Facts for Friday

1. Whenever I open chip bags, I always open them from the bottom. This is a tendency I developed when I was 13 and going through one of those insufferable adolescent phases when you are just trying to be incredibly different and draw some sort of attention to yourself. For years and years, I always opened packaging wrong, just waiting for someone to notice.

No one ever has.

I still do it, on occasion.

2. For some unknown reason, I find this picture particularly flattering. Everytime I look at it, I feel like Helka and I are incredibly attractive. (You can click to make it higher res, and let me know what you think.) I'm always looking for an excuse to post this picture, but haven't had one yet.

Let's look at the given variables in the picture: we're at Stage 13.* We're 18 and just graduated from high school a couple of weeks earlier. I'm cleaning out my ear with a q-tip. Helka is eating some breakfast, probably yogurt. I have a backpack that says "Finger Eleven" on it. My hair is pink, and Helka's hair is braided (courtesy of me). The tailgate of the truck beside us is opened, and I think Elana and Kandice are probably laying on a little bed they made inside. My tank top says "Cheerio Porn Stars" and on the back, later in the day after this picture is taken, there will be signatures of the guys from Shocore. (Long story involving one of the members of the said band trying very valiently to seduce me. His only selling point? A Bad Religion t-shirt.) I'm a pasty white despite the fact that it's the middle of summer, and my skin is exposed to the beating down sun. (Following this weekend, I had 'tan lines' around where my bracelets are. So, yes, I'm actually "tanned" in this picture.) And that blanket we're sitting on? Well, in a complete lack of foresight, we didn't bring a tent to a music festival, so we spent 2 nights sleeping under the stars, and a third sleeping in a guy's truck. Oh, and we're coated with dirt after not having showered for 3 days (in plus 38 degree heat with dry windstorms coating our bodies in dust), and after making 2 trips to the hospital.

And yet whenever I look at this picture, I think we look like the most beautiful girls in the world. And I think it's because at this moment in time, we were happy and comfortable with who we were. We were on the edge of something. We were on the brink of the unknown.

3. In Vanuatu, on the island of Tanna, there is a cargo cult who worship a mystical American known as John Frum. They believe that the messiah John Frum will return to Tanna on February 15th (year unknown) with material wealth for the ni-Vans.

“John promised he’ll bring planeloads and shiploads of cargo to us from America if we pray to him,” a village elder tells me as he salutes the Stars and Stripes. “Radios, TVs, trucks, boats, watches, iceboxes, medicine, Coca-Cola and many other wonderful things.”

There are no records of the religion before 1940.

4. Wonder what funeral directors do in their free time? They apparently contribute to the forums at Bluelips.com which initially appears just to be a site for the morbid, but upon further inspection is actually a website dedicated to discussing methods of embalming, reconstruction, make-up methods, and creepy things loved ones throw into coffins.

5. I found out last month that I'm the oldest person in my class. Only 2 other people in the magazine stream were even born in the same year as me. So, essentially, I'm an old lady--an old lady who still wears hula-dancing pig socks. True 'dat!

Facts for Friday: Because who else is going to look for embalmers on the Internet?

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*I find it peculiar that there is no wikipedia entry for Stage 13, which, at its climax was one of the most ridiculous music festivals ever. If you include Another Roadside Attraction in the tally, Stage 13 ran for 4 years, which for any modern Canadian music festival, is a lengthy period of time. Not surprisingly, there is also no wikipedia entry for Shocore.

Surprise!

Tonight, I decided to take a brief study break to go to Kaydi's birthday party. But this just wasn't any birthday party. Beyond celebrating the birthday of an all-around awesome, sincere person, this was a surprise party.


When I got to Kaydi's building, Ashley and the other Albertan redheaded journalism Jessica (who I should probably just start referring to as "Jess R," but I haven't had to resort to last initials since elementary school) had been busy decorating. Kaydi's boyfriend Geoff had organized the party, recruiting Kaydi's parents and Ashley to help him out, and providing a huge spread of sushi and other fishy kabob type foods. (What a sweet boyfriend! Hmmm. . .some people should probably be taking notes. Well, on everything except for the fishy related food products.)

Chloe and Ashley eagerly anticipated the birthday girl's entrance.

