Enjoy the pictures and please, no mocking. The first person who writes me a message about how great the weather is where they are gets a cyber-punch in the face.
3 Feet High and Rising
I don't know how widespread the news is, but last night we Londoners had the worst snowfall since 1977. In the last 24 hours there have been over 200 accidents in London and surrounding areas (and they say Toronto has crazy drivers!). Luckily I'm working from home today, so I have yet to really brave the cold outdoors (I did spend 45 fruitless minutes outside shovelling). Someone told me it's like that movie "Snow Day" out here, but I wasn't one of the few people who saw that movie. Just kidding, I think it might be one of the few successful Cuba Gooding Jr. movies. There's just something about him I don't vibe with. As my mother would say, my blood doesn't take him. But I digress. I took a few low-quality pictures on my phone to share with you, since it's kind of hard to explain just how much snow there is. To give you a mental picture, I went next door to borrow a shovel and the snow was up to the middle of my thighs.
Enjoy the pictures and please, no mocking. The first person who writes me a message about how great the weather is where they are gets a cyber-punch in the face.
Enjoy the pictures and please, no mocking. The first person who writes me a message about how great the weather is where they are gets a cyber-punch in the face.
The Pink Elephant
For the last few days I have been completely transfixed by the Michael Richards (a.k.a. Kramer from Seinfeld) debacle. Any bubble-boys and girls out there who haven't heard the story can just Google his name and read all about it. But don't believe the hype -- you absolutely must go to a site and watch the video footage of Richards at the comedy club. This is not just about him using the N-word.
Ah, the N-word. The subject of much debate and little agreement. I love how the context of what he said, the way in which he said it, the other horrible things he said have all disappeared in favour of discussing whether or not people should be allowed to say nigger. Yeah that's right, I said it. And guess what? I think I'm allowed. Wanna know why? Because I'm black. Some say that's unfair, and maybe they're right, but tell me this: Is it confusing? Because I really don't think so. Please tell me how can this be confusing:
Black = You can say it.
Not Black = You can't say it.
Perhaps because it begs the question of who or what defines blackness. Which is a fair question. But I'm willing to bet that the group of people in the world for whom this question applies are not the perpetrators we're trying to stop from spreading their racist propaganda.
Yeah, I said it: RACIST. That's the Pink Elephant in the room. I find it interesting how people are trying to AVOID saying it. "He went crazy", "He has a rage problem", "The words just flew uncontrollably out of his mouth", "He had too much to drink", are the catch phrases you'll hear out in the world -- and by the way, that would be what the "Not Black" group of people
are saying (another distinguishing characteristic). In fact, the only not Black person I can recall even using the word is Michael Richards himself. He said, "I'm not a racist--that's the insane part about it." Was everyone else waiting to hear him say "I have lots of black friends" too??
But why are we afraid to say he's a racist? Because it can't be taken back? Well, neither can the things he said, as his feeble apology proved. Or are we not saying it because we believe it isn't true? I'm sorry, but in my mind when you couple calling someone a nigger repeatedly with a reference to lynching, that pretty much makes you a racist. I have a feeling that if I said something like "Listen kike, 50 years ago I'd have had you in a gas chamber", it wouldn't be defendable, even if I was a personal friend of Mr. Seinfeld himself.
So I guess to me the debate should really be about what makes someone a racist. Here is the definition of a racist, as found on dictionary.com:
1. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others.
2. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.
Now here are some of the comments Michael Richards made:
"50 years ago we'd have you upside down with a fucking fork up your ass".
"Throw his ass out, he's a nigger".
"Oh, this shocks you. To see what's buried underneath".
"It was uncalled for you to interrupt me you cheap motherfucker."
"That's what happens when you interrupt the white man."
And according to the men he was speaking to, he also said "When I wake up in
the morning, I'll still be rich and you'll still be a nigger."
I'm not saying definitively that he's a racist--I'll never know what goes on inside his head. What concerns me is that the world is trying so hard to say he isn't. It basically closes the possibility of any real dialogue we could have as a society about "what's buried underneath" all our political
correctness.
I watched a lot of news coverage about this, and then I finally saw an interview with the 2 men Richards was addressing. And they said that it was all bad, but the worst part was when he referenced lynching. That's what really hurt, and what made them really scared. And I thought, "Yes, that's it." Which made me a little sad because it made me think, is it only Black people who will ever really get it?
I know that there are people in the Not Black group who do get it, those who will be reading what I'm writing here and truly understanding. But sometimes it really sucks to live in a world where people are so willing to dismiss it as something else, or disregard it because he's famous, or forgive him because he didn't mean it.
In closing, what I really want people to take away from this post and this incident and everything else is that people shouldn't be so quick to say the world had changed, that racism doesn't exist, or that black people need to just "get over it". This is why our defences are always up -- because when they're down, it can really hurt.
If anyone has gotten to the end of this very long post, I appreciate you reading my rant. This is a far cry from what I usually write, certainly from my lively sex post. But it's equally important (and equally disgusting).
feeling purged,
sbg
Blog Etiquette and other mysteries
I basically assume that everyone who reads my blog are people I know. But every now and then I'll get a message from someone I don't know, and I'm not quite sure what the blog etiquette is. I always go and check out their profiles or blogs. But do I post a message back on my page or on theirs? And if I post a message on their page, then shouldn't I be writing about them? I can't very well go to their blog, read it, and then post a message about me and my blog... can I? I just don't know. I certainly don't want to have something else to feel guilty about... apparently, that is not superblack behaviour.
Another thing I'm wondering is if there's some kind of "blogger big brother" out there who will get me in trouble if I write inappropriate things. Here's why: I recently had a bunch of conversations about weird sexual acts and their equally strange names. I believe the conversation was the result of a friendly game of porno password, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, my friend's boyfriend told me a bunch of them, and they had ridiculous names like "cherry cheesecake" and "abe lincoln". So I was like, "This is all a load of crap. I could make up any weird sexual act, give it some silly name and that doesn't make it something that people actually do." But I was curious, so I started to look some of them up and I found an online encyclopedia of them... like from A to Z! So I wanted to post the link because it is mind-boggling what people think of in this world. But then I started to worry that I could get booted off blogger for promoting sexual deviance or something. If anyone out there knows the protocol, hook a blackgirl up with the details please.
But I did make up a few. I'll tell you the names and you can just use your imagination for the rest: "Crazy Tom" and "Hot Fudge Sundae".
I am a sick, sick woman.
~sbg
Another thing I'm wondering is if there's some kind of "blogger big brother" out there who will get me in trouble if I write inappropriate things. Here's why: I recently had a bunch of conversations about weird sexual acts and their equally strange names. I believe the conversation was the result of a friendly game of porno password, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, my friend's boyfriend told me a bunch of them, and they had ridiculous names like "cherry cheesecake" and "abe lincoln". So I was like, "This is all a load of crap. I could make up any weird sexual act, give it some silly name and that doesn't make it something that people actually do." But I was curious, so I started to look some of them up and I found an online encyclopedia of them... like from A to Z! So I wanted to post the link because it is mind-boggling what people think of in this world. But then I started to worry that I could get booted off blogger for promoting sexual deviance or something. If anyone out there knows the protocol, hook a blackgirl up with the details please.
But I did make up a few. I'll tell you the names and you can just use your imagination for the rest: "Crazy Tom" and "Hot Fudge Sundae".
I am a sick, sick woman.
~sbg
Could I be more excited?
My faithful readers will remember that I had a picture taken after I successfully passed my driver's test. I decided to post it today with this amusing little anecdote:
I was showing a girl a work some pictures that Max sent me and we came across this one. So I was like, "Oh, my mom took that after I got my driver's license." And she was like, "Aw, that's so cute! Do you have any other old pictures?" Rather than say, "That was actually taken 3 months ago," I just mumbled something like, "Uh... no. That's the only one."
Sometimes I forget that most people get their licenses when they're 16. And if they are grown-up when they take the test, they probably don't go with their mothers.
On the plus side, I obviously still look quite youthful.
adoring you,
sbg
Chris's secret soon-to-be blog
it's so confidential, he wouldn't even let me use it as the title of this blog.
chris is beside me right now, lighting up the library with his jacket. representing both where he gets his duckets and colour coordination.
chris was kind enough to come visit me for the one hour i have free. we figured out that this is the first time we've seen each other since i left toronto. here is a snippet of our "catching up" conversation:
chris: so how are things?
me: good.
me: what's up with you?
chris: nothing much.
(chris gets text message)
(i start looking for books on cd)
me: i need to go on the computer.
(while computer is loading)
me: hey, my boss caught me playing mcdonald's monopoly online.
chris: have you won yet?
me: yeah, some stupid snapfish pictures.
chris: me too.
that basically catches us up to now.
we had pictures, but library nazis won't let us save them on the computer.
my hour is up,
sbg
ps i'm at another computer now, so i'm uploading the pictures. take that, central library. you can't hold us down.
chris is beside me right now, lighting up the library with his jacket. representing both where he gets his duckets and colour coordination.
chris was kind enough to come visit me for the one hour i have free. we figured out that this is the first time we've seen each other since i left toronto. here is a snippet of our "catching up" conversation:
chris: so how are things?
me: good.
me: what's up with you?
chris: nothing much.
(chris gets text message)
(i start looking for books on cd)
me: i need to go on the computer.
