An End to Movember

I have to say, I kind of love the thought that goes into Movember. "Let's do something we want to do anyways and make money doing it!" Money, of course, for a good cause.

It is perhaps too late to be posting on Movember - we are, after all, a mere 34 hours away from December. But better late than never I think.

To commemorate this Movember, here are some pictures of my favourite people with moustaches' moustaches!

Chopper: moustache since 2007

Cliff: moustaches of the world unite

Geoff: one creepy moustache

Jobby: the lazy man's moustache

Too Many vs. Not Enough

This is a philosophical reflection on the opposing struggles essay authors find themselves in. It is simultaneously a means of procrastinating confronting one of these very same struggles. It's like bottled water; good for you and good for the economy (while simultaneously being the bane of the environment - I am great with analogies).

So you start writing a paper that needs to be a relatively daunting 6'000 words.

After 2 days of work, near completion, you could be in one of two positions.

You could be running a word defecet. Your brilliant argument has run its course through to an infallible and thoroughly supported conclusion and, yet, you are somehow 1'000 words short. Anything else you would be adding would just be verbose nonsense, and you run the risk that your professor will notice that fact. Any other arguments you could think to include would be tacked on and not as thoroughly researched or integrated. And we all know that, no matter what is said to the contrary, if your paper turns out to be sub-par, it had better be sub-par and long, at least suggesting you put an effort in, than look like a half-baked work of sheer sloth.

Alternatively, you could have a serious surplus. You have reached the required word count, but you are still a 1'000 words, minimum, away from reaching your conclusion. To reach the word count you had philosophized and researched such a variety of topics, structured the paper to include them in logical progression, and then realize your desire to be thorough and well informed has left you without your kitchen sink. And how will you do your dishes then? Do you abort your as-of-yet unwritten argument, and risk that you paper does not really reach its proper and predicted conclusion?


As a T.A. this semester, I told my students that it was certainly better to have too much than too little. If you have too much, you get to practice your editing skills and can afford to polish and cut arguments/sentences that seem wooden and contrived. It is better than grasping desperately at straws, right?

I think I was full of bullshit.

I have yet to include more than my introductory thoughts on my final argument of my paper, and I am at word count. I just want it to be done. I thought writing 6'000 words would be the hardest thing I would have to deal with. Now I'm looking at a possible 8'000 words. The worry is that I am not sure how strong my existing argument is - it wasn't the one I was most interested in, I just saw it as the most necessary, the one which most obviously needed addressing, and which my knowledge required the most supplementing by fresh research. But I wont be able to do both arguments adequately in my remaining space, even if I do allow myself the customary 10% margin of increase/decrease.

Ok...I guess I just have to write the damn thing, right?

Can people be in heat?

I also just fell in love with Bas, the teller who provided me with loonies and quarters at HSBC.

Icey Roads and Breaking Hearts

It looks like winter is finally hitting Montreal.

I managed to drag myself out of bed at 5:45 this morning to get myself to the early morning yoga class. The class is at 7:00, and doesn't really justify such an early wake up, but my yoga partner, Cristyn, lives further away and has to get up earlier, and so I feel like it's only fair that I wake up when she does.

Also, I have made the mistake of going to yoga after just having downed a bowl of Raisin Bran, and that is not an experience I would like to relive. The fear of vomiting partially digested bran onto my super absorbent yoga towel has never struck my heart quite as palpably as it does when one does floor bow. Dhanurasana actually sounds like the perfect onomatopoeia to accompany vomiting...

So yes, digesting time is key when one intends to wake up for early morning yoga.



So, in addition to the dangers implicit in waking up so early in the morning - ie. homicidal urges - I had the joy of discovering what it means for winter to finally strike one of Canada's supposedly most frigid cities. It means that freezing rain creates a slick and precarious coating over my entire street, turning the 1 minute walk to St. Laurent into a 5 minute midway funhouse reincarnation. Without the fun.

As if that were not an indication in and of itself of what this day was likely to turn into, it was my last conference as a T.A. for American History. While I am wildly impressed that I managed to pull off the semester teaching a subject for which I am not even remotely qualified with few slips, I am pretty sad to end my tenure with these kids. I actually pretty sincerely liked a bunch of them, and would have been very content to facebook friend them, but, alas, I was just their T.A.

