You Oughta Know

I am spending the summer living at my parents’ house. So are 4 18-year old boys. Based on my experience over the last month, I’ve come up with some helpful tips for young men of that age. They are as follows:

- The toilet seat lifts up. If you are going to pee standing up, you need to make use of that feature so as not to leave behind enough of a sample for either a drug or pregnancy test. Because you may not need to sit down every time you use it, but the other half of the people in this house do.

- The toilet seat also lowers. You should also use this feature. Again, you may not need to sit down every time you use it, but the other half of the people in this house do.

- The sink is not the proper place to leave used contacts.

- We think it’s great that you’re learning to cook for yourself. We’d think it was even greater if you could figure out how to clean up after yourself when you’re done with your culinary adventures.

- There is a dishwasher to your left. When you have dirty dishes, you should put them in there. If the dishes that are in the dishwasher are already clean, you should put them back in their regular places instead of a) ignoring them and leaving your dirty dishes beside the sink for someone else to clean up or b) putting your dirty dishes in on top of them. We understand that you think the dishwasher is magic, but it’s not that magic.

- We are super excited that you’ve taken it upon yourself to wash your own lunch dishes! We’re less excited at the fact that the “clean” ones still have telltale Chef Boyardee thumbprints on them. Fill up the sink next time. And maybe make use of the dishcloth so conveniently located on the faucet?

- When you live in a house that is roughly half and half women and men, it is maybe a good idea to avoid the use of terms like “chicks” “broads” “babes” or “bitches”. We understand that you don’t want to “get with” us, but that doesn’t mean we’re not friends with the girls you do want to “get with”.

- The bathroom is not clean if there is still stubble everywhere. You might think it’s acceptable, but no one else does. And there are more of everyone else than there is of you.

- Eating someone else’s frozen desserts (frozen desserts which cost roughly 20% of all of said person’s money in the ENTIRE WORLD) without asking is not a good way to ingratiate yourself to them. Especially when you consider that now there are no popsicles for them to calm themselves down with.

- Boxer shorts are not clothes.

I’m sure I’ll come up with some more to add to this list as the summer progresses, but for now, 18-year-0ld boys, maybe you want to take note of these. When I’m happy, we’re all at least not worried about the repercussions of me not being happy.

A Song To Bring You Home

I didn’t post last night because I was busy doing one of my all-time favourite things: making mix CDs. I prefer making mix tapes, but given the fact that most of the people I know no longer own cassette players, CDs are the more functional way to go. In any case, it was a great time. There’s something about finding exactly the right songs and putting them in correct order that is kind of like a jigsaw puzzle. A beautiful, musical puzzle.

I’ve got a lot of music I’ve never actually listened to. Stuff that I collected because the band names sounded familiar, or I felt like it was something I was supposed to like. So last night, themes in mind, I went through my entire collection and started picking out songs whose titles suggested they might fit. And the result is a few promising playlists and a handful of new favourite artists. It’s excellent.

Putting together a properly done mix CD takes time. You have to collect potential songs, begin to determine a rough order, and listen to each song all the way through to check for skipping and to ensure that the final product will flow properly. You want to avoid any jarring transitions and thematic incoherencies. Some people will just throw a bunch of songs onto a disc and call it a day. And while that might work if the purpose of the collection is just to educate or pass along music in a strictly functional sense, it doesn’t work if this is something that you want to be able to listen to as if it were an album. A good mix tape or CD will tell a story. The story might be an actual tale, each song chosen to develop the narrative and bring the listener from scene to scene, coming to the eventual conclusion. Or it can be used to convey a mood or emotion – every track’s words and music working together to transmit a feeling from the compiler to the listener. Any good mix will not be a neutral entity. It will have a definite message. A meaning that might be screaming out from the song or compilation titles, or that might be more subtle, but nonetheless present.

