Most Favourite Cousin came to visit me at the end of March. It was very exciting, as she is my most favourite cousin. You might've already guessed that, given that I call her Most Favourite Cousin.
It would be rather misleading if I called my least favourite cousin "Most Favourite Cousin", wouldn't it?
"My Most Favourite Cousin is coming to visit next week."
"Oh, you must like her a lot."
"Actually, no. She's the worst."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Wait, so when you call me your Most Favourite Friend..."
"Yeah."
These are actual thoughts that go on in my head, people. Be afraid.
Last Sunday, my life changed forever. I wasn't expecting it, and I certainly didn't want it, but I sit here now, unable to un-see the things I have seen. It is safe to say I will forever be haunted by the memories of what transpired last Sunday.
Christian and I arrived at the AGO, thinking we were going to see some art ranging from mediocre to somewhat cool. We were paying for our tickets when I heard this strange sound. I wanted to comment to the ticket seller that it sounded like there was a sheep loose in the building.
You know, because of the baa-ing sound I could hear.
Everybody has been talking about the Bicyclette party. Naturally. I mean, there were macarons after all. Also pretty dresses designed by bestest ladies around. But mostly macarons. I mean dresses.
Bicyclette has since posted about the awesome shindig, including some pictures of the aforementioned macarons. I mean dresses. And OTM Zine and Plaid have also been spreading the Bicyclette/Siana love. Magic, I says. Magic!
What's this? I'm writing another bloggery post, and it's only been a day since my last one?
Yeah. That's right. I'm staying on top of things. Bam.
Staying on top of things . . . by writing about stuff that happened four weeks ago. Yeah, uh, so on top of things.
But, yes, I've managed to put down the Pad Thai long enough to bring you another delightful tale. This is the tale of the time I went bowling with Bea, James and Aaron. Alternately, it can be known as the tale of the time I sucked really hard at bowling.
I was going to start this blogger-oo off with some sort of witty opening before leading up to the big reveal but, you know what?
Yeah, that's effin' what. Why bother with words when you can just oggle that picture. Well, unless you don't really know what's going on, in which case some words would be helpful.
I totally forgot to formally announce to the world that I adopted a new kitten. I'm fairly certain all of my Twitter/Facebook/Instagram friends have figured it out, due to the excessive amount of pictures posted of aforementioned kitten.
But he deserves his very own blog-type introduction, so here it goes. Ahem.
I formally present to you, peoples of the the Internet, Billy Dee Williams!
A couple of weeks ago, I ordered the greatest thing (read: piece of clothing, because the official title of Greatest Thing I Will Ever Own belongs to my Wesley Snipes, Esq. My cat. Obviously.) I will ever own. And if you are wondering, the greatest thing I will ever own comes from Australia. I waited patiently for it to arrive in the mail and it did while I was away on holidays.
So when I got home, the first thing I did was retrieve my parcel and rip it open in a fit of joy. Why the fit of joy? This is why:
While I was at the greatest wedding of all the times, I witnessed something miraculous. Something so mind boggling that my poor little brain could barely comprehend it.
It's no secret that I'm fairly organized. Especially now, having just typed that out. And while I prefer to say "organized", some of my friends prefer to say "anal retentive" or "annoying" or "seriously, you spent your Friday evening doing what?"
Doing what, indeed. I'll be getting to that in a moment.
A little while ago, Blogger introduced this "Stats" thing where you can keep track of, well, stats. It's a good thing they gave it such a logical name like "Stats" instead of something like "SUPER FUN BRIGHT PURPLE ELEPHANT". Because you would more likely than not be clicking on that link and expecting a super fun bright purple elephant and instead see a page full of stats. How misleading. And dull. Stats? Where's my super fun bright purple elephant?
Occasionally I make stuff. Okay, hardly ever. Well, I mean I bake cookies a lot. And cupcakes. But then I eat them, as that is what you are meant to do with delicious cookies and cupcakes, so there isn't really a lasting end result, unless you count my lasting feeling of satisfaction and joy. I had a point. Oh, right: sometimes I actually make things. Like, crafty things.
Earlier this week, I had a hankering for a smoothie. So I had one. I also had a hankering to do something crafty. I was all inspired by the DIY hex-nut bracelets on Honestly...WTF's bloggy, so I decided to get myself some materials and bust out some bracelets. Note the materials below. Right now, they are all boring and not doing much but laying there and being a pile of string. BORING. But soon they will be bracelets. Magical.
So, I had this other awesome bloggy all planned out, but then I realized that my camera battery was dying, and by the time it was less-dead, it was too dark out to take pictures. Egads! I contemplated taking pictures with the flash, but it just would have looked gross.
