Monday, April 30, 2007

Oh, Coperni-Kitty...

Copernicus has become a new cat since she has spent her last month here at The Ranch. She has mastered the art of purring and has become a shiny-haired, firm bodied, pleasant animal. Her neuroses, however, have reached new heights as she now has a phobia of eating food that she did not see you pour. I am the craziest person I know, and I have been given a cat that matches. God is laughing up in heaven right now, slapping his knee and roaring at the thought of two of His creatures, Copernicus and I, making our crazy ways in the world side by side.

Tonight my mother fed Copernicus a dish of fresh cat food, but because Copernicus wasn't in the room while she poured it, she simply didn't believe that she wasn't being foiled by food that is less than fresh. I know people like Copernicus, and they generally come in the form of straw hat wearing, strawberry-picking old men. They generally stomp into the Berry cave, yowl as loud as they can that the field manager is as dumb as a table, and demand fresher berries than the ones in their basket that they just removed from the vine with their own two hands.

From grown men this type of behavior tends to induce hives in me. From my cat, I tend to glare scornfully at her and move on. My mother, on the other hand, has started becoming downright hostile with this animal who does not belong to her, who insists upon following her about the house howling her discontent about the state of her food.


"Shut up."


"Look, you piece of crap, the food is in your dish."


"GO and eat the DAMN FOOD!"


"Oh, Go hang yourself, you useless piece of crap!"


"Look here, KITTY. I will WIN over you. DO YOU HEAR ME? You and your yowly ways WILL NOT BREAK THE DETERMINATION THAT IS SEATED DEEP INSIDE MY SOUL. I refuse to cave in to your whiny carryings-on and bring you new food! NOW STOP YOWLING AT ME AND EAT!"

I guess we all have little kinks to work out upon living under new arrangements.


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Yesterday was moving day and I have to say that it went off without a hitch. My parents and Big Brother showed up early in the morning to begin the long and arduous task of taking all my belongings and putting them into the back of a U-haul.

My last night in the city was spent in a hotel with Mal and her parents, tucked peacefully into those crisp sheets that all hotels seem to have. I really didn't sleep a wink at all: I had too much on my mind. I was scared to be changing my life so drastically, and thrilled to be getting what I wanted after all this time.

We packed up Mal on Saturday and loaded all of her things into the giant van her parents rented. It was a sad day as I watched all of Mal's belongings get carted into a van. Her couches were the hardest to watch go because over the months, I have developed a relationship that is far above and beyond any relationship that a sane and rational human being should have with couches.

I had to shed a tear or two when I left my roommate and my apartment: The place I sat all those months ago looking around me in horror at the madness that is my mess. I shed tears again when I hugged Mal good bye because she has become incredibly important to me over the last months. She is someone I can be sedate and lazy with, someone I've spent the last several months laughing hysterically late into the night with. If I said the words "Ass Tumble" to Mal, she would burst out into fits of laughter. If I said those words to anyone else, they would stare blankly and look confused. I suppose that's what good friendship is all about, the inside jokes and the things that only the two of you think are funny.

My mother and I spent the day wileding tools and unpacking my things into my nephew's old bedroom. At first I was concerned for him, worried that he would feel as though I came back and kicked him out of his space. When I brought him up to show him the changes, though, his only concern was that since we took his stuff out, why hadn't we thought to take his lamp out? MOVE THE DAMN LAMP, LADY!

The day was long and frustrating at several points, including that point at which my mother and I gave up all hope of transporting my bed to my new room and sat on the hall floor upstairs, glaring at the pieces of my beloved bed and wondering how badly things would turn out if we just got out the hack saw.

I suppose that there is not much to say upon being greeted by a slightly hung over 22 year old Sociology student with messy hair who is wielding large, sharp objects than "Oh, Lordy. She's home."

Yes. I am home.


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Thursday, April 26, 2007

Dear World....

Dear World,

I have finished university.

I wrote my last exam EVER today.

I'm sure you're sick of hearing about it.

My time here has been wonderful. I met some incredibly people, I lived in Hell, I lived in a building that made the Berry Queen say "You let me bring my ten year old SON here?" as she walked into the foyer and smelled the smell of drugs and filth.

I lost my mind a couple times. I dated one guy seriously and a number of guys not so seriously. (Come on now. You all remember the guy from first year who told me that if I wouldn't sleep with him, he would dump me? And then I told him that was just fine? And then he dumped me? I really still laugh about that sometimes because what could be funnier than a real-life episode of Degrassi Junior High?). I have gotten drunk off my ass a few times, and once I even landed on my ass in a puddle beside a taxi. And Mal? My dear friend? Didn't even help me up. She just stood on the sidewalk laughing at my sorry self trying to stand up out of a puddle. I, personally, blame the hooker boots.

Sometimes I think about what I expected when I came to university. I have to laugh about that now, because it was so silly. I was sure that I would be surrounded by brainiacs who knew more about Shakespeare and Dickens than I could ever hope to know. I was sure that I would be forever embedded within a group of people who would make me feel forever inferior with my lack of awareness as to Darwinian concepts, and who would make me feel forever inferior when they spoke of Marx.

