Tuesday, February 27, 2007


This weekend I'm going away to an actual Big City and I'm kind of terrified. Not only that, but I have to go out in this big city and you all know what that means: I have to find something to wear. At this point my only option, really, is to go shopping and try to find something that A) Won't bankrupt me and B) that I have enough money on my debit to purchase because my credit card has expired.

My main problem, of course, is finding some sort of acceptable footwear. I own one pair of black leather shoes that rip my feet to ribbons each and every time I wear them, and I'm tired of my feet looking as though they've been on the set of a horror movie every time they come in from a night out. My other option is my hooker boots, which I love. Oh, hooker boots, how I could sing your praises from now till all eternity. The problem is that I bought them back in 2003 and I'm ever so certain that they are so far away from being fashionable any longer that I may be ridiculed and refused entrance into any clubs I may try to get into while in the Big City. Occasionally I've snuck into less classy joints in Docs, but I don't think this will cut it in a real city.

Tentatively, I've staved off the anxiety over getting on the right train and ending up at the right station, for now. I've now channeled it into other, more pertinent issues like what the Hell I'm supposed to wear and should I pack my whole makeup bag? Or just the pieces I use regularly?

This trip is going to be the death of me, I'm sure.


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Oh. My. WORD.

The sickness has attached itself to me and I don't think that eating all the garlic and vitamin C in the world is going to help me at this point. So I did what any sane and rational person would do and when I woke up this morning I ate a frozen dinner for breakfast because it claims to have iron in it and my God, what better way to start your day than by infusing your bloodstream with iron and MSG?

For supper last night I tried one of those home remedies and I have to say that it sucked ass for a variety of reasons, namely that it didn't work and that it tasted like burny goodness that is now taking over my whole body. I did the ol' "Eat Garlic until it starts eminating from your pores like bad gangsta music from the apartment with the two wierdos living above you"and I'm telling you now that it does not work. I am telling you now that as a result of having eaten this garlic, I smell terrible and there is this taste stuck in my mouth that no amount of gargling with gargle-y stuff is going to remedy. Seriously, This home remedy crap? Is crap. Stick to the chemicals, baby, because all this mamby pamby have faith and you'll get better crap is not worth being disappointed by. Not to mention you'll get a terrible sugar rush from drinking three gallons of orange juice in one day and scare your mom when she makes a social call to say hello.

And now, I'm going to actually study for this stupid midterm that I have this morning and hopefully be able to function my way through the other stupid midterm that I have tonight. Here's hoping that I'll be done both early enough to get out of the lecture hall and devote the hours following it to sleep, sweet sleep, because last night I was grinding my teeth so badly that I couldn't maintain unconsciousness AND I couldn't breath through my nose. Usually I manage to multitask and breathe while I pulverize my teeth into nothingness, but the sickness is preventing this from happening and nothing pisses me off more than not being able to sleep.



Monday, February 26, 2007

Let the anxiety begin....

"How do you get to the train station?"

"You get on the bus, pay the nice man the three dollars it costs, and then get off it at the stop that says 'Train Station'"

"Oh. Ok, well, what do I do once I get there?"

"You get on the train."

"Well, yeah! But how do I know which train to get on?"

"You get on the one with 'Toronto' written on the side of it."

"Ok, but then how do I know when to get off?"

"When the person calls out that you are in Toronto, you get off the train. And then the person meeting you should be able to direct you back to the place he lives in."

"Ok, but what about my bags? What do I do with my bags?"

"I refuse to take this conversation any further and as of this minute, I'm vacating the premises we share in order to escape your insanity."

"YOU CAN'T LEAVE! I still don't know what to do with my bags!!"

Click. (That was the door shutting).

And now, my Anthropology textbook and I are staring at each other like we should be having some meaningful interaction, but I still don't know what I'm supposed to be doing with my bags while I sit on this train.

Clearly, a strong dose of Clonapin is in order.


Sunday, February 25, 2007

The sickness....

It seems that my body is in the process of being ravaged by a random sickness again, and this time I am fighting back, dammit.

Last week at the beginning of reading week I felt sort of scratchy-throated as though I was coming down with something. I managed to beat it off with the infusion of several ounces of hard liquor into my veins while playing video games with Mal at The Ranch. I thought I had beaten it for good, but today at around noon, I noticed that my sinuses are somewhat congested, I've been sneezing like it's my job, and I've felt slightly discombobulated.

I hate the sickness. Some people refer to the sickness as a cold or a flu. The new hip and cool catch phrase for the sickness is 'a virus'. I hate this term, virus, for a multitude of reasons. It seems to me that it's become like the words 'organic' and 'natural'. Marketing people have begun applying it to anything that might come with a label, and in turn, the word has turned in to some obscure thing that people say in order to sound like they know what they are talking about.

Most people don't really have a clue as to whether or not people have colds, flus, viruses, or a random infection when they come down with the sickness. The fact is that they feel funny, feel scratchy-throated, and don't want to get up to write their anthropology midterms on Tuesday should they actually have acquired the sickness. Other people, in turn, apply the term virus to this crappy feeling, in hopes that having some kind of random label attached to the illness will be comforting and helpful.

I hate to break it to you, people, but labeling an obscure thing a virus instead of a cold still leaves us with an obscure label that isn't particularly helpful.

I went to the store after I got home tonight and bought some orange juice, vitamin C, garlic tablets, and antiseptic throat gargling stuff in an attempt to stave off whatever it is I have. For now, I kind of feel like I'm going to die, so wile I was supposed to study all night long tonight, I'm going to finish up a chapter or two of Anthropology and then fall into slumber while my body recuperates from the sickness. Hopefully a night of good sleep, a vitamin C and garlic infused bloodstream, and an opportunity for my throat to have it's germies killed with gargle-y stuff will do the trick.

If not, prepare for me to get cranky.



Saturday, February 24, 2007

Girls with Guns....

Easy steps to becoming a sharp shooting redneck in one hour or less:
First, you need a lesson from SuperNan on how to hold the gun. My dad will also probably accost you at this point and demand that you make a triangle with your two hands and look through it at a point on the wall. You'll be confused, but because he's my dad, you're going to listen. An hour later someone will explain to you that the point of this exercise was to determine whether you are right or left eye dominant.

