You'll Find Me at the Intersection of First Year and Middle Child

*DISLCAIMER* I do categorize people a little bit here for the sake of the story, I'm sorry and please don't be offended, categorizing people is terrible, and inaccurate, and I really am only using it to make a point.

I have a favourite professor.  When I have a class with this woman, I feel satisfied that the zillion dollars I'm pouring into my education is actually finding it's way into my education.  She is brilliant, insightful, caring, knowledgeable and just plain interesting.  My absolute favourite part of this woman is that she's loud.  Generally, even if I'm at the back of the lecture hall she reads the room and speaks at the best possible volume, as all professors should, and few actually do.

Today, in her class, I had a rather frustrated experience.

I'm not sure what it is about Laurier Brantford, but for a town with a meth problem and an absurdly high teen pregnancy rate, we attract a LOT of uhm.. privileged students.  That was the kindest way I could think to put it.

Most of the time, the girls with their gigantic Micheal Kors bags and stupidly high hair don't bother me, unless they get too close, because somehow even if they brush past me I still end up with makeup on my sleeve...  Truthfully, I have no quams about these girls.  They normally just live their lives, sit quietly in class with their Macbooks and don't bother anybody.

It's fairly obvious that the boys with their Supreme backpacks and absurdly "slim" pants usually believe themselves to be top dog, which is fine, that's your prerogative, until of course the privilege is met with a bit of an entitlement complex - also fairly easy to spot.  These would be the boys that speak louder than anyone else in the room, use the word "yo" to introduce every mediocre thought and in a classroom with a 200 person capacity and a 180 person class, they throw their backpack on the seat beside them.  Somehow they all do that middle child thing too where they constantly feel the need to assert themselves in public settings, particularly when it comes to their masculinity.  If you ever want a really solid laugh, as I received today, plant one of these such men into a lecture on feminism.  *Hint, this is where the story starts*

Notice that this category is getting smaller and smaller...

First years, God love em, seem to understand at a rate of like 80% that in University, not only do you get out what you put in, but because we learn in a lecture simultaneously, I also get out what you put in.  If you're distracting, I'm distracted, and vice versa.  There is a DIRECT co-relation between the 20% that hasn't quite figured this out yet, and the boys I've described above.

Now.

Mix together in a large feminism lecture two parts overcompensating, entitled offspring of the income inequality crisis with one part my favourite professor.

When the mixture has settled, add three young women eager to acquire the knowledge we have worked since the age of fifteen to afford.

Did I forget that you're supposed to pre-bake the first ingredient until their eyes are red and they smell like burnt grass?

Clearly, and I'm not kidding, car rims were far more interesting to these young men beside me than anything that our professor could have possibly been saying, which is why they were so zealous about ignoring her, and all of the dirty looks coming from their fellow students.

I took a page and a half of notes before I gave up and wrote my name 14 times.  My friends didn't get much farther.  By the time the lecture was over, I was so ridiculously fed up with these boys that I couldn't just let it go.  I know, right?  That doesn't sound like me at all...

"Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but you know she doesn't take attendance, right?  You could just not come to class if you're planning to talk through the whole thing.  Sorry, but it's pretty distracting."

What I received back was a slue of curse words like I had never before heard....

"It's my ******* class too I can do what I want *****, **** don't tell me what to do.. *trailing off as they walk away* *a few more **** just for good measure*"

What I heard was more or less I'm going to punch this wall now to reaffirm my manliness and call you all kinds of nasty things because I'm in a foul mood and the world should know it, particularly you, you *****.


I laughed.

Blessings, Mads.

I'm A Damn Bed Sheet.

May I be blunt?

I think I'm a pretty alright person.  I'm pretty good looking, I'm not horribly disfigured or anything, I'm averagely smart, I play a bunch of instruments, I'm sort of funny.  I think I'm okay.. Average, if nothing else.

I tend to be of the belief that you will make ten times as many friends being interested in other people as you will trying to make other people interested in you.  Makes sense, yes?  Everyone likes to talk about themselves, so if you ask people questions, they'll answer them until there are no questions left to ask, and there are always questions left to ask.  Living my life this way has done pretty well for me.  Generally speaking, people like me.  They're nice to me, I get invited to stuff sometimes, it's pretty okay.  But no one gives a shit.

No one ever listens to me when I need it, no one pays attention to me, no one ever asks me questions.

No one bothers to get past the surface stuff because once you know my name, I just become someone that will listen to you.

