workin' like a slave

I'm taking a course in French Caribbean literature this semester. It's pretty terrible, although I'm not going to air my grievances at the moment.

For the past three weeks, we have talked about nothing but the horrors of slavery and how they were depicted in the first book for the course; different types of violence, oppression, and resistance were addressed and we talked about some pretty gruesome things, like how the level of infanticide was high because mothers wouldn't want to put their children through a lifetime of slavery.

As we were leaving this afternoon, my friend and I got caught up in a conversation with a guy in the class from Jamaica about employment.

"I'm saving up to spend the summer in Jamaica," he said, "So I'm going to have to work like a slave for the next couple of months to save up."

Some things are just better left unsaid.

why I'll never be a painter

Everyone is a bit annoyed with me today. I can feel my roommate hating on me from the next room.

I kinda deserve it, I guess. Although honestly, he hasn't considered me many a time in planning something out, so my one indiscretion shouldn't count for all that much.

I embarked on somewhat of a project today. But I suppose I should start at the beginning.

My phone started ringing around 9am this morning. If I haven't mentioned it already, I am involved with several small business ventures, and today was one of those days where people just needed things. Also, you should know, I don't typically cruise out of bed before noon - I work a late schedule most of the time.

Anyway, 9am, phone is ringing. People are texting, the preferred method for confirming shifts these days. Every half hour I'm dealing with something, but I'm exhausted so I refuse to get out of bed. Finally, 11am rolls around, and my business partner is not waiting any longer for me.

He needs me to paint something. That's it. 2 boards. Sounds simple enough. Until I realize there is nowhere for me to paint these boards, and he is trying to suggest I do it at my apartment. Now, normally I would do it at his house, but it would require a second coat around midnight, and there was no way I was going to hang around in the other end of town until then. My place it would be.

Initially, I thought, I'll do it in my car. I have an unusually high opinion of my ability to not make a mess. Then I saw the board. Way too big.

I considered the balcony, until I recalled that the stain will not take properly in cold temperatures. And it's freaking -14C.

This was my only responsibility for the day. And I knew he really needed me to do it. So I did what any aspiring entrepreneur would do. I made a solution.

I covered an entire wall in my room with newspaper, laid out the tablecloth my roommate is trying to get me to throw away on the floor, and set myself up there.

Within ten seconds I had ruined my clothing, though I surprisingly spared the beige carpet and white walls. I did get some paint on the door but fortunately it was saved with paint thinner.

After a reasonable amount of struggling, I finished the first coat, with 45 minutes to spare before my night out on the town. I called my business partner to make sure he didn't need anything from me, which he said he didn't. Then my date called.

"I'm wearing a dress shirt," he said, as I stood in front of the mirror at our front row gauging my outfit. Torn jeans with paint all over them. Bright blue shirt exposing my midriff. Headband to contain hair. Paint on hands and possibly face.

"Oh, so I should probably go more than one level up from my current outfit."

Oh, and I should mention that any sort of date that requires dressing up basically terrifies me. I once arrived at a lunch date in jeans and a t-shirt only to realize the place was at a ritzy hotel restaurant. I just about had a heart attack, walked up to the reception and said, "please tell me I'm in the wrong place". She fortunately informed me that there was, in fact, a restaurant with the same name on the same street, but I've never felt the same way about dates and formal. I was more horrified by the fact that I was going on a date in a ritzy hotel restaurant than the fact that I was ridiculously underdressed for the occasion. I think this, however, is a topic better left for a later date.

So 45 minutes later, I no longer look like hell and have dressed myself in my emergency outfit; basically this gorgeous, long-sleeved knee-length dress my mom brought back from Switzerland that goes perfectly with any sort of black footwear. And off we went.

I won't get into the specifics of the date, mostly because it wasn't particularly eventful. Dinner closed and I found out I had 9 missed calls. Nine. I call my business partner. Turns out he desperately needed a credit card, which was in my possession, for the following morning. I offered to return it after the movie.

I cruise into his place around midnight and drop off the card, and head home, at this point about 5 hours after I had left. My roommate is sitting in the living room, and he looks like he has been seething. I show him a funny video and we chat, and I confess that I had painted and that is the horrible smell flooding the apartment. He says he thought it was a putty next to the dryer in the wall; I find it hard to believe he didn't open the door to my room and notice the massive board that has been freshly painted. Mostly because he will occasionally put things away in my room, and the smell had to be most potent closest to it. But whatever.

I realize he has been running the fans like a maniac and decide to put a towel under my door to block any more fumes from escaping, and open my window to get some of the air out. I actually have no idea how I am going to sleep. I can't sleep with the window open, nor can I with the window closed. Either way, I've basically resolved my roommate's qualms and here I am, half asleep, in the freezing cold, confessing the horrors of my evening to the internet.

just a few quirks...

I sing to myself while walking through the hardware store. I get emotionally attached to things that should really be thrown away, like dead plants and really old half-consumed bottles of wine.

