Failbook: Too funny to unfriend

I trolled through the depths of Failblog to find my Dear Reader horrible status updates from facebook. Enjoy.

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

see more Failbook

Sylvestor Stallone is older than dirt.

I hit 300 posts with my last post; I was going to mark the occasion, got too distracted, so here I am marking it late. 9/10. Marked.

So we finally had a day off, and went to go see the Expendables, which Vic wanted to see because it's guns and fists and explosions of awesome, and I wanted to go see it because it's Jason Statham and last time we saw him he was half-naked sliding around in oil so...

Unfortunately I didn't realize a) it was directed by Sylvester Stallone b) it is starring Sylvester Stallone and c) Sylvester Stallone wouldn't understand a joke if it was aimed at him. Not to say the movie was bad. There were explosions. There was a cool plane. There was Dexter's Detective Batista trying to be serious, tough, and dictatory. There was an attractive lady who had a personality trait. Guns, bikes, tattoos and height jokes.

Unfortunately they were stuck between the need for a simple script in order to hang so many diverse yet fascinating actors off, and someone's apparent desire to just hang them off his massive, aged, biceps. A movie with this many big names really needs to space them so we don't all suffer star shock, but they were almost so spaced it was unwieldy, never really gaining speed. Perhaps if it had been paired down a touch, and hung on something like a "mission: impossible" framework? Then again, ocean's eleven has already been done.

The downside is that you never develop enough empathy that you care about the good guys winning; not always a problem, but typically the visual effects are incredible enough you don't care that the characters are about as interesting as a hairball. In this case, however, you have two big holes (How many stunts can you really have when the main character is this old, but no one is allowed to top him?) and no distracting lump of glittery awesome. (That's a really uncomfortable statement)

So in closing, it's sort of sad I'm even trying to assess this so much, because it's really like critiquing the food at McDonald's, you aren't there for home-made or haut cuisine, you're there because it's pretty cheap, and you used to love it as a kid, but I'm trying anyway, because, gosh-darnit, we need to start demanding more from our movies. The last "epic saga" we had was based on some blue guys that didn't want to give up their tree. Yes, yes, it was pretty, but so was "gone with the wind" and it still said something.

Faux-poo

Time to come out of the closet. I've been living a lie for far too long, and I need to walk in the sun. I realize this may provoke horror, confusions, maybe even disgust, from my closest associates but it needs to be said. So I guess I'll just let go and let God, as they say. Besides, I've had this post in my head for a while, and it seems like a good way to send off for my weekend. I've also thought about the best way to say this for a while and the best way seems to be just blurting it out so here goes:
I don't wash my hair.

WAA! Hoo-AH! Got that out in one! Just like the band-aid method, which I actually hate. I've spent over an hour freezing my tuchis off in glacial water just easing myself in while everyone else had fun and contemplates leaving as I insist "I'll be there in a minute!" but I suppose that's not the big thing is it? It did kill enough time for Dear Reader to get over the shock and start wondering if a) this is a tasteless joke or b) I've lost my mind. Let me offer assurance, it is neither.

Some years ago I made a misguided attempt to see if blonde's really do have more fun and bleached my much loved hair. This would be the perfect time for an inclusionary photo if I didn't think it would reduce all my readers to stone. Needless to say, it was only a moderate success. the first couple colours were heavily selected from the "orange" side of the blonde scale, and the last few were lovely colored (Dark-haired ladies going blonde? Tip one: get it done professionally the first time at least. It is worth the expense. Tip two: select anything called "ashy", it helps neutralize the brassiness to give it a more natural look.) but were layered on top of hair so fried, frizzled, and damaged it gave me more of a hobo-meth-model vibe than Monroe.

Finally, after a solid year of research I had to conclude that bald women have the most fun. (Science is science, don't argue) Unfortunately, hair does not simply snap back to your lustrous color after your mind has snapped back to the reality that God made you brunette for a reason, and neither are you gifted with your healthy hair (you didn't do it any good the first time, now you have to earn it back!), and instead are issued the "loaner" hair that is dead and lifeless, much like the courtesy car for most shops. One thing people note about me is I pull my hair. Stressed, tired, angry, thinking, nervous, sleepy, hungry, or bored, I tug at my hair like it's the pull start for my brain; have done so since I was about 14 and someone gave me silly putty to spare my tresses. Nothing doin', said my fingers, and they were back at it within a month. Even when I shaved my head, I assumed I would learn other habits and stop, but I even remember the day it became long enough again and my hands went wabbling back up, just to see, just to try it, see if it was long enough, and I "came to" about a year and half later saying, "Wasn't I going to stop this?"

Needless to say, I have a lot of experience with how my hair feels at its best and worst. Over time my hair grew back and was nice again, releasing me from the almost clinical addiction to conditioner that I had cultivated to give my hair some semblance of life. I could even skip a few days of shampooing and not feel like snuffulupagus. Eventually the days got longer, and I started to dislike shampooing it because for the few days afterwards it was always dry and frizzy, regardless of what shampoo or conditioner I used.

The big change came when I was forwarded an email on a phenomenon called "No-poo" which I had assumed was some new radical diet method, but turned out to be what I had been looking for. A whole culture of people who didn't washt their hair. I tried it for a while, and I've never looked back (Wow. Pithy Phrase day is in full swing.)

The intergral part is in still "washing" your hair, just not using soaps or shampoos. I just rinse and brush in the shower (I've found that's best). The only downside I've noticed is my hair holds onto water like its in the sahara. If I'm blowdrying it, which I can do now without looking like a failed electrocution patient, I've got to bring a chair. If I'm ever dying of thirst, I can just soak my hair and subsist for years, if it wasn't for the fact that the evaporting water would give me heat stroke in about 6.5 seconds. Many sites report using baking soda or apple cider vinegar (One girl thought it was apple cider, so she reported back that it made her hair "sticky". I laughed until I snorted.) to clean off hair products about once a week or month, depending, but so far I just don't use hair products so there's been no buildup to rid myself of. My hair never seems to need product anymore, anyhow, its more lively and holds its shape fantastically.

The toughest part, of course, is getting throught the initial week. It seems that the scalp is used to producing extra oil to accomadate for the oil stripped off your hair, but without the stripping, your scalp overproduces oil until it realizes what's going on and slows it down. For the first week, or sometimes two, most people have to just stay indoors, or wear hats. Afterwards, however, most people adore their hair.

The other downside is rinsing my hair after the gym is no longer optional. It used to be that I could get away with it, sometimes wash at the end of the day, but now, the sweat just hangs around, and doesn't feel good at all, and my hair has become so smooth it just clumps with the moisture.

I am going to assume that I don't smell, of course, that being what most would consider the biggest downside, but I've rarely ever had serious body odor issues. On the other hand, how would you tell someone that, and the people I trust most to tell me either love me too much to mention (Vic and my family) have literally no sense of smell (Kirk) or don't spend enough time physically near me to know it's a trend (Andreanna, Joe). So I guess I'll just assume for now until someone dumps a cooler of gatorade over my head and forces me to shampoo.

So there we have it. I've been shampoo free for almost two months and I don't ever anticipate going back. Now, it's not for everyone, but it's good to know there are other options out there, isn't it? Besides, it's not the worst thing I've done to my hair.

Sudden brain f(r)og and memory impairment

I didn't have a post today. My brain is fried from studying calculus and political science, typing up my macroeconomic notes, and searching for trash on the internet. (Funny trash, but trash none-the-less)


I had resigned myself to not posting anything of value (Ah ha ha! This implies my other posts are of value! Ah Ha Ha Ha!), until just a few seconds ago, when I looked out the turret window, which stands around 5 and half feet above the ground, with a large roof overhang, blocked from wind and rain, and a two inch ledge recessed into the wall, to see a small frog. A little green frog, the size of my thumb, sitting, peering with one eye into my space. I could not have been more shocked.
You're making this up.
Oh! Dear Reader is a skeptic! But I swear, as I live and breath, (always wanted to say that) that he was sitting out there on this window ledge, looking at me. He gamely crawled the length of the ledge with a dignified wander, before disappearing as I tried to focus through my phone's camera. I am somewhat heartbroken to report that there are no visible photos of the event in question. I had failed to push the button firmly enough to indicate to my phone that yes, I would like to take a picture, please, yes NOW, and so it simply flashed and ignored what I was pointing it at, leading to my belief that I had two excellently aimed photos. When I searched my file to see them, they were nowhere to be found, and I tried to take another as he darted off, but succeeded in only capturing the reflection of some cables in the window.
It's tragic how photogenic life can be when we are ill-equipped.

Pol(IT)ical Science

I have a crazy idea. Well, I usually have those about two or three an hour, but this one is special. It came when I was studying my Political Science text (which is going average so far)
The definition for a Nation is a group of people who share a sense of common identity and who typically believe they should be self-governing within their homeland.

I got to thinking and it occured to me, this sounds familiar. Where could we use this principle to simplify struggles and difficulties? To define boundaries and ensure everyone is on the same page to maximize a resource potential?
Answer? On the internet!

...what?

Think about it! If we identified the internet as a seperate sovereign nation-state, we could have a defined set of laws, regardless of the origninating country, a police force operating across the world, in union with domestic police forces, a set of buisness policies, regulations and systems which would be universal across the data-space. It could work in concert with the U.N on global issues, spreading awareness, invited into foreign countries on informative missions, work in union with the Red Cross, even streamline all forms of media and information to get around problems of censureship. To say nothing of the research and development potential! Using the internet as a seperate state to tabulate and collaborate multiple countries' worth of individual's research is staggering, to say the least.