I've yet to encounter someone who speaks of Marx and Darwin with any sort of authority whatsoever.

But, I did have a grand time. I learned how to drink beer, I learned what to do when locked out of one's apartment, I learned that calling your mother in hysterics three times in one week IS NOT A WEAKNESS.

Regardless of what I learned, I am proud of me. I never thought that I would make it through this last year. In all the bullshit that has happened, I certainly didn't think that I would make it out alive or with much left to give.

I'm going home in a few short days. I can't wait to go home. I can't wait to go back to the country where I can give everyone I love all I have to give, where I can pour out my heart and soul in whatever I want to pour it into.

This world is now mine for the owning.



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Wednesday, April 25, 2007

To the assinine fuckwits who run my school...

Dear Evil Institution Who Insists on Sending Me Correspondence in a Language I Don't Understand,

Our time together has now come to a close. I officially just finished my last ever university exam, and I think I rocked it, thankyouverymuch.

I will start off by saying that I hate you, Institution, for being so corporate and completely unhelpful with everything I have tried to attain. I'll never forget all the memories I made while attending, all the screechy and incoherent phone calls I made home to my mother with a four kilogram bag of peanut M&Ms in hand.

Oh, the good old days. Remember the time I went to one of your student advisors unsure of what I wanted to do with my degree? And she looked at me blankly and told me to go to another school? And when I asked her what they could offer me, she continued looking at me blankly until her phone rang and I just left?

Remember the time you gave me a doctor who tried to kill me? Remember her, that nice little lady who said helpful things like "You should take more of this drug. I don't understand why it's not working, either. But here, take more." Remember her?

How about the best time of all, when during my second year, you sent me an email IN A LANGUAGE I DO NOT UNDERSTAND telling me that Whoops! Two years of my life have passed by and suddenly, for some reason, you are no longer going to give me a diploma that says Sociology on it! You're just going to give me a general something or other instead. SOMETIMES YOU MAKE ME LAUGH SO HARD THAT I WANT TO IMPALE MYSELF ON LIGHTING RODS. DURING A THUNDER STORM.

Don't get me wrong, Evil Institution. I had some really great times while I was there. I met some wonderful people, and had some amazing adventures. In a couple of my classes, I managed to learn some things, and people always thought it was a mixture of insane and interesting when I brought up social issues in relation to farming and rednecks. Oh, and hunting. People always inch away quietly when they're sitting beside a girl in a plaid jacket who announces to an auditorium full of Sociology students that she knows how to work a gun. I have to say that I got quite a few cheap thrills out of that.

I'll always remember the first ice rain I ever made it through in the city, and an attractive young man was walking down the street at the same time I was and when I went to make eye contact, I fell flat on my ass in a puddle. Come on, now. People on their asses in puddles are always funny.

There was also the time when it was my FIRST day of school ever, and the information on my schedule was wrong. I was so cool back then, so stylish and attractive. I had carefully applied the perfect amount of makeup, was carrying the perfect black leather purse and a shoulder bag instead of a lame old backpack. But it was pouring rain and I didn't own an umbrella, so by the time I got to the class that turned out to be the wrong class, I walked into some ind of lecture on the super hotness of guys who take things like Aeronautical Metaphysics of Hard Stuff To Pronouce. And when I walked in, I resembled a drowning raccoon because of the rain-smeared makeup, and my super stylin' leather purse was full of water because it had no zipper. And I was soggy, and my name-brand jeans weighed a ton and I was kind of sweaty and I was staring at all these super hot guys and I knew... I just knew that at that moment, I officially killed any chance I had at marrying any of them. Sigh.

So, You Non-English Corresponding Sweaty Donkey Ball Sucking Make Me Want To Stab Myself In The Face With A Paring Knife Institution.... Let's have a big hug, shall we? I'm done with you. You're done with me. I shall walk across one of your stages this June, I shall shake the hand of someone I'm sure I've never met before now, and we will part ways.

It's been a slice.


P.S Since this is probably my last post about you, sorry about all the names I call you on my blog all the time. And sorry to that lady who took my screechy phone call when you told me I couldn't have my degree. And sorry also for bursting into tears in front of that one lady in the Sociology office who refused to speak English to me. And sorry again for the names. Really. I was raised better. You just make it so damn easy. And sorry for tacking on another insult inside an apology for the insults. Really.

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Tuesday, April 24, 2007


I'm currently sitting amidst my own filth, in a bedroom that is so far beyond a fire hazard that my mind can hardly comprehend it. To say that it looks like a tornado has passed through would be an understatement bearing such enormity that it might actually fall into the category of lying. And I don't want to commit any sins on my blog.

I have nothing but faith that my packing will be done quickly and efficiently. I am an excellent packer. I can be packed for a three day camping trip with the use of a backpack and five minutes worth of digging through my brother's outdoors gear. I can pack for a week long family vacation in ten minutes. I have a little checklist that I ring off in my head every time I pack: Do I have my crazymeds? Do I have my keys? Do I have my phone? Do I have no less that thirty-two pairs of clean socks?

And then I pick up all my stuff and exit the building.

