From this weekend, a top ten things I have discovered/experienced:
10. Leave the Thai food creation to the Thai people; whiteys like me are only meant to enjoy.
9. If it looks like John Stamos, and walks like John Stamos, it's probably just because I've forgotten to put on my glasses.
8. It's not John Stamos.
7. Starbucks people are not friendly everywhere, despite my previous assumptions.
6. Chocolate is still delicious, especially when pricey. It's like eating money.
5. Boyfriends are adorable.
4. Credit cards make life too easy.
3. Victoria weather does now and always will suck.
2. Drinks that taste like lemonade but are really booze are both delicious and dangerous.
1. Pregnancy scare is to adult me as closet monster is to five-year-old me. Both are terrifying.
Did you know that the three McDonald's that existed in Iceland are now closed due to the overwhelming severity of the recession? Apparently Icelanders don't want to pay CAD$6.80 for a Big Mac. I refuse to live in a world where every man, woman and child cannot afford to buy the American dream*. Yes, we can, Iceland. YES, WE CAN!
*nightmare.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
I use cold water detergent.
Doing the weekly laundromat run never ceases to inspire ennui, albeit of a mildly entertaining quality.
I go to this place called Squeaky's; a pretty gonzo name for a laundry place because clothing cannot squeak (squeaky clean...get it?) The soundtrack of this place varies depending on the staff of the moment and the volume of dud-scrubbers. Today was a powerful medley of the Eagles and the ever-pantless Lady Gaga. Decibels louder than it should be, going to do the wash is on par with going to a local nightclub, audio-wise.
There is a high level of hatred for the ritual of going out to do the laundry, and it starts right here at h-o-m-e. I find myself doing the smell check on certain items, sizing up their re-wearability in an effort to downsize the haul. More often than not, my clothes are clean enough, but forever have the stench of espresso woven into the fibers - the trademark moniker representative of meager earnings squeezed out at the Mecca of corporate coffee. Anyways, after sniff check disapproval, the truly rotten apples get thrown into a over-sized re-usable grocery tote and are whisked away to a romantic waterlily scented getaway.
Squeaky's likes to charge top dollar for the use of their machines, which is alright considering it's basically the high-class gentleman's club of laundromats in Vic (all others are total dive lounge types). I find myself constantly, obsessively collecting change in a self-assuring effort that clean clothes will be readily available whenever called upon. It's $2.75 to wash the dirties, which I have no problem with; it's the dryer that leaves me high and not exactly dry. I pump 10 quarters worth of the Starbucks hustle fund (that's 50 minutes worth) into those fuckers, and still end up with slightly dampened duds. Crap in a hat! Of course, the very worst part of the adventure is the walk of shame to and from the car, bag o' dirty panties in tow, passing the windows of a neighboring Starbucks (where I have worked but do not call home). People gawk like the girl with the bag is some strange bird of paradise who indulges in taking her filthy clothes out into the public eye. Hardly. I cringe with embarrassment every time my leopard-print undies somehow smuggle their way from my hands during the washer to dryer trek and onto the floor (which they seemingly always do), and there's always an air of anti-exhibitionism when I dive like Michael Phelps to snatch them up before people catch the fleeting glimpse of what covers my snatch.
It's not all bad, though, y'know. There are a few choice pros to this little establishment I make weekly visits to. I mean, bitchin' soundtrack could alone hold down the fort, but with an endless display of semen stained bridal gowns sent for cleaning, a tiny dog named Berkeley who chills with this bitch and the endearing smell of industrial cleaners, it's 2 hours of my day I don't really regret. Granted, though, when J Jenks once inquired as to what my desires were for our own place together, the only words that spilled out were "in-suite laundry".
I think that's fair.
I go to this place called Squeaky's; a pretty gonzo name for a laundry place because clothing cannot squeak (squeaky clean...get it?) The soundtrack of this place varies depending on the staff of the moment and the volume of dud-scrubbers. Today was a powerful medley of the Eagles and the ever-pantless Lady Gaga. Decibels louder than it should be, going to do the wash is on par with going to a local nightclub, audio-wise.
There is a high level of hatred for the ritual of going out to do the laundry, and it starts right here at h-o-m-e. I find myself doing the smell check on certain items, sizing up their re-wearability in an effort to downsize the haul. More often than not, my clothes are clean enough, but forever have the stench of espresso woven into the fibers - the trademark moniker representative of meager earnings squeezed out at the Mecca of corporate coffee. Anyways, after sniff check disapproval, the truly rotten apples get thrown into a over-sized re-usable grocery tote and are whisked away to a romantic waterlily scented getaway.
