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July 2013

Two Hundred Seventy Nine.

I love that I’m about to post this on the Internet. I can’t wait for you all to judge me.

(Oh, wait…it’s day 279. I’m used to it.)

Okay, so today I was running some errands, and I had to stop at a pet store to re-stock on some treats/snacks for Oscar and Lucy.

Did you forget about my dogs, Oscar Wilde and Lucille Ball Beça? I sure hope not.

Some recent cuddles, to refresh your memory…

Oscar is my nurse on sick days.
Oscar is my nurse on sick days.
Cuddle Monster.
Cuddle Monster Lucy.

Anyway, there I was at the pet store when I saw another Boston Terrier! How exciting! I adore meeting other Boston Terriers, because they’re so sweet and funny. I like seeing how a lot of personality traits are inherent in the breed.

So there I am, petting this adorable little Boston, and what thought pops into my mind?

Well, in all fairness, my first thought was, “Aww, I can’t wait to get home and smooch my pups!

But my second thought was, “My dogs are cuter.”

WHAT!

I know, it’s rude. It’s weird. It’s like, not even relevant.

But don’t pretend you haven’t done it.

FLASHBACK TO:

A couple months ago, one of my co-workers was puppysitting his childhood dog while one of his parents was out of town. The dog doesn’t live with him full time, so he was super excited about it. He came into my office and started showing me photos on his phone.

“He’s adorable!” I said. (And I was being honest! I think basically every dog is adorable. Or cat. Or bird. Or anything. I think we’ve discussed how I love animals way too much but not too much because how is that possible, and I right?!)

Anyway, my co-worker is weird (all of my co-workers are weird, it’s why I love them so much), so he looked up at a photo of my dogs on my bulletin board and he said, “Your dogs are really cute…but mine is way cuter. I mean, just look at his face!”

Speaking of rude and weird and irrelevant…

I laughed out loud. I LOLed IRL. (Whoa.) Not because I disagreed (I did), but because…well, okay, maybe because I disagreed, but also just because he said it. Who says shit like that out loud? Save it for your blog, buddy!

SIDENOTE: Do people do this with their children, too?

Today, as I relived this thought process at the pet store, I learned two things:

(A) Clearly love is blinding (and I think that’s an awesome and beautiful thing), and

(B) We’re all snobs.*

xA

P.S. Just for the record, if I’m friends with you and your pets, I think they’re the cutest in the world, too, and basically that we’re all related. Like I refer to my BFFs as my dogs’ aunties, etc.

P.P.S. I may need professional help.

*Or I suppose the people who read this and go, “Oh yeah, I do that, too.” are snobs along with me.**

**No, you know what? If you read this and go, “WTF? Who is this girl?” then you’re lying. WE’RE ALL SNOBS.***

***We’re all snobs because love is blinding. See? The world is so fucking beautiful. Happy sigh.

Two Hundred Seventy Eight.

Full disclosure: I totally didn’t/don’t feel like blogging today.

Of course, I have my days where I’m just like, “Seriously?! I’ve got better things to do!” and days where I’m like, “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO SAY.”

Tina Eye Roll

The truth is this: keeping this blog has definitely taught me that I do learn something new every day. Whether those things are things I want to share with the Internet, or whether those things are interesting enough to share with the Internet is another story.

At any rate, there it is. Today I’m not a huge fan of my own blog.

But I did learn something.

I went to the hospital this morning for my MRI. Like I said yesterday, I was lucky to not have to wait more than a few months for it, because the wait time can be 12 months or more. I was even luckier this morning because I got in to do the MRI like, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. Score.

My co-worker was right. It’s pretty claustrophobic, and it’s definitely a long time to hold still. What got me the most, though, was how fucking LOUD it is. The sounds were literally making me queasy after a while. I might as well have been lying on the street while someone jack-hammered an Andrea-shaped hole around me or something. So I wasn’t prepared for that, but I survived.

The lesson I learned is that an MRI, though uncomfortable and mildly stressful, is not as bad as a biopsy,* which I had done last month, and which was pretty gross. (Especially when I removed my own stitches after the fact.)

That’s all for today. Chatty Cathy over here, right?

xA

*And a lot of other things I’ve had to do, and a lot of other things I’m lucky to have never needed to do.

Two Hundred Seventy Seven.