I hate answering the phone. I systematically keep my voice mail full. I use my credit card at gas stations to avoid talking to the clerk. I never wear matching socks. I require them only to match in comfort level, according to my feet.

I can't stand being told what to do. I get offended when people refer to me as "pretty" instead of "nice". I am driven to be as good at anything as any guy. I consider convincing a guy to help me an acceptable skill.

I am messy, and I like it that way. I am loud. I love people who tell me they don't think I'm loud. I don't care if they mean it. I use an unusual amount of cups.

I am afraid of the dark. If I watch a scary movie by accident, I won't sleep. For several days.

I order iced mocha cappuccinos from Starbucks, even in winter. If I wake up before 8am, I will probably eat lunch by 10. I don't wear makeup most of the time. If my roommate isn't home I like to strip down to my undergarments at the front door when I get home.

I order the chicken sandwich in restaurants and then eat the chicken and the bun separately. I will order extra toppings and then pick them out of things to appear less picky than I am. I prefer to go places with people who will eat my leftovers because I also don't like to waste food.

I've had at least 4 or 5 guys genuinely tell me they thought I was their soul mate. I no longer believe in soul mates. Still working on my opinion of marriage.

I order Wendy's and eat it in the parking lot because I know it won't taste good by the time I get home.

I flirt with cashiers to get discounts and it works.

See: This fish needs a bicycle

Need a place to crash into

Sometimes, my sister cracks me up. She picks up expressions from my parents, or whoever; she has a lot more contact with an older crowd, I guess. Either way, she left my dad a message the other day that left me with a chuckle.

"I talked to mom and she said it would be fine if I crashed into your house on Saturday night after the party."

Oh, I'm quite certain she would think that would be just fine.

Cats

Whenever my roommate leaves for more than half an hour, my cat gets seriously touch-deprived. She doesn't like to harrass me too much, or appear to actually want attention, so she does the most logical thing one could think of. She sits so that her butt is pushed against me but she faces another direction, as if it is complete coincidence that we are actually in contact. Right now, we are sitting butt-to-butt on my bed. She is facing the wall, not moving. She is purring very quietly. I wish men were more like this sometimes.

Top 10 reasons I'm not going to go out with you

Top 10 reasons I'm not going to go out with you
(in no particular order)

1. I'm still holding out for genuine chemistry.
2. You are insecure.
3. You think I will sleep with you.
4. You think I don't know you are lying.
5. You agree with everything I say.
6. You told me I was a type, or made some other sort of ridiculous generalization.
7. You are already threatened by other men.
8. You like me because it will impress your friends that a girl actually talked to you.
9. You think I am a challenge.
10. You can't believe that I call you on your bullshit.

The beginning!

I've decided I'm going to start posting every day. I just thought you should know.

So, most of the time it's going to be a mix of idle commentary and rants. Apparently this is what I do on a daily basis.

Either way, it will give you something to read and me something to commit to.

Not that I'm afraid of commitment or anything.

ack

I'm sick.

Not the fun kind, either. Or the "almost so I'm going to take it easy until I get better" sick. The "I have to continue to function in an essentially non-functional state for the next week or so" kind. And I'm not loving it.

I'm fortunate, actually. Starting next week I'll be working ridiculous hours and this could be then. But seriously, it's been over a week. Who is ever sick for more than a week? I was feeling under the weather two weeks ago. I skipped class, thinking if I rest I will be okay. I stayed in Friday night and did homework. Saturday, I went to a friends birthday, but I was feeling fine. I drank, and I don't drink if I'm feeling even a little bit off.

Then Sunday, it was not good. I was fine in the morning, no hangover. Hell, I was totally sober by the time we went home. But I started feeling progressively worse. I started thinking, this is really not good.

Monday, I was a mess. I went to my morning class, and drove home in a daze. I told myself I would wake up long enough to make sure I didn't have a quiz in my evening class. I didn't get out of bed until halfway through my class - hours later. I decided not to check, because I wasn't going either way; I would have failed anyway in my mental state. Turned out I did miss a test.

Tuesday, same thing. Fortunately I had a day off.

Wednesday, I had to go to school. I had missed far too much class, I had no prospects of a doctor's note, and there was no way I could convince the prof to let me re-take it if I didn't show up a third time. I went. She (and I adore this woman, I must say) opted to let me take the test, saying she was glad I didn't show up and make everyone sick. Trust is a wonderful thing, which we should all practice.

Thursday, it started to pass. I decided to go to work, as work needed to be done and since it was almost over anyway, what was the harm? I worked outdoors. In the rain. Have I mentioned I am freaking determined and have no capacity to evaluate my own health? To make things worse, I wrecked my phone. It was bad.

Friday was about the same as Thursday.

Saturday, I woke up, intending to go to the gym. I was no longer capable of speaking and I could barely move. I cancelled my morning plans. I showed up to work 2 hours late. I went home as early as possible. I went to bed, or something. I really can't remember.

