someone to fix the awkward bits you missed.

I recently gave out copies of my story to my workshop group, and collected the group's stories for editing, too. I have participated in numerous workshops in the past at Camosun, so I had a certain level of expectation going into it. The skill level of so many of my former classmates was incredible at Camosun. Even when the spelling and grammar was wrong, or the phrasing was awkward, the stories were still very impressive, with only a few exceptions. Forgetting that WRIT100 is a first year course, one that people choose to take even though they're not interested in becoming writers, I was a little disappointed with some of my peers' stories. A couple were quite good and had a lot of potential, and most of the time I understood the author's intentions, but some stories were not actually creative nonfiction. I was expecting more, even if they were more likely to excel in another genre (like poetry or drama).

When I got the edited copies of my story back, there wasn't too much for me to change. I already knew the ending was inadequate, and everyone agreed with that - without actually saying, "Your ending is inadequate," of course. But a couple of the copies only had the occasional "I like this," "This is good," "Nice job here," which wasn't really enough. On one girl's piece, you could hardly see the original text because of how many notes I made on it. Another editor marked errors in my piece when it was really her suggestions that were wrong. It's hard to take advice when it's coming from someone you know doesn't have the experience. It sounds bad, and I sound totally pompous, but some of the edits were nowhere near as detailed and helpful as those from my first year fiction class or first year creative nonfiction class at Camosun.

Of course, my peers at UVic are still learning. The ones at Camosun are, too. And I am definitely still learning. But this experience in WRIT100 has, once again, proven that great talent does not stem from large pocketbooks, or slightly shinier pieces of paper. UVic is more prestigious than Camosun, sure. If I say "UVic," most people know what that is. If I say "Camosun," I sometimes have to explain that it's a college. It's just a shame that the talent at Camosun might not earn as shiny of pieces of paper that UVic hands out after going through the Creative Writing program. Camosun should offer shiny pieces of paper for Creative Writing.

I just wish talent was rewarded more often.

Happy People.

2011-10-14T22:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

As you might have read before here, I'm not a fan of overly happy-sounding music. Fun, for example, is one band I can't stand for that reason alone. This is how I previously described the way the music makes me feel:

"When I hear this I can't help but think, 'PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE THE GODDAMN JOY AND HAPPINESS STOP!' Which is probably bad... but true. It's too happy. I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it. Somebody needs to rip out this person's heart, trample on it, and make him eat what's left of it with a huge side of peas, because seriously."

Because seriously.

And maybe it's bitter of me to look at a young couple holding hands, kissing on the street corner, looking into each other's eyes with love and devotion, and then think to myself I give it five months. Unless he has a nice car. She's probably looking at him like that because he reminds her of his brother, or worse - her cousin. And you can read into this however you like: I'm a writer, so it's natural to invent characters and conflict, or it makes me feel better when I'm not the one getting my neck slobbered on. Those are both accurate interpretations.

No matter how many times I've rolled my eyes and muttered, "Fucking Happy People," I know it doesn't take much to be happy. Cats, for instance, are supreme happiness-inducers - have you ever been on YouTube? And I am happy, which makes it okay for me to make fun of other Happy People. It's like racism. Racial slurs are okay as long as you're part of that race. Or when no one of that race is around.

A smile goes a long way. So long, in fact, that if a boy looked at me and smiled - good Lucy! - I'd be ecstatic for the rest of the day. But, you know, a cute boy. Not a 12 year-old. But, as I found out yesterday, there is one thing that can really make a person, and everyone around that person, happy:

It started off when I lost my mind yesterday morning. Either because I was abducted by aliens overnight and had my brain removed and poked at, and when it was put back in, not everything was the way it used to be, rendering me even more insane than usual, or because I stayed up late writing an assignment that was due the following day, or both, I left for school an hour early. I've often made the mistake of thinking I had to leave earlier than I actually needed to, but I had never followed through with it until yesterday. My class was at 1:00PM, and I bolted out of my house with wet hair at 11:15AM. I couldn't believe how late I was going to be. I put on my earrings as I walked down the street and I cut through the park. It takes me fifteen minutes to get to the bus stop, another fifteen to get to the university, and about ten minutes to walk from the bus terminal to my class. Luckily, before I left home, I checked the bus schedule to see when the #9 would go down Cove Street*, the road that goes straight to my bus stop. Taking the bus saves me ten minutes, so I rushed over to the nearest stop.

As I turned the corner, I faced an unusual sight. My first thought, of course, was Is this person crazy?. Her hair was up in a messy bun, but a few chestnut-brown strands insisted on dangling around her face. I approached with caution. Thin and tall, she wore tight black pants and carried a backpack. As I got closer, I realized what this was. This was a Happy Person. But she was no ordinary Happy Person. She was a dancing Happy Person. She was the president. I smiled at her when I got to the bus stop, and she smiled back without stopping, without considering what I might think of her. And what would I think of her? Apart from the initial "Is this a crazy person?", I thought she was ballsy as hell. But what did it matter? She was so into her iPod that she really didn't care.

I stood there next to her, thinking about how I'm nothing like her. There are so many things that I wouldn't let myself do in public because I don't have what this woman had. She was shaking her hips, tossing her head back and forth, and smiling the biggest goddamn smile I ever saw a Happy Person make. And then I looked at the people in the cars driving by. Almost every single one looked at her and smiled. A couple of people honked, and instead of feeling uncomfortable or vulnerable or exposed like I would, her smile grew. Maybe she is crazy, I thought.

Soon enough, the bus came.
"Must be a good song," the bus driver said when she got on.
"Yeah!" she replied.

We both got off the bus at the same stop and headed towards the next one, university-bound. She was in front of me and I got a whiff of her perfume: pink flowers. I don't know why pink, but pink.
She looked over at me a couple of times and finally said, "Going to university?"
"Yeah," I replied.
"Nice! Lots of midterms this week?"
"Actually, no, since most of my courses are writing courses."
"Oh, sweet! Are you getting into journalism or English?"
"Creative Writing. Like novels and short stories and stuff. How about you?"
"Science. I've got a chemistry midterm tomorrow."
"Oh? Sounds like fun! Hey, I wanted to ask you where you got your balls."
"My balls? Ha, ha. I don't know, I just get really into it. It can be hard at first, but once you get a couple of smiles, it's easy, and then you just keep going. It gets me ready for the day, and it's good exercise, too."
"What kind of music do you listen to?"
"Anything. This is actually my friend's iPod."
"Huh. That's really neat. I don't think I could ever do what you do."
"Sure you could! It just takes some getting used to. Just try it out. I'm telling you, once you get a few smiles, it's a breeze."

If I was spiritual, or, rather, really self-centred, I could look at this day like it was planned out by some divine entity. If I hadn't lost my mind and decided I needed to leave an hour early for school, rushing so much I didn't have time to find my stapler or paper clips for my assignment (I had multiple copies to be workshopped), if I wasn't so late for being early, I wouldn't have gone to that bus stop and I wouldn't have seen that fascinating, fearless, Happy Person. I didn't even realize I was early until I was on the second bus.

After my encounter with the Happy Person, I started thinking about what might deter me from doing what she does - aside from the obvious "people will think I'm crazy but awesome but also crazy" issue. I don't like that I'm so hung up about what people think of me, so my excuse turned out to be my choice in music. The songs I dance to are embarrassing on their own, never mind the way you dance to them. So, today I decided it would be a good idea to prove that dancing to disco and music from the 80s in public is dangerous. I started filming. But then I thought, Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I should. And by that I mean show the pretend-public: the internet. Millions more could possibly see the video than if I danced at a bus stop, but somehow it's less scary. I think this is where "ignorance is bliss" comes in, since I can't hear you laughing at me or talking about me. I can't see your raised eyebrow or wide-eyed stare. I do worry about what guys will think, though. There are creepy people in real life as well as online, but I have a plastic screen to protect me here. Out there, all I'd have is this new mini stapler I just bought.

But here it is, and good Lucy help me, in honour of President Happy Person, a video of me dancing.

I just watched it again and started perspiring like I had just run a marathon and not been lying down this entire time. Like a hot flash. I'm scared as shit, Globlets. I don't know if I can do this. I worry that it's too much ... upperladybodybits and bum. And Thanksgiving dinner and dessert. I don't think I was supposed to sing along. And that last one? I WORKED HARD TO GET TO THAT. I'm not a dancer, okay? I YouTubed a how-to and practised for maybe an hour. Or half an hour. I don't know. And it's not like I have zombie attire for every day of the year. My room isn't big enough to do it full-on, either! You people are so demanding.

Just. Shut up. Here it is. I'm going to be like President Happy Person now, okay?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AudavGjZAuE

MY LIFE IS OVER NAO.

But nobody reads this anyway, right? Right?

-----
What is so strange/startling about a person dancing in public? Isn't dancing something humans do? Don't we walk around with music plugged into our ears all the time?

Here's real dancing:

(She should have worn less clothing in this film.)

*Street name and bus number changed because I always feel like somebody's watching me.
Oh-ooh-oh.

October Traditions.

2011-10-11T09:51:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

The most amazing thing has happened. I bought pants... that don't have to be hemmed! And I know what you're thinking. "But your legs are the shortest in the world, second only to midgets' and some Asians'." Because you're insensitive like that. But it's true. I changed in the car from skirt to brand new pants and walked into that supermarket like a man!

In other news...

This was my Facebook status on Saturday:
"New shorter hairs! Finally. :) Chemainus tomorrow - the tradition continues. Also, Costco today, so if you don't hear from us in five hours, send help."
Help was not sent. TEN hours later, I commented:

"GEE THANKS.
I just got back.

I had to dig myself out of the Costco Members Pit of Death. Do you know what's at the bottom? Rotting corpses. Just so you know. I had to use someone's arm to beat away other Costco Members. Someone bit me, I probably have rabies, and to think that the Costco workers just kept throwing more sample food into the pit... Ugh! (The taquitos WERE tasty, though.) Many had given up and were making shelters out of inflatable pool toys. Of course, those got popped once someone opened a 10-piece pack of Henkel knives. Some suffocated among the ruins, some used the deflated alligators and dolphins like capes.

It was a sad day for all. And you did nothing!"

Why Chemainus? Because of this:

Why Costco? Because of this:

We don't usually like traditions, but some of them are good. Our yearly trip to Chemainus, for example, is always fun, and should happen more often than once a year. My mom had never made a turkey before, and while this is not the WHOLE turkey, (because, well, be reasonable, there are only three of us) it still counts. There were mashed potatoes with gravy and Brussels sprouts with pancetta, plus mushroom-bacon stuffing and caramelized carrots. Everything was delicious. Especially the stuffing. >.<

And I even decided to take the Thanksgiving tradition one step farther and made pumpkin pie:
Happy Thanksgiving/Excuse-to-eat-yummies Day.

Glob Update.

2011-10-06T11:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I've just added a section to the header of my Glob called "UVic Website of Chaos and Doom + related stories" where I'll post all globulations regarding UVic and the stupid things that I, as a student, have to go through to get the most common things done, like pay school fees.

There are two globulations there now: "Congratulations on Your Outstanding Academic Achievement" (which has been slightly revised) and "Bad for Business," plus I have one more stewing in my mind. I expect there will be more stories of inefficiency and poor communication to tell as I go along.

If you have a story you'd like me to include about UVic or another university's general or website issues, feel free to contact me. I'm going to see if I can include an E-mail Me gadget on the page so it's easier to do.

Please bear with me through the silence; I promise I have some ideas brewing and will post soon.

Don't hate me.

"Just to see you in it."

2011-09-27T10:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

About a week before my birthday, after work, I walked down one of the halls at the mall, and as usual, I walked by Danier. I have always wanted a leather jacket. I had one in my closet for a few years, worn maybe twice, but not any more because it was too big for me. I didn't feel sexy in it, and what's the point of wearing a leather jacket if it doesn't make you feel sexy. I went into the store, and I tried the smallest gloves they had, but my short, stubby fingers did not reach the tips. They never do. I glanced at the wallets. I walked around, looked up, and on a high shelf sat a mannequin wearing a black leather jacket with ruffles lining the zipper, collar, and sleeves. It came in at the mannequin's waist, and the lines on it slimmed the skinny mannequin even more. I just wanted to see the jacket, to touch it. I didn't have to try it on. But there it was. All $379 of it. Some stores put nice clothes up high on the walls to deter short people like me from trying/purchasing them, but not this one. I knew that if I tried it and I loved it, there would be no way in hell I could ever have it, even if I got the $50 off every $150 (which meant $100 off).

I grabbed the first one off the rack. I put it on, zipped it up, and it hugged every curve perfectly. It fit like a glove. "Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no."

I said to the sales lady that perhaps I should have a bake sale, or start a leather jacket fund that my family could contribute to - after all, it was my birthday coming up. She asked if she should write down the model number, and I said yes, really just to go online and look at it. And weep.

A few days later, I asked my mom to come into the mall after work so I could at least be seen by one other person in the jacket. When I put it on, it was kind of like this all over again:

I took a deep breath, took it off, and we left the store in search of a jacket that I actually needed.

I guess my mom mentioned it to my grandparents, and, knowing the cost, and the fact that the sale ended the day before my grandparents came over, when asked about a certain jacket that I'd found, I denied everything. I didn't know what they were talking about. There was nothing to talk about.

After my afternoon class, my grandparents took me to the mall on a mission to find a Spring/Fall jacket for me. Around the time we found one at Winners and we were on the way to Safeway to pick up a cake, I thought I'd share with my grandma, who appreciates quality clothing, a little about that leather jacket. "It has a braided trim, and there are ruffles on the inside, too, so if you wear the jacket open, you can see ruffles on both sides. It was really well-made."
"Well, let's go see it!" said my grandma.
"What's that? A jacket?" My grandpa overheard.
"NOTHING! Nope. Nothing. There is no jacket," I said.
"Why don't we go see it? Just to see you in it," said my grandpa.
"Even if I showed you the jacket, and there is no jacket, the sale ended yesterday. It's not a hundred dollars off anymore."
"I can get that sale price. We'll go there right now."
"No! I won't tell you where it is." I hate bargaining, and I didn't want to see my grandpa ask for the lower price and have the lady say no.

After some more "'Let's go see the jacket!' - 'What jacket?'" it was decided that we would pick up my mom from work and go see the jacket.

Before entering Danier, I gave a final warning, "I think this is a bad idea!" and my mom shoved me into the store.

There it was, except this time it was brown. I hadn't seen the brown one before, and then I loved it just a little bit more. Plus, the price had been marked down to $200.
"See? Isn't it a good thing we came? And you didn't want to. Now you have to trust Dziadzius," my grandpa said. Obviously, they loved it. You'd have to be insane not to. I tried on the XXS in the brown. (The black XXS one was the one that fit me like a glove.) I said it felt tighter than the black one, but it still looked amazing. So, I tried the XS in the brown. It was nice, but not quite the same. Back to the brown XXS. I found it tighter still, so I tried the original black XXS, which felt ever so slightly better. But maybe the XS in the brown was okay. I put that one on again. Then the black XXS. Then the brown XXS. And this went on and on, and finally we had to decide between the brown XXS and black XXS.

Well.

Hi. My name is Oriana, and I am the proud owner of a brown XXS leather jacket that, especially with the shortened sleeves, fits me better than any glove I've ever worn. And that's not just because gloves never fit me.

As for my old leather jacket? After trying it on to see if my grandma could take it in, she asked if she could try it. It fits her! So, we both got leather jackets.

$200 was a price I could live with. $279 was not. I've always been bad at getting gifts, especially expensive ones, but I love my jacket, and I'm glad we went in "just to see [me] in it."

(I was going to post a photo of it from Danier.com, but the model doesn't do the jacket justice. I will show you how it's supposed to look - with me in it.)

Guilty.

2011-09-27T10:03:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

There's nothing worse than an "I'm sorry I haven't been posting lately; I promise to post more" post. I don't like reading them, and I don't like writing them. Even so, I'll make a quick apology and a weak excuse about not finding time between work and school, even though there are people far busier than I am who somehow manage to do way more outside of work/school. I hate those people. Damn time-management magicians.

"In the criminal law, an omission, or failure to act, will constitute an actus reus (Latin for "guilty act") and give rise to liability only when the law imposes a duty to act and the defendant is in breach of that duty." From Wiki.

/Guilty.

I'm going to make a separate post that's actually interesting...

For Learning.

2011-09-04T22:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Have you ever heard of Neil Tyson? He's an astrophysicist who has often hosted the TV program, "NOVAScienceNOW," on PBS, where a wide range of topics are examined: from space to Autotune to genetics. He also may or may not have had something to do with the demotion of Pluto as a planet. And if he were to marry my mother, they would certainly have my blessing. Recently, he was a guest on "Real Time with Bill Maher," and the topic of what Tyson would do if he were president came up. After more and more people asked him about it, including the NY Times, he responded with this:

If I Were President...
August 21, 2011 in the Read section

The New York Times

August 21, 2011

Part of collection of opinions on the topic: "If I Were President..." which appeared in the Sunday Review section. What follows is the unedited version of what was published.

The question, “If I were President I’d…” implies that if you swap out one leader, put in another, then all will be well with America—as though our leaders are the cause of all ailments.

That must be why we’ve created a tradition of rampant attacks on our politicians. Are they too conservative for you? Too liberal? Too religious? Too atheist? Too gay? Too anti-gay? Too rich? Too dumb? Too smart? Too ethnic? Too philanderous? Curious behavior, given that we elect 88% of Congress every two years.

A second tradition-in-progress is the expectation that everyone else in our culturally pluralistic land should hold exactly your own outlook, on all issues.

When you’re scientifically literate, the world looks different to you. It’s a particular way of questioning what you see and hear. When empowered by this state of mind, objective realities matter. These are the truths of the world that exist outside of whatever your belief system tells you.

One objective reality is that our government doesn’t work, not because we have dysfunctional politicians, but because we have dysfunctional voters. As a scientist and educator, my goal, then, is not to become President and lead a dysfunctional electorate, but to enlighten the electorate so they might choose the right leaders in the first place.

Neil deGrasse Tyson

Source.
(Bold face by me.)

I love how neutral and reasonable he is... How objective. I wish more people were capable of stepping out of their circle of comfort and beliefs to analyze what's inside of it from a non-cozy/warm/familiar place - not from an uncomfortable place, but a neutral, understanding place, and maybe even ask why they think what they think.

Of course, one cannot blame all that goes wrong on a single leader, even though many leaders do things that go against even the most basic of human rights. The problem is, we elect them. Why do we elect them? Some of us don't even know. Some of us vote for people just because they're a Republican, or just because they're a Democrat, without really looking at their agendas. I saw a clip a long time ago where a reporter was asking people why they were voting for "so-and-so," as they were waving signs at passersby, and they responded with something like, "Because they're for [this] and against [this]," and the reporter asked where they got that information. "I don't know. I just know that he's for [this] and against [this]." I think it was Rachel Maddow. It was a very telling segment. I doubt that very many voters in the US actually spend enough time to think about why they want to elect one person over another. By listening to the talk of one politician, and one politician only, or only one viewpoint, how can a person know for sure if they're making the right decision? The other guy might actually have better ideas, even if they're not part of the party you usually vote for.

Everything goes back to education. All the problems in the world would be solved if everyone had proper access to good education. If only man's greed for money and power could be exchanged for a greed for learning...

(Apologies for switching between "your" and "one's" when I was making examples and stuff... It's 11:30 and I'm tired.)

If You Ain't Got No Grammar.

2011-08-27T02:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I may or may not have just come back from a night club (is that what it's called?) where my dear friend celebrated her 19th birthday, and I may or may not be writing this intoxicated, but typo-free. While I was there, I saw this guy look at me and smile two or three times. Usually I just looked away smiling, but just before we left he saw me again and I smiled back! It was very exciting. Like with a bit of eye contact and everything. Then I asked Michaela if it was time to go, and it was.

So, Craig's List style:

Missed Connections
"To the guy in the blue plaid/checkered shirt, AKA Smiley Guy: Can you use an apostrophe? And can you do so drunk? Because I can.

Sincerely,
Ori
PS. If you can, that's all that matters."

Because IF YOU AIN'T GOT NO GRAMMAR TAKE YO BROKE ASS HOME.

("Grammar" because "punctuation/apostrophe" has too many syllables. ;) )

Yeah, the song ain't so hot, but being well-educated is.

"Urine, your table is ready!"

2011-08-25T10:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Yesterday I tried on a pair of $30 shoes that I love but wasn't sure if I should purchase because I don't actually need them (yesIdoyesIdoyesIdo). I decided to think about it and put them on hold (because with my luck, a group of small-footed Asians would come in and buy the two size fives they had). I took the box of shoes to the counter and told the girl what name to put down.
"Oriana. O-r-i-a-n-a."
She writes: ORI
"A-n-a," I say.
ORINA. "Like this?"
"No, a-n-a."
She scratches out ORINA and writes... "O-R-I-*hesitation*-N-A. "Okay, they'll be here waiting for you."

This is why when I go to restaurants with people I usually give someone else's name to the host(ess). "Kim" is a million times easier than "Oriana" and "Ori." "Ori" is usually "Cory," and Oriana is usually, "Can you spell that? ORINA?"

The best part is orina means urine in Spanish.

THANKS. NOW I REALLY WANT TO BUY THOSE SHOES.

"Urine, your table is ready!"

Last night I thought about it and decided that if the girl grabs the box of shoes along with the piece of paper insulting my name, I'm going to ask to see the paper and write an A after the I. Maybe only if it's the same girl. She probably has her Dogwood diploma.

They had really bad service there. I wore those shoes for something like ten minutes and walked around the store, and no one even made eye contact with me. There was a girl who worked there right next to me, doing some tasks... Ignoring customers is simply unacceptable in the store I work at. It just isn't done.

Next time, if I remember and am in the mood to screw with people...
"Can I take your name, please?"
"Beavis. Table for two."

"Under what name?"
"Aphrodite."
"A-f-r-o...d-y-t-e-e."

"Table for three. Can I get your name?"
"Pocahontas."
"Poca... okay. How many kids menus?"
Adrian and I together: "ZERO."
Kids menus are typically for children 12 and under. I'm turning 20 next month and Adrian, who is significantly taller than me, will be 16 in October, and as far as I can tell, my breasts have far outgrown the average size of prepubescent ones (and most grown women's, in fact).

I'm just saying.

We No Speak Vegeteriano.

2011-08-23T21:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

We no speak vegeteriano.

"Click me."

"Click me. It makes me bigger."

"Clickmeclickmeclickme."

Mmmm.

Bacon, sausage, mushroom, mozza with thyme and basil from our garden. I even made the sauce from scratch.

I love this song.

And I feel both versions deserve to be heard.

Baby Showers: It's Raining Babes

2011-08-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

(Hallelujah! It's raining Babes. - Good theme?)

Dear Globlets,

I've watched this so many times now that I must share it. It was decided that I will be buying this toy for the firstborn of one of my friends who actually likes children and intends to bear one or more in the future. (She's crazy, but enjoys long walks on the beach, the Transformers movies, and populating the earth. She also doesn't mind it when I Photoshop my face onto her body.)

