crawling things

I'm afraid of squishing any type of bug for the fear of it crawling out of the tissue I've squished it with and then proceeding to crawl up my arm and into my hair. I'm going to blame my father for this one.

When I was a kid I would scream for my dad to kill any type of bug in our house. He'd make a big show of it usually walking into the room and saying something like "Where is this MAN-EATING spider?", take a good long look at the bug and say "That thing could take your arm off!". He'd then grab some toilet paper, squish the bug then put the tissue near my face and scream "WATCH OUT!" (implying that the bug was resistant to his squishing technique and was coming to eat my face).

When I was in my first year of university I tried to overcome this fear by squishing a big fat centipede but I was a little to dainty with my technique and that big hairy bug crawled all over my hand...it was gross.

Since then I've developed my own bug killing method which includes and type of sprayable substance (calgon body mist works well, but lately i've found that water followed by lysol does the trick). I spray that bug til it can barely move then i get a fistful of toilet paper and wipe it up (while applying a bit of pressure) scooping that thing right into the toilet and flushing immediately. If I'm too far away from a toilet I trap said bug under a cup or a bowl while I go to round up my killing supplies. These usually include the following: aforementioned spray-like substance, toilet paper and dustpan. However, if I'm at my parent's house and spot some nasty bug I put a cup over it and let dear old dad do the rest.

The Bear

Growing up I had a little Lhasa Apso dog named Kelsey (also known as "Kelsey Bear"). One Sunday when I was ten years old my brother and I went swimming at my Uncle Larry's house and when we came home there was a little puppy waiting for us, needless to say we were both "sick" and couldn't go to school the next day so we stayed home and played with the dog. Kelsey had the attitude of a crotchety old man for most of his life, if you pissed him off he wasn't afraid to let you know (mostly by biting you). My uncle Larry and I taught Kelsey most of the tricks that he knew which were as follows: Sit, Lay Down, Roll Over, Give a Paw, Speak and Jump Up. The tricks were pretty good but the best part about the whole deal was that Kelsey could perform his tricks without us saying a word and using hand signals to let him know what tricks were necessary for him to get a treat out of the deal.

I just wanted this post to be about his amazing skill at executing tricks but I must be honest and say I'm getting a little misty eyed over here. We had to put Kelsey down a few years ago about 10 years after we got him because his kidneys stopped working and there was nothing we could do. It was one of the only times I've seen my Dad cry and I can only relate the loss to that of a brother, as lame as that may sound. Kelsey grew up with me and I think about him and miss him every day and nothing can ever replace his hairy little presence.

I just looked up from my computer, eyes full of tears and all, and his little dog tag still hangs on my corkboard. I miss that furry guy.

All the broken dreams and low self esteem

I went to talk to a glorified guidance councilor at OCAD today who made me cry a little. He's basically convinced me that I'm not passionate enough to go to grad school at Ryerson for the program I'm interested in. I'm not going back to talk to him anytime soon, he did have an awesome handlebar mustachio though.

The Cobra

Before I begin let's get something right. I hate cats. I'm going to blame this on the cat my parents had when I was two who ate both my fish Goldilocks and Michael Jackson. The first victim was Goldilocks who was missing out of her fishbowl after my parents and I came home from Christmas at my aunt's house. After replacing Goldilocks with Michael Jackson the cat (who's name was Rascal) not only devoured poor Michael but smashed my fishbowl in the process. Alas, Rascal got his comeuppance when I put a barrette on his tail while he was eating and it took my Dad 3 hours to get him out from under the bed to remove the barrette.

This is becoming more long-winded than I had hoped.

My boyfriend and I adopted a cat last year who has several monikers. Her name at the pound was Emma which we promptly changed to Garry. Then we decided we liked the name Nuit (she's a black cat) but we always referred to her as "the cobra", which has since become her only name. If we ever have children they will no doubt suffer multiple identity crisis's or just end up with really, really bad names.

So the cobra has had a cold the last few days and what I wanted to say originally is, have you ever heard a cat sneeze? Keep in mind I hate most cats but when they sneeze it's really funny.