(while computer is loading)
me: hey, my boss caught me playing mcdonald's monopoly online.
chris: have you won yet?
me: yeah, some stupid snapfish pictures.
chris: me too.
that basically catches us up to now.
we had pictures, but library nazis won't let us save them on the computer.
my hour is up,
sbg
ps i'm at another computer now, so i'm uploading the pictures. take that, central library. you can't hold us down.
I'm protesting titles right now*
I don’t have any really good excuses for not blogging, but let me give you a few bad ones I came up with:
1. I was actually trying to do a podcast instead of a blog, but it turns out that my technical savvy stops at programming the VCR. So I’m back to good old writing. Pass me the scroll and ink, please.
2. I have been extra busy because I now have to run band practice three times a week. Which means instead of getting home at 6 o’clock (ten and a half hours after I leave in the morning), I get home at 8:30 (thirteen hours after I leave the house in the morning, a.k.a. fourteen hours after I wake up in the morning). So I get a whopping hour and half to do whatever I want at home before I should be asleep for the next glorious day.
3. Nothing of note has happened.
What makes me laugh about this blog is that it has become yet another thing to make me feel guilty. As many of you know, I have a little guilt problem. For example, I started taking yoga on Wednesdays at lunch, but I don’t really like it. I am also taking Pilates on Tuesdays and Thursdays at lunch, and I really like it. So I want to quit yoga, but I feel guilty. I feel quilty because I don't want the teacher to think it’s her fault, since a bunch of us are quitting, and yet we are all continuing with Pilates. But the alternative is paying to do something I don’t want to do. Just like Chicken Little hair. I felt guilty to say, “Why is my hair grease mania?” and so I ended up paying money to look like David Spade in Joe Dirt. Anyway, the point is that I feel guilty when I’m not writing in the blog. That's why I make bad excuses.
It’s funny that I just wrote, “The point is…” because I’ve been saying that since I was twelve years old. Isn’t that crazy? Like I knew the point at twelve. My friends would always tease me because I said it all the time. And I didn’t even realize it until the grade 8 yearbook, when we had a section that listed everyone’s favourite saying and that was mine. When I think of things like that, I think I must have been a very obnoxious child.
Feeling guilty because this is so short,
sbg
*I don’t feel I can handle the added pressure of coming up with a title. I’m very fragile right now.
1. I was actually trying to do a podcast instead of a blog, but it turns out that my technical savvy stops at programming the VCR. So I’m back to good old writing. Pass me the scroll and ink, please.
2. I have been extra busy because I now have to run band practice three times a week. Which means instead of getting home at 6 o’clock (ten and a half hours after I leave in the morning), I get home at 8:30 (thirteen hours after I leave the house in the morning, a.k.a. fourteen hours after I wake up in the morning). So I get a whopping hour and half to do whatever I want at home before I should be asleep for the next glorious day.
3. Nothing of note has happened.
What makes me laugh about this blog is that it has become yet another thing to make me feel guilty. As many of you know, I have a little guilt problem. For example, I started taking yoga on Wednesdays at lunch, but I don’t really like it. I am also taking Pilates on Tuesdays and Thursdays at lunch, and I really like it. So I want to quit yoga, but I feel guilty. I feel quilty because I don't want the teacher to think it’s her fault, since a bunch of us are quitting, and yet we are all continuing with Pilates. But the alternative is paying to do something I don’t want to do. Just like Chicken Little hair. I felt guilty to say, “Why is my hair grease mania?” and so I ended up paying money to look like David Spade in Joe Dirt. Anyway, the point is that I feel guilty when I’m not writing in the blog. That's why I make bad excuses.
It’s funny that I just wrote, “The point is…” because I’ve been saying that since I was twelve years old. Isn’t that crazy? Like I knew the point at twelve. My friends would always tease me because I said it all the time. And I didn’t even realize it until the grade 8 yearbook, when we had a section that listed everyone’s favourite saying and that was mine. When I think of things like that, I think I must have been a very obnoxious child.
Feeling guilty because this is so short,
sbg
*I don’t feel I can handle the added pressure of coming up with a title. I’m very fragile right now.
Quote of the Week
I was watching a news clip of Tiger Woods speaking at a press conference,
re: an Irish magazine saying his wife was a big dirty porn whore. Tiger was quoted saying, "It is unacceptable. I do not accept it". Wow, he speaks so well! But can I just say that this could all be a simple misunderstanding? His wife is so generic white woman it would be really hard to distinguish her in soft porn focus. She's medium height, blond hair, slim build, and attractive. I mean, for all we know, it could be Cuba Gooding Jr.'s wife in that porn.
Anyway, Tiger's eloquent words lead me to reflect on some unacceptable things I've noticed, so I thought I would share them with you.
1. Old man in restaurant
My friends and I went to a restaurant for our monthly "Diva's Dinner". When the girls get together and the wine is flowing freely, it tends to get a little loud. But hey, we're having a good time, talking, laughing, and enjoying our dinner. Then this old man behind us gave us the subtle sign that the volume was a little too high for him. That sign was scrunching up his eyes, plugging his ears, and then moving his hands in a "keep it down" motion. The truth is, any way he chose to tell us to shut the hell up would have probably pissed me off. But the hand motions? Unacceptable. I do not accept it. Except in that case I did, because he was mad old and I didn't want him to have a stroke or anything.
2. The return of domesticity
I don't know if you've all heard, but domesticity is back. Apparently there are women my age who are married or living with their boyfriends who simply have to make dinner. Like, they seriously can't go home and do nothing. Or get him to make it. And when they do have a night out, or go on vacation for a few days, they make dinner and freeze it for their men. Their 30-year-old men. They do it all--cooking, cleaning, laundry, feeding the dog. There's a slight possibility that garbage still falls under the man's jurisdiction, but don't quote me. Okay, I know I sound all judgy-wudgy. But the truth is, I'm just afraid my boyfriend is going to find out and realize that I've been scamming him with that whole, "independent women don't do things like that". Because these women are all independent and smart. So despite what Rina thinks, I've decided I'm much too lazy to get on the domesticity bandwagon. Now if my boyfriend would like to get on it, I would definitely accept that.
3. The Western clones
If you're a white girl and you go to Western, you have a new uniform for a night on the town: a tank top, a jean mini-skirt over black leggings, and stillettos or flip-flops. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with this outfit per se, but when you're looking at a line of about 200 girls outside of a club and 80% of them are wearing this outfit, it's a bit strange. And it's so Western. When I was 18, the Western uniform was B.U.M. hats, Western sweatshirts, hospital pants, and Teva sandals. I'm not saying absolutely everyone wears the same clothes, but I challenge you to honestly say there isn't some kinda crazy cloning going on there. You know how Western is known for its Science department? Uh huh. Just think about it for a minute.
That's my word,
sbg
re: an Irish magazine saying his wife was a big dirty porn whore. Tiger was quoted saying, "It is unacceptable. I do not accept it". Wow, he speaks so well! But can I just say that this could all be a simple misunderstanding? His wife is so generic white woman it would be really hard to distinguish her in soft porn focus. She's medium height, blond hair, slim build, and attractive. I mean, for all we know, it could be Cuba Gooding Jr.'s wife in that porn.
Anyway, Tiger's eloquent words lead me to reflect on some unacceptable things I've noticed, so I thought I would share them with you.
1. Old man in restaurant
My friends and I went to a restaurant for our monthly "Diva's Dinner". When the girls get together and the wine is flowing freely, it tends to get a little loud. But hey, we're having a good time, talking, laughing, and enjoying our dinner. Then this old man behind us gave us the subtle sign that the volume was a little too high for him. That sign was scrunching up his eyes, plugging his ears, and then moving his hands in a "keep it down" motion. The truth is, any way he chose to tell us to shut the hell up would have probably pissed me off. But the hand motions? Unacceptable. I do not accept it. Except in that case I did, because he was mad old and I didn't want him to have a stroke or anything.
2. The return of domesticity
I don't know if you've all heard, but domesticity is back. Apparently there are women my age who are married or living with their boyfriends who simply have to make dinner. Like, they seriously can't go home and do nothing. Or get him to make it. And when they do have a night out, or go on vacation for a few days, they make dinner and freeze it for their men. Their 30-year-old men. They do it all--cooking, cleaning, laundry, feeding the dog. There's a slight possibility that garbage still falls under the man's jurisdiction, but don't quote me. Okay, I know I sound all judgy-wudgy. But the truth is, I'm just afraid my boyfriend is going to find out and realize that I've been scamming him with that whole, "independent women don't do things like that". Because these women are all independent and smart. So despite what Rina thinks, I've decided I'm much too lazy to get on the domesticity bandwagon. Now if my boyfriend would like to get on it, I would definitely accept that.
3. The Western clones
If you're a white girl and you go to Western, you have a new uniform for a night on the town: a tank top, a jean mini-skirt over black leggings, and stillettos or flip-flops. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with this outfit per se, but when you're looking at a line of about 200 girls outside of a club and 80% of them are wearing this outfit, it's a bit strange. And it's so Western. When I was 18, the Western uniform was B.U.M. hats, Western sweatshirts, hospital pants, and Teva sandals. I'm not saying absolutely everyone wears the same clothes, but I challenge you to honestly say there isn't some kinda crazy cloning going on there. You know how Western is known for its Science department? Uh huh. Just think about it for a minute.
