Carpe Gingerale

When you blog it, it will come.

I was telling my friend Sean today (fabulous fabulous) that something good happens to me about ever 20 minutes. Hugh Grant in About A Boy divides the day into thirty minute blocks, and my mum suggests that one should reevaluate one's emotions approximately every 20 seconds, but twenty minutes is my measure. This morning, I was woken up with bacon, eggs and toast in bed, prepared by my fabulous fabulous roommate Kate. And then about twenty minutes later (give or take a couple of hours), I found a flight to Jamaica for $399. I had six twenty minute sections while in International Health Policy, and learned something new and fabulous fabulous (FF) during each block. And then afterwards, I ran into FF Sean who clued me into the fact that if I stuck around for about 20 minutes, I would find myself presented with an array of FF free food, presented to me in celebration of the incoming new principal of our school. It was well worth the 20 minute wait, primarily due to the bries, the tortellini, the sushi and the ghurkins. And then, right before my very eyes, I found a can of gingerale. The essence of serendipity. In the words of my FF roommate Mel, I decided to Carpe Gingerale.

Pray for Rain

My dad always makes fun of conversations about the weather, but the weather here this week is worth blogging about even! It started snowing yesterday, and still hasn't stopped. As the snowing technique changes, my roommates explain the difference between each type of snow. Who knew that there was a difference between frozen rain and hail. They're predicting an extra 15 to 20 centimeters tonight, and there was a dump of about the same yesterday. Looking out of my window at all the little matching houses makes me feel like I'm at a ski resort. Except for the lack of skiing.

It's funny how weather makes me think of god. Climate is probably the most significant thing that causes me to be skeptical of his existance. Seriously, if there is a god, how the hell can he justify this climactic variation. Who invents snow? Ridiculous. I guess you could say who invents famine- and I would say humans do, but we sure didn't invent snow.

Sitting in my cosy house, with plenty of food and a tv and computer for entertainment, no more than one km from school, I am baffled at how people survived in this weather with any less. Honestly. I just don't get it. I'm living in a city that pays for anti frostbite advertising on the radio, yet there is a city here, with people in it, and they survive.

I didn't realize when they said "snow" that it would have such an effect on my daily life. Thank heavens for pilates videos or I would emerge in May (cause that's when they say it'll be over) a hundred pounds heavier, and probably incapable of walking a distance longer than the living room to my bed room. And I wear touques and scarves and mits. In Vic it's fairly uncool to even wear a jacket, and here all my friends are running around in leg warmers and long johns. I said to Mel the other day that I'd always heard about this notion of "putting away your summer clothes", but never got it. Here I actually can't wear skirts. That's what the frostbite warnings tell me- skin exposed for 15mins plus results in amputation.

And the worst of it is that I'm craving gingerale.

Chilean deli fights

Four day weekends are fanstastic because you can fill them up to the brim with fantastic things to do and they have more space than you ever possibly imagine...wait, they obviously don't, according to the decided lack of homework I accomplished this weekend. But I'm happy, and not too far behind, so that's what counts right?

This weekend had lots of varied elements of things that I really like: cute boys, Kensington Market, deli time, chilean wine and girl talk, bagels and lox, subways, pilates, L6, fake fur hats, bollywood, more subway, homemade Turkish food, "family" time, and laundry out the ying yang. Honerable mention goes to pillowfights, romantic comedy, a World Bank report on HIV/Aids in Africa and clean sheets.

Thank you so so so much to Saniye and the Yilmaz's for the tumble dryer and plethora of new tastes. Thank you thank you thank you!

Oh, and who the f**k is Bob?

Shut up

Bla bla bla bla blaaa blaaa bla bla bla bla bla lbal bla bla lbal bla bla bla bla
bla bla. Bla bla alb alb alb. Bla bla. Bla! Bla bla lba bla bla bla bla bla bla bla
bla bla bla bla bla bla????

Things I feel like writing but don't want anyone to hear.

GP

And finally, the last of us has been converted. Kathryn. Hallelujah for more arbitrary opinions and incomplete thoughts, documented via insufficient use of the English language. Perhaps we can only express ourselves if we spend the big bucks?