Anyway, I was wondering what else I could ramble on about in lieu of my Awesome Blog Post (it really is awesome--just wait and see. Or, be incredibly underwhelmed after all of this anticipation, JUST like when The Golden Compass was made in to a feature length movie and you waited and waited for your favourite book to make it to the big screen and when it finally did, you were so angered that you shouted at the screen as the credits rolled. Yeah, just like that. Except it won't be, because it's awesome!) and . . .
Like the title suggests, I have piles of irrational fears. Maybe even enough to put in to two piles. Two very large piles, though. Like, taller than me. (And we all remember how tall I am.)
I thought it would be fun to list some of my irrational fears. So then we can all laugh at what a bizarre (and--more likely than not--disturbed) person I am. And it's fun to laugh at weirdos. Don't listen to your mom: it really is fun. Try it some time. And don't forget to point for increased enjoyment.
When people ask me how tall I am, I usually say 5'10".
That's great and all, but it's not true.
I'm actually 7 feet tall. I just hide it well.
Nah, that's not true at all. I'm actually a man. No, that's not true at all either. I'm actually a horse. Okay, you got me. I'm not a horse. I'm a mop.
But, really.
Today, for some reason, Brother and I decided to measure ourselves. I stood against the wall and he drew a mark and we tried to make sure it was all straight. The mark turned out more like a scribble, though. And who knows how straight the measuring tape was. But here's the photographic proof of my height:
Do you see that? I'm 5'8.5"--maybe 5'8.75", given the angle of the scribble. Also, I was holding the tape measure to the wall and trying to take a picture at the same time, which proved difficult. Also, why can't cameras have the button thingy on the left-hand side? Jeez.
Anyway, when I was measuring myself constantly, back in the day, I got to "five-eight-and-three-quarters" and stopped. But I said 'five-nine' when people asked, because, well, that's easier to say. And then people started prefacing their height questions with statements like, "GOLLY, ARE YOU EVER TALL!", so I felt the need to tack on an extra inch.
5'9" just never seemed that tall to me. What, that's like an inch or two above average. Stop gawking at me already. I'm normal, okay?! And up until twenty minutes ago, I really thought the average female height for women in Canada was between 5'6" and 5'8". But check this out:
Turns out I am abnormally tall for a Canadian female between the ages of 25 and 44. It also turns out that Chile is producing near-midget women. I also feel the need to point out that I used a nice colon in my red font caption, but it's hard to see. Moving on!
Then I thought, wait--I was born in the UK and I grew up in the United States. THAT'S where all the tall girls are. Canada is just full of teeny-tiny ladies. Ain't no thang.
Andddddd, no. It just turns out I'm really the average height of a Canadian/British/American male. Go me. I'm man average. Manaverage. BAM. My word. I called it.
So, I've decided--guys, you need to get taller. Because, let's be real here: 5'9" is not that tall. Don't listen to all those "average height ladies" out there, also known as AHLs. They will try to make you think that you are nice and tall.
WRONG! They are wrong. Just stand next to me when I'm wearing my monster 6 inch heels so I can fill you with feelings of inadequacy and fear.
And then go do something about that height thing and get back to me.*
In conclusion, I might as well be 5'10". Ignore my retarded facial expressions as I try to master the fine art of holding a tape measure and look at that minuscule amount of white tape. That is the difference between my real height and the height I tell people I am. Say what? That's nothing: my favourite boots easily have that much of a heel.
So there. I win. At everything. But mostly being Manaverage height.
*I just thought I should point out that I have no issues with short guys--I mean, guys that are awesome and Manaverage like myself. They are just as manly and rad as the above-Manaveragers.
I'm going to the doctor on Friday. This wouldn't be such a bad thing, except I am getting vaccinations and a TB test. And that wouldn't be such a bad thing, if I were a normal person.
But I am not a normal person. Oh, no. I'm way too awesome to be "normal". (Other adjectives that also apply are the following: fantastic, rad, super, cool, wicked, amazing, weird, quirky, dorky, special [but only in the positive sense, not the backhanded way often used when referring to stupid people], etc.)
Where was I? Oh, right. I'm awesome.
I'm awesome and I also have a crippling phobia of needles. This is an actual legitimate fear.
Now, I have piles of irrational fears. For example, sometimes if I'm walking on a narrow sidewalk downtown, I imagine I somehow lose my balance and fall into oncoming traffic. Or, I could be walking with a dish to the dinner table and then trip and fall right onto the dish, which will crack and impale itself in my neck. Or, that guy from the Scream movies could be under my bed.