My mother, Bless her, is starting to realize that perhaps having kids brought with it a lot more stuff than she had imagined. My mother hates stuff, and is the master of throwing stuff out. Occasionally, I go on a throwing out rampage myself. The difference between my throwing out rampages and hers lies in the fact that she never throws out full bottles of hair products that she ends up needing because she unexpectedly comes up with a date for the following Friday. Not that I have any dates this Friday, or that I've thrown out any valuable hair products of late, but I do fear that if I toss that half-full box of dryer sheets that there will suddenly be a world-wide dryer sheet shortage and I will never wear static-free clothing again. I will forever be known as the girl who got tossed from her first big job interview for having a sock stuck on her left shoulder.

Thus far the family has successfully given up on the fact that we will ever be the types to exercise; as a result, we have tossed our giant, space-consuming weight machine the way of that song I wrote on a scrap piece of paper towel in the barn in the seventh grade. I have no idea where is went, but it was a really good concept for a while, and now it is gone forever. There is now that much more space in the middle of the room I am planning to occupy. Praise Be.

My books are very precious to me, each and every one of them. My father and I tend to drive my mother to the brink of insanity on a regular basis with our love of books that we simply can not part with. Sometimes I will sit for hours, flipping lazily through the pages of my text books. I can read the same novel for again and again, and I look forward with glee to sharing my anthropology and Globalization text books with my Dad once I get home. It's nice to have someone as book obsessed as I am in the house, because we can conspire together to one day ownevery book that was every printed, excet Harlequin Romances and anything by Danielle Steele.

My main fear here is storage of my books once they are brought back to CowTown. I mean, our house is already full to capacity, and every weight bearing wall has a bookshelf of some sort leaning on it or built into it. HOW IS THAT HOUSE EVER GOING TO HOLD MORE BOOKS? They are already housing my cat, they are five days away from housing me, and my books? My precious, knowledge-filled, wisdom-laden books?

What comforts me the most here is that my family IS the type of family to have trouble housing books. We don't have nearly the space we would like for them, and I must sigh a huge sigh of relief at that because hey, I could have gotten one of those dads who is obsessed with DVD collections of The Simpsons and I wouldn't change him for the world.

I just fear for my mother's sanity if she ever has to re-arrange and dust off another bookshelf that is jammed to capacity and buckling under the weight of such treats as Gun Dog and Sho Gun.

Add to that The Practice of Applied Anthropology and Development and Social Change and, well, you've got yourself a throwing out fest to contend with. But it's OK, Dad. You got a really, really crazy daughter and I'm the best hoarder around. We can sneak about the house, hoarding books in obscure places, and no one will ever have to now the difference.


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Monday, April 23, 2007

What a weekend!

Well, Dear Blog, I've been neglecting you as promised and I have to say that this weekend was one of the best I've had in... ages?

It started out on Friday with a dance-a-thon with my favorite Monkeys, during which time AN INDIVIDUAL WHO I WILL NOT CALL NAMES ON MY BLOG stole my hot astronaut. That's right. I had a hot astronaut in my vicinity, and he got stolen away.

But really, I have to say it was a wondrous time. I almost deafened Joomy with some hardcore shrieking and really, after all these years? She was surprised to find me shrieking under the influence of beers? Please.

I danced with Nora while at the club. The problem here is that she can actually dance and she doesn't even drink anything before she gets out on the dance floor. I can only do the country bop, which is incredibly uncool in the city, but my propensity for kicking people who make fun of my dancing in the shins usually deals with that quite nicely.

The guy who brought me the hot astronaut felt bad for not making said hot astronaut a little more aware of the circumstances (Those being that he was brought FOR ME AND ONLY ME AND DEAR GOD WHY IS THAT SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?) and since his girlfriend is away at college, he agreed to make out with me for the evening. He was a little terrified, I think, when I suggested that we make out to make up for his lack of forethought in the astronaut department, and that should explain the look of horror on his face.

Fortunately, my sights were soon turned to the business of drinking more beer, and I decided to forgo the thought of attracting any more men that night. Much to the relief of my mother, because I don't think she could handle the thought of me moving back under her roof and getting hives once more from the interesting characters I always end up bringing home.

At any rate, I must truly thank all my friends for coming out and making my last clubbing night with them in the city a great time.


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Saturday, April 21, 2007

This is me getting famous...

So, I've gotten the pics of open mic night from a kind soul who was dear enough to send them my way. Here is me and Gibby, on stage in all of our rockin' glory.

Here we have a very few of the people who came to see me on stage. Here are the girls. We have me at the bottom right, beside me we have Nora with the black curly hair. Then there is Maria and apparently I have met her before last Tuesday. On the opposite side of the table we have my party girl KIMMI who does nothing but... well, party.
This is a tough time for me to be blogging as I've now officially started packing and getting ready to leave the city MY GOD I AM LEAVING THE CITY AND I CAN'T WAIT.


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Thursday, April 19, 2007

In passing conversation...

I was talking to my best friend on the phone last night, babbling away about nothing the way I always do. She's not much of a phone talker, my T, but she says she likes it when I call because it's not awkward and silent. I have enough to blather about for the two of us.

We were discussing our next chatting time and she told me we wouldn't be able to talk for a while because of her crazy work schedule. So she said I could call her on the Monday after I move home.

