Muddy Mondays aren't all bad.

PVR has this amazing feature where it records Gossip Girl. I can watch the newest episode whenever I want, even the night it plays, and I can fast forward commericals. Ace! Is this a lame highlight?

Fortuantely it's not the only highlight of this Monday. There was this singing and dancing dog at the old age home where I volunteer Monday mornings. It was just a stuffed animal, but the old people were tripling over in laughter. Given, they're normally already doubled over.

Bad blogging.

I am not good at blogging. This never bothered me until I decided I want to stop being embarassed about my blog. I have strategized to improve my blog based on the preferences of follow. I will change to satisfy my followers.

1. Numbered lists. They illude the reader into thinking they're learning an unfathomable fact.
2. Short posts. They feel productive when they can read two posts in 5 minutes.
3. Photos. They feel even more productive when they scroll SO far down the page quickly.
4. Predicatable content. They want to know what is coming next and what to expect.
5. Witty title. They want to impress friends by off-handly mentioning the blog they follow.

Taxidermy is art.

It has come to me naturally that I am fasinated in taxidermy. I feel like several of my childhood and recent experiences have sparked this interest. However, I am struggling with legitamizing the interest and also with getting my friends to appreciate it.

I prefer more traditional and realistic taxidermy, but I just listened to a lovely BBC interview of Polly Morgan. I think Polly Morgan will be the connection I need to get my friends to like taxidermy or at least like that I like taxidermy. She's young, pretty, and makes art that appeals to the indie crowd.

pollymorgan.co.uk

I am only intolerant of intolerance.

More thoughts to come.

I'm having new age fun with a vintage feel.

I have become bored with my life. Ambition is slipping away from me. I'm afraid that I have been falsly aspiring to be a dick head. I am bloggin like a self-absorbed emotional teenage girl. Is this just my new way of putting off medical school applications?

Context is improtant.

This is my second post today, which I try to avoid normally. However, this post is of a very different nature than the other post I made today. It is an update on me.

This summer, I returned from Utrecht and spent July and August looking for work. My parents went and came back from a trip to Italy and Croatia. They both got bad cases of salmonella and the worse followed. Mom was demoted form her career fulfilling and well paying position of principal down to grade four teacher. She was crushed and still is. Lambert became arthritic and got a diagnosis weeks later. He has reactive arthritis caused by the salmonella and may have it for a while. Disability pay for him is limited.

However, on Tuesday things started looking up. I finally began work at the Holland Shopping Centre where I work as a deli girl. That evening I also received a letter in the mail inviting me to graduate, which was a lovely surprise, because one course from my exchange was omitted from my transcript.

Richard Terfry is Buck 65.

You know those days, the days where you are feeling even more reflective than usual, and every thought that passes through your mind feels like an epiphany? Today was one of those days. TV's Grey's Anatomy Season premier was not helping. Each episode has bookend narration that frames the weekly drama at Seattle Grace Hospital as a moral epiphany.

My epiphany was entirely unrelated. Today, I decided I wanted to regress to a perspective where there are definite truths. A pre-post-modern perspective. I want to live knowing my fundamentals are fact and I want to defend them. I am seeking a simplicity that Jesus adored in children. I want the highly coveted blind faith. However, I do not want the ignorance that holds its hand. Perhaps I am looking for the new contemporary way of thinking. Maybe I am ready for what is next. Ready to have beliefs again and keep my womb open to growing knowledge.

Thus, after this intangible epiphany I realized the Richard Terfry, a favorite CBC radio personality, is also Buck 65. Furthermore, he is white! Acknowledgments go to Wikipedia for this information.

God values education.

When I went on exchange to Utrecht, I did something very stupid. I took a course for the sake of my education. I took with academic integrity hoping to gain a valuable learning experience. I recognized the risk of a black spot on my transcript, but I so strongly craved to learn for the sake of learning. To my dismay, I got 50% on the advanced level Netherlands Foreign Policy course. However, to my delight, this course was omitted from my official transcripts. Thank you God of academic pursuits!

Isaiah 55:8-9 (King James Version)

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts."

Lines 1 & 2 of a Hymn by William Cowper (1731-1800)

"God moves in a mysterious way; His wonders to perform."

I am a bad Cannuck.

I am not a faithful Cannuck fan. I would rather not watch you play it, because...

1. Ice hockey, by consequence of being on ice, is cold. Even on a nice sunny day, Ice Hockey takes place in a cold arena with painfully bold fluorescent lighting. And unless you've paid for a seat, you are sitting on a hard concrete or metal bench.

