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.

Put Some Pants On. No, Really, You're Scaring Children.

I live in the same city I've lived in my whole life. I was born in the local hospital, and I've been here ever since, so I know it's possible to raise a child here with an average modesty-o-meter.

Modesty.

"modesty? What's that?" you may ask. Well, let me tell you, it's something we seem to have forgotten about over the years. Modesty is the ticket to success. it's the ability to walk up the stairs without holding your kilt down. It's a sense of self respect. It's leaving something - anything, really - to the imagination.

There are a few issues in particular I wish to attack, the first of which is this: TIGHTS ARE NOT PANTS, AND SHOULD NOT BE WARN AS SUCH. Leggings are pants. Tights are not pants. Leggings, yes, tights, no. The difference is this: tights are see-through. I can see it all, and believe me, I would give anything to unsee it. I don't want to see all of your personal business and what not, and you need to cover it up! It's not hard, just throw on some pants. Or a towel, either works for me.

The second is this: If I can tell what colour your bra is, something isn't right. I understand that straps fall down, and sometimes the pink sneaks out from underneath, but if your shirt is A) see through, or B) incredibly low cut, I will say something, and it will not be pleasant, so I sincerely recommend you don't force me to play fashion police. As well, lace was made for underthings. If your top is either half or completely lace, it needs something over top of it. There is no exception to this rule. Ever.

My third and final modesty critique is this: buy clothes that fit. If you're busting out of all the wrong places, you have an issue. If you can't sit down because your pants are too tight, you have a problem. If those jeans could've been painted on, you have a problem.

Ouch, right? I just eliminated half your wardrobe in one fowl swoop! Go get a BandAid and come on back, because I have nice things to say from this point on... Mostly.

One of my nearest and dearest friends in the entire world is a model of high fashion as best one can be in a town of people who wear pajamas to the grocery store, and her name is Aulona. Since I've known her, fashion has always been her thing; if you have a wardrobe issue, you talk to Aulona. When picking outfits, you talk to Aulona. For personal shopping assistance, you talk to Aulona. The woman has enough fashion magazines to heat a homeless man for life. Aulona is one of those girls that could be a European supermodel; tall, thin and beautiful. And crazy stylish. She's the only person I know who can wear a fur vest, ultra skinnies, unthinkable colours and 5" heals to school and somehow get away with it.

Aside from one very, very small pair of jeans in grade 11, Aulona has never worn anything to make me question her sense of propriety. I tell you this first of all, because I love Aulona, and second, to prove the simple point that you can look good - great, even - without looking like you just got off the street corner, and without flashing any undergarments to anyone. It is more than possible, it's doable! So do it!

Teenagers of Brantford, I beg of you; have some self respect and learn to dress yourselves like you were created for more, because you were! Remember that the next time you go shopping. Or just take Aulona with you, she's pretty honest.

Love and blessings, Internet.

Mads.

Rant Of The Century! Fasten Your Seatbelts, People...

Here's the deal. Hallways are made for walking. If I catch you standing in the middle of a hallway, surrounded by a million of your little grade 9 friends, blocking my path to a class I'm already late to, I will give your name to all my grade 12 friends, and we will eat you alive. You need to move. Its not that hard. I understand that it's hard to get to your locker at peak traffic hours, but there are corners all over the place; stand behind one and wait a while instead five people deep in front of your locker, where you're going to get pushed a whole lot more, and you probably will get trampled, pre locker excursion.
Secondly, when you're walking down the hallway in mad traffic, and there are people on all sides of you, and it finally dawns on you that instead of walking towards the portable stairs, you meant to go to the civics classroom, on the other end of the hallway, it is not okay to 180! I don't understand why you don't understand that if there are people in front of and beside you, there are probably people behind you too; therefore, when you turn around, you will not be met with a clear path and smiling faces but 120 angry, and already late students, unwilling to let you through. When you figure out that you're going the wrong way, you need to duck into a corner, an alcove, a classroom, anything you want, I don't care, and creep back out into the correct direction. It takes 4 extra seconds, and ultimately may actually save your life. I know that grade 9 is hard, I did it once already, but the faster you learn this the easier life will be. I promise.
Last one, and this is a biggie! Mass. I am not Catholic, nor have I ever claimed to be Catholic, nor do I ever really want to be Catholic. But for the teachers and students that are, talking in a Mass about, oh I dunno, the hot girl in English, or how much you absolutely loath Mr. Annear, is not okay! You have 75 minutes at lunch in which to talk to your friends, and let's be honest, you talk through every one of your classes anyway, so I don't understand why you feel the need to stomp on someone else's sacred ritual by not keeping your mouth shut for an hour. AN HOUR! That's not even a long time! And wouldn't you rather be told by a grade 12 with a little bit of righteous anger than a teacher with 30 years of power trip built up behind all that crazy white hair? I'm holding the long end of the stick out to you; take it!
I will never understand why grade nines are the way they are, but they are. I was, we all were, and everyone will be at some point, but grade 9 does not have to be synonymous with the things it's normally synonymous with! Take your intelligence back, grade nines, learn the rules, follow the rules, and don't get eaten alive. It's the smarter option, and that you can trust me on.