I'm a total doormat.  People walk all over me, all the time, and I'm too damn nice to do anything about it even though they're breaking my heart.

Tonight at the dinner table my mom asked me something to the effect of what it was really like growing up with my brother.  My brother has enough personality for 12 people and enough dirty laundry for 30.  I told her that it was like growing up with a fog horn for a sibling.  You can't help but pay attention to him, because he was so loud, and had so much going for him, and was so smart and talented and great, so I sort of just hung out behind him and did my thing, and became a well rounded, well adjusted, listener.

These days his and my relationship are a little different.  Apparently he's forgotten that his dirty laundry is a thing, because he seems to think that my dirty laundry is like... Week long trip in the Australian outback with one change of clothes.  Really though.  So not only does he pretend I don't exist when we're not together, but then when we are together he likes to make jokes (that aren't really jokes) about how I'm an alcoholic, and I have turned into the worst child.  Pardon you, but let me introduce you to your 15 year old self.  Having trouble communicating with him?  That's because you were solidly inebriated from 2007 all the way through to 2009.

I also seem to be becoming a person easily replaced.  Not even replaced, just forgotten.  I have this friend I've had since I was very small, we've always been close.  Last year, closer than ever.  We were family.  He has not talked to me in three months. How do you go from being so close to being nothing in three months?  It's like I'm disposable.  I'm a damn bed sheet.

Here are five things someone that is my friend knows about me:
1.  I'm an excellent listener.
2.  I really like to eat.
3.  I always laugh at people's jokes, even if they're not funny, because it's rude not to laugh.
4.  I watch a lot of TV.
5.  I am stupid addicted to Starbucks.

Here are five things someone that is my friend SHOULD know about me:
1.  I don't like hugging.  It makes me uncomfortable.  As does sitting too closely.
2.  Books to me are this magical other world I live in part time.
3.  My opinions are irrational 90% of the time.  I don't know why I feel like that, I just do.
4.  My favourite colour is yellow.
5.  I get incredibly frustrated when people interrupt me.

Here are ten things I wish people (anyone) cared enough to find out:
1.  I am absolutely shit bricks terrified of goats.  That's part of the 10% of my opinions that are based on reality and past experience.
2.  Church was a dick to me.
3.  I'm really close to both my parents but in completely opposite ways: I talk to my mom about everything, every single day.  I don't talk to my dad about many personal things, but he and I have so much in common sometimes it's like we're the same person.  He is the best man I've ever met.
4.  I think dogs are messy and obnoxious 90% of the time.
5.  I hate being hugged, but I love cuddling.  It's because no one pays attention to me, so when someone hugs me, and gives me that weird 4 seconds of attention, it feels so fake and staged and unnecessary, and like if you're really honest with yourself, you don't want to hug me either, you just feel like you're supposed to.
6.  I get really overwhelmed when more than one person talks at once.  Every time it happens I instantly feel tears rush into my eyes.
7.  I suck at playing music.  I'm really good at playing like 10 things, and making it up as I go.
8.  I'm not very smart.  I'm actually really stupid, I just study really hard and know a lot of big words.
9.  If I could be anything in the entire world, I would be skinny.
10.  All I really want in life is someone to want to marry me.

Three more for the road (and to lighten the mood):
1.  I don't believe in dinosaurs.
2.  I have a pretty serious Wendy's addiction.
3.  I think people that call other people crazy are actually the crazy ones. I don't trust them.

The August Exodus

One of my great joys in life is airing other peoples' dirty laundry.  Not necessarily dirty laundry even.. Just embarrassing laundry.

Last night after work I got to spend a few hours with one of my closest and dearest friends, Aulona.  If you've been a follower for a while you'll know she's far from a new character in my life.  My all-time-top-of-the-list favourite thing about Aulona is her lack of personal space issues.  You're not really friends with Aulona until she does something uncomfortably personal in front of you.  It's quite endearing really.

So Aulona and I ate an amount of Chinese food that would make normal people hate themselves.  We sat in the empty restaurant for about an hour and talked, and laughed, and reminisced, and discussed how all either of us want in life is to sit in Chinese restaurants and discuss how much we dislike the people we went to highschool with (livin' the dream).  Post Chinese food, we got back in my car, stuck in a CD and rocked out to Jesse Mccartney like only girls born 1992 through 1995 can.  Jesse Mccartney transitioned into uncomfortably racist novelty rap, which took a smooth step over to less embarrassing pop and then an abrupt 180 to aggressively annoying country music.  All said and done, I woke up this morning with a sore throat and the chorus of Beautiful Soul burrowing cranial pathways I never really wanted.