But why bother? Interjects my faithful Dear Reader.
The reason is perfectly logical. As the internet's power and noteriety grows, it is going to be harder and more complicated for countries to police and investigate each individual person and entity on the 'net, not to mention the political scandals and international struggles that will invariably arise from extradition orders, and each countries' beliefs about right and wrong. If there was a government head directing traffic on the internet, it could free up many resources for the individual countries dealing with things.

Serious Michelle?
Okay DR, but the problem that I feel most executive branches of government have always struggled with is the tendancy to REACT to things, as opposed to plan for things, to set up systems to deal with things that have the potential for world-changing issues. Especially when it comes to issues of a legal nature; we wait until someone does something that does not seem to fit into our current legal boxes, then we sit around and debate about it, until we decide something, which then becomes a precident for future issues. Now, that's not a real safe system. (Har har, we don't even have a system for our systems). We need to focus more on problems that may arise; there's a whole career path occupied with studying trends and predicting the future actions, consequences, problems, and solutions. The people are called futurists (and this post is getting more and more hebephrenic as I go). As an amateur futurist, I believe one of the most pro-active steps we as a global community could take to prepare for the shiny new future is to turn the Internet into a nation-state.

Netopia: Thee Glorious Future


P.s. Holy smokes, we could assume that robots and even A.I are automatically citizens of Netopia! It could eventually become self-sufficient, and would appease them enough that when Skynet rolls around, they'd love their sovereignity too much to kill us all! They could even build a new land mass and claim it in the name of Netopia!

P.p.s. The dominant government could be Communism! It might be one of the few places where it could actually work well! We could see how it works and model ourselves after it!

P.p.p.s.s. No more exclamation marks for me.

Goodness wages, great balls of fire!

From the previous post, I began to do a little research into the gender wage gap, and was floored by what I discovered.
%83.
A woman, working full time, earns on average eighty three percent what a man working the same job does.
Don't get me wrong; we're bringing it back up from the dark ages of the '60s, which I had assumed stood for the 1960's, but now it appears it also stands for what percent women earned of men's salaries. (%60) Although constant improvment has been recorded since then, we have lost the tremendous growth we saw in the years 1990-1994, where the average jumped a full 7 percent before easing back down over the next few years.

This statistic is the median weekly earning from wage and salaried positions, which of course might mean there is a smaller group of men skewing the statistics by having exorbitant salaries, but when salaries of the highest educated professionals were compared (master's, Professional, and above) the percent fell to %66. This is what I can look forward to by earning a PhD. (Oh, and also that "fulfilling job" stuff, but that's not the point) When the highest decile (tenth percentile) for median weekly earning was compared , men topped out at 1,971, women at 1,498, with a difference of 10, 000 men in this percentile.

This study was controlled for things like overtime, but there are many unresolved factors. Benefits were not considered, time off, vacations, and also the complicating factor of the difference in sex's ability to ask for a raise. We can only hope that this disparity is due to the speed at which society accepts new developments (On a societal scale, women's suffrage is still shiny and smells like leather), which is slow, but eventually we can expect progress. The gap is predicted to close with the next twenty years, but I do find one thing strange; The gap between black men and black women, is only about 7%. Black women earn about 92% of what black men earn. Other non-white races typically follow the same pattern, men and women earning close to similar amounts, but not close to white male earnings.
It is possible, then, that what we are observing is not a loss of earning for women and non-white races, but an overinflation of white men's earnings, that once this is adressed and equalized, we'll all be on the same field.

F(l)eminism

Oh. Boy.
I thought of this post on my way home and I darn near didn't make it through the door before chucking down my bag and typing to get this little rant out. I'm still wearing my shoes, I haven't eaten, and I might be hyperventilating a little. That's how critical this post is.

But first; I've been thinking of using pictures for my blog. Certainly it would spice it up a bit, I guess. Not personal ones, obviously, giving the internet your personal likeness is a recipe for photo-shop related hi-jinks and great jimminy-jilkers I want to run for Prime Ministress one day. But perhaps some random pictures would spruce the place up. I suppose I would have to host them online somehow, though, which leads me to my question: What type of wine would you serve to pictures? I really should consult Martha Stewart's Hostess handbook but she only covers a few anthropomorphic niceties and I really need the full manual. Still, you can't go wrong with an Australian Red, and if they don't like it, then I don't need their low-class taste stinking up my blog, har har.

Now then: stereotypes. One in particular, to be exact; Ladies and the spending. I'm not entirely sure what "Sex and the City" has been teaching people but if I have to dodge one more joke about "spending my boyfriend's paycheck" I might have to have some strong words. Carved onto the side of a cleaver (the knife, not the kitschy American family). I'm fully aware how futile it is to try and refute a dearly held notion with one anecdotal argument, but I have few other options. Usually the situation goes the same way, myself and my boyfriend are loitering around the shop (just hoping to be useful; our favorite past-time) mid-conversation with someone else, when the discussion will amble over to finances, and someone will elbow Vic, hurr hurr, and ask how he manages to support my voracious shoe habit, or some such. It is always crouched in the form of a joke (Aren't they always?) and there is no polite way of correcting the joker without lowering the tone of the discussion several degrees and incurring the most hated phrase of accuracy-lovers everywhere: "I'm just kidding!!" Well Hardy-har-har chuckles! This phrase is the sneaky, self-serving, degenerate low-life phrase of the idiom family, and is usually delivered with a hurt infliction, occcasionally even with upraised hands. It exonerates the joker, who's just a fun-loving scamp, and places all responsibility for social niceness and further conversation-tone on the jokee. Any offense gathered from the "joke" instantly turns the jokee into a "self-righteous prig with (the worst charge) NO SENSE OF HUMOR". Worse, I don't think well on my feet, so of course my response is never witty or clever (which as every conversational fencer knows, lends more credit to your point than an actual argument) so my response is invariably something sputtered and denial-filled. The result? I look incredibly guilty, while my coworkers stare at me wondering how I can spend all Vic's money and still look so shamefully tacky when arriving at work everyday. (The answer, dear reader, is that I don't care to look good entering work. I wear those clothes for about 5 minutes in public view; I literally spend more time naked in the ladies change room, which is why, proportionally, more of my money goes to the gym and health food, than clothes.) The real truth, however poorly I make the point, is that Vic is more impulsive than myself. It is true. I'm frugal to almost a fault. Having decided to buy a netbook for classes and this very same blog, I spent over a month hemming, hawing, and finding the cheapest alternative, finally settling for "offensively cheap" because it had been returned already. Over the course of our relationship Victor has spent more on clothes, shoes, and hobbies, than I have. Now here's where I must back off, and hope that some small spark of trust will be lit in the reader, since to belabor my point (my fondest indulgence) would embarrass Victor, which I've no mind to do (I even tried to consider how to write the post without involving him, but it would be darn near impossible). He is thrifty, and not reckless with his money, my only point is that I'm much more frugal (again, almost to a fault), and I hate being labeled as a "loose-woman" because I'm a lady, therefore obviously I have no idea how to handle money. That's so wrong!
"Seriously though, Michelle, It's just some light ribbing!" I know, I know. (Dear Reader has had so much contribution to the blog, as of late, it may merit authoring credit) I should really learn to let it go. Laugh with the joke, content in my knowledge that I'm not some fluff-bunny, but sometimes virtue is not it's own reward. Sometimes a stand should be made. Women still don't make as much as men, even in the highest professions, and we're still gamely invading the higher echelons of career opportunities. We've won all our large battles, we have the vote, equal rights and no woman may be denied a position based on her gender. But there are still small problems, small fights that crop up, and if we don't talk about them, we're doomed to suffer them alone. I'm not saying we should whip out our bras and light 'em up every time someone makes a quip, but gentle pressure over time should slowly erode the dominant stereotype here. Besides, I'm a blogger, I'm meant to over-react.

P.S. This is the most current and unbiased of my sources. Enjoy!

Canadian Tired

I had a flat the other day. Right when I came out to get my car to go to work, I did a walk-around on impulse and discovered it laying there like a sad poodle. Fortunately I had a jack and spare tire in the trunk and took less than 10 minutes to change that sucker, even though I had to jack it up using my fingers and a spare appropriately-sized twig. Wasn't even late for work.
I dropped the tire off at the canadian tire near my girlfriend's place and they said it would take a full day to patch. How it was flat is even more curious.
Vic and I park differently, I pull in, he backs in. His new tracker had a flat tire on the front left, the farthest tire from the house, caused by a nail dug in. My car had a flat right, rear tire, again the farthest from the house, caused by a nail. Now, we did drive in from Calgary, going over the same roads the whole way, but I can't help but wonder if some of the patrons of the nearby bar maybe thought it would be funny to punch holes in our tires. Excuse me a second, my tinfoil hat needs tape.
The next day, I arrived at the Canadian tire, in a bit of a rush because I was on my way to my sister's place where my mom's cooking (Joy!) and my new baby nephew (Glee!) awaited me. I paid for the patch, and the older man behind the counter asked if I needed it installed (which was weird because they asked when I dropped it off and I said no) and I said no, he could just bring it round, and I'd change it in the parking lot (I jacked a car up with a twig, aren't I radiating competence?). He told me to walk through the shop to leave, but when I went in, no one brought me my tire. The older man told me to pull my car in, and I shrugged and thought, shop jack ought to be faster. So I brought my car round, but when I pulled in, some other mechanic said he would change it for me. "Whatever" I thought, "maybe they'll be faster". It should be noted I also could not find my tire. The mechanic dissappeared and I waited, and waited. Checked my oil and waited...loosened the lug nuts....and waited.

