on midterms, life, and being a mental patient.

There's just something about finishing an exam that makes life feel so good.

What is it about exam time that just propels me to bad food, too much coffee and not enough sleep? And when I say bad food, I mean a block of cheese with microwaved pita bread. Yes. Gross. And by too much coffee, I mean two full cups of Second Cup coffee within a 4 hour period. There is an insane amount of potent caffeine in Second Cup coffee. And finally, by not enough sleep I mean going to bed at 2 am and waking up with a start at 7:50 am with the thought: "American foreign policy midterm."

Also, I had an incredibly strange dream/recollection last night in my exhausted, post-caffeinated sleep cycle where my sister and I (at around 6 or 7 years old) fought over a floating bath toy doll that we fondly named "Lifeguard" (which exists in real life). Then my mom came in and gave us each a "Lifeguard." I don't know why, but in the dream I was observing all this from the outside and finding it incredibly funny, and giggling hysterically. I will never know for sure, but I had the feeling the morning after that I was actually laughing. Anyways, the point is that exams induce me to act like a mental hospital patient. I can't imagine what my roommate must have thought if she were awake to hear my crazy sleep-giggling. Hah.

As for the midterm itself, I knew all my material, but it was a classic case of not having enough time to write out everything I wanted to. Oh well, I got the bonus question half right. It was a picture of a prominent American Secretary of State Dean Acheson, whose name I identified correctly but incorrectly identified as Defense Secretary. Not that it matters so much, I was writing it way past the point where I should have put down my pen, and sitting in the very front row means that the professor can definitely call you out on that.

Anyways, that's all over as of yesterday. I will only have to go through this again in two weeks, when I have two blockbuster exams. And when I say blockbuster, I mean exams that I will not study for last minute (again!) like the one I just had. Just watch, I'm going to go to a cafe right after my meeting today and study so hard my ass just might fall off.

Best of luck to everyone on their midterms, or love, or life. Or love life. In my case, it's midterms = my life = no love. For anybody.

xoxo, gossip girl

I have been watching Gossip Girl lately, because my roommate does. It's kind of turned into a bonding activity for us, actually. We both love laughing at the utter ridiculousness of the characters and the plot...not to mention the fact that there really is no bad plot line the writers won't cross. Seriously, sometime this season there's going to be plot twists involving witchcraft and direct incest (they've already crossed the indirect incest line).

Another show I've been meaning to catch up on: The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I won't lie about the fact that I even have a wee bit of a crush on Jon Stewart. What can I say, I have a weak spot for funny, smart Jews.

moment of zen

Overheard two days ago at the Second Cup café on Milton and Parc: "Ew, it smells like old people here." -a girl, probably from Toronto.

my apartment

I've been having a very good day so far, thanks to the following:


Finding 85% chocolate at the Dollar Store

Running into some people I knew, having pleasant small-talk

A really good swim in the morning

Interesting readings for US Foreign Policy

Also, I figured that since it's been awhile since I updated, I might as well show you where I am living:


The study area, located in the living room. It also happens to be by far the biggest room in the entire apartment. I love it.


That circular window is connected to my roommate's bedroom.


That is a working fireplace! And note the dollar store dinosaurs...


My roommate's interesting selection.


We took off the old cabinet mirror and replaced it with a mirror from Ikea. My roommate painted the mirror blue and the area around it pink, and I painted the little people. Don't ask how we got this idea.


Don't worry, no one can actually see through that little window. Especially in the winter (it will probably be completely obscured by snow).


Kitchen...with very little counter space and the smallest sink I have ever used in my entire life. :(




The view of my room from my door. It is very, very small.


My mirror.


My window. Excuse the hideous curtains; I am replacing them soon (i.e. when I have time, which may be a long while yet).


My bed. Still using the same bedsheets from first year.

And that concludes my exciting tour. Anyone living in the Montreal area is welcome to come over at wintertime to cook marshmellows over my fireplace.

snapshots

One of my favourite things to do when I am idling on the internet is to look at the BBC News feature Day in Pictures, because all of the photos are so interesting. They are all little snapshots of people, places, things all around the world, most of which I will probably never physically encounter in my lifetime. I suppose that it's my own little way of travelling around the world...on an internet connection.