That's my word,
sbg
My Life in 10 minutes or less
The sad thing is that the update about my life may not even need a full 10 minutes. But I digress...
Minutes 1-5
I made a fatal error in judgement last Thursday when I decided to see Metric without the Bean. What was I thinking? Don't get me wrong, Metric was great. But it seemed the crowd had a little T-dot-itis, as a large number of them stood in front of the stage with their arms hanging limply at their sides. It was also very un-crowded, for reasons unknown to me. Emily Haines kept thanking us for being a small crowd, but wondered if she too was a little peeved by the lack of enthusiasm when she asked (midway through a song), "Do you guys know this song?" And she wasn't being coy.
Minutes 5-10
I've started to really question why I am so inexcusably lazy. I complain about being unfulfilled and uninspired, yet I do nothing to change my life. I like to say that it stems from the womb, where I apparently found a comfy spot and never moved--so much so that my mother thought I had died in her belly. Fast-forward to right now and that comfy spot is the couch. Similar to the nurture/nature debate, I think this falls in the genetic/generation debate. Is this laziness woven into my DNA, or is it my peers and People Magazine that force me to do nothing but ingest pop culture?
Minute 11 (I need it, hooray!)
I'm using my connection to other people who know people to gain friends at work. A coworker told me that she really liked Esthero's brother. I told her that I had a good friend who was best friends with Esthero, which meant she was only 2 degress of separation away. She was duly impressed by my Kevin Bacon-ness.
(Bean, I might need your help in the future).
Minute 12
No time to proofread. I'm out.
sbg
Minutes 1-5
I made a fatal error in judgement last Thursday when I decided to see Metric without the Bean. What was I thinking? Don't get me wrong, Metric was great. But it seemed the crowd had a little T-dot-itis, as a large number of them stood in front of the stage with their arms hanging limply at their sides. It was also very un-crowded, for reasons unknown to me. Emily Haines kept thanking us for being a small crowd, but wondered if she too was a little peeved by the lack of enthusiasm when she asked (midway through a song), "Do you guys know this song?" And she wasn't being coy.
Minutes 5-10
I've started to really question why I am so inexcusably lazy. I complain about being unfulfilled and uninspired, yet I do nothing to change my life. I like to say that it stems from the womb, where I apparently found a comfy spot and never moved--so much so that my mother thought I had died in her belly. Fast-forward to right now and that comfy spot is the couch. Similar to the nurture/nature debate, I think this falls in the genetic/generation debate. Is this laziness woven into my DNA, or is it my peers and People Magazine that force me to do nothing but ingest pop culture?
Minute 11 (I need it, hooray!)
I'm using my connection to other people who know people to gain friends at work. A coworker told me that she really liked Esthero's brother. I told her that I had a good friend who was best friends with Esthero, which meant she was only 2 degress of separation away. She was duly impressed by my Kevin Bacon-ness.
(Bean, I might need your help in the future).
Minute 12
No time to proofread. I'm out.
sbg
Coming Out
Titles are becoming a problem for me. In the spirit of what this entry is going to be about, let me share this little secret with you: I just spent 5 minutes trying to think of a title. And I do this all the time--even when I'm just sending an email. There, I said it.
A coworker showed me this blog called PostSecret... In a nutshell, people write secrets on postcards anonymously and send them to this person who posts them on a blog. There's actually a book of them too. It's a blogspot thing, if you want to look it up.
So in the spirit of that blog, I decided to write some of my secrets in this entry. It obviously isn't anonymous because to the best of my knowledge, everyone who reads this blog knows me. And given that, these are probably "secrets" I would tell you if it ever came up anyway. But at least I'm posting, dammit. Here I go:
1. Sometimes I cry when I watch "What Not To Wear". When the people are all emotional, and they talk about how the experience changed their lives and they feel better about themselves, and then they see their families and everyone is so happy, I'll actually have tears streaming down my face.
2. Since they started airing, I've taped Beverly Hills 90210 every day.
3. When the TV Guide that has the new fall lineup arrived, my eyes lit up and I clapped my hands with glee.
sidebar: I just realized that the first 3 "secrets" have all been about TV and will probably come as a surprise to NO ONE.
4. I wish I was mysterious.
5. I wear Spanx.
6. Every night when I go to bed I spend at least 15 minutes having pretend conversations with people.
7. I make up speeches in my head, like if I won an award, at my sister's wedding, and even at someone's funeral.
8. I made a CD for the car and put Kelly Clarkson's Since You Been Gone on it twice.
9. I've eaten an entire box of Kraft Dinner for dinner on more than one occasion.
10. When I first saw Tom Cruise jump on Oprah's couch, I thought it was sweet.
Well, that's it. Some of my not-so-deep dark secrets. I expect ridicule and mocking to follow in the form of comments.
Feeling exposed,
sbg
A coworker showed me this blog called PostSecret... In a nutshell, people write secrets on postcards anonymously and send them to this person who posts them on a blog. There's actually a book of them too. It's a blogspot thing, if you want to look it up.
So in the spirit of that blog, I decided to write some of my secrets in this entry. It obviously isn't anonymous because to the best of my knowledge, everyone who reads this blog knows me. And given that, these are probably "secrets" I would tell you if it ever came up anyway. But at least I'm posting, dammit. Here I go:
1. Sometimes I cry when I watch "What Not To Wear". When the people are all emotional, and they talk about how the experience changed their lives and they feel better about themselves, and then they see their families and everyone is so happy, I'll actually have tears streaming down my face.
2. Since they started airing, I've taped Beverly Hills 90210 every day.
3. When the TV Guide that has the new fall lineup arrived, my eyes lit up and I clapped my hands with glee.
sidebar: I just realized that the first 3 "secrets" have all been about TV and will probably come as a surprise to NO ONE.
4. I wish I was mysterious.
5. I wear Spanx.
6. Every night when I go to bed I spend at least 15 minutes having pretend conversations with people.
7. I make up speeches in my head, like if I won an award, at my sister's wedding, and even at someone's funeral.
8. I made a CD for the car and put Kelly Clarkson's Since You Been Gone on it twice.
9. I've eaten an entire box of Kraft Dinner for dinner on more than one occasion.
10. When I first saw Tom Cruise jump on Oprah's couch, I thought it was sweet.
Well, that's it. Some of my not-so-deep dark secrets. I expect ridicule and mocking to follow in the form of comments.
Feeling exposed,
sbg
The Art of Communication
I realize that my mother is often the subject in this blog, and in that regard, often the object of my ridicule. But for God's sake, could the woman give me any more material?
Since I have mastered the art of driving, I am using her car everyday. Mostly for work, but I like to have a little "me" time out on the road too. So I guess my parents have been discussing giving me that car, and to that end, were wondering if I could afford insurance. This is an almost verbatim transcript of our conversation:
Mum: Do you think you can afford the insurance for the car?
Me: How much is it?
Mum: A lot.
Me: How much is a lot?
Mum: I don't know... I just know it's a lot.
Me: Well, how much do you pay?
Mum: Since I had that accident, it went up a lot.
Me: Uh... could you ballpark it for me?
Mum: I don't know... $500?
Me: A month?!
Mum: Um, yeah... uh... I don't know. Ask your dad. I just know it's a lot.
Me: (Sigh)
I'm not even going to recount the conversation I had with my dad about it... just decrease the "a lot" comments by half and replace them with the similarly vague, "it depends".
The art of communication at it's finest, folks. I guess you can see how I ended up the articulate woman I am today.
In other news, the job is going well. While I'm not necessarily more confident in myself, I think my boss is more confident I can actually do the job. As I explained it to a friend earlier today, whenever I manage to say something interesting and creative during our brainstorming sessions, my first thought isn't "Yay Me!", it's more like "Okay, I'm not getting fired today. Whew." Which means that sadly, my quarter-life crisis lives on. Insatiable bastard.
It's crazy... so many things that I dreamed about before I moved have come true: I got a job in my field. I got my driver's license. I'm not broke (thanks to today's paycheque). Yet still, I have these feelings of restlessness and discontent. I guess I'm more high-maintenance than I thought.
But I'm not unhappy. And while that doesn't sound like much, compared to how I felt in January, that's a lot (for lack of a less-used term). On the even brighter side, I think I've knocked off more than half of my New Year's Resolutions list, which is unheard of for me. I'm doing so well, I'm actually considering using my gym membership.
Look out 2007!
sbg
Since I have mastered the art of driving, I am using her car everyday. Mostly for work, but I like to have a little "me" time out on the road too. So I guess my parents have been discussing giving me that car, and to that end, were wondering if I could afford insurance. This is an almost verbatim transcript of our conversation:
Mum: Do you think you can afford the insurance for the car?
Me: How much is it?
Mum: A lot.
Me: How much is a lot?
Mum: I don't know... I just know it's a lot.
Me: Well, how much do you pay?
Mum: Since I had that accident, it went up a lot.
Me: Uh... could you ballpark it for me?
Mum: I don't know... $500?
Me: A month?!
Mum: Um, yeah... uh... I don't know. Ask your dad. I just know it's a lot.
Me: (Sigh)
I'm not even going to recount the conversation I had with my dad about it... just decrease the "a lot" comments by half and replace them with the similarly vague, "it depends".
The art of communication at it's finest, folks. I guess you can see how I ended up the articulate woman I am today.