And this is why my friends are all going to host secret baby showers. But that's okay. Marissa and I will go to the pub and play pool, pick up some handsomes, and get knocked up so that we can... Wait, no. Why go through the trouble? We pretend that we got knocked up and have either really horrible bacon-filled baby showers or we have secret ones where we ... go to the pub and play pool.

Don't worry, Marissa. We don't have to drink.

Much.

Good eggs with onions.

2011-08-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

My brother.

Need I say more?

Perhaps for those who do not know him, I need to. My brother is great. He helps me get my shit together when I'm rushing around, trying not to be late for work. He'll fill my water bottle and grab me a snack. He's a good egg, as the fabulous Esther Parker would say. As good of an egg as he is, he is also sometimes the most oblivious. For example, in Chile, my dad and I ate nearly half a container of ice cream right next to Adrian before he realized we had been eating his favourite flavour for the last ten minutes. Adrian also likes to do things the longest possible way around. For example, I just asked him to take out the compost and the garbage. I would have, first, put Lucy in the bathroom so I wouldn't have to worry about her running away. Then I would have put the freshly-cut veggie bits into the compost container, grabbed the garbage on my way out, and put the compost in the "Incinerator" (as my mom calls it) and the garbage in the bin. One trip. Adrian, on the other hand, goes to the door with the cutting board full of veggie bits in hand and then realizes Lucy wants to go out. She has wanted to escape every day for five years, yet Adrian is never prepared for this. He shoos her away. She leaves. He unlocks the door. She returns. I suggest that he put down the cutting board and THEN put her in the bathroom. He does so, leaves, and makes two more trips: one for the compost container and then another for the garbage.

Sometimes when I facepalm at the lack of efficiency this boy demonstrates, he gets upset, I get in trouble, and occasionally I'll feel bad. He just has a weird way of doing things. He cares not about multiple trips or suggestions from me on how to speed up the process.

Today, I decided to make soup. As the good egg he is, Adrian helped me prepare the veggies.

We peel the carrots and parsnip, clean and trim the celery and leek, drop in the peppercorns and cloves of garlic, and dunk in the chicken legs. I check in the baskets where we keep shallots, onions, potatoes, and garlic for an onion, only to find three squishy/powdery green ones. I decide not to kill my family, so instead of putting them in the soup, I chuck them.

"Adrian, can you please go to the store and get an onion?" I ask.
"Okay," he says, staring at Family Guy.
"Can you... go get it now?"
"Okay." He gets off the bar stool and pets Lucy.
"So, you're okay with getting the onion?" I say, anxiously looking at the nearly-boiling pot of almost-soup.
"Wait, what? Me?"
"Yes, you're getting the onion. Look at me. Do I look ready to go out?" I point at the tissue stuck in my nose. "I'm sick, remember? Can you get a small yellow one, with the brown on the outside? You know."
"Oh. Okay."

Soon enough, he returns with a medium-sized onion. I take off the first crispy layers, and before I drop it into the soup, I want to make sure it isn't too late to do so because the soup was already boiling. I explain to my mom: "In the time it took Adrian to go get a new onion (because the others were dead), the soup started boiling. Is it okay to put the onion in as it is or is it too late?"
"There are some onions. I bought them yesterday," she replies, even though I know there aren't any onions in the basket.

I look at Adrian. "Did you go to the store with mom yesterday?" I ask.
"Yes." He looks at the hanging baskets where we keep our fruit.
"Who put the onions there?" I ask him, pointing at what I now know is a plastic bag of onions next to the apples.
"Me," he replies.
"And who just went to the store to buy a new onion?"
"Me."
"Okay, that's what I thought. Just checking."

"Maybe he likes the exercise?" my mom suggested.
"He must."

"Spreading the Germs."

2011-08-15T14:52:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I'm so sexy when I'm sick.

See?

Bad for Business.

2011-08-15T10:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Restaurants are known to have awful websites. When I worked at One of a Grind, I often thought about getting permission to build up the online profiles for the business. As I live in the 21st century, if I want to find somewhere to eat or have a coffee, I Google it. I can find coffee shops or restaurants or bistros just by typing in an address for Google to search by, whether I want to find a place downtown, by my house, or when I go to Nanaimo. The entries with the most details and reviews are the ones I would consider first. If I can't even get the hours of operation, how do I know they're still open at all? When I looked up One of a Grind and found a couple of entries made by, and in reply to, the previous owner, I knew that if I was looking for a cafe/bistro, I would probably overlook this one. I firmly believe that having a website, or at least an online reputation of some sort - even on restaurant review sites - will increase business.

My mom linked me to these sites:
This one describes the shitty restaurant website phenomenon, and this one has funny comments about shitty restaurant websites (For example: “Yay! The link keeps *bouncing*! I love that trying to enter your website is a fun game.” And “I was wondering if this place had an atmosphere of murmuring patrons and clinking dishes. Thanks to the sound effects on this website, now I know!”).

If a bad restaurant website can deter potential patrons, what can be said about bad university websites?

As you may or may not know, I consider the UVic Website of Chaos and Doom one of my arch enemies, right up there with spiders and peas. You might have read this post which describes what I went through during my admission process.

Today, I went online to see which of my recent tuition payments had gone through for both Camosun and UVic. Unfortunately, nothing shows up yet for Camosun, but the transaction did work according to my bank. Next, I realized that the $200 that was supposed to go towards my UVic tuition for the Fall semester was sitting in the Summer semester area:

Term Charges:
$95.00

Term Credits and Payments:
$295.00

Awesome. I started looking around the site for ways to transfer payments from one semester to another, or at least something that might help or say, "If you pay fees too much in advance, just chill, broski, because we'll sort it out when the time comes." Even a "If you pay before September, your money is going to end up in the wrong semester, trolololo" message would have been nice. I'm not too worried about the money, but it got me thinking about the UVic Website of Chaos and Doom again.

I was reminded of the shitstorm that was the process of post-secondary information collection, and of Camosun and UVic's inability to communicate with each other, despite the fact that numerous students transfer from Camosun to UVic every year.

I would understand, perhaps, that going to the university to speak with them in person might be more beneficial than gathering information from the website IF it had not already been proven that not even the humans can tell me what I need to know. That's the point of the internet: to have oceans worth of information at the tip of one's fingers, because it's too hard seek it from the tip of another's tongue. I cannot expect a human to have all the information they need for each individual student, but in the 21st century I think it is fair to expect that a website would have all the information each individual student might need. Things like "How and when to pay tuition online so that it goes towards the right semester" would be nice.

And I can't help but think... I am trying to get as much information as I can so that I can make a well-informed decision that will affect the rest of my life. Going to university is a huge step in my life. It's probably going to be the most important time of my life. If I fuck it up, so much money and time and energy will all have been wasted. So, you'd think that accessibility to information, either online or in person, would be fantastic. You know, because some of us might actually want to know ahead of time that the TENS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS that will probably be spent on post-secondary education will be spent properly.

While poorly-designed restaurant websites piss people off enough to make them order a pizza instead of go out, there is no alternative for students who want to make the best decision about their education, who want all the facts in advance, who fully expect to end up tens of thousands of dollars in debt before they are finished school. If I'm going to dish out that kind of dough, I want to know that every dollar is worth it, that I made the right decision, and that this is the right path for me, but if the information is not even close to accessible, then it isn't fair to ask me, or anyone else who wants an education, to plunge into the bottomless pit of student debt.

Facts upfront, motherfuckers. Facts upfront, and then you'll get your money.

Oh, Man Man.

2011-08-06T21:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I hate it when I think to myself, "OH! I should write about [this] later!" Because I never really know when I'm actually going to. The best thing is to write about it the moment I get the idea, but when I'm grocery shopping, or driving to Costco, or watching cash and running clothes back to the sales floor and attending to customers all at the same time, it's not always easy to access a laptop, or even a notebook. All I can do sometimes is make a mental note:
- bitch about waste due to unnecessary/excessive packaging
- bitch about forgetting mental notes
- bitch about bitches who bitch all the time

But not this time. This time, I write within minutes of having the idea.

As you may or may not know, I already bought myself a most magnificent super-early birthday present: a beautiful pen. While some people might think, "A pen? Really? You paid $80 for a pen? You know you can get a pack of twenty at Staples for $15 right?" And to those people I would reply with a large, "Fuck you. Just- Take it. Write something!" And they would, and they, too, would know the magnificence of my super-early birthday present.

-----
Well, that went well. See how I began this post talking about how it's best to write the moment you get an idea? I wrote that FOUR DAYS AGO. Well done me. At least this time around I'm not leaving the half-written post to rot in my drafts folder.

Post continued...
-----

While on my break at work, I wandered the halls of the mall, daring not to enter any but two stores: La Vie en Rose (I know, I know! Where did my La Senza loyalty go?) and HMV. There's a bra at La Vie en Rose that I'll get once I've paid for school as it's what I've been looking for for ages, and there's a CD at HMV that I already knew existed, that I've already held in my hand, that I'd already set back down on the shelf with a heavy sigh when I convinced myself against spending the $20 the first time around. There's a CD at HMV that I went in specifically for, remembering exactly which shelf on which I had put it back. I've already listened to all the songs on the CD. I've already done the math: 13 songs to $20 is more than I might pay per song on iTunes. I've already found a way to listen to all the songs on all the albums I want FOR FREE ONLINE. But no. That damn sly HMV salesperson said it herself: "If you get it on iTunes, you won't be able to physically hold the CD in your hands." So, I thought to myself, "You're right, Damn Sly HMV Salesperson (that's what it said on the name tag). I'll take it. IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IN TWO MONTHS ANYWAY." That's close, right?

The worst part is that I literally just checked how much the album costs on iTunes. I guess I paid $7 more for the physical case, CD, and scary poster that will totally go with my room decor. I already have skulls littering my walls. 'CAUSE I AM BAD ASS. And by "bad ass" I mean "lying." I must have only looked at the individual song prices, which are over 99 cents per song, which makes the physical CD package seem more worth it. On the bright side, I am supporting a fantastic artist that I discovered by chance.

Justification process complete.

The artist is Man Man. I purchased their album "Life Fantastic."

I discovered them through grooveshark.com (internet radio), and while the Indie station is "meh" 99% of the time and forces me to listen to the band Fun no matter how many unhappy faces I give it, Grooveshark randomly decided to play some weird music where the lead singer sings with a bizarre hoarse voice laced with beautiful consonance and wretched dissonance played by any and every instrument, though primarily piano, in a style that would best suit a carnival... where someone perhaps sacrifices some livestock. I don't know.

I like the HMV description of their album "Rabbit Habits":

What a difference two years makes. In 2006, Philadelphia wierdos Man Man released their second album, an off-the-wall slab of musical insanity as confusing as it was arresting. In 2008, a move to a bigger label finds the highly theatrical band fully utilizing all the tricks in its bag (cartoon percussion, Tom Waits-like junkyard/thrift-shop arrangements, twisted carnival atmospheres, and an Animal Collective-like penchant for experimentation) without losing focus on their songs or their overall sound. While a freewheeling, try-anything-once aesthetic reigns, it's utilized in service of carefully constructed songs whose structure remains at the center of every track. RABBIT HABITS is the sound of an expansive, anarchic ensemble finding its feet and using its outsider orientation to both push existing boundaries and forge powerful new ideas.

Here's a description for the Life Fantastic album.

When I first heard some of their songs, I didn't like it. I didn't like the guy's voice, and I couldn't stand the chaos of it all. Funny enough, the beauty among the chaos was what later drew me in, and I don't say that metaphorically. I literally mean there are parts of songs that are just fucking amazing to listen to, while others make your ears suffer a little. But it hurts so good. Especially when you know the next verse will take you back to that fucking amazing sound you previously heard.

That's what I like to hear in music: pain and suffering. Sure, make me suffer with you a little, but only because I know you'll reward me in thirty seconds with a bridge to absolutely die for. This isn't Pearl Jam or ACDC (Sorry, Marissa), where the suffering extends throughout the entirety of each song and drives a person to suicide.

Let me explain.

Fun:

When I hear this I can't help but think, "PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE THE GODDAMN JOY AND HAPPINESS STOP!" Which is probably bad... but true. It's too happy. I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it. Somebody needs to rip out this person's heart, trample on it, and make him eat what's left of it with a huge side of peas, because seriously. Stop. being. so. happy. I can't take it. I don't know why.

Compare it to Man Man:

This is a favourite:

And sure it starts happyish enough, but

"He don't even taste the food he eats anymore
There's a space in place where his heart was before
He don't even taste the food he eats anymore
And she don't want to dine alone
And he don't want to die alone
And she wants to live to eat."

This one is beautiful:

"Who... are we / to love / at all?"

And I looooooove this one - Haute Tropique:

I visualize choreography to it. It's one of my all-time favourites.

Steak Knives:

And the one that got me hooked - Engrish Bwudd:

- "Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an English man!"

My favourite. (The youtube video isn't so good.)

I feel like I've been good enough to purchase the remaining albums on iTunes now: I've promoted them and I've purchased their latest CD at regular price. I'm sorry I can't afford the other physical CDs at regular price, but until Man Man/HMV makes them almost the same price as buying them from iTunes and making my own CD, I can't be expected to pay $2 per song. i need 2 pay 4 skool 1st c?

OH. And guess who discovered them the WEEK AFTER they played in Vancouver? +1 I guess I'll have to catch up with them in Spain... for my birthday... They'll be there in September! But the question is... Where will the lottery money be?

It's midnight. I hope you're happy.

"Would you like it... gift-wrapped?"

2011-07-31T22:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I suck, I know. Let's just pretend the last 15 days never happened and move on. I'm posting now.

I like my job. It's just a retail job, but it's really a great environment to be in even though the music hasn't been classic rock for the last couple of weeks. I feel like I'm getting better and better at everything. The newest of newbies sometimes even come to me for help. The numbers are in my favour. I never meet my sales targets; I beat them. And my boss has made it clear that she does not want to lose me. This is something I never got when I worked at the coffee shop. Nobody ever told me or made me feel like I did a good job at anything. Being told that I wasn't the person they thought they'd hired (but holding onto me anyway because they felt bad(?)) was my first clue that I would never feel truly welcome there. Perhaps I wasn't. There were some good times, of course, but it often felt like I would work so hard yet still manage to do something wrong, or rather nothing right. I blame it on the lack of training I received as well as the lack of organization within the facility. There was no system, and I need a system.

There is a system where I work now. There are procedures and guidelines and assignments, but I am still faced with variables, so it's not like working at a military training base. In addition, others have described the sales team as being like a family, and I tend to agree. I feel comfortable talking with any of them - perhaps less when it comes to Hot Coworker, but that's just because he's pretty. However, if something serious ever comes up, I know I could count on him, which is familyish.

I prefer to work in the fitting rooms, where there are many interactions that tend to happen all at once. It gets stressful, especially since the doors are flush with the wall, and the whole thing is mirrors, so I can hardly tell the rooms apart. Someone will ask me for another size in something and the moment they close their door I will have forgotten which room they were in. This isn't a problem when it's slow, but when nearly every fitting room is full, my only hope of identifying the rooms is a little number that pops up on the door when it's locked, as long as the person inside has remembered to lock it. Then I have to worry about multiple locked doors next to each other, particularly if someone sneaks into a room while I'm not around. ("Was it room 5 or 6?") Then I usually just knock and ask if they were looking for a size, and sometimes I'll just shout, "I have that size you needed!" and whichever door opens first is the one I'm looking for. It's like Whack-a-Mole combined with Memory Blocks. And for some reason I love it. When I'm not attending to customers there, I'm processing clothing rejects. I hang things up the way they're meant to be and either take them back to the floor myself or thank the designated "runner" who does it instead.

A part of me wonders if my enjoyment doesn't also come from the lack of responsibility I face back there. In the fitting rooms, it is less likely for people to steal and easier for me to notice if someone does, whereas at the front it's easy for things to slip by. It's easier for someone to simply swipe items from a table at the front than it is to smuggle something out of a change room. And at cash, well, it's cash. You're dealing with people's money and the store's accounting and inventory; plus, you have to be quick and be careful of fraud. But perhaps with a little more practice on cash I'll get more comfortable with it.

Sometimes when I'm packing a customer's purchase in tissue paper, I feel like they get a little impatient. Less so now that I'm more used to it, but I can't help but remind myself of Rowan Atkinson in this scene from Love Actually where Alan Rickman agrees to having his purchase gift-wrapped.

All in all, things are doing well in the job department. It hurts going from being paid almost $20 per hour to less than half of that for twice the work, but at least it's coming in consistently.

Now, before my spine ends up staying like this permanently, I'm going to end this here, stop writing with the laptop on my chest, return my arms to a less bent and more natural position, and hope Lucy doesn't run away when I move her so I can turn around and put my sleepy head on the pillow. As enjoyable as the job is, surprisingly, it takes a lot out of me physically. After work, I'm usually quite content to just fucking die on the couch. But not tonight, I told myself. Tonight, I dedicate this night to my Globlets. (Mostly because nothing was on TV.) <3

Gaydar Love.

2011-07-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I have a job again. And a coworker who is really hot. As it is a retail job, I was quite content in thinking my hot coworker was gay. Bad stereotype, I know, but it's a good defence mechanism. (Attractive young man + gay = off limits.) However, he is not gay. He is in a very serious relationship - far more serious than anything I could handle - with a woman.

Just yesterday (I think), he and one of the managers got a classic rock radio station to replace the top 40 one. When I went in and Supertramp, Cream, and Queen were playing, one right after the other, I thought to myself, "I fucking love this place."

Later on in the day, I dropped off some clothing in the fitting rooms area where Hot Coworker was working. He asked me how my day was going, and I said, "Excellent, now that I've heard Radar Love."
"Well, you know," he said. "We've got a thing, you and I, that's called radar love."

I just about died. He quoted Golden Earring. I think he created a new standard that my future man will have to meet. *Must be able to quote classic rock songs on the spot.*

He's nice, good-looking, dresses wonderfully, and has excellent taste in music; even so, I do not need to mate with him. We'll be coworkers who get along really well, which is the case for most of the staff, but he is fantastic.

After all, we've got a thing that's called radar love.

And to make me feel better, he's gay.

Gaydar love? No, that doesn't work too well, does it?

It Was Always You.

2011-07-14T23:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

i miss u.

But I haven't forgotten about you. Don't look at me like that. You know if I could have, I would have posted. Okay, maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe I've had plenty of opportunities, and maybe the thing getting in the way is that I wanted to feel emotionally ready to globulate. Maybe I wanted to come back from the dead with a bang, with something extraordinary, with something... epic. But that's not the way shit works. And I should know better. So many times I've thought about writing to you, Globlets, and so many times something stupid distracted me from what really matters. What really matters is you.

So, hello, you. I'm back. But I was never really gone, was I? I was always here. Just like you. Waiting for me.

There's so much to say, but no longer will I wait for that special moment when the stars align, and in my heart I feel the time is right, because we could all be waiting a very long time for that. No... Instead, I will write whatever and whenever I feel like, even if it's just rambling because, good god, do I look sexy when I ramble, and, lawd almighty, do you like it when I look sexy.

I need to get a notebook for writing stuff like I did for the Morning Pages that I had to do for ENG154 (Fiction class). Just have to write a page at least per day, but I promise you it will not be in the morning. This bladder needs to be voided ASAP after waking up. Writing a page per day is supposed to get the words flowing easier and faster, making the wait for the perfect moment to write unnecessary.

I've excited myself with all this rambling, just as I'm sure you, too, are excited. More writing tomorrow.

It was good to see you again, Globlets. Real good.

Hate to See Her Go...

2011-07-04T13:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Sometimes, if you're lucky, exceptionally special people enter your world. There is something about them that you are inexplicably drawn to, and once you have them in your world, you never want them to leave. Sometimes the feeling leads to romance and other times to friendship. And when you start with friendship but would consider something more, that's when you become terrified of what might happen if you take the next step.

There are a number of people who have come into my life and made me so happy to have met them. D was one of them until he broke my heart, leaving me to wonder what it would have been like had things been different, but granting me the opportunity to experience something as deeply emotional as that.

Although we've never met, there is a strange attraction I have with another boy in the US: CSa. He's quite different from D, in that D was more personality and CSa is more brains, but that's not to say D wasn't smart, or that CSa is dull. I have so much in common with CSa, and when we talk, his brain turns me on. Speaking to him literally excites me. I get that weird smiley-girly-giggly thing that activates when I'm talking to someone I'm attracted to. Unfortunately, we don't talk as often as I'd like, but there is something supremely sexy about a guy with a brain, and the fact that he looks like a young Benicio del Toro helps too.
(Es mas rico que la chucha.)

The problem with most of the special people I meet is that they do not live in the same city as me. I'm lucky if I find myself in the same country with them, in fact. The internet doesn't help. I mean, it does, because it allows me to meet fascinating people who live very far away, but it also allows me to meet fascinating people who live very far away, which is bad. Plus, it lets you to creep their Facebook pictures and Photoshop your face into them. Not that I do that, of course.

Most of these special people have been boys, but then came Marissa. When I heard that the manly, infamous Marissa (she gets her name spelled out - that's how special she is) was coming to MY city, I was really excited. I'd talked to her online through FVDES' student social networking site-type-thing, and I already knew she was awesome. Although we didn't hang out much in the beginning, over time we became great friends.

She is the kind of person who is everybody's best friend. She is reasonable, smart, down-to-earth, fun, clever, funny, and when she's not being the absolute worst human being purchasing a one-way ticket straight to hell, she's buying a second ticket for me as well. We can have intelligent conversations. We look at things in a very similar way. And while I don't know for sure how she feels about me, I feel very strongly about her, and I think I've made that pretty clear. Unfortunately, neither of us are attracted to each other romantically. (It's all bark, Sugarmuffin.) I'm lucky I know her.

But she had a decision to make recently - a pretty big decision that would seriously affect her future. She would either stay here and go to UVic or go to a university in Ottawa. She kept me on edge about it for weeks. While I had the feeling she would choose Ottawa, I always hoped that I'd be wrong. Of all the times I would have preferred to be wrong, I ended up being right. She's going to pursue her academic goals in the East. I would never ask someone to stay for me, and I would never stay for someone else if they asked me to, and I'm proud of her. I probably would have felt guilty if she'd stayed. (For about 10 seconds /selfish bitch.)

She'll come back to Vancouver in a year, luckily, but I'm going to miss her like boys miss toilet bowls: A LOT.

That was really poetic.

But I really am going to miss her. She's one of the special people, and I'm sad to see her go. Special people just aren't allowed to be in the same city as me for long periods of time. I think I know why, though. It probably has to do with the fact that if too much chemistry and amazing-awesomeness is found in a small area over a long period of time, a black hole might form and the whole world would be destroyed in a matter of minutes. Or seconds. I'm not a scientist. Neil Tyson is.

Marissa would know.

I might be sad to see her go
But I love to watch her leave.

Did I just quote Lil Wayne? I've never even heard the song. How do I know this?
GOOD LUCY, IT'S AWFUL! I can't even embed it. I won't. I'll link, but that's as far as I'll go. OML. Listen and weep: http://youtu.be/oT6XPSEl5qE Yeah, I'm a hater.

'Cept she won't be coming back
Asking 'bout her keys.

See? I can rap, too.

Keep in touch, brochacho. Because I... will always... love youuuu!

Hey. Fezzes are cool.