Then, you need to go out to the shooting range, also known as the field behind the house. The boys will show up with four-wheelers and big trucks, and you can stand beside them smoking a cigarette and feeling like the ultimate redneck.

After you'd declared yourself an official redneck, you get to learn how to stand with the gun. Here you can see that Mal has, indeed, learned the rules of gun safety: Her finger isn't on the trigger, nor is it pointed directly at her own face. For a first timer, Mal did pretty well hitting one of the three clay pidgeons she shot at. After her first hit, she decided to call it quits for the day, probably because at this point, neither her nor I could feel our fingers any more.

After you'd made yourself the sharpest shooter in all of CowTown, you get to pose beside your redneck friend with the guns. And you get to make fun of her for wearing a coat that bears strong resemblence to a sleeping bag you brought to camp with you in the seventh grade.

When you're not out shooting stuff, you get to go to the rink my great Grandfather built and have a sword fight on ice. The Precious Boy is learning how to skate this year, and what a skater he's become! He's finally mastered the art of using two feet to skate instead of pushing with one and sliding with the other. While we were learning how to do this, it was quite a bit like the blind leading the blind, seeing as I can hardly remain vertical on ice myself. If nothing else, he got a kick out of the fact that I fall down just as much, if not more often, than he does.
It was a grand spring break; probably my best yet. This one didn't involve some strange illness, having my wisdom teeth out, working eight million hours, or any family crises. (These are all things that my spring breaks usually consist of. Sigh.)
I have a few more random pictures from break that will be up at my site later in the day, so stop by and check them out if you have a minute!

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The end of one life, and the beginning of another....

For years now, I've been involved in a romance of sorts. It's been a confusing one that no one has ever been able to understand when I explain it to them.

It hasn't been a steady thing. We both agreed that we would see other people and that we would each do our best to be without each other. But it was always one of those things where all my roads led to him; all his roads led to me. I suppose that the fact that we are quite literally millions of miles apart only complicates matters further.

I'm not sure what it was about me that he found so intriguing. I suppose it had to do with the fact that I've always had a very down to earth lifestyle: The farm girl who's never been on a plane, never seen the ocean, never seen the seven wonders. Until 2003, I'd never really been beyond CowTown for periods longer than three weeks at a time. I've never been exposed to the 'finer' things in life: I've never felt a need to search those out, probably because my parents have always strived to make sure that their children have all their needs and wants met with the best they can provide.

I haven't the foggiest as to what made me want to be with him. He was from a millionaire family, complete with property ownerships around the world, vacations I've never dreamed of, and a lifestyle that is as foreign to me as the languages he spoke. His passport looked like a stampbook, he's never driven an economy car, Wal-Mart shopping is completely foreign to him. He was handsome and aware of things that I've never known about. He was interesting; he drove fascinating cars and he wore clothes with names on them that I didn't know existed.

He always said that what he loved about me was the fact that I had a pure heart. I've no idea if I have a pure heart or not; I've no idea what defines a person's heart as being pure. I'd certainly love to have one of these pure hearts that God is so fond of but I'm afraid several parts of my personality preclude me from ever bearing one. He usually went on at this point to say how lucky I was to live a life uncomplicated by what accompanies immense wealth: the family dynamics, the politics, the unease that everyone feels upon mentioning it. I never grew up surrounded by any purple elephants and I suppose that in and of itself is something he always wanted to have.

This romance carried on long distance since he left for Dubai in the fall of 2003. We've kept in contact since then, seeing each other twice since he initially left, leaving us both confused as to what the next plan of attack is regarding whether or not being together is something worth persuing.

Last week it came to an end, and rather than spending my days crying into my pillows, I've been overwhelmed by a complete sense of calm and relief. The clashing of two cultures that would have come on by our being together was something that weighed on my mind constantly. Dating people, as we had agreed to do since we were so far apart, was always stressful because I felt that as long as I was still involved long-distance with this person was unfair to all parties involved.

My Dubai Guy is gone and I suppose there wasn't a better time for him to go: I'm in a place now that is secure without him or anyone else; I'm in a place where I can think clearly about the plans that I have for myself and the goals I have for my own life. I can be centred and focused and not have to worry about him flying in to shake me up again, to rattle my nerves and bring up feelings that should have been dead and buried a long, long time ago.

I love the overwhelming sense of freedom that I have to pursue my life without being tied down by whatever it was that defined the relationship we had. I certainly appreciate the times we shared together, and the memories made. In the end though, it is all about me once more and I am happy to say that I love being me, despite the struggles, tirals, and tribulations that this life feels the need to make me face.

It is this feeling that I have right now that makes me want to stand up and take over this world because when I feel like I do now, I feel like I can do anything; I could move mountains if the thought were to enter my head. I feel like my goals to become an expert berry farmer and a master candle craftsperson and an entrepreneur in the jam world aren't the goals of a silly little girl, but the feasable plans of someone with ideas in her head. I know that if losing what was once so incredibly important to me isn't enough to take me out, isn't enough to even knock me over for a day, then there isn't much in this world that can take me out.

Dubai Guy is gone for good; deleted from contacts and from phone lists, from saved messages and so forth, and the only thing I can think to do is play a good song on my favorite guitar and dance through my apartment like an idiot.

Freedom is a wonederful thing.



Monday, February 19, 2007

The Outside Looking In....

Joining someone else's family for any period of time is usually overwhelming. When I first met The Berry Queen & King, I was shocked to learn that it was not, in fact, a violation of several federal laws and a few county by-laws to stack dirty dishes on top of one another. The thought horrified me, and still does to this day, because good heavens, why would any sane people want to to have to wash both sides of one dish? Why would you double your workload like that? Don't people who do things like this realize that there is important television to be watching?