I was a little skeptical that Kaydi would be surprised. In my experience, surprise parties never work.

When I was turning 15, Elana tried to throw me a surprise birthday BBQ in her backyard. However, for reasons that are currently escaping me, (I think I wanted to make other plans that weekend or may have been going out of town for something--can someone refresh my memory here?) Elana had to eventually reveal to me the surprise birthday plan.

The second time was when I was set to leave for Europe. I had just moved all my things from Edmonton back to storage in Cold Lake, and I was spending one last weekend at home before I set off to journey the world. My mom decided to throw me a surprise going-away party and asked Naomi to make all the invites for her. Somehow I found out about it (again, I can't remember how, exactly) and most of the people who showed up were people I invited personally. (Which is kind of depressing.) And then when everyone showed up, I had to act surprised because my mom didn't know that I knew about it. I thought it was really nice that she had tried to put something together for me, so I didn't want to ruin it.

I'm of the strong convinction that surprise parties are never a surprise.

But Kaydi was genuinely surprised! She walked into the room with her coat on, ready to go out to dinner with Geoff. (I asked Chloe, "What if she really wanted to go out to dinner? Won't she be dissapointed?" Chloe assured me this wouldn't be the case, and if so, the consolation prize was pretty damn good. I just know that personally, I might be a little bit dissapointed. A mean, a room full of my friends and food is awesome, but I really like going out to eat.)

Kaydi giving her mommy a surprised thank you hug.

I hope you had an awesome birthday Kaydi and the festivities are still in full swing while I'm at home typing this. (And, I really hope that you weren't dissapointed that you didn't get to go out for dinner.)

Premonitionatory Fact

I'm having a vision. . . I see fields in my future. Big empty fields. Oh, and there's hay bales and what's that. . . a sprawling metropolis the size of New York in land mass, but with a non-ironic flannel wearing mentality?

I see a steel bird, hurtling through the air. . . wait, there's more coming to me. . . the spirits are channeling me with an important message! There are numbers. There's a 4. . . and a 32. No wait. It's a 23. What can it mean?

Well, it would mean that I'm flying into Edmonton on Monday, April 23rd. Which is 3 weeks from now.

I'm going home to everything Cold Lake has to offer to. Today my mom wrote me an e-mail:

"The snow is melting like crazy and we have a malfunctioning sump pump. And theres lots more snow to go. At the beginning of the month the snow was up over the birdbath* so you couldn't tell what it was and now its down to just below the bowl. The pile at the front door doesn't look like it moved. I will probably have to shovel it at some point."

Ah. All the glamour north of the 54 parallel has to offer--inevitable snow in May.

I can't wait to go home. No, correction.

I can't wait to be home.

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*Just for reference the birdbath comes up to my hip.

Rejection at its finest

My Dad hasn't "confirmed" on Facebook that I'm one of his "friends" yet.

Should I be concerned that maybe, oh just maybe, he clicked the good ol' "deny" button?

Endnote

Today, I am seriously in need of a shower.

Since starving myself until I finished writing 1,200 words of my essay was such a success, I decided that tonight I'd deny myself a bathing session until I finished writing the remaining 1,000 or so words of my rough draft.

It's 10:30 p.m. and I haven't written anything yet.*

Could it be because unlike witholding dinner, I'm not the one who is suffering from my lack of personal hygiene?

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*Although, just for clarification, I did finish writing my McClung's story, put together a powerpoint presentation and finished my copy-editing for tomorrow. Unlike Brie, I'm not a SLACKER.

WHAT?!

I would just like to share with everyone, that my Dad, who has always been the progressive sort, has Facebook. This is funny to me.

Dad, you are funny to me. Thanks for being awesome.

Footnotes.

I'm only permitting myself water and tea until I finish writing at least 1,200 words of my history essay. It's nearly 8:20 p.m. and I haven't eaten dinner yet.*

The key to my heart is through my stomach. And since my heart just isn't into this whole essay writing nonsense, I've always decided that the key to ending procrastination is denying myself sustinence.

I'll let you all know how it works out. I'm at 791 words.

And I'm hungry.

