A Lion Inside Me

The One with the Yelling at an Old Lady

2010-04-19T13:41:00.002-03:00

So... I kinda sorta yelled at an old lady yesterday at work.

I mean, she deserved it and everything, but now it's snowing, and part of me thinks it's karma being an asshole.

I've heard it's because of that volcano in Iceland, you know, the volcano with the name that nobody can pronounce, only the like, 2,500 people who still speak Icelandic (according to a video on Good Morning America)?

This is just proof of lazy journalism because when I was supposed to do a live hit on a real radio station, I had to be able to pronounce the name "Robert Dziekanksi" and I couldn't. So my prof made me sit down and say it over and over again until I could clearly and confidently say "Jah-kank-ski" and not embarass myself or the radio prof. That was a fun hour, but I digress.

This morning I slept in until 10:30, which isn't impressive until you consider that I've had school every day from 9-5 (sometimes later, like last Friday night) since January, and I have a part-time job that gets me up early on the weekends.

So now I'm all but officially done school, just waiting for my graduation next month. I'm still unemployed and I'm worried that I'm going to continue to be unemployed because journalism jobs are terribly hard to come by.

I think I'm just going to go find the biggest cardboard box of life and start decorating. It'll be my contingency plan.

The One with the Update and the Olympic Theme Song

2010-04-15T20:06:00.003-03:00

The Olympics have been over for almost two months now, and I still have the Olympic theme song stuck in my head.

You know, the "I believe together we'll fly/ I believe in the power of you and I" song? Anyways, when the actual Olympics were on, I had R. Kelly's "I believe I can fly" stuck in my head, but now that they're over.

Hello, Olympic theme song.

Also, school techincally ended on Friday. I'm officially done university.

Or so you would think, except I took an investigative reporting workshop, and we didn't finish on time. And the instructor nabbed like, four of us willing to stay behind and actually do the grunt work to get this thing published.

I was nabbed because I'm apparently the best writer in the workshop, although the instructor didn't give me the Official Writer Position while the workshop was actually underway. What this means is that all of the other group writers (excluding me, delegated to Group Writer during the workshop) handed in copy that would make Jesus and babies cry. So I'm re-writing everything, and every five minutes the instructor stops what he's doing and apologizes to me because he didn't follow his instincts and choose me in the first place.

That's why I've been lame and haven't written in forever.

Plus, I'm having a crisis because I don't know what I want to do with my life because I've decided that I don't really want to play the Russian roulette that is the non-existent journalism job market. Apparently unless someone is dying/having a kid/retiring at the ripe old age of 88, there are no jobs in journalism.

So I think I'm just going to work at my part-time job for the summer (more hours, obviously) and then take a course in ESL (English as a Second Language) from September to December. And then obviously move somewhere that would require people to learn English as a second language.

I'm thinking somewhere in Europe.

The One with the Excuses

2010-02-16T19:50:00.003-04:00

Wow. So how much do I suck right now?

A month-and-a-half without posting? My God. If anything, I'm blaming it on the journalism - I'm in a new, more time-consuming workshop this semester, and I have little free time.

Also, the Olympics are on. Not gonna lie, I've been abandoning everything to watch the Games. Overall, I'm happy with the Olympics so far, even the introduction of Atlantic Canada - that we're all gothic kilt-wearing fiddlers with fire-breathing tap shoes.

I'm on break next week, hopefully I'll have time to post then, until then, stay gold.

The One with the New Decade

2010-01-01T14:09:00.002-04:00

Holy sweet Jesus. New year? New decade?

The first major thought of 2010: Holy Christ, I'm going to be 30 this decade. I'm officially old.

It's snowing here in Backwoods, and there's a weather warning for freezing rain-turning-into-heavy snow over the weekend, which equals a nice drive back to Halifax.

I'd also like to take a minute to thank my journalism advisor who sent out this email last night at 7:30pm: "Hey everyone, classes start Monday, here are your schedules! On that cheery note, Happy New Year!"

I'm itching to get back to Halifax. I've been in Backwoods since November 22nd, and I'm about to go nuts. Backwoods is the kind of town appreciable in small, weekend-length doses. You can't even buy decent magazines here (I had to go on a massive hunt to find Vanity Fair, and don't even talk to me about Rolling Stone, that one is impossible to find). There's one traffic light as compared to the millions of traffic lights.

I even miss riding the bus, and we all remember how grumpy bus-riding-people usually make me.

I think the first thing I'm going to do (aside from unpacking and attending classes and most likely buying groceries) is hop the bus and take my camera around Halifax, taking pictures of everything I've missed.

Here's to a happy 2010 (and a Family Guy marathon)!

The One with the Friends Marathon

2009-12-27T12:01:00.004-04:00

Friends marathon.

I love Christmas.

I've been MIA for the last few weeks, I realize. I was so exhausted by the end of my internship that I just swore off technology last week and enjoyed the holidays.

Expect a longer post later, right now I'm watching Friends.

The One with the Winter Weather

2009-12-13T20:51:00.003-04:00

Dear Winter Weather (and by extension, motorists),

Fuck you. Hard.

I mean, it's not like we're in the arctic. We're in Nova Scotia. It never snows this close to Christmas. And now you've decided that you'd like to snow every day? What gives? Did all my prayers to Jesus about a white Christmas not work, and now I'm getting a big lump sum of snow?

You think I enjoy having to drive in it, thinking I'm going to die at every turn?

You think I enjoy taking an hour-and-a-half to drive a normally 25 minute drive?

You think I enjoy having motorists on my ass, not bothering to slow down because it's snowing hard and it might be too easy to slow down?

Fuck you both.

Go away until Christmas Eve, stick around until New Year's Day, and then go away again.

Yours,

Sessa

The One about Angelina Jolie

2009-12-08T15:14:00.003-04:00

Today I bought a copy of Hello! Canada magazine, and even though Kate Middleton is on the cover (the magazine, though tabloid-y, often runs features on various royal families), in the right-hand corner of the page, there's a banner that reads: "Hello! Celebrity of the Decade", and it's Angelina Jolie.

At first I was all, "Angelina Jolie, are you kidding me? What about Kate Winslet? She started the decade still being remembered as Rose Dewitt-Bukater, and now she's an Oscar winner! Or what about Anne Hathaway, she went from The Princess Diaries series to being an Oscar-nominated actress!"

But then, as I let it sink in, I realized that nobody really has had the decade that Angelina Jolie has. For starters, she's gorgeous (try and argue).

Secondly, she started the aughties (I guess that's what they're calling 2000-2009, but I've never heard it used before until today in a Vanity Fair article) by winning an acting Oscar. And sure, Kevin Spacey (Best Actor in 2000), Hillary Swank (Best Actress), and Michael Caine (Best Supporting Actor) are all still working and making awesome films, but they haven't had a decade like Angelina.

And honestly, I doubt there's a better role that you could win the Oscar for. I know if I were an actress, I'd want a role like Lisa Rowe. I first saw Girl, Interrupted when I was 12, and even though I didn't understand it until a few years later, her performance definitely scared the hell out of me. And made me avoid large steel doors.

And then, of course, there's the reason she's probably most memorable, adopting underpriviledged children aside.

She gets to go home to Brad Pitt every night.

So not only has she won an Oscar, but by mid-aughties, she's bagged one of the sexiest actors around (People magazine agrees).

And sure, Brad had to give up Jennifer Aniston to do it, but still. One of the most gorgeous couples out there in Hollywoodland.

And even though I like Jennifer Aniston (Friends is my favourite TV show, remember), I like Angelina Jolie more. So when it comes to this battle, I'm firmly Team Angelina.

After dating Brad, and Brad adopting her kids (they're all Jolie-Pitts, how quaint), news broke:

Angelina Jolie is pregnant with Brad Pitt's baby.

The shock!
The incessant coverage!
The fact that Angelina gave birth in Namibia!
The baby whose birth was like the birth of Jesus!

I can't remember how much the baby pictures sold for, only that Shiloh is probably the cutest celebrity baby I've ever seen.

And then she announces (or Jack Black announces for her) that she's pregnant with twins in 2008. And this time they're born in France! How exotic. And paparazzi are staked outside the hospital, waiting to snap a picture of Knox and Vivienne (foiled by the Jolie-Pitts again, photogs).

Then she kind of disappears for a little while (presumably to raise her newborns, and bask in motherhood, and lose her baby weight).

And then she makes a few action movies and Changeling, and she ends the decade with another Oscar nomination (no win, however) for Best Actress (a step up).

So in the end, I have to agree with Hello! Canada. Angelina Jolie is the Celebrity of the Decade.

And besides, it's not like she's Jon Gosselin, who just won Most Provocative Celebrity of the year, because a) Jon Gosselin is nowhere near being a celebrity and b) who really wants to be nominated in any category next to Jon Gosselin, really?

Here's hoping 2010-2019 is just as awesome for Angelina Jolie.

The One about Moulin Rouge!

2009-12-06T21:05:00.002-04:00

One of my most favourite movies is Moulin Rouge!

I'm a fan of most musicals, and this is one of the tops.

Nicole Kidman. Ewan MacGregor. Jim Broadbent. Paris. Turn-of-the-century. Contemporary songs in a different context.

I was watching musical numbers on YouTube (I forgot my DVDs in Halifax, unfortunately). Now I just want to curl up in bed and watch this movie.

When I go to Paris, the first sight I want to see is the Moulin Rouge building.

The One with the Debbie Reynolds Look-alike

2009-12-03T20:09:00.005-04:00

The office manager's daughter has taken over for the next little while. She looks exactly like Kathy from Singin' in the Rain. When she comes in each morning, I fully expect her to break into the "Good Mornin'" routine. If she ever confesses her ability to tap dance, I may lose it.

Today it was a torrential rain storm. I hydroplaned the entire way home, and I was driving at least 20 below the speed limit at all times.

I am an old-lady driver.

The One with the Internship

2009-12-02T18:14:00.002-04:00

I am officially published! Credited for three articles, uncredited for two. It's terribly exciting.

Except my mother made me go to the Superstore and buy a copy of the paper, and I felt bigheaded. Everybody knows me in Backwoods, and they'd know that my story was on the front page.

I'm equating it to what a cashier would think if Angelina Jolie bought a People magazine with Angelina Jolie* on the cover.

Since my near-death experience on Friday, I've been very cautious driving. I'm considering writing about how nobody can drive in Backwoods, and then just letting people sit around and take blame. The article would be titled: Since when is passing on a corner okay? and other bad driving

I'm halfway through my internship now. The day starts at 9am, where we read The Chronicle Herald, see if they report on anything from Backwoods (I just read the articles by my classmates - one wrote about a man who buys gold teeth). Then we sit around while the regular workers drink coffee (and I tell them how coffee stunts your growth - I'm like that).

After that, we fire up our computers. The editor passes me stories that are exciting (read: not exciting) and will give me experience (read: yawn). So far I've been to municipal council (I spent the whole time looking at my watch and not paying attention), wrote a story about EastLink (chased down the media contact for a solid week before she finally answered the phone), the arena (somehow mentioning how I used to figure skate netted me a story about the arena), and a bunch of school initiatives (from a high school I didn't go to, and with which my alma mater has a huge feud).

I've started skipping lunch because I like to just keep the momentum going (read: I play Spider Solitaire** because I don't get internet on my craptop).

In the afternoon, the editor has to pick up/drive home his kids from school. So he leaves me in the office and tells me to work on whatever (which usually results in more Spider Solitaire because I'm a "fast typer"). Then we sit around until 4:30-5:00pm, when we leave.

On Fridays (I assume it's always like this), we put the paper together. He gave me the proofs to edit last week. He only checked one page last week, to make sure I didn't muck it up. Hopefully there weren't any huge grammatical errors. I'd never live that down.

So that's my internship in a nutshell.

--
* This is not to say that I'm Backwoods's equivalent to Angelina Jolie, she's just the first actress who came to mind.

** I do more than play Spider Solitaire, I promise.

The One with the Near-Death Experience

2009-11-29T21:58:00.002-04:00

I almost died on Friday. There's something about seeing that written down, rather than just thinking it over and over again.

I was driving home from my internship (the newsroom is 30 minutes away from Backwoods), it had been raining, but there weren't any puddles in the road anymore.

The Jeep in front of me was driving at least 30km over the speed limit, and when she stopped paying attention to the road for a minute, she hit the shoulder, overcompensated to pull herself out of the resulting spin, made a 360 spin in the road, flipped off into the ditch, and settled after the engine/headlights blew.

To say that if my reaction time had've been one second longer is an understatement. Honestly, it's miraculous that I'm still kicking. I was probably three or four cars behind the Jeep, but as she started spinning, I ended up closer and closer until something screamed at me, "SLAM THE BRAKES NOW!"

The whole accident took less than 20 seconds to happen. And that's what scares me.

One thing I've learned: that whole your-entire-life-flashes-before-your-eyes thing? It isn't like that. Mostly I just saw my parents and brother's faces, along with the dog. And then I saw one of my high school friends who was killed in a car accident two years ago, and it shocked me into slamming the brakes.

So I immediately pulled over, whipped out my cellphone, called my parents (at this point, three other motorists had stopped and had run to the Jeep), and ran to the scene. It was a little old lady, sobbing hysterically about neck and shoulder pain. She kept wailing "Oh my God! Oh God!" and talking about her son.

Someone called 911, and because we were in the centre of jurisdiction for Backwoods and the next town, we had to wait longer for the police and ambulance. I gave a statement to the police, and they told me I was free to go.

I jumped in the car, called KF and told her nothing except that I'd witnessed a car accident, and drove 50km the entire way home. It wasn't until I was home, eyes nearly swollen shut that KF realized how serious the accident was.

It sucks that my first week of the internship ended on a poor note, but I'm hopeful that the next three weeks will be better.

The One with the Brief Update

2009-11-24T22:25:00.001-04:00

I'm exhausted.

Internship is killing my sleep.

The One with the Birthday Week

2009-11-21T00:15:00.002-04:00

I have this (ridiculous) birthday tradition. Fourteen minutes ago was my third year with the tradition, does that make it officially traditional (that phrase rolls off the tongue - try it.)?

Every year, on November 20th, I'll start watching a movie really late at night. And when the clock strikes midnight, instead of turning into a pumpkin, I write down what was playing on the screen at the time my birthday officially begins (even though it's not 100% official until 3:26pm, but I digress).

On November 21, 2007, my 20th birthday, Rose had just jumped back onto the Titanic, and Jack was running to meet her at the grand staircase.

On November 21, 2008, Holly Golightly was sitting on Fred's fire escape, begging him to go to the bus station with her and Doc.

And just now, on November 21, 2009, Sam and Joon were talking about the cons of raisins as she picked raisins out of her tapioca.

I know this is a lame tradition, and I should be drinking my face off and lamenting another year, but I enjoy it. Last year I tried to plan what movie I'd watch, knowing what specific scene I wanted to mark another year with, but Breakfast at Tiffany's became a last-minute choice when I saw it in my DVD holder.

And I've been planning to watch The Sound of Music all week, but as I was walking home from Shopper's Drug Mart with my weight in Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (I'm only slightly exaggerating), it hit me that I wanted to watch Benny and Joon. And I'm not one to ignore my instincts.

All in all this has been an eventful birthday week. I got to see (and hold) the Olympic torch, New Moon came out and we went to see it (OOOOOOOMMMMMMMGGGGG!), I finished my last class of the semester (before my internship begins on Monday morning), and I finished work (no more old ladies = SQUEEEEEEEE!!!).

We (Brett, Yani, and I) went to the matinee of New Moon (Lou and I learned last year when Twilight opened on my birthday to not show up on opening night) this afternoon. It was better than the first movie because it was more like the book. And considering I hate this particular book most of all, that's saying something. Plus Robert Pattinson was shirtless a lot (Taylor Lautner can suck it - he has nothing on Robert Pattinson).

Fingers crossed that the weather stops sucking by tomorrow, that way the Parade of Lights doesn't get cancelled.

The One Detailing My Hate/Hate Relationship with Math

2009-11-19T19:48:00.003-04:00

You know that game from elementary school math class, the one where the teacher asks you to guess how many cups of water will fill the jug before pouring it and counting each cup loudly?

I always sucked at that game. The magic number always seemed to be eight, but I'd guess an outrageous number, like 23. How am I supposed to know how many cups of water will fill a jug, I don't work at a bottling company.

Thus began my lifelong hate/hate relationship with math and numbers.

In Grade 8, the school guidance counsellor (slash douchebag) told my mother that I needed to take Foundational math (basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division) or I'd never be able to go to senior high. He even offered to tutor me (I went once, he used math sheets from elementary school and it was degrading).

To make a point, it's not that I don't understand math, I just don't see a need to do it. So I wouldn't. I'd do my homework just before class began (sometimes in class when the teacher's head was turned), and I wouldn't make an effort to learn the concepts or formulas. So when tests and assignments were handed out, I knew jack squat.

My mother disregarded Mr. Douchebag's advice, and my homeroom teacher started tutoring me in math. I think I scraped by with a 60 or a 70. And when I started Grade 10 (in Academic math), I had a teacher who'd been at my high school since the '70s.