Mal is here at the Ranch, for her first ever glimpse into the way my family functions. If you've been here forever, you know the rules. Don't stack the dirty dishes. I might scream and throttle you with a pepper mill. Don't crumple my mother's table cloth. She could very well lose her mind entirely, wrap it around your neck, and strangle you with it to prevent such a thing ever happening again. And finally, you aren't allowed to give my dad's dog commands. It's some wierd training thing he follows whereby the dog only listens to its owner so as not to be confused.

I suppose that some of these rules should be clarified, in particular the dog one. My brother's dog is still here at the Ranch with us, and this animal has the ability to inspire hysteria into anything composed of atoms as it enters the room. She causes dust to fly, she wreaks havoc on perfectly laid out construction toys, and her tail is a nightmare that just keeps happening all the live-long day. She can take out drinks, bowls of food, small children, and I'm sure, if you let her, an entire small nation with three wags of her outrageously long and wag-gy tail.

I entered the living room yesterday to the sight of Mall beneath approximately one hundred and seventy five pounds worth of dogs, licking, jumping, wiggling, panting, and generally trying to consume her like an ice cream cone on a hot day. Mal was sitting perfectly still, as though there were not three obnoxious creatures messing her coiffed hair and putting their dogg-y paws on her outfit.

I tried asking her what the hell she was doing, trapped beneath this mess of dog, but every time she opened her mouth, three doggy noses dove forward to see if they could wrangle up some makeout time. I waded through the mess, trying to haul dogs off her her as best I could, laughing at my poor friend's plight.

"Why on Earth didn't you just yell at them to get down?"

"I thought the rule was no commanding dogs? So I was hoping they'd go away."

Is the Pope Catholic? Do dogs pee on brick walls? Will I throw my body across the room like a mother bear to protect her children should the safety of my socks come into danger?

Of course something so measly as hope will not call off those dogs. You need a bull-horn, a cattle prod, some sort of eletrified fencing mechanism, and full body armour to protect yourself from these beasts, and I don't even have faith that these would deterr them fro more than a minute.

Yes, Mal. This is how we live. Surrounded by dogs who bark, wiggle, stampede throughout the house, are capable of sending my ninety pound grandmother flying through the air, and who spend all day every day looking for a crotch to sniff. Don't tell them they have no goals.

Hope. Pffft. Hope is for pansies. In this house you get by with the help of special favors from God, an ability to hold back your Cosmos, and a deep-seated understanding that he who wades his way into the fray, slashing and beating off the others who live here with large jewelry stones and sheer will is the only one who is going to come out on top, free of dog trauma, and with the last Coke from the fridge.



Sunday, February 18, 2007

Making plans....

The scene: My bedroom, candles lit, drink in hand. Phone rings. I trundle through the debris and search it out beneath my lumberjack jacket, and beside the two week's worth of clothing I've shoved into the corner by the dresser. It's Terri. I settle in for a chat.

T: I thought you were coming home this weekend? And how come no one is answering the phone at your parents house? I thought you people made it your goal to spend every waking minute on the Internet. And I thought if you weren't on the Internet, you were sitting in the kitchen waiting for people to call?

A: I dunno. Maybe they're sleeping?

T: Since when do they sleep at normal sleeping hours in that house?

A: This is true. Should I freak out, have a panic attack, and rip out all my hair?

T: Only if you want to end up looking like Britney Spears.

A: Oh, come on now. That was mean!

T: I live to be mean. So how come you're not home?

A: Oh, Mal and I are coming back on Sunday morning, we're staying till Wednesday. She wants to learn how to shoot some shit, so Davey said he'd come buy with some extra firearms so he can show her some neat ones.

T: You guys and your shootin' shit.

A: Meh, just clay pidgeons. It fun to say 'shootin' shit' in place of 'shooting at moving clay targets because it offends all the vegetarians when you talk about it out loud in public. I'm real feeling like that. Hey, Davey also said he might be taking us bar-hopping in the Sticks.

T: Oh, you mean to that nice bar?

A: Pfffft. Where's the fun in that? We're going to the classiest joints around.

T: Oh, God, Amanda. You can't do that. You'll terrify her and probably get yoruself killed!

A: Meh, no biggie. It's not like we're going to dress up or anything. Not like going to bars in the big city.

T: As long as you're sure.

A: Well, it's not like we're going to make ourselves stand out or any--

T: You have all your teeth. That's going to tip them off right there. You'll walk in, and everyone in there will think, My GOD. Women with TEETH. And they'll all want your lucky teeth-carrying genes to go on to the next generation, and they'll all try and hit on you and DEAR GOD! What if they sit near you? You know that the people in that bar don't wash frequently. *Shivers*

A: Well, I was a little worried about the teeth thing, but perhaps we'll eat a lot of purple popscicles before we go. That way we'll still have teeth, but they'll look sort of black-ish.

T: Oh, for God's sake, Listen to yourself. These people know freshly-colored teeth from teeth colored by a lifetime of chew and beer. What if you wear clean clothes? What then, Huh? You'll walk in there smelling like laundry detergent AND THEN THEY WILL KNOW. They'll know you're an outsider, and know that your friend is from the city, and you'll get mobbed like Britney Spears getting a new tattoo with no body guards.

A: And if they mob us and kill us based on the fact that we have teeth and laundry detergent? I'M LEAVING MY CAT TO YOU. As punishement. Because that's what I do to people who try to thwart my plans with reality. I threaten to punish them with the presence of felines they don't really want.


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Saturday, February 17, 2007

Poor decision making 101...

Andy, are you goofin' on Elvis.. Hey Baby... Are we havin' fun....

Step one in poor decision making: Go to Mal's with a case of beer. Discuss the thing that you did four years ago that makes you a terrible person.

Step two in poor decision making: Come home with the rest of your case of beer. Wake up your roommate on your way in. Sit in front of your laptop.

Step three in poor decision making: Reach into the case for one more, planning on having two more. There is only one.

Step four in poor decision making: Count the empties around you and curse yourself for not buying in bulk. It's a better deal, better for the environment, and better for your plans of drinking and writing copious amounts of 'written works' on your laptop.

Step five in poor decision making: Browse your playlist at four a.m. seeking out sad songs that remind you of love lost and opportunities gone.