In other news, the job is going well. While I'm not necessarily more confident in myself, I think my boss is more confident I can actually do the job. As I explained it to a friend earlier today, whenever I manage to say something interesting and creative during our brainstorming sessions, my first thought isn't "Yay Me!", it's more like "Okay, I'm not getting fired today. Whew." Which means that sadly, my quarter-life crisis lives on. Insatiable bastard.
It's crazy... so many things that I dreamed about before I moved have come true: I got a job in my field. I got my driver's license. I'm not broke (thanks to today's paycheque). Yet still, I have these feelings of restlessness and discontent. I guess I'm more high-maintenance than I thought.
But I'm not unhappy. And while that doesn't sound like much, compared to how I felt in January, that's a lot (for lack of a less-used term). On the even brighter side, I think I've knocked off more than half of my New Year's Resolutions list, which is unheard of for me. I'm doing so well, I'm actually considering using my gym membership.
Look out 2007!
sbg
Overkill Espiritu
You can all thank “Overkill” Espiritu for inundating me with requests to write another blog entry. Everyone else who sent requests successfully added to the pressure. I hope you’re all proud of yourselves.
Many of you know that I started a new job recently. For my own protection, in anticipation of the shit I may talk in the future, I won’t say the name of the company. Let’s just say I have found employment in which the expectations are high, to say the least. And after all my ranting and complaining about how I can do more than walk and talk, it turns out I don’t want to do much more than that. I miss low expectations. I miss playing my travel poker game at work. I miss What Not To Wear and Beverly Hills 90210 (just kidding, of course I’m taping them). But all in all, as grown-up jobs go, I’ve got a pretty nice set-up. The people are cool, the work is giving me great experience for my future grown-up life, and I’m catching up with a lot of people on MSN. Just kidding, boss.
An interesting thing happened today: I saw 2 black people. Oh, did I mention my new job is located in a town whose population is 34,000? And of those 34,000 I can only verify that 2 of them are not white. I guess I won’t be starting a superblackgirl revolution here (all part of their master plan, I’m sure). I’ll keep you posted if there are any more minority spottings.
I discovered something else very strange today. I’m doing a story about Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I noticed that the focus is supposed to be “Reaching Unattached Women”. I was like, What the hell? Isn’t being single hard enough? As it turns out, “unattached” in this case means without a family doctor (which therefore means no one is prompting you to get checked, which means your cancer could go undetected). So my theory is that as bad as it sounds to be “unattached” in a social world, in the medical world it means you could die. Or maybe it means that in both worlds, I’m not sure. Anyway, you need to check yourself before you wreck yourself (that would be the slogan if the campaign ran on BET).
In other news, does everyone know I got my driver’s license? Despite being blown off by my driving instructor on a few more occasions, including the lesson I was supposed to have before my test, I managed to pass with flying colours. Well, that might be an overstatement. Soaring hues, perhaps. I wanted to include my “before and after” pictures (my mom took them at the DMV) because I think it’s funny how they look exactly the same. Before: Delirious smile (I was really nervous). After: Delirious smile (I was really happy). Anyway, if you know me, you can imagine.
Does that satisfy everyone’s sbg craving? Harass me with emails if I ever take this long again. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that, bean.
Revolution! (that’s for you, Max)
sbg
Many of you know that I started a new job recently. For my own protection, in anticipation of the shit I may talk in the future, I won’t say the name of the company. Let’s just say I have found employment in which the expectations are high, to say the least. And after all my ranting and complaining about how I can do more than walk and talk, it turns out I don’t want to do much more than that. I miss low expectations. I miss playing my travel poker game at work. I miss What Not To Wear and Beverly Hills 90210 (just kidding, of course I’m taping them). But all in all, as grown-up jobs go, I’ve got a pretty nice set-up. The people are cool, the work is giving me great experience for my future grown-up life, and I’m catching up with a lot of people on MSN. Just kidding, boss.
An interesting thing happened today: I saw 2 black people. Oh, did I mention my new job is located in a town whose population is 34,000? And of those 34,000 I can only verify that 2 of them are not white. I guess I won’t be starting a superblackgirl revolution here (all part of their master plan, I’m sure). I’ll keep you posted if there are any more minority spottings.
I discovered something else very strange today. I’m doing a story about Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I noticed that the focus is supposed to be “Reaching Unattached Women”. I was like, What the hell? Isn’t being single hard enough? As it turns out, “unattached” in this case means without a family doctor (which therefore means no one is prompting you to get checked, which means your cancer could go undetected). So my theory is that as bad as it sounds to be “unattached” in a social world, in the medical world it means you could die. Or maybe it means that in both worlds, I’m not sure. Anyway, you need to check yourself before you wreck yourself (that would be the slogan if the campaign ran on BET).
In other news, does everyone know I got my driver’s license? Despite being blown off by my driving instructor on a few more occasions, including the lesson I was supposed to have before my test, I managed to pass with flying colours. Well, that might be an overstatement. Soaring hues, perhaps. I wanted to include my “before and after” pictures (my mom took them at the DMV) because I think it’s funny how they look exactly the same. Before: Delirious smile (I was really nervous). After: Delirious smile (I was really happy). Anyway, if you know me, you can imagine.
Does that satisfy everyone’s sbg craving? Harass me with emails if I ever take this long again. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that, bean.
Revolution! (that’s for you, Max)
sbg
Who's the Worst Blogger in the World?
I think it's me. Certainly the laziest. But in my defense, I have started training for my new job, which does not leave me a lot of time to be blogging. You see, I had it all planned out: my hours are 3-11, so if I wake up by 10 a.m., I would get enough sleep, but still have at least 3 hours to accomplish something before I had to get ready for work. Now, I've managed the waking up part, which truly is something to be celebrated because anyone who knows me knows I love to sleep in. But by the time I make a coffee, breakfast, check my email, watch The View and What Not To Wear, I basically have to get ready for work. So the system has not been perfected yet.
So here's the recap of my life. On my first day of training, I was waiting in the lobby and I see this guy walk in who looks familiar. I sneak a few sidelong glances at him and realize it is my very first boyfriend, whom I have not seen in about 13 years. I dart outside to call one of my friends (she wasn't home), and he comes out and says, "I thought that was you...". The crazy part of this story was that I was just talking about him, wondering what had ever happened to him. Who would have thought that after a month-and-a-half together, then 13 years apart, we would end up in the same place? The funny thing is that when I was talking about him the few days before I saw him, I was telling my friend that the reason we broke up was technically because I was "square" (his words), but really because we had nothing to talk about (which was a problem that could not be overcome with making out a lot, since I was apparently so "square"). We chatted a bit, but I found that I still don't have much to say to him. And since I'm not interested in making out with him, I guess there's nowhere to go from here.
In other news, my trainer at work hates me. I've decided it's for one of 3 reasons:
1. She's a woman, so she's is totally immune to my charm
2. I ask her too many challenging questions. Every time I ask a question, she either says "We're going to cover that later" or "You don't really need to know that" or "Just follow what it says in the training guide". Which all translates to me as, "I hate you".
3. Because I'm black.
I really didn't want to have to pull the race card, but when in doubt... it's always right there for the picking. Anyway, I've made 2 friends and they totally see it too.
The worst part is that I really don't think I'm going to like this job too much. There are waaaaaay too many rules. They actually suggested that we buy timers so we don't exceed our break or lunch times. If I have to walk around with an egg timer on a lanyard, it's time to find a new job.
In other news, my driving instructor and I made up (read: he remembered he had to take me on lessons). Today we stopped at Tim Horton's and he tells me that he's trying to train himself to take his coffee black so he won't have to use so much cream and sugar. Then he says, "I guess I just have to get used to it. You know--Once you go black, you never go back!" Is he flirting, or is it just me?
sbg
So here's the recap of my life. On my first day of training, I was waiting in the lobby and I see this guy walk in who looks familiar. I sneak a few sidelong glances at him and realize it is my very first boyfriend, whom I have not seen in about 13 years. I dart outside to call one of my friends (she wasn't home), and he comes out and says, "I thought that was you...". The crazy part of this story was that I was just talking about him, wondering what had ever happened to him. Who would have thought that after a month-and-a-half together, then 13 years apart, we would end up in the same place? The funny thing is that when I was talking about him the few days before I saw him, I was telling my friend that the reason we broke up was technically because I was "square" (his words), but really because we had nothing to talk about (which was a problem that could not be overcome with making out a lot, since I was apparently so "square"). We chatted a bit, but I found that I still don't have much to say to him. And since I'm not interested in making out with him, I guess there's nowhere to go from here.
In other news, my trainer at work hates me. I've decided it's for one of 3 reasons:
1. She's a woman, so she's is totally immune to my charm
2. I ask her too many challenging questions. Every time I ask a question, she either says "We're going to cover that later" or "You don't really need to know that" or "Just follow what it says in the training guide". Which all translates to me as, "I hate you".
3. Because I'm black.
I really didn't want to have to pull the race card, but when in doubt... it's always right there for the picking. Anyway, I've made 2 friends and they totally see it too.
The worst part is that I really don't think I'm going to like this job too much. There are waaaaaay too many rules. They actually suggested that we buy timers so we don't exceed our break or lunch times. If I have to walk around with an egg timer on a lanyard, it's time to find a new job.