2. Hockey players have nothing on Mexican soccer players (sorry, 'football' players). Hockey players are often poorly groomed and have lost teeth to the sport. Additionally, if they are attractive, their efforts are lost behind their unflattering helmets.

3. Nothing happens during a typical hockey game. An exciting game from the spectator's perspective is usually classified as a bad game by the players. When hockey isn't boring, its because it isn't being played well. Either someone falls, the goalie get obliterated by pucks, or a fight breaks out (preferably involving a defenseless elderly ref).

Hockey is my national sport, but I just cannot muster the loyalty it deserves. I shamefully regret all the years I spent as a shivering pubescent girl sitting on the cold hard benches pretending I could distinguish one player from another.

Inconvience of dieting.

Facebook is not just a reflection of dieting behaviour, but Facebook and weight watching are deeply interconnected. Many of the same influences that cause dieting are also culprits of Facebook obsessions. The persistent tweeking of one’s Facebook profile is clearly encouraged by the same culture that encourages women to tweek their weight. If one is feeling rotten about their self-image, it is now common to give their Facebook profile a facelift. When more people see me online than in person I care more about my profile than I’d like to admit.

Furthermore, the changes in the food market which have been damaging to our health are actually partially held responsible for the side effect that causes Facebookitis. As food becomes more and more convenient (and less and less healthy) more time is freed up in a day. Peeling, boiling, and mashing potatoes is replaced with French fries and 38 minutes to browse your cousins vacation photos from Cambodia. Our society has begun to reach its goal of being as convenient as imaginable. The consequence is that we are left with a lot of potentially free time. This has birthed a culture of guilt as there is always a better way to spend one’s time and there is always something healthier to eat.

Next time you want to check Facebook, go exercise instead. Hit two birds with one stone.

Parallels of dieting.

Food is not the only plague of middle class gluttony. I have found Facebook to be treated in much the same way as food. Facebook is a social network originally designed for sharing photos and networking students. It has been expanded to be a multifaceted virtual world complete with live chat, email-like messaging, link sharing, fan collecting, group making, a marketplace, etc. Facebook has unlimited possibilities through its do-it-yourself applications that allow users to buy and raise virtual pets, make and send virtual gifts, and anything else that can be imagined. Consequently the time one can spend on Facebook is unlimited and almost as satisfying as eating a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.

Recently I have noticed a trend with Facebook that parallels weight watching after the introduction of too-convenient-food. In the same way that one repeatedly swears off of fast food, people are repeatedly giving up their Facebook accounts, only to find themselves back in a week stuffing their face with newsfeed updates (that almost seem richer after a week of fasting). I call these people the purgers. They stick a finger down their throat, because of the guilt of hours wasted or pounds gained. They’re the ones most likely to relapse. But we are all weak. The modern majority relates to their sentiments and tries to use Facebook less. Without any concrete goals, moderates promise to themselves that starting tomorrow they’ll spend less time snacking on facebook, creep less people, stick to the news feed and replies. Unfortunately, sometimes the constant worrying about facebook activity will actually increase the number of hours logged. Not unlike our dedicated dieters who find that not eating cookies only makes them want them more. Addiction strikes again.

The joys of Ryan Air.

The best part about living in Europe is how close everything is. Every day I am meeting someone from another country or learning a new word in a different language. And I don't just have to wait for culture to come to me, with Ryan Air, the highly unethical but very affordable discount airline, I am able to travel wherever I want without emptying my wallet. This past weekend, the south of France.

In Marseille the city buses can take you to extraordinary places. We took a couple to where the road ends. It sounds poetic and it is. At the road's end along the coast there are these adorably quaint fishing villages with just a few houses, a harbour, a couple restaurants, and a fish market. If you walk behind them you can continue into the hills that are basically grassy white stone cliffs. AMAZING rock climbing. We walked 45 min past one village and reached a hamlet of just three homes and a bar. Its a hike-in or boat-in town with no road at all and a beautiful sandy beach tucked into a moutnainous cove. To top it off, it was a perfectly sunny day.

Culture of dieting.

Universal health care. Democracy. Eating disorders. It seems that these have become the markers of a developed country. I do not mean to imply that underdeveloped countries don’t have eating disorders, but with the exception of malnutrition by poverty and famine, there is much less of a focus on them. Contrastingly, in wealthy countries anorexia, bulimia, and overeating are popular topics. Here I hope to divulge some of my feelings on the consuming topic of overeating and weight.