Okay, I'm done.
Maddi.

The Thing From Another World

The Book Of Awesome has acted as a catalyst for a new social trend; leading not towards the traditional, the finer things in life, but in fact the very opposite: the simple. While at first this seems an excellent movement, grass roots in nature, I do believe it is in fact tragic. There's nothing wrong with small pleasures: seeing the bus turn the corner towards you on the coldest day of the year, correctly guessing which pocket your keys are in on the first try, finding the remote, etc, but I hate the thought of what this could mean for society. Instead of a society appreciative of all things, large and small, we are in fact moving towards a society that expects little more of itself than small pleasures; too simple minded and simply pleased to really appreciate the finer things in life.
Today, I received an invitation to a party, as well as an invitation to enjoy the company of an old friend over a Starbucks. I say this not to inform you of my raging popularity, but to segue into the tale of what I actually did with my day. After a quick cup of tea with the most lovely people in the world, my mother and I made our way, very slowly, to Hamilton, where we endured our final uniform shopping trip of my high school career and laid on probably close to 20 matresses before finally choosing one for my soon to be refurbished bedroom. Two Tim's stops and a trip to the grocery store later, we were home to make my favourite food in the entire world: French onion soup. We made our soup, enjoyed our soup, and now find ourselves sponging our way through an evening of laughhter and vintage sci-fi flicks. While at first this day may seem a large collection of simple glories, we must remember perspective. Instead of following the oh so recent cultural norm of looking to the small glory, we must remember to evaluate as a whole: a brilliantly busy day with my mother that turned out to be an incredible gift. It's all about the big picture.
In the same manner, I have begun to evaluate the concept of "quality time". I have friends who seem to have the wise idea that quality time can happen in an instant and continue as long as one wishes, which in fact is not true. I have come to understand that quality time does not come into being without it's necessary predecessor: quantity time. It requires years of attempt and incredible persistent to get to a place where ten minutes can become quality time. One does not exist without the other, just as simple joys should not exist without the finer things in life and the trials of life serving as their experiential ancestors. Does that not make a bit of sense?
I'm not trying to say that there isn't a place for the shiner beacon of hope that is the city bus on a cold winters day, or suddenly remembering where you left that other shoe, but I do believe we need to remember the big picture: where is it that the bus is going? Aren't you glad you bought those shoes in the first place? The fantastic day that is built from an hour over a pot of onions, a sci-fi flick, and what seemed to be endless shopping. Big picture people, big picture.