Not to mention that I think I was in love with at least 4 boys in my Friday tutorial. Each has a special place in my heart. There was V., who was simply beautiful; wavy chestnut hair that he was always pushing out of his eyes, a crooked smile, and just an indy adorable. And N., who was just so earnest and goofy, enthusiastic, but often wrong; he reminded me of my brain dead golden retriever, and when he lamented that he "just wants to know how to improve from his mistakes, because he honestly does the readings and goes to every class" I confessed that he was breaking my heart. J. I could never make extended eye contact with, because I was certain I would blush. The looks he gave me every class made me feel like he and I had an inside joke that no one else had the privilege of being in on, and I always wanted to talk with him longer after class, but he was infallible, so there was no reason to. Sigh. And, of course, M., my favourite skinny asian homosexual, who loved feminist theory and Betty Friedan in particular, and would walk with my after class, going out of his way to keep chatting about anything on his mind.

I don't think I have the heart to actually be a teacher. I want to much to be loved. I am Woodrow Wilson.



ps- when choosing a "label" for this post, "Going to Die Alone" appeared, unbidden, as one of them. I don't know what I'm supposed to make of that cruel serendipity. Is Mary Kay Latourno alone?

Everest

This paper may just kill me. Mostly because it is all I have to focus on between now and Wednesday.

I know, I know, poor baby, right? One paper!

But I am getting too much in my head for it. There isn't going to be any way for me to pull this off the way I would like to. I wont be able to finish the novel the paper is based upon, let alone to adequate research on the auxiliary topics I necessarily have to touch on. So I am getting stressed - do I just keep writing out my ideas until I have exhausted them all, and then turn to research? This seems obviously wrong, but at the same time I am desperate to get some words down so that, at least superficially, I will not be starting from square one.

And, as one may expect with a 947-page book, there is such a variety of topics I need to cover. The reception of the novel, in France, Germany, and North America; the nature of guilt and responsibility during total war; France's relationship in the past to artistic representations of of the Vichy Regime; Historiography of Germany's WWII motives/responsibility; the uses of fiction by historians; the nature of testimony; the list goes on, believe me.

And I am just not in a writing state of mind. I am an excellent bullshitter when I want to be, and usually when I need to be. But now, when I need to weave my magic web of articulate and charming bullshit, my abilities escape me.

I am starting to feel old. My mind and body are clearly deteriorating. The skills I had as a vivacious undergraduate are slipping away from my mind, like a dream upon waking. And I'm getting fat. To make myself feel better about this physical and, yes, I will grant, likely imagined, degeneration, I went to Holt Renfrew with Claire and bought makeup. Grown up women need to spend top dollar to keep themselves looking youthful, when their minds and metabolisms have quit. And it is always nice to have a salesclerk explain that "really, you don't need much foundation - you're skin is beautiful." Why thank you. And that thank you is, of course, directed at Keihls and Olay, jointly responsible for keeping me young.

In keeping with this (pathetic?) nostalgia which has seemingly reached into my soul lately, I nearly burst into tears today when I thought of my friend Heather. My heart actually aches from missing her; I was on the verge of sobbing in savasna. In response to this news, she, equally nostalgic, shared with me the following quote, from Dante:
Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.

There is no greater sorrow

Than to be mindful of the happy time

In misery.

Canto V, lines 121-123

Vanquished Red Head - Impolite Library Patron

So after just over a year as a spicy red head, I have returned literally and figuratively to my roots. Courtesy of the Funky Toque, the outrageously francophone salon I go to (in 2 trips I have had 3 people deal with me who "don't really speak good English"), I am once again a brunette. This decision was made initially on a strictly pragmatic basis - it is too time consuming and costly to maintain the fire engine shade of rouge that I liked best, and my inexplicable inability to book a hair appointment before my style has irritated me to the brink of a sanatorium trip left me often times looking like a ragged carrot. Ragged. Carrot. Let the image wash over you. I am a poet.

However, I am taking the opportunity to cue in a more metaphysical change. Because, with no philosophy in my life, I miss metaphysics.

Perhaps I will post a picture of this revolution inspiring hair-do when I am not sitting in the McLellan library not working on my 6'000 word paper. I have one week to write this paper which is, in case I have not already wined about this, based on a 947 page novel which I am 440 pages into. My previous hope that I would be able to write my paper without completing the mammoth tome has been quashed by reviews remarking at the incredible turn the novel takes at its mid-point. Great news.

It would have been far more appropriate if I had posted this prior to  procrastinating in the library, but here is my comprehensive list of bad habits which I hope to expunge alongside my ginger coif:

A propensity to avoid yoga

My tolerance for dishevelled living arrangements

An inability to reply promptly to a facebook message or wallpost, e-mail, or phone call

Putting off necessary chores - grocery shopping, filling prescriptions, getting laundry appropriate coinage from HSBC...