-----
PS. "(Nicki Minaj)

Ok I get it, let me think,
i guess its my turn,
maybe its time to put this p-ssy on your sideburns"

- I can't say for sure, but I think she's doing it wrong.
Source: http://www.elyricsworld.com/girl_you_know_lyrics_lil_wayne.html

Congratulations on your outstanding academic achievement!

2011-06-23T09:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I'm going to tell you a little story... It'll be short and sweet and full of joy and wonder, and will leave you in a state of pure happiness.
And by joy, wonder, and happiness I, of course, mean anger, confusion and frustration. It'll be as long as the process.

It's the story of my getting into the University of Victoria.

A long, long time ago, in a country very far away, I began homeschooling: grade 7, Chile. I was homeschooled throughout my high school years, and certainly faced a number of challenges, but ultimately knew that I did what was right for me. When I decided to go to UVic, I started taking distance ed. courses to meet the admission requirements: Socials 11, Math 11, etc. That was until I learned that if I was 19, I could get into Camosun, and I was only a few months away from my 19th birthday. Even so, I had to speak with the registrar to be granted early admission, but everything ran smoothly after that. I was going to take 8 university-transferable courses at Camosun and then transfer to UVic when it was possible to do so. I took the English upgrading courses that were the grade 12 equivalent that I needed over Spring/Summer 2010 (not university-transferable), took three courses in the Fall, another three in the Winter, and I planned to get into UVic after one more Fall semester at Camosun.

In order to get into UVic, as was explained on the UVic Website of Chaos and Doom, I needed a math. No problem. After the Winter 2011 semester, I was going to relearn some math at home, take the assessment at Camosun, and take the upgrading math courses if I needed to, just like I did with English, all before I was admitted to UVic in Winter 2012. In order to make sure I was on the right track, because as brilliant as I thought my plan was (including my backup ones), I went to an Academic Advisor at Camosun to check.

I began, "I'm looking to transfer from Camosun to UVic, and I understand that I am required to have a Math..."
"I'ma let you finish, but..." she Kanye'd me. "... you don't need a math."
"But the website says..."
"The website isn't clear. You don't need a math because you're a Camosun student now. You can probably even apply right now. In fact, I recommend you apply as soon as possible, because with this GPA, they might even let you in with 6 courses for this September."
I was thrilled. I rushed home, turned on my computer, opened the UVic Website of Chaos and Doom, searched for the page that told me when my application deadline would be, and was thoroughly disappointed. It was March 31st. I missed it by a week or two. I never thought I could get in, so I never checked. It was never a possibility, in my mind. This is when I discovered that the Writing Program's only entry point is in September because it's a two-parter. So, I either get in this September, which seemed less and less likely, or I'd have to wait another year before getting into my program. I really didn't want to wait a whole year.

So, I went to the Fine Arts department at UVic to discuss my options with an advisor there. After telling her my story, she suggested coming in as a Visiting Student from Camosun.
"A what?"
"A Visiting Student from Camosun."
"A what?"
"A Visiting Stud- where Camosun gives you a letter permitting you to take the one course you need at UVic while still taking courses at Camosun. A letter of concurrent enrolment. You bypass a number of the requirements to get in, and get priority seating over non-majors."
"Sweet. Let's do it."

You have to know what a Visiting Student is before you can consider it as an option, because if you don't know to look for it, you will never find it.

I actually tried looking for the page it's on without entering it in the search, and while I'm sure it's possible to find it like that, I had 10 pages open in my browser and was madly scanning through them to find a link that just might take me there. I didn't find it, but I thoroughly acquainted myself with the "Chaos and Doom" part of their website. So many links take you to pages you're not actually trying to get to, and if you want to go back and find that page that actually had useful information, GOOD LUCK. They link back and forth, and they lead you through loops of the same three pages that tell you the same thing, and if only they combined them! I felt like I was running around in circles. Do they not have a graphic design program? They should, and it should be taken by UVic website creators. Because if you are actually able to find information that answers your questions, you still have to wonder if there is more to them than what you see.

There was more to the Visiting Student option than I was told.

Still in April, I believe, I went back to Camosun to ask for that letter. The advisor told me I couldn't get it until I registered for my Fall courses. My registration date was June 7th. June 7th I registered, and June 8th I was at Camosun picking up my letter, ready to take it to UVic that same day. Unfortunately, the UVic Undergrad Admissions lady wasn't there, but I left the documents there for her, and e-mailed her when I got home. I explained I wanted Visiting Student status for September and Transfer Student status for January.

"Why don't you just come to UVic in September as a transfer student?" she replied.
"WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. Well, if I could, that would be mighty swell."
"Except you'll have to come into the Faculty of Social Sciences because you can't get into the Writing Program."
"Oh."
"Yeah. But you can probably get into WRIT100."
"I just checked with the Writing Department, and if I do that I will get last priority, whereas as a Visiting Student I will be guaranteed a seat after writing majors register." (Plus, this way I'll be saving a bit of money for another semester.)
"FINE. KEEP YO MONAY. I will continue with your visiting student application for September but you should be aware of the processing."
"Uh oh."
(Real quote from her now.) "You will need to submit a new application for September 2011 as a visiting student to the Faculty of Social Sciences. The application online is not available as the deadline was May 15th to submit an application. That means that you will have to fill out the attached paper application and pay a $60 application fee and a $35 late fee."

May 15th? MAY 15TH?! Do you know what I was doing on May 15th? NOTHING! I was waiting for my fall registration date at Camosun: JUNE 7TH.

And I responded, "WHAT DO YOU MEEEAAAN APPLICATION AND LATE FEE YOU GODDAMN O7YUGBSTGY4GOTEYG3WOOBJB765?!?!" Or perhaps it was more like, "Neither the UVic nor Camosun advisor ever told me ANYTHING about this, and neither did the UVic website [of Chaos and Doom]. If I had known, I most certainly would have submitted the documents on time IF YOU PEOPLE WERE CAPABLE OF COMMUNICATING WITH EACH OTHER. FUCKING APES!" Maybe I'm getting carried away again. Nowhere does it say you have to belong to a faculty as a Visiting Student. (Nowhere obvious anyway.) I politely asked for the late fee to be waived seeing as there was no possible way for me to know a Visiting Student application or application deadline even existed.
"LOL NO," responded the Admissions Officer. "They wouldn't have known! They're not part of admissions! Sucks to be you."
"Fuck you," I said. "Here. Take the money. Just let me into this fucking course."

"CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR OUTSTANDING ACADEMIC ACHIEVEMENT! We are excited to tell you that an admission offer is on the way. Check your mailbox, as your letter should arrive soon."

Mailbox? Letter? Canada Post is on strike. THANKS, though!
I got them to e-mail copies of the September and January admission offers.

So, after all this, I suppose I've gotten in. My brother described their give-students-hope-then-destroy-hopes-then-give-hope-again-then-destroy-a-little-more tactics "trolling." I tend to agree. It was all because I could not access the information I needed in full. I had to beg for it and scan through countless pages of the UVic Website of Chaos and Doom, to which I've given up hours of my life and gained little to nothing in return.

This process has felt like an obstacle course. I've been running towards a goal in the distance, and all of a sudden a wall pops up out of the ground suddenly, and I'm like, "AH! SHIT!" but find a way to climb it. Then a row of spiky pillars appear and begin falling near me and I have to run mighty fast while dodging them to prevent getting squished. And after each obstacle I overcome, I have to stop at a toll booth and dish out a wad of cash.

I'll be able to register for WRIT100 on June 28th, and I will have to wait until late December when I get my final Camosun transcript before I can be fully accepted. If everyone else has to do that, though, I'm sure I'll be fine.

That is, of course, if they've told me everything I need to know! And let's hope they have. I don't want to have spent more hours researching UVic information than inside the actual UVic classes.

Vancouver Canucks.

2011-06-16T09:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

My family has watched the Vancouver Canucks for years. My grandpa has always been really into it, and my mom recently got into it as well. For a long time, I had the hardest time even watching the game. Very quickly, I'd end up staring at the screen, not processing any of the information I was looking at, and goals would be scored in front of me that I would not see. It's like my brain switched to hibernate mode and all I would see was a screen on which humans were running around on a white background carrying sticks. I'd know a goal was scored sooner by hearing my family's cheers than seeing it because I'd have to wait until the instant replay was aired.

When a game was on, that was my cue to go do something else, to go talk to a friend or boyfriend, or edit photos, or play the piano, or pick my nose. I honestly did not care one bit. I only cared about the score in the end, so I could say, "Yay! We won!" That was the extent of my support, which is more than others'.

During the Olympics, I tried my best to actually watch-watch the hockey games. After all, this wasn't just the Canucks playing, this was CANADA. My country. Well, the country I just so happened to be born in. Even so, that one connection - the ability to say, "I identify as Canadian" - was enough for me to root for them. It was so nice to see so many people get together for that one event, and it was nice to see it happen again for the Stanley Cup playoffs.

I loved being able to see people wearing their Canuck jerseys with pride, and see the streets decorated with Canuck logos, and cars with flags bigger than the vehicles themselves, even just around little Victoria. It was nice to see people uniting, even if for many it was just a bandwagon. We were able to get together and say, "I identify as a Vancouver Canuck fan." We watched them together, wide-eyed, on the edge of our seats, biting our fingernails, and our cheers rang in the air as one, as did our sighs with the prevention of each of our goals or the opposing team's most recent score.

Together, we saw the Canucks work hard. We saw them fight, but also saw them give up. They had to play the game physically as well as mentally, and in sports, focusing strictly on the physical is not as easy as it sounds. We saw them go through series after series, always making it out on top. We saw some justice, and a lot of injustice. We saw good hits and bad hits, and an unbelievable number of bad calls against us compared to the number of ridiculously obvious should-have-been-but-were-not-penalties for the opposing teams. We were not only playing hockey games against worthy competitors, we were playing against the referees.

We made it to the play-offs. We made it to the final. We made it to game 7. We could not have been more worthy of second place, even if it doesn't sound as good as first place. We deserved to win, too, but we didn't have the luck, and the Bruins had a Tim Thomas.

This is why it's so hard for me to understand people's mentality when one day they're Canucks fans, but the moment the Canucks lose, they abandon the team. I understand that it can be rough when we may not win the Stanley Cup even after years of trying, but there is only one cup, and there are many teams fighting for it. I don't think we should only look at the product of the boys' hard work, but rather at what it took for them to get to where they are. To those who say the Canucks suck, I'd like to see you do better. They've said that they're exhausted and burnt out, and I saw Ryan Kesler get pretty emotional about the loss. And you know what? Emotions are okay. If our team members cry, it's because they're human, with human emotions, and I don't think they were playing against a pack of robots (although that Chara...).

I have always been a fan, however minor at times, and I always will be one. A true fan is always a fan, no matter what. (Just look at Jon Stewart and the Mets!) I was born in Vancouver, I love Vancouver, and I do identify as a Vancouver Canucks Fan.

A hundred-thousand Canucks fans were invited to watch game 7 downtown yesterday. You know what I'm about to say, just as you and everyone else knew what was going to happen last night - with a win or a loss. I just want to make it clear, because I've been reading stupid and hateful comments on Facebook and news reports that say otherwise, that the riot in no way reflects the Vancouver Canucks team, its fans, or the city. It was started by a small group of idiots who went downtown organized and prepared to cause mayhem and destruction whether the Canucks won or lost. They may not have even been Vancouverites or Canucks fans.

Most people went home. A lot of people, for whatever stupid reason, just wanted to stick around and watch and get their picture taken. Canucks fans are not sore losers, Vancouverites are not sore losers, because this would have happened:
A) If the Canucks won
B) In any other city in Canada or the US
Because there are idiots everywhere. And the best part is the idiots have been photographed and videotaped, and the evidence uploaded to the internet. It saddens me to see what childish, criminal buffoons deem acceptable and what they have done to our city, and I am embarrassed by it only because some will think this is how we all are, and we're not. Do not box me, or any other Vancouverite/Canucks fan, in with these criminals, especially since many rioters do not even fall into either of those categories.

The last thing I want to say about this is to please stop spreading rumours about things not yet confirmed by the authorities, as it really only makes matters worse. "I heard this, I heard this too, and I heard that..." is not reliable, and it is not helpful. Some injuries, no deaths reported.

All we can do now is say, "Yeah, we had a great season," give the Canucks the credit they deserve, be glad that we were not caught up in the mess downtown, be content in knowing that we have nothing in common with the rioters, and move on.

Vancouver Canucks, you did your best, and I thank you for that. You'll always be my favourite. <3

Lawless.

2011-06-14T20:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I'm behind on posting. I'll be posting some overdue globulations; hopefully I won't have to pay a FEE!

Long story about that one. I'll link to it once it's posted.

In the meantime... I was trying for the millionth time to get a job at La Senza, and I was submitting a cover letter online. I tried to put in a table, which ended up not working because I don't know how to transfer tables to a computer.
I don't. know how. to transfer tables. to a computer.

Ha. Ha.

So, I tried deleting it, and got this message:

What does this mean?! "Xinha cowardly refuses to delete the last row in table." Why are some articles included and others excluded ("the last row" vs. "in table")? And Xinha? Not Xena... I know my legendary warrior princess, thank you very much.
Laaalalalalalalaaa!!!

http://trac.xinha.org -> NOW YOU KNOW. Thanks, Google. You're mighty swell.

One year, when I'm older, and have long hair and money and nothing better to do, I'm going to go as Xena for Halloween. And my childhood dreams will come true and life will be complete.

I will also secretly be a Cylon.

I will be seriously impressed if you understand that connection. If you do, please, please let me know, and I will express my awe and amazement and respect for you in ways that ... will have to be done verbally over the internet unless I know you in person and am willing to do something nice for you.

My mother doesn't count.

<3

Old haus, nu home.

2011-05-31T09:06:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Do you see? Tall people suffer as well...

This is why this place has been dead over the last while:

Sunday was the last day we were in the old house. My mom and I felt nothing towards leaving - we didn't regret living there, but we don't miss it either. We were indifferent towards it. We worked our butts off cleaning the place, leaving some things cleaner than when we found them (cupboards, the fridge, probably the floors), but we didn't wash the walls as well as we could have. We got to a point where it was like, "Fuck it - they didn't clean when we moved in here, they didn't clean when we moved into our nu haus, and we've left it pretty clean. So, good enough. Let's bounce."
And we did. We bounced to our nu haus, changed into normal clothes, and then bounced to the Fernwood Inn where we had dinner and drinks to celebrate our final day living in a house built in 1906. We said goodbye to ladybug invasions, wasps, windows that don't close or open properly, a shit kitchen, a dungeon where we had to pay $1.25 to do laundry, and the inability to boil water and make toast at the same time without blowing the fuse.

We said goodbye to our old haus and hello to our nu home.

And maybe in a couple of weeks our nu home will even look like a home - right now it looks like we've been practising what it's like to live somewhere post-natural disaster.

Big Lucies.

2011-05-24T09:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Death by cute.

End of Ze World - For All?

2011-05-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I'm not sure right at this moment if the end of the world includes the animal kingdom, but if it does...

ALL OF THESE CUTE BABY ANIMALS ARE GOING TO DIE TODAY:

http://www.zooborns.com/

I'll double check later.

From Wiki:

Some notable rapture predictions include the following:

1844 - William Miller predicted Christ would return between March 21, 1843 and March 21, 1844, then revised his prediction, claiming to have miscalculated Scripture, to October 22, 1844. The realization that the predictions were incorrect resulted in a Great Disappointment. Miller's theology gave rise to the Advent movement. The Baha'is believe that Christ did return as Miller predicted in 1844, with the advent of The Báb, and numerous Miller-like prophetic predictions from many religions are given in William Sears book, Thief in The Night.[57]
1914[58], 1918[59], 1925[60], 1942[61] - Dates set for the end by the Jehovah's Witnesses
1981 - Chuck Smith predicted that Jesus would probably return by 1981.[62]
1988 - Publication of 88 Reasons why the Rapture is in 1988, by Edgar C. Whisenant.
1989 - Publication of The final shout: Rapture report 1989, by Edgar Whisenant. More predictions by this author appeared for 1992, 1995, and other years.
1992 - Korean group "Mission for the Coming Days" predicted October 28, 1992 as the date for the rapture.[63]
1993 - Seven years before the year 2000. The rapture would have to start to allow for seven years of the Tribulation before the Return in 2000. Multiple predictions.
1994 - Pastor John Hinkle of Christ Church in Los Angeles predicted June 9, 1994. Radio evangelist Harold Camping predicted September 6, 1994.[64]
2011 - Harold Camping's revised prediction has May 21, 2011 as the date of the rapture.[65][66]
2060 - Sir Isaac Newton proposed, based upon his calculations using figures from the book of Daniel, that the Apocalypse could happen no earlier than 2060.[67][68]

Aaaand let's end this (perhaps final) post with a flashback to the 80s:

I hope Jesus is black and comes down wearing a white suit and top hat.

Fountain of Youth.

2011-05-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

When we got the keys to the nu haus on Friday, we went over to see it. The daughter of the former owner was packing up some last minute things in her car when we got there, and she seemed pretty friendly. We spoke with her for a few minutes. She couldn’t have been much older than me – maybe 20, probably not over 23.
Then she asked me, “Do you go to Vic High?” because it’s nearby.
Without really thinking about how it would sound, I simply answered, “No.” I didn’t explain that I’d been 19 for the last eight months and that I was attending university. I just said, “No.” A moment later, I noticed how short I had sounded and added, “But my brother does.” I also backed up the lovely first impression I was giving her by saying how much I admired her Mini Cooper. Phew. Wouldn’t want to sound like a bitch to a total stranger I’ll never see again who thought I was a high school kid.

We're having some flooring put in right now, and the flooring installers are very nice: Janus and Janek. The house was full of Polish people on Monday – my grandpa was there, these two very Polish men, and while my mom doesn’t identify as Polish, I’m going to count her in this one to make the numbers look better. The Jans, too, sparked friendly conversation. Very quickly the question of my age arose once again.
“How old are you?” Janek asked. I smiled, knowing perfectly well that my answer would not be one he’d expect.
“19,” I replied.
“19!” he exclaimed. “Wow! I thought you were like 14 or 15 or something!”
“Nope,” I said calmly.
“Well, that’s good! That’s good that you look younger, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” was all I said.

Maybe when I’m 40 and I look 30 I’ll be happy, but right now it’s just annoying.

It really is. While it is something I’ve come to expect, just like I expect certain friends of mine to make remarks about my height, it can still be annoying. Sometimes the height thing is okay, but if I, for example, declare on Facebook that I got my Learner’s Licence, the response should be supportive and congratulatory, and not, “Are you sure you’ll be able to reach the pedals?” Because now I’ve installed an eject button in the passenger seat. I’ve programmed it to let me do it twice, so that if I “forget” to open the sun roof the first time, the passenger can be ejected on the second try.

No, I don’t forget shit like that.

You might say, "Don't mess with short people. They'll bite you in the ass eventually. Maybe even literally." Except you just shouldn't say mean things to your friends when they need to hear something other than a reminder that they're shorter than the average North American woman.

I've been practising my comebacks:
"You're short."
"What?! I AM?! Why has no one informed me?"

Maybe when you're 50 I'll make fun of your wrinkles while I look like I'm 40, because that's basically the same thing. Except I won't. It's this funny little being-the-better-person thing I've learned over the years. Perhaps being reminded about my youthful appearance and height every day of my life has helped with this learning experience.

I know that there is no way for people to tell how old I am. They go by what they see in other 19+ year-olds, and height has a lot to do with it. I can’t blame people for that. I shouldn’t take this out on those who simply don’t know, so just telling people how old I really am and smiling as they have their minds blown is about as much as I can and will do. I look forward to being asked how old I am when I’m 20. I’m sure I’ll be one of the few adults who still get asked their age.

“You’re like 15 or 16, right?”
“20, actually.”

OH SNAP.

OR,
“You’re still in high school, right?”
“Actually, I’m doing my Masters at UVic right now.” So what if I’m not? Fuck ‘em.

Speaking of youth, I'm really glad this is coming out before Rapture:

I'll get to see it before I spend eternity burning within the fiery walls of hell, and that's all that really matters. See you there.

Blogger/Everything is horrible when you're packing.

2011-05-13T14:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Blogger is back! Yes!

This is what I've been doing since it's been down:

Blogger has decided to decrease the frame size of posts, so now videos don't fit without size customization and Reactions don't at all. Yes!

This is a post I made while Blogger was down:

-----
Dear Globlets,

Blogger is down right now, and it is terrible. It reminds me of that day not too long ago when Facebook was down. I think I spent ten minutes straight hitting the refresh button, and Blogger being down is nothing compared to that day. It was down for several hours. I was losing my mind. But it's not like I'm addicted to Facebook or anything, so it's okay.

In other news:
We're getting possession of the house tomorrow and ... the books are packed. Just the books. There are a couple of awkward ones left over. They're all different sizes and are hard to pack. Everything is horrible when you're packing. I've found myself saying this as I've tried to make books fit in boxes that are just under a centimetre too small: "Everything is horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible." At least I have the right attitude.

Packing is horrible. There's so much I feel like I could do, but how to make it all fit seems impossible; so, I'll put a few same-sized books in one box and then some others in another (because the sizes of each group of books is too different), and then I'll look around at the pile of utterly unpackable items, go on Facebook/Blogger, and write about my inability to pack effectively because nothing fits and everything is horrible. Talk about perseverance.

I know that once my mom and brother are home, I can get them to bring their papers and binders so I can put them together with mine. And then we'll get the bins from the storage in the basement so we can pack up the breakables.
"But Ori, why don't you go get the bins and start packing the breakables yourself?"
Clearly, you have not seen my basement. There are spiders. And it is dark, so by the time you notice there's a spider next to you, it might be too late. I need to go down there with backup. I need to go there with my ass-kicking, zombie-killing brother. That way, if a spider appears, his high-pitched scream could precede my own and I'd have a split second longer to flip shit and run. The only downside to this is that we're likely to trip over each other as we flee... but I'M NOT GOING IN THERE ALONE.

Besides, this chair isn't going to sit in itself.

Nu Haus: Tralalala!

2011-05-09T09:12:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I haven't written for a while and that bothers me. Lately I've been editing pictures of a young model I recently had a photo shoot with, and I've also been packing.

What? Didn't I tell you?

We're moving. The three of us, plus Lucy.
"But you're 19! Shouldn't you be moving out on your own yet?!" Well, if going to school full time and working part time was not a ticket to Debt Central, I'd move out. If I can stay at home, go to school, and work for a while longer, I'll be able to save up a bit more for school. If I didn't get along with my family, this would be a different story, but I do. And other than the people who think I should be doing something different at this point in my life, nothing says this is a bad idea.

You should have seen us yesterday. We were all snuggled together helping Mom use a program online to lay out our furniture within the correct dimensions of our new house. We get along. People might think we're strange, and I probably wouldn't argue with that, but whatever it is that we're doing works. We're like the perfect unrealistic family everyone hates because they're too busy being asshole teenagers or struggling with asshole teenager kids. Not being asshole teenagers came pretty naturally to us, I think.

(I just killed a spider.)

I would have liked to post pictures of our new house here, but I must have been drunk and/or high as few of the pictures are any good; plus, I forgot to take any pictures of my room. Like I said... drunk/high. We get possession on the 13th, so I might take some more pictures of the new house's nakedness and then provide before-and-afters in the future. We're going to make the house really awesome, really ours. I'm excited.