P.S. Someone in London has the same umbrella as I do.

back west

Hello folks, sorry for the extreme laxness of updates. And by extreme laxness, I mean nonexistence. I've been busy family-ing it up here in Coquitlam, otherwise known as "that other place with H&M." If you don't know what H&M is, good for you. I've spent way too much time and money there this summer. Living and working in downtown Toronto is really bad for people like me, who are spendthrifts on the outside but deeply repressed shopaholics on the inside. And this is not to mention the fact that I walked through that major Yonge-Dundas intersection with the Forever 21 and H&M beckoning me from both sides of the street, Monday through Friday. Oh sweet Lord, so much temptation....!

Okay, so enough of that sickening consumer whorism.

I don't really feel a connection with the west coast anymore. I have no idea what's going on here, nor do I particularly care. Perhaps its one of the detriments of living such a transcoastal life, where I don't develop much of an attachment to any one city. Honestly, if someone were to ask me who I will vote for in the next BC provincial election, I'd probably be at a loss for words. In fact, I'd ask whether Gordon Campbell was still premier, or if some other old white guy took over.

If I had more time and energy I'd go into the rationale for these, but here is the latest ranking scale for my top Canadian cities.

Toronto > Montreal > Vancouver > everywhere else in Canada (that I've yet to visit).

Yes, that's right. I've become a convert to the big city that everyone loves to hate. Say what you want, but size does matter when it comes to cities- for me, anyway. And Toronto, boy. You got size, you got diversity, you got amazing food. You got it all.

(And one thing that last sentence doesn't have is good grammar. I know, it annoys me too. But it's too late now, I've already typed it out with a stupid grin on my face, and it's got such a nice rythm of its own, don't you think? Spare me the grammar rod this one time, I promise I won't spoil this blog...too often.)

the single life

Sir Frederick Gorky was the type of man who was not inclined to covet his neighbours' posessions. He was rather proud of his comfortable, respectable-looking townhouse in the surburbs of London, and his large collection of stamps from all over the world, some dating back to the early 18th century. Although he had lost his left foot in the Second World War as a young man-- and the love of his first wife as a result-- Sir Gorky accepted these misfortunes as a counterbalance to the many blessings he felt he had recieved later on in life.

"One does not recieve a perfect collector's set. It is something to be acquired through trial, tribulation, and a bit of luck," he liked to say, stroking his favourite stockbook of extremely rare Madagascan stamps. His aging gray tabby Thorace would meow softly in response, scratching absent-mindedly at a stray piece of carpeting on the stairs. Thorace had been Sir Gorky's companion for eight years, and his presence seldom failed to surprise the occasional and increasingly rare visitors to Sir Gorky's home.

"Who knew that the crusty old geezer had a soft spot- for a fat cat? Oh, and I daresay that it was ugly as sin!"

Yes, Thorace was a bit hefty, but Sir Gorky liked him that way. Despite his own austere lifestyle, which included a lot of dry toast (no butter) and Tetley English Breakfast tea, he took great pleasure in feeding Thorace the most sumptious and fattening of cat foods. After his ample meals, Thorace would pad about the house lazily, emitting his distinctive meows of satisfaction. Occasionally, he would also fart- but Sir Gorky didn't mind that. He liked Thorace's presence in the house just the way it was- he could feel it, but not enough to feel intruded on. In fact, Sir Gorky had grown so fond of Thorace's unintrusive companionship that he rarely left the house, except to pick up his usual can of beans, brown bread, and eggs at the local grocers.

One fine Sunday morning, Sir Gorky was sitting in his usual armchair, poring over a new package from Australia containing freshly minted stamps commemorating Australia's aborigional culture. As he carefully picked up a stamp with metal tweezers to place into a sleeve of his stampbook, he heard a loud crashing of glass and wood that reverbarated like thunder throughout the still house.

"What in bloody heavens?!" Sir Gorky rose unsteadily to his feet, his thin body trembling with sudden adrenaline. Somewhere at the back of the house, near the kitchen, Sir Gorky heard Thorace meow softly.