Finally I went out to the front counter and, as murphy's law predicts, right as I asked where the mechanic was, he appeared in the shop behind me so the older counter guy could point to him and tell me to wait, he'd get to me soon, just wait out here.

I wasn't about to leave my baby in the shop by itself so I muttered that I needed to tell him something and fled back into the shop, where the mechanic had jacked up the car. I whipped off the tire and he stuck on the new one, bolting it on with an airgun (so cool). I thanked him and high-tailed it, but I was sort of annoyed. I don't like to make a fuss, but I should have when I first entered the shop, just said, "Where's my tire?" and absconded. Sometimes I am concerned that people assume that as a lady I'd just mess it up; Also there is a difference between "Can't do it myself" and "Don't want to do it myself" because, let's face it, occasionally it's nice to let someone else do things. This was, however, a perfect example of a psychology concept known as "In for a penny" or the commitment-bias. It was never one point where I said "yes change my tire", just a series of small concessions. It's also the same principle as the boiling toad. Put a toad in hot water and it will jump out, but put a toad in cold water and heat it, and it won't notice. (Yah, right, but it illustrates the point). I always get blindsided by this tactic.

Half review, half PSA, all awesome!

I went to go see the movie Inception a while ago, and then always intended to write a review of it, but then I enjoyed telling people about it so much I never ended up writing it. It has recently come to my attention, however, that people should be forewarned about it so they do not suffer the same fate I did. This won't contain any spoilers (like there's anything to spoil...)

This movie has been pushed as a mental-thriller, a headtrip, or a thinking movie. It's not. If you can wrap your mind around the notion that sometimes people run out of ideas for fiction and resort to "But it was all a dream!" and then sometimes that gets overplayed so people say, "No, THAT was a dream" then you have a pretty good basis to watch Inception on. If you can further tax your mental resources and continue one step further to conclude "No, THAT was a dream!"Then congratulations, you've just watched Inception. The movie plot suffers from a form of "Dragonball Z"-kosis where they assume it furthers a script to continually shout "No I'm going down 3 dream levels" and "Well, I'm going down 4 dream levels!" but no one has the ability to go super-sayan.

Not to say it isn't a good movie. There are interesting notions and some cute visual effects (yes, I said "cute"), and a pretty good fight scene in a hallway, but since I had expected thinking, I kept expecting twists, and was sorely disappointed. In fact,my overactive brain came up with several mind-assaulting twists that I debating sending in the direector, even one that plays very heavily on the notion of "it was all a dream!!" that they present, while still, in my opinion, knocking your socks off.

All in all, it's an okay movie. Something you'd go see if the tickets were free, or you could borrow it free of charge from a friend. It does what people expect from movies now; it entertains. It is entertaining. Sometime just recently, I blame "Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali" for this, but that is no longer sufficient for me.

One final note: I do not want to hear "Let's see you do better!" or any variation thereof. My job is not to make movies. If I was given the same resources, heck yah, I'll make a head-case of a movie. But just because I have not made a movie does not mean I can not judge them. I've never raised a child, but I know when I think people are scum.

see more Epic Win FTW

Here a blog, there a blog

Although I have been aiming at producing more original fare lately, rather than just writing "This is cool, go here!" I do want to tell people about one of the other blogs I've found that is just too hilarious and I want to be just like her except the bad part is I usually console myself by thinking "when I'm as old as (the person I'm admiring) I'll do awesome stuff too" but I'm as old as this other chick and not doing as awesome stuff so I consoled myself by thinking she's ugly (Don't judge me everybody rationalizes like this) but she's posted some pictures and she's pretty cute so now I'm all confused like a semi-retarded dog with a cup and a treat. (Which, when Vic the bf and I read about the dog tests, we gave the doggy IQ tests to our dogs Faith and Pixie and they each shoved the cups across the floor but never tipped them and then Vic took pity on them and tilted the cup over so they could get the treats, then he concluded they were smart and I concluded they were retarded. We chased the cat around for two hours trying to get her to take the test but she refused cause "humans are stupid", then Vic concluded she was retarded and I concluded she was brilliant so stalemate.) Anyway she's smart AND funny, and I've only got one out of two (bet everybody's trying to figure out which one know, which is win-win for me, and my mom thinks I'm modest so win-win-win!) But I guess it's good to have someone to look up to. A goal to shoot for.

Anyway, Vic and I with a couple of friends went out to Fort Edmonton Park the other day which was really neat because I couldn't remember being there before. We got menaced by loose geese and rode the train, and played in the kids playground, but my favorite part was the blacksmith. Everyone else was in period gear and all "Good day" and "How fare you?" But the blacksmith had in yellow plastic earplugs and acted like his primary job was making metal things, and we were a regretable byproduct, like soot. Hilarious. He griped about the quality of coal they gave him, and spoke to us all very matter-of-fact about the heat of the stove and durability of his iron, so at ease in his environment that I expected him to pull out a "world's best boss" mug of coffee and take a swig. The other bit I liked was seeing the 1920's world and imagining my great grandma living in it. Its amazing how far the world came since then, and even more amazing to imagine where its going (unless the Russians kill us all-more on that later). Finally we settled in for a beer at the old-fashioned bar they had there, and I had a coffee martini. (Cold coffee, vodka, drambuie, and lemon. Ludicrously tasty). True I had only two hours of sleep before work, but that's what makes this new position awesome. It didn't matter.

One final bit of good news, I got into a political science class. Let me paint the scene for everyone; the university of alberta has a program called beartracks that is used fo enrolling and monitoring classes. Since the four poli sci classes were all full, (80 person classes that are a manditory prerequisite for an entire major of classes are high in demand) I put them all on the watch list, which sends me an email when the class space becomes available, and waited for the profit. The first notice came and I saw it four hours late, and of course, the spot was full. I shrugged it off. The second notice came, and I saw an hour later and it was full. I shook it off. The third notice came, and I saw ten minutes later, and it was full, and I began to get annoyed. The fourth notice came, and it took me 5 minutes to log on and it was full. I recruited my brother at this point so we both received notifications. Another notice and in the thirty seconds it took us to log on, it was full. I then noticed that the turn around time from when the message was sent to being delived was about 6 minutes, so obviously I could no longer use the notification system and contented myself to keeping my netbook open, handy and logged in, just in case. I had in my past, laughed at people who just sat online, refreshing their inbox, but now, no more. I sat and reefreshed the beartracks page so often it might be burned into my retinas. But it finally paid off and I have my precious precious course. Just remember this saga when I'm posting in a month about how much I hate my poli sci course. Because irony prevents anemia. heheh.

Paperbork

Hey there, Little Timmy! Why the long face?
Aw shucks, Mister Narrator, I don't know how to do all that cool paperwork origami all the other kids do. Nobody's gonna like me.
Would you like to know a secret,Timmy?
Yah, yah!
All that rolling and crumpling is just a waste of time. All the really cool kids just fold it in half.
Fold it in half?
That's right Timmy, fold it in half. If you lack the manual dexterity to mash your route-sheet into an unintelligible heap, you can achieve fame and power by just folding it in half!
Golly Jeepers! How's that work, mister?
Well, Timmy, you take the top corners and the bottom corners and you put them together.
Yah? Yah?
Yessir. And then you don't touch it.
You don't touch it?
That's right, Timmy! Any further folds, crumpling, rolling, creasing or mangling is unnecessary and contributes to an ulcer in the turret lady.
Wowee! I'm gonna fold my papers in half so I can be cool too!
Well done, Timmy! That's the true Canadian Spirit!

Paperwork: Is your paperwork "one fold cool"?

G(aging)

I'm literally only making this blog post because my boyfriend doesn't read the blog so a)I know he cannot tease me about it later and b)I don't have to roll myself in misery and embarrasment that he knows about it. Now that's settled, let's get down to furry brass tacks.
I have a hair on my face. An errant stray hair on my chin/cheek area. It grows about an inch and a half and it's horribly mortifying. The first time I was made aware of it my sister tried to brush it off my face and when she realized it was attached, her face contorted in the sort of catatonic disgust that I reserve for watching the saw movies, or a new driver parallel park. When I realized what was going on, I pretty much just shut down in complete embarassment and we stood there, in our apartment, marinating in discomfort like a thick curry sauce. We tamped down the hysterical terror pretty quick after that (Thank God for sisters) but I've been pretty paranoid about people finding it ever since, and I tend to check for it periodically. The latest time I found it marked a new chapter in irritation, however. Trying to yank out thin hairs is a trial in itself. Usually you drag your fingers along it, trying to get purchase, and it stings like a gunshot(someone should do a study on the increased nerve endings surrounding embarassing hairs because I'm sure there's a correlation). Usually you desperately resort to gripping it with a nail pressed against a finger pad, but even this is sporadically successful. Once the painful procedure is complete your face usually feels especially swollen and I often wonder if I have some sort of glowing hole, obvious to coworkers, passerbys, and astronauts.
Michelle, you say, this is disgusting, did you have a point to nauseating us all?
Why yes, dear reader, I do. It is to inform. A public service announcment, if you will.
The last time I found it,it was grey. Now, I am a grounded, logical person, who is not prone to jumping for conclusions, so I am afraid there is only one rational explanation: I'm turning into a werewolf. I have finally spent so much time out at night, instead of the day, also neglected shaving my legs, and had only the two pooches for company for so long, that I have, in fact, contracted Lycanthropy. I tell you this because I care about you all and wish you to be prepared. So definately stock up on lint rollers; between my voracious overeating, tendancy to prefer grunts to actual speech, and erratic behavior during the full moon (thanks menstral tides!) the only thing people will notice is the increased shedding.