It's a new house (2005), it's semi-detached, and it's five minutes away from the centre of a fantastic neighbourhood that has a coffee shop, restaurant/pub, theatre, art gallery, and some other little shops. We can see Adrian's school from the property. The electrical system allows us to boil water, toast bread, and microwave leftovers all at the same time. It will be a beautiful thing. The kitchen is ultra-functional and is open to the dining and living rooms. We'll have three bathrooms, and they're all nice, and I fully expect that when we get there, the three of us will all pee at the same time in our separate bathrooms... JUST BECAUSE WE CAN.

Look. When you have to call the bathroom if you want to use it, hopefully beating everyone else to it, or when you have to form a bathroom queue in your own house, you don't take multiple bathrooms for granted, okay?

I wish it was Friday already. I just want to be able to go there and say, "Tralalala! Nu haus is ours, nu haus is ours! Tralalala! Three potties! Tralalala! Functional kitchen!" We'll also have a deck and garden. It's going to be pretty sweet.

Oh! Did I mention we'll have three bathrooms? Excitement.

Mother's Day 2011.

2011-05-08T06:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Happy mother's day! You didn't forget, did you?

I like this 64: Proof

2011-05-05T08:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I like this:
"Science has proof without any certainty. Creationists have certainty without any proof." - Ashley Montague

Science has never claimed to know it all, or that whatever it knows is unchangeable. Science is dynamic, as it constantly gathers new information to fit into the puzzle. Hypotheses are always being tested again and again to make sure that the results are correct and consistent before they can be called theories. Creationists, on the other hand, say they know how the earth came to be, denying the scientific evidence that proves otherwise, that has been tested and peer-reviewed and published many times.

"MY book says it's so, therefore it's true." That's not good enough. Maybe a few thousand years ago it was, but not anymore.

I like this 63: Progress

2011-05-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I've got my quotes back on. I lost them for a while, but now the "I Like This" can come back.

I like this:
"The chief obstacle to the progress of the human race is the human race." - Don Marquis

Except I don't actually like it.

Confrontation and "Rage."

2011-04-27T20:20:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I don't do well with confrontation. I never have, and I have never claimed to. Some people in my past relationships have had issues with this, and I've made a point of trying harder to be blunt, but it's still hard. When I start talking, I get shaky like I do when I'm arguing with creationists. It's different, as it feels more like fear for the relationship than passion for reason. Plus, it's not easy for me to articulate. And then I feel bad... because I see the look on their faces, and if I can't see them in person, then I see the look in my head. As I talk, I start doubting myself, especially when they have something to say in their defence. Am I justified in saying this? Is it actually me who's the problem? Could I have done things differently? I also need to choose my words carefully. Instead of saying, "When you did this..." I might try something like, "When this happened...."
I don't like confrontation.

When I have something that I'm too afraid to say directly to someone, I might say it more openly, more generally. In the case I'm thinking about now, I don't want to be direct because I fear sounding like a broken record. I am so close to it, though. I am so close to getting up right now to talk and be blunt, but I can't. The last thing I want is to appear cowardly or weak, but I am fighting - with myself. I'm trying to decide if I should suck-it-up-buttercup and just take it like a man, or say that I'm unhappy and frustrated. I think a big part of this relates to my suspicion that whatever I say will not be fully considered, that it will be ignored, disregarded, and forgotten, because what I have to say is just me being me, me being an anal little bitch who says the same things over and over again. I realize nobody has come out and called me that, but I feel like that's how I'm being thought of.

Because my sticky notes are just "rage."

Because my sticky notes are just rage.
They mean nothing because they come from me, because they are passive aggressive, just like this blog post is passive aggressive, and what is the point in reading mere passive aggressive rage? I don't know why, but for this case in particular I am really struggling, and I'm frustrated out of my mind because of it. And I'm frustrated because my passive aggressiveness isn't working, and my reaction to bottling it up is not helping. This is the last of it. I'm either going to turn to confrontation or suck it up. It's one way or the other.

Maybe I need to send an invitation. Maybe I need to write down all my points and then go in with cue cards. I shouldn't have to resort to this. Why can't I just say what I want to say? I'm going over the cycle in my head right now...
Maybe I should just keep calm and carry on. Be a good friend. Besides, it won't be for much longer. But if I do that then I might burst unexpectedly, which would be much messier than if I went in with a plan. Okay, then I'll make a plan. I'll write it out for myself and then talk. I'll do it! But even if I do, will it stick? Will anything change? Because it's me we're talking about, and my words are inconsequential. They're just rage. Maybe I should just keep calm and carry on.

I don't know what to do, and I hate it. Maybe this is my invitation.

(I feel a little better now that I've said this. I guess that was the point.)

No Room Service.

2011-04-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

This is a blog/essay I wrote for Creative Nonfiction in response to John Krakauer's Into the Wild. You'll probably get it even if you haven't read it. (I didn't actually finish reading it. But, shh!)

This is going into my portfolio that's due tomorrow, so any constructive criticism would be reeeaaally helpful because I want this to be as good as possible, and I value my readers' opinions.

No Room Service

“My idea of roughing it is staying at a hotel without room service,” my mom has said many times, and I tend to agree.

I have no desire to go back to nature or return to my natural roots as did Chris McCandless of John Krakauer’s Into the Wild. I do like to take a hot shower in the morning, use a toilet, drink a cup of coffee, fry an egg, read a blog or two, and put on a clean pair of jeans. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate nature, or that I’m an anti-environmentalist. The environment is important to me, and I think it should be preserved, respected, and explored. I compost and recycle, and I would like to learn how to grow vegetables; I’m very conscious of my carbon footprint. Furthermore, I have a problem with luxurious living when people waste simply because they don’t care, and simply because they can afford to, disregarding their waste’s effects on the earth. Wasting has never been an option in my family, especially when it comes to food, electricity, and water. Luxury often ties in with overabundance, and living in nature is the opposite extreme, which is why, to me, living comfortably is the ideal. There is a balance.

It was difficult for me to relate to Chris McCandless. Unlike him, I don’t have family problems, I wouldn’t go into the wild alone, and I don’t have the urge to get away from society for more than a weekend. My mom, my brother and I all get along, and being alone in the wilderness frightens me, especially if I was as unprepared as McCandless. And while there are some aspects of society that I disagree with, I would rather stay where I am and write about why I disagree with them. I would prefer to make a statement in my writing than embark on a suicide mission like McCandless. The only life-threatening mission I would carry out is one from which a positive change in the world could occur. I don’t know that leaving society would make an impact on the world; I think the impact would weigh more heavily on my family and friends, and because of this, the notion of leaving seems particularly selfish. McCandless does not gain anything by abandoning his life and loved ones as one might hope. I could not do the same to the people I care about; it would weigh too heavily on my conscience. I just couldn’t do it.

I could never get up and leave my life without a plan. I could never travel to another city without a plan. I could never even leave my house without a plan. I need to know where I’m going, how long it will take me to get there, who will be there, what weather I need to prepare for, how much money I will require, what I will eat, and where I will sleep. I need to know what my plans B, C, D, E, and F are in case plan A goes awry. However, I do not carry around a big bag containing a flashlight, first aid kit, energy bars and thermal underwear. I’m not insane. Instead, I have lip balm, hand sanitizer, hand cream, tissues, pen, keys, cell phone, tampon, and wallet in my purse. I am prepared for my everyday life every day. If I was to travel, the size and contents of my bag would adjust according to my trip and destination. I like to be prepared, but reasonably so. Leaving unprepared for the wilderness is not something I could ever do. It’s dangerous. Anything could go wrong, even if I was prepared for the worst, and if I was alone, there would be no one to help me.

As a woman, travelling or living alone in the wilderness is extremely daunting. Although it did not seem like McCandless encountered bad people, I would be constantly aware and afraid of the dangers that could arise simply because of my gender. McCandless did not worry about trusting certain men out of fear that he might be raped or abused, whereas I would constantly. Any time that I would find myself alone with a man or several men, I know that I would have to proceed with extreme caution. Considering the potential threats a woman might face by travelling alone in the great outdoors, it would be foolish and unrealistic for me to do so.

One part of Chris McCandless’ journey that I can relate to is his discovery of unhappiness in loneliness. While I tend to be quite solitary, working best alone and quietly, I could not live in the middle of nowhere. Some are attracted to the silence and solitude a cabin in the woods provides, but to me that kind of location is nice for up to a week. As much as I like to be away from people, I still want them to be within reach. I want to be able to look out from the seclusion of a one-bedroom apartment onto a bustling city street. I want to be able to walk into a coffee shop and have my presence acknowledged. I want to be able to call up a friend and make plans to see a movie in the evening. I like to be alone, but not lonely. I find comfort knowing that if I was to die in my apartment, someone might hear, someone would know where to find me, someone would consider my absence suspicious, or someone would smell my body decomposing within a couple of days. And that’s comforting to me. If I fell into trouble where no one could find me, it would be a sad ending to my life; one, I imagine, where my dignity may be compromised and my suffering prolonged. I would not want to leave that kind of memory behind.

As beautiful as nature may be, and as hectic as everyday life may seem sometimes, I could not go into the wild as Chris McCandless did. I would need to be much more prepared, find someone else to go with, and let others know where I would be. If I had to choose between camping in the wilderness and staying at a hotel in a foreign city, I’d pick the hotel. And if there was no room service, well, I suppose I’d have to do my best to survive.

One Drink, Two Drink, Bad Drink, Good Drink

2011-04-14T06:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

This is a piece I wrote for my creative nonfiction course. It's a braided essay, with three separate strands of text that are tied together in some way. I didn't know what I was going to write about on the day we were supposed to discuss our topics. I had three topics in mind that I was trying to choose from, and luckily I picked this one. I went with my gut. Or it was the first one on my list. Doesn't matter, because I think it turned out pretty well. That doesn't mean much, though, because I tend to like my not-so-good-in-real-life pieces. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, as usual. Any suggestion or praise would be great, as I have to improve this puppy for when I submit it to my portfolio.

Also, the name "Lilli" is derived from the Lilliputians from the novel Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift, who are particularly small beings. This refers only to size and not the connotations of pettiness that is also associated with the word. Thank my mom.

(Can you spot your character? 10 points if you do! Another 10 points if you find the recurring symbol throughout. Points may turn into cookies.)
-----

One Drink, Two Drink, Bad Drink, Good Drink

Everyone has their own idea of fun. Some like to drink, dance, and party until the sun comes up. Women wear short dresses and stand in lines in freezing weather to get into clubs where they get drunk and dance in 3-inch heels. I would never feel comfortable with that, especially when I would still have to make it home. I have often wondered how a person could willingly put themselves in a position where they were not in control of themselves, where they were likely to vomit and black out, and where they might do something they would later regret.
Is it ever worth it? Is it really that fun?

First Drink

Euphoria (BAC = 0.03 to 0.12%): Overall improvement in mood and possible euphoria, increased self-confidence, increased sociability, shortened attention span, flushed appearance, inhibited judgment, impaired fine muscle coordination.

***

I didn’t have plans on Halloween night. Simon, dressed as a Marlboro cigarette, asked if I wanted to go to a party. I wore my tight black exercise pants and long-sleeved sweater, sparkly kitty ears and matching bowtie, a tail attached to a satin belt, and I topped off the look with three strokes of black eyeliner-whiskers on each cheek. But I wasn’t going to drink.

Simon wanted to get rum, but he had difficulty choosing the brand, struggling between quality and cost. He settled for Bacardi, so I told him to put it back and get Captain Morgan’s. I’d pay for it; I’d have some after all. I don’t know what changed my mind.

I bought a bag of mini caramel rice cakes in case I got hungry.

Sexy pirate girls greeted us at the party, along with superheroes and characters I did not recognize. I stood awkwardly in the corner of the small kitchen. Simon opened the rum and poured some into a clear plastic cup for me.

“Do you want Coke?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Nope.” I smelled the spiced alcohol aroma and felt a tingle go from my nose to my head. It made me think of spicy burned honey. The fiery liquid slipped down my throat, and I wanted to like it and the taste it left in my mouth. Drinking it was like being hit by an invisible force. It wasn’t a physical pain, but an overall and muted impact to my head. My eyes watered a little, a light pressure lingered in my head, and then I felt warm.

***

“Mmm, smells good in here,” says Michelle.
“I can’t wait ‘til they’re ready!” Holly smiles.
“I’ve already made the dough, so all we have to do is assemble the pockets,” Lilli says.
“Are we having those little cheese empana… empadani…” says Maura.
“Empanadas de pino,” Lilli says. “The same ones we had after your grad. Empanaditas de queso, too. What do you want to drink? Wine?”
The girls nod and take their places at the bar stools.
“White, I assume.” Lilli pulls out a Chilean wine from the iron wine rack. Jacob removes two beers from the six-pack he brought – one for him, one for Seth – and asks if anyone else wants one. He puts the remaining four in the fridge. Lilli opens the bottle and pours the wine into glasses.

“Just a little for me, please,” says Maura. “Not too much.” Lilli hands the first two half-full glasses to Holly and Michelle. She takes the bottle and another glass, and positions herself directly across the island from Maura. She begins to pour, hardly looking at the wine, staring at Maura.
“That’s good,” Maura says, but the wine doesn’t stop. “Okay, that’s good. Stop! Stop! Goddamn it!” Everyone laughs. “I just wanted a little bit!” she cries, still not used to alcohol’s flavour.
“Oh! Oops. Sorry. Here you go.” Lilli smiles as she hands Maura a ¾-full glass of wine. She pours the fourth glass and takes a long sip before returning to her mini Chilean cheese pockets. The smell of baking savoury Chilean pastry pockets and the sound of her friends’ laughter fill the kitchen. She feels a warmth in the room, and she’s not sure if it’s the oven or the wine, or if it’s something else.

Second Drink

Lethargy (BAC = 0.09 to 0.25%): Sedation, impaired memory and comprehension, delayed reactions, ataxia (walking and balance difficulty), and impairment of senses.

***

I sat next to Elastigirl from The Incredibles as I drank my second glass of rum. I settled the burning in my stomach with my bite-sized caramel rice snacks. My head felt both heavy and light, and the room seemed to move and sparkle. I watched the others interact with each other, talking about things I didn’t understand, and waiting for something I could use to start a conversation. I gave up quickly.

Marcus was the only guy I talked to. I’d always had a thing for curly-haired guys, and Marcus seemed nice. Somehow I managed to tell him how much I liked his hair; Elastigirl said it was a decent Jew-fro.
“What do you mean?” said Marcus.
“Oh, no, it’s okay. I’m Jewish, too,” said Elastigirl.
“You guys are Jewish? That’s so cool! Is it… are you really religious? Or is it just your parents?” I asked.
“I’m not religious, but…” Marcus and Elastigirl went on about Judaism as I popped rice cakes into my mouth. Simon was having shot-drinking competitions with sexy pirates in the kitchen. Eventually he hobbled over to me.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked me.
“Yeah.”
“That girl is so drunk! I’ve had a lot of these. What are you doing?”
“This is Marcus. He’s really nice.”
“Hi Marcus. I’m Simon.” They shook hands. I had a long sip of my rum.
“He’s Jewish. Isn’t that cool?” I said.
“Yeah, I guess.” Simon got distracted by some other party guests and left the room.

I had another sip and a surge of spicy fiery honey went down my throat. I tried finding questions to ask Marcus. Inevitably, I forgot all his answers, but still I fought against the alcohol to remember.
“You’re so nice, Marcus. Like, I don’t know. You’re just nice.” I smiled at him. He smiled back.
“Thanks. You’re pretty nice, too.”
“But Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“I’m drunk.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry I’m drunk. I don’t get drunk very often, and I’m sorry that I’m drunk.”
“Don’t worry! It’s okay.”
“No, but I’m sorry. You’re just really nice.”
“Well, maybe we can talk later when you’re sober. Can I add your number to my phone? No, wait. Maybe just your Facebook. I don’t want to… You’re drunk.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. How do you spell your name?”
Simon came over again.
“Doesn’t Marcus have nice hair, Simon? I have to pee,” I said and left for the bathroom.

“You’re drunk!” I pointed at my reflection and giggled. My cheeks were hot and red, and I splashed cold water on my face. I felt so warm. I stumbled back out, and I fanned myself with my hand, sat on the floor, and poured another glass.

***

Lilli’s brow is lightly beaded with sweat as she bends down to remove the pan with empanadas de pino from the oven; the hot air blows her hair back. Wine glasses are refilled and two more beers are yanked from their plastic rings. A pile of empanadas are plated and placed in the middle of the large square dining room table. Salad spoons dig into a tomato, cilantro and red onion salad. Plump green grapes imported from Chile sit in a blue glass bowl. The six friends take their seats. The dishes are passed around, and everyone puts a portion of each one on their plate. The first bites into the empanadas de pino unleash the savoury scent of ground bison, onions, spices, and a hint of boiled egg and black olive. The tangy-sweet salad contrasts the savoury, and the grapes burst their sweet, tart juices in the guests’ mouths. When they aren’t busy eating, they’re laughing, sharing stories, and sipping their drinks. The wine and the beer make everyone’s smiles come easily.

“You guys should have kids so that we don’t have to.” Lilli points at Michelle and Holly with her wine glass before bringing it to her lips.
“Are you kidding me?” says Michelle.
“I’m never letting either of you anywhere near my kids,” says Holly.
“Why not?” asks Maura.
“I’d kind of want them to live,” says Michelle.
“What’s the worst that we could do?” Lilli looks at Maura, who smiles back at her, and they giggle until their faces turn red.
Jacob has the last sip of his second beer. “I don’t think your maniacal laughter helps your case.”

Third Drink

Confusion (BAC = 0.18 to 0.30%): Profound confusion, emotional incontinence, impaired senses, analgesia (lack of pain), increased ataxia, impaired speech, and staggering, dizziness often associated with nausea, and vomiting.

***

“Do you want some Coke now?” asked Elastigirl.
“Mhmm.” I nodded. The room was spinning and my stomach felt like a rumbling washing machine.
Simon woke up and steadied his head. “Have you had any water?” he asked.
“Nuh-uh.” I shook my head slowly and my body swayed.
“Oh, honey. You’re so drunk.”
“Mhmm.” I nodded. Elastigirl brought me a glass of Coke. It was so easy to drink. It refreshed me and cooled me down. I rolled up my sleeves because I was so warm. “I feel funny,” I said.
“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” Elastigirl asked.
“Yup.”
“Are you going to be sick?”
“Yup.” I got up and used the walls for balance. I hummed as I entered the bathroom. “Doo, doo. Doo, doo. Okay.” I lifted up the toilet lid. Without warning, without effort, it all came out.

After that, I remember seeing the downtown lights and turning left on Fort Street. I reminded myself to take deep breaths and to not be sick. Somehow we made it to my house, then I had keys in my hand, and then I was in the bathroom. I don’t know what happened in between or what happened to my friends. When my mom called to me from her bedroom, I decided not to let her know I was drunk.
“Are you okay, Oriana?” she asked.
“Hee hee! Oh, yes.”
“How did you get home?”
“Marcus drove. He’s so nice!”
“He drove? Was he sober?”
“Oh yes. Hee hee. He was the only one. He was really nice. Goodnight! Woah.” I had a glass of water, and went to sleep with a cold sweat, hoping that I wouldn’t be sick in bed.

***

“That’s the end of the second bottle.” Lilli holds the bottle upside down to let the final drips of wine fall into her glass. “It’s water after this.” Seth and Jacob open their last beer, and after their first few gulps, Jacob picks up his guitar and plays. With a deep overdramatic voice, Seth sings along to the made-up melody with lyrics that make everyone laugh.
“For nothing compares / to her long blonde hair / And who can forget / her magnificent breasts? / Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! / Magnificent breasts!”
Michelle smacks Seth on the knee.
“What? Have you seen them? ‘Cause I have, and they are… OW!” Holly punches him hard on the shoulder.
“Violence is always the answer,” Lilli says. “Which of you drunkards is staying?”
“Jacob and Seth are going to walk me home,” Holly says.
“Just you two, then?” Lilly darts her eyes from Maura to Michelle. “Okay, no problem. Do we want cake now?” Everyone gets up for a chunk of apple streusel coffee cake.

After stumbling back to the table, they each eat their pieces of cake. Within a couple of minutes, the dessert plates are empty. Lilli drinks the last of her third glass of wine, and her head spins, but she feels a warm contentment spread through her body.

Fourth Drink

Stupor (BAC = 0.25 to 0.40%): Severe ataxia, lapses in and out of consciousness, unconsciousness, anterograde amnesia, vomiting, respiratory depression, decreased heart rate, and urinary incontinence.

***

I had approximately 13 ounces of straight rum within a few hours. For someone who is five-feet tall, weighs less than 120 pounds, and rarely drinks, the alcohol consumption effects were not minor. When I woke up the next day, my mom informed me of how hilarious and giggly I had been, but she felt no sympathy for me. I was surprised that my head didn’t hurt; I was expecting a severe hangover. I drank a lot of water throughout the day, but it was ginger ale that made me feel better. Even so, my stomach wouldn’t settle. I threw up at least six or seven more times, and I didn’t feel normal for another three days. I had alcohol poisoning. But I wasn’t going to drink – that’s what I said before the party. I wasn’t going to drink.

***

After Jacob, Seth and Holly leave, Maura and Michelle crawl into their sleeping bags, Lilli reflects upon the successful party she held. As she pours herself another glass of water, she thinks about how well everyone got along, how they laughed and had a good time. It was a perfect evening.

My idea of fun tends to be quite different from others my age. I don’t like to go out and do crazy things until dawn and then have alcohol to blame for my mistakes. I would rather go to the pub or stay in with good friends, good food, and good wine. I don’t need to throw up to have a good time, nor do I need to make a fool of myself, pass out, make bad decisions, or wake up with a hangover, not knowing what happened the night before. Maybe I like to be in control, to preserve my dignity, to be responsible and therefore dull, or maybe the cons simply outweigh the pros of drinking to excess, in my mind. While I might not understand the appeal in severe drunkenness that so many others have found, everyone has their own idea of fun.

Everyone has their own idea of fun.

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Short-term_effects_of_alcohol

I like this 62: Photography

2011-04-13T18:41:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I like this:

In 1856 Nadar, a writer, wrote the following about photography:

Photography is a marvellous discovery, a science that has attracted the greatest intellects, an art that excites the most astute minds – and one that can be practiced by any imbecile. … Photographic theory can be taught in an hour, the basic technique in a day. But what cannot be taught is the feeling for light. … It is how the light lies on the face that you as artist must capture. Nor can one be taught how to grasp the personality of the sitter. To produce an intimate likeness rather than a banal portrait, the result of mere chance, you must put yourself at once in communion with the sitter, size up his thoughts and his very character.

Which is spot on.

Voters, have mercy on America's soul.

2011-04-13T15:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

School is ending, so expect more posts soon. Today was my last creative nonfiction class. I are sad. But also glad that it's almost over.

In other news...
This is an excellent clip from Jon Stewart's The Daily Show: Link.