As an underweight minority in North America, I have often been ostracized from the associated female bonding ritual of weight watching and weight bitching. The culture (which we are debatably in control of), dictates that we, women, are hyper-sensitive to our physical appearances. And of course, the most important feature or our appearance is our weight. The content of most waiting room magazines reflects our obsession with weight and the related topics of dieting, fitness, movie stars and fast food.

It is a magical point in a relationship between two women, when they first confess their dissatisfaction with the shape of their own bodies. The more similarly shaped a pair of woman, the sooner on in the relationship that such confidences are exchanged, but even women in different weight categories commonly will rant about their often imagined obesity. I sit on the sidelines for this ritual as ‘too skinny’ is not a valid complaint in the land of dieting and I am left with a quirky envy of my more curvy peers.

If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain. Dolly Parton

I really do not mind rain normally, but a bad day compounded with unseasonable rain breaks me down. I often have bad days. (I mostly have amazing days making me a prime candidate for a bipolar diagnosis.) Consequently, it intrigues me to find what the common factor is for my bad days. With the use of all my deductive skills I try to uncover the lowest common denominator. In depth profiles of my diet, environment, activities, time of the month, etc. spill some light onto what puts me in a dark place.

I woke up and it was clear today would not be a good day. My bike, cell phone, and debit card broke and it was raining. I took out the trash out but the truck never came. Analyze. Analyze. Analyze. Then my msn correspondent and former sexy-time tutor put in the final damper on my rainy day. I was clinging to the comfort that this lousy day was going to teach me what makes me grumpy, when he took that away by blatantly pinpointing the primary reason I get mopy. He truthfully told me that I need positive attention or I fall into my well of self-pity. It is so dark in my well that I need a man 10000km away to tell me where I am. Then it rains.

Improving oneself.

Research shows that learning a new skill is good for the brain and can prevent deterioration that causes Alzheimer’s and other forgetting diseases. Below is a list of some new things I want to learn. Oh, and in case you think you’re too old to bother learning something new, you’re wrong. Clinically, the older you are, the more important learning is for the brain and if my great aunt started learning English at 78 years of age, I’m sure you’re not too old to take up knitting.

1. Lock picking
2. Sign Language
3. Flamenco Dancing
4. Photography
5. Dutch

Too practical.

Influence for this article: Woody Allen’s ‘Vicky Christina Barcelona’
Outcome of this article: Why do I need to have a measurable outcome… isn’t that the problem?

Okay, here’s the deal. I am too focused on getting somewhere in life. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t chosen a career path and spouse at age 12. In fact, I don’t know what I’m going to be doing 18 months from now. However, I am focused on moving forward and I feel guilty when my actions do not contribute to this goal. I cannot lounge about juggling a soccer ball, unless I’m aware that I’m gaining hand-eye coordination and an appreciation of the world’s favorite pastime. Why is it that some people can be satisfied (and even productive by my standards) wandering through life and only half-heartedly ceasing the opportunities given them? A 40% unemployment in Fresno, California makes me sad, because a group of people that value money making are lost, but a 40% unemployment in Granada, Spain makes me rejoice, because a transient creative community is bursting with artistic expression and love that isn’t restricted by the capitalist norm. Perhaps it’s time I start wolfing on a sustainable island hippy farm... I could fill out my ‘alternative experience’ column of my med school application.

I want to write a novel.

I have always had dreams of grandeur that starred me as a handsomely successful author or artist or even an artist that illustrates their own… novel? So my dreams weren’t particularly concrete. But, I have to admit, that writing these journal entries sparks hope in me that I will be a writer. I really feel it. Straight out of an overly dramatic Buffy episode, I know inside that “I am not evil, but good [at writing].” How do I know it? Years of encouragement in elementary school (I think I mastered the art of legible handwriting prematurely) and of course, I have a really big fan. She’s always snooping me out and reading whatever I write. Praise from an unbiased source is always heartening. Of course, I wouldn’t exactly call my mother unbiased, but she’s heaps supportive.
Of course there’s also the undeniable reality that I just sense these positive I-can-write-well vibes when I’m desperate to procrastinate and the house is clean. I have a conversation with myself that goes something like this:

ANGEL: You should do your homework now, sweety.
DEVIL: Homework is best done at the last minute; a memoir of your life is urgent.
ANGEL: This is nearly the last minute.
DEVIL: Aha, but it is not the very last minute. Plus, if the creative juices are flowing SQUEEZE, because you’re going to make it big as a writer and then no one will care how you did on that little teensy tiny irrelevant term paper.
ANGEL: Are you kidding me? You a writer!? I think you have a better chance of getting to bed at a reasonable hour the night before your term paper is due! [insert some scoffing]
DEVIL: Hey! For a good guy, you’re not very encouraging. It’s settled then. Time to channel all this anger into an angsty blog and feel good about creative indulgences.