Binge drinking 

Binge eating

Leaving school work to the last minute

Procrastinating

Not answering on Skype

Leaving my cupboards open

Using my cat to kill spiders with which I have made inconvenient peace treatie

Talking myself out of working at the library

Bringing my laptop to bed with me - in the non sexy, playing sporcle to 2 am way

Playing sporcle until 2 am

the Biggest Loser

So This is What 6 am on a Sunday Looks Like?

I have officially cued the start of my healthier living.

After having a ludicrously late night and making some rather alcohol fuelled choices last Sunday, resulting in the mother of all 2-day hangovers and an exodus to find my purse - which I left at the house of someone I didn't know, and didn't remember the location of, with my phone in it, leaving me unable to contact anyone who could direct me to its location - I have vowed to start taking myself just a tad bit more serious.

First step - not more belgian waffles.

the "grocery" store near my house, which in no real sense is a grocery store, but a glorified drugstore with a dairy and chintzy produce section (it will be the reason I get scurvy, mark my words), carries, in addition to dairy and wilting asparagus, packaged belgian waffles, coated in sugar, which, it turns out, are ideal for popping into the toaster, coating in Light Butter (yeah, who knew you could make, by definition, fat, lighter?) and easing myself into obesity with. Hence step one.

Also, Cristyn and I have started taking our fitness seriously. We have gotten to the gym the last 2 days in a row as well as yoga. Thank God. I, again, fell off the wagon with yoga. Yoga is crucial step two. Not only because it will keep me sane as well as active, but because I discovered that, though I don't plan on being in Montreal for another whole month, it is 100$ more to buy a 20 class pass than just a Month Unlimited. So, I haven't done the math yet, but I think it would just be best if I tried to go every day from now until I leave for Calgary.

Next step - time to start educating myself a bit more seriously. I am actually actually going to start going and working in a coffee shop. I've been really bad about talking myself out of working away from home. If it's the library, I tell myself "if you're going to read, you may as well read where you can be comfortable, and you don't want to have to walk home after it's dark and gets significantly more freezing out;" when it comes to working in a coffee shop, "really, you're going to end up spending money that doesn't need to be spent on goods you don't need to be putting in your body." And then I end up asleep in my bed with waffle crumbs on my sheets.

So I am going to the 8 am Moksha class with Cristyn shortly. I am supposed to then go to the Otto Dix exhibit with Claire. However, her texts last night had some superfluous letters, explained that I should "call tho cuz i am fuckev" and debated the pros and cons of doing coke. Debated may be too lofty a word: "yay ir nay?" At least I am making an attempt at being cultured. If all else fails, Cristyn and I will be meeting up again to watch rugby this afternoon. And then the library.

Gosh, this new Sydney is going to be so learned and fit.

"If You Want Some Advice..."

"don't eat this brownie all at once."

Uh, no, guy at the coffee shop. I don't want your advise. And I could do with a little less judgement, ok? Maybe I just have a heartier constitution than you do, and can digest more efficiently. And maybe I have an addiction to sweets, and you can kiss my ass.

So, I promptly went home and ate the whole brownie. And yes, I do feel a little sick. What's more, it wasn't the only shameful decision I made today.

The spider turf war has come to a rather cowardly end. My emotional and moral investment in this respect for life had escaped the bounds of reason. Every time I showered, I would glance nervously into the corner to see what sort of progress Charlotte had made, and the larger the web got, proportionately with how much bigger she got, and the more friends she acquired, the more I had to convince myself of the evils of gentrification and the benefits of tolerance. Well tolerance went out the window today when Charlotte decided to make the mission out of the bathroom, across my kitchen and up onto my bed. I screamed, jumped up, and yelled at her for being so unappreciative. No, not joking. I couldn't bring myself to squish her though. So I do what ever any guilty self conscious general would do - send in vociferous and merciless troops to do my job for me.

Long story short, She Ra ate Charlotte and my bathroom is mine again.

Bathroom Beautification

I have a subletter in my bathroom.

Somewhat uncharacteristically, a few weeks ago I decided to spare the life of a spider that had set down roots in the upper corner of my shower. She has long spindly legs, is about the size of a loonie. I (unoriginally) named her Charlotte. And when I say is about the size of a loonie, I mean was. She has doubled in size. And has brought a friend. How far should this "live and let live" philosophy go? I think we are getting dangerously close to embarking on some turf warfare.

I also, blissfully, visited Kiehl's yesterday. I spent 54$ on handcream. Fifty. Four. Dollars. This is what 54.00$ hand cream looks like.

I don't know that I come in physical contact with people often enough to justify having skin that soft.  But a girl hope to change that. With enough lip balm, eye cream, volumizer and body butter I will be irresistible.