Facepalming highlights from the 8 minute clip:

Reporter: Would you be comfortable appointing a Muslim either in your cabinet or as a federal judge?
Presidential candidate Herman Cain: No, I would not.
Jon Stewart: Would you let a Jew drive you to the airport?

Newt Gingrich was quoted as saying, "I have two grandchildren - Maggie is 11, and Robert is 9. I am convinced that if we do not decisively win the struggle over the nature of America, by the time they're my age they will be in a secular Atheist country, potentially one dominated by radical Islamists..." I'll just let that one sink in for a minute. Atheist Islamists: an evil hybrid designed to destroy the America its forefathers so bravely fought for.

Rick Santorum arguing that abortions are bad for the economy: A third of all the young people in America are not in America today because of abortion, because one in three pregnancies end in abortion.
This concludes that "there aren't enough young people to pay for the baby boomers' retirement," as Stewart says.
Haley Barbour, governor of Mississippi, said "Mississippi is the safest state in America for an unborn child."
"And [has] the highest mortality rate in America for children out of the womb - 50th," Jon Stewart responds.

And Donald Trump wants to see Obama's birth certificate.

Well, these people are all well-educated, obviously. That's why they have such power. Because people wouldn't elect idiots to govern states or countries, right?

Wrong.

May the voters have mercy on our neighbour's soul.

Progress Report.

2011-04-12T12:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I'm procrastinating.

It reads "typeytypeytypeytypeytypeytypeytypeytypey." And now I'm blogging it. Excellent.

Let's Get it On.

2011-03-31T08:32:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

Recently, I was admitted to Model Mayhem, a website where models and photographers and every other artist in between (for hair, makeup, retouching, etc.) gather and collaborate. I have been looking through many photographers' and models' portfolios for inspiration, and while I have found some excellent images, I have found significantly more that I seem to have a problem with.

I have seen the interior of several guys' houses (because I'm a slut and sleep in a different bed every night. Obviously). Before I even look at the walls I can tell a man's bedroom from a woman's. All the furniture tends to be against the walls. No sense of warmth or welcoming or homeyness is present - the room is just a square and its vacancy dull. What belongings they have are the only indication of their personality. Perhaps it's judgmental to walk into someone's home and to think one thing or another based on what you see, but it's good material to guess the kind of person they might be. For instance, if there are brown-red spots on the steps, long scratches on the floor or on doors too high for a kitteh to reach, a large deep-freezer, and no couch at all in the living room, run away. Consider screaming, too. If, however, you walk into a room filled with artwork, bookcases, plants, and big comfortable chairs, a murder would be harder to conduct since there's more on which to leave evidence. Unless there's a revolving bookcase, in which case you're screwed.

I seem to have strayed from my initial topic.

If you go to a man's home, you'll be lucky to find a plant - even a fake one - or artwork at all. I don't mean I hope to see Raft of the Medusa or Napoleon Visiting the Plague House at Jaffa, as interesting as that would be.

But I suppose it depends on your definition of art, and after seeing some of the artwork on Model Mayhem, I'm getting a better understanding of what I consider artistic. The most common artwork that I've seen in a guy's home, not necessarily in their bedroom, are posters of scantily clad or naked models. The same appears on their computers and iPods. Sure, these women are a kind of beauty - the kind of beauty society leans toward. The women are thin, full-breasted, often shiny from oils and special lighting, they're hairless in all the "right" places, and, of course, they're flawless. They are also digitally enhanced, which brings in another unfair advantage to any real woman who walks into the room. Many of the images I see on Model Mayhem are the same.

I didn't know how I felt about guys displaying naked women wherever and whenever they please. I suppose because I saw so many of this kind of image in one place at one time, it hit me harder.

I felt uncomfortable. I felt like I was looking at soft porn. Sometimes I was. I began to wonder where the creative was in this image, where the artist's expression was in that one. Maybe it was there and I just couldn't see it. I thought about what would happen if I asked an artist why he/she chose to portray a woman this way, and I predict they would say something along the lines of, "It's a celebration of the female form. Women are beautiful, and I want to document their beautiful naked features." But only if the naked features belong to the epitome of female "perfection," right?

I'm getting really tired of soft porn being shoved in my imperfect, flaw-ridden face. (Ever seen an ad for Guess?) I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and I've realized that because I'm single, I like my body more. Now that nobody sees my body, it's easier for me to like it. I don't have to worry about someone comparing my body to another, to a model's, to a porn star's. I don't have to worry. I like my body. I love it. I think I'm fucking beautiful. (That was hard to say, but it's true.) I think my flaws are actually all right, and even cool. But I know that if someone was to see my body and my flaws, I would have to read out my list of warnings, along with apologies and explanations as to why I don't look like Megan Fox. "I think you're beautiful because of what's on the inside" is what would come next. I don't want to hear that. I don't want to be seen as beautiful because I'm awesome. I already know I am (Yes, we are feeling cocky today).

I want to be seen as beautiful because I am. ON THE OUTSIDE. Don't tell me I'm beautiful because of what's on the inside, damn it, because my insides are quite disgusting: all red and pink and squishy and slimy.

If the pictures of naked women had not seemed like pictures that were just of naked women, for the sake of naked women, for the sake of round bums and titties, I would not have felt so uncomfortable.

This image is gorgeous:
I would buy this and hang it up on my wall. (Her portfolio is NSFW.) I was going to ask you to compare some, but then I came across some real soft porn and decided you could figure out what I mean for yourselves. I don't want porn on my Glob.

As disturbed as I am by some of the images, they have inspired me to start a project. I want to take pictures of women and portray them not as weak, vulnerable, sex objects, as they often appear, but rather strong, powerful, individuals. You could say I'm going to get my feminist on, and you would be right. I'm tired of women in the 21st century being shown not as they are, but as men want to see them. The 21st century! And yes, men. The intended audience will not be men specifically, and the content will not focus on sex. I want to take pictures of sexy women without making the audience think immediately of sex. I didn't say it was going to be easy, and I don't know if it makes sense, but it makes sense to me, and I know what I want to do.

I'm calling women of all ages, races, and body types to go on a photo shoot with me, and to show that you're a real woman of the world, that you're beautiful, and that you're as tired of society's unrealistic portrayal of women as I am.

Maybe we'll wear gorilla masks.

Fix me, Doc, even though there's nothing wrong.

2011-03-23T17:46:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I'm writing my ART180 paper (with a page count that scares the shit out of me) and I've come upon this website that investigates photo manipulation throughout history. How handy. That's exactly what I'm writing about.

And while I totally disagree with things like this:

I don't have a problem with things like this:

One is an outright lie and the other is altered to... perhaps be more aesthetically pleasing, but also to remove the distracting and potentially comedic pole. It doesn't take anything out of the image that should be there, but that's not Oprah's body.

And the image on the left is not one of Faith Hill's body:

There's a line that should not be crossed.

Quirks and Charms.

2011-03-23T16:02:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

For my creative nonfiction class, we had to bring three different items for a kind of "show-and-tell." I brought a black and white photograph of some people dancing(?) that I found under my fridge when we moved into this apartment, a little container Nivea cream from my grandma and a piece of paper with "Dear Oriana I loVe you from Adrian" written in big green letters. We had to take one item from each of the three piles: "Inconsequential," "Meaningful," and "Meaningful on paper." I won't tell you what I picked up until the end of this post because I want it to be a surprise. Don't skip ahead. Read through it! I combined all three of the objects I picked into one piece.

After presenting my essay on abortion (it was revised since it was posted) and finding out that it was more nonfiction than creative nonfiction, I went home and wrote this blog post that's much more creative than it is nonfiction. Did well according to the prof, though!

Quirks and Charms

It’s been with me through thick and thin, through the greatest battles and most glorious victories. A long black string connects it to a machine. It’s not a cable, but more like a rope. The machine does not hold it prisoner, for I can remove it, but the things it can do when it is connected are extraordinary. When the three of us connect, we become one unstoppable entity. Its old black body is slightly wounded and chipped, revealing more black. How strong and powerful it must be if its skin is as black as its guts! If I need it lighter, it lets me operate without hesitation and without fear. I remove a layer of the sturdy flesh of its wide belly and expose its insides. It’s a clean cut. I replace the weights within it as I see fit. It never complains. I seal the opening, and it’s ready for combat once again. It is the best gaming mouse I have ever used.

One of the greatest things about the internet is that people on the other side of the screen cannot see you. They don’t know if you’re in your pyjamas, if you haven’t showered in a week, if you have a third nipple, or if you’re gaming naked. Some people have their quirks. Some people have their lucky charms. Cool people probably have a rabbit’s foot, but there are no cool people on the internet. I suppose I’m no exception.

I just used up the last bottle. It started to get all crusty and un-spreadable. It needs to be spreadable. It needs to be even – no lumps, a clean sheen. And I’m not gay. I’d just like to say that right now. I like women. But this… this stuff. I need it. It just… works. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. This new bottle is warped in shape; it’s not a cylinder like they usually are. I shake it to blend the contents and something inside rattles; I’ve never been able to figure out what it is. The tiny particles within reflect the light from my desk lamp. When I twist and lift the black cap off the small glass bottle, the room is filled with an intoxicating aroma that reminds me of alcohol. It’s thick, and the scent tingles my nostrils. My hands are manly, my fingers thick and long and hairy, but something changes when I use this stuff. It happened once when I babysat my niece and she painted my fingernails. I went up at least 10 levels in 24 hours that same weekend. What changed? Nail polish. I know it sounds ridiculous, but ever since, I slap on some - what is it this time? “Nicole by O.P.I” - and I play better than I ever have.

My buddy and I were invited to a gaming expedition in Seattle recently. Right next to my hand is a plane ticket and my passport. “CANADA” is imprinted in gold on the dark navy blue cover. Below it is the Royal Coat of Arms of Canada, also in gold; I don’t know why but it makes me feel proud when I see it. A picture of a potential terrorist is inside, but then again, who doesn’t look like a terrorist in their passport picture? They tell me Canadians have it easy at the airport. They don’t get searched as often or held up at borders; they usually breeze right through. I don’t think I’d breeze right through – not like this, not with my fingernails all goddamn sparkly and red or… pink-orange-red… whatever the fuck kind of colour this is. I kind of like it, though, it’s - I’ll remove it before the flight.

But what happens when it’s time to compete? We’ll probably be competing. Against dudes. Dudes who are not always the manliest of men but who know a girly guy when they see one. Could you imagine? ME… ridiculed by nerds! I could try showing them my big honking tank of a mouse – “Look at the cable! It’s like a rope! And it’s super long!” - but something tells me the precision with which I paint my nails would throw them off again.

I can’t stop worrying about it. The only way I could possibly win anything is with this… feminine product. I told the cashier I was buying it for my girlfriend. She gave me a look. Maybe if I had shaved she would have believed me. Black doesn’t work as well. It’s like I need a red to catch my eye, or maybe it’s the sparkles. I sound like a girl. The word “sparkles” should not even be in a man’s vocabulary. My friend knows how good I am; he’s seen me in action. That’s why we’re going. Well, he’s seen me as a warrior online, but he knows that with enough Red Bull, I can kick serious ass for hours. I’d have to win at least once or twice. But how? With sparkly red nails? What do I do? What do I do?!

Somehow I prefer gaming online, behind a computer screen, where no one can see me.
We all have our quirks, right? We all have our lucky charms.

-----
I tried to keep what I could of the things the owners said to me about their three belongings: a mouse, nail polish and Canadian passport. This is the first thing that came to mind when I thought about the unifying idea of these objects.

Cassandra told me her nail polish was inconsequential because she just thought it would be fun to paint her nails. She liked the colour.
Jarra told me her Canadian passport meant a lot to her because of what it means to be a Canadian in other countries and in airports. She mentioned how easy it is for Canadians to travel.
Dan told me his mouse was meaningful because it's the best mouse he's ever used. He uses it for gaming. You can change the weights in it and it comes apart.

Picnic and a Protest.

2011-03-22T15:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I went to a rally against student debt on March 16th. It was held from 11:30-2:30. This was my reaction to it:

I got to the protest at 1:00. I didn't know what to think. I brought a couple of friends with me and they both said that they didn't think a politician would take the protest very seriously. I defended it by saying that the students were making noise, but it still wasn't what I expected.

I didn't expect or want people to be screaming, throwing things and getting arrested. I told my grandmother I was going to a protest and I'm sure that's what she thought would happen when she reminded me that I was sick and should probably not go anywhere. "You know, because you're sick! And it would tire you out. And you need rest. Don't go, Nani*, don't go..."

I go'd, but it was nothing. I packed a picnic. I made sure my friends had their individual sandwiches and apple juice boxes and cut-up fruit in a Ziploc container. Because I'm actually a thirty-nine year-old woman who just never had the time for children and now I mercilessly remind myself of this every day of my life. "Sit up straight, Simon!"
I'm kidding. Not about the picnic, though.

There weren't too many people there - not 500 like they said there would be. I hoped there had been more people earlier on and that it had died off. Protest signs were resting along the stone walls, so we nabbed some and shook them in the air in between slurps from our juiceboxes. We liked the one sign that had a kitteh on it and read, "CAN HAS LESS DEBT, PLEASE?" the most. It was very Canadian of them to add the "please."

We had to put the signs down when we went to listen to the band. Simon jumped right into the dancing and got really into it. Really into it. I turned to Mt and said, "I can't believe I used to date that." Mt and I danced a little, but I felt like I was too close to the front of the crowd to comfortably fully shake my booty. Minor shaking occurred.

At the end of the day, I still didn't know what to think. Maybe my friends were right. Was it really weak? Did we miss out on the serious protesting? Why didn't the information about this spread far enough or soon enough? Can a cheerful and fun protest be an effective protest? Should we sit on our hands because our protests are pathetic and our cause is not serious enough? What's the point in fighting for something that, eh, is not really all that bad if you think about it? Who do you have to kill or oppress to get a good protest going? Would I have gone to a super serious, potentially violent protest? What are our problems compared to the problems of those who do not even have what we consider basic human rights? Should we let those in power take advantage of our complacency?

There are times when I'm bad at being complacent, and all I want to do is scream my head off, stomp my foot, and shake my fists... or type, which is a safer thing to do. And I'll wonder... why aren't we taking to the streets? Why are we doing nothing about this? How can we just sit here and let the government walk all over us? Who does the government work for?

I think this is a fight worth fighting, but I do wish I'd known more about it.

I don't want to go into debt. That's why I was there. I don't want funding to be cut for anything education-related. That's why I was there. I don't want the government to think that what they're doing is right. That's why I was there.

Did they receive the message? I really don't know. All I can do is hope.

*Nani: A name, still used, that I called myself when I was a child.

Nude Noobs.

2011-03-21T19:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

"The beautiful thing about the internet is that whoever you’re interacting with could be naked..."

Isn't taking things out of context fun? And I've decided NOT to start my blog entry for school with that. I'm sure you're all very pleased with this decision.

So help me god.

2011-03-21T09:32:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

On my Facebook Page (which you should Like if you haven't already), I get updates from The Onion. Today I took a look at some of the t-shirts they're selling and have decided that I would buy 1% of them or receive 90% of them as gifts - because I'm cheap and they're twenty bucks.

I seemed to particularly enjoy this one:

It reminds of the "Christians" who are only partly Christian. If they were "true Christians," they would believe in the entire bible, be willing to kill their children if the little rascals talk back, it would be an abomination to eat shellfish, and, of course, seeking medical treatment or purchasing any kind of insurance would be unnecessary; Jesus would protect them! I wanted to say that I don't understand how they can be "partly Christian" and believe in only the bits of the bible they like, but then I remembered that if people were to live word-for-word by the entire bible, they would probably go to prison and/or be rejected by society. It is a several thousand year-old book. Not everything applies anymore. Perhaps god should consider making humans write a sequel.

Which reminds me... I found this excellent letter to a Christian that I had saved from when either Tw or my mom sent it to me some time ago.

In her radio show, Dr Laura Schlesinger said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22

The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, written by a US resident, and posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative:

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination ... End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations.

A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?

7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I'm confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
Your adoring fan, James M. Kauffman, Ed. D. Professor Emeritus, Dept. Of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education University of Virginia

PS (It would be a damn shame if we couldn't own a Canadian)

Opinion Essay: The Value of a Woman

2011-03-19T16:16:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

This is an essay I wrote for Creative Nonfiction. There's a story that goes along with this godforsaken assignment, but for now I'd really appreciate it if you took the time to read this and tell me what you think.
Also, the title? "The Value of a Woman" or "The Value of a Woman's Life" or something else altogether? I'm a little concerned about the paragraph structure as well.

The Value of a Woman

What does it mean to be pro-life? For many, it means a foetus is a person; a person that is a person even before it is born. It means life begins at conception.

In a different way, I consider myself to be pro-life. I consider all life to be valuable and meaningful. When I hear others say that they are pro-life, it is hard for me to understand their thinking because they hold a life that does not exist yet above one that does. I am pro-life in that I believe in the protection of a woman’s life. I believe in protecting the life of the woman who gets pregnant from a rape. I believe in protecting the life of the young girl who gets sexually assaulted by her father. But I also believe in protecting the life of the child who would be born even if that means protection via the prevention of its birth. A foetus has the potential to become a human; that does not automatically make it one.

For thousands of years, women have gone to extreme measures to end their pregnancies. They have received blows to the abdominal area, used suction through a rubber tube, experienced physical exertion, or inserted a coat hanger or knitting needle to remove or puncture the foetus via the cervix to the uterus. These methods are dangerous and often illegal even in places where abortion is legal. Many of those who attempt a self-induced abortion injure themselves or die in the process.

When a woman chooses to terminate her pregnancy she does not do so out of cruelty or carelessness. She does so because she knows she would not be able to properly take care of the child, she is too young, she does not want a family, the child would have defects, it would be a product of incest and/or a horrible crime, bearing it could kill her, she is not ready, or because of any other reason she chooses – a reason that is nobody’s business but hers. Nine months is a long time to carry something inside you, something that feeds off you, something you do not want, yet these nine months and the years following the birth are rarely considered.

When a child is born, great deals of care and money go into taking care of him/her. Many of those who seek abortions do not have the resources to raise a child. In the United States, 42% of women who get abortions have incomes below the poverty level. The cost of food, diapers, clothing, and childcare alone make it nearly impossible for a lower-class single woman to take care of both her child and herself. One of the main reasons abortion rates are higher for women with low incomes is the lack of education they receive, specifically education on sexual health and contraception.

Anti-abortionists go to great lengths to let the public know that they think a foetus is a person, and that they should be considered and protected as a person upon conception. They guilt women into thinking they are “murdering babies,” and as long as a baby is born and no foetus is harmed, they are happy. But once a foetus emerges from its mother’s womb, the protests stop. The foetus, now a baby, is alive. Yet, at this point, angry protesters cease to gather. They cease to march, to voice their opinions, to demand that a child be treated like and protected as a person. Thinking mostly in terms of the United States, to begin a life in poor conditions - where food is scarce, shelter is unsafe, medical treatment is unaffordable, and education is a privilege - is a near death sentence on its own. The odds of being born into this kind of life and graduating from college or from high school are slim. The odds of a child having the kind of childhood they deserve, that many of us take for granted, are poor. The quality of life a mother and her child would face is irrelevant; as long as she keeps it, there will be no outcry. There is great outcry for the potential creation of life, but not for its quality.

If some people believe that a foetus is a person for religious reasons, if according to their personal beliefs a foetus has a soul the moment it is conceived, those people, perhaps, should not get abortions. The rest of the women in the world who do not believe this and would like access to safe and legal abortions should be allowed to have them. One religion, or one variation of a religion, should not infringe upon all women’s right to choose abortion. If being anti-choice is a part of a woman’s philosophy, then I have no objection to her choosing to proceed with a pregnancy even if she does not want it, even if I do not agree with her decision-making process. However, this same person cannot say that her philosophy is more right than anyone else’s, thereby prohibiting any woman who disagrees with her to do what she wants with her body.

A woman’s body is her body. It is not her mother’s, her father’s, the government’s, her pastor’s, her husband’s, or society’s. It is hers.

Anti-abortionists value a foetus’ potential for life more than a woman’s already existing life. How can people claim to be pro-life with this kind of mentality? What makes the developmental stages of a foetus more valuable than a woman’s life?

Some people are concerned that the legalization of abortion would encourage women to use it as a method of contraception. They often look at the numbers of abortions once it is legal, and if they see that rates have increased, they claim more women have abortions thanks to this regulation. This is only partly true. Without access to safe and legal abortions, these women would likely give birth against their wishes or take matters into their own hands – a dangerous, and often lethal, but not uncommon decision. Although it may appear as though more women end their unwanted pregnancies if it is legal, it is important to remember that some percentage of these women would end it regardless of the law and regardless of the dangers.

Instead of demanding the criminalization of abortion, even in cases of rape or when a woman’s health or life is at risk, redirecting anti-abortionists’ attention to the minimization of the need to end a pregnancy would be beneficial to people on both sides of the abortion debate. Providing affordable or preferably free access to sexual health education would significantly reduce the rates of abortion. If more people understood the consequences of having unprotected sex, and if more people had access to protection, fewer unwanted pregnancies would occur, and fewer abortions would be necessary.

To get an abortion is rarely an easy decision to make and sometimes has an emotional impact on the pregnant or formerly pregnant woman. Furthermore, one person’s philosophy regarding life and its inception might not be the same as another’s, so not everyone should have to follow the ways of one particular philosophy. While the anti-choice supporters focus on the potential life of a foetus, the life of the pregnant woman is forgotten. Women will continue to have abortions whether it is legal or illegal, safe or dangerous. The best way to help prevent abortions is to help prevent unwanted pregnancies, and the best way to do that is to make sexual health education and contraception as accessible as possible. Nobody wants to want an abortion, but by criminalizing it, the one question that I have for anti-abortionists is whose life is more valuable – a foetus’ or a woman’s?

Obsessions.

2011-03-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Globlets,

For my Creative Nonfiction class...

The blog assignment for this week:
Write 3 separate pieces of 100 words exactly, on these topics: horses, the ocean, coffee. Edit, trim, polish them so that there is not a word out of place, so that every word counts. Find a motif (a colour, an image, an idea) that ties all three together and include it in every piece.

I'm not sure I did too well, but I did enjoy this assignment. I like the idea of using random things and combining them into one. If I had a higher word count, and maybe if I wrote it as fiction, I could come up with some cool things. I'll definitely be taking a note of this assignment and consider using it as future writing criteria for myself.

Obsessions

Her feet lead her out of bed straight to the kitchen. Without coffee, her brain will try to escape out her ears in search of a body that will nourish it correctly: a caffeine withdrawal headache. Her right hand lifts from her side to hold the kettle under the tap as her left hand flicks the water on. Generous scoops of hot chocolate powder and hazelnut-flavoured instant coffee mix with boiled water in a Starbucks mug. A splash of lactose-free milk makes it creamy. She sips her sweet coffee, her sweet morning obsession. “I’ve got to fix the espresso machine.”

Her bedroom was a deep blue-green. The Little Mermaid was the best movie; Aqua was the best band. She had a golden seahorse-shaped locket. She knew a shimmer in the ocean followed by a splash meant there’d been a mermaid. She collected sea shells and pebbles, and crab shells too until she found out empty old ones reeked. She flipped over rocks, unafraid of capturing live crabs. Flat stones were to be skipped regardless of smoothness. She let the waves weave around her ankles and the sand swallow her feet. “Just five more minutes, mom! Just five more minutes, please!”