He was badass: walking around with a metre stick, smacking our heads whenever we talked; telling the brown-nosers who'd brag about their marks that "Santa sometimes gives presents kids don't deserve"; and when I told him I hadn't paid attention to trigonometry all term, and couldn't do the homework or write the test scheduled the next day, he looked like he would murder me.

But he was a great teacher, and when he forced me to pay attention to the formulas, I started to rock in math. Particularly algebra (I think it's because of the letters, they make more sense to me). And in Grade 11, we had a teacher who didn't teach anything but basic algebra, so I rocked Grade 11, too.

In Grade 12, we got a hard-ass for a teacher. He was hot (McSizzle was the nickname we gave him, and yes, we were obsessed with Grey's Anatomy), but he was mean. He rushed through formulas, and I failed all but one test (which prompted him to call my house and tell my mother how I'd got a 93 on my test and how proud he was that I was finally grasping math - the last math test of my high school career). In order to pass Math 12, you have to write the provincial exam. Nobody (except the uber-smart people) passes this test. So I went in expecting to get 10 (I hadn't paid attention to all but one unit - circle geometry - so I wasn't aiming high), but thinking I could at least pull off a 25, if circle geometry factored heavily. I left as soon as we were allowed to (one hour).

When I went to find out my mark, he pulled me aside and was all, "Sessa, what happened?" which freaked me out. I thought he was talking about some tragedy I wasn't aware of yet, and my heart started beating wildly. I muttered back "Hmmmwha?" (I'll admit it, sometimes he made me tongue-tied) and waited for him to speak.

"You got a 36 on the math exam, what happened?"
"Oh, THAT'S GREAT!!!"
(Insert shocked McSizzle face here)
"You're...happy...with this?"
"Of course I am! I was only shooting for a 25!"

He excused me and then called the principal, because apparently I wasn't the only one who did abismally on the exam. I'm still not entirely sure how I passed math, but I won't complain.

I finished my math career in January 2006, and applied to journalism school knowing that, as a writing student, I wouldn't require a math course to graduate. Only those rat bastards at journalism school lied and snuck a math unit into Journalism Research.

So we're sitting in the class with a former editor of the Toronto Star and she's all, "How many of you can do percentages in your head?" and everybody raises their hand but me and another girl, and then she goes "Great, this will come in handy when you're all working journalists because you need to be able to do math in your head!" and I'm all "FUCKKKKKK!!!"

Stupid math.

The One with the Olympic Torch Relay

2009-11-18T21:39:00.004-04:00

Today the Olympic torch raced past my apartment building. Lou, baby, Fifi, Erin (Fif's sister), Brett, Yani (Brett's girlfriend), and I stood across from the BMO (as you can see in the picture) and in front of the McDonald's to watch.

While we were standing there, in a crowd of children and old ladies (no jokes), representatives from the Royal Bank of Canada, McDonald's, and Coca Cola gave the crowd free stuff. Brett and I ended up pocketing at least five commemorative Coca Cola aluminum bottles (which we probably decreased the value of by drinking), pom-poms, tambourines, bam-bams (they mysteriously only gave us one, rendering them ineffective), and free McDonald's coffee (which none of us took because, honestly, Tim Horton's was just down the street, and it's better coffee there).

They had two huge Coca Cola transports full of dancers who stopped in the middle of the road for nearly 10 minutes before the torch caught up. And when it did, it was over in 30 seconds. But still, it was kinda inspiring, seeing something that unifies the world (for two weeks, at least).

Plus, it's been 21 years since Canada's last had the Olympics, just ask this guy (sidenote: he wasn't the only one wearing this outfit) -->

Afterwards, the torch made the rounds through South-End Halifax before Sidney Crosby, hometown hero, Stanley Cup champion, all-around golden boy, delivered the penultimate relay. Fif and I wormed our way to the front of the crowd in front of Brunswick Street and stood on our tiptoes (both of us being 5'2" and standing just behind tall people - which is rude if you think about it, tall people can see from wherever they're standing, short people are limited) to watch Sid the Kid.

Get mobbed by the crowd. I mean, look at his security detail.

Citadel Hill looked like Sir Paul had come back. If you wanted proof that Sid really is "The Kid", there it is.

I emailed Dad the picture of Sidney Crosby (right) and he was all, "You know, if there wasn't hype about Sid carring the torch, you'd never guess it was him."

Which is true, I guess. But it didn't make it any less awesome.

Sid handed the torch to Sarah Conrad, a skateboarder from Dartmouth who competed in Turin and will compete (obviously) in Vancouver, who then sprinted down (a steep hill) to Grand Parade Square on Barrington Street for a huge community celebration.

The evening basically culminated in losing Brett and Yani in the crowd, losing Erin for a few minutes, watching Sarah Conrad do tricks on a makeshift slope from the steps of City Hall, and getting our pictures taken with the Olympic torch.

I know it would be a huuuuuge honour to carry the torch, but all I could think of (besides "SMILE!") was how I'd never dare to run in the torch relay for fear of dropping it, lighting myself on fire, and embarassing myself in front of my fellow Canadians (and ostensibly, the world). I would become the next "Girl who Farted on Canadian Idol" because she got a commercial made about her warning future contestants about what not to do at an Idol audition. I would get a commercial shown every two years being like, "This girl carried the torched and FAILED. To all of our competent carriers, we salute you!"

All in all, a good day.

The One with the Elderly Actresses

2009-11-13T22:04:00.003-04:00

I've noticed that a lot of old ladies in Halifax resemble older celebrities.

A woman came into OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land) last week during our big pre-Christmas sale, and she looked exactly like Katharine Hepburn. Her hair was up in a bun, she was wearing a big scarf, and she walked around the store commanding attention (traits I've come to associate with Katharine Hepburn, warranted or not).

I wanted to start a conversation with her about Katharine Hepburn movies, but I feel like if I had've introduced myself by saying "Hello, I'm Sessa. Just to let you know, everything in the store is 30% off today, and can I just say you look exactly like Katharine Hepburn? I'm not trying to flatter you or anything, I'm being honest. Have you ever seen Bringing Up Baby or The African Queen? They're two of my favourite Katharine Hepburn movies. Do you have a favourite Katharine Hepburn movie? How about I just act as your personal shopper for the next hour while we discuss the merits of Katharine Hepburn's acting career?" would've scared her. Or forced her to go to another store.

I would hate to think that my obsessive love for Katharine Hepburn could theoretically cause a customer to leave the store.

Yesterday on the bus, a woman got on who looked exactly like Mia Farrow. She had long, wavy blonde hair. I'm not really as big of a Mia Farrow fan, so I can't say that I would've rushed up to her and launched into a conversation on how much I love Mia Farrow. But it still made me laugh.

I'm sure there's more dopplegangers wandering around Halifax, which only makes me think that maybe they're onto something when they say you're not supposed to drink the faucet water (sewage problem caused bad harbour water).

The One with the New Licence

2009-11-13T13:29:00.003-04:00

The Registry of Motor Vehicles in Backwoods is as big as a single room. When I went to get my licence in high school, there wasn't a line-up, there wasn't a take-a-number, and there was a mirror on the wall to check your hair before they take your picture.

Today I had to go to Access Nova Scotia (a fancier name for a fancier building that gives prettier licence cards?) to update my licence before it expires on my birthday (next Saturday, for those who care slash are interested). They had a five-letter classification system for helping you with a problem. Renewing your licence is letter A. I was A83, and when I first got my number it was only at A70.

So I sat in the comfy seat and read my biography of Audrey Hepburn until they called my name (30 minutes later).

At first they weren't going to update my picture. They were just going to change my address.

Lady: So, we're going to update your address, is that all? Okay, that'll be $72.10, please.
Sessa: Okay. Wait! Do I get a new picture too? I'm fat in that picture. I'm not fat now.
Lady: Umm, okay. I'll give you a new picture after you pay.

I'm not talking my-face-is-bloated-because-I'm-surfing-the-crimson-wave kind of fat, I'm talking you've-lost-the-weight-of-a-third-grader-since-I-last-saw-you fat. People don't recognize me anymore.

And it's nothing that I actively did to lose the weight, it just started coming off. Maybe puberty finished and I lost the remenants of my baby fat? Hopefully. Boss wants me to go to a doctor and get my thyroid checked, but I'm scared. For someone who watches so many medical shows, I'm a chicken in real life. If it's something bad (like thyroid cancer or incurable cancer or something extremely rare with a 3% survival rate) then I don't want to know. I'd rather live obliviously.

Anyways, after getting my new licence with new picture, I went to Walmart and bought the first season of Grey's Anatomy on DVD with the birthday money from my grandmother. It must be tough times in Halifax (slash for the Walmart company) if the most recent seasons of Grey's Anatomy, Private Practice, Desperate Housewives, and House are all $24.00 while the seasons immediately prior are all $54.00. Not sure how that works, considering the more expensive seasons took place during the writers strike.

It's unseasonably warm in Halifax today too, not that I'm complaining. It snowed last week (I'm sure you'll find the picture down below somewhere). And last year on my birthday, it snowed. It's also a (broken) tradition that it snows on Remembrance Day here, but it didn't this year.

The One About Halifax

2009-11-12T22:13:00.002-04:00

I really love Halifax. I'm not always good at expressing this love (read: posts lamenting the ever-present rain or fog). But, good news: I've found a comedy troupe that can! Just take a look at this video to learn everything you'd ever want to know about Halifax (I swear, it's all true).

I promise, I routinely see puppies and go "Oh, look, a puppy!" (Brett always quips back, "Holy fuck, a fucking puppy!")

The One Lamenting Change

2009-11-11T18:48:00.003-04:00

I've changed my layout so many times in the past two weeks, it's not even funny.

This coming from a girl who hates change and will stubbornly sit by my archaic ways until I'm forced into it. Like my MSN? I kept the old version until it wouldn't sign in anymore and I had to get the new one. The new Internet Explorer? I kept it until YouTube stopped playing videos on my browser and told me, in as many words, that the new Internet Explorer would play the videos better if I downloaded it.

I even stopped watching Grey's Anatomy (for a while) because I hated the change.

And Dead Denny.

Mostly Dead Denny.

I'm still bitter over it (what are the odds that Izzie would have cancer and George would get hit by a bus, and they'd both crash on the exact same day, and at the exact same time, and then both linger on the elevator in Limbo, and then Izzie, who had a 3% survival rate, would live while George dies? Honestly.).

But mostly I've just been looking for a layout wider than the ones I'd used. I'm tired of having my posts cramped in. I want them long and sprawling. I've even convinced myself that I like the sparse colours, and that what colours I did use were cool (my District Store Manager told me that her teenagers told her that "Cool" is not a cool word anymore; considering the DSM is probably the uncoolest person in the world, I'm not taking any advice from her kids).

In other news, I've had a head cold for about two weeks now. That's something that I would like to change. Last Friday, my first draft for Narrative Nonfiction was due (thank God the prof's not struck on being a deadline fiend and doesn't care as long as he receives something before the end of the course). I handed it in on Monday because I couldn't look at anything for more than five minutes before my eyes started to well up and my chest became congested, and I was forced to lay down.

This is what I get for playing Nurse to Brett - who we thought was dying of swine flu (not literally) - two weeks ago. He went to the emergency room, was given a face mask, and sat in the waiting room for five hours before they took him to an exam room and told him they couldn't actually test him for anything.

Plus, it's not like we can actually get the vaccine in Nova Scotia. You have to be over 65; caring for an infant under 6 months; caring for someone who is immune-compromised; pregnant yourself; have a serious immune problem; be First Nations; or a kid.

Plus, the clinics were closed today for Remembrance Day. You'd think, honouring the veterans aside, that if this was as serious as it's supposed to be, that people would be getting vaccinated today.

They keep adding more groups to the list, but they figure they're going to run out of vaccine this week. While there's still around 400,000 of us waiting to get vaccinated. Which leads me to believe that this isn't as serious of an issue as the media has made us think (stupid wannabe-banker journalists).

The One About Grey's Anatomy

2009-11-08T13:57:00.003-04:00

So I've been vegging today, convalescing, watching Grey's Anatomy DVDs, and I've compiled a list of things I've learned from watching Grey's Anatomy.

What Sessa Has Learned from Grey's Anatomy:

1. Do not watch Grey's Anatomy DVDs while you're sick. Because you will probably come across the Alex/Izzie wedding episode. And you will start blubbering all over again. And then you'll never control the crying, and you'll be snotting for a good hour.

2. Make sure all methods of surgery are FDA-approved. Only let a former Iraqi trauma surgeon pour what looks like salt into your wounds when he knows for a fact that it'll work. Situations where this will work: when you've been shot 17 times by your six-year-old daughter.

3. Make sure your husband writes his own vows, and doesn't just steal them from a would-be college grad, lying in the hospital dying.

4. Ceiling fans can complicate any relationship. Remove them from the bedroom at first chance.

5. Grey's has a big budget to properly film medical traumas, but has to resort to a green-screen to show the beach.

6. Marriage on a post-it note is legally binding.

7. Cool, cutting-edge surgical machinery trumps a sick child every time.

8. When you have the name Arizona, you learn how to fight kids on the playground.

9. DNRs do not mean anything. Sign one if you want, but if you start to crash, the doctors are going to try and resuscitate you anyways.

10. There are doctors who hate sandwiches. These people will instead get $125-a-bottle wine, and will make you split the meal 50/50, even if you only buy a $20 salad.

The One with the Head Cold

2009-11-07T12:27:00.002-04:00

I am sick.

Not swine flu-sick, but head cold sick.

I feel like I'm floating about six feet above my body; everything sounds like it's being filtered in from an enclosed room; my nose is running faster than a leaky faucet.

There's also a wet towel on my floor, the ends of my hair are wet, but I don't remember showering.

Gotta love cold-and-flu season.

The One with the Weather

2009-11-06T11:12:00.003-04:00

This is the sight that greeted me when I woke up and looked out my window this morning.

So Peter Coade lied to us. Cindy Day, too. They both forecasted rain.

To me, this isn't rain at times heavy. This is snowfall. As a matter of fact, we now have a snowfall warning in effect for Halifax County - and most of Nova Scotia has had snow today too.

The One with the Snow

2009-11-04T22:09:00.002-04:00

So tonight on the 6:00 news, Peter Coade (the meteorologist who looks more like your grandfather than an actual scientist) forecasted snow in Nova Scotia for tomorrow.

And not flurries or a few centimetres. He said something about a good snowfall with 30cms.

I won't pretend that I'm not a fan of snow, and that every year I look forward to a white Christmas (even if we don't get one); but snow on November 5th, potentially?

The One with the Friends episode

2009-11-03T20:58:00.007-04:00

Every time I watch the Friends episode "The One on the Last Night", I think of when Lou and I lived together.

We lived together during the school year of our second year, and then the summer between second and third year. At the end of the summer, Lou was visibly pregnant and wanted to move in with her boyfriend, and I wanted to move in with someone who wasn't going to pop a baby out.

We parted amicably, no fights like the huge one Monica and Rachel get into in this episode. I think it's the just the whole moving-aspect that reminds me of us.

We both have Monica tendencies (even if Lou was the one who started living with her boyfriend), and instead of packing up our clothes (during both moves), we held fashion shows in our hallways. We came up with Halloween costumes in April; watched movies until 3am, with the TV in the hallway between our rooms as we chucked things into boxes; we crashed and woke up again at 6am to be awake for the movers (who were coming at 6am).

Whenever we have Friends marathons, we always start with this episode. It's our classic.

The One about November

2009-11-02T22:52:00.003-04:00

It's November! I'm kinda late on the train this month because the internet in Backwoods sucked, and I'm only just back in Halifax now.

I love November. It's like, my favourite month. It's just after Halloween and just before Christmas. The weather isn't too extreme; sometimes you can get away with just a sweater and a scarf. School begins winding down. Christmas starts becoming a focus in decorating stores and streets. It's socially acceptable to listen to Christmas carols...in my apartment, at least.

Also, it's my birth month. I'm not keen on the whole birthday thing, and I've always been that way, but I still love the month.

Even if I haven't had a birthday cake since I moved to Halifax. I'm hoping that now an actual close blood-relation is living in my apartment, he'll spring for a Dairy Queen Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard cake. That's all I want for my birthday. That, and snow. Oh, and to see New Moon (don't judge me).

Last year, Twilight came out on my birthday, so Lou and I went to watch it. The screaming girls were everywhere and as soon as Robert Pattinson made his first appearance as Edward Cullen, you couldn't hear the movie anymore.

Anyways, this year New Moon comes out the day before my birthday. November 20th.

On my birthday this year, there's the annual Chronicle Herald Parade of Lights. So I'm going to force people to go and be jolly with me. And maybe walk over to Dairy Queen so I can get a Reese Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard, if nobody will spring for a Blizzard cake.

The One After Halloween

2009-11-01T15:21:00.003-04:00

So I ended up going out last night with the new exchange student staying with us, Ana, and her German friend.

They don't have Halloween in either Brazil or Germany, so they dressed up as hockey players (I assume to get the full Canadian culture experience) who had been in a bad hockey fight. I dressed up as a flashdancer. I wore leopard-print leggings, black athletic shorts, a pink sweater with the collar cut off (from an old dance costume), and converse. I was going for the whole 80s-dancer look, and I might've pulled it off.

We only walked around the neighbourhood, but we still got a lot of candy. Coupled with the 10 or so trick-or-treaters we had overall at our house, we cleaned up.