Smtimes U Peple & Yur Gramar Driv Me NUTS

The original version of spell check was created by William J. Tobin in 1978.  He invented it for a company called Software Concepts, Inc. and in doing so, revolutionized typing, which was more or less a revolutionary concept to begin with.  According to recent statistics, in the US, 76% of the population are computer OWNERS, not just users.  In todays society, conjested with unimagineable technologies barely dreamed of in 1978, i believe we've reached an impass.  Those on one side, the side forever taken by the human race, include Charles Dickens, Emily Bronte, Robertson Davies, and of course, William J. Tobin.  On the other side, we find ourselves in the faces of such people as Bill Gates, Tony Faddel and Steve Jobs.  On one side we hold tight the classical English literature that guided our nations through war, famine, draught, genocide, tragedy, victory!  The poems, novels, biographies that, while they may have been written decades prior, still hold truth and value, and promise!  On the other side... Well, they have cell phones.
Maybe I'm being dramatic.  That's a silly statement, i know I'm being dramatic, because I'm always dramatic, but I'm very fired up about this!  I fully believe that if Charles Dickens ever read some of the posts i find on my News Feed, he'd roll over in his grave.  What have we come to?  It seems that the easier attaining information, sharing information, and being lazy becomes, the less interested we are in the foundational English that our society thrived from for centuries.  To be literate is to be enriched, but our society has redefined literate, and it no longer equates to enrichment, but in fact, quite the opposite.  It now equates to text messages and Billboards, which in turn equates to lower functional literacy rates and lower educational standards.  It, ultimately, will redifine success in the business world, the literary world, and the general public.  Now, is that really what you want?
In the past summer, I've carved out the time to read a few novels, none of which i didn't like.  I read The Joy Luck Club, The Kite Runner, Rachel's Tear (The Spiritual Journey of A Columbine Martyr), Gone With The Wind, and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.  Five novels in two months is not really an accomplishment, but it's certainly not something to scoff at, either.  While it might sound a little unrealistic, i read these books in the midst of a four season Scrubs marathon, a ten season Friends marathon, moderately intense church comittments, and a part time job.  Oh, and there's a two year old in my house.  You don't need to cut out every other aspect of your life to make a little time for a book.
So, i challenge you, blog reader, facebook user, texter.  Read a book.  Any book, just one, more if you'd like.  Read a book and absorb everything you can from it.  Enjoy the grammar and the propriety.  Welcome the foreign world and the foreign characters, and love every second of it.  Then, translate this book to your life.  The next time you go to post a new status on Facebook, proof read it.  Or, if spelling isn't your thing, there's this really neat button on your keyboard called a Shift button, which allows you to access entirely new realms of punctuation outside of a period and comma, imagine!
Bottom line, we truly have reached an impass here.  Either we learn to entwine modern technology and literary theology, or we don't, but think of what we lose if we don't make the effort; Is centuries of progress really outweighed by the tiny piece of plastic that your friends live in?

Blessings,
Mads

The Wright Brothers Were Right... Flying Is Absolutely Incredible!

I feel sandwiched in between the clouds. Above me there's a paper thin layer of snow white, hiding a crystal clear sky. Underneath me is a much thicker cotton ball layer of clouds, covering miles and miles of farm land, rivers, sky scrapers and people. We seem to be in an odd space between the two layers, soft and blue, and what a space it is.
To normal people, flying is tedious and frustrating. They make you empty your stuff, they charge you fifteen dollars for a bag of Skittles, and they steal your gold flecked, only sold in mid-Western Austria, 189$ a gram facial cream, because its 130 ml and it doesn't fit in your over-stuffed government issued plastic baggy. But to me, flying is the most romantic, exciting, magical experience ever to be enjoyed.
The clouds under the plane look like a flat, perfect sheet on a crisp, newly made bed, with tiny little pin-prick wrinkles, like mini mountain tops. What about that is frustrating? It truly is an experience I find to be enchanting, in a word. I know it's crazy, but it's true. I love flying! My flight took off at 6 35, and is 3 hours from it's destination. Instead of seeing that as the most boring three hours of my life, I think of it as a fantastic opportunity. I can finish my book, start the next, engage in potentially life changing conversation with my neighbor, play some Bubble Shooter, write a letter... The possibilities are truly endless!
On the way into security, I noticed a sign... Rowdy passengers will be reprimanded! This sign led to a thought, which rolled around in my head a little bit, and turned into a question. It rolled around a little more, and eventually, like a pearl in an oyster, is ready to make an appearance. You're 5000 feet in the air: is being rowdy really the smartest choice at this moment?
My best friend has a massive and unthinkable fear of anything in the air, which basically boil a down to airplanes and elevators. She truly cannot handle being on an elevator. I made her come with me to a doctor's appointment one time, and forced her to take the elevator up to the office, and I truly thought she was going to run the second light shown through those constricting steel doors. Airplanes are 100% out of the question. I do admit though, her fear is logical. "Why, in the name of all that is good in the world, would I get on a 6 million ton aluminum fridge that flies with FIRE?" its a good question, I admit. Why would you?
I'll tell you why. He's almost 2 and a half, and his name is Phillippe. He has curly, gingery brown hair and beautiful eyes, and named his toy dinosaur Roar. Or, a better reason, a 28 year old woman whose loved you since you were born, who used to give you all her old clothes, and paint your nails, and teach you which products would really get rid of the zit on your chin. That's why I'm sitting in a 6 million ton aluminum fridge that flies with fire, 5000 feet off the ground and counting, because I love my family more, and let me tell you, when i see my sister and my beautiful nephew, and get to wrap my arms around them, which is something no phone company, no skype call, and no facebook message will ever offer, it will be completely worth it.
So, Ashley, suck it up baby girl. Get on the plane, because its not about the flight itself, it's about whats waiting on the other side.