Squeaky's likes to charge top dollar for the use of their machines, which is alright considering it's basically the high-class gentleman's club of laundromats in Vic (all others are total dive lounge types). I find myself constantly, obsessively collecting change in a self-assuring effort that clean clothes will be readily available whenever called upon. It's $2.75 to wash the dirties, which I have no problem with; it's the dryer that leaves me high and not exactly dry. I pump 10 quarters worth of the Starbucks hustle fund (that's 50 minutes worth) into those fuckers, and still end up with slightly dampened duds. Crap in a hat! Of course, the very worst part of the adventure is the walk of shame to and from the car, bag o' dirty panties in tow, passing the windows of a neighboring Starbucks (where I have worked but do not call home). People gawk like the girl with the bag is some strange bird of paradise who indulges in taking her filthy clothes out into the public eye. Hardly. I cringe with embarrassment every time my leopard-print undies somehow smuggle their way from my hands during the washer to dryer trek and onto the floor (which they seemingly always do), and there's always an air of anti-exhibitionism when I dive like Michael Phelps to snatch them up before people catch the fleeting glimpse of what covers my snatch.
It's not all bad, though, y'know. There are a few choice pros to this little establishment I make weekly visits to. I mean, bitchin' soundtrack could alone hold down the fort, but with an endless display of semen stained bridal gowns sent for cleaning, a tiny dog named Berkeley who chills with this bitch and the endearing smell of industrial cleaners, it's 2 hours of my day I don't really regret. Granted, though, when J Jenks once inquired as to what my desires were for our own place together, the only words that spilled out were "in-suite laundry".
I think that's fair.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Cranky. Profane.
It's been well over a month. I know. Shuddup.
School is heck-heck-hectic, and not very enjoyable. You know what you don't want to hear on the first day of your professional writing class?
"Look forward to a really lonely life."
Shozbot! Because living on an island is not enough, right? I'm really just going to remain confident that this is a sample of the "sage like" wisdom that every professor seems to think they have and completely dismiss it as utter hoopla. Cover your ears, my kiddies and let the adults hear: I don't like university. At all.
And now, not to sound like a radical or Oi! skinhead, but I'm beginning to think that university is for chumps. People are teaching me the things I already know, and then throw me a mark of their evaluation of how well they think I think I know it. Still following me? Kudos. Most of my classes are also value judgment and opinion based, which seems very ha-ha to me because my ass is handed back to me as a wad of cookie dough whenever I do try to form an opinion. Fuggedaboutit. Needless to say, I think I'm deserting the little island that could next year, and seeking higher ground. Bonjour, Quebec?
Doing what there, though? Go to school, sure, but for what? Writing? The more and more I hear of writing, the less and less it seems like a lucrative job opportunity. Not to sound like a hell-bound Monopoly man, but I'll be needin' me a job after I do my hard time (4 years, $40,000 - seems hard to me). Writing isn't where it's at. Really, nothing's where it's at anymore. Job security is the stuff of legend, put in the back of the filing cabinet with all those blurry photographs of UFOs. So, what can I do (with a drunken sailor)? There's always the sell-my-soul-to-capitalism-and-be-a-business-major option, but I just like my arts too dang much. The business-types, they aren't a dying breed like us true art fags. You know, the ones who don't try so hard.
School is heck-heck-hectic, and not very enjoyable. You know what you don't want to hear on the first day of your professional writing class?
"Look forward to a really lonely life."
Shozbot! Because living on an island is not enough, right? I'm really just going to remain confident that this is a sample of the "sage like" wisdom that every professor seems to think they have and completely dismiss it as utter hoopla. Cover your ears, my kiddies and let the adults hear: I don't like university. At all.
And now, not to sound like a radical or Oi! skinhead, but I'm beginning to think that university is for chumps. People are teaching me the things I already know, and then throw me a mark of their evaluation of how well they think I think I know it. Still following me? Kudos. Most of my classes are also value judgment and opinion based, which seems very ha-ha to me because my ass is handed back to me as a wad of cookie dough whenever I do try to form an opinion. Fuggedaboutit. Needless to say, I think I'm deserting the little island that could next year, and seeking higher ground. Bonjour, Quebec?
Doing what there, though? Go to school, sure, but for what? Writing? The more and more I hear of writing, the less and less it seems like a lucrative job opportunity. Not to sound like a hell-bound Monopoly man, but I'll be needin' me a job after I do my hard time (4 years, $40,000 - seems hard to me). Writing isn't where it's at. Really, nothing's where it's at anymore. Job security is the stuff of legend, put in the back of the filing cabinet with all those blurry photographs of UFOs. So, what can I do (with a drunken sailor)? There's always the sell-my-soul-to-capitalism-and-be-a-business-major option, but I just like my arts too dang much. The business-types, they aren't a dying breed like us true art fags. You know, the ones who don't try so hard.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
F McG's Guide To Friendlationships.
So, you want to make some friends*, eh? Follow these simple steps, and you too can have plans on a Saturday night.
