I've spent this week solidifying my reservation in hell. My grandpa died on Monday and while the first thing I did after I got off the phone with my mother was check into prices to get from Kelowna (where the funeral is) to Vancouver (where the awesome people are). But then my parents decided it was too expensive to fly me out for the funeral (really, is there such a thing as too expensive when we're talking about paying your respects to the dearly departed/visiting your boyfriend?).

My mom saw through it like the neighbours bathroom window though and asked me if I actually wanted to go. When I came clean she laughed as only the clinically insane can, or at least one of her personalities did. Then she said there wasn't any room for me to stay with them anyway in grandpa's condo. Not room for me to stay with my family during a time of mourning??? Not a scrap of floor or single cushion??? What am I carrying the christ child? Get me a dog damn room at the inn.

So then I started looking into bereavement fares (that Sienfeld episode is my only reference) and I called both aircanada and westjet using my fake sad voice (for this occasion I went with not too choked up, mostly soft and quiet with some heavy sighs), then when they got me fuck all I changed my grief stage from sadness to anger. Still nothing.

In the end it's probably for the best. After all I think a funeral is not the best place to be introduced to your grandpa's third wife for the first time. What do you say to her? I'm sure your husband was nice, I wish I got to meet him more than once. And will his first and second wives be there too? I like them, they still give me cards with 5 dollar bills inside (although I have reason to believe my mother has been intercepting them as of late). Will his first wife's son from her second marriage be there? Likely not I guess, which is too bad because he has great stories from that time when he robbed a bank. No, wait, I mean those times that he robbed some banks.

Yep, I think at this point the only thing left for me to do is inquire as to the division of assets, also known as the sad lottery. But I might leave that until next week to make sure the innapropriateness is evenly spread throughout my life.

Until then, keep breathing kids.

ATTN FOSHIES:

Stop it.

Stop being young and optimistic and full of hopes and dreams.
Stop being bright eyed and bushy tailed and having a generally positive outlook on life.
Stop thinking that your degree means something, that McGill is such a great academic institution, that you will one day be employed in the field of your choice and have the opportunity to utilise all the wonderful information you'll learn over the next four years.
Stop thinking that you have the mental capacity to actually learn something over the next four years. Most of you don't. The rest? Well they will lose all interpersonl skills from spending so much times alone with their books in the library.

Stop having fun, stop getting crunk ass drunk, stop with the chants, the group identifying t-shirts, the general yelling, screaming and merriment.

Stop excercising your newfound freedom, stop staying out, like, super late. Stop hooking up with, like, cute dudes. Stop it, stop it, stop it.

Start hating yourselves, your lives, everything and everyone around you.
Start freaking the fuck out about how much reading you have to do and start having regular panic attacks.
Start being cynical immediately.
Start pretending not to know people you see in the hallways. Start moving your worldly posessions into the library and wondering when the last time you saw the sun was.
Oh, and you should probably start calling the student clinic for an appointment to get that rash checked out. I'm sure they'll fit you in by the end of the semester.

I'd rather be a redman than a fucking bumblebee, but mostly I'm pretty glad to be done school.

Get fucked.

In case you're not furtunate to be here right now, this is exactly what frosh is sounds like, but times 1000, in random pockets of awful all over downtown.

Sombody needs to get me an fucking epidural right now becuase I am birthing my uterine lining. I don't know if you know this, but turns out it's attached to my insides with tiny jagged nails that are being ripped out as we speak.

Or maybe there's a tiny artist inside my womb, carving a bloody sculpture with a dull hatchet. Keep an eye out for my tampon on display at the Moma.

I may have taken too main painkillers before my exam this morning beucase I arried at school with my skirt visibly, obviously, totally noticibly on sideways.

In unrelated news, I have angular chelitis (shout out to the good folks at web md). It's basically cracks in the corner of your mouth caused by dry lips or ill-fitting dentures, although wikipedia says it can also be a sign of an hiv infection. THANKS WIKIPEDIA! You know sometimes it's almost like the internet isn't a relaible medical resource. In any case I should probably just go to the pharmacist and get an ointment or salve but pharmacists are basically mini-doctors and you know how I hate those guys. Plus wikipedia didn't say it was a sign of full blown aids so I think I'll just wait it out.


And now, back to my regularly scheduled chocolate and crying.

Oh God.

A recent voicemail from my mother:

"Hi, so I was just calling to let you know that we're going to be out of town this weekend, but Dad will have his cell with him, well I will too but mine doesn't work, plus Dad's gets paid for by the company so just call that one, and anyway we'll be back on Tuesday, your brother is staying home by himself, I'm not too sure about that but he has driver's training on Monday so I guess he'll have to stay but I just don't trust him hanging around with your brother...oh, and I also wanted to ask you if you've asked Jesus Christ into you heart as your lord and savior yet. With the way the world is going I just think you should probably do that right away if you haven't already. As long as you're on a good path then you'll be accepted into heaven and all you have to do is ask Jesus into your heart. Okay, bye."