Pee Pee Dancing and Eliminating Your Bathroom Hog!

Happy summer friends! Well, I have 5 days of school left including exams, so ALMOST happy summer. I hope everyone is sufficiently excited, I know i am. This may be a short post, because I have to get back to studying, but its one I feel the need to write. Something that drives me up the wall, when i do it, when other people do it, when anyone does it really, is this: the pee pee dance.
Everyone's seen the diaper commercials, and the YouTube videos, but I don't mean any of that. I mean like honest-to-goodness-my-bladdar-may-actually-explode pee pee dancing. There's a few different ways to do it, of course accompanied by their corresponding degrees of I-must-pee-ness, so here we go!

I HAVE TO PEE A LITTLE - movement of the hips, side to side, in an attempt to contain urine

I REALLY HAVE TO PEE -general hip thrusting in various directions; sometimes movements are used that would not, under any other circumstance be used in normal life (somewhat chicken-dance ish) accompanied by flailing of the arms, and potentially exposed teeth (I'm not sure how this helps maintain pre-wetting yourself status, but it does)

I MIGHT BURST - knees clenched tight enough together to juice various citrus fruits, legs bending in unnatural way up and down to lift feet from floor without unclenching knees. Arms now waving somewhat violently, and potentially profane words are expressed by the subject of the dance, through clenched teeth (try it- say COME OOOOONNNNNNN without unclenching your teeth- it's surprisingly accurate!)

I'LL BURST, I SWEAR - LITERALLY SECONDS FROM WETTING YOURSELF - knees clenched tight enough to break bricks, teeth clenched tight enough to break bricks - potentially the same bricks? - arms in full flail, now beating people off on either side, legs bent to lift up feet in such a manner that you'll feel it in the morning, and entire body wiggling side by side.

AND THERE IT GOES - no one's dancing after that...

So there it is. The 5 degrees of pee pee dancing. But, of course, The cause of any good pee pee dance is someone spending hours in the bathroom. I've developed various methods for removing stubborn individuals from all kinds of bathrooms, including both home and public, and both genders: after this list, your brothers and sisters may actually ask you before they use the washroom.

PUBLIC WASHROOMS
public washrooms are tricky... You don't need all 8 stalls, but you need to separate yourself from the 14 other people in line for a stall without being crazy enough to get kicked out... Or send to the bathroom with the little white man on the door. Sometimes just exaggerating the pee pee dance to it's fullest can get the job done effectively, assuming that the people you're in line with are at all polite. If they're not, you must take it one step further. Pretending to be crazy usually gets the job done - throw yourself across the bathroom, with unbelievable force, making strange noises, such as barking, singing at an unprecedented decibel, etc- but if it doesn't, your last resort is to put those grade 9 drama class skills to work, and pretend to be sick. You wouldn't believe the velocity at which those people will clear you a path.