Here’s the thing: I’ve never really thought about what an MRI is.

Maybe that seems crazy, but it’s not something that’s ever really applied to me. So I just assumed it was sort of like an X-Ray. -ish….

I suppose I should have assumed there was more to it than that, because the wait can be so long to get one. When a doctor prescribed me an MRI a few months ago, he told me it could be a year – or even longer – until I actually got it.

“Basically, you request it, and then you wait. And you wait. And then you wait some more. And after you’re done waiting…you actually wait more.”

(He was the one funny/nice doctor I’ve encountered in my stupid knee saga.)

I’m lucky that I didn’t have to wait a year, because my MRI is bright and early tomorrow morning.

“What are you up to this weekend?” one of my co-workers asked me when I left work on Thursday.

“Lots of Zumba teaching…oh, and I have an MRI for my knee.”

“Ugh! You have to get an MRI?!”

“Yes…?!”

“Oh, they’re awful! I hate getting MRIs.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, they’re the worst!”

“Why?”

“Because you have to like, lie still, and it’s so claustrophobic and it’s loud and you can’t move and you have to lie on this like, hard plastic thing and not move and you’re just trying to breathe because it feels so tight and awful and loud and it always takes longer than they say it will.”

“……Fuck.”

Guys, I totally never put two and two together that this is an MRI machine:

MRI

I’ve seen them on TV, in movies. I’ve thought, “Oog, what an uncomfortable experience thati must be.” But I’ve never added it up in my head that that = MRI.

So guess what I’ve been FREAKING THE HELL OUT ABOUT for the last three days?

Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s good to have no idea what you’ve signed up for. Because you’re gonna cross the bridge you have to cross when you get there.

Now, can someone else who’s had an MRI tell me it’s no big deal? I may not sleep otherwise.

xA

Two Hundred Seventy Six.

As part of my job, I help scientists write papers.

It sounds kind of crazy because I have zero knowledge of the science, but on the flip side, a lot of the scientists have zero knowledge of the writing, so it goes both ways.

Yesterday at work, I was walking one of the scientists through his paper. Turns out he’d never written one before. I started explaining things like the SVO (subject-verb-object) sentence structure used in English and when to effectively use commas.

“Wow, yeah, I’m really bad at commas.”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“But like the boss said, I just put them in everywhere.”

“It takes a lot of practice to really feel comfortable knowing where they go, trust me,” I assured him, “Plus, sometimes it’s a stylistic thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, some people love commas. Some people put commas everywhere! There are lots of cases where they’re neither right nor wrong. Just a choice. Do you get what I mean?”

“I suppose.”

“Even in English courses, I saw lots of writers use commas incorrectly, so don’t be too hard on yourself. Sometimes I use too many commas. I love punctuation!”

“Wait…so you have a degree in English literature?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. So do you write?”

“Yes, what’s what I do. I’m a writer. So on this next page –”

“Wait, so you write like, from your mind?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you write things from your imagination? Or do you write for other people? Because sometimes people want to write and they don’t know how. They just have the idea and they get a writer to help them.”

“Oh, well I’ve helped people write things before. And I do a lot of editing.”

“Have you edited books?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“But I prefer to write from my imagination. I mean, that’s what I’d like to do as a career one day.”

“Wow. That is so cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sometimes, when you spend all of your time with other creative and/or artistic types, your skills lose their street cred. Oh yeah, another writer, blah blah blah. I’m a writer, too. Oh, you’re an actor? I’m an actor, too. Are you conservatory trained?

Yesterday I learned that my degree is still considered exotic and yes, cool by other people. Scientists, at that. And it felt good.

Yeah, I’m a writer. Deal with it.

(And then I’d trip over my own feet trying to sashay out of the room, or better yet, poke myself in the eye with the arm of my sunglasses.)

xA

Two Hundred Seventy Five.

Look, I’m the first to admit that I have authority issues.

Did I ever tell you guys about my awful university drama instructor who called me a “natural dissident” during a yelling match we had? I did, just in a different context. He was batshit crazy…

Anyway, on top of having authority issues, I can be forgetful about certain things. Maybe it’s my authority issues taking over my brain or something, but I have an overdue fee at the university library here for $2 that I haven’t paid in almost three years. And I work on campus.

So I got a parking ticket.