My neice and nephew came dressed as lions (my nephew made rooster calls though, that sounded like "Ahhh doo dooooo!" but I suppose he gets effort points). My other nephew came dressed as Thomas the Tank Engine and laid on my floor. I told him he was a derailed train and that meant I got to keep his candy. He jumped up quicker than I've ever seen a baby jump before.

Nobody had any interesting costumes. Backwoods is severly lacking in the spirit department. Let's hope they take Christmas decorating more seriously than Halloween.

The One with the Halloween Costumes

2009-10-31T10:41:00.004-03:00

I pride myself on Halloween costumes. Sometimes they're really good. Other times, they miss the mark.

Like the time I was Wayne from Wayne's World (in Grade 11) and people thought I was dressing up as my father. I would include picures in this post, but I'm on KF's desktop because the wireless internet doesn't work here. You'll just have to visualize.

In my first year, I was a flight attendant. It was a short dress, blue and orange, from Shopper's Drug Mart, and came with a cap and scarf. We went to the campus pub and I was propositioned to join the Mile High club by all the creepers.

In second year, when Lou and I lived together, we decided to go as pregnant women. We stuffed pillows under tube tops, and then put on billowy shirts and Fuzzy Peaches for bellybuttons. When we answered the door and gave candy to little kids, their parents would try to discretely look at our stomaches.

One woman even reached out to grab my belly, upon which she realized I was wearing a pillow. Then we went to our neighbour's house, and she loved our costumes and told us that she was being a pregnant lady too, only for real.

Note: Lou was pregnant for realz by spring. Only be a pregnant lady if you're willing to tempt God.

In third year, I was sick on Halloween, and had a dance rehearsal. So when I paired my black leggings with a black-and-white striped t-shirt and scarf, I wasn't really planning to be wearing a costume. It just worked out that I looked like a mime and couldn't talk (because of sore throat).

In Grade 12, I was Charlie Brown. This was a last minute costume. As in, I was sitting at the table at 5:30pm, colouring a black zig-zag into an old yellow shirt, while Belle looked on, dressed in her costume: a chest of drawers (a shirt with granny panties sewn on). Sadly, no photographs exist of this costume, although it was my favourite.

Most Halloweens when I was younger, I was a figure skater. I had more than enough skating dresses to wear without worrying about repetition.

One of the only lame things about Halloween in Nova Scotia is that it's almost always freezing by October 31st. We frequently had to wear snow pants or a winter jacket over our costumes. I'm pretty sure it did snow once.

The joys of Canadian living.

The One about Halloween

2009-10-31T10:31:00.003-03:00

It's my second favourite day of the year. Next to Christmas Eve (Day).

I'm home in Backwoods for Halloween because I'm writing an assignment about my old high school. So I'm technically home for interviews, but it just happened to coincide with Halloween.

And while we're on the subject of Backwoods, I'll mention that most of the stores have taken down their Halloween decorations, and are now decorated for Christmas.

When KF and I went to Sobey's to get a pumpkin (there weren't any left), there was no evidence that Halloween was coming. Frosty the Snowman greeted us in the foyer, and stockings were hung by the bakery with care.

You could even buy those fruit cakes and gingerbread houses. I tried to coerce KF into buying a gingerbread house since we'd been screwed out of a pumpkin, but to no avail.

So since I'm in Backwoods for Halloween, I'm going to be home handing out treats instead of going out. All of my neices and nephews are coming (they're all being members of the animal kingdom - something I don't think was planned, but I digress); the neighbour kids (kinda annoying, but I'm used to it by now); and then the other kids who I wouldn't recognize even out of costume.

Our house in Backwoods is down a lane, too. So we don't get as many trick-or-treaters. Not that I'll complain, because we always ate the leftovers (more candy than we'd bargained for). And it doesn't really pick up in Backwoods until after dark.

The biggest thing to do on Halloween here is to go to Forest Cove, the next community over, and completely destroy the place. Most people get arrested who go there. I've never been (the 'rents wouldn't let me), but I've heard the war stories.

I brought a plaid shirt home that looks like something a cowgirl would wear and skinny jeans. So I can at least say I put the effort in. And then I can gorge myself on Rockets and mini-Mars Bars and watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Michael Jackson's Ghosts.

The One with the Bus Altercation(s)

2009-10-27T21:32:00.002-03:00

I'm worried that journalism school has destroyed me.

Not only have I written two posts about it already tonight, but it's given me pseudo-insomnia, exhaustion, and it's caused me to yell at people on the bus.

On two separate occasions.

The first time happened when my craptop was effed up a week or so ago. I was on the bus going to Staples on Gottingen Street, and after being told "Yes, we have a universal charger you can use...oh wait, no we don't", I got back on the bus to my apartment. It's a long ride from downtown to my apartment, and a group of five teenagers got on the bus.

There was a concert at Dal that night, and they were going to it. They kept yelling about finding "University Street" (Dal is on University Avenue), not knowing where it was, and wanting to go to Freak Lunchbox (which we'd already passed). The ringleader was a loudmouth girl who kept yelling at a boy "We'll go to Freak Lunchbox, for fuck's sake, shut your mouth. I'll call your mother!"

I'd hate to see her in about seven years. Anyways, she kept yelling at this boy to go to the bus driver and ask where University Street was. He went up to the driver, but never got a chance to ask (because an influx of people got on the bus just as he reached the driver). He came back and told the girl he hadn't asked. She had another shitfit.

So I'm sitting there, spazzed out because my craptop is broken (I thought), listening to a teenage girl verbally abuse her friend, and I'm sitting next to an older lady who was looking more scandalized by the minute when I snapped.

I reached over and tapped the guy who'd has his balls handed to him. The loudmouth stopped talking.

"For starters, it's University Avenue. Second, you haven't passed it. Chill out. I will tap you when you need to get off, okay? Just take a pill!"

It took another 10 minutes to get to the Dal stop, and they never made a peep.

The second time I yelled at a person on the bus, it was rush hour. And the bus was packed tighter than a sardine can (sorry for the cliche). A guy and I had to lean up against each other just to keep each other balanced, it was that full. Gotta love physics. Anyways, nobody can get in or out, and I'm standing close to the front door.

It's getting close to my stop, so I, very visibly, pull the chain. A woman gets up, and tries to push her way through the crowd. Only to do this, she has to start with me.

"Excuse me," she says. I don't move, obviously because I can't. And if I try, I will fall.

"Excuse me," she says again. I don't move.

"Excuse me!" she says, and pushes against me. The bus isn't even close to our stop yet. But she keeps pushing me.

"Excuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!" she says.

I turn.

"Will you hold on?! I can't exactly move here!" I yell.

Her face, literally, turns white. She starts to apologize profusely, but I just turn towards the front of the bus. And then when we get to the stop, I purposely walk slow, just because I know she's behind me. I make sure I walk slowly in the centre of the sidewalk, knowing that she's still behind me, and that I'm keeping her from whatever caused her uptightness in the first place.

Sometimes karma is a boomerang. And I love it when I'm there to see it fly back.

The One About J-School

2009-10-27T21:21:00.002-03:00

Okay, here's the thing: my school offers a one-year journalism program. But you have to have an undergrad to take it.

And, in my experience, the one-year students aren't really that great/smart/articulate/savvy.

The one-years in my Narrative class can't write, are more focused on facts than on story-telling (which is pretty much what Narrative Nonfiction is), and lambasts you if you use flowery language. One girl had a fit because a narrative piece we read talked about death lyrically. Her reasoning: it was poor taste and we shouldn't trivialize the victims.

I'm not one to talk in class (because I have the fear that I'm always the stupidest person in the room at any given time), but we have to write journals for a blog. Everyone reads everyone else's posts. And in my post last week, I basically called her out for saying that flowery language trivializes death.

I'm paraphrasing when I say I wrote "I don't really understand the fuss over the flowery language and victim issue. Narrative isn't about being stone-cold news, giving the facts as they're becoming known. Journalists write narrative pieces months and years after events take place. It's not a narrative jorunalist's responsibility to be stiff upper-lip about the story. They're trying to get the reader to care on a different level."

The girl in question has a fit over everything we read. She doesn't like anything that isn't stone-cold. The author never does anything right. Hunter S. Thompson and Tom Wolfe are not the great journalists we've been led to believe. Emotions are for wusses. If we can't represent the facts as they present themselves, there is something wrong with us.

The other one-years in the workshop aren't that bad. One girl always sits next to me. We always talk about Girl Talk and Maritime accents. Another guy talks about the time he survived quicksand (he was up to his chest). Another girl laments her Alberta accent.

But this one girl just irks me.

Last year there was a one-year student who said we should never publish anything without first letting our sources read it, to see if anything has been misrepresented or misquoted. The looks of shock and disgust on every four-year students' faces were priceless. And then the auditorium bursted into "No no no no no! We don't do that!" and "Are you crazy?"

Why give a source that kind of power over you? And if you aren't smart enough to check your quotes, facts, and representations, then you deserve it.

I hope my school doesn't send any Glenn Becks out into the world this year.

The One About My Life

2009-10-27T21:15:00.003-03:00

Basically my life revolves around three-day school weeks, reading narrative journalism (such as Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, and Joan Didion), and researching my old high school for a story.

The life of a j-schooler (as we're affectionately referred to at my university). I can't complain. I can, however, rue my lack of foresight.

The fourth-year of journalism school works like this: you spend the first month writing a thesis (the most exhausting thing I've ever done, but it's over now); then you sign up for a workshop in a journalism branch of your choice (I chose Narrative Nonfiction); then you do your internship. When you come back from Christmas break, you complete two other workshops.

If I had've planned better, I could've taken the Narrative workshop in the middle of winter - when I won't have to be outside in the cold. As it is, I'm going to have to go outside and report all day in the minus 20 degree weather.

Clearly they did not teach Planning 101.

I should've gone to banking school.

The One with the Phone Call

2009-10-19T22:38:00.002-03:00

It occurred to me that I haven't blogged about my job in a while. Old Lady Fashion Land (OLFL) has been fun.

And by fun I mean, my shifts have been reduced since I started school again, and I'm not around the crazy old ladies as much.

I'm kinda bummed about this, I'm not gonna lie. I mean, I was growing used to those phone calls I would get from the elderly ladies, asking me about different stores in the mall. I used to get one or two each week back in the summer. One lady asked me if I knew any store that was selling red cotton dresses that she could wash and wear in Africa.

Tonight, I got my first old lady phone call in a while.

Sessa (S): Thank you for calling OLFL in the Halifax Shopping Centre, this is Sessa speaking.
Old Lady (OL): Hi, am I calling OLFL?
S: Umm, yes.
OL: Are you located in the Halifax Shopping Centre?
S: Yes.
OL: Are you next to a shoe store?
S: Umm, I guess you could say that.
OL: The shoe store that's having a buy-one-get-one sale right now?
S: Honestly, I don't really pay attention to the shoe stores.
OL: Oh. I'm not entirely sure that I'm calling the right store. I know you're located near a shoe store. One that has a buy-one-get-one sale on.
S: I'm not sure.
OL: Wait, what is this store called again?
S: OLFL.
OL: I think I want the other store.
S: Okay, bye.

The last old lady phone call I got resulted in the old lady asking me to describe - in great detail - the colours and appearance of our sweaters while she hacked and gagged into the phone. Now, I'm a squeamish person. And there's one thing I can't stand, and it's when somebody's hacking and making loogies. I nearly hung up on her, I was so disgusted.

This is probably where my hatred of the phone stems.

The One with the Witch Brother

2009-10-17T18:07:00.005-03:00

If anyone ever needed proof that witchcraft is real, I offer my brother, Brett.

Because last night, after we all ordered Chinese food, Brett came into my room, looked at my craptop, and said, "You know, you should back-up all your files, in case your computer screws up."

Today, my computer wouldn't turn on. Still won't.

Brett, the proverbial computer whiz, is at his friend's dorm. So I'm on his computer while I wait for him to work his computer-geek magic on my craptop.

I think it's the power cord, since when I bump it the wrong way, it acts like there isn't a power cord plugged in at all. I've called all the electronic stores in Halifax, and the Future Shop in Bayer's Lake told me they have one, and I can return it if it doesn't work.

Fingers crossed that Brett can flex his witch fingers and get it working again. It's the least he can do, since he jinxed it anyways.

* The title of this post makes it sound like I'm writing/reading a fantasy book. Disregard this connection.

Update: Brett has come back to the apartment and fixed my craptop. Turns out all this sucker needed was to have its battery taken out and put back in again.

The One about Titanic

2009-10-14T13:13:00.002-03:00

There's going to be a Titanic cruise in 2012.

Thankfully this will be before the world ends (supposedly). My only problem is that most of the cabins are sold out, and they're redonkulously expensive. And that I'm not in England, and probably won't be in the foreseeable (read: 2012) future.

I suppose I could take the Jack Dawson-route and try to win my ticket on this cruise by playing poker. But the only way I see that route ending is by freezing to death in the Atlantic Ocean.

Clearly I need a different route.

I could take the Rose Dewitt-Bukater-route and become affianced to a steel-industry heir (who will undoubtedly put a bullet in his mouth at the next sign of an economic crisis); we could travel around Europe, and then journey back to Canada on the Titanic cruise. And then, because I'd realize by this point that my husband-to-be has served his purpose, I could be free to take up with the poor artist who won his ticket on the cruise by playing poker.

That route would probably include nude drawings (note to self: start exercising) and sexing it up in the backseats of cars.

And also hinges on the fact that I find a poor artist who won his ticket on the cruise by playing poker.

The One with the Unseasonal Weather

2009-10-14T10:31:00.001-03:00

Dear Halifax,

Really? Is it that difficult to have seasonal temperatures?

Yours,

Sessa

The One with the Figure Skating

2009-10-13T20:16:00.003-03:00

Today I decided to go public skating at my university. It was freezing cold outside, and raining.

In my head, the conversation must've gone something like this: "Hey, I'm going to be outside, I'm going to get wet, I'm going to be miserable...let's go skating in a freezing arena and try to work out those muscles!"

When in fact it should've gone like this: "You dumbass. Why would you willingly go skating after you've been outside in a torrential rainstorm? I don't care if you brought extra clothes, you're an idiot. Just go to banking school already."

I ended up skating for only 20 minutes before I had to leave the arena. I feel like a quitter.

But it's hard to want to skate when you're already freezing. And when there are annoying six-year olds skating. Or, you know, ice wrestling. Or getting in your way. Or skating really fast and then stopping on a dime right in front of you.

I used to teach figure skating. I taught the "I can stand up and move forward. You need to build on these skills" group. Mostly five- and six-year olds. Mostly little boys who had no interest in learning how to figure skate, but had to learn to skate somewhere before they could theoretically play hockey.

Do you know how annoying these kids are/were? They used to band together in little groups and take off down the ice, making me skate to catch them.

And those who weren't trying to pull a coup would cry for mommy or daddy. I'm talking a plunk-your-butt-on-the-ice-and-refuse-to-move crying jag.

And then while my back was turned, there was always that one kid that would skate to the door before I'd realize he was gone, and then I'd have to chase him and be all "What are you doing? We're skating over here, you can talk to Mommy after" (more often than not) or "I can tighten your skate if you think it's loose" (rarely were their skates ever actually loose).

And then there were the little kids who refused to learn. And would demand that I let them play Red Light/Green Light or What time is it Mr. Wolf.

This usually resulted in bargaining with them.

"Okay, look. We'll play Red Light/Green Light if you shut up and do some bunny hops (sticking your front pick in the ice and hopping forward on the other foot)"

I find that if you tell them "Five more...now four more...now three more...two...one...Okay, now we're going to do some cross-cuts and then we'll play...a few more...a few more...a few more..." and they'd get distracted and let me teach them.

Then I had the kids who were more fascinated with the fact that friction wasn't really on the ice. So they'd speed skate as fast as they could (read: not fast at all) and then slide like on slip-and-slides. I really didn't care if they were going to brain damage themselves, but eventually the instructor was all "You shouldn't let them do that, they're here to learn!" and I had to tell them to knock it off.

As far as I know, those two little boys never advanced the levels of Canskate, and are probably hockey players now. Limited skating skills and all.

Eventually I got moved up to the Juniors (the ones just before they reach the end of the Canskate program and can start actually jumping and spinning). I had to teach regular spins and waltz jumps, and shoot-the-ducks (my favourite move ever. Search it on Youtube).

These kids were better behaved. Mostly because they were little girls who actually wanted to be figure skaters someday. They all wore little skating outfits and were generally adorable. They didn't mind being told to do spins or waltz jumps until they were blue in the face. They wanted to be better.

I skated for around 10 or 11 years before I stopped. It wasn't by choice. It was because my brother, Brett, wanted to start playing rep hockey (travelling hockey) and it was always on weekends.

Figure skating was weekends. I had a coach on Fridays, and spent every Friday from 3-6 figure skating my heart out; Saturdays were spent going to the arena in the next town and using their ice surface.

I guess my parents decided that hockey was more important than figure skating, and Brett was allowed to play rep hockey.

It wasn't so much that I was pissed that I had to quit (because I'm not much of an athletic person anyways), it was that I quit at a pivotal moment in my skating career.

I was just getting ready to learn to do axels.