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*Although, let it be known, that in a moment of confusion and frustration about my workload, I did eat an ice cream sandwich about 2 hours ago, because it was the only concrete decisive action I felt capable of making at that given moment in time.

The mirror face

When I first started this blog, people would always complain that I'd put what they deemed "ugly" pictures of them on the Internet, and only choose the most attractive of pictures of myself for posting.

Those people obviously don't read my blog: Case in point.*

With that being said, Facebook is ruining my life. Ex-boyfriends are coming out of the woodwork and adding me as a friend, and naturally they are going to wonder what I look like after not seeing me for five plus years. (I'm not being egotistical here. I do it to other people. And I know other people do it to me. That's the problem, amongst the many problems, with Facebook.) And while I have some control over this, for the most part, this is determined by all you assholes who keep putting ugly pictures of me on the Internet!**

Once in a while, there are photos posted that I'm okay with:


For example, this is a good one from CMW. It gets my stamp of approval.

However, that picture is a rarity. Let's look at another sampling of photos posted of me on Facebook:

This one was taken of Julia and I this weekend. For the most part it's not that bad, and Julia looks pretty hot. My only serious complaint is the disgusting layer of red wine gunk and lipstick that has formed around my lips. And of course, my pose for this particular picture only emphasizes this fact. But I can live with this one.

This picture however, I have a serious problem with. It was taken during the Steam Whistle Incident and I will acknowledge that it's my own fault for drinking too much and looking like trash. But, why, why, why, must this be the first thing that my best friend from grade 2 must see upon adding me as a friend?

However, in this photo, also posted by Jonny, taken the same night, I don't look half bad.

I can't complain about this picture because I find it pretty much the most hilarious picture ever. It was taken of Ben and I at the Wan Bigfella Fundraiser, showing off our killer dance moves.

I was not drinking when this picture was taken, I was just being my normal awesome self. My favourite things about this picture is the obvious wet armpit stain in combination with the huge hole in my armpit, and the fact that I'm pratically pulling a Lindsay Lohan with my skirt. Good work me.

And while I love this picture, again, it makes me wonder, do I really want the quiet girl who sat beside me in grade 10 social studies to see this without knowing any contextual information?***

Here's another winner. Yes, that's right. I'm having a baby. Wanna fight about it? (Oh wait. I posted this picture. Nevermind. Bad example. I think it's a funny picture, but I'm still left wondering if I really want my unrequited crush of 5 years to look at this and think, "Whoa, I never thought she'd become a fatty!")

Here's another good example. I'm barely in this picture, yet I've been tagged. I look like a prehistoric bird.

But none of this really bothered me that much, until today, when the line was crossed:

Which is when this picture appeared on the Facebook scene. How was I the only one who didn't notice that a picture was being taken?

This has to be one of the least attractive pictures of me known to man. I look like a decidedly prehistoric, unfeminine bird ranting about something that's quite potentially boring. Judging from the shape of my lips in the ranting process, it's also entirely possible that spittle was also flying from my mouth onto the guy I was talking to.

Why? Oh, why?! This picture was actually added moments after my ex-boyfriend from junior high school, who used to brag about how attractive I was (am?) added me as a friend. Great. Now it will be the first picture to show up! (And he'll be like, "Oh, she's still mouthy. No shock there." Which is true, I guess.)

And the worst part is, I know that realistically this isn't Facebook's fault. No, this isn't even the assholes who tag me on Facebook's fault. It's entirely my fault for being so unphotogenic.

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*Just for the record, that picture was chosen randomly from a random month. I'm sure I could the same for any other month in a matter of seconds, because this site is littered with hilariously awful and decidedly unattractive picture of me. And I'm okay with that.

**I do know that I could untag said photos, but that'd be like denying that it's me in the pictures, and pretty much like telling a lie. And I'm not a liar.

***Context is the difference between the blog and facebook. At least I think it is.

Because we're fun like that

After meeting Alice and Jessex at Fresh for dinner last night, I jumped on the streetcar to meet up with Court who was sick of hanging out in the sewing lab. Apparently blogging about a lack of plans leads to plans. That's Court's cat Gus. He's kind of the most adorable, yet ridiculous looking cat you've ever seen.