In other news, my driving instructor and I made up (read: he remembered he had to take me on lessons). Today we stopped at Tim Horton's and he tells me that he's trying to train himself to take his coffee black so he won't have to use so much cream and sugar. Then he says, "I guess I just have to get used to it. You know--Once you go black, you never go back!" Is he flirting, or is it just me?
sbg
Very Inappropriate Things
Thursday
I was on the College streetcar, reading a book, on my way to get a much-needed fix of Red Room and Rina. The driver turns on the microphone:
"Sorry folks, there's a lot of construction on College Street here, so we're going to be a little delayed."
Not a problem. Thanks for letting me know. More time to read, I guess.
"Yup, they're doing a lot of construction around here."
Okay then. Reading.
"I think this is the most construction they've ever done in this city."
Interesting. Can I read now please?
"Pot holes are popping up like crop circles around here."
Put bookmark in book. After a few blissful yet misleading minutes of silence, I open the book again.
"Oops, better not hit the police officer here."
Sigh. Bookmark.
"Hey, it's not raining over here."
Wow, the weather report right up to the minute.
"Ever wonder why it rains in the west, but then it stops in the east?"
Nope. I was wondering what my book was about though.
"Maybe we're closer to the equator, heh heh."
Hey, a live show. This is almost better than my very interesting book.
"Spadina next, Spadina. Coming right up. Spadina."
My stop. Unfortunatley, I'll never get to hear the end of his monologue, "A Streetcar Driver named Annoying".
Saturday
I was at my aunt's graduation ceremony at Canada Christian College. In the tradition of all graduation ceremonies, it was mad boring and mad long. So in keeping with my family tradition, my sister and I went outside to have a smoke (the tradition started when my mother and I did this at my sister's high school graduation, subsequently missing her receiving the diploma). So we're outside of the building smoking, trying to be innocuous, and this guy comes up to me and says, "Hi. I saw you before and I think you're very beautiful. Can I have your phone number so we can get to know each other?" Hello, Mr. Impropriety. We're at a graduation at a Christian college, for God's sake. If this guy saw me, thought I was attractive and thought, "What would Jesus do?", I don't think the answer would be "Treat this like a singles bar and go get her!" So I say, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend." He says okay and walks away. Then he stops a few feet away, turns back and asks, "Uh.. you have a boyfriend?" Uh... did I stutter? What did he think, that I had a boyfriend when he was in front of me, and got single when he was five feet away? Sorry buddy. But God Bless.
Monday
My mother came to pick me up from Steve's house, but decided to let me drive back. So I'm driving along and she asks me how Steve is doing. I say he's fine. She says she should have asked him herself becaue he walked me out but she didn't get a chance, blah blah blah. I say it's okay, he's doing fine. Then she starts saying how he's looking good, he's looking more manly (he hadn't shaved in the week I was gone) and that he looked like he put on a little weight. Um, okay Mom. Then she goes on and says how the weight looks good on him, how it fills out his face and stuff, and how it makes him look sexy. Uh, excuse me Mom, I just swallowed a little bit of vomit. So I revert to being fourteen and say, "Ew... Mo-om! That's sooo gross!" And she's like, "No, I don't mean it like that, I don't mean sexy, I just mean he looks more attractive. Not attractive to me, but just... oh never mind." Even though she's lived in Canada for about a million years, she still hasn't mastered the finer nuances of the Western phrase book. Like that you don't call your daughter's boyfriend sexy or attractive. Did I mention that my mom is afraid to say things to me now because she thinks I'm going to put it on the internet? Say what you want about the woman, but she does know me well.
Predictably yours,
sbg
I was on the College streetcar, reading a book, on my way to get a much-needed fix of Red Room and Rina. The driver turns on the microphone:
"Sorry folks, there's a lot of construction on College Street here, so we're going to be a little delayed."
Not a problem. Thanks for letting me know. More time to read, I guess.
"Yup, they're doing a lot of construction around here."
Okay then. Reading.
"I think this is the most construction they've ever done in this city."
Interesting. Can I read now please?
"Pot holes are popping up like crop circles around here."
Put bookmark in book. After a few blissful yet misleading minutes of silence, I open the book again.
"Oops, better not hit the police officer here."
Sigh. Bookmark.
"Hey, it's not raining over here."
Wow, the weather report right up to the minute.
"Ever wonder why it rains in the west, but then it stops in the east?"
Nope. I was wondering what my book was about though.
"Maybe we're closer to the equator, heh heh."
Hey, a live show. This is almost better than my very interesting book.
"Spadina next, Spadina. Coming right up. Spadina."
My stop. Unfortunatley, I'll never get to hear the end of his monologue, "A Streetcar Driver named Annoying".
Saturday
I was at my aunt's graduation ceremony at Canada Christian College. In the tradition of all graduation ceremonies, it was mad boring and mad long. So in keeping with my family tradition, my sister and I went outside to have a smoke (the tradition started when my mother and I did this at my sister's high school graduation, subsequently missing her receiving the diploma). So we're outside of the building smoking, trying to be innocuous, and this guy comes up to me and says, "Hi. I saw you before and I think you're very beautiful. Can I have your phone number so we can get to know each other?" Hello, Mr. Impropriety. We're at a graduation at a Christian college, for God's sake. If this guy saw me, thought I was attractive and thought, "What would Jesus do?", I don't think the answer would be "Treat this like a singles bar and go get her!" So I say, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend." He says okay and walks away. Then he stops a few feet away, turns back and asks, "Uh.. you have a boyfriend?" Uh... did I stutter? What did he think, that I had a boyfriend when he was in front of me, and got single when he was five feet away? Sorry buddy. But God Bless.
Monday
My mother came to pick me up from Steve's house, but decided to let me drive back. So I'm driving along and she asks me how Steve is doing. I say he's fine. She says she should have asked him herself becaue he walked me out but she didn't get a chance, blah blah blah. I say it's okay, he's doing fine. Then she starts saying how he's looking good, he's looking more manly (he hadn't shaved in the week I was gone) and that he looked like he put on a little weight. Um, okay Mom. Then she goes on and says how the weight looks good on him, how it fills out his face and stuff, and how it makes him look sexy. Uh, excuse me Mom, I just swallowed a little bit of vomit. So I revert to being fourteen and say, "Ew... Mo-om! That's sooo gross!" And she's like, "No, I don't mean it like that, I don't mean sexy, I just mean he looks more attractive. Not attractive to me, but just... oh never mind." Even though she's lived in Canada for about a million years, she still hasn't mastered the finer nuances of the Western phrase book. Like that you don't call your daughter's boyfriend sexy or attractive. Did I mention that my mom is afraid to say things to me now because she thinks I'm going to put it on the internet? Say what you want about the woman, but she does know me well.
Predictably yours,
sbg
The Drought is Over... Kinda
I thought this day would never come. I feared I would be unemployed for all enternity. I believed I was destined to become a Dr. Phil fan no matter how hard I fought it. But alas, the drought is over. I am employed. I have officially joined The Soft Society (for a definition, see www.schmusic.com/flash.html).
It seems someone has finally recognized that my skills extend beyond walking and talking. You may remember that I recently attended a job fair where I charmed the pants off (not literally) a male interviewer. Well, it worked. As of June 19th, I will be a customer service professional at a call centre . I have accepted the challenge to sit, pick up a phone, and talk--simultaneously. Watch out world! And while it means I will miss my 4 o'clock ritual (me, mum, and Oprah), it also means that I will be getting a paltry but much-needed paycheque every 2 weeks. And getting a lot more use out of the VCR timer.
This employment has come just in the nick of time. My dad is in between jobs for a few weeks, which means I will be at home with BOTH of my parents. Between my dad monitoring when I wake up in the morning, and my mom with her "psychic" abilities (she predicted the phone would ring about 5 minutes ago), not to mention their near-constant bickering, there is little peace to be found at home. They just pick-pick-pick at each other, it's only a matter of time before all that negative attention would turn to me. I'm getting out, and I'm taking what little self-esteem I have left with me.
But there may be a down side to my sudden surge of hire-ability. I recently completed the in-class portion of my driver's education, and have started the in-car lessons with my male instructor. But today, totally uncharacteristic of my usual encounters with the opposite sex, he forgot about me! I sat on my front porch waiting for him to come and he never showed up. I thought about it for a long time, and decided there's only one explanation for this drastic turn of events: Getting a job has killed my mojo. Sigh. My future is looking sadly devoid of free drinks.
To end on a brighter note, I met an extremely nice and generous man from a local publication who gave me some great advice on freelancing in London. It is so nice to live in a city where someone will actually meet with you to give you guidance, despite having looked at your blog with your scary Chicken Little hair. Or maybe I have a little charm left in me yet.
-sbg
It seems someone has finally recognized that my skills extend beyond walking and talking. You may remember that I recently attended a job fair where I charmed the pants off (not literally) a male interviewer. Well, it worked. As of June 19th, I will be a customer service professional at a call centre . I have accepted the challenge to sit, pick up a phone, and talk--simultaneously. Watch out world! And while it means I will miss my 4 o'clock ritual (me, mum, and Oprah), it also means that I will be getting a paltry but much-needed paycheque every 2 weeks. And getting a lot more use out of the VCR timer.