And it hit me and I said "My God, T, the next time I talk to you I will be a resident of CowTown!"

A resident of CowTown.



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Wednesday, April 18, 2007

I don't think saying WOW would do it...

Tonight I went on stage for perhaps the last time in the Big City. I can't say how much tonight meant to me, and Mom? I'm sorry for blogging under the influence of several beers.

First, I got to hang out with and catch up with a pair of brothers who I haven't seen since I was about thirteen years old. Shout out to you boys, because who in their right mind would want to be seen near me after knowing me through my years of Jewel loving teenage angst?

Mal helped me get ready and I went to the bar in jeans (That I picked out and bouth MYSELF) and a tank top (That I picked out and bought MYSELF) and of course, my trusty fedora and my business jacket. I looked fuckin' hot.

EVERYONE who I invited showed up, and it was so great to see so many familiar faces in the audience. A few people couldn't make it because of exams and so forth, and if that person is you? I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND because no matter how hot I looked, even I wouldn't miss out on studying time to see my hot self perform.

I started out with Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash (Because I've fallen in love with him after downloading a shitload of his songs in their original form) and then I did House of The Risin' Sun.

And I promptly forgot the lyrics in the third verse.

I'm not sure how this sort of thing happens. Really. Why must the brain malfunction as it does? I think I have sang this song perhaps EVERY SINGLE DAY since I first picked up a guitar. And yet, standing on stage tonight? I forgot EVERY POSSIBLE LYRIC YOU COULD FORGET.

What is wrong with me?

At any rate, I made the BEST POSSIBLE RECOVERY YOU COULD MAKE. I have always admired and strived to be the entertainer my Oldest Brother is. He can walk onto a stage, have presence, make people laugh, and fuck up every single song he attempts, and yet still? People buy him free beers. Bastards.

Tonight, I made one of THOSE recoveries. I just started talking nonchallantly as I continued strumming in my 3/4 time (and yes, Mom, you could have set a tic-toc to it!) I just talked into the mic like it was my job, lamenting the fact that I had forgotten the lyrics, and MAN, does it suck to do that on stage in front of a bunch of people....

Then I did two originals that I ROCKED, and there was so much clapping and cheering and so forth. The sound guy mentioned my TOTALLY WICKED AWESOME guitar, but he didn't give it more introduction time than he did me, thank goodness.

And then? I got encored. And it was the best feeling ever. And so many people were screaming "Amanda! You're so awesome, we love you! Another Song, Another Song!" that the sound guy came up and told me to go ahead and do another one.

So I did a more upbeat song that I sing really well, ano original, and all night? I just felt like such a rockstar. I know that being on stage in front of twenty of your nearest and dearest doesn't quite equate to being the next Willie Nelson or the next Metallica....

But my God, did I feel like it tonight.

Thank you so much to those who made it out. This was perhaps the best night I've had in the Big City yet.


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Tuesday, April 17, 2007

The discovery of my claim to fame...

I watched Degrassi tonight, much to the chagrin of my mother. This is one of a few luxuries I will miss when I move back home: Watching terrible television in peace, without it being heckled by my family members. The other luxuries I will miss include eating Cheez Whiz directly out of the jar and trimming my toenails in the kitchen. This will all be made up, however, by the existence of a whole host of toiletries that aren't mine: My father's shaving cream, my mother's luxurious face lotion, my nephew's bubble bath. Everything in this life is a trade-off, it seems.

Last week's Degrassi was one that was very near and dear to my heart, one in which a Toronto girl who is the star of everything goes off to a fancy-schmancy university to make something wonderful of herself. I was never exactly the star of everything, although my father certainly thinks I am the star of making coffee seeing as how I make fifteen pots a day without consuming a single drop, but her character, Paige, really made me remember me.

I really thought that the experience of university would make me wonderful. I thought that having completed this goal of mine would make me special, make me more worthwhile in the eyes of others. Now that I'm done, I really see that all I need is me to make me worthwhile. I don't need fancy clothes or excellent grades or a degree to be a wonderful person. (This is reinforced every time I hang out with Mal, in unwashed grub clothes, with my hair tied up on my head, and an odor coming from my direction of the room that I swear, Dude, it's totally the couch. She loves me regardless of how many times she's seen me eat Cheez Whiz directly from the jar.)

Paige started having trouble with mid terms and papers, and I have to say that was most shocking to me when I started university. In high school I got A's in my strong subjects without much fuss or muss. My second last and last years of high school were my shining glory because those were the only two years I ever applied myself to anything remotely academic. I was stunned to get a C on my first term paper and a D on my first psych exam once in university.

Degrassi's producers did a fairly poor job of her nervous breakdown, I have to say. Now, she did set fire to her textbooks and claim spontaneous combustion in a trash can as a the source to get an extension on a paper she bought off the internet. And she started having trouble breathing in class.

Seriously, though. COME ON NOW PEOPLE. Is that the best you can do? She never once started screaming in incoherent syllables and terrifying the neighbor's small children. She never once went weeks without sleeping and showed up at the wrong class at the wrong time into a room full of complete strangers with bed head and a plaid jacket on. She didn't even mortify her boss by showing up at work in a full blown fit of hysteria begging to please wash the dishes, and you don't have to pay me I just really need to WASH THE DISHES; DEAR GOD CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THEY ARE DIRTY AND MUST BE CLEANSED?