She eyed her friends’ My Little Pony figurines. She wept when she got a bicycle and not a pony for her birthday, but she rode it to visit Snowflake. Her friend had pony rides at her birthday party, but her eyes itched and watered and her nose leaked after one lap. Beautiful plastic stallions kicked squeaky Barbie to the corner, leaving her to a rotten little brother. She brushed their manes, applied their bridles, and fastened their saddles in preparation. They trotted around the bedroom in search of teddy bears in distress. “Not so fast, Barbie! We’ve got you now.”

Priorities.

2011-03-13T14:49:00.001-07:00

Dear Globlets,

I've been doing some research for an essay and I came across this. I found the following to be the most ridiculous...

Global priorities in spending in 1998

	Global Priority			$U.S. Billions
	Cosmetics in the United States			8
	Ice cream in Europe			11
	Perfumes in Europe and the United States			12
	Pet foods in Europe and the United States			17
	Business entertainment in Japan			35
	Cigarettes in Europe			50
	Alcoholic drinks in Europe			105
	Narcotics drugs in the world			400
	Military spending in the world			780

And compare that to what was estimated as additional costs to achieve universal access to basic social services in all developing countries:

Global Priority	$U.S. Billions
Basic education for all	6
Water and sanitation for all	9
Reproductive health for all women	12
Basic health and nutrition	13

Obviously, global priorities cannot be fixed at the snap of a politician's fingers, but they're important to consider...

Literary Prejudice.

2011-03-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

Last week, I went to see Twelfth Night with Mt. It was set in the 1970s, which goes to prove that another of Shakespeare's plays is timeless. You can put the same story in another era and it still works. Ever see She's the Man? It's a 21st century rendition of the play.

There were several shows one could go and see, so my Intro. to Lit. course peers scattered for different dates. A couple of days before I saw the play, I overheard some girls talking about it while we waited for class to begin.
"How was the play?"
"Meh. Long. Didn't get out 'til like 11:30"
"Really?"
"And it was set in the 60s."
Another classmate corrected her.
"70s, yeah. It was pretty bad."
"Ugh! That sucks. Oh man..."
Groans of displeasure ensued.

I heard a few more bits of conversations like this. Many of my peers made it sound like it was such a drag, that it was so lame. Maybe I'm weird or much easier to please, but I thought they did a great job with the play. The dialogue was the same as the original text with a few tweaks and the occasional, "Bummer, dude," but not so much as to make it cheesy. Perhaps it's because I go to plays with an open mind. I understand what the director tries to get at, I understand that it takes a lot for a person to go on stage and perform. When I hear people putting it down like it was beneath them, like they're too cool for it, I find it's disrespectful to those who are a part of a production like this. It's like they don't consider the fact that the people who collaborate to make plays are people and that they work hard to achieve whatever it is they wish to achieve, and that they deserve our respect.

It was funny. It wasn't a dull play at all. I thought the 70s theme brought something new and fresh and interesting to a play most people have read. Who doesn't love the Beatles? (Shut up Beatle-haters!) I'm not saying I think everyone should love it; people have different tastes from my own, but I am asking to show a little more respect towards those who present this kind of entertainment. They don't do it for the lulz. They don't wake up in the morning one day knowing exactly what to do, how to do it, what to say, or how to say it. But my classmates are too cool to care.

This got me thinking... is there a stigma against things assigned in the classroom? So far, there hasn't been a single book, apart from Bridge to Terabithia (Grade 5), that I have not enjoyed that was assigned for a class. Animal Farm, To Kill a Mockingbird, Macbeth, and Of Mice and Men, to name a few. But when I suggested to my brother that he read To Kill a Mockingbird because of how excellent a book it is, he knew he would have to read it for school and refused to read it.
"I just don't want to. I know I'm not going to like it."

It's literature. It's being assigned for a reason. We went to see Twelfth Night for a reason. I'm curious as to why some people said they hated it.

Perhaps I'm guilty of literary prejudice as well. We had the option of reading Oedipus, an ancient Greek play, or Joan MacLeod's The Shape of a Girl. Initially, I thought the latter was going to be about weight and self-esteem issues in girls, and being a girl who has already experienced plenty of these issues, the last thing I wanted to do was read about it. Oedipus likely presented a story that would have nothing to do with my childhood or personal life, but a class vote made The Shape of a Girl the play to read. Damn democracy.

I wondered if it was because a large percentage of the class is made up of women, and they wanted to read about something familiar. Familiar. I wanted to read about something unfamiliar. I was curious about the kind of stories ancient Greeks might have told. I don't know much about those stories, and I doubt very much that many others do.

The Shape of a Girl is a good play, nevertheless. It's excellent for those who have not experienced this type of young female cruelty - adults and boys, primarily; it was not about weight or self-esteem. It brought attention to something that few people, if anybody but the participants, knows about. I remember young female cruelty quite well from elementary school, though nothing quite as extreme as what was depicted in the play. However, Braidie, the main character, does mention that she "knows the way in" to an even more extreme version of her group's cruelty, to something resembling the Reena Virk Story. I could relate to the character, but I would not have been an inactive bystander. Even when I was a kid, I would have flipped my shit and gone to an adult for help if I didn't stop whatever violence was occurring in front of me. I guess my Atheistic moral compass pointed North stronger even then.

The story was hard to swallow, even though I am aware that this kind of behaviour is common among young people. Being hard to swallow was the point, though, of course. Still, it's annoying that we couldn't have learned about something most of the women in that class are not already familiar with. I'll read Oedipus for myself, but I thought my hypothesis as to why the decision to read the other play was worth thinking about. It poses another question...

Why do people so eagerly gravitate towards the familiar? "I'm a girl, not a Greek, therefore I should show no curiosity to a world that is far different from my own." Do people have no sense of curiosity?

I'll read Oedipus and make sure that I'm fighting for a play that's actually worth reading.

I believe...

2011-03-08T12:25:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

For my Creative Nonfiction class, we were given ten minutes to write a list of things we believe in. This is my list:

I believe a woman should have the right to end a pregnancy if she feels she needs to.

I believe I can fly
I believe I can touch the sky

I believe saying "Fuck" during the Oscars is awesome.

I believe parents should explain words like "nigger" and "fuck" to their kids instead of sheltering their children, hiding them from the truth.

I believe tights should not be worn as pants.

I believe my cat is my superior and all humans must worship and obey her.

I believe breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

I believe I forgot my earrings on my desk this morning.

I believe bacon is the meaning of life.

I believe my Challah didn't rise/triple in size yesterday because the yeast came into contact with too much salt.

Obviously, I took it quite seriously.

Realistic Goals.

2011-03-07T18:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

Who says I don't make realistic goals for myself?

See #14 and below.

A Sonnet for Modern Art History.

2011-03-04T09:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

For my ART180 Midterm, I chose to write a sonnet for the bonus question...

option (a) write a (tasteful) limerick, haiku, ballad, or other form of poetry about art work we’ve seen

option (b) draw a (tasteful) cartoon with a funny art historical caption

option (c) Ernest Hemmingway was challenged to write a six-word story; he wrote: "For sale: baby shoes, never used." Create a 6 word story for a piece of art or architecture we have seen in class; make sure you provide the title for the art piece in addition to your story.

I chose option A. It's not very good, but oh well.

Future is in the Air (A Fucking Square)

Through each movement of art
We see a new creation,
Ideas and visions expelled from one’s heart
From an artist’s mind and imagination
From Sardanapalus to Socrates
And Starry Nights to Gleaners
Visions are born, and not with ease
Academies always calling them wieners
Throw out the old and bring in the new
A sense of future is in the air
New art, still art, to me, to you
‘Til Malevich painted a square
A single square, a plain black square
It’s art, I swear; the future is in the air

Art pieces referenced:
Sardanapalus:

Socrates:

Starry Night:

Gleaners:

Malevich's Square (I draw the line here):

No Monsters, Just Dresses and Underwear.

2011-03-03T13:12:00.001-08:00

Dear Globlets,

The blog assignment for my nonfiction class was to:

Do a careful analysis of one of the following things: the contents of your fridge, your clothes closet, your cd collection or mp3 playlist, or your bookcase. What does any of those collections of things tell a casual onlooker about you, or about the way you might want to portray yourself?

I'm thinking of doing one about my MP3 playlist later on as well, but this is what I went with:

Popular. I don’t like popular. When I see everyone wearing the same kinds of things, you can bet that I’ll be wearing something different. Uggs will never see the skin on my ankles. My style will remain unchanged as popular trends come and go.

Some clothing you will not find in my closet:

Skinny jeans. They are not meant to be worn by people who are not thin, yet I’ve seen countless young women wearing them when they really, really shouldn’t be. Unless there is something sexy about ass cracks and excess hip flesh overflowing way past the top of a too-tight jean (and there isn’t), then please, for the love of Lucy,* get better pants and spare us! You will not find a skinny jean in my closet. I have hips - amazing, glorious hips - and no jean shall make this part of my body look abnormally large and disproportionate if I have anything to say about it. I am petite as it is; the last thing I want is to look like a tiny bizarrely-shaped pear.

Tights. They are not pants. Tights are not substitutes for pants. Tights go under dresses and skirts or under real pants to keep your legs warmer when it’s below zero. Ladies, I cannot stress this enough. Tights are not pants. They do not make your bum look good. That’s what yoga pants are for, although I, personally, feel terribly self-conscious when I wear them, and frankly, it’s hard not to stare at a girl’s bum when those tight black pants are screaming, “HELLO! This is a bum! Look at it! Round, firm, yet squishy and generally bum-like! Look at it! Bum, bum, bum!” (I’m not the only one who thinks this, right?) Tights worn as pants allow me to see sights that should be illegal in public. Do they even keep anything warm? Seeing the white of a girl’s ass is not appealing, and too many times have I feared for the stretch in tights. They can only stretch so far, and if I can see that much white when the fashion offender is standing, may Lucy help her when she sits down or picks up her car keys from the sidewalk.

Advertisements. I do not advertise for companies. I don’t have Lululemon yoga pants, Gap hoodies, or Guess jeans. I don’t have the need to let the world know what brand I buy or that I can afford $200 brand name jeans (and even if I could, I probably wouldn’t buy them). You can go through my closet and find not a single article of clothing with a brand name or logo on it. If a company wants me to wear something that says Roxy or Abercrombie or Puma to help spread the word about their clothing, they can pay me for that.

Then, what will you find in my closet?

Dozens of colourful tank tops, a wide assortment of feminine t-shirts, a few long-sleeved tops and sweaters, a plethora of cardigans or cardigan-like pieces, five or six pairs of jeans (mostly boot cut or straight-ish), a drawer full of socks and LaSenza panties, and a hook on which numerous bras hang. I have more bras than there are days in a month and more panties than there are days in a year. It’s not a LaSenza obsession, it’s - okay, it’s a LaSenza obsession. Or it’s an obsession for undergarments in general; if it wasn’t LaSenza, it’d be something else.

But most importantly, in my closet you will find dresses. Beautiful dresses that I am too afraid to wear in the winter even with tights. (See? Tights!) I wait at the bus stop shivering when my bum is covered with a nice layer of denim; how would it be if I wore tights? There is nothing I hate more about winter than the fact that it prevents me from wearing my dresses. Apart from a couple of summer dresses, most of them look like they were taken out of the 1950s.

One black, strapless, A-line dress with large white polka-dots; one grey closed-back halter dress with gold buttons and a collar, looks best with a red belt and a pearl necklace; a blue dress with a V-neck and white buttons that go from the top of the bust line straight to the bottom, also looks best with a red belt; a navy blue jumper that, with pearls, makes me feel like Audrey Hepburn. I could go on, and on. So many of my dresses are new and I have yet to wear them in public, and all I can think about is how much I want to go out wearing something that looks amazing, something that nobody else is wearing. The dresses are unique, they’re sexy but modestly so, and they’re classic styles that will always be fashionable.

Clothes should flatter your body, show off your best assets, keep you warm when they need to, keep you cool in the peak of summer, make you look sexy without making you look trashy, help you feel comfortable and confident when you walk out the door, and they should get you to say, “Damn, you are one fine son-of-a-bitch,” when you look in the mirror.

There is no room for monsters in my closet, only dresses and underwear.

*Lucy is my cat and all must worship and obey her. Amew.

-----
I got a LOT of feedback for this from my peers. I really wasn't expecting it at all, but it made me feel really good. Someone said I made him laugh out loud in the library. :)

Good Morning, Mom.

2011-03-01T22:24:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

I wrote 2,500-3,000 words attempting to write an essay about a person. That's two essays that failed. I couldn't make it work. My mom is just too complex and I tried too hard to explain her and 1,500 words just isn't enough for that. So, third time's the charm, and even though I forgot a couple of things, this is what I ended up writing for Creative Nonfiction - an essay about a person:

Good Morning, Mom

Kim wakes up at “some ungodly hour,” as she describes it, just before six o’clock. Her blue eyes open but her body remains in place. Lucy gets up to do her morning prowl to ensure that the house is up to her feline standards – rodent and insect-free, no strange humans, all family members accounted for. Lucy returns to her king-sized bed and paws at Kim’s hands, requesting entry beneath the covers and seating on top of her palms. Kim is well-trained and puts out her hands for Lucy to lie down on. Lucy curls up on her facing away so that Kim can use her as a pillow. As they cuddle, Kim listens to the national and international news on CBC, and then the local news at 6:30AM. She says, “The first news makes me think, ‘Okay, time to start getting up,’ and the second news, ‘Oh, fuck.’” By 6:37AM she is up.

As Kim walks to the kitchen, the old hardwood flooring creaks beneath the Lucy-toy-covered area rugs that struggle to help keep the house warm. Frost no longer coats the trees and grass outside in the mornings, but the old windows don’t keep the heat in the way they should. Lucy jumps onto a chair to get Kim’s attention and she looks up at her, pleading for her morning treats. While the water for coffee is boiling, Kim submits to her cat’s desires and watches the little Siamese gobble up every treat. Kim reaches into the fridge for the coffee cream, which is next to a large ceramic dish that is two-thirds full of the broccoli-chicken lasagne she made the night before. Among the boxes and boxes of all kinds of exotic teas, of which she only drinks the black ones, sits a glass jar of vanilla-flavoured Nescafé right in front. She plops one teaspoon of it into her bright red oversized mug, along with one, two, three teaspoons of sugar, followed by a generous splash of cream. She pours the water, which is still rumbling in the kettle, almost right up to the rim and immediately it begins to dissolve and mix the ingredients of Kim’s sweet, creamy concoction. Before taking a single sip, Kim showers and by the time she is out, her coffee is at a perfectly drinkable temperature.

She goes into her fifteen year-old son’s room to wake him up. Depending on her mood, she wakes Adrian using one of several different methods: by opening the blinds, smothering him with kisses, or putting Lucy on him. He groans and it often takes several reminders for him to get up before he actually does so. She also reminds him to brush his teeth, have a cup of milk, and take a lunch to school. He says she doesn’t need to tell him all these things but she insists that she does. “Because that’s my job.”

Kim goes back to her room to get dressed. She looks at her body and remembers how thin and toned it once was, how much tennis and volleyball she played when she attended Simon Fraser University (to which she was admitted at the age of sixteen), how much she loved to play in the Co-ed softball league in Stanley Park. After having kids and moving to the suburbs, being active became more difficult, and at that time she did not cook the kinds of healthy, hearty meals she makes today. But she walks to work every day, rain or shine, letting her sporty, red, manual transmission, Volvo S40 sometimes seem like a decoration in the driveway –a decoration that is occasionally taken out for trips to Costco, a decoration that she loves to take out for road trips, especially the yearly autumnal trip to Chemainus which is done only for fun and for the retrieval of pumpkins.

She covers her colourful La Senza underwear with grey work pants and digs out a light flowery blouse from her closet that she has only worn a couple of times since its purchase. She looks at herself in the mirror, unsure if she looks okay. She goes to her nineteen year-old daughter’s room. Lucy has taken over her lap. Kim asks Oriana what she thinks of the blouse and the young girl gives Kim her approval.

Before Kim leaves, Oriana says, “I hate you, by the way.”
“Why?” Kim asks, pretending to look innocent.
“You know why.” Oriana glares at her. “Your hair.”
“My hair? Why?”
“Because it’s so curly!”
“That’s not my fault. Have a traumatic experience, like get a divorce after twenty years of marriage, and then maybe your hair will go from straight to curly like mine did!”
“Ugh! Too much work. Take your ringlet-ridden hair out of my room.”
“But, but, but…” Kim whimpers.
“Be gone! It’s a very nice blouse.”
Kim pouts, a little smirk hiding behind her not-so-poker-face. “Thank you.”

Kim dries and styles her hair, boosting the curl to its full potential. She applies brown eye shadow and eyeliner to bring out the blue in her eyes. She covers up the few annoying little red spots that have been appearing regularly on her smooth rosy cheeks for some time now. She has fewer wrinkles than most women her age, which she believes may have something to do with the lack of pore-clogging foundation or other kinds of makeup that she applies to her skin, but whenever she notices a new wrinkle, it bothers her just the same. She shifts and lifts the skin near her eyes, neck, and then lips to see what certain adjustments to her face might look like.

“We’re late, mom.” Adrian appears in the doorway of the bathroom.
“How late?” Kim says.
“It’s 8:06.”
“Shit, okay. Do you have all your things?”
Adrian nods and Kim hurries to the closet to get her coat.
“Can you grab my lunch from the fridge, please?” she asks.
He rushes to the kitchen and swings the door open. He returns with a green-lidded Tupperware container and puts it in Kim’s lunch bag for her.
“Can you take some meat out of the freezer for dinner tonight? I don’t care what; I’ll figure out what to do with it when I get home,” Kim says to Oriana.
“Sure!” Oriana calls back.

Kim and Adrian yank their shoes on and zip their jackets up tightly, and soon they are out the door. They walk several blocks together, practicing their Spanish as they go, talking about Adrian’s classes, reminding each other of their upcoming and long-awaited school trip to Spain. Once they reach Camosun Street, they pause and Kim gives Adrian a kiss on the cheek, and somehow he is not embarrassed even though Victoria High School is just two blocks away.

Kim continues with her walk to work, zigzagging down the streets that have the most houses with lush, flowery gardens. Sometimes she stops and smells the ones in bloom, because, to her, there is nothing better than blossoming flowers in the springtime.

-----
Also, what do you think about the title? Halp?

I like this 61: Think of the Children.

2011-02-24T08:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

I like this:

Don't have kids. They'll ruin your life. Sure, they're super-duper cute sometimes, but so are puppies. Get a kitteh if you need something cute and exciting in your life. Get a puppy if you want to spend a lot of money feeding something that will make a mess of the food and then not be very grateful; they're just like children. For instance, a dog will eat its own poop, as if to say, "Thanks for the $200 bag of dog chow! Now, if you excuse me, I believe I left a delicious hot steaming pile of excrement in the yard." Not that a child will eat its own poop, but it will probably fling its food across the room, showing how much it cares about the expensive food you got it. And remember, pets don't usually go through the stereotypical teenager phase that children are likely to eventually go through. Plus, humans last 80+ years on average. Do you really want to commit to that? I don't think so.
Don't have kids, Globlets, have pets.

Purse Logic.

2011-02-24T08:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

Kn posted this link on Facebook the other day:

It's not very funny, but it got me thinking...

If I had a big ass purse, I'd get myself a leprechaun, just so that when people look at my big ass purse, thinking, "Fuck, bitch, that's a big ass purse," I can look at them and say, "Please, fool. I gotta keep my leprechaun somewhere!" And then it would jump out of the bag and attack them. Haha! Yeah...

But until then I'll stick to my small/medium-sized purses. Wallet, keys, phone, lip balm, lactase enzyme pills (you know, to combat the whole vomiting post-milk-consumption thing), and a pen.

And the big-ass-pursed fools will look at me thinking, "Damn, she must have a mighty small leprechaun."

Rage, Rage, Never Gently.

2011-02-15T09:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

This is an entry I made for Creative Nonfiction. The assignment was to write about yourself in the third person.

She was different from the other kids in elementary school: a makeup-free airhead who was anything but cool or trendy. She wanted blue streaks to frame her oval face but she never got it done. She tried to fit in by getting Pokemon cards, but she traded based on how pretty the Pokemons were and not by their strengths in matches. She never learned how to play Pokemon. For the longest time she wasn’t even aware there was a game to be played with the trading cards.

How disappointed she was when Thomas beat her in a race. It wasn’t a real race; nobody had counted down to zero or determined a finish line, but, according to her, she had been defeated. She used to be the fastest kid on the playground – running away from icky boys used to be serious business - but while she stood on the sidelines out of breath, Thomas was already in mid-field. She hated P.E. after that and never tried to get the ball when they played soccer, even at recess. Somebody else would get the ball. Somebody better. “Get in the game!” her teacher would shout. She would run towards the action on the field but do nothing once the ball was in reach. How could she get the ball from a boy without touching or hurting him?

She wanted to be a doctor when she grew up. She would always help her grandparents check their blood pressure and apply Band-Aids to those wounded from falls on suburban sidewalks. When she was younger and a babysitter was taking care of her and her brother for the night, she would tell Aki that Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t be coming back just so he would cry and she could comfort him.
“What happened!?” the babysitter would ask.
“I don’t know!” she said, rocking Aki back and forth in her arms. “He thinks our parents won’t be coming back. But don’t worry; I’ve got it under control.” Once Aki started to catch on and she had matured a little, she stopped that. Whenever someone got hurt on the playground, she’d be the first on the scene. Whenever someone was crying, she’d make sure they were okay. This was more satisfying than being around the cool kids who would roll their eyes and pretend they didn’t see her whenever she walked over to them. The few times she stupidly spoke up, she was promptly put down, put back in her place.
“Actually, I don’t really think there is a god,” she said, even though she sometimes prayed before an exam.
“Yeah? Well, how do you suppose the earth was created then? Somebody had to make it. How do you suppose you were created?” a cool kid replied.
“My… mom and dad?”
“You really don’t know anything, do you?”
She learned it was better to just keep quiet; anything that came out of her mouth could be turned against her.

Her family moved to Santiago, Chile in 2002; her grandparents and friends cried but she did not shed a tear. There, she learned Spanish, the meaning of “sexy,” and the intentions of boys she liked. There were no cool kids or uncool kids at school; classes were much too small for that. She had the three greatest friends she could ever hope for and family at every corner of the city and beyond. She fell in love with Chile and never imagined herself leaving. She fit in. She belonged. Her height, body type, and dark hair and eye colour proved that as well. She was happy there. Leaving to start a new life again, this time in an old place, old Canada, pleased her friends and grandparents but made her cry. There was nothing she could do.

There was nothing she could do when her father decided to leave her mother either, which was just over a month after their return. They had come back because of him. But after he left, she and her mother became best friends.

She studied at home while her friends went to high school and her mom went to work. The stories they told her reassured her that the choice to homeschool was the right one. It was not always easy to be motivated when she was home alone, but she hated the feeling of doing nothing. She felt like she had to do something. She had to learn. She enrolled for distance education and moved painfully from course to course. Had it not been for studying at home, however, she might not have been able to have the same kind of focus on the arts as she did. She wrote excessively –chapters of her novel, poetry, or words to accompany music she had created on the piano. Photography was an interest she became passionate about too. For years she did not know which direction to go in – writing, music, or photography. Somehow she could not do all three to the extent she wished she could.