When he arrived, Thorace was already dead. The scene was something akin to the tableau from Martin Scorcese's film Taxi Driver. In lieu of bullet holes and dead pimps, there was shattered glass, ceramics and a badly squished cat under a large display cabinet. Thorace's grey head was facing the kitchen entrace, where Sir Gorky stood frozen with terror and shock. His eyes, black and lifeless, and his mouth had remained open, as if in mid-scream. "Ahh," Thorace seemed to be gasping. "Ahhhh."

Sir Gorky began to tremble uncontrollably, gripping a chair for support. He wrenched his eyes away from Thorace's strained face, and staggered haphazardly toward his armchair. He collapsed onto it heavily, knocking over his metal tweezers and a few rows of stamps in the process. He felt something in the very core of his head snap, slightly above the junction of his skull and neck. An overwhelmingly profound grief enveloped him. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw again Thorace's sad, gasping face. "Ahhhh."

Almost a fortnight later, the milkman finally decided to investigate the mystery of Sir Gorky's uncollected, curdled milk. Sir Gorky's feisty Mexican neighbour Francesca Lopez, who knew where the spare key was hidden, entered the house with the milkman lingering uneasily at the door. Moments later, she ran out screaming hyterically and cursing in Spanish. The milkman trembled with fear and anticipation, but dared not enter.

The police found Sir Gorky's corpse slumped on his armchair, with what came to 247 stockbooks of stamps stacked up all around him like a miniature fortress. In his arms was his badly decomposed and flattened cat, its arms and legs spread out in an eternal snow angel.

"Blimey, mate. That kitty smells like the arse of Satan 'imself," one of the police officers said, breaking the silence. The others nodded or grunted their agreement, and pinched their noses.

A note, written with neat, legible writing was found in Sir Gorky's blazer pocket.

"Dear sir or madam,

I have asked for nothing more than some peace, quiet, and balance in my life. By balance, I mean some form of compensation for the many misfortunes I have endured. I am fortunate enough to have enjoyed just compensation for the past decade or so, especially with my dearest feline companion Thorace. So in the light of this most recent misfortune, which is to say his most untimely death, I would request that you auction off my stamp collection, and donate the proceeds to The Royal Philatelic Society London.

Also, I should like my and Thorace's ashes to be scattered over a beach in Madagascar. The name of it escapes me at this time due to my grief, but if you look in page 201 of stampbook volume iii, there is only one stamp on the entire page with a beach on it. I should like very much to be blessed one last time."

starbucks romance

You know what's such a cliché these days? Meeting someone at Starbucks.

I was sitting with my laptop today, trying to get some work done for my United Nations committee (now 13 days overdue) when I noticed a pretty, petite girl with dark hair and a really cute guy stealing looks at each other. This was made all the more obvious by the fact that the girl had her laptop out and open, but was obviously not working on anything...in fact, she kept turning her head to look at the guy, who was sitting behind her to the right. This arrangement made it so that whenever she glanced at him it was super obvious and screamed, "Hey cutie! I'm checking you out!" But it was so cute because she was trying to be discreet about it, and the guy kept glancing up from his book (which he was obviously not reading) to look at her too, and a few times they caught each other doing it and hastily returned to their barely-contained longing to exchange numbers.

So this whole scenario was pretty much unfolding before my eyes like a saccharine made-for-corporate-headquarters television special, and I must admit that I was totally sucked into it. I couldn't resist smiling and stealing looks at them, stealing looks at each other. If I filmed them, it'd make a damn good commercial for Starbucks.

As for me, I am resigned to my lifelong romance with coffee, wherever it can be found. I've already decided that the wedding will involve dancing goats and David Sedaris. You're all invited, of course.

i like chess playing goats but dancing goats are even better

Wednesday July 10, 2008 will go down in history as the day I met David Sedaris.

He came to the Indigo bookstore on Bloor Street to promote his new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames. I actually read it while waiting in line, which was fortunate because I arrived 2 and a half hours early and was already the 20th person. I am delighted to report that Mr.Sedaris has made a heady comeback from the great stinker that was Dress Your Family in Couroy and Denim. Unfortunately I have no pictures from the event itself, as it was made abundantly clear that at the request of the author, "there is absolutely no photography or videography allowed," at the risk of being removed from the store. Nevertheless, I was so happy that at last I would be meeting David Sedaris in person.

David did book signings first, and when it was my turn I literally squealed with excitement.