Of all the churches in all the towns, she had to walk into the Evangelical one.

For the love of God Mother, stay away from the light.

Sha-wing!

Seven out of eight David MacLeans agree that there is a serious wing shortage in Montreal.

Most of those David's are right. On Wednesdays while the rest of the world is enjoying chicken arms for pennies a pop Montrealers are content to suck on failed hockey teams and chew on transfer payments (she said like a true Albertan). Hence a small group of dedicated citizens decided to rustle up some flappers and right this wingless wrong.

This is a chicken wing in it's natural, deadened state. We don't eat it like this, it must first be severed in two places at the joints.

David MacLean makes only one cut, leaving the tip attached to the forearm, but sometimes it looks like he's wearing shoulder pads under his shirt so you do what you will with that advice.

(right??)

Brittney's Honey Garlic/Kind of Asian Tasting Sauce
- soy sauce
- oil
- honey
- garlic
- ginger

You're going to want to add more of some of those than other. But less of others than some. Do what makes you feel good.

What I did in lieu of a deep fryer was bake them for a bit in the oven, then transfer to a pan, toss in the sauce and get it all sticky and good.

Dmac did a buffalo style wing, involving Frank's Red Hot Sauce and butter I think, I can't quite remember because I was so overwhelmed by their awesomness that I blacked out.

Eli can chop a carrot like none other, and her potatoe wedges are dynamite. Also, she has a good personality!

Carnage.

Oh that's nice.

The drain of our bathtub has sealed itself closed with hair and the fermented remains of several loads of dishes washed in the bathtub (not me). Consequently our bathroom smells like a rat shit itself and then caught on fire. And then someone tried to put it out with the yolks of several dozen rotten eggs. And then they tried using the congealed blood of a recently deceased pigeon. And when that didn't work either they vomited all over everything. And then farted. That is exactly the smell.

Draino is not working.

The vanilla scented candle is certainly not working.

Blowing out the candle, turning off the fan and leaving the door open is really fucking counterproductive.

Summer Salads for Sunny Days

Yesterday Montreal hovered around the 40 degree mark for most of the day, the humidity pushing the mercury (or whatever non-toxic substance they use now) on upwards. Obviously too hot to hover over a heat emitting device other than a computer and so the summer salad emerges victorious for a cool dinner option.

This salad might not look particularly incredible, but it is; incredibly delicious and incredibly simple. I had this salad at The Foundation in Vancouver with a one Sean Morley Antrim on an equally hot day, which is perhaps why I thought of it when our heat wave set in. Now if only I could get my hands on some home brewed beer and an extra large moustance the experience would be complete.


Spinach, Pear and Goat Cheese Salad
- Spinach, chopped.
- Pear, sliced into bits.
- Goat cheese, crumbled. I got this black pepper kind that was really good, but you do what you want.

Vinagrette
-Olive oil
- Cider vinegar
- Honey
- Onion, minced real fine.

That's it! More time for sweating and eating frozen goodness (Liberty frozen yogurt, $1 at Seagulls, I ate an entire pint yesterday. I mean, something more reasonable. I mean, who am I kidding.)

Our new unit in french class is called 'Je voyage!' I find this to be mildly inappropriate for a class of students who are a) on welfare, b) immigrants/refugees c) students or otherwise poor people. This morning we had to go around the class and list all the countries we have traveled to. If I could make a graph of this you would see an unfortunate correlation between number of places traveled and skin colour. The five or so white kids listed off a handful of countries, the rest listed two: where they were born, and where they are now, with perhaps a brief layover in a refugee camp, thanksforasking.

In the afternoon was devoted mainly to a listening exercise. This particular recording was on the subject of l'amour. The interviewer asked each person how they met their current lovah;

Marie-Pierre: Bof...c'etait au bar de l'universite. Il a vendu des beires mais j'ai refuse parce que a ce moment je detestais les anglais.

Translation: Marie-Pierre is a cuntface.

I quit listening after that so I'm not sure how this poor guy convinced her to overlook his anglo ways. Maybe he gave her some personal transfer payments to her have-not region, if you catch my drift.

Mother Mother

Today, while calling to inform me of the lastest car collision in my town, my mom suggested that I audition to be on Dancing with the Stars. When I explained to her that I'm not qualified for such a show, being as I'm not a professional dancer and have never done ballroom dance, she suggested that I could audition to be the other person instead.

"...you mean the celebrity?"

"Oh," she said, "I didn't realize that's how it worked."

"You didn't realize that Dancing With the Stars had famous people on it?"

"No, but I did wonder why that country singer was on though. I just thought some people were singers and some were joe blows."