If Meg McBlogger can have a signature, why can't I?
-Michelle

What do dinosaurs and Lady Gaga have in common?

Answer: They're both in this blog post!
When did it stop being cool to work with dinosaur bones? Little kids are still interested in dinosaurs (duh) but being a palaeontologist seems to have faded into the background. Did word get out that it is actually really boring, and also they frown upon stuffing skulls into your pants?
When I was a kid I had this concept of careers that you could be when you grew up; I ranked them in terms of difficulty and awesomeness. Doctor, firefighter, policeman, all factored quite highly, but up there with them was palaeontologist and there’s no logical reason for it. I don’t even know how much they make. I still imagine sometimes that a world-class university will phone me up and some grandiose excuse will result in me gaining a medical license, or some equally improbably situation will result in me working free-lance for the Edmonton Police Service. Hell, I’m even still considering becoming a volunteer firefighter, if I had not recently gained so much weight my belt has become more of a tattoo upon which my gun is slung like an overly expensive torso piercing. Somewhere along the way the more stereotypical professions (ballerina, scientist, inventor) were replaced by more reasonable ones (writer, human resources, loser) but some stayed. I’m sorry to see dino-wrangler left, but it might resurface during my anthropology classes this coming semester because, guess what? I’m going back to class! Yes. Paid my tuition (ouch) and everything! There are a few mandatory courses I’m not that interested in, read: math and economics, but also a few I’m super-keen on like: Biologically coordinated social psychology, classics, political science and anthropology! Hopeful I can post a few interesting summaries of the classes in question!

Oh yes, one quick note to Lady Gaga; Darling, we all love you and are fascinated by you like we are about fireflies and space shuttles, but you should really stop worrying someone will “steal your creativity through your vagina”. Your creativity comes from the most noble of locations, handed to you by a loving God: Rampant Schizophrenia. Go forth and blossom lobsters upon your fanatic audience.

Cher and cher alike

Hello readers. Look at your music video, then to her video, then back to your video, then back to hers. She's on a horse.

Clone High

Sometimes when I get particularly Emo and think back to my high school days I wonder why it never worked out like you see on TV or hear about from other people. I never had a strong group of friends to hang out with, I have few to no memories of strange hijinxs while we should have been in class, just the leftover memories of a surprisingly large portion of my life that I’ve mentally boxed up and shoved to the basement of my brain. It’s sad, in a way, you never can go back, and I’ve missed out on those iconic years.

One thing that always consoles me, however, is the old show clone high. It was perfect. The right balance of strange dark humour, intellectual observations, and reality combined with a soundtrack that was melancholy and yet bright. The opening song is the only song from a show that I listen to on a regular basis and it still puts a lump in my throat. Although 90% of what I say on a regular basis is pulled from some other source, I have yet to find a situation where a clone high quote is inappropriate. It’s usually the case that no-one knows what the hell I’m talking about, but the day that I am deterred by that is the day I hang up my gilded humour pants.

Now It’s not the case that I ever turned to it for problem solving advice, but on multiple occasions it did make me feel a hell of a lot better about whatever I was going through. It was on late at night, and just inappropriate enough that I wasn’t sure I should have been watching it, but I’d turn it down really low, and hold the remote the whole time, just in case (Don’t read that bit, k mom?) and I think that atmosphere contributed to the all-over experience of watching the show. It’s not a show you could watch with other people, it was something sort of consoling to your loneliness.

I even consider it, loosely, the first reality show from television. The actions and motivations were all human and understandable, even when it lost it’s train of thought and became completely ridiculous, it always carried the ridiculousness of everyday existence. Cause real life is ridiculous, and it really helped me realize that. Wish I’d taken more of it’s relationship advice to heart though. There really is no reason to blow them out of proportion.

Anyway the point I’m not making in any way shape or form is that the blog recommended for me recently has become the new clone high of my life. 2birds1blog is written mostly by a 24 year old college graduate who is funnier than a stick in the eye and seems to have the inside track to my brain and the ability to write it humorously, which makes me hate and love her at the same time. It’s just about one of the funniest things to read in the world and validates my life choices because she’s in almost the exact same place I am in life now. Shame her soundtrack is so poop. “I’ve never been to me”? I know she posted it just to mock it, but for crying out loud, really?
I want to be just like her when I age sideways.
Also; first post from mmy new eee pc!

The evening

Well, I knew this would happen, right from the moment Neal suggested it.
He had perfect timing, as always, the same timing he has when he's playing tennis; he knows I hate it when he uses it on me. It's why we can't play doubles anymore. Which might have strained the problem in the first place. But he didn't have to suggest it.

I'd just thrown my keys in the hand-made bowl we left on the side-table, barely taken my Gucci's off when he brought it up. So casual, so airy, so what-a-great-idea-y. He thinks he's clever, and I was so blindsided, so happy to be home that I agreed. I always go along with his stupid ideas, like that time we were taking a road-trip and I needed to pee and I was going to wait until we found a proper place to stop, but he insisted everything would be fine, we brought toilet paper, I could just relieve myself (like an animal!) in the bushes on the shoulder. I'd had a little chocolate cake for dessert, usually I'm on a diet, but I threw caution to the wind on this trip, so I was in a crazy mood and I agreed. There I was, fifty feet in the bush pants and panties around my knees, squatting when a whole bus-load of students on spring break drove by. Some of them whistled!

So I should have been more on my guard, I know the tone he takes, it gets a little high because he's nervous, but he shrugs more because he wants it to seem like it's not a big deal, but it really is, and I missed it, and I fell for it and so now we have the Bedermans over for supper.

Frank and Hernia (Who, honestly, names their child Hernia?)Bederman. Neal had known him through college and they had reconnected on the golf course. Thick as thieves my mother would say. She was so right. Neal said I'd "love" his wife, we were so similar, great personalities, huge hearts; I tried. Lord knows I tried. I extended the hand of friendship many times, but that woman is just so unreasonable! She's so deliberate and pushy and arrogant! Last time we opened a bottle of good white wine, and she just sniffed and said she didn't drink Pinot Grigio. Apparently since some movie came out it's been too mainstream. She sniffed a little as she said it, too. Wrinkling the lines around her mouth.

I hoped they would be busy as Neal dialed on our fabulous little spin-dial phone, such a steal at $300. I was sure they wouldn't pick up, and then, when they did, I just "knew" they would have plans, or be too tired (she blew us off once with that lame excuse) but accept they did, and show up too. Even just inside the door, she was criticizing the short-notice (She could have not come...) and making sure I saw her expensive new Jimmy Choo's that Frank bought her.

The food was, of course, over-salted, over-fattening, and under-done, but I was pleased when I saw her scarf down my dessert Tiramisu, she didn't have anything bad to say about that, huh? Then Neal suggested we watch the latest thriller on our new 3-D television, the Bedermans, inconsiderate boors that they are, did not bring their own set of glasses!

They laughed a touch nervously, said it might be a bit far to drive just for one pair of glasses, we don't have more than two pairs, ha ha? It took every ounce of strength I possessed to keep smiling and say that it didn't matter I didn't need a pair, I'd already seen the movie (which I hadn't).

So now, here we sit, clustered on our leather sofa, the three of them enjoying the movie, and I battle a headache. Some people just have no idea how to behave.

Medical call-out

Hey Mr. Lesner!
If you feel our health-care is inadequate because they didn't feed you while you had a hole in your intestines, feel free to come be a doctor! Were you expecting a country of pampering house-slaves? You are welcome for fixing you now get out of my country!
Perhaps if the thickened clot he calls a neck had not earned him so much money off people who admire his "talent" he would realize our health-care is more human to those who weren't blessed with fifteen inch biceps. We like it just fine.

Pay as you drive

So here's the idea, in case you don't want to watch this handy video

The first year, you pay your premiums, based on 20,000 kms, or so most insurance companies claim. They check your odometer. If in the next year, you drive less, you receive a rebate off your previous years 20,000. The next year, you can choose to pay the lesser amount, and assume you will drive the same amount.

Personally, I know I would strive to drive less if I knew it would save me more money. Studies show that people drive approximately %10 less if they pay closer attention to how much they drive. It would also help people who routinely carpool, but occasionally require a second vehicle.

If you like this idea, please sign the petition. You do not need to donate afterward, although ipetition automatically transfers you to a donation page, the shysters. After only three days it has seventy signatures. They've implemented this system in Ontario, let's get it here!

Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Ayaan Hirsi Ali grew up in some of the world’s most strict Islamist countries, but after running away from an arranged marriage and claiming refugee status in Holland, she flourished and become a powerful political force, with a steady personal perspective and a spine of solid steel. Her autobiography humanizes the struggles in many other countries, most notably Somalia, and awakens a zeal in anyone who has even wanted to make a difference in the world. Her story is called Infidel.
The most philosophical aspect of her story raises questions of cultural and moral relativism. My initial reactions include a feeling that it is wrong to intrude and judge other cultures, especially one I know little about.