As I watched the latest mainstream yay left propaganda (The Corporation) tonight, I couldn't help but wonder, how much did they spend on this film to get this message across? It was so glossy, undoubtedly calling on the manipulative media tactics that they spent considerable screen time trying to discredit. Does it really take that much money to say what you mean? People take you seriously if you put enough material together in witty enough ways, and pay enough copyright fees to have certain identifiable images such as Tiananmen Square in your production. They take you seriously when you shed your dreads and look classy in black, but write you off if you wear shredded mittens and hooded sweatshirts. Since when does a voice have to have an image? Am I any better in my dislike for alternative media and badly colour coordinated websites? It has to be beautiful for me to pay attention.

I constantly justify my habits of consumption through consideration of their contribution to my overall happiness, and my desire for ownership of beauty. I buy Dove (by unilever) because it looks nice. Such chic packaging. I smoked cigarettes (and don't laugh) in part because of their pristine and streamlined appearance. Telling myself it's okay to do things because they make me happy falls through every once in a while. And so, I haven't smoked a cigarette in a week (though their unique beauty calls to me every half hour!).

My acceptance of the status quo falters, more often lately and my perceptions of life occasionally expand beyond how it relates to me. In my indecision towards what is right and what is wrong, I can't say that it's okay to sit on the fence. I want to find a battle and fight it, which is why I joined the IDS program in the first place. But how do I know what battle to fight? What if I fight the wrong battle and win? What if I fight the right battle and lose?

This theme comes up over and over again, preventing me from taking actions. I see people around me so confident in their beliefs that they can chain themselves to an oil pump, risking the loss of their head!!! I am baffled by their confidences. Perhaps I should just read one side of the literature and confince myself of something sufficiently to try to do something about it. Or I could wait as I am for the idea that will revolutionize the world.

I am anxious to take action, and anxious that if I do, it won't be good enough. But seriously, what am I waiting for?

I just had a nervous stuttery converstation. When was the last time that happened? I feel like I'm twelve. But, then again, it's kinda nice to be naturally sketchy. You realize your emotions and nerves are functioning.

P. Lates

I go through phases of exercising my ass off, and then gaining it back. I always love the point where if I don't exercise that day, I feel it, and the endorphins really kick in when I do. Granted, my current "fitness regime" includes nothing but far too much pilates, but that's okay. Just 20 more sessions to a J.Lo bod.

Yay for more roomie bondage...I mean bonding material.

Filibusters and Quagmires

Home sick from work, and before I retreat into the terry cloth goodness that is my bed, let me jot something down about my perpetual selfcentredness. Please...if I'm being too egotistical any time (because there has been plenty of things stroking my ego lately), just tell me to snap out of it.

BLOG's are fantastically universal, unless one is reading something about something so unfortunatly specific that you need to have spent your life researching the topic in order to understand the entries of the obsessed. But, in general, one can always relate to them. It even goes farther than that- one can always read into a blog post and start thinking that the blogger is writing about them. It happens to me all the time. Someone will start talking about someone causing drama (unspecifically) at a party that I was at, and then I think it's me. Or, I can write a blog about postponing converstations and a fellow blogger can write a reply post, without seeking clarification that the post was relevant to our relationship. But, at the same time, sometimes you just know. You're just absolutely sure that it's about you, and then you can smile that you're worth being electronically documented, even if there are no names mentioned.

Shit magnet

There's something about having the interest of guys that increases your chances with other guys. And so I am slightly overwhelmed. Sure, I'm a flirt and a half, but it's never been quite this successful before. Perhaps it's the cold weather? All the romantic comedies? The coiff?

Anyway, I find myself in an entertaining situation, that I worry will come crashing down around me (or maybe lead to true love?). I just hope for continued friendship. Wish me luck.

Random ramblings

I hate it when people come over and I'm sitting infront of the tv.

I love it when I go out and say hi to over 100 people. Or maybe it sometimes just seems that way.

I love how I can get four very very different presents for my birthday, from four very different people, who all got together and made me the best birthday ever. Cheers to my new bible, the bottle of rum, the blackeyed peas cd, and my new handcuffs, and hurray for decorations when I woke up in the morning, pancakes for breakfast, and a birthday cake.