It’s hard work, this song arrangement. But when I find stuff like this in my collection as a result of my efforts, it becomes its own reward:

I’m Not Working For You

I was telling someone today about the job that I may or may not be starting tomorrow. I’m not being clever – I actually don’t know if I start tomorrow, so I’m just going to show up and hope they pay me. The person’s response was “Oh good, now you won’t have to hold a stop sign for the summer.” Holding a stop sign for a highway construction crew is actually what I want to do for work, but in the meantime I still need some cash, and this will do. Anyway – what was interesting about this person’s comment was my reaction to it. I didn’t say anything to her, but in my head I said something to the effect of “All I really have to do is breathe and beat my heart. The rest is optional.” It’s kind of cheeky, but it’s also how I feel fairly often these days. And I think that’s a good thing.

I often deal with a feeling that I’m trapped or stagnant. And it’s terrifying to me. I don’t usually get claustrophobic in small physical spaces, but when I feel like I’m running out of options, I start to feel a kind of boxed-in sensation which sets off a chain reaction involving panic attacks, hyperventilation and the consumption of popsicles. But if I can convince myself that none of this stuff is permanent, it kind of allows me to deal with the same situation, but with a far less frantic attitude.

It’s not as if I spend most of my days just breathing and beating my heart. I also open my eyes. I often move my appendages and frequently take advantage of my ability to ambulate. I also think about very important things. Like how to include the maximum amount of bacon in my diet. Or how come I’ve never seen a baby pigeon. Jack Handey would be proud. It’s just that after the whole keeping alive stuff, I like to remember that I get to choose what I want to do, and there’s not a whole lot that, at the most basic level, I actually need to do. Now I just wish someone would explain that to my mother and the phone company.

Only for the Fix

Unsurprisingly, I tore up my feet a bit during my 6-hour, extremely intense hike on Monday. The fact that I was wearing Doc Martens and socks chosen primarily for their pretty pattern and not for their ability to keep my feet dry probably had a great deal to do with that. In any case, I am now dealing with the consequences of these two (obvious in hindsight) very poor choices. And this means Bandaids.

This morning as I was removing yesterday’s bandages from my heels, I was struck by how terribly they actually work. I mean, they certainly do an okay job of certain things. Like keeping my feet from bleeding all over my socks. And from becoming even more raw or blistered. But taking those things off after they’ve run their course is kind of a dangerous proposition in and of itself. If the adhesive is good enough to last throughout the day, it’s guaranteed to act as the most powerful exfoliant you’ve ever encountered and can even be the cause of new injuries.

What I want to know is, why are inventions allowed to be so dysfunctional? Bandaids that cause injuries. Shoes that cause foot and back problems. Glasses lenses that get scratched really easily and make it even more difficult to see than without any glasses at all. If Everything I did had the exact opposite of the intended effect, I’m pretty sure people would stop requesting my services. But not so with these products. It’s kind of ridiculous, really. Especially when I consider the other products that 3M (the makers of my bandages) makes. Like those adhesive strips that will attach anything to the wall, then come off really easily and without taking paint off. Why can’t they do that? I am infinitely more attached (literally and figuratively) to my feet than I am to my walls. I really feel like whoever was on the team that created the bandaids whose adhesive residue has caused most of today’s sock material to remain stuck to my feet should really be made to come back and fix their invention. As should the people who invented pantyhose, crinoline, high heels, the lids for takeout coffee, saran wrap and rice cakes. The people who invented that last item should at least be forced to change the name of their product. Cakes do not taste like packing peanuts.

Why Don’t You Get a Job?

I think I finally have something promising, job prospect-wise. I should hear tomorrow. I’ve been warned that I won’t be “splitting atoms” in this position. I think that was meant as a caution that I might be bored, but mostly I felt relieved that I wasn’t going to have to rely on googled instructions to get me through a procedure that I assume is not something that my degree in Canadian Studies prepared me for. And if I’m right and the warning was less about particle physics and more about a lack of intellectual stimulation, I’m up for it.