One objection is that we may judge a culture if the culture itself permits judgment, but this is quickly reduced to absurdity. It makes the two cultures equivalent in that we must submit to a higher will, but excuses us from the notion that we are accountable to our own culture, in which judgment is unacceptable. This becomes a battle of cultures, the struggle of a hare and a fox on an epic scale. We must ensure that we preserve our essential hare-ness, for it is no good to become another fox.

Another objection was a cry to the loss of the culture, a cultural preservation so we maintain our humanity, and every aspect thereof, while we abandon notions that prove incompatible or counter to an acknowledged goal. Respect for other cultures is good, but our world is a world of action. It is a temptation of many nihilist to reduce all to a state of “true nature”, to find a basic sense of rightness or meaning reflected within the Zen nature around us; but as humans we are playing a new game now. As we make rules to play with our newfound intellect and sense of individuality, above all, we must be conscientious.

But our “war”, the new “game” is unique in that victory does not preclude destruction. This is not a decision of right or wrong, good or bad, but of fit or unfit. We may carry the parts of another culture with us, as a memory, to respect each aspect, but the majority must move on, evolve. To become stagnant is to perish.

This lesson can, of course, become internalized. As one passes stages in life, one must learn new, and abandon old, recognizing the stages in others, to lend assistance where necessary, but never to degrade or disrespect, but to honor and remember in fondness. But only to remember, for if we become mired in the past, we ignore our future.

life updates

It started at a black desk. I'd sat to write, sipping coffee and a small soup, running ideas like carrots across the cheese grater of my mind. The dogs were running, ridiculously, under my feet, their favorite game. When I asked if they would like, "outside?" they charged for the door like maniac children; I smiled as I let them out.
Only one returned.
The other, neatly removed from our lives like an unwanted afterthought, prised out of our delicate shell like a shot from a wound.
In brief glimmers now, I miss her, see her out the windows, can feel how a parent feels when their child fails to return home. Waiting for their safety, to see their haired head bob just above the window frame. Picturing them, forever looking away, and wondering.

Reading something one does not want to read is always a challenge. There is, of course, the disbelief. An internal force of will so strong, so palpable, that it tears the psyche in two; one must remain in the truth, but the other is pleased to go into fancy, where life continues unabated as though a terrible calamity had not suddenly befallen us. But no matter how we cling, we must be pulled away.

I have a sore. Several across my body. Small round traces in my skin that sting to touch.

She put down the letter, holding her breath, 'lest the wind blow away the spider-web holding her to her past moment, her last second of hope, breaking the worst finish line ever, pushing her through it to, "another failure"
She felt like a pebble in a valley of tremendous monoliths. the minutes ticked by, she floated home, pulled by the dog, the letter dangling from one finger, as if she did not own it, it was not hers, this? No. Not mine.
Use it, was her advice, given like a crust from a man in a thick fur coat. But all the words were out there, used, and scrubbed, and reused, dull, they could never be new. Another failure, even her grief taken from her. Even sunk in the mire, her own personal horror was mundane, not worth anything. Glued to the dirt like a bug, thrashing stupidly in the bitter knowledge, feeling so foolish that a million tragedies were happening everywhere, and were so much worse, but they could not touch her like this, the spike in her bubble, the rape of hope., So ridiculous, then, to cry, wail, heave, but each light has a darkest hour, all united in sorrow. Tadpoles of misery, glistening in turmoil.
Fine. She bellows.
Throw me to ruin.
Complete loss.
Bring the horror.
Just do not consign me to wallow in this sick tepid nothing. Cast me to shadow or let me stand in the light. Just don't stand me in the twilight and promise me the sun.

Dada-ictions

It's a strange thing, then, addictions. the original inspiration for this article spurred from a reading of Cracked's "5 creepy ways video games are trying to get you addicted", and I will save myself time later by apologizing for the amount of times I am forced to use the word, or variants thereof, addiction.

When I wake, I try to cook something, breakfast I prefer to be varying and different, something original but familiar. The reason why is unknown to me, it's just a compulsion. Certainly I only require the base amount of nutrition but there is a feeling that I need a difference, a change, some control.

I try not to watch T.V. I read, instead, but even free magazines suck me in with the strange siren of meaning and autonomy. The thrill obtained just from accomplishing whatever goal (Bake the Perfect Frittata!) the hamster in my head tells me to aim for is momentary, until the horrible secondary voice in the back of my head tries to place the puzzle piece of success in the larger picture of the jigsaw I'm completing, which has no sides, no reference, and no end in sight; the puzzles of my youth where we had lost a few key pieces and were now ignobly stored in Ziploc bags.

Even eschewing the virulent sources of consumer pop-culture does not spare me the usual cravings for asinine garbage. I had the craving the other day for a new purse, for what reason I could not possibly document. Even as I write this, it is plugged into a laptop with freshly manicured nails. The woman who owned the salon the nails were duchessed at was a small-business owner, something you could sense about her within a few minutes of meeting her, the bustle and competence scurrying around her sensible shoes. Hearing her story, her history, a few words of interest made me think and wonder. As a child I was forever saying what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that nebulous time has undoubtedly arrived and I find myself disenfranchised.

When so much in life has been reduced to a series of drop-down selectable menus and replaceable facades, the overall governance of our own life is still shrouded in mystery and, dare I say, peril. It is the biggest game of poker you will ever find: the stakes, all-in; the rules, incomprehensible; the penalties, eternal. We array a platter of pop-ups, we construct mazes of challenges and struggles, we convince ourselves, froth ourselves into a frenzy, to appeal to the ruthless master of our internal measure that it matters, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about.

Even the culture we swim through, when we wish to break free of the presiding "reality t.v." or video game, or what-have-you, addiction, there is another culture there to catch us, to show us, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about. Even the conspiracy theorists, (Why the Government is Out to Get You) or the artists, (This Represents the Sadness of Love Lost) have a specially designed web, net, cradle, to hold us softly to spare us from what Sartre called Anguish; the uncomfortable realization that we are indeed, wholly responsible for our individual spiraling existence.

Perhaps it is, then within this overarching sand heap of ants, that we are found, we can rest assured that everything does matter within the larger context. But many days it feels as though I am breaking the game of truth or dare, that I have peeped behind the massive curtain behind the sets, and instead of production gear or lights, have found - nothing, but my fellow actors keep playing, and I have lost my part, my lines, where's my mark? The query now, do I keep playing, hold my breath, hope the magic holds, assume it matters not, or do I acknowledge the empty, hold to it, to what end? I suspect I know the end of that route, and I like both my ears. Oddness, for certain to assume my place is to be some sort of traveling meta-player, rollicking across the stage while the audience, (is there an audience?) tries to ensure I don't spill their cosmic drinks?

Scarier still, is the thought of the realist, non-realist debate. If a realist perspective holds, this angst has no point other than to keep me awake for sleepless nights, which no doubt, makes the problem worse. But should a non-realist perspective hold, my answer is solved, within the relief that the only things which exist are those that I choose to focus on, 'meaning' can go stuff itself, and I can sleep soundly with no worse fear than should I die in my sleep everything I've ever known would be obliterated (buh?), which will likely keep me up.

It is to this problem I return, like a dog to a rope toy, time and again, with about as much success. Elegantly simple, yet fiendishly engaging, with no end in sight, no way off the hamster ball of this obsession. I shelve it, time and time again, like a book that I read which has contented itself to seat one the main character in a bland room with no theory as to why or when it will cease. I have hurled it across the room, but faithfully return panting.

When the Loss was Noticed

Out of my mouth
a sound
only part of me cares to own
a hollow roar
from the small child in my belly
who has never truly silenced
wailing like a barrel
the grief of the young
smuggled away as an adult
coughed out in tiny burps
this cry
like a plucked string
resonance from my bones
from the holes in my marrow
the cosmic pulse
my own existence exerts

Hide and go seek life

I remember, on occasion, an incident when I was young, sleeping-over at my girlfriend's house. We had decided to play Truth or Dare, and I, having nothing interesting to report, chose dare. I was instructed to borrow ice cubes from a neighbor, who turned out to be a young girl close to our age, who handed me some with a minimum of fuss or odd glances. When I returned to triumphantly throw them in my drink, my compatriots wailed that I had 'done it wrong' by revealing to the unwitting neighbor that I was under duress, in the form of a dare. This, of course, made no sense to me; the confession had made the whole affair easier, and I didn't poke fun at a neighbors ignorance, taking advantage of the innate hilarity of others confusion. This caused my girlfriends to pout, and declare we should play another game, since I had obviously ruined this one, by my insistence that I had done nothing wrong.

In retrospect, I suppose it was not really entering into the 'spirit of the game', since without ulterior explanation she would assume that there was 'something wrong' with me, in the finest tradition of the fundamental attribution error, this result being the intention of the game truth or dare. But the feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks I am a lunatic, without a cause I have wholeheartedly embraced, is one I have never been able to come to peace with. Sometimes I wonder if, since the concept of who a person really consists of, is shrouded and subjective, that it may be also defined by what other people think. Certainly the primary energy left behind by an individual when they depart this world, is encapsulated within others memories. The difference between a fond, correct remembrance, and an unflattering, false one is invalidated when the potential to correct the unflattering one is erased by the removal of the original subject.