HOME!
Home is your home base. It's like your home court, or your home land if you prefer. Either way, it's where you can be crazy without getting kicked out, so go for it! There are a few ways to get your siblings, parents, etc. Out of the bathroom, and here are a few of my favorites: start small, as with public bathrooms. Bang on the door with both hands until it opens. It's not actually going to make the door open, it just annoys the sense out of whoever's on the other side, and forces them to move a little quicker. If this doesn't work, start going through their stuff. I know it sounds a little nutty, but we've done it, don't lie to me. Grab a notebook from their bedroom and start reading pages out loud at random, or grab a hand full of underwear, and describe each piece in great detail at the top of your lungs. If this doesn't work, you've got a serious bathroom-hog problem, and need to take severe action. The least severe of these would be to grab as many pots and pans as you can, and just go nuts outside the door. Its only bearable for so long before they give in. If this doesn't work, run outside. Grab the closest garden hose to the bathroom window and fire away. It's probably tile anyway, so it's a fairly easy clean up, and other than the shower, there usually aren't too many places to hide. If this doesn't work, walk confidently into your target's bedroom and grab their favorite article of clothing. Take said article to the kitchen, cover with water, and stick in the freezer. the whole time, screaming play by plays to your subject. If this still doesn't get them out, it's time for the action you should only take when you have no action left. Your seconds ay from cleaning up a puddle on the floor, and your at your wits end. Grab the nearest lighter, and hold it to the nearest fire detector. If this doesn't get them out, you're out of luck: learn to pee outside.

Hope you appreciate the tips and tricks, as well as my descriptive degrees of the pee pee dance. Hope everyone's exams go well and you're all prepared - if not, stop reading blogs about pee and pull out a textbook!

Blessings,
Maddi.

Two By Fours and Point Shoes

Ever walk into a room and feel your shoulders curl up a little from all the tension? Ever talk to someone and just want to shake and tell them to relax? I'm not normally like this, but holy cats am I ever sick of people who take themselves too seriously. You're not Oprah, take a chill pill and laugh a little bit.
I just got home from a dance audition for our school's production of Fame. I'm not a dancer by any standard, but I'm a singer and an actor, and I'm desperately hoping for Carmen (after that audition though, it might be a pretty long shot). I've been spending the week patting down my emotions and settling the butterflies, trying not to get my hopes up for this part, but some of these girls.... My goodness, just calm down a little. Some of them are so high strung that they forget to smile, and when they do smile, it's so forced that it looks like something out of a horror movie. Is it really that horrible to remove a little makeup and relax your face long enough to genuinely smile at someone? It costs you nothing, and it may make someone's day.
Joe and I spent the audition laughing at our horrible improv dance moves and sweating buckets, but basically maintained a smile most of the time. May I just say that you could be the most incredible dancer in the entire world, but if you don't smile, I don't care. I'm sorry, but having "the whole package" (singing, dancing, acting, looks) isn't the whole package unless you have the personality to match it.
As i've mentioned before, I grew up a little bit in the dance community. Not that I could dance, but my brother could. I remember thinking exactly the same thing about those girls then, and it hasn't changed.
In grade 10 math, I met this girl named Kristen. When I found out Kristen was a dancer, I was a little surprised. She was nice, and not just nice, but nice to me. She was a little crazy, but in an amazing, fun kind of way. She has what I would call a magnetic personality. Her energy is so invigorating, and energizing and fresh that you just want to be around her. I'm still friends with Kristen, and i love her to death, and I wish her all the best with her Fame auditon (which she rocked, by the way).
She's very, very different from a lot of the girls i've met through dance. don't get me wrong, some of them are just as wonderful as Kristen, but some of them... If given the opportunity, I would want to pick them up and throw them in to a big bubble bath surrounded by aroma therapy candles... Anything to calm them down.
And its not just dancers by any stretch of the imagination. Its people in general. There's nothing wrong with making a mistake, or taking a night off, or smiling at a stranger, or just being calm. You don't need to be moving and running and being successful 24 hours a day; that's a recipe for a burnout, and real quick. I've met people who are like this about school, music, dance, sports.. The list goes on and on. And to all of you who are like this, so up tight that at any given moment of the day, your entire body is clenched, I have a message for you: just relax!
My mom used to say you can roll through life like a stone, or you can clunk through life like a two by four. So roll, folks! Just roll!