I've never been the star of everything, as I said. I'm a terrible athlete, I never had much of a social life before university, my fashion skills -- well, the plaid jacket speaks for itself. But the least they could do is show a really good impression of a nervous breakdown.

It would comfort me, at least, because then my nervous breakdown might seem a bit more normal. It has now become apparent that even famous television producers can't think up as good a nervous breakdown as mine.

I'm not sure if that's a proud statement or not. I mean, come on, how many people have insanity that makes them better than famous Canadian television producers? NOT THAT MANY.


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Sunday, April 15, 2007

Back To God....

I went to Church this morning for the first time in several years, a time when I wasn't going to impress my Grandmother.

Three years ago, I led what I refer to as my Other Life. It was kind of tumultuous and scary, and the events of that Other Life led me to leave the church.

I've been feeling this part of me lately, a lot, that's like... you're missing something. I've been polling knowledgeable people about religious issues regarding my own fears on going back to church.

The Berry Queen explained it best to me when she asked me to think of how a parent loves a child. What could I personally do to make my parents never speak to me again? What could my nephew do to me so that I would never speak to him again, so that I would banish him from my life forever.

Her question kind of stunned me, and I thought heavily for a long time. I couldn't really think of anything. I thought about my nephew and what he might do to make me banish him out of my life forever, and I couldn't really think of anything that would make me give up hope entirely. And he's not even my child.

The Berry Queen told me to think long and hard on that, because that is what going to church is all about: It's not about being perfect in the eyes of God, nor is it about beating yourself up because you happen to have done some supremely stupid shit in your time. It's about the fact that God has a love for us that is undying, and he has laid it all out in plain, simple language: Love God. Love yourself. Strive to do as Jesus did. Amen.

So, it's back to church with me. I've made my peace with God today, made my peace with my past. I feel happy and free, ready to pick up the phone and call my favorite pastor. He hasn't heard my voice in years. I plan to go over and have coffee and hang out and chat.

And then I plan to spend a long time really rocking my homecoming to the church.


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Saturday, April 14, 2007

Adventures in child care...

The Princess has come and gone, and the two of us had a wonderful day together. Days like this one don't happen in my life nearly often enough, and sometimes I feel twangs of guilt for not making more effort to see Big Brother and his Lovely Wife. I feel that here, on the Internet, there is nothing other than Lovely Wife that I should refer to her as, because as I stated at their wedding, I couldn't have picked a better wife for him myself.

They dropped myself and The Princess off at Mal's (Where there are far fewer bedrooms that are waist-deep in debris) and she immediately went down for a nap. Mal and I were incredibly bored with her after about two hours of this behavior, because HEY! She's a baby and we wanted to do cute stuff with her!

We decided to put off the nose piercing and hair dying for another time (Perhaps with someone else's child, even, because Big Brother's Lovely Wife could most certainly take my sorry ass out in a heartbeat if she so desired. Not even is she funny and appreciative of someone like myself -- who snorts when she laughs, yes, I snort like its my job -- but she can whoop some serious ass) and instead we took her to the park.

Once at the park, we were attacked repeatedly by a chipmunk that I'm pretty sure had a combination of rabies and mange. Hell, it probably had SARS as well, because damn, that chippie had some things wrong with it. The Princess was enthralled by the ducks, but they weren't country ducks. No, no: they were city ducks and they didn't get up and fly away when she chased them. We were both disappointed by this, let me tell you. All we wanted was a little duck-flying action and we got none.

The Princess has some gorgeous little babbly-words she has and she talks all the time in that toddler talk that only the people in closest contact with the child can understand. I think that's why today made me a little bit sad: I don't get the opportunity to see her often enough and I don't even understand her toddler talk.

Fortunately, my city life is soon to be over, and that only means one thing: I'll be getting my trusty little car on the road. Hopefully this summer I'll be able to visit my favorite extension of the family on weekends and such, and then The Princess will be able to fill me in on all of her favorite toddler words.


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Friday, April 13, 2007

In which I totally neglect my blog

I'm so sorry, Blog, for not keeping up with you of late. It seems that I'm working an inordinate amount of hours, as well as preparing for my finals (Read: Sitting on my bed and not being in any way productive...)

Big Brother called me the other day with a request that I take care of The Princess this coming Saturday. Of course I had to squeal with delight because I haven't babysat her myself yet. (That's right. I get the baby all to myself. First things first: nose piercings, and then hair dying. If we have time, we might run down to a couple sketchy bars so that I can photograph her draining her first ever pitcher. And now that I've posted this on the Internet, her mother will certainly never let me have the child alone again in this lifetime.)

I'm ever so excited to spend a day with my little niece, but I had to stop and take a look around before I could give in to my excitement. My house is about thirty-seven different kinds of unsafe for a little toddler. My Ikea bookshelf is not grounded to the wall, my television and DVD are precariously perched on my dresser with cords hanging down, my bedroom has once again become waist-high in debris, and I'm pretty sure that if you put a baby in my bedroom? YOU WOULD NEVER FIND HER AGAIN.