Dream Phone Date, epilogue

So the debate over whether the invite to dinner last week was a date or not has been settled. It was actually pretty obvious that night that the Boy from Class was just extending a friendly invite. But as of 3 minutes ago, Boy from Class' intentions became clear.
While I was over, he made this whole thing about taking some vitamins with dinner. His brother made fun of him and everything. I mentioned that I just started taking supplements again because I chose not to risk any sort of contamination that could result from taking vitamins and get me in trouble if we got drug tested. Whatever. Small talk bullshit that you make with people you don't really know.

Well, he sent me an e-mail a couple days later, sending me some information about the brand he uses, which he swears by.

I thought this was weird, but when I mentioned it to my gym buddy, she thought it was sweet that he had thought about me and made the effort to get in touch again. So, I politely e-mailed him back thanking him for dinner and the information, which I did not look at, teased him for being a good salesman and asked him where one could even buy the stuff.

Oh. That was the point.

He sells the shit.

So, while I had been thinking that, at the least I had been making friends with someone and at the most went on a date with a very socially awkward, shy individual, I had not even considered that I had been singled out because of my small talk about rugby and my knee injury as someone who might be interested in becoming a "personal client" of a supplement company's sales associate.

My love life has just hit bottom.

I hope.

Five Senses Friday IV

Feeling:

Content. I'm the best TA ever. Two days in a row I have had students walk out of their way to keep chatting with me. I love those babies.

Smelling:

The lingering perfume of my now binned lillies. I will have to buy fresh flowers soon - they are too lovely.

Hearing:

 Boots of Spanish Leather by Bob Dylan. This was a song I never ever thought I could ever forget about, yet I somehow did. I just found it again, and it is so beautiful and reminds me so much of myself that I almost cry whenever I hear it.

Tasting:

The bitterness of my cat's scorn. She just slapped me.

Seeing:

The McGill Men's rugby finals in 2 hours. In the rain. I can't wait.

Can't mark anymore midterms

My cat is eating my flowers and I am trying to deduce if I was just asked out by a boy in my class.

"Hey, what's your number? You should come have dinner with my brother and I tonight."

Date?

With brother.

Weird kinky date?
Where is my extensive network of girlfriends to sit around with me and help me figure this out? A girl can't play Dream Phone alone!

Camping in the Library

Why oh why did I promise my students I would get their midterms back this week? Because I forgot I had to finish my thesis proposal, didn't realize I would need to read 120 pages of the Kindly Ones daily, and neglected the necessity of actually doing the readings for the course I'm T.A.ing.

So I am currently "working" in the library for the inaugural time here at McGill. I'm cranky and hungry.

Also, I am officially officially too old to binge drink. I slept until 12:30 today. How unacceptable. Tomorrow, up at 6:30 and off to yoga. It's gotta happen.

(hang-over induced) heartburn induced insomnia

Oh Halloween. How I cannot wait to not be hungover and be in possession of sale-price candy tomorrow. Does oatmeal soothe heartburn?

So last night was my Halloween outing. It was not fun. My costume - an elaborate Carmen SanDiego - was, granted, flawless, but the party I ended up at was so wildly underwhelming. In the gay village, and almost entirely francophone. Sweeeeeet. I drank vodka water and spoke to virtually no one.
Wait. That is not true. There was a boy who looked like Brad Dourif, circa One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. While Claire and I were waiting in line for the bathroom, this boy started chatting to us about our costumes - Claire was an impressive John Galliano - and was generally friendly. We went into the bathroom together, and upon emerging, he inquired as to what we were doing in there. I don't think, in my vodka water induced blur, I was able to muster the facial expression that best expressed my emotion (somewhere between indignation and curiosity, with just a hint of amusement) before he clarified "which drugs?"

I guess I live in Montreal now...

I was popular on the 4:30 am walk home. "Hey Carmen! I found you!" "There's Carmen SanDiego!" "awesome!" I chatted briefly with the Ghostbusters. The 20 minute walk was more enjoyable than the 3 hours spent at the party.

To add insult to no-fun, I was surprisingly hung over today. I am too old to drink I think. I felt totally sober on the walk home, drank over a litre of water before bed, and still, still I am suffering from 1 am heartburn.

Perhaps not entirely the fault of the vodka. I did make some questionable dietary choices today. Lasagna, risotto, beer, beef and barley soup, nachos, a latte, and the most amazing brownie I has ever wrapped my lips around. All within the span of 4 hours or so. I can never pass up lunch at Ye Olde with Cam, even if I have just binged on leftovers. Hair of the dog followed by coffee is surprisingly effective at lessening the pangs of dehydration though, fyi.

Reality consisting of more frantic midterm marking, a 120 page reading quota, and a thesis proposal draft by Wednesday will be crashing down when my obnoxious alarm clock goes off in 6 hours...