The One with the Moon

2009-10-09T11:33:00.002-03:00

So NASA crashed a rocket into the moon this morning.

Did they not watch The Time Machine?

Don't they know that trying to colonize the moon is what ended up creating problems and sent Guy Pearce to the year 802701?

The One with the Finished Thesis

2009-10-09T00:13:00.002-03:00

I'm...done? My thesis? Is this possible?

No more stress-eating McDonald's and KFC?
No more throwing phones around my house?
No more swearing at people half-way around the world?
No more trying to figure out time differences?
No more fear of my thesis advisor telling me I suck and to get the hell out of journalism school?
No more waking at 5am and not being able to go back to sleep?

I'm not sure I remember how to exist pre-thesis.

The One with the Best Dream Ever

2009-10-03T21:47:00.002-03:00

The other night I had a dream that I called Lady Gaga and told her to start making sense. She had a Russian accent for some reason. And she took my suggestions to heart, and decided to quit the music business.

So it was pretty much the best dream ever.

The One with the Thesis Advisor

2009-10-02T00:34:00.002-03:00

So yesterday (yesterday being Wednesday, because I'm still in a Thursday state of mind) I was talking to my thesis advisor, and she told me I was one of the calmest thesis students she'd ever had.

She's been teaching in the program for about five years now. And I'm apparently calm and mellow.

My response? I laughed in her face. Full out.

And then I grabbed my messenger bag, threw it over my shoulder, and told her, as I was walking out the door, "Yeah, well, good thing you weren't there when I was playing phone-tag with an ex-New York Times reporter," and then walked out.

I heard her laughing as I walked down the hall.

Because, if you've read my previous entries, you'll know that I'm not calm. I just, apparently, have a really good poker face.

Last week I had four interviews out of 15. This week I have 12 interviews. My final draft is due next Friday, and I think I'll have no problem getting the last three interviews (not unless I just jinxed myself).

And tomorrow I'm interviewing an LA Times reporter who covered Michael Jackson. I just read her Twitter feed, and she was at the memorial. So that makes it an even better interview.

But last week? I was stress-eating Quarter Pounders and Big Macs like they were going out of style. It's a good thing they sent me McDonald's coupons in the mail, otherwise my bank account would be significantly smaller than before this whole thesis thing began.

I threw a phone across my living room when it wouldn't work with my phone tap (a piece of junk that I had to take back to the store). In retrospect, probably not the best idea, but I digress.

I've even started listening to Christmas carols as I write, just to keep me calm. I'm partially disgusted with myself, but also partially applauding my genius: nobody sings about sex being on fire, or how if it's not rough it isn't fun in a Christmas carol. There's no way these carols can affect negatively on my mood (except for my craving for eggnog, but that's a story for another day) while writing the make-or-break of my academic career.

Also, because I'm so "calm", I pretty much got exempt from writing a second draft. I'm apparently going directly from first draft to final draft. I'm passing GO and collecting $200 (that was a lame little cliche, and something that would probably cost me significant points in a journalism thesis, but whatever, I'm leaving it. Right now I think it's funny).

She told me it was because I still had one more significant interview (LA Times lady) to do, and I was waaaay ahead of the game than most apparently are at this stage. I don't know why this translates to "let's not make this girl write a second draft" but whatever, I won't complain.

Until I have to play phone tag again.

The One with Wikipedia

2009-09-29T14:56:00.003-03:00

I'm sure this says something about me.

But goddamn, Wikipedia is the perfect procrastination tool. Here's the information journey I've been on this afternoon:

Tupac Shakur -> The Wizard of Oz -> The Wizard of Oz (1939 film) -> Bert Lahr -> Shirley Temple Black (I don't even remember how I made this jump) -> Mary Pickford -> Lillian Gish -> The Birth of a Nation (1915 film) -> Bethlehem (Birth of a Nation to Birthplace of Christ? I can't remember what led to this jump either) -> David -> Goliath

I guess what I've learned is that you can connect The Wizard of Oz to Goliath. This is sure to be a good conversation starter the next time I see my religious-fanatic grandmother (at Thanksgiving - "Hey Grams, guess what! You can relate The Cowardly Lion and Goliath, wanna hear how?!")

Also, Goliath was apparently only 6'7" tall - still effing tall in my 5'2" book, but I digress. When I was little, they told me he was like, 9 feet tall. And led me to believe that there was a race of giants hiding somewhere waiting to challenge me (this probably wasn't helped after reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and learning that such a race ACTUALLY existed).

This is probably why I stopped going to church, and why a cross necklace shocked me in Grade 12.

The One about Journalism School

2009-09-24T14:00:00.002-03:00

Things They Tell You in Journalism School:

1. You should've gone to banking school. In fact, it's not too late to do so. You'd only be a year or so behind your peers. Do you want us to start filling out your transcript application for you?

2. You're not going to be a good journalist for probably, oh, ten years. If that. Because all the fuckawesome journalists are still working. And there are graduates from ten years ago still waiting for that foot-in-the-door. Or for that old codger to either retire or die. So, you know, you should have a hobby. Or a back-up plan. Did we mention banking?

3. If you can't write short, powerful sentences, you may as well just leave. The most powerful phrase in the Bible is "Jesus wept", and it's two words long. Think you can beat Jesus? Think again. Are you sure you don't want to try banking?

4. Jell-O is a trade name. Therefore, if you're even just thinking about putting Jell-O in any type of story you'll ever write, you better make sure it's capitalized, and hyphenated. If you can't remember something as simple as this, you may as well just go to banking school.

5. To put it mildly, you can't interview people. We're not saying that you can't go up to someone, ask them a series of questions in list format, with the intent to craft a report from it. We're just saying that you can't possibly know the correct way to get answers out of people. You think asking "Why did Fluffy climb the tree?" is going to get you your story? Think again. You have to dig deeper. You mean you never thought to ask if Fluffy has a history of climbing trees? Are you sure you don't want to try banking?

6. You'll never be spectacular unless you can cut out every single "very" and "that" in your story. Still can't do it? How long have you been here? You know there's a banking school in Dartmouth, right?

7. You've been editing your story for an hour, and you still can't find anything to cut out? Can I ask you, politely, of course, how you even got into this school?

8. Your source can't talk until an hour before deadline? You know we'd like to help you out, but you're in journalism school. Someday you'll be in a newsroom. And you can't miss your deadline just because your source can't talk to you until an hour before it's due. We're just trying to be realistic. And by being realistic, we've stuck an application for banking school in your mailbox. Don't thank us, we're just doing what's best.

9. Okay dear, I understand your fear about having Charlie Brown's teacher's voice. And I want to help you. But I can't give you a voice box transplant. You're still going to have to go talk on the radio. You realize you'll lose a huge chunk of your grade if you don't? Oh, now you're more than willing to talk? Great. You know, if you need a reference for your banking school application, I'd be more than willing to help.

10. I really liked that reference to Madonna that you made. However, you wrote "the Madonna" which implies that she's the mother of Jesus. If you had've read your Caps and Spelling, you'd know that we refer to Madonna as "Madonna". If you went to banking school, you could wind up as Madonna's accountant. And then you'd never worry about making that mistake again.

The One with the Freak-Out

2009-09-17T15:31:00.003-03:00

I'd like to point out that it's very hard to write a journalism thesis if all the journalists in the world are away from their desks.

Or just not returning my calls. Or emails.

Seriously CNN, is it that big of a risk to put your telephone number on your website? I'm not going to heckle you (too much), I just want to know some things about Michael Jackson that I just can't figure out on my own.

Same goes for you, MSNBC. Don't think I didn't notice how your phone number was buried under pages of mindless info, in the smallest font available. Or how I had to talk to your "Media Inquiries" lady, who probably won't call me back, instead of a regular working journalist.

And TMZ, I don't have a "hot news tip" about Jessica Simpson, but I'd really like to talk to you about breaking the news about Michael Jackson.

And I feel like lying and saying "Oh yeah, Jessica Simpson's still looking for that dog-stealing coyote, but while I've got you on the line, can you tell me what it feels like to know you broke the news about Michael Jackson?" is bad karma.

And trashy-gossip-website karma is not something I want on my soul.

So far I have two interviews, with one more tomorrow. That means I need 12 more before September 25.

Do you know what kind of pressure that's putting on my shoulders, brain, and psyche?

And that whole We're-going-to-bring-in-an-interviewing-expert-to-tell-you-how-to-do-it-properly thing? That didn't help. He basically just told me what I already knew: nobody wants to talk to a student journalist.

"You're inexperienced," he said. "No offense, but I'd rather talk to your professor ten times more than you. Because I know that she knows how to interview."

Well, really, interviewing expert? Really? I'm inexperienced? How about instead of mushing my self-esteem into the ground, you give me tips on how not to sound like a total goober when I interview someone.

I hate that whole you're-not-experienced talk we get in journalism school. I mean, I didn't go to j-school thinking that I'd come out Barbara Walters, wiping the after-birth of amazing interviewing skills off of my body.

I know I'm going to have to eat the humble pie for a while, and that people aren't going to take me seriously.

You're supposed to tell me how to do this.

"You have to be able to read people," he said. "If their body language is telling you 'FUCK OFF', then you need to figure out how to change the line of questioning."

He followed this statement by showing us a video of George Strombolopoulos interviewing Noel Gallagher on The Hour. Great questioning, but the most awkward looking interview ever.

Well, I think I have a good read on people. I spend more time watching them than talking to them, so hopefully I've picked something up.

And if I'm ever in the same room as Noel Gallagher, I'll keep in mind not to mention his brother (especially now, after he's left the band due to a falling out), Phil Collins, and I won't sit like I'm about to make out with him (like George did).

The One About Big Brother

2009-09-16T00:03:00.002-03:00

The last of my guilty summer pleasures is over.

Big Brother ended tonight, and oh my God! what a season.

Someone got expelled from the house for tossing her ($4000) mike into the hot tub. Someone stole the power and put the strongest player out of the game. Two girls fell in love with the same guy. Someone got engaged to her outside-boyfriend. Backstabbing. Betrayal.

Suffice it to say, this has been the most action-packed season of Big Brother ever.

It kinda makes me wish I could play the Big Brother game, just for shits and giggles.

Even though I'm anti-social enough to hide out in the Diary Room and lament the fact that I'm stuck in a house with goobers (and fuckheads, as my brother would say).

And I don't have the prowess to win a bunch of (physical) competitions. If Big Brother consisted completely of mentally strategic competitions, I'd probably do pretty well for myself. Like, if the Head-of-Household competition is based on who can solve the Sudoku puzzle quickest, I'd probably get it. But thinking about sports is enough to make me think I'm better off just watching it from my living room.

And the fact that I can't play Big Brother anyways (Canadians get the short end of the stick on reality television) is probably another factor, but I digress.

Also, the girl in the final two this year, Natalie, looks exactly like a girl in knew in high school. Acts like her too. And to be stuck in a house with my high school arch-enemy is enough to get me on the floor in the fetal position, muttering "Nerd Herd" and "No more whining, please!"

The number one factor, I think, is my anti-social tendencies. And the fact that I can have quite a temper when provoked.

This temper has lead my grandmother to tell me that she's not worried about me walking around in Halifax at all hours of the night. Her reasoning?

"If someone tries to grab your purse, I know you'll get angry and you'll beat the shit out of him. So I don't worry."

One of the houseguests this season (Ronnie) told another houseguest (Michele) that she was the worst person in the world, and that he absolutely felt sorry for her, during a speech where he was supposed to be trying to garner more votes. She just sat there and smiled at him, letting it roll off her shoulders.

I would've jumped up, wailed on him, been escorted off the premises (and probably the country), and then joined the annals of reality TV hall of shame.

So maybe I'm better to leave it to the "professionals" and just watch the dumbassery.

The One About Patrick Swayze

2009-09-14T22:11:00.002-03:00

I have never known devestation like this.

How am I supposed to go out into the real world, act like a normal member of society, write a fucking thesis, and basically exist without Patrick Swayze?

Rest in peace, Patrick Swayze, and dance dirtily at the Kellerman's in the sky.

The One with the Hypnosis

2009-09-14T15:17:00.003-03:00

I ended up in Dartmouth today.

It wasn't a conscious, Oh-I'll-go-to-Dartmouth-today thought.

There was no premeditation.

I just got on the bus, intending to get off at Spring Garden Road. I spaced out, and the next thing I know, I'm in Dartmouth.

Theoretically, I could've just gotten off at the Bridge Terminal, but I figured, "I'm already in Dartmouth, I may as well just go to Chapters". So I stayed on the bus and went to Chapters. And bought a book about Audrey Hepburn (just a plain ole biography this time).

I have the worst case of driver's hypnosis ever. When they told us about this in driving school, they mentioned the possibility that you might space out while driving. And, obviously, how dangerous this is.

The thing is though, I always get driver's hypnosis whenever I drive. The night before my graduation, I was driving to my high school to pick up the grad gown. I start thinking "Oh my God, what if I trip!!?" and then all of a sudden, I'm parked in the school's parking lot.

Or the night my nephew was born, I was driving (read: speeding like a bat out of hell) to meet him, and all of a sudden, I'm wondering what he'll look like (and who he'll look like), and then suddenly I'm at the hospital.

My adventure in Dartmouth today was shortlived (read: I didn't want to be there longer than I had to), and I only just got home a few minutes ago.

Just as long as I don't end up in Cape Breton the next time I decide to hop a bus spontaneously.

The One About Audrey Hepburn II

2009-09-12T22:40:00.002-03:00

I bought this book before I went into work today.

It's a pseudo-biography, with tips on how to be more Audrey-esque.

The author, Pamela Keogh, even includes a nice little chart to mark the differences between Audrey and Katharine Hepburn.

Notable differences between the two include: Audrey having a perfume made for her (L'Interdit, which means Forbidden in French) while Katharine was left to find her own scent; Katharine being "romantically involved with genius, reclusive billionaire who flew airplanes, owned TWA, lived in hotels for 180 at a time to avoid paying taxes...before descending into unfortunate, but very cinematic, madness" while Audrey wasn't; and Katharine's liking to swim in freezing cold water while Audrey was deathly afraid of having her head dunked under water.

Other things I've learned from this book?

Audrey's favourite colour was white (I hope nobody told her this was a shade, not techincally a colour). She hated garlic. One of her favourite later movies was The Princess Bride - we have soooo much in common. She liked to wear black or red as evening wear. Mel Ferrer was a bastard. She only exhibited diva behaviour once, and apparently it was quietly whispered ("I'm ready" when Jacqueline Bisset wasn't). Her mother was an asshole, who might've had good intentions.

The most important thing I've learned from this book? It pays to be Audrey's goddaughter. She helped her photographer goddaughter get her first job (UNICEF photographer during one of Audrey's missions), and then got her a cross necklace encrusted with diamonds and rubies.

I'm just saying.

The One with the Imaginary Cat

2009-09-12T00:00:00.002-03:00

Reason #684 Why I Shouldn't Have Children:

I can't stand it when kids get it in their heads to play 'make believe', and then you can't get them to come back to the 'real world'.

I'm on the bus, coming back from the post office, and I'm sitting next to a mother and her two daughters. The oldest daughter is seated next to her, and the newborn is attached to her chest.

It's quiet for a minute. Then, the piercing meow of a cat reverberates through the bus.

"MEOW! MEOW!" I hear.

I whip my head around, trying to find the source. I just want to go home, peacefully. I want to curl up in bed and forget everything I've ever been told.

The little girl sitting next to her mother is meowing. And she's eating from a Tupperware container via her mouth. And even though the mother keeps reiterating that she used her magic powers, and that her child should soon be speaking like a normal person.

This does not deter the child, who just shakes her head and continues to meow. She turns her huge brown eyes onto me, and starts meowing in my direction. All the while she's nuzzling her mother's arm.

Please don't gesture for me to pet you, for the love of God, child. Do not ask me to pet you.

Ironic twist: the snack the little girl was eating like a cat? Goldfish (the snack that smiles back).

9/11

2009-09-11T23:55:00.002-03:00

I was in English class when the Towers hit.

I was in Grade 8.

I didn't know anybody in New York.

I didn't even know what had happened until I'd gotten home that afternoon.

But it still shakes me, eight years later.

The One About Audrey Hepburn

2009-09-07T22:02:00.004-03:00

I'm one of the many millions of ladies out there obsessed with Audrey Hepburn.

As such, I've seen a few (read: a lot) of her movies, and I feel that I've learned some valuable life lessons.

Things I Have Learned from Audrey Hepburn:

All of my fears about being mugged at 6am in New York City are unfounded, since Audrey, as high-priced call-girl, can walk through the streets and only get accosted at her apartment door.

If a girl wants to dance with a man, she asks him.

If I ever want to escape from pressing family issues, I need to cut my hair and hope that no out-of-work ex-pat journalists are looking for the next big scoop.

Going to Sing-Sing, or any prison, with a green face is unacceptable.

I will get caught trying to shoplift a fishbowl from a store.

I will not get caught shoplifting a mask, even though I walk slowly and take the time to look back at the shopkeeper.

The screening process for admitting children to private school should be stricter, to avoid any brat child that will accuse you of lesbianism when she gets in trouble.

Old men are only enrolled in cooking schools in order to point out the lonliness of young women. And the fact that they haven't turned on the oven.

Mousy bookstore workers can become cover girls, against their will or not.