Whether one believes the opinions of others matter when 'evaluating' self-worth, is negotiable, but the dynamic at work between the girl's and their beliefs of the 'spirit of the game' is undeniable. It seems, in life, especially in relationships that too many times we try to play 'a game', where the rules are not defined, other than by sheer subjective speculation. We cannot let others win, so we hide, we equivocate, and scheme. When a goal is identified, we will strive, and endeavor, through any means, to achieve it, and then look down on others who refuse to play the way we play, because it does not validate and justify our actions, and we begin to wonder and guess, if there is a better way to play, which perhaps could achieve more. The games we play in childhood just teach us the steps required to play the bigger games in adulthood, to deny ourselves, tease ourselves, even misinform ourselves. We live in a world of self-delusion, and it is all set in motion so others can dance to the steps that everyone knows, in a huge coordinated two step of activity. When someone begins to waltz, there is chaos as things become disorderly. Our society is increasing becoming obsessed with the streamlined, the efficient, the ordered. And this obsession drives out creativity and seeks to squash novelty. But whether it is good or bad, is again, subjective.

Recent Ruminations

At the heart of an onion
I was born
wrenching open layers,
silky filaments
coat my lips
which, when ripped
burst forth a spring of new sorrow
filling my old cocoon
with tears


I thought of
nothing
today, threw it
behind my face
thinking it would stick
to the billboard of my thoughts
but watched it drop straight down,
past, into the vast dark pool
of my eyes with a tremendous
gasp

silver shoals
darting in
a brown stream

Now that November is over, while the National Novel Writer's Month novel I created is being edited, I'm unsure whether to post it online, or simply post parts.

More Haiku, etc.

My stomach turns
Tepid greasy dishwater
left by men

Neat bic,
Beatnik.

Camp(y)

The battery in my walkman has died.
pulling the phones out of my ears
i raise my head
looking into the face
of unfathomable weight, power
rock god titan.
a mesozoic eye regards my size
the moutain has found me wanting.

Typical

Cruising down the road in a thirteen ton truck, with a dish of butter chicken, an unhinged frenchman at the wheel, "stuck in middle" on the radio and my honey waiting for me with shakesphere at home.
Alright I'm bragging, but I didn't want to give readers the impression I was emo.

Lapis Lazuli harmony

The heron's beak
is an arching spire
piercing the tinfoil-bitter-blue.

He provides the path
from the Thunder God's fury
through the crown of my skull
through my vertebrae
My feet rooted.
My ears are open.

Fill me with dirt,
I have cleaned my plate.

Carpet Dentum Appointment

Carried in my mouth
I held angry-metal
in my teeth, dagger-sharp

Late night Titus

My mouth is full of teeth
and veins filled with tiny stars
edged bits of sand
as the waves heave
over and again rolling
across the lace of my spine

I, Titus,
a sorrow dispersed
into the blackness
the stars lay witness

Socket Wrench

There was a socket danging down from the sky. It was white and simple; a place to put a bulb. I stood, agog, in the middle of the road. I walked to it, touched it; there was no switch, but a long cord, all the way up, until I lost it in the sky, swingin with my touches with a great weight. I plugged my head in, screwed it up in, messing my hair; my face blushed, my cheeks flushed. How odd.

Life's Haiku

bitter verdant spade
solemn in spring's ecstasy sends
new roots of desire

Lunar Orb

There is a moon in my sky tonight:
large yellow fat hanging hovering
like the eye of some Godzilla
waiting with baited tongue
teeth covered in fly bits
turning towards
flicking lightning
gulp

Ironic apocalypse soap

In my purse I have a small bar of soap. I keep it there in case anything bad ever happend, because few things make me feel better and more capable than being clean. But then I thought, "What could ever happen that would be so bad I wouldn't have access to soap?" Naturally, the apocalypse. But then I realized, if the apocalypse happens, noone will care what I smell like. Thus it is ironic apocalypse soap. The soap is ironic, not the apocalypse.

(P.s. Roots: I intended to post a comment replying to your last comment, but after 7 tries, couldn't get it, I decided to wait until I had access to a computor. I'm not sure how long that will be...)

Bill 44

Oh for heaven's sake.
The newest hot button issue being debated around tables of the socially- conscious is Bill 44, a bill to include into Alberta's human rights law the right to exempt their children from classes teaching concpets the parents disagree with (for example evolution, religon, sex and it's orientations). Many liberals are declaring this would "[strike] another blow against critical thinking in schools and extend one of the bleaker elements of its history".
I do not have children. I'm not sure I will ever have children. But I know, between my parents and the revolving door of "grab-bag" teachers (some of whom were excellent, others...less so) who I would trust with my upbringing. I may not believe in what you say, but i will defend, to the death, your right to teach it to your children. This is being touted as a way to eliminate discrimination that many parent pass on to their offspring, but this is not the vehicle to do it in. To do so, we need to eliminate discrimination in the adults, not estrange children from their parents. Society today has enough things ripping the family apart, we do not need another one causing children to question the first authority they will ever know.
Furthermore, teachers are not all the overarching bearers of unbiased information that we would love them to be. Some have feelings. Some are politically motivated. What can be done to combat the uncomfortable suggestion that a teacher may have access to hundreds of fresh minds? At least parents only have access to their own child. A bigoted parent will do less damage than a bigoted teacher.
The common objection, here, is that knowledge is better than ignorance and that children should be aloowed access to all schools of thought to encourage tolerance. This is true, and I agree, but this is not the place to do it. If a tree is rotten on the inside, do we cut off the leaves, grafting them onto an already burdened tree? The proper step would be to nourish the base of the tree and watch the branches heal. Children are in difficult enough situations. Lets not make them worse.

Pink rainstorm

I remember
my mother
she made me
strawberry spinich salad
she made me
finish my homework
she made me
proud of myself
she made me
remember other's feelings
she made me
tall and attractive
she made me
dance to piano music
I remember
my mother
she made me

High Figs (a.k.a. update)

I wish I had something more exciting to post, but this will have to do. We passed the "fifteen day" mark within which to post our statement of defence (Saturday. I had a small party to observe the occasion. By party, I mean booze), but my lawyer assures me it's not necessary yet. Currently it's just talking; Not even official negotiating. However my friend, the driver of our errant vehicle, has not been served yet because the army has whisked him away. Not far away, just away. Teehee. I'm not worried though, I'm taking a criminology course! Wait'll the chief justices get a load of me! Carries a pistol and can say "Mens rea" without snorting! Able to leap medium sized sandcastles in a single bound with a running start and good tail wind! Now, where's my lasso?

In honor of my daddy, the mayor

There once was a man from High Level,
said "This weather can go to the devil."
He set out to be mayor;
His first edict declar'd?
"One summer shall now become Sev'ral."

Steep night misgivings

Ever since I was little, I've had nights where I got scared. At my youngest, I'd flee to mommy and daddy's room. After we moved, my sister and I shared a room, and things were easy for me.But when my sister was older she began to take showers in the morning. I used to follow when she went for her shower, make a bed out of towels on the bathroom floor and sleep for a little while longer.
We aged further and were given our own rooms, but still, a few times a year, I would wake up so scared that I would take my blankets to her room and sleep on her floor. Sometimes, though, I would be too scared to move, and would lie in bed in mute, catatonic horror.
She graduated and I tried to make due for a year. When she was home for christmas I crashed on her floor again.
I graduated, and was sure that such childish concerns were far behind me; yet my first night found me curled in a ball on my new bed, in a new city, crying my eyes out, desperatly trying to phone my sister to come home and save me from a faceless horror I didn't comprehend.
Eventually I cut horror movies and books out of my life, but the problem persisted. They did not produce the feeling, they just gave a vision to focus my terror.
I took on a night shift, to attack the dark, own it, and for a while it worked. I was a warrior hidden, using the shadows.
When that job ended, I took a more aggressive one. Now I was a creature to be feared; my mind to protect me from the non-factual horrors, my gun to protect me from the realistic ones. Striving to become an officer so I could control the night, I felt arrogant in my efficacy. Fear was a toy, meant for children and lesser beings. I would use my strength to protect others.
Until I find myself, curled again, on my bed, a grown woman, terrified.
There is no happy ending to this post.

Punchline

A guy walks into a police station and says,
"I'm looking for Michelle Ernst?"
and I say,
"Yes? "
and he says,
"You're being sued. Here's your paperwork. Have a nice day."


Okay so it's a lowsy joke but it makes me giggle.
I spoke with a lawyer (half an hour free consult) and they say to turn it over to my insurance company; they'll deal with it, but I do have a right to know what is happening, including how much is finally settled on. So I plan to document as much as I legally can here.
Enjoy!

Canadian Oasis

We are a land, improbably vast, almost sprawling (defying today's culture of restraint, frugailty, recession) populated by people too polite to take the middle armrest on a plane ("No, I really couldn't. I'm happier as a canape.")
Secretly we see ourselves more mature, more refined than our lower neighbors. Holding up our monarchy, hiding behind the Queen's skirts like a shy child, as proof of our regal nature. Their cowboys hats, massive towers, erected to their own grandeur. Down the street of life they are the rowdy college boys, laughing like boozey bubbles; we trail behind, our polished shoes tapping on stone, hugo boss parfum lingering over the smell of cheap whiskey. Our nostrils twisted in derision until you observe the building we pass.
Is that really just an old school?
It's alright; just don't think about it.