Step six in poor decision making: Play your list of sad songs that remind you of lost love and opportunities gone.

Step seven in poor decision making: Download a video of Tim McGraw's Don't Take the Girl. Watch it with eyes wide open, dragging on God-knows-which-numbered-cigarette you've had tonight. Contemplate throat lozenge shopping in the morning.

Step eight inpoor decision making: Try to balance a beer beside your leg, assuming your cellulite thighs will keep it firmly in place while you switch songs. Dump said beer all over yourself.

Step nine in poor decision making: Be a big cheap-ass and don't keep paper towels in the house on an envrionmentalist kick. I'm a farmer, Dammit! My goal is to spray as many cancer-causing pesticides as I can across the Earth's surface in hopes of ending it's existence within the next ten years. Environmentalist, my ass.

Step ten in poor decision making: Use your last clean sock to mop up the beer you've spilt on your ultra-sexy jogging pants. Contemplate how bad it would smell in the morning if you didn't use the last quasi-clean sock you own o mop up the rest.

Step eleven in poor decision making: Give up on mopping up the beer and remove the jogging pants entirely. Because cellulite never looked better than when it is glistening in the glow of a one million watt lightbulb at four a.m.

Steps to recovery in poor decision making:
1) Listen to something happy.
2) Drink some Diet Ginger Ale!
3) Think about time soon to be spent at the Ranch with Mal!!
4) Plan on shopping in the morning for Cosmo ingredients and new playing cards.
5) Realize, it IS morning, Silly!
6) Re-vamp shopping plans to include waking up past one. Or maybe two.
7) Look at your happy kitty curled up peacefully at the foot of your bed.
8) Envision the ever-adorable Dixie sleeping there instead.
9) Arrange the flannel sheets just the way you like them.
10) Imagine yourself as a beautiful Goddess who can take on the world with a few beers in her system and one hand tied behind her back.
11) Watch that sexy Goddess kick this world's ass, coming out on top regardless of past errors.
12) Dive into slumber, carefully putting a thin layer of highly acidic acne cream on your face, then flossing and brushing and carefully placing one's retainer exactly where it belongs before you do so.
13) Lapse into a state of deep unconsciousness.
14) Awaken to know that you OWN this life, and it is what YOU make it, and what YOU want to make it can be anything in this world.
15) Give yourself a hug for being so damn positive every day. And then go back to sleep. Because everyone deserves fourteen hours of consecutive sleep now and then.


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Friday, February 16, 2007

Dear Blog, I can't forget....

I am a forgetful girl. I forget things. I could regale you with tales of my forgetfulness that make my mother want to throttle me.

I once managed to leave the house and return to my mother hollering "How can you leave this house with sandals ON your feet, and return with sandals NOT ON your feet!?!"

Looking back, I suppose it was a legitimate question.

I've done the same thing with wallets, coats, purses, most recently a paycheck, t-shirts, sweatshirts, favorite hats, mittens, gloves, a pair of snow pants, and once, my car.

The car was only once. And I found it twenty minutes later. When the girls I was with suggested that it had been stolen, they looked at me like I had lost my mind when I told them that it wasn't stolen: I'd lost it. Because losing and forgetting is what I do.

When I graduate school this year, my family is going to put a photo in our local newspaper. I'm not sure what the caption is going to say. It will probably be a run-of-the mill announcement that says "It is with great pride and an enormous sense of relief that our daughter has finally graduated from the Most Satanic University in the Free World with a degree in Social Sciences, Concentration Sociology. It was a long and windy road, littered with sedatives and alcohol around the bends, but you did it! We're proud of you, honey! Love, SuperNan and SuperDad."

Now, in order to put this in the paper, they are going to need a picture of me. And while I think that the picture of me drinking beer straight from the pitcher and giving the thumbs up would be best, I'm sure my mother thinks not.

I'm going to need a graduation photo.

A friend had hers done yesterday and she told me that she just went on the day that her faculty told her to go. Her faculty told her when to go. That led me to believe that my faculty should have given me directions on where to go and when.

But oh, no. See, I can't stand the constant influx of emails I get in a language I don't understand. These emails make my heart race and the color of my face turn. If I could find a man with the same effect on me my school has, I'd be set.

I digress. Thus far in my carreer as a student, I've just deleted everything with a subject line that I can't decipher. Because the subject lines need to be in two languages, there is never enough space for the language I do understand, and thus, every email my school ever sends me gets deleted. That probably includes the email that told me about my grad photo op.

Today I had errands to run and so after I got my student loan I ran frantically to the photo place set up on campus and began pleading for a chance to have my grad photos done. Because after the journey I've taken to get this damn degree? The mementos are damn well going to include a picture of me in a cap and gown, so help you all GOD.

The girl just looked at me like I was crazy and said "Yeah, sign-up sheet's right there. Any day that's good for you."


I felt like cackling maniacally, but instead I just wrote down my name and left.

So, someone write it down. I'm thinking of scribbling it across the walls of my bedroom, seeing as how I won't have to look at it once I'm gone.

Next Friday. Ten thirty a.m. Momma needs a pit'chure of her girl lookin' awll fancied up after bein' in the big city 'n' all.


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It is certainly winter...

I have a slight objection to Canadians who write about the weather. We are, after all, in Canada. We're not sure why the original settlers came here [There'd better have been a damn good reason, though] but they came.

And now we have to suffer.

It's been windy for the last week. And by windy, I mean that it's not actually safe to venture out of doors. I'm starting to forget exactly what it is that being outside feels like without fear of being blown flat on your ass in the middle of the street. And while normal people wouldn't walk in the middle of the street; well, you don't have that much choice once the Hand of God puts you there. That's right. I just compared wind to the Hand of God, because that's how it feels when the ice and wind is suffocating me and tossing me around aimlessly while I walk.

When a West wind blows, in particular, I have trouble being in my bedroom. Now, I'm no contractor. I'm certainly not the next great architect of the twenty-first century. I will not likely ever build a Sistine Chapel. I can't even build a dog house. However, it seems that the person who measured the windows for the frames in this building was in desperate need of a new pair of bifocals. Or a magnifying glass. Or the sense to touch the window and see if it fit before declaring this place suitable to live in.