1. Pick Your Target
My prey? An England import in my film class who seems half hippie, half grunge but all woman. Cool people have friends with accents; pick wisely.
2. Make Contact
Tiptoe around conversations; doing the basic intro mumbo jumbo works very well if both you and your prey are in a new situation. We talked about school - progress achieved!
3. Plan A Follow-Up
If the intro checks out, hint at a follow-up. A simple "see you next class" can suffice as a non-closure statement, or you can take it the next level and do a preemptive (and potentially risky) light hang-out session. I offered to save my foreign exchange buddy a seat in our film lecture; phone numbers were exchanged for textability. Score.
4. Do Your Research
You'd never go to a job interview without snooping out a few deets about the company; the same goes for potential pals. Facebook works very well for macro-stalking, but if you want to get an even more intimate look, do a discreet follow-around. Creepy? Maybe. Informative? Highly! You might find something in common that could benefit you for step 6. Harrie Best has an unprotected profile, so I never had to deal with the latter. My findings? She's a bit of a drunk, but absolutely adorable.
5. Maintain Your Presence
If you like what you see, don't fade away. I make a point of always sitting near Harrie in our film class and creating conversation. I feel like only a couple more classes until...
6. Make Plans
These don't even have to be extensive weekend long affair types of plans, either. If you're in a school environment, offer to meet for coffee to go over notes. My girl Harrie? I'll probably fake having a shitty school week when she asks how I'm doing and then suggest we go for beer. If you find during your creeping that you've got something in common (like music), use it to your advantage. Extra cash? Buy two tickets to a local show and pretend like a friend ditched.
Ex. "I was supposed to go see the New Pornographers with my pal Johnny this weekend, but he's got the swine. I've got this extra ticket now; d'you like the New Pornographers?"
*When used on romantic opposites, this method can drum up some love action. Or at least a bathroom quickie.
1. Pick Your Target
My prey? An England import in my film class who seems half hippie, half grunge but all woman. Cool people have friends with accents; pick wisely.
2. Make Contact
Tiptoe around conversations; doing the basic intro mumbo jumbo works very well if both you and your prey are in a new situation. We talked about school - progress achieved!
3. Plan A Follow-Up
If the intro checks out, hint at a follow-up. A simple "see you next class" can suffice as a non-closure statement, or you can take it the next level and do a preemptive (and potentially risky) light hang-out session. I offered to save my foreign exchange buddy a seat in our film lecture; phone numbers were exchanged for textability. Score.
4. Do Your Research
You'd never go to a job interview without snooping out a few deets about the company; the same goes for potential pals. Facebook works very well for macro-stalking, but if you want to get an even more intimate look, do a discreet follow-around. Creepy? Maybe. Informative? Highly! You might find something in common that could benefit you for step 6. Harrie Best has an unprotected profile, so I never had to deal with the latter. My findings? She's a bit of a drunk, but absolutely adorable.
5. Maintain Your Presence
If you like what you see, don't fade away. I make a point of always sitting near Harrie in our film class and creating conversation. I feel like only a couple more classes until...
6. Make Plans
These don't even have to be extensive weekend long affair types of plans, either. If you're in a school environment, offer to meet for coffee to go over notes. My girl Harrie? I'll probably fake having a shitty school week when she asks how I'm doing and then suggest we go for beer. If you find during your creeping that you've got something in common (like music), use it to your advantage. Extra cash? Buy two tickets to a local show and pretend like a friend ditched.
Ex. "I was supposed to go see the New Pornographers with my pal Johnny this weekend, but he's got the swine. I've got this extra ticket now; d'you like the New Pornographers?"
*When used on romantic opposites, this method can drum up some love action. Or at least a bathroom quickie.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Two posts in one day, like a true gangsta.
I completely forget to mention this, though it's relevancy to the previous post (or lack thereof) warrants it it's entirely own shout-out.
NOEL GALLAGER PTFO'D OASIS.
Can you believe that shit? When I heard that, my heart felt like Hiroshima in 1945.
That man right there? That man is a heart breaking sonuvabitch.
I can't talk about this. It hurts too badly still.
NOEL GALLAGER PTFO'D OASIS.
Can you believe that shit? When I heard that, my heart felt like Hiroshima in 1945.
That man right there? That man is a heart breaking sonuvabitch.
I can't talk about this. It hurts too badly still.
no teacozy without irony
I feel like a lobotomy patient, but with less drooling.
This is the slowest summer of my life. I chalk it up to the anticipation of school settling in combined with having no friends and working all the time. I ventured to find a hobby today, which proved to be more difficult than I could have imagined. I suggested to BF that maybe I should just practice being a raging alcoholic, but apparently that doesn't jive so well. Thus, the googling began.