Fortunately, Mal's house is all but empty AND she has a vacant bedroom that is just perfect for setting up a playpen for naptime.

That's right, the baby naps! Every day! I can tell already that her and I are bound to be kindred spirits...


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Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Another one bites the dust....









Somebody get this girl a beer, Dammit!


Last one ever, Boys.

I'm walking on sunshine.


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Tuesday, April 10, 2007

In which I'm encouraged to discuss my insanity...

So, a few weeks ago, Jooms gave me the idea of checking out this nifty site. So, I did. Because she said I should. And if I don't do what Jooms says I should do, I might fall out of bed every night and impale myself on old, stale, fruit-fly infested empty beer bottles.

Not that this doesn't happen regularly, regardless.

At any rate, I was encouraged by Jooms to do something, and I did, and now a nifty company wants me to write about how insane I am. They want nothing more than entry upon entry regarding my insanity, how I deal with it, the fact that I'm crazed, and that I'm totally fucking loopy.

How great is that? Like, for so long now, I've thought that I would need some kind of therapy... but really? All I needed was for Jooms to make a recommendation.

Thanks, Jooms!


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Stubborn old fool....

For three years now, I've refused to add anything related to my school into my favorites list on my computer, simply because I favor NOTHING about that institution.

Because of this, I've been typing all the addresses to my school websites into the address bar for, you guessed it, three years.

And just now, as I'm typing up my LAST ESSAY EVER (My God, it feels good to write that, and I think I might just make it the title of my LAST ESSAY EVER) I had to go to the school website to look some things up in the library. (I love the 21st century. You don't even need to get off your fat ol' butt to go to the library any more.)

While I was typing in the address, I realized that every address I have ever needed for the school is now permanently ingrained into my consciousness. I will not likely ever be able to forget those addresses. As much as I wish I could remember the address of the FuckWit who took up stalking me at the convenience store, I can't. But if he takes up stalking me again, at least I'll be able to tell him exatly where to look for peer-reviewed journals on the topic of psychotic people who stalk their exes at convenience stores.

Handy isn't it?

And now I'm thinking, well serves you right, Girly. Here you are thinking you're so clever, not entering any of those URLs into your favorites list, because obviously they are not your favorites. And as a result of that, you're never going to be able to hit the delete button because YOU ARE INSANE and we all know that crazy people NEVER FORGET ANYTHING.


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Monday, April 09, 2007

Easter Treats....

This weekend I purchased myself a number of goodies in celebration of Easter. Or in celebration of the fact that I was in a shopping mall with a debit card in my pocket. Either way, I was celebrating something.

I managed to buy myself a new Roots camera case as well as some rechargeable batteries for my MP3 player. A major relief because I'm tired of running out and then having to storm the nearest Mac's Milk for AAA batteries. It's about as difficult to find tiny batteries as it is to find tiny bras, let me tell you.

I also managed to pick up a size XL Roots sweater that was on clearance.

Roots tends to be a touchy subject in this house, much like me discussing my love of gay people getting married or my infinite love of all thinge related to veganism. The thing is that my father hates Ross Rebligatti.

(Refresher: In the Olympics, he won the gold snowboarding, but then had his medal taken away for testing positive for drug use, but then had his medal re-instated. Then Roots started sponsoring him.)

Clearly, the first step to being the rebel child who hot boxes the downstairs bathroom with my father's grandchildren in tow is to purchase Roots apparel.

But here's the thing: I really don't support people who use drugs. I really try NOT to engage in activities with those who have an ever-present white film surrounding their nostrils, or one of those little silver lockboxes under the seat of their imported car. I do what I can to avoid giving money to people with habits, and for the most part, I'm not even around the presence of drugs.

Seeing as how I do all that I can whenever I can... WILL IT MAKE BABIES DIE IF I BUY A CLEARANCE SWEATER THAT'S BIG AND COMFY!?!?

So I had this big speech prepared for my dad when I got home: Like, really, it's a sweater, I'm not a stoner, and that baggie you found in my coat pocket last week was from storing the illegal cigarettes that I smoke, not from my cocaine habit.

And after I went to all this trouble preparing the damn speech, the guy didn't even notice that I was wearing an article all weekend that clearly supports the use of illicit drugs.

And now I'm just ready to scream because WHAT is the point of spending all day preparing speeches for people who aren't even going to question your motives when you buy a sweater?

All I'm craving is consistency, here, and I really don't think it's too much to ask.



Saturday, April 07, 2007

On being the short end of the stick...

Some time ago, I was referred to as the short end of the stick in my mother's life. What amazes me most, I suppose, is that it didn't really hurt me at all. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I have a heart of stone, but the things people say don't really hurt me at all. Actions, however, have a way of showing me what people really think of me. Phone calls, for example: There is nothing a person can do to make me happier than to pick up the phone and call or text message me. You could look me in the eye and say "Amanda, you have backfat and ham legs" and I probably wouldn't even bat an eye.

I am, however, the short end of the stick in my mother's life for a variety of reasons, and one of these reasons weighs on my mind the most: I cost a lot of frickin' money.