He must have been from California. And I bet he drives a foreign car, too. AND, I bet he's a vegetarian who's never encountered snow, wind, or anything cold before in his life. Not even Ice Cream.

I've got the windows as closed as they can be; and yet, the wind blows on, making it's way through my curtains and on to freeze my sleeping form. The ice builds up on the insides as though it is trying to create the next Ice Castle to be featured on TLC. It is almost like the ice has a life of its' own, ideas, goals, and ambitions that it needs to follow. Like the ice's mother told it to follow every stream and climb every mountain.

The ice's mother should have shut the hell up.

At any rate, I'm freezing away in my bedroom always wondering what the solution is. I've tried packing tape, but packing tape doesn't get along very well with ice.

Oh, well. I'll just pretend that I've gone winter camping and go to bed grateful that the bears haven't gotten me.


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Thursday, February 15, 2007


As some of you may recall, I had a bit of trouble this fall with a doctor in the city. Thankfully, Dr. Chuck came to my rescue and fixed me right up. However, it was a terrifying time in which this city doctor quite literally nearly killed me with ultra high doses of a fairly serious drug with no follow up care.

I've been hesitant to be a squeaky wheel here. For one thing, I'm only one patient and my situation is unique, much like that of every patient they see. Another reason is the administration at my school, which has left me in tears more times than I care to think about.

Considering that the people at my school treat students like dirt stuck to the bottom of their shoes at the best of times, I'm fairly concerned of how they will react if I were to demand to speak to a person in authority. I'd have to maintain composure, for one thing. I'd have to look articulate and intelligent, hold my posture and maintain eye contact. I'd also have to wear appropriate shoes. If there is anything in this world that is beyond me, footwear is it.

Today a friend called me while I was studying and needed an ear. So, I picked up the phone and she told me her tale. It included being prescribed a medication she specifically said she didn't want as well as being given two drugs she didn't ask for nor did she think she needed. Finally, the doctor made rude comments about her size (And let me tell you, she is beautiful beyond words) and about her lifestyle.

So now I want to take this somewhere. I want people to know what is going on; not only how our school is allowing students to be treated medically, but how our school is allowing professionals who are supposed to be trusted to treat us. It disgusts me when I think that when I went in, I needed some specific care and this doctor wrote out a prescription and sent me on my way. No interest in how my symptoms arose, or in why they would persist for so long.

I have no idea how or where to start. I'm thinking of going to the health office and starting a hunt there for some names of people I could contact, but I have no idea who or what section of the school deals with the health centre. I will no doubt be pushed away, have my letters ignored, and be placated.

If that doesn't work, I suppose my only other option is to go to the media; both the school newspapers and local newspapers. Bad publicity is really what scares corporations like my school. The problem is that I'm so scared of starting something like this.

The other problem is that if someone doesn't start this, then who will? Who next will be overdosed on mass quantities of drugs that doctors don't know what to do with? What if the next person they do that to doesn't have a family unit like I do, or a place to go to recover like I do?

I know the people closest to me had a lot of trouble accepting my troubles in the fall. It wasn't actually that hard on me once I was in the care of Dr. Chuck: I was sleeping most of the time. As bad as I feel for putting my family and friends through an episode of watching me go through what I did, I am eternally grateful every day that I had these people to help me through. I've been thinking and thinking about the people who don't have that network behind them, and it is just not fair that the school is getting away with this.

The problem is that I just feel like little ol' me, and that there isn't much I can accomplish on my own. It's a scary world, because sometimes you have to stand up for what is right, and sometimes that is such a hard decision to make, and an even harder one to follow through on.


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Wednesday, February 14, 2007

The Most Magical Day of the Year!

Happy, Happy Valentine's Day!

The day is looking to be a prosperous one so far. I was up bright and early with the impression that I was lost in some kind of African Safari nightmare that simply would not end. It turns out that this monkey screeching/lion roaring/elephant stampeding is some sort of alarm system on my roommate's cell phone. And let me tell you that waking up to is every day gives you a certain feeling of how your day will progress.

Fortunately, it got better as I managed to get some studying done despite the fact that I stayed up until all hours choosing Valentine's Day eCards to friends and family. I even found a military one, but it was from the U.S military and I don't think it was meant to come from a sister. At any rate, Big Brother is on his way home now and will be back on Canadian soil by early next week. I'm breathing a sigh of relief that this mission went as well as could be expected. I pray that our overseas troubles will end soon and that we can all move on with our lives: Canadians, the Afghanis, and pretty much any residents of this world.

My Valentine this year is none other than the wonderous Joomy and we will be sharing some food, perhaps some wine, and a good dose of laughs. I had all kinds of adventures on the weekend and she NEEDS to be informed, Dammit! We plan on eating a romantic dinner with only our best posture and table manners, gaze longingly into each other's eyes, and perhaps watch some lame Valentine's chick flick while we have a serious discussion about colonialization and it's lasting impact on society as a whole; further, we plan to delve into the topics of women's liberation in the twenty-first century and the best way to beat capitalism without throwing the world market off kilter.

Or, we'll blather about boys. And hair. And makeup. And probably kissing too.

Because nothing is better than kisses!

Happy Valentine's Day!


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Monday, February 12, 2007

An Open Letter to My Cat....

Dear Coperni-Kitty,

It's been a while since we've danced this dance on my blog. Last fall was a pretty rough time for me, and as a result it was a rough time for you. I'm not one of those psychos who goes around beating her cat when she's pissed -- you know that. However, I am one of those psychos who goes around running to her parents' house when things get unlivable, and as a result, your life became unlivable due to two words: Three Dogs.

Big Brother is away in Afghanistan right now, and his dog Kali has taken up residence at The Ranch. Now, Coperni-Kitty, you and I both know that there is a boundless amount of love in my heart for Kali. She is truly a wonderful dog; however, we both know that she would be much more pleasurable to spend time with if she was on Ritalin. I was sedated for most of my stay at The Ranch, and let me tell you, Kitty, that sedation is heaven. I'll also confide that it entered my head more than once -- more than fifty times, even -- that I might spare the world of her hyper-activity for an afternoon by splitting a dose of Clonapin between myself and her.