"Oh my god! This is like meeting a unicorn!"
"Why gosh, that's awfully flattering. How old are you?"
"I'm turning twenty in about two weeks."
"Oh, well here...I have a gift for you."

And then he pulled out a transparent plastic bag filled with random things that he got from a brief sojourn in Brazil. He pulled out two items, a complimentary shampoo bottle from the Copacabana hotel, and a cheap little bracelet he bought from a street vendor. I asked him if I could have both, to which he chuckled and said, "No, you can't have both....choose one."

So I chose the bracelet. Look!


I think that I was the only person who got a 2 cent gift from David Sedaris that night. I was so very very happy. It's funny how the smallest things can make me so content with life.

Also, I told him about how I blogged about him and dancing goats, and this what he wrote on my book:



"To Beth, I like chess playing goats but dancing goats are even better....DS"

Later, he read an essay from his new book, titled "All the Beauty You Will Ever Need," which featured among many other colourful characters Beth, the drug dealer's wife who refers to the remote control as a "ni**er." And then he read out some hilarious diary entries from all over the place-- London, Paris, the United States. And then he read out some short stories he was working on, in which all the characters were animals. The set up was a cat getting her hair done at a hair salon....run by a baboon. And after, there was a Q&A, and then it was over. I think I walked home with a huge goofy grin on my face. That two and a half hours in line was definitely worth the wait. I love it when things are worth the wait-- especially since it happens so rarely. Story of my life: I bust my butt for something, only to find that it was not worth the effort/time/energy.

So here's to dancing goats, which are better than chess playing ones (according to David Sedaris), and David Sedaris himself, who has regained his rightful place in my heart as one of the funniest men alive.

dancing goats and david sedaris

While walking home with my beautiful friend Soo and my roommate Neil near Yorkville, Soo makes a casual observation that makes me stop and screech like a madwoman with her hair on fire.

"Hey look, David Sedaris is coming."

"OH MY GOD WHAT, DAVID SEDARIS IS COMING TO TORONTO? WHAT? WHAT?!!"

And as I say this, I am already whipping out my cellphone so that I can schedule it to remind me: July 10, 7 PM. David Sedaris. My love since high school.

If you have never read any of his books, namely Me Talk Pretty One Day, Naked, or Santaland Diaries (in my opinion his three best), then you don't know what you've been missing. He writes essays, mostly autobiographical but with so much witty insight and humorous flourish that you find yourself unable to hold your laughter in. I literally had to control my laughter once on the bus, reading Naked. He's just that funny. But then again, I suppose a disclaimer is necessary here: his humor is of the dry, acerbic kind-- if you tend to enjoy more bathroom humor, you may not enjoy his writing so much.

But as for me, you know where I'll be tomorrow, at 6 pm. I will be camped out in front of Indigo on Bay and Bloor, with butterflies in my stomach.

And, on a completely unrelated note, here is a charming little tidbit I found out on coffee:

"Coffee use can be traced at least to as early as the 9th century, when it appeared in the highlands of Ethiopia. According to legend, Ethiopian shepherds were the first to observe the influence of the caffeine in coffee beans when the goats appeared to "dance" and to have an increased level of energy after consuming wild coffee berries."

Coffee is the one thing I will never give up. I tried a few times, with little success. Nothing really has the same effect on me as coffee does- sleep, energy teas, fruit, et cetera.

Besides, anything that makes goats dance cannot be a bad thing. Don't you agree?

"nobody knows i'm a lesbian"

Seriously one of the best t-shirts I've seen a guy wear in a long, long time.

Went shopping at Kensington Market for some groceries this evening, after a frantic scrubbing and cleaning session of our entire apartment, because I had a horde of potential subletters lined up to view it.

To elaborate, I am a stupid dumbass and signed a lease that goes until the end of August, even though clearly I am leaving at the end of July. I am such a tactless dimwit sometimes. Anyways, Neil was getting ready for his hot date with the new man in his life, so I am left sitting here by myself, drinking cranberry juice and updating my oft-neglected blog.

Well, I guess it could always be worse. I could be watching Schindler's List by myself like that fateful Monday night two weeks ago when I...sigh. Okay, this is way too depressing. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts!

