A little background noise

The dirty pretty Ashley Riehl tagged my ass.

I don't mean with like...spray paint, just one of these quiz things. I'm not typically one to fill these puppies out; some things are better left unsaid. But hey, I'd might as well do it up right and blatantly self-indulge in some fan-fare. Right-o; straight to it!

1. Where is your phone? In the squatter purse.
2. Your hair? Coffee-laced ponytail.
3. Your Mom? Lawyer-type power-tripper.
4. Your Dad? Hilarious.
5. Your favorite meal? I don't eat.
6. Your last dream? I made nipple pasties out of play dough.
7. What do you like to drink? Vodka Sevens with lime.
8. Your dream? Big love in little Iceland.
9. In what room are you? The only room I've got - bachelor pad.
10. Your hobby? Nose picker.
11. What are you afraid of? Zombies.
12. Last travel? I went to Kelownafornia for Thanksgimme.
13. Where were you last night? Right here.
14. Something you are not? Super model.
15. Muffins? Blueberry buttermilk or (on the cheap side) fruit explosion!
16. Wishlist? A puppy.
17. Where did you grow up? Under a rock.
18. Last thing you did? Work.
19. What are you wearing? Super faggy turtle neck and no pants.
20. Your television? Unloved and unused.
21. Your pet(s)? See question 16.
22. Your friends? Scattered.
23. Your life? Kooky.
24. Your temper? Passive-aggressive.
25. Do you miss someone? Bump, Guppy and my super hottie man candy.
26. Your car? Mombalt Supreme!
27. Something you don't bring with you? Commonsense, apparently.
28. Your favorite shop? No pennies for candy, friends. I'm poor.
29. Your favorite color? Electric kool-aid purple.
30. Last time you laughed? 30 seconds ago.
31. Last time you cried? Sunday.
32. Your best friend? Peaced out a while back and I didn't even notice.
33. A place where you can go again and again? Starbucks, because I like...work there. Cha-ching!
34. Facebook? Only when I should be doing something else.
35. Favorite place to eat? Anywhere with yam fries.

Oh, peer now my friends, into the tiny mortal exist of yours truly and yawn - it's okay.

Tiny Dancer

Just stopping by quickly to say hi, I'm still alive despite exams in case you were wondering and also, happy December! On that note...

Today is Bump's two year escape from the wombaversary!

Can you believe it!?

Live and in Colour!

Ladies and Gents, it's a goddamn Pineapple Express! Someone get me a hammer - I'll be in the backyard building the ark.

I've been pouring over philosophy meditations and uni-illegal sparknotes trying to decipher what the hell it is the Descartes is exactly trying to tell me, and I've got to say: that man had quite a 'stache. Fitting for me to be researching him in Movember. I, too, was going to be participating in Movember this year, using other forms of body hair as my incentive. It then occurred to me two things:

1) I'm not going to raise any money by having the legs of a young Russian man.
2) It's socially unacceptable for me to cornrow that shit and treat it like a hot fashion accessory when halfway through the month I realize that I'm not raising any money and have to find an excuse as to why my legs are so disgustingly fur-lined.

So I went "eeehhh" and hauled out a new Bic for quick smooth-down in the stand-up stall shower. Plus I figure that J Jenks would make a frowny face when I disrobe, because even with the lights off, he could hear my thick leg locks swaying in the breeze of the portable heater. Daaaayuuuuum.

Have I mentioned lately that the baby upstairs has taught himself how to scream like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park? Have I mentioned lately that he likes to do this at the most inconvenient times, like when I'm trying to sleep or when I'm trying to do homework or whenever his spidey senses tingle and he knows that I'm home? Now, I'm not at all into smothering babies, but I think I might be into smothering babies*.

Kthxbye.

*obvious joke**
**don't tell my landlord

Weekend Update

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.

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.

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.

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.