Oh yes. I am actually going to dedicate an ENTIRE post to her.
Oh, Fat Calves. (I swear, I'm almost over this...I swear to you...) This is the perfect nickname for someone, well, particularly for her. I know she has other names, and I know that I'm not the only person on the scene that wishes she wasn't...
Back to why it's so great. She has fat calves. Disproportionately fat calves. She's very beautiful, but those calves...oy vey. Apparently she worked at Spolumbo's, so me calling her "Sausage Calves" is also appropriate.
And, "calves" is plural for "calf", which is a baby cow, so, in essence, I am merely calling the girlfriend of Watermelon Guy a chubby bovine.
I get jealous of people. Of spouses. Of imaginary friends. Of countries. Of characters. Of homes. Of experiences.
I'm working on not being rabidly jealous, but I tell you, I'm even jealous of people who don't get jealous. Envy is definitely one of the stronger powers-that-be in my world. It's a motivator. A limit, something to push myself toward (or away from). I even get envious of things that people don't have!
I can't say that I'm particuarly active in trying to tame my envy. I shoot eyes of death at particular people, such as Fat Calves, and She With The Amazing Condo. I think my dad loved his fish more than me. I KNOW he loves his dog more than me. For the love of lawnchairs, I'm jealous of a potentially inbred miniature mutt!!
While I'm on a roll...
Some people get pissed off when people talk about them behind their backs. I get pissed off when people don't talk about me behind my backs.
The moral of this story: If Megan was a Greco-Roman diety, oh, what a vengeful, envious, demanding and brutal diety she would be.
Today was my baby brother's 20th birthday. I can't believe...nah, that's crap- I can believe it, and I'm proud, because he also got a job working for the Stamps- free football tix for me- and he's clearly accomplished much, much more than I ever will. Congrats (with no bitterness, really) bro.
In other unrelated news, why is it that I seem to attract conversations that inevitably include the phrases "I wouldn't usually say this in front of a girl..."
Some women may be offended, and ask the "Am I not girlie enough?" I mean, clearly, people, I have boobs (whoops, search engine disaster, again...) and I look at least quasi-feminine. I can be girlie with the best of them.
And this rant isn't directed at certain staff members of the Pumphouse, namely the bar dude-okay, sort of, but only because he asked me, "so, what's so great about your blog, anyways?" and therefore, I must blog about it- but at the general population. Is it because I am from an area that is about 70% male? Do I smack of rural that much? Is it because offensive things often come out of my mouth? Can people tell that I'm not going to freak out?
I think it's something to be proud of. I'm not going to be all uppons if the conversation turns to bodily fluids, superheroes, sports analogies, or gross-things-my-roommate-does-when-I'm-not-home. I can handle it.
There should be like, an adult version of Brownies, where you get badges for things- this would be the "One of the Guys- well, at least, sort of" badge.
That said- there are some things that are just off-limits in mixed company...and because my blog readership, imaginary or not, is indeed mixed, well- I just won't go into them.
Oh, to have seen me in my sartorial splendor today.
Lime green plastic shoes, raggedy-bottomed jeans (that are not so flattering, see "muffin top" for explanation), my nerds tshirt that is so well loved that it's faded, cracked, doesn't sparkle, and has shrunk (I refuse to admit that I'm getting taller), pink bunnyhug, also well-faded, and my hair in something that at 8:40 am was a ponytail- now is sort of half my hair in a knot, the other half drifting wildly across my face, oh- and absolutely no facepaint.
I mean, if one is going to give up on life totally, she should look the part, non?
At least I finished my research proposal on Women in Pre-Christian Religion in Rome. Wahoo, soon I will be learned about vestal virgins, sacrificial rites, feminine pagan goddess worship...
Or, I guess I could just write about that lame-o DaVinci Code Movie.
Okay, so this post might be offensive to some, if not all.
Today, I was at work, writing up some lady's bill, when she opened her top, popped out a breast, and started feeding her child. This was made exponentially more weird by the fact that the kid was like, two, and old enough to ASK.
If you can ask for breastmilk, you are TOO OLD.
Anyway, I look shocked, because as we all know, I am unable to control my facial expressions (dangerous when on a date...), and the woman looks at me, and then launches off into this rant, a summary of which follows:
"WHAT? It's perfectly natural, and healthy! It's my legal right to feed my child!! As a woman, I thought that you would UNDERSTAND! What a pathetic feminist you must be!"
MacHall is a much more pleasant place during Sprummer. The seething masses that usually loudly inhabit the building have gone to work at daddy's office, or are on some kind of sick permanent summer vacation, or are working at the mall. There's lots of table space, and a kind of quiet, calm air about the building. Thank god- because in my current state, I couldn't handle any more trauma/drama/emotional activity!