I entertained myself while Court and Jonny got ready to go.

Haha. I'm awesome!

While Court and Jonny were putting their shoes on, I tried to catch them off guard by randomly pulling out my camera. (Okay, granted, me pulling out my camera in a social situation is far from random.) Within seconds, they sensed it and were posing. It's like they have a sixth sense. Awesome.

Best quote of the night: "I'd knead buns for you!"

We went to the Chelsea Room. Court was really proud of her label peeling skills.

We met up with Ashley, who was there for her friend Marla's going away party. (Marla, I doubt you'll read this, but if you do, I hope you have an amazing time in Thailand.) The other Albertan J-School Jessica showed up with Kaydi.

I think this picture was taken to demonstrate to Alex Dodd, that no, my skirt wasn't that short. However, the picture itself kind of defeats its own purpose. (That's the other Jessica's decidedly feminine hand, just for clarification.)

I have no idea who this girl is, but I liked her choice of accesorization.

Wanting to dance (so what else is new?) we met up with Julia, Dayn and Julia's brother Tom to head down to the White Orchid, but judging from the 8 cop cars outside we unanimously decided that a drug bust was about to happen. (How did we come to this conclusion? Really? Last night it seemed really obvious, but in retrospect, it was just purely random speculation...yet we were so sure of ourselves.)

Dayn thoughtfully considered where we should head next. We ended up going to 751, but couldn't get in because it was 1:30 a.m. so we ended up at a bar nearby. Coincidentally, we were sitting there for 20 minutes before we realized that Alice, Scott, Nick et al. were sitting only two booths away from us. Random.

There's something about this city that makes me never want to leave this moment in time. It seems to me like Toronto has this underlying energy and that if you can just figure out how to capture it, and how to harness it, life can be yours. But it's hard to figure how exactly to capture that energy. You bask in the company of others, not knowing what's going to happen around the next corner. You know that there's unlimited potential and excitement to be had, but you just have to find it.

And you don't quite know how.

Last night felt like one of those nights.

(Or maybe I was just dissapointed because I didn't get to dance?)

Things I Said in Seminar Today:

"I don't think you can compare wife-beating and polygamy. I'm down with polygamy and polyandry! I think that as long as all the individuals are consenting and of age, why the hell not? I fully support it."

I have been waiting for roughly the last 3 years of my university career to make this statement in an academic setting. Needless to say, it was a good day.

Code Red!

It has suddenly come to my attention that it's quite late Thursday night and I have no weekend plans.

This situation has come upon me quite unexpectadly as the result of the following factors:

1) a certain professor and his dreamy sidekick developing hearts and giving all the journalism students a week extension on our feature stories

2) the fact that I worked my ass off at school all week because I thought everything was going to be due on Tuesday, so now I'm actually somehow, miraculously ahead on my work

3) I did not make any plans for the weekend, thinking to myself that I'd be killing myself trying to get work done, when all I have to do this weekend is write an essay (just peanuts, she said, peanuts!)

Can someone please redemptify* this situation ASAP and invite me to do something fabulous? Preferably something involving music, red wine, a chance to wear high heels and a ridiculously short skirt and flirt with musician types? I'd really appreciate it.

Okay? Great! Thanks.

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*I don't think redemptify is a real word. But if it was a real word, it would make sense in this context. Therefore, it should be a real word. The End.

Inside Jokes Aren't Like Inside Voices

You can tell it's term paper season when:



Jess is bringing up the class average since 1992. says:
I just did that today, actually!

*Brie - what to do . . . says:
LOL ok thanks!

Jess is bringing up the class average since 1992. says:
you're a loser for telling me this via msn

Jess is bringing up the class average since 1992. says:
L-O-S-E-R. Picture me with an "L" on my forehead

*Brie - what to do . . . says:
LOL no im not! I thought you were busy doing homework!

*Brie - what to do . . . says:
slacker!!