Following Christmas break, I was ready to face the world once more. However, I had some things to work with at home. So, to save you hours of grievous time spent in a kennel strapped in to the back seat of a Saturn Vue, I decided to leave you behind for an additional month.

I have to apologize.

It seems that Kali, in her great love for all things in existence, has a great love for you as well. She would love nothing more than to grip you in her paws, hold you down on the floor, and lick you within an inch of your life.

You tend to think that this game is about as much fun as that time I dressed you up like a mummified Goddess and took pictures of you in the arms of my then-five year old nephew. Us human-folk refer to that as having you fixed. I'm sorry for laughing at you while you had that lampshade on your head, and I admit now that I kept in on you for three days longer than I should have because you were just so damn funny stalking around getting caught on everything in sight.

Because of Kali's exuberance in showing her love to you, you decided that your time was best spent in the top of my bunk bed, cowering in a corner as if leaches were waiting to suck the very life out of you.

Well, Coperni-Kitty, I guess it gets lonely up there in the top bunk after two months, and in your weeks since returning to the city, it's like you've become a new cat. You've discovered the art of purring. You've also become cuddly, which is the reason I got you in the first place. Every night, you cuddle up against me and drift off into kitty-licious sleep. Sorry for all the thrashing about: It's what I do when I sleep.

You've also become prone to trying to sit in my lap. You don't always look very happy to be there; quite the opposite. Frequently you sit on my lap, eyes squinted and ears pinned, looking your best like you're trying to enjoy the time being social. I'm sure some day you'll get this whole afection thing down. For now I'm just happy you're trying.

And so, Dear Copernicus, I leave you with this: When I was living in the Depths of Hell, feeding you orange water from its Hellish pipes and subjecting you to many a two a.m. phone call to the police because of all the schizophrenice neighbors, this is what I had envisioned in getting a cat. Someone to commiserate with, someone to chase the toy I lovingly crocheted around in circles, someone to keep me company at night.

It may not be perfect, and we've had some rocky times (Sorry again for that time I turned around in the car and threatened to have you thrown from the moving vehicle beneath the wheels of an oncoming bus) but here we are. I've started liking you. You've started tolerating me.

It's wonderful



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Sunday, February 11, 2007

Things are looking up....

Last week I had the pleasure of visiting with Dr. Chuck for a while, and he prescribed me some acne cream for the ever-present acne I've acquired since becoming an adult. The cream is working wonders on my skin, peeling off one layer after another in a haze of burn-y goodness. I'm pretty sure that this particular cream could get a person very, very high if a person were to shut the bathroom door and inhale its fumes for longer than eighteen seconds.

The down side of this cream is that my face is so dry and hurt-y that flossing, smiling wide, yawning, and doing any number of other things that require facial contortion is now rather painful. I'm quite terrified that some day I'm going to sneeze too soon after an application of this cream and my entire facial dermis is going to drop right off of my skull and leave me looking like something out of a horror movie.

The other day in search of a cure for this excessive dryness, I went into the pharmacy to see what they have. This is where I find that I'm not too good at being a woman: it's bad enough that I can barely navigate the feimine paper section, but the lotion section overwhelmed me to the point of needing Clonapin. Chased down by tequila. And five cigarettes.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any of those three items with me, so with a friend from class I started reading all the information about lotion.

Good God.

There is a cream out there for every possible part of your face and sometimes I wonder how any woman manages to get up in time to apply each one in its proper location, in its proper order, at the proper time of day. Did you know that there are certain lotions to apply in the morning, and different ones to apply in the evening. I was a little confused by the difference between evening cream and overnight cream, and it led me to wonder: are you supposed to put one lotion on after dinner and a different one before bed?

How do people learn these things? Is there, like, som fundamental class in high school that I missed out on? Because I truly felt as though I needed a degree in something other than Sociology to try and understand what is what.

At any rate, I gave up on reading the different boxes and bottles and decided to go with a Neutrogena lotion that claims to be light, oil free, and perfect for sensitive skin. I don't even know if my skin is sensitive or not, but at this point, considering that I smooth a layer of noxious-smelling chemicals over it each night, it needs all the TLC it can get.

If nothing else, despite the fact that I think I may fail womanhood altogether and if I have a daughter who needs to learn these things she will be shit out of luck, I feel much better about my appearance. When Dr. Chuck asked me about it, I told him that acne isn't something that I dewll on or that particularly bothers me. I guess it must have bothered me more than I thought because lately I've been looking in the mirror and thinking, 'nice!' Not only that, but I'm more able to be in public without thinking that people are staring in horror at a monstrosity of a pimple that is threatening to swallow up the whole world with its greatness.

Looking good, feeling good...

Things are looking up.


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Saturday, February 10, 2007

My word, I feel free.....

Today I got to do something that I've been looking forward to for weeks; and no, recovering from a night of watching Free Willy in the company of one too mny Cosmopolitans and Mal is not it.

I cleaned out my closet. It was so thrilling. I felt so free as I listened to Blue Rodeo and the Dixie Chicks, flinging articles of crap, old Christmas tree lights, clothes I haven't worn since moving to the new building out my bedroom door.

SuperNan would have been so proud. I reminisced over a few articles that I didn't really want to part with: the summer jammies I bought to go to my first berry season (Like I'm someone who wears pajamas? What was I thinking?); purses that I bought in my first year of college (Like I'm someone to maintain a purse collection? I hate purses!); a whole conglomoration of pens that I haven't been able to part with because the hoarder in me is scared that the end of the world will come, and an incredibly beautiful man will waltz in to my room at the very moment the world is ending, and I won't have a pen handy to jot down his number. Because that's how true love happens in real life every day, dammit.

I threw out two Christmas trees, managed to pack a garbage bag full of clothing to donate in the bin downstairs, tossed endless numbers of my school's newspaper, and I completed the afternoon by making my bed and taking a nice, long nap in it.

What could be better?