Trysts of any nature should be carried out upon the indoor tennis court.

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.

The One with the Favourite Spice Girl

2009-09-05T00:29:00.004-03:00

I read on someone's blog that her favourite Spice Girl was Sporty Spice.

My favourite was (still is) Ginger Spice.

Reasons why I love Ginger Spice:

- Red hair (represent)

- Only Spice Girl named after a real spice

- She kissed Prince Charles full on the lips (if I were her, I would've kissed Prince Harry. But, you know, now, not back in 1996)

- Her name in the "Say You'll Be There" video was Trixie Firecracker...waaay better than Katrina Highkick (Sporty), Kung Fu Candy (Baby), Midnight Miss Suki (Posh), or Blazin' Bad Zula (Scary)

- She wore a Union Jack as a dress (as pictured). Not so much a dress, I guess, as a shirt.

- She was the oldest member, something I identified with, being the oldest in my group of friends. Funnily enough, the youngest in my group of friends loved Baby Spice.

This didn't stop my grandfather from buying me the Sporty Spice doll, something I didn't appreciate. Sporty just wished she was as cool as Ginger.

This is probably why I don't talk to my grandfather anymore. I'm just saying.

And you have to give props to Geri: she quit the Spice Girls and came back for the reunion tour. The other Spices could've been all, "Sorry Geri, we're going in a different direction for the tour. Look for Paprika Spice when we start the tour in Vancouver. Quitters never win and all."

You can argue that Sporty is the best singer (this is probably a proven fact, millions of times over), that Baby Spice was the best looking, and that Posh ended up with the best guy (who wouldn't do David Beckham? I'm just saying). I guess Scary was a good singer, but all that Eddie Murphy baby-drama is too much for me.

But Ginger, to me, really drove the message of Girl Power. She seemed fearless to my 10-year-old self.

And PS, grandpa, I'm still waiting on that Ginger Spice doll. I'm sure you'll find one on Ebay somewhere.

The One with the Viking

2009-09-03T18:30:00.002-03:00

Oh my God, I've finally got my internet, TV, and phone back after nearly a day without them.

How I managed to not die in a heap somewhere with my laptop, phone, and remote control clenched firmly in my hand, I'm not sure. All I know is that I did survive.

I may be exaggerating.

I mean, I can't really complain when I talk about how I never use the phone anyways (seriously, my mother probably thinks I'm dead sometimes, because I never call anyone. Ever. I'm going to be a terrible journalist with a telephone-phobia). And I'm always complaining that there's nothing on TV most weeknights.

It wasn't that bad, in retrospect. I spent all of today working (so that means everything was fixed when I got home), and most of last night working.

And not having internet or TV made me go to bed earlier (or just turn on a movie - Twilight - and stare at the god on the screen).

I don't think I'm ruled by technology like some people (Friend - cough cough). But I'm definitely not ready to live like a Viking.

Or another group of peoples without technology.

The One about Backwoods

2009-09-02T11:37:00.002-03:00

This is a picture from the sliding door of my father's boatbuilding shop in Backwoods.

It was taken in August 2006 (is it just me, or was that soooo long ago?), just before I moved to Halifax.

I had a mini freak out just before I moved, resulting in me running around the house going, "Oh my God! What if I forget what it looks like here? How am I going to be able to focus on Plato if I can't remember what the view from Dad's shop looks like?!?!"

So, to placate me, KF took me on a "tour" of Backwoods. I snapped pictures. So far, I haven't had a need for the pictures, but I think when I'm ridden with Alzheimer's some day, I'll thank myself.

For starters: Backwoods is an island. Honest to God. We're connected to the rest of Nova Scotia (and the world) by a bridge. We're all fishermen or boatbuilders or fish buyers or fish plant workers. If we all flush our toilets at exactly the same time, we'll sink.

I kid, I kid.

When I went to university, I was known for being the girl from an island. My dormmates all thought that I churned butter (I wish I was joking), and functioned without electricity. Any social hiccups on my part were excused because I was from an island, and probably didn't know the proper way to act.

I didn't know what Lululemon was until I'd moved to Halifax. Although an unforgivable sin, according to the fashion-conscious girls in the dorm, I was excused because I'd lived on an island and probably shopped at thrift stores anyway (partially true).

When I mentioned, in the dining hall, that I'd never tried a particular food they served, I was always met with, "It's because you lived on an island, isn't it?"

Never seen a particular movie? It's because I lived on an island.

Never read a certain book? It must not've made it to the island on a cargo boat.

The One with the Angry Letter

2009-09-01T15:36:00.002-03:00

Dear Dalhousie University,

Fuck you.

Hard.

All I wanted was my bus pass. I don't technically go to your stupid school (and now I'm glad that I don't), but since our schools are affiliated, I have to get my bus pass through you.

I stood in that line. I was polite. I smiled when you asked for my ID. I put my trust in you.

But then you turned to me and told me that I wasn't registered for any classes.

Prompting me to exclaim, loudly I might add, "SQWHA?!"

Because I know that I've registered, Dalhousie. I checked my timetable the other day. It clearly said "You start school on September 10th!" and then you told me that my password was ready to expire in an email you sent the other day.

I know I'm a student at school. You're in the wrong.

I didn't appreciate being told to go over to my school and prove to you that I'm a student. But I did. I got the stupid confirmation of enrolment paper. I was told that I was on a list of students who aren't techincally registered for the full course-load but are still taking the equivalent of one. I was told to tell you assholes to call the Registrar if you didn't believe me.

You didn't believe me.

You refused to call my school.

You said that the list was something "over your heads" and "had nothing to do with [you]." To which I ask, if you're not in charge of a list of students who can have bus passes, then who is? And why aren't you all in the same building?

I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have given me a bus pass until I'd put my head in my hands and yelled, "Are you fucking kidding me?" and pointed to the confirmation sheet. I may have told you to call the fucking registrar, and to pull up a computer so I could show you my fucking timetable, but I was in a Hulk-like state, and I can't be completely sure.

I must say, Yellow Teeth, you sure moved fast after that. You applied the bus pass sticker with precision (something I appreciate) and told me to have a nice day.

Please don't take offence that I didn't wish you the same. I still think you should all go fuck yourselves.

Yours in education,

Sessa

PS. I don't appreciate being told that my password's expiring soon, and when I go to change it, it won't let me because I can't use a "dictionary word". The last time I checked, I'm paying out the yin-yang to go to your affliated school, and I'd at least like to use a real word in order to check my email.

Just a suggestion.

The One with the Nerd Herd

2009-08-31T22:38:00.003-03:00

Co-worker made me a mixed CD of country music yesterday, because I told her that I'd never love country music.

One of the songs, "Strawberry Wine", is a song that all the popular girls in my grade in high school would sing on the bus rides during grad trips. They'd hog the back seats, and face each other. And then you'd hear throats clear, and someone counting them in, and then you'd hear the Nerd Herd* barbershop group.

Only everyone failed to tell them how horribly they sounded, and how tired we all were of hearing this song. To this day I can't listen to Deanna Carter without associating her with the prissy girls from high school.

After the Nerd Herd got over their "Strawberry Wine" facsination, they started in on The Rankin Family, a singing family group (like the Von Trapps) from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.

I'd like to thank my parents profusely for never playing Rankin Family music in the house. There's only so much Nova Scotian pride I can show, and I don't want to waste it all on a fiddling family group.

Their biggest song is called "We Rise Again", and basically it's about how when the waves roll out along the water, we look to our children to carry on our legacy. Or something.

Cape Bretoners are big on the whole family-equals-legacy movement. And nearly all of them can fiddle and speak Gaelic.

I'm just saying.

Anyways, they started in on this song, complete with falsettos, backing vocals, and a cappela renditions. This time we did tell them to shut up (kindly), and they started in on "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.

Every time I hear this song, I just want to drink.

And I know what music I'll be facing if the Nerd Herd plans our 10 year school reunion. Lots and lots of The Rankin Family, Kenny Rogers, and Deanna Carter.

Great.

---
*We got the term 'Nerd Herd' from Big Brother 6, same context. They think it's just a clever play on words, since they were all in advanced math.

The One with the Clumsy

2009-08-31T22:12:00.002-03:00

I worked in Dartmouth today.

Against my will and consent, I'd like to add.

I'd also like to state, for the record, that my body rebels when it knows I'm going to Dartmouth.

I know this because I burned my hand three separate times today. And then I ran into a wall.

Twice.

I wish I was joking about this one.

The One with the Humble Pie

2009-08-30T23:33:00.004-03:00

Sometimes I think we all need to take a slice of humble pie.

Sometimes I think there are people who need to eat the whole damn pie, then call the bakery for seconds.

I say this because I'm having a problem with Friend.

Friend has never heard of humble pie. Friend will brag about herself until the cows come home. Any attempt to shut Friend up is futile, because Friend always finds a way to turn the conversation back on herself.

For example, last night: I had just arrived back at my apartment, walked home in a torrential downpour, and sent her a one-off message about how I was drenched and frozen.

Friend writes back, almost immediately, about how she doesn't think she should go out in this weather.

And when I joked about how it'd be fun to try, she replied "Not at all." And when I started talking about one of the little old ladies in the store, she cut me off (as much as you can cut someone off in an MSN chat) to tell me about how her roommate and roommate's two friends were trying to convince her to go out, and screw the possibility of getting wet.

I stopped talking about myself at this point, and just started typing "Yeah" and "Cool" to everything she said.

And then Friend started talking about how she went to pay her deposit at school, and how the secretary was all, "We loved your admissions letter, it was so good that we photocopied it and gave it to the entire staff. Let me just say how proud we are that you're coming to this school."

I mean, really? What do you say to that?

It's not like you can theoretically be like, "Yeah well, I go to school to be a writer," or "Hmm, how grand, can we talk about something else?" because she was obviously fishing for compliments. She kept going on and on about how she'd pumped it out in 20 minutes, and didn't think it was that good.

So I just responded with "Aww, I'm sure it was great!" and she emailed the admissions letter to me. The whole thing was cliched, cheesy, and poorly-written. But I lied and was all, "This is amazing!"

And then she started in on "Yeah, it was a good letter," and talked about herself for the next 10 minutes.

Friend doesn't really have that filter that tells her that she shouldn't talk about herself like she's sliced bread.

I'm getting really tired of Friend. She hasn't once asked me about my thesis, and when my Facebook and MSN said "I finally have a thesis topic!" she never asked what it was. Instead she sent me a message that read, "Is your thesis about how amazingly hot and sexy I am?"

Why yes, you've caught me. Don't tell anyone though, I don't want anyone to scoop me - you know journalism students, they're bloodthirsty.

To this day, she still doesn't know what I'm writing about; and I think it'd be too awkward to be all, "Hey, look, I'm not writing about your hotness, I'm writing about Michael Jackson."

I'm trying to find a way to tell her to stop eating the humble pie without sounding like a cow. So far, I can't find a balance.

The One with the Sunday Shopping

2009-08-30T18:22:00.002-03:00

Ever since an old lady tried to walk through a mirror the other day at work, I've been wary of everyone who comes in the store.

If any old lady exhibits behaviour that screams "I'm about to walk through a mirror", I'm quick to walk over and assist in any way possible, to avoid the whole walking-into-a-mirror thing. If the old lady seems stable in both mind and body, I'll leave her alone.

More often than not, I leave the old ladies alone. There are a few with borderline walking-into-mirrors behaviour, so I'll try gently to steer them towards a sale rack and away from a mirror.

Today, I had a bunch of little old ladies from Arkansas, who bought leopard print shrugs, and complained that they wouldn't buy anything unless I had coupons for them (I did). Then I had an old crotchety country-club bitch, who sat and smirked while I tried to figure out, at her insistence, whether or not the golf collection was last season's (it was).

Then I had two ladies come in, at 4:55 (five minutes to close) just to look at sweaters. And when I started shutting the doors and hauling in the sales racks, they seemed shocked and were all, "You don't close now do you?"

Sorry ma'am, but yes. Now kindly get out.

The One with the Smurf Comparison

2009-08-29T23:02:00.002-03:00

The bigwigs in the OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land) company sent out an info packet. It's for store managers, and it's a contest.

It involves pictures of Smurfs. And asking if you're true blue - like I assume the Smurfs are. I'd like to point out that it's a big picture of Papa Smurf. You would think, in a company predominantly made up of women, it would be Smurfette; but maybe they're questioning what Smurfette does all day, with all those men Smurf around. Maybe Papa Smurf is the better choice.

If you're true blue, and you've heard of Florida (seriously, the question "Have you ever heard of Florida?" is in the package), you could win a trip to Florida to watch the Dragon Boat races at Disney World.

Then it points to a picture of Cinderella's castle, and captions "You are here!"

I only hope they can deliver on their promise to house a manager in a tower at Cinderella's castle. Something's telling me it might be impossible.

I suppose the comparison to Papa Smurf should be enough.

The One with the WTF

2009-08-29T00:31:00.002-03:00

If Heidi Montag is the new Michael Jackson, to anyone other than her delusional husband, I will willingly jump off a cliff.

I'm just saying.

The One with the Swiss Cheese Brains

2009-08-28T18:24:00.003-03:00

Sometimes I'm convinced that I'm a bad person.

Like last night, while I was watching a rerun of Grey's Anatomy (because I stopped watching during the regular season because I was tired of the Dead Denny storyline)? Izzie got upset because her interns were making fun of a man missing his nose and mouth, and asked Cristina (who knew what was wrong with Izzie):

"What is everybody going to call me when I'm a patient, 'Swiss Cheese for Brains'?"

To which Cristina replied, "No, that's awkward and long."

Is it bad that I laughed about this for a good five minutes, and then imagined what they could conceivably call her? And then imagined if Lou or Belle or someone asked me this, and what I'd reply (probably something similar)?

Because sometimes when I watch Grey's I want to punt Cristina over a fence for her lack of compassion, but then sometimes she makes quips like this and I know if I took the "Which Grey's character are you?" Facebook quiz, I'd match her.

And it scares me.

The One with the New Sister

2009-08-28T18:04:00.002-03:00

I have a new sister today.

Not in the "Oh hey, we're having another baby" kinda way, but in the "We've realized that we want to keep the house full of children, so we're getting another exchange student" way.

My mother, KF, and I picked her up today at the airport.

Her name's Ani, and she's from South America.

Her first big Canadian adventure included missing her connecting flight from Toronto to Halifax this morning. Her second big adventure involved sitting in the Jeep as KF got us lost in the parking garage (to be fair, it's 2300 capacity, and four storeys high). Her third involved watching me fall off a huge exercise ball and bruise my ass.

Ani's shrugged it off so far, but I'm worried that underneath that perpetual smile she's thinking that we're a family tree full of nuts (not to say we aren't, but it isn't something that I would like confirmed) and will want to go back to South America.

Or at least get switched to another family.

I like Ani already, and I've only known her for about six hours - she told me that I don't appear or act 21. Not that I'm particularly sensitive about my age, but this was the right thing to say. Major props.

Plus, I've never had a sister before, so I'm looking forward to it. When I go home, we'll be able to do those stereotypical sisterly activities, like painting our nails and gossiping about celebrities and boys. And then we'll get each other those "Life made us sisters, Experience made us friends" ornaments at Christmas.

Oh the possibilities.

The One with the Background Music

2009-08-26T15:40:00.004-03:00

It's very hard to research for your thesis when all you can hear is the ominous instrumental from The Lion King.

So it's not bad enough that I'm walking around hearing this music in everything I do, because I love that movie, it's that I'm walking around with the music that plays while the Lion King dies.

It feels like the ominous build-up of something. So I'm staying in my apartment today. I don't want to risk the chance of a wildebeest stampede or anything.

---
Update at 8:14pm: Just burned my hand making supper. Music was still in my head. Even in the apartment I'm not safe.

The One with the Jacket

2009-08-25T18:41:00.003-03:00

Have you ever wanted to look like you belong on the cover of "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" but were too afraid to dream?

Ever want to look like a rock star, gone too soon?

If you answered yes to the above questions, you should shop at Old Lady Fashion Land.

This fall, look for suede military-style jackets, exclusive at OLFL. They come in a variety of colours: most appear on the cover of "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band", as previously stated.

Why wear black or brown when you could wear "straw", "peacock", "cardinal", or "aubergine"?

Do you want to be the hippiest old cat on the town?

Then don't delay, shop OLFL today!

The One About Wonderland

2009-08-25T17:33:00.004-03:00

Scene: Old Lady Fashion Land, early afternoon.

Sessa is standing next to the cash desk, watching two women admire a jacket. Lady 1 turns to walk away, Lady 2 stays where she is. Lady 1 walks purposefully into mirrored door at cash desk, used to hide the extra socks. She steps back, stunned look on her face.

Lady 1: Oh, this is the dressing room, isn't it?
Voice in Sessa's Head: No princess, it's the entrance to Wonderland. You just require your passport.
Sessa: Ummm. No. The dressing rooms are this way.

The One with the Jedi Master

2009-08-24T22:08:00.004-03:00

I learned tonight at work that I could be a company Jedi master.

I'm not even joking.

They're trying to disguise it (probably to keep all the Sith lords away) by calling it "Sweater Master", but I know the truth.

So now my goal is to be a Sweater Jedi Master.

This is how you become a Sweater Jedi.