Jess is bringing up the class average since 1992. says:
I was, but I'm taking a break

*Brie - what to do . . . says:
S-L-A-C-K-E-R

*Brie - what to do . . . says:
picture me with an "S" on my forehead

After Brie sent that last message, I sat looking baffled at my computer. An S on her forehead? How can you make an "S"? I typed this message to Brie, but before I hit enter, I decided otherwise. Running into her room (which is, by the way, a whole foot away from my room) I was ready to accuse her, "YOU CAN'T MAKE AN "S" WITH YOUR FINGERS!" But she was ready for me. Before I could even get the first two words out, she did this:

And this is why inside jokes should remain just that.

Resume, Resume

Last week, I recieved a completely unexpected e-mail. It threw me completely offguard. With trepidation in the the pit of my stomach, I decided to ignore it and not reply to it. That was until yesterday, when I recieved a phone call:

"Yes, Jessica? Did you get my e-mail?" the woman asked, "I was just wondering if you will be taking part in the application process?"

Three years ago, when summer was drawing to a close, I went out for a walk with my mom. When I started talking with her, I began to realize that I genuinely loved my job and believed in it. Through our conversation, I began to develop a three-year action plan to get my dream job: I wanted to become the Canada-wide media liasion for my employer. With little interest in straight-up journalism, I wanted to dabble in PR and in representing a cause I believed in.

After going to Vanuatu, I hadn't entirely forgotten about the plan, but I'd given up hope on it. After all, I don't speak French. And I had only worked for the employer for one previous term. There was no way I had the credentials.

And then, I got the e-mail. "Dear Jessica. We are inviting you to take part in a competitive application process for the position of nation-wide media liasion." I couldn't believe it. I was being invited to apply for my dream job. I hungrily read through the e-mail, until I got to the section that I knew would be coming: "the job location is in Toronto."

My heart dropped. I'd already accepted a job in Cold Lake and although I haven't booked my flights yet, plans are in motion for me to head home for one last summer before I graduate, and chances are, before I leave the country for some random reason again. My gut told me that I wanted to go home. But my head was telling me that this would be a huge step forward for my career.

Every day, we're told, especially as women, (and especially at Ryerson) that we should sacrifice everything for our careers. It's never follow your heart. It's always follow your dreams. And if you don't follow your dreams and go to all ends to establish a career? You're a bad feminist. We're expected to sacrifice our personal lives to get a good-paying job. To get a degree. To work our way up the ladder, and up the social hiearchy.

I've always been of this persuasion--and it was easy for me. I had nothing to lose. I moved across the country for school. I work endless hours at a job I hate because I know that marketing experience makes me more employable.

But when do we follow our hearts? When do we sacrifice our careers for our personal lives, for our personal relationships?

I ignored the e-mail because I didn't know the answer to these questions. My head hadn't quite caught up with my heart. But when I got the phone call, it all fell into place.

"Thank you for the opportunity," I told the woman who called, "But I'm not going to be taking part in the application process. I've already accepted another position. I'm going home."*

On a completely unrelated note, I'm ridiculously in love with my thrift-store find necklace.

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*Just for the record, although this decision was largely fuelled by wanting to see my friends and family, after doing the math I realized that I'll make more money in Cold Lake. So maybe I'm not such a terrible career woman after all?

Monday Mailbag

Today was a good day for mail. Sasha sent a postcard to all the girls at China from when she was in Milan for Fashion Week. Katherine, my cousin, mailed another magnet to add to the Cold Lake collection of magnets already on our fridge. I guess North 54 is a new bar on the base in Cold Lake?

I also got yet another romantic package from the Alex Dodd:

Seriously. I know it's making you swoon with envy.* A phone cord and a Planet Organic t-shirt? I'm a spoiled girl.

Before Alex mailed this to me, he called me to confer about the t-shirt. I was groggy with sleep, but this is what I can remember from the conversation:

"What size of t-shirt do you wear?" he asked.

"I dunno. It depends on how big the t-shirts are," I told him sleepily. "I'm usually a small."

"A small? Are you sure?" he asked scrupulously. I took it from his tone of voice that maybe the t-shirts were on the smaller side to start with.

"Or a medium? I don't know," I said. "But probably a small. You know how big I am. You can probably figure it out just by looking at the t-shirt."

He opted to send me the medium, which reaches down to my mid-thighs.

Alex Dodd, should I take this offensively? Is this how big you think I am?