My Saturday night is looking pretty quiet thus far: plans include meeting up with Mal to finish off the ingredients for Cosmos and watch something that makes me cry less than Free Willy. Seriously. Don't watch that movie under the influence. When the whale starts crying for his family, you'll weep.


Friday, February 09, 2007

Cut off from the world...

This week seems to be just one technology setback after another. It seems taht I forgot my precious phone back at The Ranch. Thankfully, SuperNan brought it in to me on the same day that my internet failed. I've been contemplating signing in to MSN on my phone, now that I have it back, but methinks the outrageous bill that would be sure to ensue would make that vein in my father's forehead pop out and his head might very well explode, and, well, no one wants that to happen any time soon: at least until his new horse is trained to the point where I can go Olympic on her.

For some reason of late I've been dwelling on the fact that last fall, I broke up with someone for no reason. Jooms and I have discussed the breakup at length and her appraisal of the situation is that I did, indeed, let a perfectly good boyfriend go over nothing.

I feel the need to defend myself.

But first, I do have to say that he was a perfectly good boyfriend. It's just that every time he came near me, I ended up wanting to stab myself in the eye with a pitchfork, and I couldn't quite put my finger on why.

Unfortunately, I felt compelled to dump him after I made the greivous error of telling my father about the steak story. The steak story isn't really a story at all in that it doesn't have much of a plot, or a rising action, or a climax, or a denoument. Regardless, I made the mistake of telling my dad that one night, this individual said that he was craving steak, and of course, I offered to run down to the store and grab some steak before we met up at my house for dinner that night.

But, oh no. I couldn't do that, because there was a sale on steak at a store that he wanted to go to in order to save us the fifty nine cents per pound. Or whatever. As my luck would have it, he didn't get around to going to the store that had the steak on sale, and so when he came to my house I said, "Ok, well, the grocery store is about eighteen feet from my doorstep. Let's go get some steak!" But, no. It would be morally reprehensible to purchase steak for the full price when we could have had steak for a portion of the full price if only someone had gotten off his lazy ass and gone to the store he wanted to go to.

So, we ended up having pizza. And I'm not even joking. All day I was looking forward to a big, perfectly cooked hunk of cow flesh for supper and I ended up eating pizza pizza, and he didn't even splurge for the one with chicken on it. Let me repeat that: He didn't even splurge for the one with chicken ON IT.

Now, this might not sound like that big of a deal to most sane, rational people. However, I am far from being even remotely sane or rational, and I have a certain belief that this is something that comes down through a long line of insane, irrational members of my family.

The thing about dating a farmer's daughter? Is that you just don't go depriving said daughter of steak. That's the way things are. There had better be a frickin' Armageddon going on, or an extinction of the entire bovine species, or some nuclear disaster going on before you deprive my father's daughter of steak. So help you God. And the Saints. And you'd better say a Hail Mary for good luck.

So while now this individual and I have been cut off from contact because, well, I dumped his sorry ass on the phone, in the middle of the day, without warning and when he thought things were going great and really? I'd drop me from my MSN list if I did that too. Regardless, we're out of contact and like I so often do, I just feel like sending him an email because I know deep down inside what it is like to get your sorry ass dumped on the phone in the middle of the day when you think things are going great. And really, I should just say "Hey, Dude... Look, sorry for dumping you on the phone in the middle of the day when you thought things were going great."

But, the thing is? And trust me on this one because I studied it in Social Psychology 101 and LORD KNOWS that a first year Social Psych class can never lead us astray... well, the thing that I learned is that we all spend copious amounts of time worrying about what others are thinking about in regards to us, and they all spend equally copious amounts of time worrying that we're thinking about them, and in the end? Everyone kind of has better things to think about than each other and whether or not they are worthy of emailing three months after the demise of a six week dating... thing? Because I don't really think it qualified as a relationship. Regardless, we all know he's moved on. So why am I sitting here feeling like I owe him some kind of apology because I had to break up with him because he was a big cheapy?

I'm not sure if it's a matter of me needing to get out more, or of me not having enough good, solid reading material around, or the absolute dearth of alcohol that has been lubricating my veins of late. I strongly suspect it's a near-lethal combination of all three.


Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Happy three hundredth post, Blog!

Wheeee! Three hundred posts!

Spring break is soon to be upon us (Of course, we're in Canada, so spring break happens in the middle of a deep freeze) and since I seem to be low on funds, I'm going to be vacationing at my favorite vacation spot: The Ranch!

The lovely Mal is going to be coming with me and we've got all kinds of exciting plans made: a midnight skate, a horror movie-thon, candle-making, picking up the Precious Boy after school for a sword fight on ice.

I also plan to take her on a historical tour of CowTown. She was a little stunned to hear that a town comprising of seventeen houses, two churches, and a general store has historical sites.

Of course CowTown has historical sites! Helllloooooo? My great grandfather put the all nine of the streetlights on the main drag up with his own two hands! If that's not historical, I don't know what is!

The candle-making is one thing I look forward to. The Berry Queen has said that I can start a pilot project at her farm this summer: I plan on making candles in fruit-y scents in jam jars and seeing if people are interested in that sort of thing. So, we have to learn how to make candles and hopefully find some interesting scents to use. So far I've been thinking of a berry farm signature scent, but somehow I don't think the scent of TrottenBerries would be very appealing.

At any rate, the week is looking good: One day of work, one midterm, a weekend in the city, one more week of classes, and then vacation time!



Monday, February 05, 2007

The world's most expensive child....

Sometimes I feel the need to fall on my knees and beg my parents for forgiveness, being that when they got me, they got an absolute dud. Oh, sure, they think I'm the best thing since sliced bread, but I always seem to be in need of some ridiculous medical or dental treatment that my insurance doesn't cover and that costs an unGodly amount of money.

My most recent problem lies within the formation of my bones. It seems that I have a wide array of things wrong with how my joints and bones line up: My jaw was in the wrong place when I was a child, my back was in the wrong position when I was a teen, I've had pinched nerves and I have incredibly bendy, crackly joints. Now my feet have turned on me and it seems that my hideous feet not only preclude me from becoming a foot model; they are going to cost hundreds of dollars to fix, as well. Of course my insurance doesn't cover it: Why the Hell would they care if I can walk ten years down the road?