ABC, you have wasted far too much money paying celebrities to be on your show. Your title is not clear enough. Your concept has been completely lost on my mother. Please consider your show a failure and start filming Dancing With Some Country Singers and Some Regular People. I will be first in line to audition.

As my 23rd birthday quickly approaches (2 months, write it down, I like presents) I was naturally drawn to a display in a bookstore today labelled '20 books to read before you turn 20'. As I rounded the display the opposite side of the sign said, '20 books you should have already read.' Oh snap Chapters, you better watch your mouth. As a literate as well as university educated person, I was pretty confident I would flip through the piles, nod knowingly, smirk a little as I remembered the first time I read each and what a wonderful impression they made on me.

Sadly, not so.

Of the 20 'must reads' I had read only 2:

Harry Potter - probably more suited to a 'must read before you turn 10' list.

A Fine Balance - this I read for a class, it was horrifying and I hated it and I only finished it because the professor said there would be a question on the exam about the last chapter and I desperately needed the marks.

Of the remaining 18 I had started but not finished 3:

Scar Tissue - This is a perfectly lovely and interesting book for someone who doesn't get debilitatingly anxious when other people do bad things. The fact that I know full well things turn out ok for Anthony Kedis makes absolutely no difference and after his third relapse I put it down and never picked it back up.

The Alchemist - I can't remember why I stopped reading this, but I vaguely remember a fight or a war or something and that was probably enough to make me chuck it in favour of Shopoholic Goes Bananas or something equally embarrassing.

1984: We were supposed to read this in grade 10, and I remember being really into it at first, likely because I heard it was famous and I really wanted to be pretentious, but it straight up gets boring at the end so I just read the cliff notes.

Of the last 15, I had seen 2 movie versions:

The Kite Runner: this was sad, horrifying, awful and all those other adjectives that most people find 'moving' or 'touching' but just leave me overly aware of the pit of my stomach and how it likes to churn.

Into the Wild: While this was also sad, awful, ect., my main problem was actually the sheer stupidity of that dude. You want to run away from the evil modern world? Fine, be my guest, more room for the rest of us, but for the love of lemon sherbet maybe you should you should actually learn how to live in the woods before you take off on your noble mission. Read a book, take a course, maybe something a little more hands on than talking to those hillbillies on the farm because do not go expecting the audience (or maybe just me) to feel sorry for you when you kill a moose too far away from camp and can't smoke it before the bugs set in. DUH.

Then as I rounded the edge of the display I noticed the last suggested book; I recognized it instantly and was completely reaffirmed in all of my literary selections. I'm now sure that whatever I've read or not read before I turned 20 was probably just fine considering that on this list of fine and important works, the final book was Morley and Me. From what I've gathered from the infinite previews that ran last year, this is a book about a couple that gets a puppy to solve their relationship problems or some such complete nonsense that even I, who admits to reading books with things like 'chocolate', 'shopping' or 'stilettos' in the title would never, ever read it at any age.

Lies

So I lied about the bed bug thing. I tried to play it off but now every bump on my arm is obviously a bite, every fleck of dust on my sheets is clearly a demon bug not to mention the invisible but nevertheless apparent eggs deposited deep inside my mattress.

Close up of a demon bug.

By ten o'clock this morning I had a rash on my arm that I inspected visually at least seven times per minute (three tiny bumps in a row, just like the directrice said) and for the remainder of the minute I tried to decide whether or not they were itchy (they're not, no matter how hard I focus on them). As the morning wore on I scratched them anyway, sure that I was just immune or had a new strand of bed bug that could bite without causing itchiness.

This is not my arm, but it probably will be in a few days.

Then when an actual bug did land landed on arm outside my whole body started to itch. In my panic I crushed him before I could inspect his shape and size to verify his bed bugginess and interrogate him as to where his buddies have been sleeping. Now I must go and douse myself with boiling water and the finest, most toxic bleach on the market, followed by several loads of laundry I can't afford and at least five solid hours of freaking out, inspecting and scratching. Sleep tight kids and don't let the demon bugs bite.

Francisation.

When I see a photo of myself like this I just have to assume that I don't always look like this. I must not, or I wouldn't have any friends, right? Or are all my friends just really good people who like me in spite of my horrifying exterior? Likely not.

I look like I just gave birth to colicky twins while suffering from a head cold. Scratch that, I look more like a fat, sweaty ballsack. Some people just wake up in the morning with cute mussed hair and sweet sleepy eyes. Instead I look like I just climbed out of an alien's anus. Where am I? Why am I covered in alien poo? That's a head scratcher.