Blessings,
Maddi.

Exam Week: The Rules Of

Exams. Exams are the real life equivalent of Sandra Bullock in the begin of The Proposal: Evil. No one likes them, but we all have to do them. Except homeschool kids, but they don't count (sorry Garrett! And Hannah... And Michael... Wow, I actually know a lot of homeschool kids... I apologize to you all).
I share a locker with this boy named Joe, who i've been really close with since grade 9 geography, second semester. That class sucked... Anyway, Joe is the definition of a study bug. He didn't go to bed last night because he had a chemistry test this afternoon, that I'm sure he got 100% on, cause he's a genius. Joe has kind of set out personal exam week rules that I thought may help to keep the peace a little during exam week. So vie taken joe's unspoken (kind of spoken..) exam week rules, elaborated upon them, and have decided to present them to the public:

1. Arriving at the library En Masse with 50 of your closest friends and then taking a 3 hour break to grab Admirals is not an effective way to study. Don't do it.

2. It doesn't matter what the teachers tell you, pulling an all-nighter the night before Ms. Mosher's math exam is definitely going to get you a better mark.

3. The one and only time that not showering is acceptable is exam week: that's half an hour worth of information you're missing out on.

4. Food is too timely. Ultimate fat burner: exam week. If you simply must eat, Danino works wonders... As does cold pizza, twizzlers, and little green mints.

5. There are times in a person's life that they're covered under what we call The Grace Period: The death of a loved one, child birth, inexplicable medical turmoil... Exam week. Anything you say or do CANNOT be held against you later in life.

6. Chores can be done later, exam week comes twice a year, and is clearly more important than the mountain of garbage bags, waiting for you to take them out.

7. No one cares if you're pasty. Those with 10 page essays due do NOT have time to tan.

8. If you have time to get the headphones in your ears, you're not dedicated enough.

9. Every second counts. No one is allowed to test you for bringing a textbook into the bathroom.

Lastly...

10. Daydreaming about the summer is an ineffective use of your time: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Alright Internet, this blog has now taken me 26 minutes to write. That's 26 minutes of studying i could have gotten in, or... A shower. I could really use one of those. Good luck with your exams, I shall blog again soon, but it may be very, very short.

Blessings
Maddi.

The Awkward: A Rise And Fall Of Terror

"So how long have you worked here?" said he.

"Not long, since October. You used to work at Tim Hortons, right?" said I.

"No." said he.

"oh....." said I. Awkward.


It seems to me that I'm constantly the "I" in these situations. I would say I spend at least 33% of my life in awkward silence. This is a conversation I had in the break room at work today with a guy I've never met before. This awkward moment was followed by a 5 minute period of awkward silence, and then a second awkward conversation, followed by an equally awkward fizzle, and an equally awkward pause... Rinse and repeat, folks, rinse and repeat. It was like a never ending cycle of awkward.
But why must we succum to The Awkward? It does not own us, nor does it control us. We are in control of it! We own The Awkward! Later in my work day, I watched a little girl (maybe 4 or 5) prance through my department (floral) with a huge grin on her face, smelling all the 'pretty' flowers. Unfortunately, the only pretty ones we had were plastic... So, she continued to jump from display to display, smelling the plastic flowers for a few minutes before she looked up at me, realized how silly she must look, giggled, and went "they're not real!" in one of those voices adults usually use to talk to children, not the other way around. I laughed, she laughed, and there was no awkward tension.
But why was my situation with this little girl so different from my conversation with the guy in the break room? There are of course the obvious reasons: he's a teenage boy - that screams awkwardness in itself - we'd never met before, we were alone in a room together for a half hour, and I had nothing to say. But the important reason is that we let The Awkward own us, instead of the other way around!
My mom is reading this book right now, about effective communication. One of the concepts is Interrogate Reality. Say exactly what you need, what you want, and what you mean. Don't leave any room for interpretation. Get what you want out of every conversation. Why not apply this concept to The Awkward? In an awkward situation, state the awkward, and move forward. Don't let it own you!
Wake up and smell the artificial flowers, Internet! Take back your lives from the reign of The Awkward, and end the tyranny! Think about how different our lives would be if we could call out The Awkward and stop it in it's tracks? Like the little girl, state your foibles, and move on! Own the awkward, Internet. Own it.