Summer jobs are kind of magical things. For one thing, you’re earning a real paycheque after months of trying to figure out how to turn low tens of dollars into food for a month. But aside from that, they have a way of turning a person’s attitude about school completely around in four months or less. Every summer job I’ve ever had has been entered into with a great deal of excitement, if only for the fact that I knew I wouldn’t be tested on anything I encountered there. No essays. No textbooks. No homework. By the end of the summer, I was so bored out of my mind, that all I could think about was getting back to school where I could use my ample intelligence for things like understanding how to dismantle lattices of privilege and discrimination, wrap my head around the many-layered implications of Canada’s military history and figuring out how to stretch low-tens of dollars into food for a month. For now, I’m looking forward to being well paid for my boredom. In three months, I’m sure I’ll take living in a cardboard box and reading Foucault over anything I’ll be doing from 9-5 this summer.

Stranded in the Jungle

Today I hiked for six hours through some of the roughest terrain I’ve ever encountered. It was the first time in my life I’d had an honest desire to possess a machete. Or a way of hailing a helicopter. And it was fantastic! It was honestly the best day I’ve had since I got back here. Which is good, because there is a very real possibility that I won’t be able to walk for a while. It’s good to earn those kinds of injuries doing something you liked than when you had a terrible time and still hurt anyway.

Walking for that long has a number of benefits. The ones I appreciated most were the guilt-free ice cream and slushie I had when I got back into town. Not only did I not feel bad about them, but having consumed only water, two oranges, an apple and a couple of rice cakes, they were actually the best ice cream and slushie experiences of my entire life. There is something to be said for rewarding yourself for a job well done. And even more to be said about having frozen desserts be those rewards.

I was totally the weakest link today. The poor border collie spent most of the day ensuring I wasn’t lost and looking at me with sort of a concerned, pitying expression. My fellow hikers were super gracious and went out of their way to make sure that I didn’t become bear food. Which is really one of the best things one person can do for another. And the added benefit of doing this trek with such wonderful people is that I am certain that any of them would be okay with being called upon to corroborate my stories of the epic-ness that was this hike. Because really, what’s the point of doing something AWESOME if no one is there to back you up?

Music on the Television Playing Our Song

I think I’ve been consuming too much popular culture lately. Particularly movies and music. I find myself understanding my life by comparing it to the antics of characters in comedies. And I tend to make sense of my emotions by listening to songs that seem to express similar feelings. Which is weird, right? I mean, the circumstances of my life and my feelings around those are, by definition, personal. They’re only mine. But I’m looking to formulaic films and three-chord songs to tell me how I should experience them.

I read an essay by Chuck Klosterman wherein he says that John Cusack has ruined romantic love for everyone for ever. He’s not saying that John Cusack is necessarily a bad guy. What he means is that he’s too good. And he’s set us all up for disappointment. At this point, he says, it’s difficult to be sure if you’re in love or if someone’s in love with you unless one of you is standing in the rain holding a stereo above your head. Even as someone with a fairly strong aversion to most of Peter Gabriel’s work, I can say that if someone were to recreate that scene for my benefit, I don’t know that I’d be left with any option but to marry them on site. Because clearly, no matter what peccadilloes they might have, no one will ever love me more than this person playing bad 80s songs and risking minor electrocution in order to properly express their feelings toward me. The only thing that might be somewhat comparable is buying a plane ticket to anywhere just so they can run through security to express their undying love for me right before I get on the airplane to move to another city. Consistent expressions of affection? Assertions of commitment? Established patterns of behaviour that make someone an excellent partner? Nope. It’s the grand gestures ripped straight from Hollywood romcoms that really matter.

Similarly, I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately to kind of help me to make sense of a lot the ambivalence I’ve been feeling lately. Liz Phair’s “Go West” was a staple of my road trip. The mixed emotions of being intensely sad about leaving, but grudgingly acknowledging the necessity of it spoke to me for obvious reasons. And I think that the ability to recognize ourselves in pop songs is why so many of us listen to and love them. But what about when songs kind of alert us to things we should have already known? I mean, I guess that’s a good thing, but it’s kind of weird to be shown ourselves by people we probably haven’t met and likely never will. It’s especially weird when the things that they show us are the same ones that close friends have been trying to alert us to. For example my cell phone is filled with locked text messages from friends telling me how awesome I am and how much they love me. But lately when I need a quick pick-me-up, I listen to a song about how “someone out there thinks I’m great” rather than rereading messages from my favourite people in the world which deliver basically the same message. Maybe if they were set to music?