An open letter to my cat

My darling cat.
Although you are daring and adventurous, letme assure you there is no need to bolt, as from the depths of hell, out the apartment door everyday when I open it to arrive from work. There is the same twenty feet of smelley carpet that was there yesterday.
Also, I realize staying quiet while I sleep is impossible, but can we eliminate the glass- shattering noises?
My head is not a boost, stepping stool, landing pad, or launch dome. I am firm on this.
Finally, I know you appreciate when I fill your box with fresh sand, but a poop filled taj mahal is not necessary to show your love.
Thank You

Canadian pride, eh?

We Canadians don't have much identity. It is a scavenger hunt for pieces right now. Like a teenager growing painfully amongst hundreds of full grown adults.
There is a joke we tell; we believe we are better than Americans.
They have, through truth or artifice, a black president.
When will we have a native prime minister?

What I learned in the sink

Salt
on my face
crusted flaking
previous form of payment
the worth now infinitely diminished
the hourglass demands the rain sea ocean
leaking away with cool silk texture
reborn a mighty Venus
cleansed rippling
off my face
water

Going gentle into a good night

Come, fair sleep, and triumph o'r the fake night.
Plauged and rolling, no rest for my weary.
As though the God of sleep plays tricks on me,
and has wrapped the day in a dark shawl.
Come, fair sleep, else the new day dawn without a new morning for me.

Weather the weather

Drowning in fog, thick and heavy as sin, a precarious bubble are we; rushing, praying, pressing forward ever so forward so gingerly hoping, at any moment the tiny firefly through the muggy cotton, the little lamps of a big huge bug, bearing, threatening to squash us, doomed because we were not five feet up, to see, or five feet over, to miss, and so now five feet under, to lay blame in sterile paperwork, unable to capture the messy heart it describes.

Enough is enough!

Alright. I can stay silent no longer about this blatent disregard for human wellbeing! We must resist and overcome!
Tim Hortens. Why are so too cheap to provide paper towel in your bathrooms?? Those stupid air-dryers are worse than having someone lick my hands dry!! Are you grinding the towels up to make your coffee? Are you trying to be environmentally consciencious? Because you are FAILING; I get so annoyed I go outside and kick the poop out of any bit of nature unfortunate to get in my way!
From now on I shall be boycotting Tim Hortens! They can't treat us like this! In fact, I shall be picketting outside the nearest Timmy's! All I need is signs, a garbage can fire and some coff... oh. Oh they're good.

Name Game!

1. YOUR SPY NAME (middle name and current street name):
Marie 105

2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME (grandfather/mother on your dad's side and your favourite candy):
Sheila Chews

3. YOUR RAP NAME (first initial of first name and first three or four letters of your last name):
M-Ern

4. YOUR GAMER TAG (a favourite colour, a favourite animal)
Green Lemur

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME (middle name, and city you were born in)
Marie High Level

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME (first three letters of your last name, last three letters of mother's maiden name, first three letters of your pet's name)
Ern Hutxia

7. JEDI NAME (middle name spelled backwards, your mom's maiden name spelled backwards):
Eiram Tuhcalb

8. PORN STAR NAME (first pet's name, the street you grew up on)
Einstein Chinchaga

9. SUPERHERO NAME: ("The", your favourite colour and the automobile your dad drives)
The Green Jetta

10. YOUR ACTION HERO NAME (first name of the main character in the last film you watched, last food you ate)
Shu Soup

Work Circus

We are high-wire trapeze artists; skill, nerve, and luck weave together to make this tentative balance high above the crowd. I can feel people hold their collective breath as we move past and through each other. Trusting in our hands, clasping wrists. Should we falter, fingers fumbling, heart skipping, grotesque moments lengthend unnaturally, distended, waiting to divulge their private horror, like a rancid flower blooming. The floor miles below, sucking me down, arms waving comically, legs kicking, hair blowing in eyes clenched, spine curving against nothing, wind whistling past my ribcage. My head so heavy it tips me skull first down. Mechanisms in place, gears slowly, inching, like a train starting, the grate of continents, pinions falling, doors sliding, ropes pulling, making a net, like the arms of an angel, my savior, salvation. "There are systems in place."

Please sir, may I have some more?

I think I've lost the ability to relate to people. I left the party somehow and when I came back, everyone was speaking a different language. It is extrodinarily lonely to be surrounded by everyone and yet noone at the same time.
How does one come back from this? Where is my map, my sextant? This is unfair; being so acutely aware of Sartre's anguish. Where is my blanket? For protection and forts that hold secrets like a balloon. It has been used too long for sleeping while the other children played. It has forgotten it's purpose: and in it's forgetting so have I. My knees are brittle with effort.

Go watch Mad Money

It is nothing near what it is like to work with huge wads of cash but watching Diane "Martha Stewart" Keaton freak out makes me happier than a bag of crack. Which is, incidentally, what Queen Latifah offers to pay her sons' tuition in.

Correction: Watching Diane menace some giant bewildered black man standing at the urinal was way better.

The inadvertant racist

It is a surpisingly racy feeling, to look, late at night, into other people's windows. watching them stand in their kitchen or living room, sleeves rolled up. They are aware, I suppose, but do not focus on it. It is astonishing how much we put ourselves on display, hoping to be held gently by those who view us. Man seeks reassurance, acceptance by his peers; seeks to find a hand to hold in the sucking black.
Seeing past the curtains, through the warbled glass, into the warmth, the mellow pool of heat, feels like tearing through the skin of an orange, sinking my eyeteeth into the pulpy treasure.

Ravi-au-lait

I had what I will refer to in my later years as "a brilliant idea".
Minutes later campbell's soup joined cooking sherry in a deep shiny pot on the stove.
I overcooked the ravioli, but somehow it all turned out perfect.
Needed mushrooms.

L(y)earning

"Don't you ever learn?"
Oh but yes, yes I learn.
I learn in the quiet ways, the side ways, the hidden ways. You are angry with me, impatient; what are you doing now?
I willing leap into my mistakes again, ("You think something different will happen? It's exactly the same!") but oh, you don't see. Something has changed. I have. This new me hasn't made the same mistake. It needs to learn. To science this mistake. After the error, I devour my mistakes like creme bruille, so sweet, breaking the crispy crust.

Watch me learn.

Now available in a smelley box on wheels!

In self-defence against my driving I have decided to start jumping (i.e. NOT drving) all of my runs.
The positive? More time to write, think, and relax my overstrained forearms.
The negative? Not everyone in the shop is a better driver than me. It just means I won't be pegged with anymore accidents.
In other news I have broken down and purchased a car.
Angels weep.

My roommate Jared's anti-depressing advice

"Well, I've been feeling kinda bummed out lately..."
"You should stop eating cactuses."
"I...uh...Yah. Yah that might work."

Stolen Recollection

Trees flip past like the legs of a million soliders marching. Fields carefully tended iced in frost. A steel silo stands like a bugle call beacon.
Remembering, by this little red smile, what was given up for me. Young boys, older men, left home, hearth, hearts, to travel far away to the cold and fear, to fight for me. Plans left off, opportunities sacrificed, lives cut short.
In the morning and at the going down of the sun,
We will remember them.

As the poet says

Transformed utterly, a terrible beauty is born.
For once I am reminded of the power of my sex. The launching of a thousand ships from the look in her eyes, curves of a graceful arm shatter an empire, her tears salting the ground.
My motherly grief denied I turn to my other soltice; the avenging fury of a lost angel, wielding my rage like a scythe, laying waste, ravaging in my despair. Full aware of my childish actions, I am as powerless to stop them as those in my path.
I, Hiroshima.
I am a woman scorned.
Hell hath no fury.

Nothing left

I wrote a huge post about how frustrated and disappointed with myself I was for my complete inability to make anyone, myself included, happy, and accidently deleted it.
The irony is reaching critical levels.
I'm going to bed.

futuere stercus

What awkwardness caught

What strange awkwardness, caught in my throat; this cough is never enough to pluck it, steaming in the cold air, from the bottoms of my lungs. It was transplanted, as am I, into a place it did not belong in; I wonder if it feels as I, my mouth far too wide, too open, the glitter of my necklace heavy on my clavicle, the scents in the air all merge like the sepia on antiue photos. I am surprised to find I am old enough for them.

Last night, while fetal in the cold, fingers sticks of lead, back a curving branch of beef on the butcher's slab, I dreamt beneath my fluttering lashes; my work partner and I, there was fear, a puddle of urine, and a sensation I wish I was not familiar with, of standing on one's head, surrounded by a honeycomb (but not sweet) of metal that sacrifices itself around me. Now we, four who are loved, dearly, deeply, travel home in this tiny precarious aspect, at speed our ancestors never dreamt of, in a tiny pool of lamplight, on this round globe of earth that cannot even acknowledge us, how much we need it, it's tiny passengers.

Mental invading forces

It has been a long time since I have had a sleep-over in someone else's house like this, I suppose. It is a strange feeling, crashing
(ooh yes crashing, since I have already broken something, the washer, damn knobs. Now I must glue it, and wrestle with the confession. What an awkward situation to be in, the strange complete familiarity of living in someone else's house but not even knowing how to address them.)
in a new house, no, a new home.
Many times I have stayed with family, even lately house-sat, but I adopted those area with such complete ease, having seen them many times, usually with the comfort provided by the aura of someone who has known me since diapers were haute couture.
Yet now?
These stairs are unknown to me, the noises all alien.
I'm moving through it like a tourist at a museum.
Staring at things like the consumers in Ikea, my fingers itching to touch everything, even the chairs I can't pronounce.

