Saturday, November 21, 2009
Wonderful Revelation!
So... it turns out that when I press the "Next Blog" button at the top of my blog page, I get nothing but Christian blogs! I pressed it, and pressed it and pressed it and time after time it was nothing but ridiculous, prosthelytizing Christians. I love that.
Field Trip Photos
Here is a small selection of photos from the freezing cold, rainy, windy, miserable photo field trip. There are more, but these three alone were worth the weather.
My classmate got in my shot. But I think we can all agree it worked out for the best.
Who doesn't want to live in a bright pink boat house?
Woops. Dropped my umbrella.
My classmate got in my shot. But I think we can all agree it worked out for the best.
Who doesn't want to live in a bright pink boat house?
Woops. Dropped my umbrella.
Field Trip?
More like rain trip. My photog class is taking a field trip so that we can practice composition and photographing people. Only it's raining. I have no desire to go whatsoever. But I am going. I guess.... plastic bag over my camera? Anyways, stay tuned for photos when I return!
Friday, November 20, 2009
I Have Boredom
I may have mentioned that my job is very boring. So much so, that I actually get excited when I have work to do. For instance this week, I have a stack of evaluations to type up. They’ve been trickling in nicely so that I have a good amount of work to do each day, not too much, not too little. I have been very happy.
At least I was happy until a few moments ago, when a colleague at our other location informed me that she had already completed all of the evaluations that were sent to that location (and that were supposed to be returned to me to complete). I can only assume she thought she was doing me a favour – but in reality, I feel like I just had my favourite coffee mug stolen. Sure it’s not really a huge deal, but I’m still fuming about it. So rather than looking forward to having something to do all next week, I have to go back to my previous state of dreading work day after day on account of the knowledge that I will spend 8 hours of each of those days staring at the clock, crying quietly to myself, and dying a little inside.
At least I was happy until a few moments ago, when a colleague at our other location informed me that she had already completed all of the evaluations that were sent to that location (and that were supposed to be returned to me to complete). I can only assume she thought she was doing me a favour – but in reality, I feel like I just had my favourite coffee mug stolen. Sure it’s not really a huge deal, but I’m still fuming about it. So rather than looking forward to having something to do all next week, I have to go back to my previous state of dreading work day after day on account of the knowledge that I will spend 8 hours of each of those days staring at the clock, crying quietly to myself, and dying a little inside.
A Large, Serrated Knife
I might as well just come out and tell you about my knife. I have this knife that I keep next to or in my bed at night time. It’s a very large knife, with a serrated blade and I honestly can’t sleep without it. You see, I live alone, on the ground floor apartment of a house in a neighbourhood where I once heard a man screaming for help outside my bedroom window. I also have these nightmares. In my dreams I am calling 9-1-1 and something goes wrong. Sometimes I’m put on hold for several hours, other times I am speaking to a dispatcher several thousand kilometres away who informs me that it will take the ambulance a number of weeks to arrive, and once or twice the person on the other end doesn’t even speak English.
When I hear a noise in the middle of the night, I automatically assume it’s a burglar or rapist. I spend the rest of the night lying awake in bed planning my escape/survival. Will I try and hide in the closet and call 9-1-1? Or will I confront the intruder and scream as loud as I can, trying to wake the neighbours? The best plan I’ve come up with so far is to brandish a lethal weapon in an effort to cause enough damage to incapacitate the prowler so that I can get to safety. Hence the knife. I even asked my landlord if I could get a dog for protection. He said no, because it might make too much noise. All I can say is, I hope he doesn't mind too much when the night finally comes that I have to fend off a rapist, screaming and banging on the walls, and sawing through my assailant’s genitalia with a large serrated knife.
When I hear a noise in the middle of the night, I automatically assume it’s a burglar or rapist. I spend the rest of the night lying awake in bed planning my escape/survival. Will I try and hide in the closet and call 9-1-1? Or will I confront the intruder and scream as loud as I can, trying to wake the neighbours? The best plan I’ve come up with so far is to brandish a lethal weapon in an effort to cause enough damage to incapacitate the prowler so that I can get to safety. Hence the knife. I even asked my landlord if I could get a dog for protection. He said no, because it might make too much noise. All I can say is, I hope he doesn't mind too much when the night finally comes that I have to fend off a rapist, screaming and banging on the walls, and sawing through my assailant’s genitalia with a large serrated knife.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I Have Boredom
My job consists of hours upon hours of soul crushing boredom interspersed with short bursts of menial tasks. I try not to complain too much because the pay is fine, my coworkers are pretty awesome, and at least it’s not stressful. However, some days it feels like prison. I can’t leave, because I’m expected to be here for my full shift, and yet I can’t help but feel at least marginally guilty for getting paid to do nothing. It’s not that I haven’t tried to do anything about it either. I tell my supervisor all the time that I don’t have enough to do, and her answer is always “It will get busy soon, don’t worry”. So what’s a girl to do with all this supposed free-time? Last week I filled in all the zeros and O’s on every scrap piece of paper in my recycle bin. This week I am writing a blog. I think next week I will make a list of all the things I could be doing, if only I wasn’t trapped here in this cell-in-office’s-clothing day after day, pretending to be useful.