I try not to devote too much time to these irrational thoughts, because then I'd end up in the corner of my bedroom, in the fetal position, softly rocking back and forth while singing Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline over and over.
Instead, I go about my life the best I can and banish the irrational thoughts from my brain. Like a ninja. A banishing ninja. Which is way cooler than a regular ninja.
Needles are so scary. I'm actually getting nauseous just thinking about them now. It's terrifying to think about needles. See, there's real terror in my eyes (I used a red arrow to really draw your attention to the terror.):
Also, isn't my turban thing snazzy? But anyway, NEEDLES.
A lot of people tell me that if I have tattoos, I shouldn't be afraid of needles. Those people have no idea what they're talking about. SHENANIGANS, I say.
A tattoo gun has a very teeny, tiny needle. It barely scratches the surface of your skin to deposit the ink.
A medical needle is BIG and GIGANTIC and full of evil FLUIDS that gets jammed into your ARM. Or is SUCKS blood out. Basically, it's the work of the devil. I Googled around for an evil picture of a vaccination needle, but I started to get sick from looking at all the pictures.
I'm quitting my retail job tomorrow. Yeah, I had a job. But only for three weeks. Just like school, I'm too cool for jobs. Actually, it's secretly depressing (well, not-so-secret anymore) that this job only lasted three weeks. I've been drowning my sadness in lots of ice cream. So, actually, it isn't so bad after all. And now I have all this extra time to eat ice cream.
I thought Aritzia would be a cool place to work. I mean, they have winged cats flying around in their windows. Any place with winged cats has to be awesome, right?
Wrong.
Instead of going on an on about how much I disliked working there, I thought I'd share with you the Pretend Resignation Letter I wrote. "Pretend" in that I will not actually hand it in; it's actually a real letter. You can see evidence of it's realness below. Maybe Secret Resignation Letter would be a better name. Or maybe I should just hand it in so I can rename it the Greatest Resignation Letter Of All Time. Hmm.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing in order to inform you that I am resigning as a Sales Associate at Aritzia Sherway Gardens. My last day of work will be Wednesday, October 20, 2010. Yes, today.
I would like to express my sincere appreciation at having been given the opportunity to work at Aritzia, even though just for a short time. After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I am just not the right fit for Aritzia. It was a surprise to me too--don’t worry. I mean, I’m so awesome . . . but sometimes awesomeness just isn’t enough.
Firstly, I just don’t think I am clever enough to be a good Aritzia employee. For example: during both of my interviews, I said that I would be out of town from October 23 to November 1st. I was up-front with this information because honesty is always the best policy. (Except this one time that I drank the last of my brother’s chocolate milk and he was really angry so I blamed it on my mom.) When I told both the store manager and district manager about being out of town, they wrote down the dates, nodded, and said “okay”. I took this to mean that the time off had been authorized. Silly me. It turns out that there is a special form you have to fill out that I didn’t think to ask about because I didn't know it existed. So when my name was put on the schedule to work while I was away, I only had myself to blame.
As well, I used to think I was a good multi-tasker, but it turns out I am not. I thought being able to accomplish two tasks at once was impressive, but I’ve learned at Aritzia that it isn’t about accomplishing tasks: it’s about keeping busy with as many things as possible. Sometimes up to five. Here I’ve been thinking that there is value in seeing a task through from start to finish, but it turns out that is not the case.
From my past retail experience, I had been trained to think that everything from maintaining to re-stocking to getting new shipment out on the floor to doing security checks to customer service was an important part of a successful retail store. Now I know that the most important thing is sales goals.
I will admit that I am not the best sales person—in fact, I suck—so it was a relief to hear that Aritzia employees didn’t work on commission. And anyway, I know that I would only want to achieve my sales goals for the simple satisfaction and peer respect instead of money. “Why would anyone want a monetary reward for their sales achievements?” is what I always say. It’s so good that Aritzia has its priorities sorted.
I thought that maybe my other retail skills would be valued at Aritzia, but I soon realized how this was a foolish thought. And I think you feel the same way as I do about me not being a good fit: in less than two weeks of employment, my hours were being drastically cut. (And I hadn’t even been properly trained yet!)
But, I really do have to commend you on being able to see how expendable I was in such a short amount of time. If you hadn’t judged me with such a lack of regard, I might have never figured it out myself. So, thank you.
All in all, I think we can both agree that parting ways is for the best. Thank you again for the opportunity. And the jacket--it’s really nice.
Cheers,
S.
Tomorrow will be my last shift. I will have to fight the urge to run around the store high-fiving everyone from the sheer joy of it all.