Today my french school announced that they found a bed bug in one of the classrooms. As if I needed another reason not to go to school. The directrice came around to each class to give a speech about these little critters, emphasizing that "Ils peuvent etre dans les mattelas de les riches et les pauvres. Dans les grandes villes en Asie ou Amerique du Nord." We're supposed to wash all our clothes in hot water and bleach and girls with long hair are supposed to keep it pulled back so as not to transport the bugs to and fro via our luscious locks. I am going to do none of these things because if the gigantic amounts of crap that we steal off the streets haven't given our house bed bugs, nothing will.

Also, today in class we were talking about which movie we wanted to watch on our last day and someone suggested La Vie Est Belle, to which our teacher said, speaking about the only German student in the class, "Probablement Jorgen ne veut pas regarder une film au sujet de la Douxieme Geurre Mondiale." Jorgen looked around awkwardly for a second, I imagine he was not sure if she meant he would feel uncomfortable or guilty about the war, or if he was meant to be tired of it by now, in which case should he feel guilty as well? Does that mean Avi Cohen-Silverman doesn't want to watch it either then? Sometimes I think being French is simply an excuse to be rude.

A rant, if you're so inclined.

Still no photos folks, my rule is that I only spend one hour a day doing tech support stuff to keep my rage at a minimum. Today I succeeded in getting one computer to work wirelessly, not mine of course, and none of the other three that were sitting around me. Instead, musings on the world...

So my theory on charitable donations is give what you can when you can. If you want to make a donation to a charity, great. Got some extra change in your pocket to flip to the hobo in the subway station, cool. If you're monetarily challenged then donate your time, as I did. Or at least I used to. Shut up I'm busy.

But every once in a while I see something that makes me want to trade in my NDProhibition pin, pack up my leftist bags and hightail it to GOP country. Such as? I'm glad you asked. Take yesterday for exampe: I spotted a handsomely dirty shell of a man sporting all the requisite hobo characteristics; dirty clothes, face, hands, arms and any other visible appendages, unshaven, unkempt, and unhygienic in about thirty other ways. He, however, was exiting the local Provigo grocery chain with a pack of Grolsch beer in his hand. Now this really gets my goat. Not becuase he's drinking, cause you gotta do what you gotta do, but Grolsch? Grolsch? You sit outside all day and then spend, nay, waste what tiny amounts of nearly unusable change on an $8 4 pack??? I have never bought Grolsch specifically for this reason, and I'm fairly certain my financial situation is marginally better than his, though equally depandant on handouts. I'm sure there were at least a dozen other cheaper and/or more alcoholic options on either side of the Grolsch. For instance, the ever charming 40 of beer rolling in at about $5 for 10% alcohol content. Not to mention that Provigo is by far the most expensive place to buy anything. This guy wasted eight dollars worth of pennies and nickles to not even get a decent buzz. He's probably blowing his welfare cheque on name brand facial tissues while I'm blowing my nose on generic brand toilet paper.

Phewf, now that that's out of my system, back to high taxes and more social services please.

Home. Alive. Vacation. Good.

I haven't posted in two whole weeks, which in blog years is basically forever. Foreva eva? For eva eva? I would love to show you the lovely photos of the lovely people and places I saw but alas, upon reviendrai-ing a Montreal my phone and internet didn't work. After multiple hours of tech support and one repair man visit to the house the internet started working again...and then it stopped...then my computer stopped working...then the ethernet cable stopped working...and then my patience wore quite thin. Photos will come, but not today kids, not today.

Instead I'd like to show you a gem of a human being that has requested my facebook friendship recently. Please bear in mind I have no connection to this 'person', no mutual friends, no similar 'groups' or 'interests', nada.

Steve Steven.
Age: 38
Networks: Sheffield.
Hometown: Mexborough, UK.
Looking for: Friendship, Networking.

Ok, cool, I've never heard of Mexborough, but you never know. Let's have a look at the profile pic and see if he might look familiar. Wait, what's this? A grown man in a diaper? Ah yes, so it is.


The caption? Are you sure you want to know? "Ready for the gym now."

Ok, novelty profi pic, sure, I get it, I check textsfromlastnight.com so I clearly enjoy humour, next photo.
Yup. Sure. Baby lederhosen. As you do. Next slide please.

Yes, this is the obvious next choice. How did I not see that coming?

Work it Steve. Work it.

But the weird part, obviously other than a grown man who likes to shit himself while wearing a baby girl's dress and taking photos, is that his friends list was about 80% composed of other people in diapers. Mostly male. Quite a few overweight. All looking like they've got a big old boner behind those leak proof panels. But even that is understandable; people are fucked up and there's probably a name for it if I wanted to google 'diaper fetish' on a school computer. What's more weird to me is the 20% that didn't rock the diaper pic. Are they supportive of the lifestyle but don't partake in it themselves? Or are they just not comfortable enough yet to go public yet? But then their non-diapered friends would surely ask questions when they go to their profile and see their friends list. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know what's fucked up.