Let’s Go Crazy

I had too much caffeine today. A lot too much. The amount where you begin to recognize why caffeine is technically considered a drug. I have lots and lots of energy at the same time as being bone tired. It’s a weird state to be in. And a difficult one to write from. I think what I need to do instead of trying (probably unsuccessfully) to construct a coherent blog post is to make all of the iTunes playlists that are rolling around in my head until I eventually fall asleep. And then remember what this feels like so that I can work hard to avoid it. Heart palpitations are overrated.

Get Me Away From Here

I am not someone who is known for her patience. I am big into instant gratification, snap decisions and flying by the seat of my pants. It is for this reason that I’m actually kind of proud of myself for having held on as long as I have to the idea of sticking it out up here. But now I’ve been here 3 weeks and I still haven’t found a job, which is really the only reason I’m here in the first place. So I’m imposing a deadline. If I don’t find something by June 2, I’m out. I’m going to head to the big city where I might not find both fame and fortune, but I’m pretty sure I’ll find at least one or the other. And to be honest, I feel relieved. I’d still like to find something here because nothing beats the paycheques in this part of the country, but if I’m not making money, and I’m losing what little mental health I had when I arrived, then I need to get out of here.

13 sleeps. Make me an offer I can’t refuse, job market.

This Close To Me

I recently got a new computer. Which is good, because the old one had begun to malfunction so badly that I felt the only way to properly dispose of it was to do this:

The new one has apparently learned from the misdeeds of its predecessor, as it has yet to engage in any behaviour that would necessitate another one of these destructive episodes. Not that I’m averse to doing this again at some point if I need to – planned, controlled destruction of electronic equipment is kind of an excellent thing. Unplanned, rage-motivated destruction, not so much.

In addition to being able to word process and surf the internet with my new computer, I have also finally downloaded Skype. I had been wanting to download it for a long time, but what with my old computer crashing with distressing frequency and eventually actually igniting, I thought maybe I’d wait until I got a new one. Now that I have, I find it kind of amazing. Tonight I had a conversation with someone literally all the way across the country, and it was as if she were sitting directly in front of me! It’s awesome! And kind of bizarre.

To be clear – Skype is quickly becoming my new favourite invention of all time. Being able to see my friends and interact with them as if we were in the same room does wonders for my ability to pretend that we don’t have most of the landmass of the world’s second-largest country between us. Which in turn does amazing things for my mental health. What weirds me out a little about my Skype experiences has nothing to do with the actual conversing – that part is strictly awesome – but with how close it looks like we are to each other. It’s like something out of a Seinfeld episode.

In normal conversations, where two people are actually occupying the same physical space while they speak to each other, a certain amount of visual context is part of the experience. You can see a person’s arms and torso if they’re sitting across a desk or table from you, and their whole body if they’re sitting or standing without any obstructions between you. Their hands and arms might be used to help to convey certain ideas. The position of their shoulders might give some hints about their relative level of relaxation. How feet and legs are set might give a sense of how formal the interaction is. With Skype, though, especially with both parties using laptops that are actually positioned on their respective laps, it tends to be all face. Which gives the impression that the two of you are having either a very intimate conversation, or that you have decided to live your lives as if you are perpetually in a crowded elevator, social conventions about respecting others’ personal space, be damned!

This isn’t so much a problem as just something else I’m going to have to get used to about a new and unfamiliar kind of communication. Like learning acronyms that are common in text-based communication (LOL, BRB, BTW, etc.) or the occasional necessity of emoticons or other methods of indicating humour or sarcasm when you’re not certain it will come through. It may seem kind of ridiculous now, but when telephones first appeared the protocol of how to conduct a conversation between two people in different locations needed to be established. Getting used to the appearance that you are speaking to someone who is sitting on your legs might just be this generation’s version of making a habit of beginning a phone call with “hello” and ending it with “goodbye”. And all of this falls squarely into the category of Problems That Would Blow the Minds of Previous Generations. I mean, I had a face-to-face conversation with someone who is all the way across the country!