Well, at least I am not my tone death mother who played the guitar, but shit, I am the singer who never performs. Lord! Here my prayers and cut out my vocal box of writing (and while you’re at it, can you do my term paper?). In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Fucking fuckers.

I like some words. Fuck is the only word in the English language that can be used nicely in the middle of a word or phrase. Police-fucking-sirens. Light-fucking-switches. Bliz-fucking-zard. Plus, it feels good to use. My mom told me this story about her alleged hippy years. She and some fellow daisy wearing youngster went to a concert of some still-legendary musicians. The between song banter by the band was powerful. It commanded the crowd into a chant. Remember, these are the people from the time of the California cult age. Anyways, lack of self-will aside, the band had hundreds chanting F-U-C-K. My mom, take this with a grain of salt (or whole table spoon, as she likes on her boiled eggs) suggests that this was the first time many of them had ever used the word. Neat story and instead of making the F-word more sacred to me, saying ‘fuck’ makes me feel empowered by an imagined ancient group of first wave feminists.

Aftermath

November eleventh is a day for remembering. What will you remember? Why are you remembering? Can we really stop history from repeating?

Irony stings, as two horrifying wars are framed in the context of repeating the forgotten holocaust. The breakdown of Yugoslavia allowed the extermination of minority groups. One holocaust survivor at the opening of the United States Holocaust Museum abused his invitation to shout out that ‘we’re doing it again!’ One journalist from Rwanda visited the same museum and experienced an emotional punch in the face as the museum attendants wore ‘never again’ buttons, yet US forces refused to get their hands dirty in Rwanda. Its time to stop remembering and start watching, because injustice is everywhere and whether we accept it or not, we have the responsibility to speak out.

Too much of a good thing.

So here’s some words that I’ve picked up it and over use. This will increase your sensitivity to my repetition, sorry. To begin the list are two words given to me by my first boyfriend. ‘Par,’ because it instantly makes me sound sophisticated and I can no longer imagine that there is an appropriate substitute for this intelligent conjunction. The second is steaming with pretensh, but I’ve been known to make a sentence just to use it because one feels good about finding a place for the word ‘aforementioned.’

The most recent word is a gift from the Ausie exchange students that glamoured me with their cute accents and out-of-season tans when I arrived in Utrecht weeks ago. The word is ‘heaps’ and I’m still not sure how to use it correctly, but nonetheless I find heaps of places to add it. The next is taken from the badass protagonist of ‘The Catcher and the Rye.’ I have fallen in love with the double word ‘goddam.’ I try to preserve it for using it in the flavour of David Copperfield: non-condemning but to chill myself out.

Finally, and most importantly, I am absolutely addicted to an inconsequential and 9 out or 10 times unnecessary word. I stick this word into so many sentences it makes me dizzy. When I need to lower my word count of any writing assignment all I have to do is set up MicrosoftWord to automatically replace it with a space. What is that word? That word that gives me headaches? That makes me sound that I am dull? That makes it seem that I can’t write that well? You guessed it. It’s ‘that.’ That fucking aforementioned word is the bane of my existence and par a few situations it results in heaps of goddam confusion.

10 by 10 commitment.

It's spring and I have things to do. Today my spam email directed me to a website where I procastinate by making a self-improvment list:

1. Learn another language.
2. Become a medical doctor.
3. Talk about conservation.
4. Volunteer at a hospital.
5. Be kinder to the people I love.
6. Be kinder to strangers.
7. Own a bike, not a car.
8. Keep reading good books.
9. Travel somewhere new
10. Tell other people to make 10 changes

Holidays.

Do you ever feel like you have too many friends and too much family? Perhaps its because I just got back from 4 months at field school. Or maybe its because my facebook status hinted I had some spare time. Or, more likely, it was because I am leaving for potentially 18 months. The point is, I seem to have been a big disappointment and didn't visit anybody as much as I should. In the words of Bilbo Baggins (who I did not let down, and watched for 4 hours in the extended edition Fellowship of the Rings) " I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve." Oh well, we'll see who likes me when I get back.