“SUNUVAB!” I shouted, when I got it. (Pronounce the ‘B’ at the end as ‘bee.’ Okay, cool.)

That was back in April.

Yes, yes, I put off paying it. Because I was annoyed. I was irritated that I got it. I was being stubborn.

But I swear that I meant to pay it eventually. I really did.

Today I got this in the mail:

Conviction

“NOTICE OF CONVICTION”?!

Could they word that a little more strongly? I mean, come on!

So I opened the letter and wanted to cry because I love words and I take them seriously and I don’t like being told I’m being convicted because not only is that a very strong word, but also, I HAVE AUTHORITY ISSUES and NO ONE’S GONNA CONVICT ME.

So I went from, “SUNUVAB” to something more along the lines of, “Fucksakegottabefuckingkiddingmeconvictionfuck” and I logged onto the online fine payment website.

$50 ticket.

$20 additional fine for taking too long to pay.

$9 service fee for paying online. (But we all know if I had to actually get to the registry, it’d be another year until I paid, and it said my license was revoked until I paid…)

GST.

$79.45 that stupid ticket cost me.

Lesson learned: PAY YOUR TICKETS ON TIME.

OR JUST DON’T GET THEM AT ALL.

Blerg.

xA

Two Hundred Seventy Four.

You know when you’re walking down the street with friends or something, just doing your own thing, and you walk by another person or group of people and hear someone say something really cliched or just generally deplorable, like “OH EM GEE!” or “Represent!” or basically anything else that Schmidt on New Girl would say on a regular basis, and then you instantly judge them?

Like, you’d like to think you’re not a judgemental person, but when you hear it, you lose a grip on accepting everyone and the whole live and let live thing and you just hate that person for the 1-2 seconds you’re walking by them and then the 3-5 seconds you’re still thinking about that really stupid thing they said?

“What an idiot,” you think to yourself, “I’m so glad I don’t know anyone like that.”

Funny story.

My BFF Mags, her husband, and one of her friends, all came up to Toronto for a quick visit while I was there a couple weeks ago.

We went to the zoo:

TOZOO

(I think it’s funny we got a photo together at the zoo in front of something dead, but whales are sort of our thing.)

We checked out St. Lawrence Market:

SL Market

I tried on a big hat:

Big HatGood times were had by all.

After St. Lawrence Market, we decided what the hell, let’s just make today a market day, and we went to Kensington Market to have a look around.

This is all completely pointless to my story, but leave me alone, I’m setting the scene.

After some window shopping and a coffee, we were wandering down the bustling streets of Kensington market along with a large crowd of other people. I wish – I WISH – I could remember exactly what we were talking about. It was something undesirable. Maybe we were talking about how disgusting that one fish shop smelled? (It smelled DISGUSTING.)

Either way, the conversation drifted to something no one would want to do.

I turned to Mags, and with the most sarcastic, obnoxious tone of voice I could muster up, I said….

Wait for it…

“YOLO!”

It was the first time I had ever said it out loud. We all laughed at how awkward and stupid I sounded. I am hilarious, after all.

Approximately three people ahead of us, a guy about our age – somewhere between 25-30 – stopped walking and turned around. His neck was cranked so far to one side to get a look at me that the veins were bursting out of it. His face was scrunched with a monstrously tight combination of confusion, disgust, and hatred.

He GLARED at me.

I laughed and rolled my eyes and kept walking, along with everyone else on the sidewalk, so eventually, he had to keep walking too.

But he didn’t keep walking like a normal person. Suddenly his shoulders were hunched and his steps were laboured, as if he couldn’t even focus on walking while someone as deplorable as myself was in his presence.

The next 3-5 seconds of his day were ruined.

And that was the day I learned that maybe you shouldn’t judge all the “idiots” you walk by out of context, because maybe they’re being “idiots” on purpose.

Maybe we’re all “idiots.”

Or maybe I just want to cover my own ass, all right?

Whatever.

Yolo.

xA

Two Hundred Seventy Three.

Two nights ago, I was at the movies with a friend and decided to flip through one of those magazines they have at the cinema.

I got to a page of upcoming movie previews and stopped on one called The To Do List.

Here’s the blurb from IMDB:

“Feeling pressured to become more sexually experienced before she goes to college, Brandy Clark makes a list of things to accomplish before hitting campus in the fall.”