While going through old family photos last night, I came to realize something startling: Brother hated being photographed with me. At first, I thought he just didn't enjoy having his picture taken. But then I found this evidence that suggested otherwise:
This is Brother. See, he is a suave young gentleman. Look at how suavely his hands are folded in his lap. And now, look at this:
When I am introduced into the photograph, Brother sours. He is no longer suave and inviting. He is sad and dejected. Why? Probably because I'm so pink and awesome. Seriously. Has there ever been a more color coordinated girl? I don't think so. Even my slinky matches. And, clearly, I'm really pleased by all my pinkness.
And it makes Brother sad.
Now, you might be thinking that it is just a fluke. But, o-ho-ho, I figured you'd be all doubting. So I've complied some more photographs.
In the first picture, Brother is sitting in his favourite wicker chair. His hair is slicked, he's wearing his favourite blue robe, and he has an ice cream cone. Life is good. He is happy. In the second picture, despite the fact that we are both enjoying a tasty snack of cereal straight from the box, Brother looks upset. Could it be because he has Smacks and I have Apple Jacks? Actually, possibly. Becaues Apple Jacks are freaking delicious. But also, it's because I'm in the photograph. And my red coat and matching red shoes are quite fetching.
Here we see Brother again looking upset by my presence in the picture. Not even his Ninja Turtles are a match for my pom-pom dress and casual pose, and this is evident in his face. Poor brother.
Here we are in the wilds of Newfoundland, building a snowman with Father. Notice Brother in the foreground, looking incredibly put off. Let's go in for a close up just to make sure:
Eyup. That is one unhappy Brother.
In this photograph, his annoyance has turned to anger. I'm pretty sure he is plotting my death. Obviously he didn't succeed. I think.
I sort of feel bad for stealing all of Brother's picture thunder. Actually, no I don't. I asked him if he hated me when he was little and he assured me that he didn't. He said, "Sister, I loved you more than anything in the world. More than my Ninja Turtle playing cards. I loved your flamboyant outfits and uncanny knack of always being the focal point of any picture we were in together."
Okay, so maybe that isn't exactly what he said.
Okay, so maybe I never even asked him.
But he obviously didn't hate me. Pfft. Maybe he hated all the pink I wore all the time. It probably hurt his eyes, now that I think of it. Maybe that's why he always looked a little sick. Huh.
Besides, he still has this jem all for himself:
It's like he's saying, "Oh hai there. I'm just organizing my Ninja Turtle trading cards. Would you like to sit and stay a while?"
In honor of it being, uh, a Saturday, today's blog is an awesome surprise.
Woah!? A surprise you say? Er, I say. Yes. A surprise. I say: A surprise. Now that I've said it so many times, I expect you to have your surprised face good and ready. Fantastic.
Okay, so when I was getting ready for my photo shoot last week, I had to hunt around in Mother's basement for some props. And amongst the Christmas ornaments and discard toys, I found this:
What is it? It's a scrapbook. A scrapbook from the 8th grade. As in, when I was fourteen going on fifteen. As in, the most embarrassing thing I've come across in probably my entire life. As in, of course I took pictures of it to post on the internet.
Duh.
It's actually quite tragic. And I feel like the only way I can properly cope with my lame 8th grade self is to set the lameness loose on the rest of the world. Really, I'm trying to lessen my burden here.
Please take a long, hard look at those current pictures up there. And try to remember how cool and awesome I actually am. (I put three instead of one to really drive the point home.) Don't be fooled by lame 8th grade me. That was ten years ago. It doesn't count anymore. I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations on life and coolness is only about five years anyway.
Okay. Okay. I'm ready. Are you?
There I am. Fourteen year old me. And yes, I cut my own bangs. I mean, I asked my hairdresser to cut them crooked like that. It was totally popular in 2000. Yeah--white eyeliner and crooked bangs were all the rage.
These are my friends at grade eight prom. First of all, why did we have a prom at the end of grade eight? And second, baby blue was also apparently all the rage, along with crooked bangs. Carla there was the only rebel to wear something not blue. She also had amazing boobs for a 14 year old and that dress really showed them off. It was scandalous. Also, I'm not friends with any of these people anymore. Do they still like baby blue? Are they even still alive? I HAVE NO IDEA.
Obviously I had a sense of humour back then. Of course. I'm still waiting for that law of the universe to kick in.
My ideal age is 18 because then I am alone. And preparing for my future. Yeah. I actually was that lame and boring. In the dislikes section of this book I put "people who do not like school", and I described myself as a teacher's pet in the education section. I clearly hadn't discovered fashion at this age (and I have cringe-worthy pictures to prove it, full of ill fitting jeans and crop tops) so I had to soothe myself with books and learning instead.