There always seems to be something wrong with me, no matter how minor: I needed orthodontics as a child, I needed physiotherapy for my back as a teen, I'm crazy as a jay bird and sanity doesn't come cheap these days. Most recently, my hideously mis-shapen feet have been causing me trauma.

Last December, my mother bought me a new pair of shoes and three months later, my feet have torn through them from the inside. The bottoms of my feet are bruised, inflamed, and bright red. Not to mention constantly calloused, and if I had anyone's legs to warm my feet on at night, he would make good his escape. Why? Because who wants to have someone else's hideously mis-shapen, calloused feet warmed on their legs?

Many parents may look at their grown children as entities who need to learn how to take care of their own damn selves. For my mother, honestly, I don't know why she keeps taking care of my sorry ass because really, at my age, there aren't many reasons for me to not have some sort of stable income. (Except, of course, the pursuing of a degree in Sociology, which apparently exempts you from a wide variety of grown-up responsibilities.)

At any rate, my mother may very well have gotten the short end of the stick when she got me: I think that it's safe to say, however, that I certainly didn't get the short end of the stick when I got her.

I'm a lucky girl.


P.S: Thanks for the new boots, Mommy Dearest. You really do rock my socks. And now my socks are happily housed inside new Doc Martens because of you. I'll consider it my rockin' Grad present. Many thanks and Much love from your daughter, otherwise known as The Short End Of The Stick.


Friday, April 06, 2007

SO many exciting things...

I'm excited for a lot right now. Like today, I had all these grand plans for starting to terrorize my dad's barn. He sees my reconstruction of the barn as the albatrosse that is around his neck. He's mostly right, but I blame him and nobody but him because he just can't stand by and watch a person do their thing.

Oh, no. "You're gonna want a 2x8 there, and a 4x4 there, Sweetheart. GOOD GOD DON'T TOUCH THAT SLEDGE HAMMER! Here, hold my cigarette. I'll get it. NO! DON'T TOUCH THAT SAW! It's plugged in and could start spinning!!" So, after my safety lesson ensues.... but long before the first hammer has been swung, one of us will have lost an eye. Or gotten exhausted at the thought of swinging a hammer, so we'll need to pause there and take a quick break. Which always turns into a twenty minute escapade in playing with gleeful little kittens.

I also managed to figure out, with much help from the lovely SuperNan, how to back up my photos onto discs, so I have all the photos from this year on a disc which is quite handy! Now my mom has access to that picture where I'm posed beside the random drunk girl with the barf bucket. I really don't know who she was. And I really was sober enough to take the picture, so hey! That's Good news, Mom!

In other news, we farm ladies are heading into the Big City tomorrow in search of the perfect fat pants. Shopping trips usually start off just so well when you start the day forced to do so based on what your body does when you cram in into ill fitting jeans.

But hey, they highlight of the excursion will be that we'll get to eat at Tim Horton's many, many times per day. It'll be grand!

Happy Good Friday, Everyone!


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Wednesday, April 04, 2007

A List...

1) My room is a hideous mess and the likeliehood of me cleaning it before my parents come to get me for the long weekend? Zero.

2) I'm wondering if Coperni-Kitty will recognize me when I get back to The Ranch tomorrow. Sometimes she seems thrilled to see me, and other times she just kind of regards me and puts up with my presence.

3) My MP3 player is refusing to play a playlist. It will play by Genre, by Year, by Title, and by a host of other headings, but not by Playlist. It's making me want to scream and smash it against the concrete wall. But if I smashed it against the concrete wall, my precarious hanging of Elvis my crash down because he isn't firmly embedded in the concrete.

4) I'm going HOME! for Easter weekend! Which means a host of wonderful things which I don't really need to go into detail on because everyone knows what HOME! means.

5) A few weeks ago, I cleverly discovered that the keys on my keyboard can be clicked off to clean beneath them. After clicking several off and picking out the hair and fuzz that lived there, I realized that some of them don't click back on so neatly. So now my M key is perpetually stuck and it's kind of making me cranky.

6) Finals are looming and I haven't begun to study.

7) My grad is looming and I have no idea what to do with my family in celebration. SuperNan mentioned that she felt guilty for not being more excited. I tried to convince her that she could do away with her guilt by purchasing me a new car, but that was a no-go.

8) I've recently created myself a playlist of my favorite Oldies music. I was listening to 'Battle of New Orleans' and I have to say that if you fire your cannon till the barrel melts down, it's really, really mean to grab an alligator and powder his behind.

9) I have failed miserably in my mission to stop making my LumberJack Jacket a regular part of my wardrobe. Fortunately, I'm ok with that.



Lies, Lies, and More Lies...

I received a forwarded email today regarding sex. It was clearly written by a man.

It was a man who's never met a woman.

Sex is a cure for mild depression:

You expect me to believe that a big, hairy, slobbery man wanting me to get naked will cure me of depression? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH SCIENCE HAS GONE IN TO MAKING ME NORMAL? Personally, I find beer much more effective, AND no nakedness is required when it comes to beer drinking. Mmm, beer.