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*I'm not going to lie, I actually thought this particular mystery package was exceptionally endearing. My phone doesn't reach my bed, so I either have to sit in my desk (which is where I sit 90% of my day, so it's not exactly relaxing) or on the floor when I talk on the phone. Alex Dodd took care of this by turning my 1 foot phone cord into a 25 foot phone cord.

And the t-shirt, despite it's massive size, is made of bamboo and organic cotton and is possibly the softest shirt ever. It may never see outside daylight, but it's going to be a lounging around the house standard. I'm actually wearing it right now.

He was a saint that did something someplace

Last night, we stood in line for an hour and forty minutes to get into Mick E. Fynn's. With our feet freezing and our patience waning, we tried to keep up the conversation. Disgruntled, I commented that I don't get the big deal with St. Patrick's Day. It's just another excuse to get drunk, after all. And unless you're actually Irish or of Irish descent,* isn't any day ending in "y" an excuse to get drunk?

These are the classy socks Court picked up at the Hasty Mart when she lost feeling in her toes.

"I heard that we're celebrating some guy driving all these snakes off an island," Jonny responded when I expressed my disgust at not being able to get into my favourite pub for a pseudo holiday. All the drunken screaming girls in line who were wearing nothing more than mini-skirts and thick layers of makeup for warmth didn't even know what they were drinking for.

I laughed at Jonny. "And by guy, you mean St. Patrick?"

"Yah, either him or St. Valentine's drove some snakes off an island. I always get those two confused."

This made me laugh some more. "It was St. Patrick. St. Valentine wrote some letters in jail or something."

We laughed at our own ignorance, and then I asked jokingly, "Hey Jonny, wanna know that name of 'that island'---Ireland."

And then we gave up on the lineup and went across the street to an empty hotel bar. I'm no longer celebrating days dedicated to saints.

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*For instance, if I was out with Jacob on St. Patrick's Day, that's just a whole other story!

Even my dreams are nerds.

Last night I drempt that I had a blogger specific virus on my computer. It wouldn't let me log into blogger, and it kept posting spam posts on my blog. My brother was around, but he was helping some other girl with her math homework, so alas, he couldn't fix my blogging problem.

It was a nightmare, really.

The mailbag

In case long-time readers of this blog haven't clued in, I probably get more personal mail than the average person. It brings no end to my joy when I reach into my mailbox to pull out a letter. Someone took the time to think about me, and took the time to sit down and try and put those thoughts into words. The edges of envelopes I recieve are creased, the addresses are hand-written and the packages are often dirty and smudged with food.

And in some cases, this mail has travelled across the world to find me.

Yesterday, I got a letter from my host mom Kathy.

Jessica mifala ol family blong you long Vanuatu vai mifala no save forgetem you. Taem mifala look photos blong you we you givem mifala pray talem thank you long papa God.

Kathy made that fan for me. In Vanuatu, I used it in church to combat the oppressive humdity and heat caused by wearing an island dress. Here, in Canada, it just reminds me of some vague experience that I'm not even sure happened to me.

I don't know if I believe in God, but I do know that I feel blessed to have been given families that I have. I have a family in Finland that took me into their home in a month (Helka, please do let your mom know that I could never forget aiti). And now I am fortunate enough to have a family in the South Pacific. In both cases, I don't speak the languages, but it doesn't matter.

My favourite part of Kathy's letter is as follows:

Jessica sister blong Tom, Julie i wantem se bai you find wan benfriend blong hem long Canada, hem i Kat 18 years old. Jessica after you find benfriend blong sister Julie them bai you write blong mammi back bai you talem long benfriend blong sister Julie to bai i write i kam long sister Julie. Hem ya address blong sister Julie. . .

The verdict is still out of this portion of the letter, and I've got a whole bunch of people trying to figure it out. I don't think benfriend is a real Bislama word--Kathy, for my benefit, tried to use as many English words as possible in her letter to me. Anyways, this section has two possible meanings:

1) My host sister Julie has a penpal in Canada whose name is Kat, and is 18-years-old. Could I find them and tell them to write to Julie.

2) Could I please find my sister Julie a Canadian boyfriend?

So, uh, anyone out there know a 18-year-old named Kat who had a ni-Van penpal?