At the end of 12th grade, Aulona felt the need to run a little, and did.  All the way to Ottawa, about 7 hours away from me.  Every time she comes home, we party like it's 2011, and for however long we're together, we were never apart.  Nothing's different, nobody's sad. For 3 hours, or 4 hours, or a whole day, everything's perfect.  Unfortunately, last night, there was a bass drum in the back of my mind every few minutes telling me summer's almost over.  Everyone's almost gone again.

I've always had older friends, which means every August since I was 15 has had a tiny undertone of goodbye.  It sucks, we've all stood on the sidelines of the August Exodus and waved goodbye to our comfortable year, and at some point, we'll all be the ones on the move, waving and smiling, and trying not to look back.  It sucks, for absolutely everybody.

To that end, we would hate ourselves for not taking those risks, finding the scariest path and running down it, and joining the August Exodus. Likewise, we would hate our friends for staying back for us, but it doesn't make it any easier.  What makes it easier is nights like last night, where for 3 hours, no one's going anywhere but the parking lot of our highschool and an empty Chinese restaurant.

My message to those leaving is this: Goodbye, I love you, safe journey, stay in touch, and no matter where you go, if only for an hour, come back.

To Aulona specifically, I promise that when you ask to Skype me at 3 am to tell me how much everything in the entire world drives you crazy, I'll try my very hardest to look like I'm awake, and when you come home to visit me, you can tell me everything again over cosmos and I'll actually listen to you.  I also promise, I won't yell the words to The Motto with anybody but you.  Because that's special.. And a little racist, but it's okay.

Also, please don't leave me alone to sing Jesse Mccartney in my car by myself.. Because that's how crazy people happen.

Cheers, friends.

I Am Not A Noodle.

I attended my first organized yoga class this morning.

Let me first say how much I admire people who do this on a regular basis, because I won't be standing up again for weeks.

So I get to the gym.  The sort of cute guy that welcomes me pretty much every time I go and makes me the occasional protein shake directs me to my classroom.  On the way there, he turns to me and says "Is this your first time at the club?".  Well fine then, I thought we'd been flirting with our eyes for the last month, but I guess not, jerk.  Anyway.

I walk into the room and place my brand spankin' new yoga mat on the floor and spark conversation with the woman next to me, about my inability to actually do yoga, and I watch as this incredibly fruity hippy woman enters the room and hands me a yoga block.  So we begin the class.  Nothing too complicated, a sun salutation at lightening speed (I'm not kidding, this pace could also be described as breakneck, or ticket worthy) and some basic poses.

My entire life, every dance class, every stretch and every chiropractic appointment could not have prepared me for what came next.  The little blond hippy asks me to place my FACE on the yoga block.  I do.  She then tells me to take my knees and rest them on my already shaking elbows and balance myself, in the air, ON MY FACE.  Somehow, I do it, painstakingly.  I can feel the sweat pouring off me and I suddenly become very aware of all of the blood in my body.  I am made aware of this because 98% was coursing through my cheek bones.  Literally I could feel my eyebrow hair growing because of this new found circulation.

As if this pose weren't trying my patience enough, hippy-mc-tiny-legs then walks over to me, kneels down and begins adjusting my neck!  My face is still pressed an inch deep into the yoga block and she's moving me!  She tells me to lift my head and I was like "hahahah, pardon you."  Apparently she wasnt kidding, because she kept saying it and saying it and saying it until finally I say "I can't!".  She got off her knees, giggled and walked away.  I was honestly so confused.

What makes it worse is that during these insane poses, she tells you "focus on your breathing, breath into your toes".  Two points.  First off, I haven't breathed in twelve minutes, because if I do, I will fall.  Second, I'm temporarily unaware of where my toes actually are.

I'm not even going to say that it was human pretzel-ish, because pretzels are solid.  They don't move.  She should have just asked upon entering the classroom, "Please prepare to change your entire view on motion from human, with muscles, to damp spaghetti noodle".

Check Your Facts, Soap-Box Susie

http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2012/11/24/war-on-men/#ixzz2DMOSRjN3

Suzanne Venker……..a woman.  Noted in the article “feminism kicked women off the pedestal they already had”.  Had feminism not done so, Suzanne Venker would have no pedestal from which to speak publicly.  She’d still be tapping her husband on his back so that he could speak on her behalf in church!  Let’s remember that had first wave feminism not done its duty, women still would not have the right to vote. 