Re-Beginnings
As a rather brooding individual, it is difficult for me to work through any of my issues, complaints or worries without expressing them out loud. Unfortunately for my boyfriend, this results in a lot of dumping. And the majority of these dumps are taken on him. Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t do blind agreement and sympathetic rage all that well and I get tired of hearing “I’m sorry you feel that way” and “That’s really too bad, but I don’t know what to tell you”.
So, in an effort to alleviate the number of steaming dumps he is subjected to, and to perhaps illicit some more enthusiastic pandering from lurking internet readers such as yourself, I have re-started this blog.
Let me begin by saying that I find it terribly difficult to do anything on a regular basis – which is why I always have dirty laundry but never fresh food – and that I don’t expect this to change any time soon. Basically, don’t be surprised if I go AWOL. That said, let’s get started.
Today’s post will be centered around a subgroup of individuals known, in the common vernacular, as hippies. I hate hippies. Especially the fake kind. You know the ones. The kind that might shop at the store across the street from my house because it’s locally owned and sells organic produce and gluten-free granola snacks, and yet still seem to be under the impression that the consumption of pesticide-free tomatoes will counteract the carbon emissions of the 1973 Buick LeSabre that they’ve so thoughtlessly parked across the street from the overflowing parking lot and directly in front of my house. And all in spite of the large “No Parking” signs posted all along the block designating the street parking for residents only. This in turn forces me, in my fuel efficient, twice-a-week driven, Japanese import to circle the block numerous times, all the while poisoning the ozone during my search for a parking space. What’s even more infuriating are the hippies who sit in their car while it idles, presumably because they’ve seen the “No Parking” signs and have decided that it doesn’t count as parking as long as the car is running.
Please don’t misunderstand. I am by no means an environmental activist. I stand with my head in the freezer and my ass in the fridge on hot summer days and leave the heat cranked during the winter while cracking a window for a little fresh air. I like hot baths, boiling significantly more water than is necessary to cook pasta and I leave my computer on at all times on account of I despise waiting for it to boot up. But at least I’m not wasteful while simultaneously preaching about carbon footprints. And at least I can read, understand and adhere to parking restrictions.
So, in an effort to alleviate the number of steaming dumps he is subjected to, and to perhaps illicit some more enthusiastic pandering from lurking internet readers such as yourself, I have re-started this blog.
Let me begin by saying that I find it terribly difficult to do anything on a regular basis – which is why I always have dirty laundry but never fresh food – and that I don’t expect this to change any time soon. Basically, don’t be surprised if I go AWOL. That said, let’s get started.
Today’s post will be centered around a subgroup of individuals known, in the common vernacular, as hippies. I hate hippies. Especially the fake kind. You know the ones. The kind that might shop at the store across the street from my house because it’s locally owned and sells organic produce and gluten-free granola snacks, and yet still seem to be under the impression that the consumption of pesticide-free tomatoes will counteract the carbon emissions of the 1973 Buick LeSabre that they’ve so thoughtlessly parked across the street from the overflowing parking lot and directly in front of my house. And all in spite of the large “No Parking” signs posted all along the block designating the street parking for residents only. This in turn forces me, in my fuel efficient, twice-a-week driven, Japanese import to circle the block numerous times, all the while poisoning the ozone during my search for a parking space. What’s even more infuriating are the hippies who sit in their car while it idles, presumably because they’ve seen the “No Parking” signs and have decided that it doesn’t count as parking as long as the car is running.
Please don’t misunderstand. I am by no means an environmental activist. I stand with my head in the freezer and my ass in the fridge on hot summer days and leave the heat cranked during the winter while cracking a window for a little fresh air. I like hot baths, boiling significantly more water than is necessary to cook pasta and I leave my computer on at all times on account of I despise waiting for it to boot up. But at least I’m not wasteful while simultaneously preaching about carbon footprints. And at least I can read, understand and adhere to parking restrictions.
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