Not Back To School Camp in Oregon was where she met people who either affiliated themselves with, or were un/home-schoolers like herself. Going somewhere alone like that was completely out of her comfort zone but somehow she got the courage to go. She made numerous friends, learned about different ways of life, and at the end of each yearly one-week-long session she attended, she went home with self-confidence and inspiration. Leaving was always so hard, not only because it was difficult to say goodbye to her friends, but because people in real life were not as happy, friendly, safe, supportive, accepting, loving or randomly-huggable as NBTSCers.

That’s where she met D, where she stayed up until 5 in the morning talking to him almost every single night. D was her first kiss. D was her first real love. D was her first. Perhaps to continue on with the tradition, D was also the first to break her heart, which still sounds like an understatement to her. To this day he has no idea what kind of damage he caused, but she won’t ever tell him and she won’t ever let him back into her life.

It was because of her deeply religious, Seventh Day Adventist boyfriend who had temporarily moved in with her for four months when he left home, that she discovered a new love. It was a love, not for this boy, but for arguing, especially with creationists. It was a love for standing up for what she believed in and backing it up with facts and strong arguments. It was around this time during which skepticism, rationality, reason and logic were becoming her passions. Soon, a blog was born. She studied the bible - her boyfriend’s bible. She refuted each and every passage she could and every one of the claims made by her distance education peers, and she did so with sweat on her brow, heart beating fast, a smile on her face, and, of course, concrete evidence. Without even realizing it, she often blogged creative nonfiction. It was more than incoherent ramblings of a teenager. It was coherent. It was well written. It was entertaining and thought-provoking.

Finally, she decided on a career path. She would be a writer. She’s good at it, but knowing this makes her afraid that she might get cocky about it one day. Two of her artist friends are great at what they do, but they never let a person forget it. She can’t stand that. She knows it’s probably what will get them ahead in life, but she would rather write for months on end without anybody knowing about it than step on other people to lift herself up from the crowd. That's how she knew this was the right career for her. Even without support, a computer, or readers, she would still write. During the zombie apocalypse, she would still write. If an alien invasion occurred, she would still write. She would not go gently into that good night without a pen in one hand and a pad in the other. With these tools, she would rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Where's Buffy when we need her?

2011-02-11T22:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

In my Nonfiction class, the prof suggested to look to Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly for some of the best examples of dialogue. Then she held up Twilight and the class moaned a nearly unanimous "NOOO!!!" and some said, "Please tell me we're burning that." Many of us were worried the prof would say something good about the novel. "You can open this book to any page and find absolute garbage," she said. A communal sigh of relief promptly followed.

I've read the book. I picked up that book after much deliberation, not because it was well known (it was anything but at the time), but because it seemed interesting and had a cool cover, although it did cost a whopping $25. Could I really spend my well-deserved babysitting money on this giant hardcover about vampires? Somehow, I came to the conclusion that yes, I could, and yes, I would.

Back then, I had no idea what to look for in a good book. Now, of course, that's changed since I've been studying writing and literature. I must say, it's come in handy. I can now look at the writing in Twilight and confidently say, "This is total shit." It is total shit. If you have ever found yourself in a situation where you were forced to listen to a group of stereotypical teenagers SPEAKING, if you know just how painful that is, then you already know the pain that comes from reading Twilight, for it is the same.

From Buffy:

Spike: Isn't it a fantastic day? Birds singin', squirrels making lots of rotten little squirrels, sun beamin' down in a nice non-fatal way. It's very exciting. Can't wait to see if I freckle.

Xander: I'm exhausted just lookin' at those two. All the splashing and jumping and running. Shouldn't relaxing involve less exertion?
Anya: Absolutely. Exertion can lead to sweatiness.
Tara Maclay: Oh, which can cause the, um, pain and heartbreak of stinkiness. Better to just stay put.
Willow Rosenberg: I think we've just put our finger on why we're the sidekicks.

From Twilight:

"Do you want to walk down the beach with me?" I asked, trying to imitate that way Edward had of looking up from underneath his eyelashes. It couldn't have nearly the same effect, I was sure, but Jacob jumped up willingly enough.

As we walked north across the multihued stones toward the driftwood seawall, the clouds finally closed ranks across the sky, causing the sea to darken and the temperature to drop. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket.

"So you're, what, sixteen?" I asked, trying not to look like an idiot as I fluttered my eyelids the way I'd seen girls do on TV.

"I just turned fifteen," he confessed, flattered.

"Really?" My face was full of false surprise. "I would have thought you were older."

"I'm tall for my age," he explained.

"Do you come up to Forks much?" I asked archly, as if I was hoping for a yes. I sounded idiotic to myself. I was afraid he would turn on me with disgust and accuse me of my fraud, but he still seemed flattered.

"Not too much," he admitted with a frown. "But when I get my car finished I can go up as much as I want—after I get my license," he amended.

"Who was that other boy Lauren was talking to? He seemed a little old to be hanging out with us." I purposefully lumped myself in with the youngsters, trying to make it clear that I preferred Jacob.

Something tells me Stephanie Meyer has never taken a writing course in her life; she breaks every rule in the book. Rule number one is Show, don't tell.
"I purposefully lumped myself in with the youngsters, trying to make it clear that I preferred Jacob"? Really?
"He amended"? "He confessed, flattered." Saying much more than "he said" is frowned upon when it comes to dialogue. If this is told from the first person, then how could Bella know he felt flattered? What about the rules of not entering another's mind if you're only supposed to be in one? Ugh. UGH. And this is an excerpt from a page promoting Twilight.

Buffy, help us all.

No, seriously, you're a vampire slayer. Slay those fuckers and spare us... Please?

Like those awesome comebacks you think of an hour after the incident occurs, it's a good rule to write not what you would say, but rather what you wish you had said.

Racist jokes are not funny.

2011-02-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

I love my racist ______.*

I told him, "Today, I saw a black kid running away from a much slower white fat kid, and I thought of you."
"Aww, that's so sweet! But are you sure the fat kid wasn't a cop?"

Quick as a whip, that one. I'm still laughing, globlets. Still laughing.

Wait, isn't it Black History Month? Oh shiyt.

*Identity withheld for purposes of preventing a communal stoning of someone I care about.

Don't Stop Me Now.

2011-02-09T09:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

I remember getting so angry whenever I heard someone play the piano better than I could - not professionals, but people my age who could play "Light My Fire" by the Doors like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. I was envious. I had played the piano for so long and I could not play like she could. It hadn't been long before I heard her play "Light My Fire" that I realized I could choose to play non-classical pieces and move on to playing music I liked. Who knew classic rock could be played on the piano? (It's a lot easier with three hands, but hey... Not that she had three hands...) When I heard her play it, it was not the first time my body reacted in that way to talent envy. I felt tense, shaky, and hot, like something uncontrollable was boiling in my chest. Even just thinking about playing music - either on the piano or the guitar - makes me feel like crying when I don't play. Knowing that I don't play enough makes me want to cry. I don't know why I have such an emotional reaction to playing music - I really don't.

I'm a pretty competitive person. That might be why it's easier for me to be envious of someone's hard-earned skills. When I saw Sk's photography, that same feeling of envy rushed through my body, except it was less intense. A lot of what makes her work so much better than mine is her editing. But it makes sense for her to be that much farther ahead of me. She's been shooting a lot. She has done so much work since we "broke up" that all her practice has noticeably paid off. I haven't been able to practice much at all. I have very few models. I've done 2.5 photo shoots in the last six months, and they would not have happened had I not met Tb when I worked at the cafe for a while and asked her if she would be willing to model for me. I had a mini, not very successful shoot with Rc, too - that's the 0.5 shoot. Before August 2010, I had two shoots with Hs and one with Jd. So, for 2010, the total number of photo shoots I did amounts to four. That really isn't enough to improve as a photographer.

I published 140 globulations in 2010, including a 20 page short story as well as close to 50 pages-worth of shorter short stories in one semester. That's quite a bit, and I plan to write even more this year.

I knew I would never become a musician. As much as I would love to, as big a part of me as there is that still would like to attend Juliard, as deeply-rooted my passion for music must be if I can cry about it so easily, I know I didn't/don't have what it would take. I didn't have the kind of support I felt I needed from people around me to really excel. It's weird, and I don't like that I needed it, but I know I did need more ... more something from people. Encouragement? Interest? Faith? Something. I didn't know how to ask for it and I didn't want to. I'm mostly content now, I think, because I've come to terms with the fact that I will play music only for myself.

I've signed up with ModelMayhem.com and hopefully once I'm accepted, I might get into photography more. My mom has offered to go over some Photoshop techniques with me, too, so my editing abilities will improve once I learn a bit more about it. I can't say I wish I had more support from the people I know because I do get feedback from them. It's easier; my pictures are online whereas my music-playing is not. I think I would have a harder time, mentally, receiving critiques on my music than I would on anything else.

My photography is the easiest thing to critique. It is the easiest thing to look at and say, "This is shit," or "This is awesome," or "I like this. Have you thought of trying this?" I'm grateful to be able to get those kinds of responses to my work. When it comes to writing, however, the one thing I feel I do best, I get very little back from my readers. I don't actually know how many I have. I don't want to sound ungrateful for the feedback my mom and Tw give me because I value it. It makes me want to keep writing, keep improving, keep doing what I love to do. It gives me confidence. I don't have confidence in my music-playing. I have some confidence in my photography, but nowhere near as much as I do in my writing. Getting grades and comments from the prof for my writing was encouragement. When my friends started commenting on my Facebook notes, I loved it. It was like, Yeah, people are reading my shit. Yeah, I am not just sending these globulations out into the blogosphere only to be seen by no one. Yeah, my messages are being received.

The thing is, reading something I write takes a lot more work than it does to just look at a picture and say, "It's not bad." However, at this point I would be more than happy if someone Liked a piece of my writing on Facebook. They don't have to comment; just knowing that someone actually gave enough of a shit to read it is nice. Every single time I get a Disagree/Agree/Funny/Good/Bad response here on Blogger, it makes me feel good. For those who aren't aware, there are "Reactions" buttons at the bottom of each post - that's what I'm talking about.

I suppose it's thanks to my confidence in my writing that, even without approval or support from many people, I am still able to produce something that satisfies me. I am still able to soldier on, and I think it's this that has led me to desire pursuing a career in writing.

Globlets, I'm going to be a writer. I'm going to be a writer and there's nothing you can do to stop me.

Even if only a couple of Globlets will actually read this, it feels good to say that, Globlets. It feels really fucking good.

A Teenager for a Brother.

2011-02-07T21:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

This is a blog assignment I did for Creative Nonfiction. I'm thinking of turning it into a formal essay sometime in the near future. The "ladder" bit was slightly modified because I didn't want to use my brother's real name.

-----

Dressed for the 50s - Grease Night!

Sometimes we call him Child, and other times we call him Poppet (or Poppetino) thanks to ~~Sexy Pirates~~ Pirates of the Caribbean. I am Oppet to him and our mom is Mommet. When he was a toddler and couldn't pronounce his or my name, he was Aki and I was Nani.

Right now, we're watching 1000 Ways to Die and Aki is responding to an incident with an idiot and a wood chipper. I don't think I need to give you the details. Yesterday we practised our aim using Wii remotes and the foreheads of very angry zombies: Resident Evil -The Umbrella Chronicles. Speaking of umbrellas, a sword-swallower on 1000 Ways to Die is about to swallow an umbrella and the umbrella will open inside of him. Isn't that lovely? Adrian says he can't look but he does anyway. This is what we do on weekends. This is our bonding time.

Neither of us has any idea of what the point of The Umbrella Chronicles is. We hit (A) furiously whenever the characters start speaking and we yell at them, saying, "Shut up! Hurry up! We don't care! Can we get to the zombies yet, please?" We just want to kill things, not be engaged in any kind of plot or storyline, or get attached to any characters. Why there are tiny, savage, abominable snow-monkeys that attack us is beyond me, but we haven't the patience to figure that one out. Shoot first, ask questions never.

There are times, of course, when he drives me absolutely nuts; he is my little brother, after all. I recorded an incident that occurred last Friday:

I was taking down a sheet I had hung up on a wall for a photo shoot and I couldn't reach the last nail so I asked him to bring me the step ladder. I was holding the sheet because I was afraid that letting it go would make the weight pull down on the final nail and it would tear. He was in the other room listening to a song by Andrew Bird and he called back, "What?!"
"Can you bring me the ladder, please?"
"What?"
"The ladder! Can you bring it, please?!
"What?"
"Bring me the goddamn ladder, Aki!"
The music got louder.
"What the hell? Seriously, Aki! Please get me the ladder!"
The music got louder still.
"Aki, I swear to god! Bring me the ladder or you shall die!
"What?"
"Aki, damn it, the ladder! LAD-DER. STEP LADDER. A LADDER ON WHICH I CAN STEP TO REACH A VERY HIGH OBJECT!"
The music got louder.
"A STOOL! A STOOL! GET ME A FUCKING STOOL, PLEASE!!!"
Then Aki appeared. "Did you want something?"
Aki finally brought me the step ladder. "Hey, why did you want the music a step louder?" He asked knowing perfectly well what I had meant.

I was ready to kill him.

I never went through the OH-HELP-I'M-A-TEENAGER-WHAT-DOES-IT-ALL-MEAN/MUST-ACT-LIKE-JERK phase; I was usually just pissed off that I had bothersome hormones that made my skin look bad and my eyeballs leak with every sappy commercial that played on TV (Damn you, Lowe's Home Improvement!). Okay, I'm still pissed off about these things, and although Aki's skin is no longer flawless as it once was, he isn't showing symptoms of that phase either.

He is four years younger than me but he's taller even when I wear high heels. So, he's like 4'8 or something. He loves to bug me about this now. He often walks over to me, straightens his back and looks down at me; grinning, he'll say, "How's it going down there?" He's been waiting to be tall for ages, especially since his friends were all 5'9+ by the time he was 12. He's 15 now, and according to stereotypes we see in the media, his mind should be deep in the gutter. He should be rude to adults and girls, and always acting out, doing illegal things, being emo, getting moody, trying to fit in, trying to be cool, trying to figure out who he is and why he is, but he's not. He just doesn't really care. Although there are times when I think to myself that he will be the reason I move out before I can afford to, he really is the kindest teenager I have ever known. He holds the door open for people automatically; he takes his plate, as well as everyone else's, to the kitchen after dinner without being asked to; he doesn't make a fuss when he's asked to help around the house; he has followed me from his bedroom where we were watching 1000 Ways to Die to the living room, where I'm not distracted by disgusting candidates for the Darwin Awards, and he is now reading an IKEA catalogue with Lucy curled up on his lap. He didn't have to follow me, but now he's with the whole family. He isn't locked in his room alone. Is this normal behaviour? Should we be concerned? Should we be grateful because one day he might snap and turn into a rotten, sleazy prick? Maybe he's just... nice?

One thing I cannot ignore, however, is his unfaltering ability to be incredibly annoying at least once every single day of his life. In fact, I can't remember a day when I did not threaten him with an ass-kicking or a black eye. I've only ever punched his shoulder, of course.
"If you sing the 'Trolololo' song one more time, I'm going to punch you in the face." - That usually does the trick. (He's taller than me but my threats still work? What?)

I cannot ignore his complete and utter obliviousness to 96% of his surroundings either. He jumps into the middle of conversations that begin even when he is in the room at the time and asks what the speakers are talking about. Not only is his hearing selective, but his memory is too, except when it comes to cars. He will tell you the make of any car on the street and what year it was made, and when you ask him how he knows he'll go on about how they changed the headlights in 2005.
"Do you see how the headlights are like this?" He motions with his hands. "Well, now they're like this and the previous model was completely different. Do you see what I mean?"
"No?"
He can't remember how to conjugate certain verbs in Spanish (he forgot all he learned when we lived in Chile), but he knows every detail about every car in existence. If you ask him what he wants to be when he grows up, he'll say, "Richard Hammond" - a co-host of Top Gear, the best car show known to man. There isn't an episode of this show Aki hasn't seen at least twice.

Together, we sing Blue Swede's "Hooked on a Feeling" while we wash the dishes, we recite Eddie Izzard's "Death Star Canteen" by heart, we team up and kill undead beings on a regular basis, and, of course, we piss each other off beyond belief. And I wouldn't have it any other way. He's my brother and I love him; he loves me too, even though he won't ever admit it out loud.

He's also my model sometimes:

July 2009

Photo of Punta de Tralca.

2011-02-07T17:18:00.001-08:00

Dear Globlets,

Here's a picture of me in Punta de Tralca:

The dog I'm "sitting on" is Lady, the dog of the owner of Las Cabañas Barrachina (Pancho).

A Step Louder.

2011-02-04T15:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

I hate my brother.

I was taking down a sheet I had hung up on my wall for a photo shoot and I couldn't reach the last nail so I asked him to bring me the ladder.

He was in the other room listening to "Ratitat/Peter's Wolf/Oblivious Reel" by Andrew Bird (lots of fiddlework) and he says, "What?!"

"Can you bring me the ladder, please?"
"What?"
"The ladder! Can you bring it, please?!
"What?"
"Bring me the goddamn ladder, Adrian!"
The music gets louder.
"What the fuck? Adrian!!! Please get me the ladder!"
The music gets louder still.
"Adrian, I swear to Lucy! Bring me the ladder or you shall die and you and everyone in this canteen. Death by tray it shall be!" (or something)
"What?"
"Adrian, damn it, the ladder! LADDER. STEP LADDER. A LADDER ON WHICH I CAN STEP TO REACH A VERY HIGH OBJECT!"
The music gets louder.
"A STOOL! GET ME A FUCKING STOOL, PLEASE!!!"
Adrian appears. "Did you want something?"

Later, Adrian finally brings me the step ladder. "Why did you want the music a step louder?"

I hate my brother.

Punta de Tralca.

2011-02-03T21:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

This is an essay I wrote for my Creative Nonfiction class... about "a place." I haven't received feedback from my prof yet, probably because I still have to submit the good copy. I'll keep you posted. I was to focus on the different senses, make it seem a bit like a movie, and make sure that there is some kind of theme. The prof showed us some movie intros and endings to give us an idea of some really great cinematic techniques:
No Country for Old Men
Lawrence of Arabia -
Shawshank Redemption (Now I REALLY need to see it, doggamnit.) Might be my favourite one. I love the way the camera goes up and down and all around and in the head of one guy and then into the heads of others without actually venturing there. You know what they're feeling. It's quite beautiful. Those ten seconds between 4:17 and 4:27 say so much, too. That's what got me the most.

There was also this amazing ending scene of an old black and white film; its name escapes me now. Five minutes were spent on this woman walking from far off in the distance towards us, towards a man (or so we think) who is leaning on his car. Five minutes, and he just stands there looking at her. She's smack in the middle of a long road. She starts off as a speck, her footsteps consistent and constant. Slowly, she appears - a young woman, no longer a speck, no longer just a figure. She looks straight ahead the entire time. She walks and she walks and she walks and finally she's right in front of the guy, but she doesn't look at him. She looks straight ahead still. She looks straight ahead and walks past the camera. The end. Frakkin' amazing. Five minutes.

Back to me now... What I've got might not be quite so dramatic.

Feedback/critiques welcome! As always.

For context, I kind of lived in Chile for two and a half years. Huh! Who knew?

Punta de Tralca

Headlights shine far ahead, illuminating the uneven path that four wheels follow. The crinkle and crackle beneath the tires echo into our ears; it’s the only sound apart from the engine that can be heard. A stray dog several metres away perks its ears up, its eyes eerily reflecting the light and watching us arrive. Doors open and slam shut, tired bodies stand and stretch, and shoes crush the small jagged rocks beneath them. My brother’s head is lifted from my shoulder, his mouth still hanging open. My eyes are sleepy and I rub them until I see stars. Chilean voices fill the ocean-scented air, and firm handshakes and warm embraces are exchanged. I stumble out of the vehicle. My dad calls me over to meet some people I can hardly see. Our bags are taken towards our cabin. As we begin to follow them, my mom gasps and covers her mouth, but lets the words, “Oh my god. Look at the sky!” escape her lips. We look up. Countless sparkling specks of gas and dust heavily sprinkle the black sky above us, in a similar way a young child might over-sprinkle a gingerbread cookie or art project. Only two hours west of Santiago’s smoggy skies and not a cloud pollutes our view here. We stand staring upwards for several minutes and I am reminded of the pictures of the Milky Way I had seen in my book about outer space. I have to bring Catalina, Melisa and Cristian here, I think to myself before a cool ocean breeze startles me back to Earth. We have to go inside, but none of us really want to.

Once in bed, I squeeze my eyes shut and make the Milky Way appear again.

Bright sunshine tries to sneak in through the windows from behind the curtains. Our cabin smells like a forest – fresh, crisp, and earthy. My family is shuffling out of bed, getting ready for the day, and lining up for the bathroom. Once we are all dressed, we pull back the curtains and unleash the sunshine into our cabin. We sit together in the kitchen booth eating breakfast and decide to explore the beach once we’re finished.

Now I can see what the place is really like. Several log cabins create a quaint and friendly complex to my right. To my left, next to multiple picnic benches sits a big red brick fireplace that invites barbecues and evening get-togethers. Straight ahead, past the open gate of the cabin complex, the ocean can be seen. We are on top of a hill where a small, splotchy, yellow dandelion infestation resides, not unlike the splotchy star infestation of the sky I saw last night. I know better than to pick any dandelions, for an unpleasant white liquid would leak out of their stems and my fingers would get sticky. We begin making our way down to the beach, passing a few stray dogs as we go. None of them are cute enough to take home. After a short but steep downhill trek, the smell of ocean water is much stronger than it was before. Almost unexpectedly, as if I’d crossed some sort of boundary, I hear waves crashing, gulls crowing and dogs barking. Within seconds, I see the creatures that match these sounds. My friends would like it here. I have to show them someday.

Facing the south part of the beach, I see an enormous rock (Piedra del Trueno) glaring fiercely at the sea. Its walls are frequent targets for ambitious waves and tourists; it seems we will be targeting it today as well. I am concerned that it might rain since it is overcast, and I am not thrilled with the fact that the wind will certainly make painful knots in my long brown hair. Everything is grey like a boring black and white photograph and I am not very excited about this trip to see a rock. I can see the rock from here; do I have to touch it too? Why can’t we just stay at the cabin until the sun comes out? Despite the cold, I take off my shoes and socks, deciding that there is little point in wearing them if sand is going to get inside anyway. The sand is fine, light and beige, except where the water has managed to reach it and there it is thick, heavy and dark. A few twigs poke out and I must be careful not to step on them. As we walk further along, the grains of sand become larger and larger. By the time we reach Piedra del Trueno, the sand between my cold red toes is no longer micro-granules of stones, but tiny, round, multi-coloured pebbles. I let a wave wipe them from my feet, yet some cling desperately to my skin. I wonder if the three of us would play our favourite games here and then carry sand on our feet back to the cabin. My brother begins to race me up the path to the top of the hill and I can’t let him win. He almost does.