That's it.

art school ruined my life

I'm looking to apply to grad school this fall and I'm starting to understand the relevance of the term "starving artist". Since graduating OCAD with a major in photography I've been working on a body of artwork that is very time consuming and I'm starting to feel like I'm falling out of practice. Aside from that, grad school is confusing and there's not much you can do with a BFA. My ideal situation is to be accepted to Ryerson for there Photo Preservation MA program and get a wicked job upon graduation but I'm also trying to be reasonable here. I'm looking to apply to York for a curatorial Masters of Arts but after those two schools I'm at a complete loss for programs I'm interested in. I have no idea what I want to do with my life (at 23 this is kind of scary) and I feel no urge to pursue a MFA because I figure it's just a glorified BFA and when I graduate after 2 or 3 years in a Fine Arts master's program I'm just going to be more disappointed when I realize there really are no jobs out there for me.

I need a hard drink, a slice of apple pie and a shoulder to cry on.

the crow/squirrel

My Father is well known in my family for disappearing on a Sunday afternoon and returning hours later with tons of stuff he's purchased at Canadian Tire. We eventually decided that dear ol' Dad is attracted to shiny things which is why he's a frequent shopper at Canadian Tire where he usually purchases things he doesn't really need. This in turn lead to him being nicknamed "the crow" due to his behaviour of leaving unexpectedly and rounding up as many shiny objects he can find to bring back to pad his nest with.

He's also known as "the squirrel" for his behaviour in doctor's offices where he finds cabinets and drawers impossible to resist. As a child it was always fun to have to go to the doctor's office with Dad when I had strep throat or chicken pox because he dug around the doctor's cabinets and played with everything that wasn't nailed down.

After spending the day with my family at the hospital last week we've come to the conclusion that if reincarnated my father would return as a crow stapled (or perhaps glued or tied) to a squirrel.

That's right...

"For my homies"

The other day I was working at the coffee shop when a man asked me to make him a tasty, tasty latte. I've been perfecting my "latte art" technique and I wanted to present him with the loveliest little latte and in order to do so I had to pour some extra steamed milk down the drain. When he saw me do this he asked "Is that for your homies?"...t'was the happiest day of my life.

thanks dad

My Dad is a quiet French-Canadian man who seldom speaks when my friends are around but swears like a truck driver, sings french lullabies when he cooks and cracks the worst/best jokes you'll ever hear. When he was in his early twenties he grew his hair long and went out to "find himself" by hitchhiking his way to the east coast of Canada. If you ask how that experience was he'll tell you that he doesn't remember because he was high for the majority of the trip. Some of the best advice he ever gave me as a sixteen year old growing up in suburbia was "Never drop acid, I've seen too many crazy things while high on acid. Smoke dope all you want and if you put mushrooms in hot water that shit will fuck you up".

I should mention that my father has long ago abandoned his hippie lifestyle and very rarely acknowledges his experiences with hallucinogenics which is why his "advice" still sticks in my brain. I should also say that I have never dropped acid, taken mushrooms or snorted cocaine (I once faked taking ecstasy but more on that later).

I owe all my healthy brain cells to my father, now if only I could put them to good use.

To the person who plays their clarinet in their attic on sorauren, thank you for opening your windows.

Pee Wee's Demolition

When I was a kid I had this horrible recurring nightmare that my family was evicted from our house and forced to live in the caboose of a train in the middle of the cul-de-sac that we lived in (like circus folk). The man who kicked us out of our house was none other than Pee Wee Herman and he was a tyrant. He ordered our house to be demolished while we watched and laughed maniacally as he sat at the controls of a huge wrecking ball that quickly reduced our home to rubble. What an asshole.

finally

I need this so bad it hurts. It's a two finger custom name ring, how badass is that? It's almost like having your name as brass knuckles. They're $95 American and I think I would be too embarrassed to ask for this thing for my birthday...I deserve a gift to myself.

livejournal throw back

3 years ago I kept a Livejournal which is pretty funny to look back on nowadays. I just wanted to post up some of the titles of my entries because they are pretty entertaining. I would have been friends with myself 3 years ago.