This employment has come just in the nick of time. My dad is in between jobs for a few weeks, which means I will be at home with BOTH of my parents. Between my dad monitoring when I wake up in the morning, and my mom with her "psychic" abilities (she predicted the phone would ring about 5 minutes ago), not to mention their near-constant bickering, there is little peace to be found at home. They just pick-pick-pick at each other, it's only a matter of time before all that negative attention would turn to me. I'm getting out, and I'm taking what little self-esteem I have left with me.
But there may be a down side to my sudden surge of hire-ability. I recently completed the in-class portion of my driver's education, and have started the in-car lessons with my male instructor. But today, totally uncharacteristic of my usual encounters with the opposite sex, he forgot about me! I sat on my front porch waiting for him to come and he never showed up. I thought about it for a long time, and decided there's only one explanation for this drastic turn of events: Getting a job has killed my mojo. Sigh. My future is looking sadly devoid of free drinks.
To end on a brighter note, I met an extremely nice and generous man from a local publication who gave me some great advice on freelancing in London. It is so nice to live in a city where someone will actually meet with you to give you guidance, despite having looked at your blog with your scary Chicken Little hair. Or maybe I have a little charm left in me yet.
-sbg
Just call me Chicken Little
This one is for my faithful readers out there who are jonesing for more posts from the superblackgirl. The subtitle to this one is: My trip to the hairdresser.
I've had the same stylist in Toronto for the last 5 years. We have an understanding. She knows that I tend to play it safe on the hair tip, "just wash and blow dry", is what I usually say. Every now and then I get bored, or she gets bored, and we'll do a little cut, a little colour, a little sumthin' sumthin' to keep it interesting. Well, the stylist I went to in London added a little too much of sumthin'--that would be grease. As my sister and I would say, my hair was "Grease Mania". She purposely did not face me towards the mirror, so I had no idea what she was doing back there while I watched the Young and the Restless. At some point, I felt like my head was getting a little heavy, but I dismissed it. I mean, she's a professional, right? Just because we're in her apartment and she washed my hair over her kitchen sink, doesn't mean she doesn't know what she's doing, right? Wrong. Oh, I/it was so wrong.
When she finished, she said, "Shake your hair out a little". I tried, but unfortunately my hair was so grease-laden it would barely move. Remember that scene in Flowers in the Attic when the evil grandmother pours tar in Carrie's hair when she's sleeping, and when she wakes up she can barely move her head? Yeah, I'm Carrie.
So I paid her (yes, I paid her. I'm a punk, I know) and left, got in the car with my mother, and proceeded to have a total freak-out. I couldn't even touch my head I was so grossed out. The only good thing was that my mother's hands and arms were really ashy, so I told her to rub them in my hair to oil them up. It worked, but she could barely grip the steering wheel after that.
So we're driving home with the windows down, and we pull into the Tim Horton's drive-through to get coffee. My mother looks at me and says, "I wish I had a camera". It seems the wind had blown my hair-don't around a bit, and it was frozen in it's wind-blown position due to all the grease. As it turned out, I had my camera phone. So that's me up there, and that's the story. Hope you enjoyed it.
sbgreezy
The Job Fair and the Fracas
Today I woke up very early (or, very early for the unemployed) to go to a job fair. It was for a call centre job of course, but I figured since the company has to hire 350 people, maybe one of them could be little old me. I also liked the fact that it would be over all at once--bring your resume and references, have a first interview, a second interview, and then take a computer test. Acutally, what I really liked was being able to use my brand-new resume and not having to write a cover letter. I'm really so sick of cover letters.
I was lucky enough to be in the first group of people who went in, and we watched a promotional video about the company. I'm sure you can picture it--some chick sitting at a computer pretending to be on a real call, then someone else, a "manager" probably, comes behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder, and the camera zooms in as they share a smile. I have to say, it looks like a great place to work!
So I had the first interview with a woman, let's call her Old Stoney, and she was totally stone-cold-ice-face with me the whole time. You know how when you talk and explain a situation, and the person you're talking to sometimes nods, smiles, or makes agreeable noises? Not Old Stoney. She just sat there staring at me, not saying a word. And anyone who knows me know that when someone does that, I just start blabbering on. So it didn't go well.
But the second interview brought something that I have never encountered in the countless interviews I have gone on in the last year: A man. Ah yes, men. Anyone who has read my previous entries will remember that I can charm a man into many things. This was no exception. To be frank, this guy LOVED me. We even had to do this role playing exercise where I have to try and sell him business cards, and I suck at sales, but he not only bought the cards, but he bought the more expensive ones. Let's just say if it was up to that guy, he would hire me and marry me.
Anyway, keep your fingers crossed for me. It's not like my dream job or anything, but it will definitely fulfill the dream of getting a paycheque, which is enough for now.
Some final notes:
1. Today my mother asked me if I was finished with the straightening iron. I said, "Yes, I turned it off." But you know what I forgot? To unplug it. So I said to her, "What is it that you think is going to happen if we don't unplug it? That it will turn itself on and burn down the house?" And she said yes. I think she's really got a point here. I know I hate it when those pesky appliances turn themselves back on. They should really invent some that don't have minds of their own.
2. Today on MSN Entertainment I read the best word, "Fracas" used in the best sentence: "Rapper Snoop Dogg and five associates were arrested after a fracas at Heathrow Airport." I'm pretty sure that's how Snoop himself put it.
3. Chris Rowe is back on the dating scene with a vengeance. Ladies, tell your friends. Mothers, lock up your daughters. Just kidding.
Charming my way into employment?
sbg
I was lucky enough to be in the first group of people who went in, and we watched a promotional video about the company. I'm sure you can picture it--some chick sitting at a computer pretending to be on a real call, then someone else, a "manager" probably, comes behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder, and the camera zooms in as they share a smile. I have to say, it looks like a great place to work!
So I had the first interview with a woman, let's call her Old Stoney, and she was totally stone-cold-ice-face with me the whole time. You know how when you talk and explain a situation, and the person you're talking to sometimes nods, smiles, or makes agreeable noises? Not Old Stoney. She just sat there staring at me, not saying a word. And anyone who knows me know that when someone does that, I just start blabbering on. So it didn't go well.
But the second interview brought something that I have never encountered in the countless interviews I have gone on in the last year: A man. Ah yes, men. Anyone who has read my previous entries will remember that I can charm a man into many things. This was no exception. To be frank, this guy LOVED me. We even had to do this role playing exercise where I have to try and sell him business cards, and I suck at sales, but he not only bought the cards, but he bought the more expensive ones. Let's just say if it was up to that guy, he would hire me and marry me.
Anyway, keep your fingers crossed for me. It's not like my dream job or anything, but it will definitely fulfill the dream of getting a paycheque, which is enough for now.
Some final notes:
1. Today my mother asked me if I was finished with the straightening iron. I said, "Yes, I turned it off." But you know what I forgot? To unplug it. So I said to her, "What is it that you think is going to happen if we don't unplug it? That it will turn itself on and burn down the house?" And she said yes. I think she's really got a point here. I know I hate it when those pesky appliances turn themselves back on. They should really invent some that don't have minds of their own.
2. Today on MSN Entertainment I read the best word, "Fracas" used in the best sentence: "Rapper Snoop Dogg and five associates were arrested after a fracas at Heathrow Airport." I'm pretty sure that's how Snoop himself put it.
3. Chris Rowe is back on the dating scene with a vengeance. Ladies, tell your friends. Mothers, lock up your daughters. Just kidding.
Charming my way into employment?
sbg
Why Oprah Exists, or, An Amendment to My Rant
I watched Oprah shortly after writing my elitist rant and was completely ashamed of myself (hmm... is that the real mission of the Angel Network?) I was confronted by young women in the world who have suffered horrors I scarcely encounter in my spoiled, suburban life; girls who have struggled beyond having to put jam on crackers or salsa on rice. And to increase my shame, they were smiling. Happy. Ebullient. Completely and totally the opposite of whiny, bratty me.
This is why I need cable--to make sure I don't turn into a complete asshole. Now just imagine how enlightened I could be if I had ALL the channels.
I never should have stopped reading my self-help book (I'm with you McKinder, bring on the healing! Haters be damned!). Or perhaps I shouldn't have blown off those scientology guys. Sure Tom Cruise is crazy, but he's also crazy-happy, so he must be doing something right. Vitamins and exercise... right Tom?
By the way, I turned down the Rogers job. And dodged their subsequent call regarding my unpaid bill.
All my clouds have silver linings,
sbg
This is why I need cable--to make sure I don't turn into a complete asshole. Now just imagine how enlightened I could be if I had ALL the channels.
I never should have stopped reading my self-help book (I'm with you McKinder, bring on the healing! Haters be damned!). Or perhaps I shouldn't have blown off those scientology guys. Sure Tom Cruise is crazy, but he's also crazy-happy, so he must be doing something right. Vitamins and exercise... right Tom?
By the way, I turned down the Rogers job. And dodged their subsequent call regarding my unpaid bill.
All my clouds have silver linings,
sbg
An Elitist* Rant
In the harsh light of a particularly bad day, I've decided that I got a raw deal in the life department. No, not in terms of the healthy, able-bodied, good family, roof-over- my-head kind of way, but in the i-did-the-right-thing-and-this-is- where-it-got-me kind of way. Today I got offered a job going door to door to sell Rogers home phones, internet, and cable. Now, don't get me wrong, I think Rogers has been pretty good to me. I know I've complained in the past, but their constant phone calls do stop when I pay the bill. And they've only cut me off like 3 times. And I just upgraded my phone for free. But when I was considering taking this job, I realized the only reason I would take it was to have a job. Period. And I thought, what exactly did I do wrong that I am in the position where I have to take a job that I don't want just to have a job? Well, let's run through my life choices for a minute.