Sunday is a whole other story but it involved frantically trying to complete an assignment due at 4pm (on a Sunday), which I had no idea was due. Disastrous. People in the library glared at my flagrant displays of illness. Like I totally wanted to be at school coughing my brains out on a Sunday.

Monday, today. Still feel wretched. Can't miss more class. Lonely. In pain. Lungs hurting. Throat hurting. Can hardly speak. Pretty sure my liver is failing. This is not good.

Adventures in the men's room

Apparently all the washrooms in the city close before the bars do.

I wouldn't know, I don't often go to bars, really. And when I do, I don't usually stay til closing. Or hit the town afterwards. Yet there I was, at 2:30 in the morning, and I needed to pee. Badly.

We were headed for Pita Pit. Finally, I saw it, and took off towards it, ahead of the group. I ran in, and asked if they had a washroom. They said no.

I took off across the street to Subway. "Out of order". Yeah, right. Two more places, nothing. Finally, I head into this pizza place. I had been avoiding it because although at the other places I would have purchased something, I don't eat pizza. I went in. "Do you have a washroom? I'll pay you to use it!" Cards on the table. "You don't have to pay - but only the men's room is open." I tell him I don't care, and take off to the back room. I close the stall door behind me, and hear someone else come in. Great. There is no way I'm coming out first, because I have absolutely no explanation, and the guy would have to be totally shocked to see a girl storm out of there. Once I'm sure he's gone, I wash my hands, tip the cashier, and I'm on my way.

I make my way back to Pita Pit, where my friends all look at me confusedly because I have been missing for the past 10 minutes or so, but they are all inebriated enough that they are content on just knowing I have returned. I make my way up to the front of the line rather quickly, and realize I have no idea what I want, nor any idea what is even on the menu. I offer to let the girl behind me go first. She looks more confused than me and declines. I try to read the menu quickly. Finally, I say "I don't know... something with chicken.... in wrap form..... no cheese." He rings up God knows what and gives me my total. A friend of mine decides to pay (presumably because I would be driving him home) and I ask, "what did I order, anyway?" The cashier hands me my receipt and replies, "Just give them the receipt - they'll know what to give you". I think no matter what you pay, you end up customizing the pita anyway. Which makes me wonder why there was 30 or so items on the menu, but whatever. I was fed.

How to pick up girls

Tonight pretty much made my life.

I think I will get into the finer details at a later date; a lot of the details won't mean much to anyone but me. But the highlight of the night by far, was the fulfillment of what I consider the best (and only, in my case) pickup there is. I always say I hate getting drinks bought for me because you get roped into a conversation and it would be so much cooler if a guy would buy me a drink and just leave me alone to drink it. My male friends always say that then I wouldn't go out with them anyway, which is the problem with that scenario. I, however, still think it would be a great idea, and maintain that I would only want to go out with a guy who would do that anyway.

When I went to get my first drink I pushed my way up to the bar, next to this guy who had been waiting there already. I saw him whisper to his friend, "geez, i wonder which one of us he (the bartender) will serve first. Being me, I made a smart-alecky comment about him putting on his pretty face, and he said he was sure I'd get served first. I said, "well yeah, I'm holding money!" and he responded, "I am too."

Ultimately we each ended up holding a twenty the same way, to see who would get served first. He did, and was so excited he bought my drink. We then clinked glasses, and he was on his way.

I was so excited I could barely contain myself. After about an hour, I thought, if he was really trying to pick me up, he deserves it! And, he had walked by a few times. So I walked up to him, made sure it was him, and then introduced myself. His name was Taylor. We talked for a few minutes, and he explained that he had been so pleased that he had been served first, he had to buy me my drink. I should have told him he totally made my life, but either way, I think we both left fairly pleased with ourselves. If I ever see him again, I might ask for his number.

You know you have a serious problem when you are surprised and catch yourself almost saying, "This shit is bananas!"

I love music, but sometimes I wonder.

Listening skills

Lisa: He's really starting to piss me off. He always tells me what to do!

Mike: And you listen?

Lisa: Well, occasionally.

don't ask

"Look, I'm not saying you should like her. I have never liked her. But just because she got really drunk and flailed all over the place one time isn't reason enough to stop liking someone you thought was fine before."

A co-worker of mine was, once again, reliving the actions of his business associate's girlfriend at a recent party. I've never liked her. She is not my kind of person. In fact, anyone over the age of 40 that shows up at a Halloween dressed like a 20 year old girl is not really my kind of person.

But I know him pretty well, and he has a habit of writing off people after they do one minor thing wrong. He also doesn't like promiscuous-acting girls, even though he tells himself he does.

"I get it, you don't like sluts."

"Well, I don't like sluts of that age."

"Oh yeah? What age do you prefer your sluts to be?"

"That's so not what I meant."

"Of course it isn't."

garlic bread

My roommate walks into the living room at 3am with a piece of half-completed garlic bread I abandoned several hours earlier.

"You know there's no garlic on that, right?"

Apparently three hour old baked bread with butter isn't as terrible as one would think.