At any rate, it seems that this will be a lifelong problem and that it will cost me money every couple years for the rest of my life. So, I'm hoping to find a surgical alternative to the mouse-y treatments they give most people. I'm a drastic measures kind of girl, and I also plan on spending most of my life on my feet. As a result, I don't look forward to feeling pain the way I have been feeling pain forever.

It seems that this makes me the craziest person on the internet (A feat that is hard to accomplish, as you can well imagine) because everyone else on the planet is looking for non-surgical alternatives whereas I am looking for the surgical alternative. I don't know at this point, but seeing as how I'm only 22 years old, and my precious tootsies have to tote me around for the rest of their lives? It's a problem that needs to be fixed, and needs to be fixed now.

Unfortunately the rest of the world doesn't see it that way, and as a result? Expensive shoe inserts and physio for now. I'm thinking that in order for me to repay my parents for all they've done sometime in the future, I'm going to have to start selling off my organs on the black market, start selling my eggs to fertility clinics, and charge scientists millions to do tests on my body while I'm still alive.

The problem lies in that anyone testing me or taking my eggs will not likely want a person who is as mishappen as I am, and as a result, I'll probably only be worth bottom dollar.


It's a good thing I'm so funny, useful, and wonderful. I don't know how my wonderful parents would put up with me otherwise.


Saturday, February 03, 2007

Eating my words....

I've never understood the hoop-la over downloading music. Seriously. I've always thought it was the cheap-ass way to go, and I detest people who exhibit even minor signs of cheapness, so I do everything I can to avoid looking like a cheap person. I always figured that if I wanted a song, I'd just buy the CD.

My CD collection does not go past the double digits, however, and earlier this fall I had a really urgent need to listen to Bon Jovi's November Rain, Hoobastank's The Reason, and Papa Roach's Scars. Oh, and Hinder's Lips of An Angel. And I Miss You by ... well, by someone.

Ok, so I went through a sad, depressing music stage. I consulted one of my trusty computer wizards and asked how to go about downloading songs. I figured you just went to Google and typed in the song and then you could listen to it.

But no. It's far more complicated than that.

Thankfully, my trusty computer wizard talked me through the life-altering steps to music freedom, and I've been an addict ever since.

I can't stop putting songs onto my computer.

I've always played guitar and I've always loved the feeling of freedom I get in expressing myself with songs.

The problem I have in playing in public is that I only know my own songs and about three others. I have quite an extensive collection of my own songs, and some of them are ok. I'd even go so far as to say pretty good.

But after eight years of hearing me play the same twenty songs over and over again, my family and friends have started urging (read: Begging on their knees to not ever have to hear me sing House of the Risin' Sun ever again in their lifetimes so help us all GOD) me to learn something new.

I just never knew how to play anyone else's songs. Well, since I've been on this downloading kick, I have actually heard some songs, and as a result I've been on a new playing kick. I've added over fifteen songs to my repertoire simply by listening to music and figuring out how it goes.

It's amazing. My music binder is getting thicker and my neighbors are thinking 'My WORD. The girl has moved past Scarborough Fair! I thought I would never get that song out of my head again and I feel like delivering cases of beer to her doorstep in thanks right now at this very second!'

If cases of beer start showing up, I'll be one happy girl. As it stands now, I can hardly put my guitar down for the aray of songs that I'm figuring out and it is ever so exciting to have moved beyond Someday Soon by Suzy Boguss.

Over the moon, once more.


Friday, February 02, 2007

I think I need to get out more...

In keeping with my last entry about my future horse that may or may not ever be a part of my life, I've been daydreaming and thinking about this animal.

It needs a name.

I've always dreamed of having a barn full of horses with beautiful names. The naming of cattle is something that has always fascinated me, because with registered dairy cows, the names always make perfect sense. You have the farm name, the mother's name, and the new name. So if your farm name was Sunshine, the mother's name was Virtuoso, and the name you like is Julie, your cow's name would be Sinshine Virtuoso Julie. With this information alone, you can track the cow's lineage and origins fairly simply. Handy.

I'm not sure about the rules pertaining to the names of horses. However, I would love to have a three part name for my horse. Horses typically have a stable name and a show name. The show name is the one called out at shows. For example, if your horse's name was Montague Hellenes, the announcer at a show would call out: And now entering the arena, we have Montague Hellenes, owned and ridden by....

For years I've dreamed of riding at shows where someone would call out my horse's beautiful three-part name, followed by my own as owner and rider.

Now, the horse I want may or may not ever come into existence. However, I find the fact that I can own my old horse's grandaughter overwhelmingly coincidental, slightly creepy, and very much a sign of something. Perhaps a sign of future greatness, perhaps a sign of impending broken limbs; but a sign nonetheless.

My horse needs a combination of Mother and Grandmother's name in it. Mindy and Kerzon are not names that look too good together, but Mindezon or Zonemin feel good rolling off my tongue.

So far, for a girl I've picked out Mindezon Daksina Ophelia. Ophelia from Hamlet and Daksina from the pagan warrior goddess who beats down her enemies, using their hands and skulls to create her skirt, and inspires good Karma and is the all-merciful protectress. I wonder about the implications of naming a good Lutheran horse after a pagan warrior goddess, though.

For a boy, I've picked out Zonemin Valiant Frontrunner. That's pretty self-explanatory, I suppose.

It amazes me sometimes how my thoughts can take over me, how I can dream and dream of these things that may never happen. I suppose the best part is the looking forward, though. I've always felt that way about my birthday in the past (Excepting, of course, my most recent birthday. As you know, it was the most wonderful I've had. Sigh.) I feel the same way when I thnk about the truck I want to buy, or the barn I want to set up not only for a horse but for a menagerie of other animals as well. I know that I have the power in me to make it happen: The question is do I have the drive and the fortitude to carry it out?

Time will tell, I suppose. For now, I'm happy staying in the city and dreaming of the things that might be.