I did well in high school. I went to university. I double-majored, despite additional time and finances. I have a loan that I will be paying back for the rest of my natural life as a result of this education. I worked. I worked 2 jobs sometimes. I took extra classes. I volunteered. I struggled, was constantly broke, didn't buy an excessive amount of clothes, wasn't (overly) promiscuous, gave money to the homeless (and apologized when I couldn't), barely did drugs, maybe drank a tiny bit more than I should have but not enough to send me into a 12-step program, and basically tried to be a good, kind, responsible human being as often as possible. And after all of that, I get offered a job that when I asked what skills it required was told, "Well, you need to know how to talk." Okay, so let me get this straight: I need to know how to a) talk, and b) walk (door-to-door). Skills I just happened to have mastered at the age of about 5. So basically I could have been hammered every day, taken ecstacy, shrooms, acid, coke, and any other number of drugs I never did, had a litter of kids, blown off university, gone on more than 1 vacation, screwed my way around the world, had a wardrobe that didn't consist of sweaters I've owned for 10 years, and would still be able to come back to London to get this job.
So the morale of this rant is don't be too hard on yourself. And if you have kids, don't be too hard on them. Because no matter what they do, as long as Rogers exists they will always have a place in the world, right next to me.
"If you can walk and talk, you can get a job on my block"
-sbg
*I know I sound like an obnoxious snob, but it really stems from my crippling self-pity. Which is almost as attractive as elitism, I know.
I did well in high school. I went to university. I double-majored, despite additional time and finances. I have a loan that I will be paying back for the rest of my natural life as a result of this education. I worked. I worked 2 jobs sometimes. I took extra classes. I volunteered. I struggled, was constantly broke, didn't buy an excessive amount of clothes, wasn't (overly) promiscuous, gave money to the homeless (and apologized when I couldn't), barely did drugs, maybe drank a tiny bit more than I should have but not enough to send me into a 12-step program, and basically tried to be a good, kind, responsible human being as often as possible. And after all of that, I get offered a job that when I asked what skills it required was told, "Well, you need to know how to talk." Okay, so let me get this straight: I need to know how to a) talk, and b) walk (door-to-door). Skills I just happened to have mastered at the age of about 5. So basically I could have been hammered every day, taken ecstacy, shrooms, acid, coke, and any other number of drugs I never did, had a litter of kids, blown off university, gone on more than 1 vacation, screwed my way around the world, had a wardrobe that didn't consist of sweaters I've owned for 10 years, and would still be able to come back to London to get this job.
So the morale of this rant is don't be too hard on yourself. And if you have kids, don't be too hard on them. Because no matter what they do, as long as Rogers exists they will always have a place in the world, right next to me.
"If you can walk and talk, you can get a job on my block"
-sbg
*I know I sound like an obnoxious snob, but it really stems from my crippling self-pity. Which is almost as attractive as elitism, I know.
Being Unemployed is a Full-time Job
I've actually been too busy to write a new blog. How does that happen, you ask? I think it could be because I still think my weekends should be free of work or anything relating to work, and I just came back from a long weekend away. Yes, I felt I needed a vacation from my life of leisure.
I had a perfect T-dot day on Saturday. First, Red Room, Pad Thai and the Bean. An unbeatable combination. It was a gorgeous day so we went walking through Kensington (I almost went to a psychic, but frankly I was scared about what my future holds), and went 3/4 of the way into a zillion stores. We also hit 3 bookstores: #1, where we had Starbucks lattes and were potentially recruited for scientology (creepy guys, unexplained arm touching, lurking by the exits--what else could that be about?). #2, where we had to go to the (gasp) self-help section for the book we were looking for, and #3, where I bought a book for $1 (the good news is that I actually had a dollar).
Today was a banner day though: I actually worked. FOR MONEY. That's right, I made a whole 40 bucks today (before tax). I spent 4 hours calling people to tell them that they were getting a new financial representative. Out of the 170 calls I made, I talked to 45 people, got hung up on twice, and realized that all numbers in Chatham start with 354. So all in all I think it was a productive day. And despite my meager earnings, I've decided to look at this as the potential end of the volunteer curse. Keep your fingers crossed. And take the pins out of my voodoo doll, for God's sake.
Momma needs a new pair of shoes,
sbg
I had a perfect T-dot day on Saturday. First, Red Room, Pad Thai and the Bean. An unbeatable combination. It was a gorgeous day so we went walking through Kensington (I almost went to a psychic, but frankly I was scared about what my future holds), and went 3/4 of the way into a zillion stores. We also hit 3 bookstores: #1, where we had Starbucks lattes and were potentially recruited for scientology (creepy guys, unexplained arm touching, lurking by the exits--what else could that be about?). #2, where we had to go to the (gasp) self-help section for the book we were looking for, and #3, where I bought a book for $1 (the good news is that I actually had a dollar).
Today was a banner day though: I actually worked. FOR MONEY. That's right, I made a whole 40 bucks today (before tax). I spent 4 hours calling people to tell them that they were getting a new financial representative. Out of the 170 calls I made, I talked to 45 people, got hung up on twice, and realized that all numbers in Chatham start with 354. So all in all I think it was a productive day. And despite my meager earnings, I've decided to look at this as the potential end of the volunteer curse. Keep your fingers crossed. And take the pins out of my voodoo doll, for God's sake.
Momma needs a new pair of shoes,
sbg
10 Things I Hate About My "Life"
1. Having to explain what I'm doing in London everytime I meet someone new or run into someone I haven't talked to in a long time.
2. Having to look for sunglasses with my mother, who picks up a thousand different versions of the exact same pair and then dismisses them all for the exact same reason.
3. My dad coming home at 6 o'clock and upon seeing me in my robe saying, "Did you just wake up?"
4. Having to dial a million numbers whenever I make a long distance call because I have to use a calling card (to avoid a dad freak-out when he sees the phone bill).
5. Having nothing to say to Steve on the phone because neither one of us has a job or a life. And yet we still call each other 5 times a day.
6. The old-school fuse box in this house where you can't tell which fuse blew, and since they're not labelled, we have to unscrew and replace every single bloody one of them to find the problem.
7. The toaster oven in this house where the on/off switch and the toast button are both broken, so we have to plug it in, then we broil the bread, then unplug it. Every single time.
8. The BASIC cable. Do you realize that I can no longer complete the TV Guide crossword? I don't even know who I am anymore.
9. The radio station that seems to only play songs by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. Or artists that sound like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
10. The fact that I start another volunteer position tomorrow. I'm tutoring Grade 3 & 4 students in math. Yes, I said math. God help them.
E=MC... what now?
sbg
2. Having to look for sunglasses with my mother, who picks up a thousand different versions of the exact same pair and then dismisses them all for the exact same reason.
3. My dad coming home at 6 o'clock and upon seeing me in my robe saying, "Did you just wake up?"
4. Having to dial a million numbers whenever I make a long distance call because I have to use a calling card (to avoid a dad freak-out when he sees the phone bill).
5. Having nothing to say to Steve on the phone because neither one of us has a job or a life. And yet we still call each other 5 times a day.
6. The old-school fuse box in this house where you can't tell which fuse blew, and since they're not labelled, we have to unscrew and replace every single bloody one of them to find the problem.
7. The toaster oven in this house where the on/off switch and the toast button are both broken, so we have to plug it in, then we broil the bread, then unplug it. Every single time.
8. The BASIC cable. Do you realize that I can no longer complete the TV Guide crossword? I don't even know who I am anymore.
9. The radio station that seems to only play songs by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. Or artists that sound like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
10. The fact that I start another volunteer position tomorrow. I'm tutoring Grade 3 & 4 students in math. Yes, I said math. God help them.
E=MC... what now?
sbg
Volunteer Extraordineer
I'm typing this from the computer lab at Fanshawe college where I am waiting for Lori to get her school work so we can go to her house and do it. Anyone who knows Lori will not be surprised that:
a) she was supposed to do this BEFORE she came to get me
b) she said it was only going to take 15 minutes (45 minutes ago)
c) she doesn't know what she's doing
So I'm on the computer msn-ing with my 11-year-old cousin who told me, when I said I was still looking for a job, that she has one. That's really fantastic. Between my cousin and Jenny's boyfriend, all the jobs all over the world should be gone by next week. The good news is that my volunteer career is really starting to take off. I have so much volunteer work I don't even have time to get paid. If I was in Toronto, I would be living in a cardboard box by now. But on the plus side, I would be ALONE in that cardboard box.
Life with my parents continues to amaze me. I don't think that writing the conversations we have would even do them justice. It's a special blend of crazy and ridiculous that just doesn't translate into the written word. Just know that I've taken to smoking in the basement again. I think I'm actually helping them because if I wasn't picking up a cigarette, I might be picking up a blunt object.
Back to my cousin: apparently, she has a website too. I told her she should write a blog on her website and everyone could log on and read about her life. It seems like she has a lot more going on than me. She'll probably get married before me. I'll probably have to ask her to bear my children because my eggs will dry up while I'm waiting to be able to afford to have a baby.