Really, anything that's done continuously and with enjoyment could be considered a hobby. That's right, adolescent boys of the world! Shaking hands with Mr. Willy is a gay ol' hobby! Anyways, with that said, there's a really broad range of things that I could take up to keep me busy. Among the gems I found on the internet? Baking, scrap-booking and crime scene evidence collecting. Baking really counteracts the whole dieting schtick I've been on, so that one's trumped. Scrap-booking is for soccer moms who drive Mazda MPVs and wear festive sweaters; crime scene evidence collecting just seems illegal. I'm back to square one. This site is helpful, but more or less just makes me feel inadequate as a crafter.
(My mum used to do dried floral arrangements when I was a petite fille, hanging out in my dad's shop for what seemed like days; she'd emerge smelling of spray paint and hot glue only to have a cigarette or make dinner. When she was finished her creations, she took them to the Christmas craft sale. What fun!)
Making dried flower arrangements is not a hobby that appeals to me, but making stuff is something I dig f'sure. I handmade a postcard today before work, and it was satisfying enough. Good start; I patted myself on the back. One step closer to having a real hobby - I'm testing the waters. If handmade postcard making fails me, I'll just teach myself to knit. Problem? Solved!
P.S. I bought my textbooks for school, and it was like a $337 bitch slap.
This is the slowest summer of my life. I chalk it up to the anticipation of school settling in combined with having no friends and working all the time. I ventured to find a hobby today, which proved to be more difficult than I could have imagined. I suggested to BF that maybe I should just practice being a raging alcoholic, but apparently that doesn't jive so well. Thus, the googling began.
Really, anything that's done continuously and with enjoyment could be considered a hobby. That's right, adolescent boys of the world! Shaking hands with Mr. Willy is a gay ol' hobby! Anyways, with that said, there's a really broad range of things that I could take up to keep me busy. Among the gems I found on the internet? Baking, scrap-booking and crime scene evidence collecting. Baking really counteracts the whole dieting schtick I've been on, so that one's trumped. Scrap-booking is for soccer moms who drive Mazda MPVs and wear festive sweaters; crime scene evidence collecting just seems illegal. I'm back to square one. This site is helpful, but more or less just makes me feel inadequate as a crafter.
(My mum used to do dried floral arrangements when I was a petite fille, hanging out in my dad's shop for what seemed like days; she'd emerge smelling of spray paint and hot glue only to have a cigarette or make dinner. When she was finished her creations, she took them to the Christmas craft sale. What fun!)
Making dried flower arrangements is not a hobby that appeals to me, but making stuff is something I dig f'sure. I handmade a postcard today before work, and it was satisfying enough. Good start; I patted myself on the back. One step closer to having a real hobby - I'm testing the waters. If handmade postcard making fails me, I'll just teach myself to knit. Problem? Solved!
P.S. I bought my textbooks for school, and it was like a $337 bitch slap.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Like Cats and Dogs
Okay, I have no idea what just happened.
See, I live in this shitty little basement suite and above me live the home's owners, an early 30's guy, his wife and their new baby. All I know about her is that her name is Tracey and she's got a really annoying voice. Anyways, I feel either a suicide or a divorce coming on. Why you ask? Well, I'm about to tell you; hold your horses.
They always fight. Like, this became overwhelmingly apparent on my first night of living here, when at about 2 in the morning I woke up to hyperventilating scream-crying over my head. Their bedroom is situated right over top of mine, same goes with the kitchen. Well, tonight was especially interesting. I usually only can hear the muffled and hushed half-yelling of a couple who clearly aren't in love anymore, but tonight, I could make out entire sentences. She was yelling about something that has apparently happened in the last two months and over the last 7 years, and how she feels she has to leave and take their baby with her to get him to "sort his shit out". I feel it's either a drinking/drug/gambling addiction, or he's cheating. Both are win. And then there was some sobbing. And then there was some stomping. And then he left.
:O
To be continued?
See, I live in this shitty little basement suite and above me live the home's owners, an early 30's guy, his wife and their new baby. All I know about her is that her name is Tracey and she's got a really annoying voice. Anyways, I feel either a suicide or a divorce coming on. Why you ask? Well, I'm about to tell you; hold your horses.
They always fight. Like, this became overwhelmingly apparent on my first night of living here, when at about 2 in the morning I woke up to hyperventilating scream-crying over my head. Their bedroom is situated right over top of mine, same goes with the kitchen. Well, tonight was especially interesting. I usually only can hear the muffled and hushed half-yelling of a couple who clearly aren't in love anymore, but tonight, I could make out entire sentences. She was yelling about something that has apparently happened in the last two months and over the last 7 years, and how she feels she has to leave and take their baby with her to get him to "sort his shit out". I feel it's either a drinking/drug/gambling addiction, or he's cheating. Both are win. And then there was some sobbing. And then there was some stomping. And then he left.
:O
To be continued?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