STAGE 1:

Involves watching a product knowledge DVD about the company's sweaters. Apparently they're the shizz of sweaters.

Anyways, the DVD is full of "We're the best" and "Our cotton is better than Giza cotton", and afterwards you have to take a quiz.

If you score higher than a 90%, you get a sweater pin. That you wear with your name tag (which I always forget, so I guess if I pass, I'm just going to be called "Sweater" or "Cotton"). And you move onto Stage 2.

What does this involve, you ask?

STAGE 2:

Involves making a five minute presentation to the District Store Manager about the benefits of a sweater. Then you have to build a wardrobe outfit (eight pieces), and you have 30 seconds to explain the greatness of the cotton.

ONLY 30 SECONDS? BUT THERE'S SOOOOO MUCH TO MENTION ABOUT THIS COTTON: IT'S GREATER THAN GIZA COTTON, YOU KNOW.

If the DSM likes your presentation, you get to keep a sweater of your choosing, and you move onto the final stage.

STAGE 3:

Involves training young padawans for OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land). I assume you train them to go out and destroy all the mean old ladies. At least, that's what I'd do. But apparently it's just to train them on the greatness of sweaters and cotton.

If the padawans are sufficiently trained, the DSM gives you $200 for OLFL clothes (nothing I'd willingly wear, unfortunately), and you get a CERTIFICATE authenticating your Sweater Jedi Master-ness.

And then you take over the world; one fashionably dressed old lady at a time.

---

Sidenote: they included a bunch of pictures of women who would wear the sweaters, because of the classic appeal.
They had pictures of Jackie O, Michelle Obama, Audrey Hepburn, and Grace Kelly.

I find it hard to picture Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard breakfasting anywhere near Tiffany's while she's wearing an OLFL sweater.

And Grace Kelly, sitting on the throne of Monaco while wearing an OLFL crew-neck sweater in a turquoise? Hah.

I suppose if it came down to it, I could be all, "Your husband could be president too! If you wore an OLFL sweater, that is. Michelle Obama's sweater was the change they needed."

Gag.

The One with Tristan & Isolde

2009-08-23T19:29:00.004-03:00

Do you ever go through that phase where everything reminds you of a certain movie?

I'm going through that phase now - with Tristan & Isolde.

I don't even really like this movie, especially after the big competition where he's winning Isolde's hand for the king, and he doesn't know it's really Isolde. Because after that it's just confusing and annoying. And James Franco's accent just gets worse and worse.

Everything has reminded me of Tristan & Isolde this week. The pictures of the beaches from Backwoods during the hurricane remind me of the Irish beach Tristan washes up on; the James Blunt songs on the OLFL soundtrack reminds me of the movie (I'm not sure why - he's not on the soundtrack, and he doesn't look like any of the cast members); and the guy from The Tudors is in the movie (and I've been watching a lot of Tudors lately), only in this movie he's a jerk. But a hot jerk.

And really, what else am I going to do on the night of a hurricane, when everything's closed and it's a Sunday evening?

The DVD (a Christmas gift) was practically begging to be put in the player. So I obliged. And Tristan's just left the beach where he and Isolde made sweet love. And Isolde just made a statement that could've prevented the next hour-and-a-half of confusion:

"We both know this cannot be!"

The movie would've been better with a fade-to-black at this point.

I'm just saying. They're no Jack and Rose.

The One with the Hurricane

2009-08-23T15:54:00.006-03:00

Scene: OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land), 10:30am. Hurricane Bill has just started to hit.

Sessa walks in, completely drenched.
Boss: What's it doing outside?
Sessa: Bright sunshine. What do you think it's doing outside?

The One with the Hurricane Preparations

2009-08-22T22:45:00.004-03:00

As Jim Lahey on the Trailer Park Boys would say, there's a shitticane a comin'. Actually, he be on about shit hawks, but I digress.

There is actually a hurricane coming, and I've gotten myself prepared. If the power goes out, I have two flashlights (one is nearly as old as me, the other I bought in second-year for a winter storm); a jug of water; bread; and a bunch of non-perishable food items (and some perishable).

I wouldn't have gone out and bought water, except my mother, KF, called me this morning in a panic that I would die in a heap if Bill decided to knock out my power for the week. KF knows just how to get me into emergency survival mode. And to make me late for work - I walked in five minutes before my shift started, not dressed in my old lady clothes.

Anyways, it was dead at the mall (as I expected), and we had nothing to do. So Boss decided that we'd do the flip we're supposed to do tomorrow. And she told me if I got all the tables switched between my 2-9:30 shift, I wouldn't have to come in until 10:30.

Boss: I don't think you'll get them all done, but if you do, you don't have to come in until 10:30.
Sessa: Just watch me. I might stay til midnight and flip the entire store. Then you won't see me at all.

I'd just like to point out, for posterity's sake, that I had all the tables finished by 7:45.

And I'm still waiting on this blasted shitticane.

The One Where I Finally Have a Thesis!

2009-08-21T21:57:00.002-03:00

Three cheers for finally pulling my finger out of my ass, and getting a thesis idea. It's 99.9% approved by my advisor, so I'm pretty confident with it.

I'm hoping that my advisor really liked the idea, and didn't just send me that "Sounds like a great idea! You should focus on Canada, and read the newspapers, and see where it goes from there. See you in two weeks!" because she was on her way out the door for a weekend vacation.

At any rate, I'm doing my journalism thesis about this guy:

and whether or not the coverage surrounding his death was too excessive.

Now to scour the Canadian media for examples of excessive coverage, and try to wrangle 15 interviews. All before (Canadian) Thanksgiving.

The One about (Bloody) Mary

2009-08-18T23:41:00.003-03:00

For whatever reason, as I've discussed, I have a fascination with the British monarchy.

I'm probably doomed to the life of a royal historian. Not like there aren't about 60 million already. I'll probably marry a nice old British chap who has a penchant for the Tudor dynasty and an overbite.

So, because I'm as cool (read: lame) as I am, I sometimes just read about members of the monarchy from time to time.

This time I'm reading about Queen Mary. Or "Bloody Mary", or whatever nickname you want to insert.

This, from Wikipedia: "When Mary was in her thirties, she attended a reunion with Edward and Elizabeth for Christmas, where Edward embarrassed Mary and reduced her to tears in front of the court for "daring to ignore" his laws regarding worship."

I'd just like to point out that Edward was 15 when he died. Mary was already in her thirties. Couldn't she have sat on him? Been all, "Dude, I'm your sister, I'm at least 15 years older than you, and king or no king, I can kick. your. ass. You wanna go?" And then stuck his head in the 16th century equivalent of a toilet?

And besides, if this is fighting this, I'm putting my money on Mary.

It's not like she didn't beat him anyways.

But we all know Elizabeth is the real winner.

The One with the Crazy Old Ladies

2009-08-18T16:51:00.003-03:00

One of the first things my mother told me was that good girls keep their clothes on. And I've always been a modest girl: you won't find any late-night crotch shots of me exiting a car in downtown Halifax. Nor will you ever find me in Daisy Dukes and a bra top.

It's really not that I'm a prude. It's just that when I see half-naked people in settings I'm not used to seeing half-naked people in, or ever, I stutter and stammer.

Like today at the store. I mean, I'd already put that lady's capris in a dressing room. I'd checked on her to see how they fit. She was in the privacy of a closed room, free to do what she wanted. I wasn't going to bother her while the door was shut.

But as I'm standing there, dying of cramps, and watching the six other old ladies in the store, I didn't expect the little old lady to come out, walker and all, in just a t-shirt and panties.

"Do you have these in a size 10 petite? The pair I had on were a little loose," she tells me.
Did you lose them on the way out to the floor? Why are you in your panties? I want to ask.
"Let me, um, check, and I can, um, bring them to your room," I stutter.

It's not bad enough that she was roaming in her panties, but that she'd been in the dressing room long enough to put her regular pants back on, and she'd neglected to do so. And that she was so cavalier about the entire situation.

Like, "Oh, I'm in my panties dear, yes. I can tell you're university-educated with an observation like that. But once you've pushed a few children out of you, you'll find things like 'wearing pants' to be tedious. Trust me on this, dear."

When I announced that I didn't have the pants she was looking for, she just stood there, put out.

Trust me lady, nobody was more put out than me.

Runner up for "Worst customer": the little old lady that touched my boobs in the middle of the storefront doors, announcing loudly that a small would fit my girls, while the incredibly hot male security walked by.

Second runner up: the little old lady that couldn't be convinced that we didn't have any three-quarter length sleeves, and made me walk her through section-by-section to check. I spent the most of the these 20 minutes going, "Long sleeve...t-shirt...long-sleeve...tank top...sweater..."

The One About Madonna

2009-08-16T22:59:00.002-03:00

I'd like to say Happy Birthday to Madonna.

In honour of her special 51st birthday, I'm listening to my Madonna playlist on iTunes. Right now I'm listening to "Like a Prayer", my favourite Madonna song. Don't ask why, I'm not sure. It's one of those things that's always been that way.

Madonna and I share a bond. And by bond, I mean: she inspired me to want to play baseball, of all things.

When I was little, I didn't know that Madonna was Madonna. To me, she was Mae Mordabito, the center field of the Rockford Peaches. She walked around the field proclaiming that it was more than a name, it was an attitude. She wanted to wait for key moments in games and let her bosom "accidentally" pop out. She kicked the other team's equipment around. She nearly quit the league because there wasn't room for her cigarettes in the uniform. She caught the ball with her hat.

And I honest to God thought she was a real baseball player before I saw her one day on MuchMusic singing and dancing. And then I asked KF why Mae Mordabito was on TV singing and dancing, when she was a World War II-era baseball player. Wouldn't that make her ancient?

Imagine my chagrin to find out that Mae Mordabito is Madonna. One of the biggest music acts in the world.

By the time I'd become a Madonna fan, she was pretty tame.

She hadn't kissed Britney (or Christina, but who really talks about that kiss?) yet. She wasn't publicly pushing Kabbalah; there wasn't an international feud over her right to adopt African children. She wasn't divorced from Guy Ritchie. Her brother hadn't sold her out yet.

I had a dream the other night - my other bond to Madonna - that she shopped at OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land). The store had to be cleaned for the specific purpose of Madonna's visit, and I was given the privilege of being the salesgirl working while she came in.

Only in my dream, she totally ignored me until I launched into a speech about how "Material Girl" is my favourite Madonna song and had completely changed my life. Dream-Sessa was obviously not above lying in order to get an autograph or acknowledgment.

("Material Girl" was the first Madonna song I'd ever heard - Lou and I stole KF's Like a Virgin record from our basement and listened to it on the record player over and over.)

After this speech, she felt obliged to grab a pen and paper, sign her name, and let me carry her bags to her limo.

That Madonna, so selfless.

The One with Crabby McBitch

2009-08-16T00:22:00.002-03:00

I've discovered that old ladies may very well be the most vicious people on the planet.

They hide under the guise of baking cookies and slipping you money when your parents aren't looking and knitting you scarves for Christmas because you can never been too warm in the winter; underneath this disguise they're savage beasts.

Yesterday the most vicious old lady came in the store. I wanted to sit her down in our backroom and try to have a heart-to-heart with her. I envision it Oprah-style, me leaning forward with my elbow on my knee, hand under my jaw, nodding at everything she's saying, letting her get the anger out.

Because really, what justification is there to viciously tell a salesgirl, "No, that's okay, I'd like to hold onto them," when said salesgirl offers to put her capris in a dressing room, and then turn to the woman standing next to her and go, "I hate giving the girls my clothes here, because they always forget what room they put them in."

I stopped in my tracks. I turned my head, but she was steadfastly ignoring me. Honest to God, if our District Sales Manager hadn't been looming over the cash desk (and in her office at another store), I would've said the following:

"Listen Crabby McBitch, I can remember my name, my age, and my Social Insurance Number. I know what I had for breakfast, and I remember what I did last night. I can recite all the deals today, and can give you directions to most anything in the Halifax Regional Municipality. Besides that, there are only four dressing rooms, and I think I can manage to remember where I've put Your Majesty's capri pants."

Co-worker and I stood at the front of the store, where I told her about Crabby McBitch. Co-worker, not thinking, later went up to Crabby and asked her if she wanted the capris put in a dressing room. Apparently Crabby put her hands in Co-worker's face and said "NO!" like she was trying to stop an assault.

So when she came to the cash to pay for the precious capris, I said as few words as possible to her. I didn't inform her of the coupon booklet we're handing out, even though she witnessed me giving the customer ahead of her a booklet. I asked her for her phone number in a clipped voice, rang in the sale, and told her the total.

And then Crabby told me I was wrong. I pointed out the sale, the sale price, and the fact that tax exists, and then Crabby decided to take a slice of humble pie and pay me.

She kept saying "Thank you" over and over again. Which kept pushing her further and further up my Least Favourite Person list.

Because if it's one thing I hate more than a Crabby McBitch, it's someone who thanks someone profusely.

The One with the Childcraft Encyclopedia

2009-08-14T22:16:00.002-03:00

When I was younger, my mother KF bought the Childcraft encyclopedias for me from a travelling salesman.

I read these things from cover to cover, until I outgrew them and became the smartest child alive.

And I still feel the repercussions of the things I've learned from Childcraft.

So now, I present:

The List of Things I Learned from Childcraft Encyclopedias:

1. I will never live to see the day that I'm sitting in front of Neptune in a space ship.

2. At some point the Sun is going to burn itself out. And it may happen at a really inconvenient time. Like when I'm on the toilet, and there's no toilet paper, and I can't get up to find the toilet paper because the Sun's out.

3. I will never see the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, no matter how much Childcraft talks about them.

4. Cleft lips exist.

5. My hypochondriac and psychosomatic tendencies have a root cause.

6. I can make a fortune-teller in 10 easy steps that will always predict "Sessa is awesome".

7. Dinosaurs have unpronounceable names, and the little phonetic guide next to the names is no help.

8. 'Abreast' does not mean 'one boob'.

9. Being an astronomer requires math skills. Enough math skills to fill a blackboard taller than my house.

10. Animals can become trapped in sap and become petrified for millions of years. If animals can do this, humans must be able to. Avoid sap at all costs.

11. Nobody likes Harriet the Spy.

12. Greek gods and goddesses aren't real, even if they're a subject in the encyclopedia.

13. Nothing important happens in November, except American Thanksgiving.

14. January is named after Janus.

15. The measles look disgusting from a six-year-old's perspective.

16. A six year old will gag and have nightmares from seeing a tongue coated and swollen from Scarlet Fever.

The One with the Mall

2009-08-13T20:42:00.002-03:00

Maybe it's just because my high school was located east-Jesus-nowhere in relation to everything else in my hometown - the grocery store, the five churches, and the two gas stations - but I think it's a bad idea to have a junior high school next to a major mall.

Like St. Agnes Junior High School is to the Halifax Shopping Centre.

Because you totally know there's a little wannabe-adult 13 year old girl who goes to La Senza and buys a lingere set for her 14 year old punk boyfriend.

The One with Steve Murphy

2009-08-13T09:39:00.002-03:00

Quote of the week.

Walking up Robie Street, going to the Hydrostone, passing the CTV building.
Sessa (S): Oh my God! Is that...
Lou (L): I think it is!
S: Oh my God!
L: STEVE MURPHY!
S: What kind of car is that?
L: A Ford somethingorother!
S: This is like, the first time I've ever seen a Halifax "celebrity" out and about.
L: That was soooo cool!
S: It's like seeing a Backstreet Boy, only way cooler!
L: Ew, don't compare Steve Murphy to a Backstreet Boy.

The One with the Olympics

2009-08-12T23:56:00.002-03:00

Six months until the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver.

My TV will be tuned into the figure skating events (figure skating gets my blood pumping). Plus, the Olympic torch is coming to Halifax two days before my birthday.

Happy 22nd Sessa.

The One with the Psychic

2009-08-11T23:41:00.003-03:00

I don't want to cause any readers out there to become skeptics, but tonight I discovered I'm a psychic.

I discovered that I'm a music psychic, in that, every time I thought of a singer while at work, a song by said singer would come on the soundtrack at least five minutes later.

And I'm not talking about "Oh, I wish I could hear Phil Collins 'You Can't Hurry Love' or Sheena Easton's 'Morning Train'," because those play about six times a day, every day.

I'm talking about "Why do I suddenly want to hear George Michael?" and then hearing "Freedom" on the soundtrack. And then "I wonder if I should do my thesis about the excessive coverage of Michael Jackson's death?" and hearing "Billie Jean".

Because neither of those songs are on the soundtrack - or they weren't. And I would know because I'm at work nearly every day all day. At this point there are few songs I haven't heard.

Continuing in my music psychic vein, I had a dream that Madonna was shopping at OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land), and when she wouldn't sign an autograph for me, I launced into a speech about how "Material Girl" changed my life (it didn't) and was my favourite Madonna song (it isn't).

I'm happy to say that in my dream, she finally gave me an autograph.

Now I'm just waiting for whoever runs the Halifax Common or Halifax Metro Centre to announce that Madonna's coming next summer.

That will be the final piece - if she comes, I'll know I'm a psychic.

And then I'll spend my days next to the radio, predicting songs before they come on. I see myself making at least a little pocket change.

The One with Karma

2009-08-10T19:35:00.003-03:00

I'm not saying that karma's been proven.