I blame pharmaceuticals. I also blame the fact that I am unemployable, easily panicked, and currently very, very unstable. Oh, future! Why have you forsaken me?! What the hell happened?!
I feel like I just woke up from a 4-year acid trip, whereby Alice the Honour Roll Student becomes Megan the Coasting through Life and Soon to be Not a Student. Amanda, you were totally right, the quarterlife crisis exists, and man, it is fierce.
High School Grads- be warned. 4-7 years from now, however long it takes you to finish that undergrad, you'll find yourself pathetically lost, in debt, and potentially homeless. Oh, and that dress you spent an atrocious amount on, but the saleslady told you that you'd definitely be able to wear it again?
You won't. AND, 6 months after grad, I bet you it won't even fit.
Here's to a lifetime working at the 21-44 in Eatonia!
I'm taking an obscene number of spring session courses, which means I enjoy a lovely 24 hours of lecture a week, in blocks of 3 hours. To prevent me from going nuts and raging my terror over my classmates, please abstain from the following behaviours:
1. If you are going to monopolize the conversation and discussion in class, don't mumble. Please don't actually cover your mouth with your hand and then talk. Particularly if you are "correcting" the instructor, who clearly knows nothing- that's what those three little PhD letters mean, right?
2. On that note, just shut up. If you think you know everything, why are you there? Why not save us all the agony and just get a "WHY I"M THE SMARTEST!" Blog.
3. Don't show up for class in a bikini and short shorts. C'mon, people, yes, it's hot. But I still need to learn, and I don't want to be gawking at your cellulite and blotchy self tan while I'm trying to contemplate feminist issues in antiquity.
4. If you're going to be late...don't show up mid-cell phone conversation, and then sigh audibly about the fact that the prof DARED to start on time, and didn't wait until you showed up 45 minutes late.
5. This really goes more to the people on transit- but I find it really un-nerving when, on the bus, the person behind me leans forward and sniffs me. Weird.
You know exactly who I mean. That guy you absolutely don't want to get stuck in a confined place with.
Thankfully, I was only going to the 4th floor- and so was he. Creepy Elevator Man in question looked super familiar, but I'm sure he's just an actor I've seen in some play/musical revue/dinner show/creative collaboration somewhere along the line. He strolls on to the elevator behind me, carrying some Mickey Dee's takeout, which, by the way, actually smells Deelish, because at this point, I haven't eaten since the previous day at noon. Damn school, getting in the way of the food pyramid!
But I digress.
So CEM makes a comment about how his odiferous food must be making me hungry. Well, actually, CEM, by the second floor, I want to yak, but thanks for commenting. He keeps trying to make awkward small talk as the elevator makes the excruciatingly slow climb to the fourth floor. "I should have taken the stairs," I think. But soon, I am released from this tin box of death, reeking of fries and big macs and desperate coversation. No more avoiding eye contact for me!
Fast-forward 22 minutes. I'm getting back on the elevator to go back downstairs. Thinking I'm safe, that CEM has gone back to the accounting department, or the janitor's closet, or the mass-murderer/serial rapist/voodoo practitioner's office, or whatever the heck he does to make rent.
I slink into the elevator, pleased as punch with myself, when I hear a "hold the door!" from down the hall.
That's right. Creepy Elevator Man waited. For me. To make my inevitable descent to the lobby.
Lesson Learned: NEVER smile at a man in a Jesus Christ Superstar T-Shirt.
Is it when you can't listen anymore? When you can't think of any more excuses why you should try to get along with someone, try to listen to their opinion, or see things from their point of view? Is that just giving up, or do you actually reach a point where you just don't care? When do you get to tell a friend-of-a-friend to get lost, particularly when they assumed your rank in the friend zone?
I've tried to be nice, really. And not that fake, "ooh, look at my big smiley face I'm not really listening to you but look at me smile!" nice. I've gone out of my way to hold my tongue when I knew I would meet disagreement. I've taken interest in things I don't give a flying frog about (organics, puppetry...). But I've had it. I'm so glad that a few months apart are looming, because truly, I could not hold in my disdain for this situation anymore.
In passing, I know I incorrectly used a logarithmic reference, but I'm a Bcomm student. I don't give a damn.
Oh, and, just for the record, the Holy Trinity of Ponsy Performing Arts is officially as follows:
Interpretive Dance Spoken Word Poetry Experimental Jazz
Call me a philistine if you will, but I know what I like, and it ain't that.