I would argue that today’s men are fortunate in having equal, intelligent, educated partners that are true partners in every sense of the word (rather than the little “mrs” who defers to her much smarter husband in all important matters, except perhaps what to have for dinner).  In writing books at all this woman has contradicted her own point and made thorough use of a platform established by feminism.

Opinions such as hers are a huge proponent to the concept that woman are ESSENTIALLY unequal, when in reality it's a commonly held belief among academics that gender, along with race, are mainly social constructs.  Again, if social constructs didn't change, no one would have published this woman's beliefs.  Let's also remember that in pitching a return to femininity she's nullifying centuries of advocacy and dedication not only of women, but men as well.  

Two thirds of University students are women in 2012.  At Laurier Brantford, there are 7 females to every one male on campus.  If women want to marry as bad as Venker seems to believe they do, and men only want women deeply in touch with their femininity, why don't they do something really crazy and enroll in University?  I know, I know, you don't believe men can still get in since women are snatching up all the opportunities, but they can, and I guarantee at least one in seven women likes to wear skirts.  On top of the skirt thing, from what I've seen, most women in Universities have no problem with the bearing children thing either... 

Women have continued to evolve to meet the changes in our society – now mainly for a two parent working income.  Women have adapted into a world ready to accommodate their change.  At least Ms. Venker is right in one point – men have not changed.  Men have not adapted.  The men to which she refers would prefer that we go back about 50 years.  Not likely to happen.  Perhaps the solution is not that Ms. Venker replaces her bonnet and gets off her soapbox – perhaps the solution is that men should also adapt and catch up themselves.

Let's consider what our world would look like if social construction did not change.  The black professor at the front of my class would not be allowed off his field, never mind anywhere close to a University.  Chinese immigrants would be required to pay what would now amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars to enter Canada.  Native Americans would be systematically assimilated.  We would live in a monarchy.  Someday, when our great great grand children stand up against the central inequalities of their generation, they'll look back in comparison at the archaic gender constructions such as the above with relief and thanksgiving for the opposing view.

Fragility.

Serious blog time...

There's this Ingrid Michaelson song called Breakable. 

"We are so fragile, and our cracking bones make noise.  We are just breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys"

How often we forget about that.  I know I do. 

Ever met those obnoxious folk who believe with every fibre of their being that the entire globe hangs on every gold plated word that leaves their lips?  Who hasn't.  They're the worst, and we all remember them, because they suck so much.  Then, of course, you jump that massive edifice to the opposite end of the spectrum, where we have the ones that honestly believe they could run themselves off the road and no one would care.  Sad, yes, but also a very important part of my point.

Sometimes we forget to be aware of ourselves.  And without self awareness, how could we possibly be aware of those around us?  I'm currently reading "The Book of Tea" by Okakura Kakuzo, which I'm fully aware is a very strange choice for pleasure reading.  Kakuzo writes "Those who cannot feel the littleness of great things in themselves are apt to overlook the greatness of little things in others".  There's no question about why the second aforementioned party is so obnoxious; it's a simple issue of self esteem.  They have none.  They failed to recognize their own greatness, and in the process have isolated everyone else in their lives, as well as the greatness those people have to offer.  Chances are good that their isolated depression has broken many hearts along it's path.  Probably, this lack of self recognition is responsible for a variety of missed oppertunity, lost loves, and missed potentially incredible friendships.  By being unaware of their own greatness, our Silent Depression friend has probably snuffed a great deal of greatness in others.

While we hate to admit it, that little flame of greatness flickers in each of us.  We like to believe we can fade into the background, but the fact of the matter is that we can't.  We're connected.

Why do bank robbers wear masks?  To remain anonymous, clearly.  I'm sorry to burst humanity's bubble here, but none of us are anonymous.  We have friends, families, classes, coworkers, neighbours, grocery store cashiers, and cars beside us on the freeway.  We are far from anonymous, and far from invisible.  We stumble through life like bulls in a China Shop, refusing to admit that we matter, and believing we can do whatever we want, because no one cares about us anyway.  I'll say it once, and I'll say it with everything I have in me. 

You're decisions affect everyone.  Everyone.

Everyone gets lonely sometimes and looks to that one friend who always seems to be up for a little shameless flirting to put you back on your game, but when do we think about the emotions of that poor girl you flirt with?  We seem to believe that our words don't matter and that she wouldn't care, but she probably does. 