I'm just saying that I once tripped a kid in the Montreal airport, and arrived at my apartment back in Halifax to find a virus attached to one of my craptop's core programs.

To me, that's proof.*

But, to be fair, the kid was repeatedly stepping on my foot. And I'm not talking about a little 15 pound ballerina - I'm talking about a great hulking boy.

And out of all the places for him to stand and sway and play his Nintendo DS, he chose to do it right up my ass?

I was tired, jet-lagged, and had been up most of the night drinking and watching old Degrassi Junior High and Beverly Hills 90210 with Zee and Rami. It was snowing outside (in April) and the plane back to Halifax was stuck on the US Flights side of the airport.

To say I was (mentally unstable) cranky is an understatement.

So when his mother yelled to him that they were going to get snacks for the plane, I couldn't resist sticking my foot out and hooking it around the kid's ankle.

The kid, literally, stumbled about five feet before righting himself. And I dug my nose deeper into my book and prayed to Jesus that the mother hadn't paid attention to my foot sticking out.

Believe me, I've learned my lesson: the next time I trip a kid I figure my craptop will one-up me and explode.

---
*I didn't go to church for about 10 years, and then when I went to put on a cross necklace for grad pictures, it gave me a shock. If my argument above for the existence of karma isn't enough, take this into consideration as well.

Because if you don't go to church, Jesus will find a way to make you consider it again.

The One with the Conference Call

2009-08-10T18:52:00.003-03:00

So apparently all the managers of OLFL like to get on conference call and talk about whether or not it's poor etiquette to eat while listening.

I say this because:
a) I was listening to the conference call as part of my "Boss" duties for the week and
b) I was eating my leftover KFC from lunch while doing so.

I didn't pipe in and let on that I was eating. And at any rate, they didn't ask what the chewing noise in the background was.

The One with the Horrible Day

2009-08-08T22:11:00.002-03:00

I didn't think that last night could be trumped (see: The One with the Eff Up). But today it was.

Because when I went in today (I'm running the store for the week while Boss is on vacation in Boston and New York) at 3, the two other girls came up to me and confessed that they had around $500 in returns, and weren't out of the red yet.

And when I closed the store tonight, we were only at $230. One of the girls only had .51 cents as her sales per hour, and she worked eight hours.

I ended up writing the longest email of life to our DSM (district sales manager) explaining the problem. She doesn't like me or Boss very much, because we don't kiss her ass like the other Bosses do. So she's going to call me tomorrow and tell me that I'm not doing a good job. Then I'm going to call her a bitch. In my head at least.

I had one lady return $60 worth of clothes. She was the dumbest and most stubborn old lady I've ever met. She wanted to return green (read: turquoise) capris because she had nothing to go with them.

To which I asked (seriously) "Why did you buy them then?"
"Because they were on sale," she answered.

I don't know about you, but I don't buy something because it's on sale, even though I have nothing to go with it, just because.

And no amount of explaining that her green capris were in fact blue worked. She told me I was wrong and then pointed to her capris that she was wearing. According to her, navy is the only blue.

I was so god damn pissed off by this point that I just said "The pants are blue" and did the return. Then I kept mentioning how deep in the hole we were, and that she was adding to it, but she just kept telling me she didn't need green capris.

I'm thinking I need to start hosting courses for the elderly. These courses will focus on the colour wheel. Because this isn't the first time an old lady has fought me on colours. One lady tried to convince me that she was holding a yellow sweater. I told her she was holding a pink sweater.

I'll let you decide who was right.

The One with the Eff Up

2009-08-07T21:51:00.002-03:00

Until tonight I didn't know it was possible to eff up so badly even the help desk can't help.

Because tonight I screwed up the cash register and a gift card so badly that I had a man from the help desk in New York on the phone with me for an hour; and at the end of the hour we ended up taking more off the gift card instead of putting all the money back on it.

Thank God the little old lady was so nice, and agreed to leave me her gift card so I can fix it tomorrow. It involves a phone call to Head Office, where I'm probably going to have to explain the story about six times, get yelled at for not following the instructions in the manual (which I did, thank you very much), and then get yelled at for giving the littly old lady $20 in vouchers because I felt horrible.

But whatever.

I need a stiff drink.

The One About Nova Scotia

2009-08-06T22:18:00.004-03:00

Some thing you probably didn't (want slash need to) know about (my home province) Nova Scotia:

1. Approximately two world-famous people come from Nova Scotia - Ellen Page and Sidney Crosby. Is there seriously a person in the world who hasn't seen Juno? And was there a television not set to the Oscars the year she was nominated? Side note: Ellen Page lives just down the street from me. Or did, before she became famous. Sidney Crosby (or Sid the Kid) is supposed to be the next Great One (after Wayne Gretzky); at least, I assume that's what they're saying, since his team won the Stanley Cup this year - which will coincidentally be coming to Cole Harbour tomorrow.

2. The anti-gambling commercials in Nova Scotia have a bunch of Nova Scotians singing "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. When I see these commercials, I always feel like drinking. Maybe it's because I associate this song with the popular girls (Nerd Herd, I called them) in high school who always sang this song on the bus during class trips, and that alone would drive me to drink.

3. Haligonians (what people from Halifax are called) have no sweet jesus clue what to flush down the toilet. There are seriously commercials called "Don't Dump This!" and there's a catchy little song. Basically it boils down to this: our sewage system is broken, and it pumps everything into the harbour. Which leads to condoms, diapers, and tampons washing ashore. It's about seven kinds of gross.

4. Nova Scotians are never picked to be on Canadian reality shows. The closest we've came is a finalist on Canada's Next Top Model. Granted, there is no Canadian Big Brother or Survivor or Real World, just So You Think You Can Dance Canada and Top Model. But I digress.

5. Our twin city is apparently Halifax...England.

The One with the Early Christmas

2009-08-06T09:23:00.002-03:00

There's something to be said about those Staples back-to-school commercials.

You know, the ones that have parents skipping merrily around the store, dragging their depressed kids behind them to the tune of "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" while plucking looseleaf and pens and binders off the shelves and into a cart.

And what I think needs to be said is this: no Christmas carols in the summer months.

Because this is what happens: I watch the commercials before I tear madly to the bus stop because I'm at risk of missing the late bus. I get to work, and by the time I'm into a routine, I'm hearing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" in my head.

Then Mariah Carey comes on the store soundtrack and I start hearing "All I Want for Christmas is You" instead of whatever pitchy song she's singing.

And then you get the little old ladies who come in the store, hunting for the bargains. And when they find the bargains, they come up to you and confess that they're buying whatever items they have in their hands as Christmas presents.

And then I just want to go home and curl under the blankets and listen to Christmas carols until I've worked myself into a bonafide Christmas mood (which includes looking at the 2008 Christmas catalogue I've yet to throw out, and watching Love Actually - the only Christmas movie I own), the likes of which I haven't experienced since Grade 12 at least.

The One with the Domestication

2009-08-04T13:58:00.002-03:00

This is how I know I'm my mother's daughter: we both get into cleaning jags on random occasions.

In the past 48 hours, I've cleaned the living room, dining room, kitchen, and storage closet. I'm not touching Roommate's room, and mine will have to wait until later.

My mother, KF, has taken the cleaning bug one step further. She's cleaning out my closet. Lord only knows what she's going to find in there.

My parents have decided to get another exchange student for the year, and she'll be taking up residence in my room. This means that I have no place to sleep when I go home, unless I want to be acquainted with the couch. Not that I mind, or anything.

Already KF has called me today and asked what magazines she can chuck from my closet. Apparently she and Dad weren't sure if I'd want to keep the old Seventeen and YM magazines trolling around. I told them to chuck the magazines - I haven't needed to read teen magazines for a while, and it's not like the advice actually helped me. We didn't have a Macy's or any of those fancy clothing companies in Backwoods, so I guess that chalks up to why I only had the one boyfriend in high school.

After we discussed what magazines she could throw out (anything but Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone), KF told me I have too many pictures and photo albums. Coming from a photographer for a mother I can't tell if it was sarcastic or serious.

In other news, I'm Roommateless for the next two weeks. He went home on Friday for his best friend's wedding (he stood up as a groomsman), and as he was getting ready to come back to Halifax, he got a call from his boss who said that there was a job they had close to Backwoods (our hometown) and that Roommate could just stay there for two weeks and work at the Backwoods site.

To combat the loneliness, Lou and baby are coming over tonight to keep me company. We haven't hung out the two (or three, now) of us for a while, so I'm looking forward to it. Plus, I get to see my favourite little girl (next to Milly, of course).

Today's my only day off in the next week-and-a-half, so I've been enjoying it; only leaving my apartment to take the trash down to the parking garage (a day after pick-up, I know. But I wasn't home all day yesterday, and I wasn't on the ball Sunday with getting it ready) and to go grocery shopping.

I ran into (read: avoided) a girl that I'd live with in the dorms during first year, Nani. It was a house-style dorm, so there were only 16 of us, but this girl and I weren't exactly close. Not as close as Zee, Rami and I. Nani and I didn't bother keeping in touch.

Other than that, I haven't had much adventure today.

Summer's dwindling down. I have about 30 days, give or take, to come up with a thesis and get it approved. And I'm still lacking ideas. Basically what it boils down to is this: I fail as a journalism student. Because I can't think of a journalism issue to write about.

Any ideas? Anybody?

The One with the Disney Princess

2009-08-03T20:24:00.005-03:00

Okay, confession time: I was one of those Disney Princess-loving, Under the Sea-singing, happily ever after-believing little girls.

And I guess I still am, to an extent. I mean, look at my prom dress (sans head and about 15 pounds heavier).

Remind you of anyone? A certain Disney Princess? One who liked books and fell in love with the Beast?

At any rate, I swear it wasn't intentional. I didn't even notice that it was a Belle dress until my cousin (who went dress shopping with me) pointed out that I looked like Belle (I had long brown hair back then).

She wasn't the first one to make that point. When I was six, everyone used to call me Belle.

Because I was a bookworm. And because my hair was long and brown. I didn't strike up friendships with the candlesticks or our clock, but I guess the resemblance fits.

I had the movie memorized (rumour has it that I could work the VCR at age three, and used my knowledge to turn on either Beauty and the Beast or The Little Mermaid if KF or Dad was busy). I watched it exclusively for a while. That and The Little Mermaid (which I actually broke from rewinding and fast-forwarding too much).

Those were the only two Disney movies that I liked (The Lion King was good, but it wasn't Disney Princesses - and Nala doesn't count); I was exclusive in my likings.

Snow White ate candy (objectionable) from a stranger; Cinderella just sat and took the abuse; Sleeping Beauty slept through most of her movie.

Ariel was adventurous, and Belle loved books. These two were ultimately my favourite princesses.

Even if Ariel raises feminist red flags.

The One with the Ungodly Heat

2009-08-02T20:01:00.002-03:00

I'd like to thank the air conditioning at the mall for giving up and dying today.

Especially since it's the hottest day of the year.

And thanks to the people who run OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land) for not equiping the store with at least a fan or something.

And to the old lady who came in at 4:45pm and told me the following?

"Well, you could've taken care of the heat. What you do is you call the management and tell them that your air conditioner is broken. Then you request that they bring you a fan."

You think I didn't think of that? Hmm, I'd been there for seven hours already, and I hadn't thought to call the management and complain? Gosh, so that's why all the stores surrounding mine were closing and putting up "Closed due to broken air conditioner" signs. Here I thought they were being lazy.

But thanks for your bit of advice, Martha.

Boss and I were flipping the store around today, so I'd been there since 9:30. In the blistering heat. By 4:30, I was cranky, overheated, and on the verge of passing out. So when little old ladies decided to come in (there were two of them) and tell me that it's not as hot as I'm making it out to be (I don't think I'm being dramatic if most of the stores were closing because of the heat) and that I should've taken care of it earlier, I tend to get snarky.

One woman insisted that I sit on the stool next to the display. And then proceeded to tell me that she had a heart condition that could be fatal if she's exposed to extreme heat. I'm usually level-headed, but if a lady with a heart condition passes out in front of me, I'm freaking.

Boss and I took to standing outside the store at changing intervals. And then Boss went to the dollar store and bought me a handheld fan, since she was leaving early to go to a BBQ. I walked around with it for the rest of my shift.

I have to go in tomorrow from 10-5:30, even though it's Natal Day (not sure what that means; Wikipedia is vague on the details). But if the air conditioning is still broken, the gossip around the mall is that it'll be closed tomorrow.

Fingers crossed

The One with the Long Day

2009-08-01T23:47:00.003-03:00

So it's August already. Can I ask where the time went?

I went to the fireworks (for Natal Day - not sure why it's called this, because it's just a day for the gov'ment people to have off) tonight with Fifi, Lou, baby, and Ty.

I had to hop the bus from the mall terminal and ride all the way to the Waterfront, which took about 30 minutes. We hit all green lights though, so I'm not complaining. I'll admit that I rushed through the paperwork in my haste to catch the early bus, but it all balanced perfectly from what I saw in my fleeting glances. Plus, I'm in tomorrow morning at 9:30 (no long Natal Day weekend for Sessa), so I can fix it if it's like, $1000 off or something (but it's not).

Boss told me that I had to sell 10 sweaters today, and if I did, I'd get a prize. I sold 15, and I'm hoping it's a good prize. Like a movie pass, or a gift certificate to Coles. Considering we all had to fill out these questionnaires last year called "All About Me", and it asked what we'd like to receive as a prize if ever offer. I wrote out book certificate and movie pass.

I had one old lady in today that kept asking me over and over if we had a specific shirt in size large. I told her about 15 times before she got the message. And then she just sat the shirt she was returning at the cash desk and asked me what to do with it.

I suppose telling her "Umm, you can take it back with you, it's not helping me any" would've been rude. Which is why I told her to hang onto it for a few weeks, that way she'd be able to bring it in when the new stock comes. She accepted this and took off.

Then I had another lady convinced she had a discount, but the computer never registered this. Plus, she only told me this after I'd rung her in. And then she wanted me to refund everything in a way that doesn't work. After 10 minutes of her trying to convince me to do it her way, I told her (in nicer terms) to shut up and let me do it my way.

The newest worker that Boss hired quit unexpectedly last night (meaning she called me at 7:30 and told me to tell Boss that the job wasn't working out), so I'm getting all of her hours. I won't complain, money talks. Especially in this economy.

So saying I've had a long day is putting it mildly. I'm going to curl up in bed, read some blogs, and watch Saturday Night Live, before drifting off to dreamland. Hopefully my vampire husband (See The One with the Vivid Dream) is waiting for me, ;).

The One with the Crazy Dream

2009-07-31T00:07:00.002-03:00

I had possibly the weirdest slash most vivid dream of life last night. All I can say is I'm expecting a phone call from Michael Bay anytime now; and the dream proves that I'm a nerd in all incarnations, but it's okay, I've reconciled myself to this.

Anyways, I'm a vampire in the dream (I know, I know, roll your eyes at me). And I'm with this guy, so I'm not complaining. I'm hoping we were vampire husband and wife, to be honest.

It results in a dramatic car chase; followed by a police cruiser that we evade at the last second. And then piggy-backing two young kids along the highway when our car finally does explode.

I don't even know how it ends, but I do know that for a brief period in dreamland, I was married to this.

So I won't complain. Any.

But I will consult an online dream dictionary. Stay put.

Vampires: Apparently dreaming you're a vampire means you're sucking the energy of other people for selfish reasons. Way to make me feel good about myself.

Car chase: Okay, I was in the back seat, so that means I'm allowing others to take over.

Highway: Sense of direction in my life. Okay, I already knew I was questioning that, what with the (un)likelihood of getting a journalism job out of school.

So I'm letting other people choose the direction of my life, and I'm sucking the energy of others for selfish reasons? Does that make sense? If I was being selfish, I wouldn't be letting others choose my direction.

I think, for this dream, I'm going to forget the analysis, and just focus on the fact that I was married to this guy.

The One with the Bad Night

2009-07-29T23:56:00.002-03:00

The head honcho from OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land) is coming to our tiny little hole-in-the-wall store tomorrow.

I'm not actually going to be there, but I did spend five long hours making sure the store was spic and span. After five hours, the most I got complete was resizing the entire store, fixing up the clearance wall (which looked like a bomb had gone off), and taking care of the paperwork (I was given this task by the two other girls working with me - apparently I'm the fastest and most efficient at getting all the office work done).

So, if Head Lady doesn't want to eat off the floors tomorrow, I'm going to be very disappointed. I worked hard to make those floors sparkle. She should want to drink her Orange Julius off the floor.

I met Head Lady last summer, in much the same circumstances: cleaning the store until it sparkled (last year it was til 11pm), and then spending the entire next day waiting for her to show up. And then she wasn't even impressed with all the cleaning.

Thank God I'm not going to be there with her tomorrow. She used to work in high management at Starbucks before switching to OLFL. What coffee and elderly lady apparel have in common is beyond me, but I digress.

Then, to top off tonight, we had three old ladies come in at 8:55 to mess up the clearance wall looking for pants. I was so disheartened (read: god-damn savage) that they'd destroyed my wall that I hunkered down in the activewear corner and pretend to preen over a polo shirt, while listening to them gossip about the young girl that didn't get their phone number for the OLFL directory the last time they had been here.