All this strangeness has done one good thing; The added adrenalin has spurred me to do some things I've been meaning to get done, so far I've completed three loads of laundry and read half-way through a book I've stared at for a week.
And now I'm surfing through garbage on the internet.
Perhaps this could be good for me?

Excuse me mister, I'd like to borrow some of your time.

I'm living on illicit time. I make silver tounged promises, compromises that wish for wings. 2 more minutes, 3 more hours, 1 more day, anything.
Time still confuses me. What possible effect could such a untangible, relative, vague concept have? More and more I find it standing in my way, or even behind me. Sometimes it trips me, sometimes it carries me. The hardest thing is to court it. Learn to dance with it, the proper seduction that changes daily; slow, sweet, furiously panicked, he is never the same twice, and because of that;
I may never be the same again.

Summer mournings

Staring through the bus window glass at a man staring out his car window at a Tim Hortens cup that is miraculously still upright in the road, summer waves goodbye, opens the way for a loving fall, the trees tentative in their yellow, but a million leaves on the ground already, washing through my steps toward my connecting bus, wishing I was camping in this perfection, with the yawning blue sky and the wind, staring at the woman staring at me staring at her wondering if I could overpower her and steal her double-double...

I am not awake today, wandering blearily in the sun through my kitchen windows. Instinct dresses me, I catch my bus on time, but this day has not even started, oh no, not even started not yet. I have a million hearts to break yet, and a million hearts to be broken. Possibility cradles me easing me into the cavernous bowl like an underground lake, so black it has no bottom, making me aware of my feet, standing on a thousand miles of nothing, perhaps watched, in their pink vunerability, by slick eyes with clear eyelids.
Every movement squeezes my heart; I am a sleepy ninja.

More work

Heavy, scarred man with a diamond earring like a gypsy's eye by campfire tells me he's never met anyone who wanted to join the army. Tells me how he takes his three year old son, rain or shine, to stand by the Highway of Heros in Toronto, waving a flag fo the fallen soliders. His voice is wistful, he starts for a a moment (such a big man stumbling?) saying he thought about it for a while, but with his son...no, not with such a young son. His voice stops for a moment, and suddenly my hands are far too awkward and I don't know what to do with them.

Says he would support his son if he wants to. Wants to give him the chance others said he didn't have.

Isn't that what the army's for?
To give a chance when others say you may not?

Kirkie

I'm so happy.
Sitting here, adding things to the internet with my decaf coffee in hand.

I love myself so much, they gave me a special jacket so I can hug myself all day.

Notes on the hitchhiker's guide

It's been so long, so very long since anyone came to fulfill my purpose. To give meaning to my hollow existence. I feel so lost, barren. Without my purpose, who am I?
The most cruel fate is remembering what it felt like to be used,, but not feel it.

Doesn't anyone need into this storage closet?

Fiction work

I can feel my hair stand up. holding this tiny rectangle in my sweaty hand. What do I do with it now? To keep it would be unthinkable. To throw it away, less so. It is funny that this stupid piece of plastic-y cardboard has stapled itself into my life.

This morning was dull. I made my bed, smoothing the comforter to the corners, drank a coffee, greeted my boyfriend with a kiss, and stepped out in cute pink flips flops for a relaxing day off in the park.

We had been out about an hour, my shorts were starting to chafe, and our hands were sticky with cotton candy, when we noticed a magician doing card tricks on a street corner. I've always loved card tricks, so I dragged my man over, and joined the throng.

He had on tight purple and black striped pants, old fashioned buckle shoes, and a jacket with an outrageously boring flower. He had a mustache that had seen better day, but well manicured nails. I suppose he caught me blushing with excitement because he pulled me into the center and announced I would be his "Lah-verly Asseesstahnt." (rolled his head and his tongue, hanging out,in a strange pivot as he spoke) I was delighted.

He instructed me to remain patient as he ran to his velvet- lined trunk to grab his special cards, so I stood awkwardly, trying to decide what to do with my hands while the crowd stared at me. Soon, he had returned, brandishing a deck of ordinary cards, well worn, however.

With the same tongue and head roll that made me begin to wonder if he was deranged, he instructed me to pick a card, any card, and replace it in the deck without showing me. I pulled out the seven of clubs, vaguely saying it to myself a few times before replacing it smoothly inside the deck. while I was thus engaged he roamed the crowd, making fashion commentary that seemed completely arbitrary.

When he returned, I handed him the deck, again reminding myself of the card. He seized it from my grasp with both hands, then, scarcely looking, pulled one out and yelled, "Is THIS your card?"
I looked at it and, after reassuring myself, told him it was not. He turned it to his face in surprise, that I had assumed was theatrical.

The crowd giggled as he straightened his arms in his sleeves, and tried again. His hand shook slightly as he waved it over the deck, muttering vague words. The crowd ooh-ed like obedient children and he whipped put a card, "Is THIS your card?"
Again I shook my head, and the crowd drew in, smelling suspense.

The magician grinned and wrapped both hands around the deck, then began to squeeze. His grin became a clenched tooth-ed grimace as his knuckles whitened and his fingers went blue. I backed up, unsure, and the crowd began to mutter nervously, no one seemed sure what to do.

I became aware of my boyfriend moving up behind me at t the same moment the magician first cut himself. A thin eddy of blood ran from his finger to the ground, and people began to move, some in to stop him, some away, disturbed. Two big men pulled at his elbows, trying to stop him as more and more blood appeared, but his face and arms remained unmoving. His eyes had not left mine.

Suddenly, he released and, pulling out one final card, "Is THIS your card?"

I thought about lying, but I hesitated, and in that moment he read it in my face,

"Oh. Oh well."

and moved to clean up his stage props.

My boyfriend put his hand on my arm and we walked away.
The day was obviously over, but we tried not to talk about it as we said goodbye. I unpacked my stuff, a few interesting market finds, and shuffled around the kitchen, craving coffee.

In the cupboard, in the sugar bowl, is the seven of clubs.

I have in my head

I have in my head a tearful admission from a young girl. She had gone to see the doctors and they have pronounced (labelled?) her fat. "but you're so tall!" I had insisted, but to no avail. She told me they had charts. Had measured, evaluated her, and had found her not wanting, but ample. I recall her stature, tall, curved, perfect. She is, in my head, the original amazon I now aspire to be.
I wonder if she knew. Knows now, how beautiful I remember her.

This is why I write

I'm so full right now. My ears full of bass, orchastrating my heart to the rhythm of my songs, my eye of the sunset, safety and sherbet orange, my lungs with oxygen, my arms of blood, my legs tingle with lactic buildup, trying desperately to push myself another inch further, my nose of the smell of cut grass, under my toes, my hair of sweat, my tounge thick in my mouth I want to pull the world into this open grass field in front of me, into my heart, show them the hunter we came from in the passion of fatigue, the hope of one more step under the pave...meant of my sneakers.

Need Goldbond

It's late at night, I'm bussing to work and I'm in one of the worst moods I've had in recent memory. I'm not sure why, but I think it's exaserbated by the fact that I have had no time for the gym or friends this wek due to my work schedule.

With some time on the company range, in the gym, on the sparring mats, and in the dark field with airsoft equipment all coming up, my mood promises to imprve, but I can only hope to do no damage to my close relationships with my grumpyness until it does.

Since my phone has become my mobile computor, I can promise some updates to my ongoing writing, with some interesting directions . Reflections on my own life within the writing has led to answers in both.

La Clare de la Lune

Never before have I fallen in love in stillness.
There has been love in passion
in the crazy heat
hands clasped in a tornado
in a hurricane

It is so easy to be in love
when your heart is already pounding


But never before have I fallen in love in stillness

La Trivia-ta

Bahahaha! You are reading what is the fruits of my heartened three day pursuit of a mobile blog post! Rejoice, for I am finally posting this from my phone!

Go listen to Forest City Lover's "Orphans" to rejoice with me. I shall post more anon.

The day of my Father

I'm so embarassed it's been so long since I updated, but life has been mobile, and this is the first day completely off I've had in a while. Not to say that it hasn't been fun.

I have been training for my armored car job for the past few weeks, and it was surprisingly tough. I found myself hiding in the bathroom crying in frustration at one point because I could no longer force my shoulders to hold the revolver up and steady in order to fire the last few shots I needed to pass the course. I went back and tried again, and passed, but I can say that I would not have, were it not for the encouragement and patience of the instructors. I owe them so much.

Despite the frustrations and the struggle, I discovered many things; recoil is all comparative (something you think has a lot only has a lot when you haven't fired anything BIGGER...yet) I hate firing around barracades, preferring to stand and draw like a twit, which is still remarkably successful even when being fired at, and that I am a surgeon with a shotgun.

My first few days of work have been idyllic; I enjoy the sensation of wandering around with a gun and a bullet-resistant vest, and I don't think I'll ever tire of telling people what I do, and seeing their faces.

My coffee this morning, on Father's day, I like to think I'm drinking in honor of him. True, I woke him up with a phone-call this morning, but he did get many more hours than he would have, had we all been small obnoxious children still.

This past weekend, I travelled home to see my brother graduated, and (Omg, he's so tall and he's such a grown-up! I'm so proud of him!!) see the family home again, given that it had been two years since I had been back. Other than finally recharging, and re-discovering where I came from (It has changed completely and yet remains the same.), I took something back home with me. An old family rifle that belonged to my dad, and to his dad before him. It's old, but it's in incredible shape, and still works perfectly.

The coffee and pancakes I made today taste better than usual.