If not, does anyone want to date Julie? She's pretty smokin'. No word of a lie. (Just thought I'd throw that out there.)

HELP!

Hey guys. This is a plea for urgent help. Has anyone out there ever bought Elexa (the line of condoms by Trojan that is marketed towards women)? This could include any of the Elexa products.

If so, are you willing to be interviewed? It should only take 5-10 minutes. And it will be fun! If so, please e-mail me ASAP at enjoyponies@yahoo.ca

Welcome to the fake world

The most frustrating aspect of j-school is that you can't do your homework if your homework doesn't call you back.

I skipped school this morning to make phone calls. None of the phone messages I left on Friday have been returned, so it's time to leave another round of voicemail. "Hi, my name is Jessica and I'm a writer for McClung's Magazine, a Ryerson-based publication. I'm currently writing a story on _______ and would like to conduct a short 5 to 10 minute interview with________. . ." I could recite this in my sleep.

Skipping school is the only way to get homework done, because interviews with businesses can only be conducted between 9 and 5, which is exactly the same hours I should be at my own work* and school. My mom keeps telling me, "well, that's how it is in the real world." I beg to differ. Because in the "real world" we wouldn't have to rush out of our offices to answer phone calls from interview subjects, or our case, lecture halls and computer labs,** and we wouldn't have to let our marks slide in one class because we have to regularly skip it into order to get any work done.

I hate the phrase, "Wait until you get into the real world." I have over $10,000 in loans, all accumulated in the past year alone. I work two regular part-time jobs, and a third freelance marketing job. I go to school full-time. I have three mentees and write for a magazine. My peers have stress problems, medications, illnesses. We have appointments with professors, we have editors, and we have notes and reminders scribbled all over hands and agendas. We're all struggling to stay afloat at this time of the year.

So have I been living in a fake world this whole time?

I'm not complaining, though. Not now. Being sick as put some things into prespective for me, and I'm thriving off the work load and the craziness. I'm singing on the way to school, sidestepping puddles in the park, I'm laughing with my roomates and I'm daydreaming about a certain A. Dodd. We're drinking beer and waiting for spring to come. We're commiserating about our stories and taking secret pleasure in the fact that our potential career choices afford us the opportunity to talk to drug dealers, sex experts, politicians, musicians and drag queens.

I'm enjoying this world, regardless of whether it's real of not.

Now if only one of my interview subjects would call back. . .

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*This week at work, Tas, the girl who does payroll, informed me that I always have the least number of hours because I'm always calling into work at the last minute, saying I can't come in because I have to do an interview.

**This happens nearly every class. Our phones are constantly on vibrate and it's completely normal to see people run out into the hall in the middle of class, pad of paper and pen in hand. While this doesn't seem odd or peculiar to us, I suspect it would to other faculties.

DD for Life!

The rest of the weekend went by in a blur of hip-hop music, shots at the bar, running into old friends everywhere, and enjoying the spring sunshine.

Lazylegs (from Montreal) was at the competition with Tommy Gun (from San Francisco), from the Illabilities crew. Click on the link to check out a Youtube video of Lazylegs. It's well worth your time.

In case it's not clear in the picture, Tommy Gun only has one leg. Sadly, I couldn't find any videos of him online. (On a sidenote, I developped a mad crush on the crew in the background, particularly the guy in the pink hat. They made it to the final round before losing, but they won my heart. I felt like a 15-year-old girl rooting for them.)

And something that is nowhere close to the Illabilities Crew--the DD crew. Represent!

After working until 1 in the morning at The Drake, Sameer and I (with Alice in tow, since she came to meet us earlier in the night) headed down to the Mod Club to join up with the rest of the DDers for our impromptu staff party.

I lost most of the DD family, and Alice left early because she had to work in the morning, but I ran into these kids:

Nando and his friend Anthony. (I can't remember the guy in the middle's name. He was a photographer that we met outside on our way out the door.) I met Nando a year ago at CMW, on the same night that I hung out with Alice for the first time. Has it really been a year?

I'm not gonna lie, we're all looking pretty damn good here for 5 in the morning. Good work us!

Here's to hoping that my weekends are filled with less illness, and more days that I don't make it to bed until 7 in the morning.