Lori's finally ready to go do her homework. By tomorrow, I will be an expert on Salvador Dali. Maybe I can get a volunteer job at a museum or something.
I'm poor but I'm kind,
sbg
a) she was supposed to do this BEFORE she came to get me
b) she said it was only going to take 15 minutes (45 minutes ago)
c) she doesn't know what she's doing
So I'm on the computer msn-ing with my 11-year-old cousin who told me, when I said I was still looking for a job, that she has one. That's really fantastic. Between my cousin and Jenny's boyfriend, all the jobs all over the world should be gone by next week. The good news is that my volunteer career is really starting to take off. I have so much volunteer work I don't even have time to get paid. If I was in Toronto, I would be living in a cardboard box by now. But on the plus side, I would be ALONE in that cardboard box.
Life with my parents continues to amaze me. I don't think that writing the conversations we have would even do them justice. It's a special blend of crazy and ridiculous that just doesn't translate into the written word. Just know that I've taken to smoking in the basement again. I think I'm actually helping them because if I wasn't picking up a cigarette, I might be picking up a blunt object.
Back to my cousin: apparently, she has a website too. I told her she should write a blog on her website and everyone could log on and read about her life. It seems like she has a lot more going on than me. She'll probably get married before me. I'll probably have to ask her to bear my children because my eggs will dry up while I'm waiting to be able to afford to have a baby.
Lori's finally ready to go do her homework. By tomorrow, I will be an expert on Salvador Dali. Maybe I can get a volunteer job at a museum or something.
I'm poor but I'm kind,
sbg
the shower scene
On Saturday night the girls and I went to Robinson Hall, a club that boasts two of my favourite things about London: no cover and $4.50 drinks. Given that I'm still unemployed(!), drinks only seemed cheap for so long. After four gin & tonics (read: a half hour) I decided to use my considerable charm to score free drinks. Luckily, this club also had plenty of my third favourite thing about London: drunk white guys with cash. Needless to say, it wasn't long before I was sipping a beer. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see none other than my old shower pal from high school. A little older, surprisingly cuter, and strangely body-hair-less. Turns out he's a male model now. Here's the history: we were good friends in grade 9 and 10, and one day when he came over I suggested we take a shower together. To this day I'm not really sure why I said it, but it was a very illicit suggestion to two 15-year-olds, and it was fraught with a lot of heavy "necking" (that's for you, reen).
I was so excited to see him (read: drunk), threw my arms around him, and promptly forgot about the boy whose drink I took (much to his chagrin, but whatevs). We started talking and soon he brought up the shower, just as I knew he would. And then, just as I knew he would, he brought up the one thing that makes the shower far less illicit then you might think: I wore my bathing suit. Now, let me explain. I was a fifteen-year-old virgin. I was going to have a shower with a boy I had never even kissed. And my boyfriend had just broken up with me because I was "square". Need I say more?
I tried to justify it ("I looked hot in that bikini") and he laughed. I tried to rationalize it ("I let you take the top off!") and he agreed. Then I pulled my trump card ("Right after that you dissed me for Ang DiVincenzo"). And he bought me a drink.
And that my friends, is how we do it in the L-dot.
Charming my way into a nice buzz,
sbg
I was so excited to see him (read: drunk), threw my arms around him, and promptly forgot about the boy whose drink I took (much to his chagrin, but whatevs). We started talking and soon he brought up the shower, just as I knew he would. And then, just as I knew he would, he brought up the one thing that makes the shower far less illicit then you might think: I wore my bathing suit. Now, let me explain. I was a fifteen-year-old virgin. I was going to have a shower with a boy I had never even kissed. And my boyfriend had just broken up with me because I was "square". Need I say more?
I tried to justify it ("I looked hot in that bikini") and he laughed. I tried to rationalize it ("I let you take the top off!") and he agreed. Then I pulled my trump card ("Right after that you dissed me for Ang DiVincenzo"). And he bought me a drink.
And that my friends, is how we do it in the L-dot.
Charming my way into a nice buzz,
sbg
Electricity is a privilege, not a right
Ten years away from home made me forget a few of my parents' quirks regarding electricity and other privileges in this house. I had forgotten that in this house, we don't flush the toilet EVERY time (sorry Jenny, I know you hate my toilet talk). Apparently, flushing is a practice saved for "the deuce". Or if I'm in the living room and happen to wander upstairs for something, I may return to find that the television and/or lights have been shut off. It's the new 5-second rule: Leaving something "on" for any longer is just wasting power. And even if you think you're being frugal by turning an appliance off, what you really need to do is completely REMOVE the cord from the outlet. That's the ticket, folks. I knew I would find a get-rich-quick scheme somewhere if I moved back to London. Did anyone know how much electricity ironing uses? Ask my dad. From now on, I'm just going to lay my clothes underneath my mattress at night. Wake up and they're warm AND pressed.
But through all the adjustments, I had one thing that kept me sane--I could smoke in the basement. Maxine and I have many fond memories of lighting up in this house, and that alone made the move to London just a little bit easier. Until this morning:
MOTHER: I couldn't breathe last night with all that smoke.
ME: [frozen silence]
MOTHER: I think it's coming through the vents or something.
ME: [almost imperceptible nod]
MOTHER: I think I must be allergic to the duMaurier.
ME: [reluctantly] Well, I can smoke outside if you want.
MOTHER: Yeah okay, if you want.
Another parental quirk I forgot: It's not her idea, it's mine. Tricky mo'fo.
Chillin' by the (gasp!) portable heater,
sbg
But through all the adjustments, I had one thing that kept me sane--I could smoke in the basement. Maxine and I have many fond memories of lighting up in this house, and that alone made the move to London just a little bit easier. Until this morning:
MOTHER: I couldn't breathe last night with all that smoke.
ME: [frozen silence]
MOTHER: I think it's coming through the vents or something.
ME: [almost imperceptible nod]
MOTHER: I think I must be allergic to the duMaurier.
ME: [reluctantly] Well, I can smoke outside if you want.
MOTHER: Yeah okay, if you want.
Another parental quirk I forgot: It's not her idea, it's mine. Tricky mo'fo.
Chillin' by the (gasp!) portable heater,
sbg
Day 3
Day 3 in London. Day 2 of my job search. Here's something to know: Job searching is just as excruciating in London as it is in Toronto. Here's why: In Toronto, there are many jobs that I could not get. In London, there are many jobs that I do not want. I should have learned how to drive a truck. Or learned how to drive period, since at least 75% of the jobs I look at require a valid driver's license. But that thought leads me to all that I have accomplished since I have returned to my hometown:
1. I drove home from the mall (roughly 2 blocks, no street lights)
2. I applied online for my birth certificate (cross that off the New Year's Resolution list!)
3. I unpacked all but 1 box (which coincidentally is the 1 box that I never unpacked from my last move)
4. I changed my phone number and address (which means Rogers will still be able to call me incessantly)
I think that's it. Not that exciting, but progress is progress. Right now the biggest issue in my life is this loud-ass keyboard. It's 11:59, my parent are sleeping down the hall, and I'm sure they're wondering why there is a machine gun going off in the kitchen. Sorry folks, that's just me typing. Hopefully, I will get everything together to hook up the internet on my laptop so I will be quietly typing downstairs in the near future.
Here's a quiz: What has been the biggest adjustment since moving to London?
b) Living in London
b) Living with my parents
c) Living without my sister
d) Living without digital cable
If you guessed d, you are correct. Sorry Maxine, but think about how you felt when I almost took The Mirror Has Two Faces. Tell me, how do people live without the guide? Am I really expected to turn to that TV Guide channel and wait for it to scroll? AND not know what the show is about, thus forcing me to watch the first 5 minutes? I'm tearing up, I have to stop.
Well, that's about all the news for now. Hopefully my next post will have news of my new job. Keep your fingers crossed that the Fred Astaire Dance Studio calls me back. I think I can teach the seniors a few tap dances.
Give me digital or give me death,
superblackgirl
1. I drove home from the mall (roughly 2 blocks, no street lights)
2. I applied online for my birth certificate (cross that off the New Year's Resolution list!)
3. I unpacked all but 1 box (which coincidentally is the 1 box that I never unpacked from my last move)
4. I changed my phone number and address (which means Rogers will still be able to call me incessantly)
I think that's it. Not that exciting, but progress is progress. Right now the biggest issue in my life is this loud-ass keyboard. It's 11:59, my parent are sleeping down the hall, and I'm sure they're wondering why there is a machine gun going off in the kitchen. Sorry folks, that's just me typing. Hopefully, I will get everything together to hook up the internet on my laptop so I will be quietly typing downstairs in the near future.
Here's a quiz: What has been the biggest adjustment since moving to London?
b) Living in London
b) Living with my parents
c) Living without my sister
d) Living without digital cable
If you guessed d, you are correct. Sorry Maxine, but think about how you felt when I almost took The Mirror Has Two Faces. Tell me, how do people live without the guide? Am I really expected to turn to that TV Guide channel and wait for it to scroll? AND not know what the show is about, thus forcing me to watch the first 5 minutes? I'm tearing up, I have to stop.
Well, that's about all the news for now. Hopefully my next post will have news of my new job. Keep your fingers crossed that the Fred Astaire Dance Studio calls me back. I think I can teach the seniors a few tap dances.
Give me digital or give me death,
superblackgirl