Umm, that was probably me, since I'm probably only one of two ladies who work at OLFL that isn't over 30.

Anyways, they decided they'd try on about five pairs of pants, and then stand in front of the sock display, and then gaze at the accessories. And then when time came to pay Co-worker, they just stood there gossiping about people instead of giving Co-worker the funds.

I stood by the door and silently glared at them, but when they turned their gaze onto mine, I made that smile. You know, the one where you're contemplating murder and all its implications, but you don't want the person to necessarily know you're contemplating murder? That's the one.

Then we decided that we'd never impress Head Lady or Boss with the store in its 9pm state, so we decided to stick around. An hour later, we were out.

Have I mentioned that the area surrounding the Halifax mall gets creepy after 9:30pm? Like, let's-have-a-drive-by creepy? Cause that's happened once or twice in the area, and it's creepy. I decided to walk to the bus terminal with Co-worker, and caught the bus that drops me off right next to my apartment.

Well, pretty damn close.

But when KF calls and asks me if I'd been murdered because she hadn't heard from me, I can't resist telling her that I had to walk through a few back alleys before I'd reached my apartment building. Mother doesn't like it when I tell her about the dangers of city living. Nor when I call her when someone has been shot (the shootings are getting closer to my apartment area, by the way). If you tell KF that you're going to be out after dark, she likes to know roughly what time you anticipate you'll be home. And if you're not back in that ballpark figure, she'll call everyone she knows in Halifax and get them on the search.

She's probably only one more phone call away from hauling ass to Halifax and dragging me by my ponytail back to Backwoods, where I'll be doomed into marrying a fisherman and popping out Janey and Jimmy Mini-me.

So that leaves me where I am now, watching Conan and hoping to God that Boss doesn't call me first thing and gripes about how the floor wasn't Swiffered (it was) and the carpet wasn't vacuumed (it was, I can prove it because I smacked myself in the mouth with the cord) and the paperwork didn't balance (it did), like she's wont to do.

She freaks out that the paperwork's not balanced (nine times out of 10, it is), and I have to remind her all over again that the last math class I took was in 2006, and any math skills acquired up to that point have been forcefully forgotten. I can't be bothered to figure out how to learn to properly divide or figure out percentage discounts.

The old ladies get savage when you can't tell them immediately how much something that's $19.99 with 40% off equals. When I run to grab the calculator, they give me glares. And then they're like, "Why don't you just mulitply 'x' into 'y'?" and I have to be like "Woah grandma, hold up. This is a math-free zone. Let's ask the calculator."

Then occasionally, there's the studious old lady who feels the need to give me a math lesson. She'll tell me, "You know, if that doesn't work, you should try multiplying 'x' into 4" or something like that. And I'll try it on the calculator, and it'll give me something like 9432, and I know it's wrong. And then I go back to my tried and true method: 19.99 - 40% = ____

Works every time, except for the old ladies who want to know what it'll be AFTER taxes. These old ladies truly are the bane of my existence, forcing me to do math.

I hate math.

The One with the Survival Guide

2009-07-28T20:45:00.002-03:00

Confession time.

I like to think that I'm a calm, level-headed person (not). And that in the face of an emergency, I can pull myself together in order to survive.

It's because of this that I'm obsessed with survival guides. It's a weird obsession to have, but in the event that I'm ever being charged by a bull, I'll know what to do.

(Don't antagonize the bull, seek high ground for cover, and if you can't get out, don't lay down because they will trample you - unlike horses, apparently)

When I first started watching Survivor, way way back in Grade 7 (God, that was nearly ten years ago), I thought it would be cool to learn about survival skills, even if I never used them in a practical setting. I know how to make all these survival necessities (like fire and shelter), and have read how to survive different situations, and if I ever get stuck in a situation or end up on a reality game show (read: not bloody likely), I'm prepared.

If you're interested, I recommend reading the Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook, and learning what to do if you need to jump from a roof to a dumpster, in order to fend off mobsters (answer: jump straight down and avoid jumping at angles).

The One with the Cranky Lady

2009-07-27T21:08:00.003-03:00

Sometimes, people do things that make me want to transform into an Incredible Hulk-like creature.

Today, for instance. There I was, at OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land), just minding my own business, ringing in a middle-aged lady's bermuda shorts.

I told her the total, she told me she was paying in debit. I took her card, and ran it through the little handheld machine, and then handed it back to her. Only, she decided to be snippy at me for no particular reason.

"Well I could've done that," she quipped angrily, as she started punching buttons on the PIN pad.
"Yeah, well..." I trail off.

In my head, the conversation continues with me saying: "Yeah, well, you can also kiss my ass, but I'm too much of a lady to tell you this."

Followed by, "And it doesn't matter if the Queen of England is standing behind you paying in debit, I'm still going to take her debit card too. Have a nice day, Ass."

Seriously? If you're going to snip at me, pick something relevant. Like the fact that my hair was in a messy bun instead of the perfectly coiffed updo the OLFL manual wants. Or the fact that I'm not telling you about the deal on socks. That's the greater travesty, that you're not getting the $5.99 socks, marked down 40%.

I'm hoping she was just bitter because, as a middle-aged woman, she should be shopping in middle-aged women clothing stores. Not OLFL.

Maybe she was bitter that her style is as old as her attitude.

The One with the Colour Wheel

2009-07-26T23:08:00.005-03:00

Today I worked alone at OLFL (Old Lady Fashion Land), and it was surprisingly busy.

You'd think, with the rare sun (wait, I think it was sun. I haven't seen it in a while, I can't be sure) coming out from behind the clouds, that everyone would be at the beach. Wherever that is in relation to Halifax. Or out eating ice cream.

Nope. Nearly every old lady in existence decided to make Sunday shopping worth it.

Let's make one thing clear: old ladies do not like to hear that you're working all alone. They worry about your safety.

"Are you sure that you can do this by yourself?" they ask me.

I want to say, "Sure, it's not like I'm having a baby by myself or anything," but I don't. Because the fewer heart attacks I cause, the better.

Anyways, my favourite little old lady today was a Sri Lankan woman looking for t-shirts to send to her daughters. Instead of picking by style, she picked by colour. And the important thing to note is that the colours at OLFL aren't straightforward.

The little woman from Sri Lanka stands at the t-shirt table. Her hand is resting on a green t-shirt. She looks up and catches Sessa's eye.
Sri Lankan Woman (SLW): Is this a grey?
Sessa (S): No, that's green. You can read the colours on the label.
Sessa points to the labels, and shows the Sri Lankan woman where the colour is listed.
SLW: Kiwi? Why not just call it green?
S: Because it would be too easy.
The Sri Lankan woman puts the kiwi shirt down. She runs her hand over a blue shirt, and then grabs the label.
SLW: Powder? What is powder?
S: It's light blue.
The Sri Lankan woman looks equal parts confused and annoyed. She picks up a white t-shirt and holds the label out.
SLW: Winter white? What the hell is winter white?
S: Off-white. I don't know why they think white is different in the winter.
SLW: It's not like it looks any different. White is white all year 'round.
She holds up a coral shirt.
SLW: Reef? What colour is a reef?
S: I think it's a cross between orange and pink. It's coral. But they call it Reef, for some reason.
The little Sri Lankan woman just shakes her head.

She then made me promise that if I ever ran a clothing company, not to make the colour names as weird as the ones at OLFL.

I told her not to worry. As if I could ever run a clothing company. I'm too into jeans and t-shirts to ever consider designing haute couture (even if it's the only reason I watch Gossip Girl and Canada's Next Top Model).

The One with the Awkward Moment

2009-07-25T22:41:00.003-03:00

I'm prefacing this by saying: I went to high school with a bunch of Chatty Cathys.

Like, sixth generation Chatty Cathys. Which meant that they had lessons and tips passed down through their family trees, and they were good at getting whatever gossip they wanted.

These Chatty Cathys caused a lot of awkward situations and moments in high school, our grad year included. They didn't like the Prom theme. They didn't like the sweaters we decided to get, and caused a re-vote (with the exact same results). They didn't like not knowing who was taking who to Prom. They didn't like the grad ranking. They pried information out of teachers about tests and projects.

All awkward moments in their own right.

But no moment was as awkward* as my first kiss. Which the Chatty Cathys** witnessed.

We were at a grad fundraiser for Prom. It was a fashion show, and it was night-time. There had been a grad blood donor clinic earlier that day, and I (heaven only knows why) decided to donate blood.

So I was still woozy, and was making my modelling debut. I don't remember much about the actual fashion show, only that I managed not to fall on my face. I feel like this would give me qualifications for Canada's Next Top Model, but I'm not the "required" 5'9".

For some reason the song "Viva Las Vegas" sticks out, but I'm not sure if it was actually playing, or if my memory thought it was a "Viva Las Vegas"-worthy moment.

Anyways, after the fashion show, Guy and I were walking up the hallway. I was leaning heavily on him, our arms linked, and must've looked a little like a damsel in distress, because the next thing I know he's holding me up, being the knight in shining armor, and his lips are pressed against mine.

We break apart and find the Chatty Cathys standing up ahead of us, staring at us with shocked looks on their faces. And before we can even form a sentence (or an opinion about the kiss), they've taken off towards the gym.

So we enter, red-faced, to find every grad in the gym staring at us. Including the teachers. They've all abandoned cleaning the gym for the moment, and the Chatty Cathys are holding their hands up, covering their faces, and whispering to whoever is closest.

Then, they make their way towards me and grab my arm (my heavily gauzed arm, I should add), leading me to a corner and separating me from Guy.

"So, you and Guy totally just kissed," Chatty Cathy #1 says.
"I know, I was there," I reply.
"Do you like him?" Chatty Cathy #2 asks.
"I don't know why it's your business," I tell her.
"Does he like you?" Chatty Cathy #1 asks, ignoring my answer.
"Are you guys going out?"
"Are you thinking about going out?"
"Are you secretly dating?"
"Why would he kiss you?"
"Or did you kiss him?"

I think the lack of blood in my system was causing me to be snappy, because I walked away in the middle of my interrogation.

It was all over school the next day. Not that I'd expected anything less.

It's kind of funny now, being away from Backwoods (name has been altered) and in Halifax.

Because in Halifax I'm anonymous. And if I choose to go around kissing guys, nobody hears about it. And I'm not on the front page of the Chatty Cathy weekly gossip rag anymore.

Which is very refreshing, to say the very least.

--
*Thanks for the idea, S!
**An amalgamation of three Chatty Cathys

The One Lamenting Shortness

2009-07-24T00:38:00.003-03:00

So apparently tall people are more valuable in the workplace than short people (according to Conan, who found this info somewhere).

Whatevs, I'll sit on my couch and draw the pogey (Canadian slang = unemployment) while all you tall people slave away. It's not like I can clean the ceilings, or change lightbulbs, or (God help me) reach the top shelf of any shelving unit in existence.

And thanks for that Keebler Elf joke, Conan. Really.

Rub it in that I'm a terrible cook.

The One with the Best Moment of my Life

2009-07-22T13:44:00.005-03:00

I joined a group on Facebook a while ago, it's called The Best Moment of Your Life Project.

What you do is this: you think long and hard about the best moment of your life. You write a letter detailing the best moment of your life, and then you mail it to a girl in downtown Halifax. She takes the letters and compiles them into book form, and then uses the profits to help people in Africa.

I joined months ago, but I couldn't really pinpoint the best moment of my life.

Getting into university was a gas, but it wasn't the best moment. Getting an A+ on practically every assignment in my Narrative class was spectacular (and ego-boosting), but it wasn't the best moment. Seeing Elton John was great (and crap-your-pants worthy, especially when he played "Tiny Dancer"), but I couldn't really see him clearly.

Truth be told, the whole idea kinda depressed me for a few months. I'm alive and I'm healthy. Surely to God there's something I can consider the best moment of my life. The whole idea made me feel very It's a Wonderful Life-ish. George goes through life not realizing all the great moments until it's nearly too late.

Not that it's too late for me, way to be foreboding Sessa.

Anyways, I couldn't think of anything. Then I realized, I'm happiest when I'm with my family (cliche, I know. But stick with me here).

Then, on July 11, 2009, I had the best moment of my life.

My mother, KF, and my Aunt Laura and Uncle Will came up for the weekend. They surprised me at work, and then went back to my apartment to wait for me to be done.

We had something called hodge-podge for supper (veggie chowder), and then started playing Paul McCartney songs.

We decided to go stand on Cogswell Street outside the Common and watch the concert (along with about 10,000 other people, give or take).

It was a surreal experience - KF and Aunt Laura had grown up listening to The Beatles (Nan was a huge fan), and had subsequently become Wings fans, and then solo fans. Roommate and I had grown up listening to The Beatles because of our mothers.

We stood and sang along to "All My Lovin'", "Let it Be", "Lady Madonna", "Band on the Run", "Back in the USSR" (to which Paul quipped "that song is about a country that doesn't even exist anymore!"), "Helter Skelter" (when I officially lost my shit), and other Beatles/Paul McCartney favourites.

And then, standing in that crowd on Cogswell Street, we heard the familiar tune on the piano - the opening bars of "Hey Jude". The crowd went nuts. Everybody started singing along. And then once the song hit the "Na na na na na na na" part, you could hear it echoing everywhere.

It was a surreal experience, standing in the middle of a crowd who had all, in some way, been touched by this song and cared enough to sing along. I mean, is there anyone in the world (the newborn population excluded) that doesn't know this song?

Standing next to KF, swaying and singing along, was the best moment of my life. Just knowing that it was a universal moment, as well as a private moment between family members, made it worth it.

(You can't hear me singing along, but I am the voice at the end going "WOOOO-oooooo-OOOO!")

The One Because I Can't Go Long without Harry Potter (news)

2009-07-21T19:38:00.002-03:00

So, in the land of Harry Potter, a lot has been happening. I would like to summarize it for you now, quickly.

Crabbe lost house points for growing and smoking, but Dumbledore just gave him a slap on the wrist. Hermione announces that she's too busy studying to let loose with the rest of Gryffindor. Ginny reveals why she's been largely absent until the final two books, and the reason makes Harry happy. Malfoy nearly lost his legacy, and I'm not talking about being in Slytherin either. Poor Ron's just trying to survive in this crazy world.

And finally, Dumbledore still can't read.

The One with Music Snobbery

2009-07-21T18:48:00.002-03:00

Something that set me apart early on in life was the music I listened to growing up.

In Backwoods, Nova Scotia (name has obviously been altered), most of my friends grew up listening to sad country twangy music and KISS.

It's lucky that my parents had different (read: good) taste in music, and that I got out of Backwoods when I did. Otherwise I'd probably be Suzy Housewife to some Bobby Fisherman, making tuna sandwiches and preparing to pop out another baby. Our first dance would probably be danced to "I Was Made for Loving You" (the most "romantic" KISS song I can think of off the top of my head). We'd probably name the first baby Ace or Paul or Gene.

God help me, I can name the members of KISS.

Anyways, my parents are hardcore rock fans. Dad won't listen to it if it doesn't have an electric guitar or a pyrotechnics show somewhere.

Case in point: his favourite band of all time is Led Zeppelin. And he takes time to educate me whenever we're on a long car ride.

"You know, there's never going to be another band like Zepppelin," he'll say.
"Rolling Stone says it's Coldplay," I'll always reply. Even if Rolling Stone never said this. Dad takes their opinions as seriously as the Pope takes the Bible.
"Coldplay? Are you kidding me!" Is always his reply.

Nevermind that Dad will stop what he's doing whenever he hears "Talk" or "Viva la Vida".

While my friends were used to hearing Kenny Rogers and Shania Twain in their houses, I was used to hearing Queen belt out "Bohemian Rhapsody" or Def Leppard asking me to pour some sugar on them. I could recite 80s hair bands like some could recite the multiplication table. I'd heard most Led Zeppelin songs before I'd started school.

I used to think it was weird when I went to my friends houses and their parents didn't like rock music. Or that my friends had never heard of Queen or Led Zeppelin.

At my house, the stereo was always playing one of those bands. It was background music.

Because of my musical tastes growing up, I've turned into something of a music snob (like my father is, apparently). I turn my nose up at most pop music. I hardly like anything post-1995, and when I do, it's rare. I pretend that I'm living in the 60s or 70s musically.

Thanks Mom, thanks Dad.

No, really.

Just, don't tell my Dad that you like Bob Dylan. He'll argue with you for an hour about what he's done for us lately (and the answer of: "He's just put another album out and is one of the most respected men in music" doesn't work. I've tried.)

The One About Lady Gaga

2009-07-21T16:52:00.002-03:00

Okay, Lady Gaga. I see the game you're playing. And it's not a love game.

This whole, Kermit the Frog as coat thing is just a way to express yourself as an artist.

I get it. On the physical, you're-wearing-a-jacket-made-of-Kermit level. On any other level, I'm completely lost.

Because this is a jacket that KF would never let me leave the house in, on Halloween or any other day.

I can appreciate you in an OMG-let's-dance-cause-Lady-Gaga-says-it's-going-to-be-okay kinda way, but I don't understand why you need to create all these wacky outfits.

Maybe I just don't get it. Or maybe I just think it should be about the music. Not getting headlines because you wore Kermit. By the way, I hope Miss Piggy wasn't too mad.