The blurb in the magazine shocked me, I’m not going to lie. Because it drew repeated attention to the fact that this is a movie about a high school senior trying to get more sexual experience before college.

When I started university, I was 17.

I’m not saying there’s a right or wrong age to become sexually experienced, okay? But should we really have movies written all about it? IMDB states that all of the actors selected for the movie were specifically chosen because they’re older than real high school students…but does that make it better? Maybe in the context of the movie itself, it won’t seem so bad, but based on the blurb alone, I wouldn’t want my teens watching it.

photo

I just hate to think of all the high school girls seeing the movie and thinking there’s a list of things they should know how to do. It scares me. Guys, I’m old.

Lessons learned:

(A) I may be a prude in this specific context (but I don’t really care).
(B) I should probably not have children until this sexy teen thing chills the fuck out.

Remember in the 90s when holding hands or making out was a big deal on TV shows? Oi vey.

xA

Two Hundred Seventy Two.

So there’s some major construction going on one building over from where I work. It means that in order to get to my office, I need to walk through a wooden tunnel/pedway thing. At the end of the pedway, there are a few benches I do a bit of a U-turn around to get into my building.

This pedway has been in place since I started my job back in November, but as the weather has gotten nicer, boy, has it heated up.

And not in a good way.

“Hey, baby!”

“He-llooo.”

The construction workers used to just stare, which I hated anyway. Now it seems the sunshine has brought the chattiness out of them.

nytconstructionworkers

Honestly, catcalling has always shocked me into silence. It’s not something I’ve experienced too many times, but my reaction has always been to avoid contact and keep walking.

Mind you, the catcalling I’ve experienced in the past has been from guys driving by in cars or standing across the street. There was distance. Last week, as I reached the end of the pedway, a construction worker sitting on one of the benches less than six feet away from me looked at me and said, “Heeeey.”

I ignored him and turned to go into my building.

“Ooooh, yeah, that’s NICE.”

It took everything in me not to turn back and look at the jackass making comments at me. Instead I had to watch him watch me run up the stairs to my floor in my sunglasses-covered peripheral vision.

What the fuck?

“Really?! I thought that only happened in movies!”

That’s what the two men I mentioned this to said.

“Oh, when that happens, I just scowl as much as possible.”

That’s what one of my closest girlfriends said today, when I told her what was going on.

I wish it just happened in movies, guys. On the plus side, it makes me happy that those two guys were so appalled, because it means that lots of guys would never dream of catcalling. On the other hand, though, it makes me crazy that my BFF immediately rolled her eyes like it was all too familiar.

If I have learned anything from the catcalling over the last couple weeks, it is this:

(A) I have no idea what these men are trying to accomplish.

(B) I have no idea how to deal with it.

Do I scowl? Ignore them? Swear at them? Try to reason with them?

It’s super uncomfortable and ridiculous that this is something I’m now worried about when I make my walk to the office. What a drag.

xA

Two Hundred Seventy One.

Here’s something I learned last night: don’t watch Girls right before you go to bed. Especially not the end of a season, or better yet, the end of the last season that aired.

SIDENOTE: There may be some minor spoilers in here. Get a grip.

hbo-girls-season-2

Because here’s why:

  • It’s generally a little depressing. Look, say what you will about Girls – I know some people love it and some people hate it – but regardless of their financial situations or level of spoiled-ness, the relationships between the friends on that show are pretty real. You know that moment Marnie and Hannah are talking and they’re lying blatantly about where they’re at and you can feel the distance growing? Yeah, that. Been there. Wanted to ugly sob. Held it in.
  • Hannah is such a crazy writer, right? Yeah, I feel that way, minus the counting. Sometimes the sheer amount of words and noise in my head is so loud that I literally can’t look people in the eye. I forget that’s not normal. It’s probably very not normal, so let’s keep that between us, okay? Okay.
  • All of the girls on Girls drive me crazy, but also, I identify with every single one of them. Hannah and her fucked up relationship with Adam; Marnie’s weird, “I’m your girlfriend” moment with Booth; Shosh’s general uncertainty; and Jessa’s general unsettled state of being.

So yeah, try watching all of that and then lay in bed in silence and try to go to sleep.

SPOILER ALERT: IT’S NOT HAPPENING.

Have you experienced Girls-induced insomnia? Can we talk about it?

xA

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