We think we're one of millions, of the thousand people I interact with on a daily basis, one won't make a difference.

Sorry to break it to you, but Ingrid's right, we're just fragile, breakable children, and it's time we stop walking around with hammers.

Maddi.

Stop With The Cats. You Make My Respect For You Commit Suicide.

Before I begin, I feel it necessary to say. Right this second, it 11:20. I WILL be finished this blog by midnight. Let nothing stand in my way!

What is wrong with my generation? We live in a society that takes both comfort and fascination from the ironic; the dilapidated, the counter productive, the bluntly honest, the utilitarian. My philosophy teacher pointed out to me today that art, architecture, fashion, music even, no longer has any use for the frivolous. It's all about utility and necessity, and - honestly - basics. The one remaining notion of non necessity in our culture is humor; the one thing that never goes out of style or out of practice - it gets old, but there's always new humor to replace the tattered remains of overused phrases and overtold jokes. Now for the stuff you're not going to like.

JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE THE INTERNET NOW DOES NOT MEAN IT MUST CONSUME OUR HUMOR.

Did you catch that? No? ... Here it comes again.

THERE ARE THINGS IN LIFE THAT ARE FUNNIER THAN LOL CATS. LIKE BROWN TOAST. LIKE SAFETY PINS. AND PEPTIC ULSERS.

Did you catch it that time? Good.

I'm not a cat person to begin with; I like the occasional cat that won't try to rip the heck our of my hands or claw my eyes out... Or slit my jugular. Which means that for their entirety of my life, I've taken a liking to maybe 3 cats. Maybe. Every other cat on the planet has my full permission to never again make contact with me. In fact, I encourage it. Lolcats has taken me from a state of indifference towards tthe general cat population to a state of hysterical rage. Instead of making a small effort to avoid cats, I now make a significant effort to ensure that I not only avoid the cat the first time around, but to never actually make contact with the cat again. They were never funny, they are not funny now, and no matter what the cat seems to be telepathically saying to you in grammar that would make Mark Twaine himself roll over in his grave, they will never be funny. Every time you post a Lolcat to your facebook, a couple of the respect points I've been storing up for you take the plunge, stare longingly at that happy dagger, and end it all. You make my respect for you commit suicide.

Okay, I'm done beating up on internet humor now. This is just a little addendum to tonight's (this morning... It's 12:02. I didn't make it.) blog, but it must be said.

THE MOST POSSIBLE SEXUAL REFERENCES DOES NOT A FUNNY JOKE MAKE.

Just because you've managed to shout out to every reproductive organ on God's green earth does not make you funny. It makes you unintelligent, because you can't come up with anything funnier than sex. You're in fifth grade. Congratulations. I truly wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors, and don't forget to dress nice for Grade 8 graduation.

As in all my brutally harsh blogs, I have a few nice things to say. That is, if you've made it this far without becoming incredibly offended and flipping the tabs back to Lolcats. The things I find both funny and tasteful are, honestly, few and far between. As a woman, I will admit that I find most woman jokes incredibly funny, and not the least bit offensive, because I also get a good kick out of feminism. Offended yet? I hope not. I do have a few guilty pleasures when it comes to humor, the biggest of which are the jokes that the five year old in the grocery store line would tell you.


What do you call a line of rabbits walking backward?

A receding hare line.


What did the ocean say to the other ocean?

Nothing, they just waved.
(Alternate answer (thank you Reg!): sea you later!)

I know it's silly, and it may make me five years old, but when the witty words emerge from the mouth of a five year old girl in the mall, there is absolutely nothing funnier. Don't lie to me, you know it's the truth. Anything in that tiny baby voice is absolutely hillarious.

Okay, I've reached the end of this thought, and the end of my night. It is now 12:15, and I'm only 15 minutes past my goal. If you did read this blog and were incredibly offended by
a) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards cats,
b) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards Lolcats,
c) my firm and unchanging malicious attitude towards dirty jokes and those who tell them (and those who laugh, you're just encouraging it), or
d) my firm and unchanging appreciation for a good woman joke,
I would say I'm sorry, but I really am not, and I don't want to lie to you. I wasn't that mean, I do hope you'll get over it, and please still be friends with me. If you cared enough to read my blog, I care enough to fake an apology in person the next time I see you. Thank you for reading, at any rate.

It's 12:22...

Blessings,
Maddi.