Blessings,
Maddi.

Sweedish/Asian/Swiss/Canadian Berries, How I Love Thee

A friend of mine just went through a rather frustrating period of her life, and in an attempt to find a blog topic for today, i asked her what could make her feel better in her sad and lowly state.  She told me she was too upset to be happy, and she wasn't the person to ask, but after a little bit of prodding, i finally got an answer out of her. Sweedish Berries. 
Candy is my weakness.  There is no feeling like the feeling of processed sugar running across your tongue and sending a tingling sensation all the way up and down your spine (I may or may not be closing my eyes right now, imagining the feeling).  It's like diving into a cold pool on the hottest day of the year: exhilerating!  No wonder they call it a sugar rush!
Anyway, Sweedish berries.  When i was a kid, my older brother was a competitive dancer.  Four weekends a year, our family packed up our lives and went to every competition.  To this day, nearly four years after he finished dance, i can still recite to you every word of Stupid Cupid.  Never have i heard a song so much in my entire life.  So my parents used to sit at the back of the auditorium and watch, but i was never a 'back seat' kind of girl.  I sat as close to the front as possible, my eyes glued to every sequin, and every rediculous hat, and every fall.  After about 20 ballet groups, any 9 year old would be pretty restless, but my dad, being the incredible man he is, always knew how to settle the restlessness.  He has this weird intuition, it's almost like he can read my mind, where he knows when I'm feeling restless, or uncomfortable, or impatient, and he always knows how to counteract it.  So it was at this point, 20 numbers in, that my dad, like a glistening white night, woud appear at the end of my row with a rather bulging jacket.  He would sit down beside me, hand me my contraband Sweedish Berries and 7Up, and go back to my mom.  Sweedish Berries - this i know for sure - are the only reason i put up with as many dance competitions as i did.  Just a random thought here, but why do theatres provide snack food, and then not let you eat it?  Cruel and unusual punishment, i tell you.
Anybody know where Sweedish Berries actually come from?  It can't be Sweden.  Consider, for a moment, how much money it would cost Sweedish Berries Inc. to ship all those Sweedish Berries to Canada?  And what do they call Sweedish Berries in Sweden?  Wouldn't they just be berries?  Or would Sweedish Berries not exhist in Sweden?  Would they be something else in Sweden?  Like... Swiss Berries?  Or Asian Berries?  What about Canadian Berries?  Do we have so little production resources in Canada that we must important our illegitemate berries all the way from Sweden?  That's sad, Canada.  Step it up.
So this friend of mine has just reappeared, Sweedish Berries in hand, enjoying every second of them, and for the first time today, that girl looks like she's got a tiny bit of her spring back.  Maybe sugar does make everything better ;D
Thank you Sweedish Berries!

Blessings,
Maddi M.

PDA: It Bothers Me.