Oh, here's a happy thought: my mommy wants to give me money to go to the United States of America. Specifically Harvard Law school. Yes, this woman is on a mission to make me her unfulfilled dream. All I can say is, travel is travel. I am going to start planning my trip like....right now.

fuck th3 w0rld!

This morning, the title bar of the Economist print edition was "fuck th3 w0rld!" I wish I had taken a screencap, because after a few clicks on the "refresh" button, it was back to the usual "Print Edition." Still, it sure woke me up.

Speaking of waking up, I was wide awake at 3 AM this morning due to my very early bedtime. 8:30 PM, to be exact. I know, I am an old lady. Sunday nights are the best for being an old lady. Friday and Saturday nights? Not so much. So, a brief recap:

Friday night my dear roommate Neil, his friends and I went to Circa, the biggest and supposedly best nightclub in all of Toronto. Well, I'll give credit where it's due: it sure is big. Three floors, with an escalator leading up from the main floor to the second (or third?). The dj that night was alright, but the music was a bit slow to get started. By 1 AM though it was all very good.

Saturday night, well...Neil and I were invited to a party at the second floor of Rivoli, a restaurant-bar-lounge on Queen Street West. I had coffee at Rivoli and got all pumped to party, only to go upstairs to find that a) we didn't know anyone there, and b) it wasn't really a dancing party. So we walked home in light rain at around 2 AM, and collapsed.

Sunday was good, we had lunch at Spring Rolls restaurant on Dundas, near Yonge and Dundas Square (pictures to come from that later!) with mutual friends Craig and Jasmine...who, may I add, are one of the cutest and sweetest couples I know.


The cute couple, in person!


Aw, fag + his hag


My mango salad...I was surprised to find that it was actually a salad consisting entirely of mango strips. I was expecting some slices of mango in a regular salad, but...well. The "fish sauce" it was supposed to come in was completely nonexistent, though.


Obligatory group shot.

So now its Monday morning and I am looking forward to a new week of 9-5 excitement. I am really feeling that Michael Gray song "The weekend."

after the storm

It's been thunderstorming, as of late. Usually rainy weather depresses me, but I find that this time, it's quite cathartic. Walking to work today was absolutely beautiful, with the sun shining and everyone out in their jaunty summer shorts and skirts, walking, talking, or enjoying a bit of sun-filled solitude. I wish my life could always be like this- a perpetually sunny morning, walking to a not-too pressing engagement with plenty of time and Jane Birkin's effortlessly sensual voice singing "La Madrague" into my ears.

kerfuffle

Kerfuffle is a noun.

Kerfuffle is: disorder, commotion; also written curfuffle, kafuffle, gefuffle (Miriam Webster English Dictionary)

"You will most commonly come across this wonderfully expressive word in Britain and the British Commonwealth countries (though the White House spokesman Ari Fleischer used it in January this year). It is rather informal, though it often appears in newspapers. One of the odder things about it is that it changed its first letter in quite recent times. Up to the 1960s, it was written in all sorts of ways — curfuffle, carfuffle, cafuffle, cafoufle, even gefuffle (a clear indication that its main means of transmission was in speech, being too rarely written down to have established a standard spelling). But in that decade it suddenly became much more popular and settled on the current kerfuffle. Lexicographers suspect the change came in response to the way that a number of imitative words were spelled, like kerplop and kerplunk.

In those cases, the initial ker– adds emphasis, as it does in other words, perhaps onomatopoeic but perhaps also borrowing the first syllable of crash. But we know kerfuffle was originally Scots and it’s thought that its first part came from Scots Gaelic car, to twist or bend. The second bit is more of a puzzle: there is a Scots verb fuffle (now known only in local dialect), to throw into disorder, dishevel, or ruffle. No obvious origin for it is known and experts suspect it was an imitative word. It is probably linked with Scots fuff, to emit puffs of smoke or steam, definitely imitative, which in the late eighteenth century also had a sense of going off in a huff or flying into a temper.

Some specialists think kerfuffle is also related to the Irish cior thual, confusion or disorder. It seems to be a minority opinion, though."

- Michael Quinion, World Wide Words.

I hope to entertain, provoke thought, spark debate with the kerfuffles of my everyday life and the universe in general. Expect randomness, inconsistency of theme, and perhaps photographic evidence of my life in various Canadian locales. And by various, I mean two to three.