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.
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
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".
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".
Monday, 26 November 2012
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.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 28 November 2011
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.
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.
Friday, 7 October 2011
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.
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.
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