When I was in grade nine, I had a locker on a corner, on the third floor of my highschool. Apparently, prime make-out location. every morning I got to school at 10 after 8 to find this couple making out, not just in front of, but ON my locker. I didn't know them, and I never met them, but our morning interactions said everything I needed to know about them. Some days they saw me coming, and politely moved to the side, all the while continuing what they were doing. Some days, I would have to ask them to move. Somedays I had to yell, and still sometimes, I would push them out of the way, and they wouldn't even notice. It usually only lasted for about 20 minutes or so, but it was still pretty traumatic, seeing as it was my first taste of actual high school. Aside for the trauma though, it was also my first taste of hilarious PDA.
I don't believe in major PDA and I don't really think it's fair to subject other people to your PDA, and for this reason, PDA and I have a love/hate relationship. I love it when other people have hilarious PDA, and it makes them look like idiots. I mean, who wouldn't love it? They make fools of themselves, and you reap the benefits with a good chuckle. I hate it though because it makes every one around them feel awkward, and for some reason, I seem to be the awkward person more often than not.
Let me just say, when you post a relationship on facebook and the entire world likes it, that's pretty much confirmation that everyone knows you're in a relationship. Thus, contrary to popular belief, you don't actually need to PDA your way through every hallway you can find to prove it to us.
When I told my friend Chela about today's topic, she gave me a cute little story to share. She witnessed a couple walking down a first floor hallway with mad skill. Like, MAD skill. This couple was managing to navigate their way through a busy hallways, breath, and not once, detach from each other's lips. When you can't detach for the five minutes it takes to walk from class to class, you have a problem. A big one. Fix it. Now.
The other variety of PDA that makes me laugh is the kind that should never happen in public. A little while ago, I was sitting with a few friends of mine (Aulona, consider this your shout out!) in a hallway, where we witnessed the funniest PDA I've ever seen. This girl's boyfriend was standing at his open locker, chatting with some friends. He was turned towards them, talking, shuffling with some binders, putting his stuff in his locker, nothing out of the ordinary. He didn't see his girlfriend walk up behind him. I can't call what she did a grab, or a tap, or even a smack really. It was like... Whack a mole. With bums. Anyway, she whack a moled him, and he flew forward about two full feet, into the friends he had been talking to. After all the whacking and flying and apologizing on his part had been finished, she said nothing, and just looked at him, full satisfied. Things like this should never happen in public. Never. It waas all I could do not to howl with laughter.
Same couple, different day. He's putting his things in his locker, talking to her, ruffling notes, again, nothing out of the ordinary. Except that, the entire time he was preparing himself for a day of classes, she had her hands glued to his scalp. She was literally rubbing it like you see crazy old women in movies do with crystal balls. She clearly thought it was adorable, and he clearly thought nothing of it, but the rest of the world was willing to build them their own room, just to escape the awkwardness. Just a thought, do it in the privacy of your own home, and save the rest of us.
Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with a peck every once in a while, or holding hands, but it gets so out of control so fast. Just today, I watched a couple try to get through a double doorway without letting go of each other. Yes, that is a metal bar. No, it will not move for you. Yes, you will have to release. No, this didn't stop them. After realizing the bar was immovable, the couple skillfully shimmied through one of the doors sideways, in order to maintain hand to hand contact. Thank goodness they were moving, because had they not been, they would've heard me laughing.
So how do avoid being the subject of someones 'Awkward PDA' blog? I've developed a simple list of what I think to be 'Signs and Symptoms' of an overly public/physical relationship. Ready? .... You sure?

1. If you carry a jar of Vaseline in your purse and use it in between classes to avoid your lips falling off, it's time for a new hobby.

2. If you've ever sustained a serious wrist injury from holding hands while walking in a different direction than your significant other, buy a Teddy bear. Or a purse. They don't walk in the other direction.

3. If while making out with your significant other in front of your friends, someone coughs awkwardly, save it for later.

4. Lastly, if you ever find yourself receiving strange looks while rubbing your boyfriends head in a busy area, it's time for a change of scenery.

So there it is. My beef with PDA. well, both my beef, and the great enjoyment I take from it. If you can't wait for the seven hours in a school day to be over, so you can make out somewhere a little less public, it's time for a change. Maybe a big one. That's all I have to say on that one, so there you are. PDA. it bothers me.

Blessings,
Maddi M.

Actual blogs, anon.

Why hello blog followers. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my thoughts, I appreciate it! Originally, when I made the blog, I was going to call it The Bother Blog, and I was pretty much going to rant about things that bother me, which are both abundant and frequent. After some thought though, I decided that was a little pessimistic for a blog. So I've decided to blog about two things, or rather, two categories of things: things that bother me, and things I can't get enough of.
Look forward to all kinds of good blogs, like 'why, in the name of Pete, are you so grumpy?', 'who taught you how to drive?', and 'durp is not a word. Stop saying it.'. On the more positive side of the spectrum, look forward to 'I could not love jellybeans anymore', 'that beautiful feeling when you eat something sweet and it exhilarated through your whole body' and 'banana Popsicles:the beauty of'.
See? I told you I have a lot to say. So pay attention, keep checking for new posts, and tell me what you think.

Blessings, all.
Maddi M.