"win, lose and adult situations "
"wedding mice? "
"making like a baby"
"basically a robot "
"Jesus' middle name is Christopher" (ummm, his last name is Christ)
"ladies love cool james "
"fatman boss? "

One good quote: "I hate French people, they are assholes...actually that is a lie; I just hate people that are assholes and then have stupid accents on top of that."

Please make that my epitaph

once more for the people in the cheap seats

I think I've told about 50 people how to find the bathroom today and maybe 35 people how to find the Enwave Theatre. I've been told that the gardens outside have tent caterpillars in them (I don't know why the hell I should care) and that the curator of this art gallery is "forgettable" and the work put on display within the past 7 years has been bad. Yesterday a man talked to me for 15 minutes about the benefits of tai chi. I had to tell two poorly dressed tourists that no they could not eat their ice cream cones in the gallery, at which point they stormed off pushing over a small child...seriously. Sigh, someone just spilled blue Gatorade all over the floor.

HONORABLE MENTIONS:
"What is this place?" said in a southern drawl upon walking into the space and looking around confused. I should also add that the man who asked me this question was wearing a tye dyed shirt with a triceratops on it

"I thought I had to turn the crank to start the art, like at the science centre" said to me after I told a woman not to touch a sculpture

Maybe I'll make a hand out or publish a book for gallery/museum etiquette.....I'll make millions

here it goes

Working in a restaurant is a pretty interesting experience. I'm no seasoned pro but I have been in this industry for a couple years and I think I've got a few things figured out. I wanted to write about this when I was slipped a business card after serving a table last night. The man who did the slipping must have been at least 25 years my senior and out for drinks with his wife and her friends for her birthday. I'm not sure if he was giving me his contact information in the hopes that I would call him up for a steamy affair or if he genuinely thought I was in need of an investment broker. Either way I ended up confused, pissed off and a little hungry. This is not the first time this has happened to me, not saying that I'm getting picked up at work every night but when it does happen it seems completely inappropriate.

Last summer I was serving lunch to a mother and her son who was roughly my age. They were both really nice so in turn I was friendly and stopped to talk to them for a bit. Halfway through their meal I went back to check on them and suddenly got a weird vibe from the both of them. After clearing their table I was standing behind the bar when the son came up to me and told me that he really liked me and wanted to take me out. I told him I was flattered but "very, very taken". I brought the bill out to their table and tried to maintain my friendliness because I didn't want the son to feel awkward or embarrassed but his mother was very short with me and quite rude. After they had left I went to grab their bill wherein they had left me absolutely no tip.

Thanks a lot.

It seems that the people who go out to restaurants and try to pick up their server or bartender (whether out of desperation or sheer drunkenness) don't understand that we have to be nice to you, it's kind of our job. If not for the reputation of the establishment then in the hopes of getting a decent tip out of you (which, by the way, is at least 15% these days). It infuriates me when someone takes my kindness as a come on which may prompt them to leave me their number or try to hook me up with their friend (or son). I'm sure that I'm not speaking only on my behalf but it makes one feel like a tease and kind of like you need to take a long hot shower after someone particularly gross tries to give you bedroom eyes.

There are other pitfalls to working in this industry, working all night on weekends and making it out for last call at the dive bar down the road, if you're lucky, on a saturday night. Rampant workplace politics, drug use, alcoholism and dishonest managers or owners who treat you poorly (and sometimes steal your tips from you or make sexually inappropriate comments).

But the money is generally good and sometimes you find a great spot to work where you get along with your bosses and co-workers (ahem- JAMcafe). That's when all the creeps and jerks don't seem to matter quite so much.

cron

Summer is almost over which means a few different things:
- no more abundance of tasty local produce
- no more short shorts and flip flops
- no more tan lines on my feet from flip flops
- no more 9 o'clock sunsets
- no more picnics in the park

I'm stopping mid-list because this is just too depressing. Last year I promised myself I wouldn't be around Canada for another winter and here I am basking in it's looming glory.

I've also realized I work a lot and I need to simmer down. I've worked since I was 14 and at most times I'm working 2-3 jobs. Right now I work 2 jobs during the week and a third for a couple hours on Sundays and I was just asked to work a new job during the week. It's getting hard and the money is never that great, I think it's time to go back to school and get a degree that will allow me to get a real job...for real, real.