Yay for telephone firsts, like when I got my first voice mail message, and my first call waiting.

Hallelujah for boys, and a couple more cheers for men, and some specific thanks to my fab fab roommates, and Jen who held my head.

I love how I don't have math tomorrow at 8am

Pilates is fun. We're going through a phase. Line up to see my developing abs.

And peace.

Bday

Fossil tomorrow. Go.

Ruff.

For the first time in years, I find myself falling hard for a material posession.

Meet Olivia:
Love at First Sight

After paying $55 a month for a less than exciting land line I am never home to answer, I went out in search of an alternative. And then I found her. The nokia 5100: built in thermometer, calorie counter, and sound decibel reader, just to name a few of the delightful-though-useless features my phone is attributed with. But, at $48 per month, this darling of a mobile will stay with me for a while (plus, it's heavy duty and will be hard to break). I'm a roamer, and it can roam with me. I'm a partier and it can party with me. I am a student, and it can study with me. I am a deli girl, and I'll turn it off when I'm at the deli.

The only thing better than simple possession of this fabulous piece of plastic is when I get phone calls on it (even better when they are recieved during evenings- 7pm to 8am- and weekends), so I would be thrilled to hear my desperatly annoying ring tone.) Just punch these numbers into your less than superior telephone: 416-875-7573.

Olivia is going to be one spoiled brat of a phone.

Sold me Down the River. Good Luck in your New Bed.

My second arrival in Toronto was better than the first. I had roommates and Burkholders to welcome me, and although I had a ridiculously large suitcase again, there was someone to pick me up at the airport. Since then, things are clicking more than they did last semester. My schedule is nearly perfect. I have class (usually in the morning except for Thursday economics 7-10pm) Tuesday to Thursday, work at the deli Friday from 9-8, party Friday Saturday night, and then do "weekend stuff" like errands, laundry and homework, on Sunday and Monday. And then it starts all over again. Once again, such a good schedule. It is saturday afternoon right now, and it feels as though I should be going back to school tomorrow, but in actual fact I still have two days and two nights of weekend!

I was at a party last night and started to notice just how much school talk was going on. It's amazing that most of us don't have anything to talk about besides school: courses, profs and marks. And when we're done here, we'll have a career: bosses, deadlines, promotions and coworkers. You'd think that there's more to life than the incredible focus we have on school and work, but I seriously can't think of anything that is as significant in my life. Maybe Jesus?

And with that lead in: school is good right now. I've got my courses nearly figured out, math is scary but in a exciting "i watch horror movies" kind of way, and I"m into the study. I'm determined to do better this semester than last year (perhaps back up to the standards I set during my first year at UVic?), and it's looking good so far. The formula: attend all lectures, do all readings, work my ass off in Math.

So, today you find me in much more positive Toronto mood. I'm glad to be back (though I miss you all back in Vic).

Demand for Feedback: things to talk about that don't involve school or work (but must be relatively generally applicable, and warrent at least 4 minutes of solid conversation).

Goodnight Victoria

Leaving tomorrow...oh thank heavens. Thanks to everyone who was entertaining, parents included.

See you on the streets of Toronto tomorrow night!

I don't want to talk about it.

With the impending arrival of my 20th birthday, I keep looking around for something that indicates my adulthood. A feeling, a new habit, something that reminds me of my mother. And while this realization has been coming on for a while now, the adulthood indicator I've finally put my finger on is my inability to talk about anything that means something to me. When I was young, I used to say, "I don't want to talk about it", but it would always end up coming out in the end. But now, putting off conversations seems to happen all the time- "we'll talk about it when I get back from Europe", "we'll talk about it when i get back to Victoria", or "we'll talk about it when Christmas is over". But it's never been talked about. I can't talk about it. I couldn't, and now I am too bloddy angry to talk about it. And so, I resort to writing a slightly less than specific blog about it in the hopes that it will ease my troubled heart. But honestly, I really don't know what to say. We'll talk about it later. And with that statement, I feel like an adult. All that awaits me is midlife crisis.

(Please talk to me and force it out.)