A lot of this book is empty. Apparently my room was clean, but where's the photographic evidence? I don't believe it!
I listed my favourite song as "Gravity" by soulDecision. I'm not gonna lie: I still remember all the lyrics to that song. The music video was in a bowling alley and they floated. And here you go; you can thank me later:
And, also, yeah, I put Faith Hill down as one of my favourite singers. Britney Spears too. And, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I had Backstreet Boys down as one of my hated bands. Luckily, I realized the err of my ways there.
This is maybe the best page of the entire book. Because I list my ideal boyfriend as a "vampire, shape shifter, or other night-worlder." And our wedding would be elegant and magical and "not like human weddings". And I actually described Edward Cullen perfectly ... before I even knew he even existed! See. We are meant to be. Hmpf.
To my credit, I must've gone back through the book later, because at the bottom I claimed I had been on some sort of drug while writing it (obviously drunk with vampire love) and then on the opposite page I wrote a much more normal boyfriend description.
This was empty. There was something there originally, because the sticker was ripped. What did it say? What inane thoughts did I have for my twenty three year old self?
Actually, it's probably for the best that I never find that letter.
And there you have it. Now, quickly forget everything you just read and focus on my current level of cool. Which is really high. And awesome. High five.
So it's official now. I'm a crazy cat lady. I suppose my craziness has always been questionable--it really depends on who you ask and on what day. But the title of Crazy Cat Lady is officially mine.
Hoorah.
See, a while ago, a friend and I did some math (ooo, math) and we came to the conclusion that if a single person has more than three cats, they earn "crazy cat lady" status. If there are more people in a household with many cats, then the ownership can be spread out and thus, the craziness is spread out as well.
There are four cats here. And three people. Not so bad, right?
But Mother is away for work all week and Brother just started a new job so that leaves me home alone with four cats most of the time. And four cats most of the time means crazy cat lady most of the time.
(1 cat + 1 cat + 1 cat + 1 cat) ÷ (1 person + 1 person + 1 person) sometimes - (1 person + 1 person) = my head hurts. And I'm a crazy cat lady. With way too much time on her hands.
Does that fake math even make sense? I have no idea. But I did enjoy putting in the fancy divided-by sign. Bam.
Anyway. The cats! There are two new ones. Well, old. They are mature lady cats and do not take too kindly to new additions.
This is Samantha. Sammy for short. She is 13. When we first got her, we thought she was a boy, and she was named after Sammy Sosa, who I am told is a baseball player. We found out she was a girl and when I started watching Sex and the City, I re-named her Samantha Jones. I haven't told anyone else this. She likes yogurt and sitting on your shoulders. She seems to hate fluffy cats with majestic tails.
This is Smokey. The best way to describe Smokey is with this story: once, she was chasing a mouse through our hallway and she sat on it and couldn't find it. No, seriously. It's a true story. She sat. On a mouse. It managed to live, despite her tub--when I finally picked her up, the mouse ran away. Probably to tell the others about the retard cat living in our house. Smokey's favourite thing to do is roll around. And that's pretty much it.
Wesley Snipes, Esq and Boo Radley are trying to fit in. Wesley turned three yesterday. And now that he's a distinguished gentlecat, I see no reason why he can't get along with Samantha and Smokey. I mean, look at that lounging. Who wouldn't want to be friends with a lounger like that?
And Boo Radley. Well. He's still incredibly jumpy. If you move too suddenly, he'll go running for his life to the safe place: under my bed. But when he manages to calm down and relax (i.e. when Sammy and Smokey are outside and the door is closed and he's super certain nobody is getting up to open in any time soon, but he keeps an eye on it just in case someone does open it) he sprawls out and lounges.
And. Yeah. Only a true Crazy Cat Lady would devote an entire day to taking photographs of her cats and making a blog about it. But it's Labor Day and EVERYTHING is closed. Jeez. Don't judge me. At least, not to my face. Thanks.
He painted those for me. The first one was for Christmas, and the second I received just yesterday for my birthday.
Both are Harry Potter themed. Obviously. The first is based on the Swedish cover for the last Harry Potter book. And the second is the house I'm in. Go Gryffindor!
Okay. Fine.
I'm actually in Hufflepuff. But don't tell anyone.
Brother is actually in Gryffindor. He's way cooler than I am. And that increases the awesomeness of Brother by at least 10. Or maybe even 13. Oh, and artistic abilities also add a few extra points.
I definitely have no painting abilities whatsoever. Everybody thinks I ought to be good at painting and drawing since I do makeup and take pictures.