I put my shoes back on and we make our way to the rock. There are more people here than I thought there would be. There are serious rock-climbers equipped with water bottles and fanny packs, and they are dressed much more appropriately for this kind of activity than I am. At least my jeans are 3% spandex. The way we are going is not as tricky as the way the professionals go, but I am still worried that my mom might slip. I am worried that my dad will twist his ankle on uneven bit of stone. I am worried that my brother’s feet will not move as fast as the rest of him and that he will fall. At the same time, I must be careful too and I follow my mom’s steps, although for every one step of hers I must take two. I spend more time looking down at the rock beneath my feet than at anything else around me. I look back to see my brother and father are a bit behind but my dad’s bald head appears just past another rock; it’s my signal to carry on. Finally, we reach a high peak of the rock. I stop and look up at my surroundings. From here, I can see the entire beach we had walked along and beyond, plus what seems like the entire South Pacific Ocean. The sky had cleared up since we left and it is now a bright blue with the occasional white fluffy cloud: a perfect sky. The sea reflects it, making it no longer seem like the dreary background of a white and black photograph but like the kind of sea in which mermaids tempt sailors and pirates fight alongside crocodiles. They would love it here. I will bring them and show them.

On the way back, with tangled hair and my shoes thrown over my shoulder, I scan the sand for smooth or pretty rocks. I pick some up, and they either go into my pocket or get tossed back into the sea. Sometimes I wonder if the ocean gets mad when I pick rocks from its beaches and I hope that when I throw the ones I don’t like back in, it forgives me. However, if I find a really flat rock, even if it’s smooth and pretty, it must be skipped. I try to make these rocks skip as many times as possible. When I bring Meli, Cata and Cristian here, we’ll skip rocks together.

We sit on the fine sand and I dig my feet into it. After removing the bottom half of his pant legs thanks to a zipper that converts pants to shorts in seconds, my brother digs his entire legs into the sand. I ask him if he wants me to bury him. He giggles and accepts. Soon, I can no longer see his legs, and instead I see two big grey sand-mountains that make him look like he has huge muscular legs that are attached to his tiny torso. He thinks it’s hilarious and he tells our parents to come see what happened to him. A dog prances by and my brother gets scared, but I assure him that he’s not going to bother us since he’s probably just looking for his girlfriend. He wiggles his big toe and some sand falls, exposing his skin. When I notice, he laughs and wiggles it more. I dump a heap of sand to cover it up. He wiggles his other big toe and it appears out of the sand. I dump on more sand. He shakes his legs beneath the sand and the mountains crack. I pretend I’m angry and he laughs at me again. I extend my hands out to him, he grabs on to them tightly, and I pull him out. Sand falls off his scrawny body. He complains that it’s cold now. When I come here with my friends, we’ll bury each other in the sand too.

At the end of the day, I promise myself that I will bring my best friends to this place, to Punta de Tralca. I imagine all the activities we will do together. I think about how we will bring a soccer ball and play on the beach, and how we will bring cards and stay up late in our cabin playing Guerra (War). I want them to see the funny-looking mutts that wander the beaches. I want them to see the big waves that crash on the shore when it’s windy. I want them to be surprised like I was when I show them the view from Piedra del Trueno. I want them to see everything, and with them I want to explore the rest. I want to share this place and create new memories with my friends. I want to stay up late with them just to stare at the stars – stars like they’ve never seen before.

***

I never got a chance to do that. They didn’t get to go on a trip with me for a couple of days in Punta de Tralca. I didn’t get to show or share or experience all the things I wanted to with them. They still don’t know how beautiful the ocean is there, how cozy the cabins are, or how calm and quiet the salty air is. Eight years separate that day from now, and over 10,000 kilometres separate me from those friends. A lot of things were left undone due to what I consider a premature departure from Chile back to Canada, despite the original one-way tickets, and a lot of good relationships had to stay behind as well. It might not be soon, it might take a lot of hard work, but I have no intention of giving up on the promise I made to myself so many years ago – the promise that one day I will bring my best friends to see my favourite place in the world.

LOLWTFOMGNOWY

2011-02-02T11:20:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

Yesterday I started to get my sit-up routine going again and today I found my mom sharing a link to this website... and going through the content of the site is excruciating.

But then I came across this one:

What the fuck? What am I supposed to think about this? This is weirding me out, globlets. I globulate. These are globulations. Whowhyforwhatpurposehow is there the word "globulate" in someone's iPhone spellcheck? o.O

But apparently I might have the power to ruin Christmas! Woohoo!

Scary times are these, my globlets. This probably has something to do with the government controlling and watching everything you do. Everything has to do with the government watching you for their secret extremist agendas. You have no privacy. The IRS, CIA, NBA, NRA, NHL, FIFA, and even NASA all know when your bowel movements occur. They're controlling your bowel movements by applying taxes to the things you know and love! Like bran.

What.

If Only I Had an IKEA Kitchen.

2011-01-24T10:30:00.001-08:00

Dear Globlets,

This is a post I wrote for my nonfiction class about my kitchen.

And it just so happens that I have a picture of it...

I wouldn't care if I had to put each piece together myself, I wouldn't care if there were pieces left over after assembling it, all I want is an IKEA kitchen. If a handsome Swede would like to assist me during installation, I'd be fine with that too - especially if he plays Eric Northman on True Blood (rawr!)
What was I saying? Oh, yes...

My kitchen is nothing like an IKEA kitchen, I am sad to say. It is old, it is yellow, it is outdated, and everything is coated in greasy dust no matter how often things are washed. Each day I walk through the doorway and reach behind Fridge A (primarily the beverage fridge) to turn on the light. Is it on? I wonder. Or is it just a yellow-orange filter that gives the illusion of brightness? I dare not enter without protective footwear; slippers are a necessity. I dodge recyclable items that have made their way further in from the corner of the room, and curse at my brother for not completing his assigned chore before there was enough paper, plastic, and glass to build a ten-foot robot with laser beams and X-ray vision.

A warm, furry body rubs against my shin. I look down and Lucy is looking up at me with two big blue eyes and a hungry, yet very picky belly. I ask her if she's hungry. She does not reply. I go to Fridge B and remove the raw chicken and organ meat-thing that I've lovingly mixed with a generous spoonful of white meat chicken florentine Fancy Feast Elegant into a glass bowl that is elevated like an ice cream bowl so that she may not strain her delicate neck as she leans in to nibble at her meal. I set it down for her. She smells it, looks up at me, and walks away. That bitch.

I return to search the contents of Fridge B for something less fancy for myself. I consider grilled cheese but then remember that I have class later and since I don't want to get a tummy ache (bless the food allergy gods), I think better of it. I yank out one of the ever-full Drawers of Fruits & Vegetables and grab a cucumber; cucumber because the lettuce has gone bad and I still want something fresh and crisp in my sandwich. After shoving the drawer back in, I take the old fashioned ham from The Drawer of Hams & Cheeses and set it on the wood counter behind me which is covered in minor sugar and hot chocolate powder spills. I can't rest my hand on the counter without feeling tiny granules imprinting themselves into my skin. Its edges are chipped and dented here and there from countless knocks of pickle and jam jars. My slippers successfully spare my socks from crumbs on the blue area rug on which I stand.

I see above me the dreaded Third Cupboard has been left open. I despise this cupboard. The twisty-knobby device that holds it closed has been used so much that it no longer locks properly. I push on the door firmly. It doesn't close. I try again. Failure. I hold the door in place and bang on it. If it had a mouth it would laugh at me, mocking me, I'm sure of it. So, I hold the edge of the now-cackling door and slam it shut. Just before I can scream, "Victory!" Second Cupboard opens and a cacophony of unpleasant howls and chuckles would fill the room... if cupboards had mouths.

IKEA cupboards wouldn't be so mean. They wouldn't need to be; they would close on the first try. If only...

I take out the mayonnaise and one egg from Fridge A. Fridge A was dragged here from Chile because my mom loves it so much and it will probably be dragged to Spain in a few years, too, once she moves there. It is, I must admit, a very nice fridge. It keeps things cold and beeps at you if you leave the door open - isn't that nice? On top of it, among some dusty clay pots from Pomaire, Chile and boxes and boxes and jumbo boxes of cereal lies a big black box that weighs a tonne and converts the voltage from 220V to the Canadian standard 110V. When there was no room for a second fridge in the kitchen, we put the fridge in my brother's room unplugged and used it as a pantry. Don't worry, we didn't keep the Wagon Wheels in there, but now that I think of it, the Mr. Noodles did seem to go pretty quick.

Fridge-pantries would not be necessary if I had an IKEA kitchen. The number of drawers and cupboards would amount to sufficient storage. If only...

The next thing I do is take the smallest frying pan out of what is supposed to be used as a pantry for food but now stores pots and pans. There used to be cans of artichokes and pineapple being forgotten due to its depth - shameful, I know. There was a lot of vertical space being wasted too, and in a non-IKEA kitchen, you can't afford to have wasted space. As it is, there is only one wall on which pots can hang, as the other empty wall, although it begs for hooks, is made out of something too weak to hold anything. A small splash of vegetable oil goes on the frying pan, followed by the egg. I cover it with a pot lid. My toast is toasting, unevenly of course, next to the kettle which I will have to wait to use because otherwise I will blow the fuse.

If I had an IKEA kitchen, the electrical system would be updated so that more than one small appliance could be used at the same time. If only...

I cut a chunk of cucumber, wash it, and slice it, narrowly missing the tip of my index finger multiple times as I do so. It's not that I'm careless with knives, it's that it's too dark to see what I'm cutting. I might as well be slicing blindfolded; I'd have the same chances of cutting my finger off that I do when I chop now. I'm surprised there haven't been more trips to the emergency room or dinners made not only with love but a kind of unique customization. Saying, "You've really put a bit of yourself into this one!" would take on a whole new meaning.

An IKEA kitchen would be much better lit. If only...

I slap the mayo on the toast, and then the cucumber and ham. My sandwich is nearly complete. I lift the lid from the frying pan and see the egg white is cooked and the yolk is almost cooked; it's runny just the way I like it. I gently drop it onto the open sandwich, sprinkle on some cayenne pepper, and carefully apply the second slice of bread. I slowly stab the centre and cut it in half. The thick yellow liquid oozes out, coating the middle of both halves.

Although my kitchen is anything but an IKEA kitchen, especially since it is suspected that back in 1906 it was actually a bedroom, we make do. Although the counter space is limited, the lighting (if it even deserves to be called that) is poor, the cupboards don't close and the drawers don't open, and there are things that have been stuck to the floor since we moved in, we make do. Despite the long list of things wrong with my kitchen, in it, hours have been spent baking everything from mango pies to peanut butter cookies to Chilean empanadas, and hours have been spent cooking everything from stir fries to broccoli-chicken lasagnes to Polish borscht. We make healthy meals. We try hard to make a proper dinner as often as we can, and when we do, everyone helps out. Even Lucy hairs get in the food sometimes - that's how much she wants to be a part of dinner-making.

One day, I will have an IKEA kitchen, a kitchen of my dreams, where everything has its place and is easily organized and cleaned. It won't be soon, I know, but until that day, I will make do with whatever kitchen I've got. I love making food too much not to.

Honesty.

2011-01-19T19:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

This is sort of an expansion on the previous post I made about how lying can benefit the world. In this globulation, I talk about how honesty can benefit the world based on personal experience.

As I was reading others' blog posts, I thought about the relationship I have with my mom and remembered why it’s so good: honesty.

When I was a kid, and I broke a teacup after my mom told me not to play with it, I was afraid to tell her about it. I considered hiding it, but I knew she'd notice it was missing. Plus, I was scared to pick up the tiny sharp pieces of white ceramic from the carpet. So, I took what I could of the teacup to her. With my head hanging in shame and a knot of guilt in my stomach, I told her what I had done and that I was sorry, and I begged her not to be angry. She said it was okay. It was okay? How could it be okay? I was expecting a lashing or to be dangled by my ankles out the window or fed to a tank of hungry sharks, but no. "Shit happens," was her response - except probably something more appropriate for a five year-old’s ears. This kind of thing happened over and over again in my past, mostly because I'm ridiculously clumsy, but I never hid anything from her because I knew that “Shit happens. It’s not the end of the world.” She’s never let me forget that, and that’s why I’ve never worried about hiding the truth from her.

Our ability to communicate, I think, is unparalleled; it is so, in fact, that sometimes we don't even need to speak. Usually I'll think something and she'll say it. One time, my tummy growled very quietly, and I only felt it; no one could hear it, but then my mom said she was hungry. *Cue Twilight Zone music.* Other times it’ll be like, “Do you have a thingy with you?” “Yeah, but it’s the kind you don’t like.” “That’s okay.” And I’ll whip the “thingy” out of my purse and my brother will look at us wide-eyed and ask, “How did you know what she was talking about?” Actually, that’s not true. My brother is completely oblivious to 96% of his surroundings unless it has four wheels, a leather interior, or breasts. The “thingy” in question is a grapefruit-flavoured lip balm.

But I told my mom about every insecurity: "Is this supposed to be like this?"
Every incident with a stupid boy: "He asked me to tell him when I was menstruating so he would know when not to hang out with me because he ‘doesn’t want to see me when I’m angry.’" (I guess he was pretty lucky that I wasn’t menstruating then.)
Every time someone made me feel bad: "I can see why you wouldn't want to go swimming."

And she told me about herself in return: the way my dad had made her feel when he left, that guy she went on a date with who didn’t leave enough of a tip, how much she wished she could wear high heels but no longer could. The same cannot be said for my father. He can still wear high heels.

I was a daddy’s girl when I was a kid, believe it or not. After he left, though, his interest in me and my brother left too. Although it sometimes felt like we were strangers forced to be in the same room with each other, I still felt like I was able to talk to him relatively easily. I opened up to him a few times, but he never opened up to me… until the day he told us he was leaving the country. It’s hard to be honest with someone who tells you lies, but it’s also hard to be honest with someone who doesn’t tell you anything.

Some people think the relationship I have with my mom is not good, that it’s unhealthy. You know, because we get along and have a lot in common and are able to talk about very personal things and we spend a lot of time together and we enjoy each other’s company and have similar values. I have even told her about my sex life (gasp!). Yes, those are all definite signs of an unhealthy mother-daughter relationship and I should rebel immediately and vow never to talk to her again. Despite our numerous similarities, we have differences. I’m an introvert, and she’s an extrovert. I like grapefruit, and she doesn’t. I work better when it’s quiet, and she works better when she listens to music. We have a vast middle ground of things we agree on yet there are some things on which we don’t, and I think that’s important for any relationship. Although we are very open with one another, we are still true to ourselves; I am my own person, as is she.

Some parents feel they need to hide things from their kids because it’s a way of “protecting them.” They might never let their child see them cry. They might never let their child see their true emotions, period. I saw how my mom reacted to things that her father or mother-in-law or friend has said. She never hid her emotions from me, and I learned a lot from that. It probably helped that she was terrible at hiding them, but because of the honesty that still holds us together, I don’t think she’s ever really felt like she had to hide anything.

If she hasn’t hidden anything from me, why would I hide things from her?

I can depend on my mom to tell me the truth and to listen to me when I have a secret to tell. From this honesty came trust, and from trust came respect. These are the most important things in a relationship. My mom is my best friend, and honesty is what got us to this point. It just has to go both ways.

Can you handle the truth?

2011-01-13T11:33:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

This is something I wrote for Creative Nonfiction about truth in general and truth in this genre:

Lies are everywhere. The media tell lies, strangers tell lies, politicians tell lies, the lighting in fitting rooms tell lies, as do zippers, belts, buttons, magnified mirrors, and weighing scales. They're told by everyone, and they can even come out of the mouths of the people you trust most. The truth is not always easy; in fact, it rarely is. It can hurt to hear and it can be difficult to say. However, this does not mean that it should be avoided or censored or not said. The truth needs to be told, and in the end it will always come out. I value honesty greatly, and I'd like to think I'm a pretty honest person, but there is a place in the world for lies.

If you were invited to your boss' house for dinner and he/she asked you what you thought of the lasagna, you probably have little choice but to say that it was good. The lasagna could have been horrible, it could have tasted like something you might scrape off the highway with a shovel, but would you say that to your host? Or might it be better to go for something a little less... true, and politely decline the invitation for seconds?

People ask each other how they are all the time, but they don't really expect someone to tell them the entire truth.
"How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. You?" Not: "Bad," because then you'll have to explain. "I suspect my husband is cheating on me, the dog threw up its own poop on the new carpet last night, my son is failing grade 7, I forgot to put on deodorant this morning, and I don't know what to make for dinner. How are you?"
Nobody is looking for that kind of answer, and few people would be willing to give one like it, so it's easier to simply say, "Fine, thanks," and why not? It doesn't hurt anybody.

In terms of telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth in creative nonfiction, I can't remember a time when I've ever taken that oath before I started writing. I believe that as long as the main idea is accurately portrayed, the details can be modified. In a work of creative nonfiction, people's appearances can sometimes be changed as long as their actions remain the same, and this can be said for other minor factors like weather, time of day, smells, and even speech. You can play with imagery if it will benefit the essay. Typically when you write, there is an idea, a message, a feeling, and/or an opinion that you try to get across. In order to make it more of an art form as opposed to a toaster oven instruction manual, creative nonfiction writers have the chance to convey those things by making a few alterations. They're not so much lies in this regard as they are enhancements.

When you take a suit in for alterations, the changes that are made to the clothing are done to fit you and your specific body type. The sleeves might be shortened, the waist taken in, or the shoulder pads removed, but in the end, is it not the same suit? It's still the same colour, the fabric is not different, it still has three buttons, except now you look amazing in it and not like an oversized square on legs. The suit has been customized to enhance the features of your body that might have otherwise been overlooked or hidden. This is the kind of thing I consider to be the "creative" in creative nonfiction: you refine the edges of something true to your liking.

The truth is, not everyone can handle the truth, as you might have seen from some of the people who responded to the latest Wikileaks, who encouraged the "elimination" of Julian Assange, the Wikileaks messenger. Sometimes the reactions to the truths being exposed are more revealing than the secrets themselves. Other times it's not the lie itself that is harmful, but the fact that a lie was told in the first place. People lie constantly, and that can be okay, but sometimes it's not. While being careful as to when certain details are enhanced, either by addition or omission, creative nonfiction writers still write about what they feel or know to be true. The key to being a good writer of this genre is knowing when to tell a lie and when not to.

O on the Big O, Part Two: When does sex end?

2011-01-11T11:40:00.000-08:00

Dear Globlets,

This globulation contains mature subject matter, and comments on sex from someone whom you may prefer to not think of as being sexually active. Reader discretion is advised.

No, seriously. I'm going to talk about sex. And about me. Like, together. At the same time.

Before we answer the question, "When does sex end?" we ought to look at how sex began/begins. We know that sex was mostly used for procreation in earlier years, but what about now? It's the 21st century, and sex is all over the media, you hear about it all the time, information on it and footage of it is highly accessible and, frankly, everyone is doing it. Sex is popular, and most of us know that it can be really enjoyable - when done correctly. A lot of us, too, know that it can be really rather terrible when it is done incorrectly. Perhaps skill is directly related to the amount of practice you get, but this is not always the case. I believe that ignorance plays a large part in the bedrooms of bad sex.

I went for a drink with Sh a while ago; we talked a lot with a very friendly bartender, and the topic of bad sex came up. She told us that one time, a 30 year-old guy came in to the bar and told her of an epiphany he'd had: women can enjoy sex too (or something along those lines - she was a very generous bartender). So, for roughly seventeen years, he was under the impression that sex was a one-way street. He thought that sex ended when he came. As it turns out, women can have orgasms too. Multiple, in fact.

It probably helps to know what sex is before you go into it. It's more than guys "going into it." I mean, it could be just that: get naked (optional, more or less), spread legs, insert, orgasm, remove (or "remove, orgasm"). But that's usually bad sex, one-way street sex. There is one thing that seems to be forgotten when sex occurs, which I think is strange since most people know about it...: foreplay. Foreplay. Say it with me now... FOREPLAY. Why does foreplay so often get forgotten? It may not be necessary to officially have sex, but it sure is nice. It's a courtesy thing, and it's really beneficial for both participants, even if you've been together for a long time. In fact, over time, it probably becomes more necessary to keep things exciting.

But maybe it's just me. Maybe I only wish there had been more foreplay in my sexual experiences because I'm really an unattractive troll and the idea of touching my body is completely revolting to most members of the opposite sex and I, therefore, was not fortunate enough to partake in foreplay, and, consequently, my experiences cannot be used as examples because they are misrepresentations of how sex normally is, because most normal people aren't quite so disgusting. Hmm. Something tells me this isn't the case. But perhaps I should have said I wanted more. But perhaps I feel like I shouldn't have to explain that when a guy sticks it in, moves it back and forth, maybe kisses me on the lips, that really isn't enough to give me an orgasm. The thing is, I'm not going to tell someone what I like if I don't think he's interested in knowing what I've got to say. The male needs to show an interest in the female's pleasure if he wants her to tell him what feels good.

What feels good? How can sex be started better? Oral sex is good, but it seems to me that fellatio is more common than cunnilingus, and I think they should receive equal attention. I don't see why one should be more acceptable or more widely performed than the other since they're basically the same thing, just done on the other person. Another way to stimulate your female partner is to use your hands. If you're a guy, and right now you stop scratching your head in confusion and lower your arm, at the end of it you'll find what is called a "hand." Attached to your hand should be five fingers. These fingers can be applied to your female partner's body in many different ways, most of which could bring her pleasure.

Most guys probably know that, but I know some who don't (or they do but fail to act on this knowledge), and at this point, when there is so much information on the topic, there really is no good excuse. Even if you don't know what you're doing in the sack, and it's okay if you don't, all it takes is a bit of consideration. Ask: What would make her feel good? Experiment. Ask her to show you. Pay attention to what she does and says. Figure out how she works. Look it up on the internet (this does NOT mean watch porn). I just looked up "bad sex" on the internet and found this page, which seems useful: Break Bad Sex Habits. It's kind of a weird site, but from what I've read, the tips are useful and backed up by studies, and for the most part I agree with them.

If the male reaches an orgasm before the female, is it good enough that he may have tried a little harder here and there? Is it good enough that he apologizes for not making her cum? I don't think so. Sometimes it's okay, sure, but is it really too much to ask for further application of the man's hands/fingers even if the man will not necessarily be the one receiving physical pleasure or satisfaction?

When it comes to heterosexual sex, a lot of people think that sex ends when the man has an orgasm. In most cases, it is easier for men to reach an orgasm than it is for women to... during intercourse. If things other than just penetration are done before or during intercourse, this may not apply. Plus, if the man has an orgasm first, this does not mean that he should just give up and go to sleep. Guys have hands, don't they? And mouths - at least one, typically. And unless we're talking about necrophiliacs, she's probably still alive and willing, assuming she was willing in the first place.

So, if you have a hard time having sex for longer periods of time, if you're sometimes a "premie," that's okay - as long as you remember that your partner is still next to you, still breathing (hopefully), and probably still ready to be satisfied sexually. Even if you've already mastered the longer-than-five-minutes sex session, don't be afraid to get your hands dirty. Your lady-friends will thank you for it.