Sex is one of the safest sports you can take up. It stretches and tones up just about every muscle in the body. It's more enjoyable than swimming 20 laps, and you don't need special sneakers!

I'd much rather cram my fat, pasty white body into a swimsuit and dog-paddle my way through twenty laps than get naked in front of most (read: all) of the men I've dated. Need I remind you of the knitter? Further, you may not need special sneakers, sure, but have you ever looked up the logistics of a diaphragm?

A lot of lovemaking can unblock a stuffy nose. Sex is a natural antihistamine:

Yes, because this is ambient: "Honey, I'm stuffed up. Don't mind the crust near my nasal cavities. Don't mind the hacking cough, or the sound of the phlegm in my throat, or the snotballs sure to ping you in the head at any moment. Let's get it on."

Sex is the safest tranquilizer in the world. IT IS 10 TIMES MORE EFFECTIVE THAN VALIUM.

This is an outright lie, and even if it is true? I'D RATHER POP A PILL THAN SEE YOUR HAIRY BODY GET NAKED.

Not that I detest men or anything.



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Monday, April 02, 2007

Ravaged by creepy dreams....

Today was a rainy day, and as befits an activity for a rainy afternoon, I decided to take a nap. Because napping is the best thing since sliced bread. Before sliced bread? You could just rip it apart in chunks and eat it that way. Before napping? There were a lot of cranky people, I'm sure.

Today's nap featured a dream about wolves in my kitchen.

I was back at the ranch, and alongside our usual herd of loud, obnoxious dogs was a wolf. It was a snarling, growling, foul-looking creature that I was positive was about to consume me in about three bites, ending with my head, of course, because then I would be awake the whole time he ate. He would start with my mis-shapen feet, move his way up my jiggly thighs, thinking all the while that man, this chick could use some dipping sauce. And I'd be awake and watching him eating me up, bite by bite, and when he took the first bite out of my left thigh? I was kind of relieved because man, the cellulite is really bringing me down these days.

So the wolf was hanging out in the kitchen with his hair raised and his teeth bared and I was looking at my family incredulously while they all tried to convince me that he was a very nice wolf, and he's a member of this family, young lady, so you better accept it and start being nice to him.

I really wasn't sure what to make of things at this point, because everyone in the house was clearly terrified of the creature, giving him a wide berth when they walked past him on the way to the coffee pot. Every time I opened my mouth, he growled and snapped. And every time he growled and snapped, everyone in the house said "See? Look how friendly he is!"

And so when the wolf approached me, most certainly eyeing my well-fleshed framed and imagining me slow-roasted with a honey-apple glaze, I climbed up on my chair beside the table. And once I was perched atop the chair, I began screaming bloody murder, so that my father cupped his ears with his hands and the herd of dogs started wimpering. And I stood there and I screamed and I screamed, certain that the wolf was about to consume me and that my family had lost their minds.

And then I screamed so much that I woke myself up, and I really have to say, who goes about having dreams like this?



Riding on the Bus...

I went on the city bus this weekend, a pursuit that, for me, is never without much anxiety and fear that I'll doze off and awaken in a faraway land where no one speaks my language, like Quebec.

I was sitting on the bus, being my usual neurotic self with my leg-shaking and my hand-chewing and I suppose that this alone would deter people from sitting near me. You know, because us neurotics typically fly off the handle on city buses and decapitate those near us with the cords from our MP3 players.

At first I thought it was just me, that perhaps I was letting off an offensive odor, or that I had cracker crumbs in my hair. I sat there on the bus, wondering what it could be about me that would make it so that I was alone in a window seat, and people were standing in the aisles hanging onto the very, very germy hanger-on thingies they put in the aisles.

But then I looked around and I realized that I wasn't the only one sitting alone and there wasn't anything outwardly offensive about the other people sitting alone. A nice looking business lady, a girl who was obviously extending her walk of shame right on to a bus ride of shame, a Dude with a newspaper, and so forth. Regular, run of the mill people.

And these are the reasons that I'm so glad I'm going to be escaping the city within the next month, because I don't understand why people act the way they do when you stack them up by the millions within city limits. I don't understand why people can't sit down beside each other and give a simple nod to acknowledge each other's presence. We could all go one step furth and extend a smile, or a simply "Gloomy day out, huh?"

I'm not saying that I'm any better here, because clearly I didn't extend any smiles or casual remarks about the weather. I didn't mostly because when you do that in the city, people think you're insane.

And it really makes me wonder, why is it that we've become so scared of one another that we can't exchange eye contact, facial expressions, simple words now and then? Have we all become so that we feel we're risking our safety or breaking some huge social norm by looking in the direction of another person?

And you know, I don't really wonder any more why psychiatry, depression, and the like have all become so commonplace these days: All we want is someone to connect with. We've become so desperate for some sort of interaction with others, but at the same time we're all too scared to take the first step. We're surrounded by millions of people, but we're quite literally totally alone much of the time.

And so, one more reason for me to look forward to moving home: Where the guy at the store never charges me late fees on my movies because he likes me so damn much; where the pharmacist asks me how my grandmother's doing; where my old bus driver's wife will stop and ask me how my nephew is making out in the first grade or how Big Brother made out on his last tour.


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