I have no right to complain, really. It isn't as if I didn't put myself in this position to begin with, nor did I stand up and say, "NO! I will NOT work 38 hours this week, nor will I attend 2 theatre/board meetings, nor will I drive all over the city passing a car back and forth between my sibling and I." Rather, I have attempted to do a hundred bazillion things this week, which can only get worse when I add an additional 24 hours/week of class starting on Monday. What went wrong in my genetic code that prohibits me from saying no?
I'm so tired. I thoroughly enjoyed pottery class today, once I finally figured out (with the aid- okay, only because they were there to help, screw this "the aid bit"-of Amanda and the instructor) how to properly centre my pieces. But that doesn't negate the fact that I'm tired, and in the past 2 days, I've spent less than 4 waking hours in my house.
The next six weeks are going to be very, very long. Oy vey.
The following things are ones that I'm glad I didn't say outloud today:
- Hmm. If that plane crashes, I wonder if I get to keep the furniture? - That colour of salmon makes you look particularly wide around the hips. - I'd like to Supersize that, please. -I hope that someday, someone loves me as much as you love him.
One Baba. Preferably in late 70's. Baba needed to cook, clean, and offer guilt trips of the "you're not eating enough!" or "you eat sandwich, so I know you love me. Don't you love me?" genre. Perm hairdo required.
I have nothing of real excitement to report, except that today, I had to phone Watermelon guy. I actually had to pick up the phone, dial his 7 digit number, and then leave a voice message. It was hell, I tell you. HELL.
But I'm over that, right? The fact that calling him, out of the like, 20 people I called today, made me want to throw up in a juice jug or planter has obvious connotations signaling my over-ness factor.
"Oh. Sorry. This isn't Bowie- this is Mott the Hoople. But it was written by Bowie."
And I'm my Dad.
I think living in the Love Shack is starting to eat away at my brain. Never in my life have I spent almost an entire weekend lounging. Sitting in the sun room. Reading "Catcher in the Rye" (yes, I've never read it, and I think I'm seriously missing the point here, but talk to me when I've finished it.) and watching "So I Married an Axe Murderer".
The scary thing is that I could just stay this way, forever. Maybe Candice has the right idea, and sooner or later I'll ship off to a commune.
This morning's first action item? Get 2 sets of keys cut. Simple enough, right? Home Depot is up the street, and it's early enough in the day to avoid the suburbia rush that is a Friday afternoon of a weekend promising to be above 20 degrees. I stroll in, hand over my keys, and 15 minutes later, I'm cruising towards the checkout.
Oh, if only it was that easy.
In between the key cutting thingamaboo and the checkout is...
THE GARDEN CENTRE.
Doom. I've never, ever, ever been interested in gardening. I kill things. I'm impatient. I grew up in Saskatchewan in the 80's- it was freaking dry, man. But suddenly, be it my recent move into an actual house, or some kind of strange hormonal imbalance, I'm sucked right in.
Suddenly I'm debating the merits of geraniums vs. begonias, and hanging baskets vs. potted bedding plants. Dear sweet baby Jesus. I've become my mother.
But be warned, I WILL have the nicest petunias on the block, dammit. If it kills me!
After adding up grades for those bastardly exams I marked yesterday, I made the 420 km trek home to Eatonia. Now, I opted to take the highway, because my dad called and told me that they were calling for rain, so a shady backroad might not be the best route. That's okay, the highway home (the number 9, if anyone is wondering) isn't so bad, they haven't started construction season yet, and on Monday night, there aren't so many trucks on the road.
Except for the last 46 km. Now, Caitlin can vouch for this, but HWY 44 from the Alberta/Saskatchewan border is the WORST highway in all of Saskatchewan, possibly all of Canada, and even all of North America. Hands down. It's a veritable maze of potholes, gravel patches, no shoulders, narrow stretches, and deer. Oh, the deer. Ever notice how everything in Saskatchewan is the exact same shade of grey-beige? Lovely. The deer blend right in. But even they don't like the highway.
I wonder if it's the SK government's last-ditch effort to keep people from leaving the province. It's hilarious- you can actually SEE Alberta, because the road goes from a pock-marked goat trail to a smooth, wide highway. You can feel the difference instantly... "Oh, I'm home." It's like the government decided, "well, if we can't keep them in with lack of job opportunity, provincial sales tax, and shitty, shitty weather, well...I guess we'll have to keep them in by force and sheer neglect of the road out. That'll learn 'em."
Well, you bastards, I beat you out. In a few short months, I'll have to turn in my green plates, my wheat license, and my Flatskachewan health card. I'll miss you, and I promise to come back...