horticulture! aesthetics! sex-ed!

Embarrassing information about me: when I'm not searching YouTube for clips of Telefrançais or watching Paula Deen eat a lasagna sandwich, I sometimes watch The Bachelor Canada. Actually, the term "sometimes" is giving me too much credit; I've seen all but one episode of this show. 

As with all seasons of The Bachelor, I feel guilty and complicit in these girls' humiliation and degradation and general insanity. Beyond this, though, there's been something about this distinctly Canadian incarnation of The Bachelor that's struck me as extra creepy. Watching twenty-year-old girls from Ottawa cry hysterically and fawn over an ex-football player in a country where no one cares about football has been more than a little uncanny. I can't help but think that if my breasts were three cup sizes bigger and slightly more silicone in nature, that could be me on there. I am very grateful for all the twists and turns of fate that have gotten me to this point in my life (or perhaps more accurately, away from that point. Unemployed + living at home + useless arts degree > being on The Bachelor Canada. Sorry, ladies).

Anyhoo, I missed the finale on Wednesday night because I was at Paul's and haven't yet reached that level of disconnect where I blow off plans with my actual boyfriend to watch people search for love on TV. Since then, I'd been avoiding any talk of who Bachelor Brad had picked. This was super easy because no one watches this terrible show except me. 

Yesterday, after my scary French class, I decided to reward myself with some ice cream and some Bachelor finale. That's when I noticed this:

So my understanding is that I no longer need to feel guilty about watching this show because it's educational, you guys. Still, I can't help but feel I already learned such lessons back when I read this useful book:

Has particularly good chapter on "Frigidity:
Cause of Marital Unhappiness." 

a few words on why I did not have a library card until four hours ago

The year was 2008. I was recently unemployed and not dating anyone, choosing instead to spend my summer eating and reading. This meant that my library card was getting quite the workout (which is good, because I sure wasn't). I read everything: collections of short stories, Oryx and Crake (by that hack Margaret Atwood), and finally, Misery by Stephen King.

One afternoon, I decided to read about poor Paul Sheldon and his severed foot while I relaxed in the bath. I ran the tub, disrobed, and climbed in. Then I dropped the fucking book in the bathtub.

Frozen in shock, I watched as soapy bathwater breached the protective hardcover layer and seeped into the pages inside. When I fished the book out, it was too late. I alternated between blow-drying it to avoid mold and placing it under heavy weights in a vain attempt to avoid inevitable waterlogged expansion.

I was in a perpetual state of denial for the next few weeks, renewing the book on three separate occasions while I tried to restore it to its previous condition. I ironed over a hundred pages with my hair straightener. When these pages started falling out, I used a glue-gun to stick them back in. When hot glue got on the front cover, I broke a fingernail trying to peel it off. Eventually, I admitted defeat and returned this Frankenstein to the drop-off box. My library card expired. I never went back.

Flash-forward to 2012 and I am actually studying to become a library technician. (lolz; career-limiting irony!) Virtually all of my instructors are employed by Ottawa Public Library; in particular, my acquisitions teacher actually works at my branch. One day, during a lecture on the necessity of weeding one's collection, she mentioned the state of books in my local library back when she started working there, oh, say, three or four years ago. "You wouldn't believe what people do with their library books. I see things like food stains. Pen marks. Some of our books have clearly been dropped in the bathtub."

I swear she looked right at me.

Needless to say, my guilt has compounded over the course of the semester, but it turns out we need our library cards for class on Monday. So today I bit the bullet and went to another branch to renew my OPL card.

Having fun isn't hard when you've got a library card.

Ottawa Public Library fines: $22.00

Clear conscience: priceless.

wherein I slander Dickens and praise the BSC

THING I AM EXCITED ABOUT:

They're re-releasing the effing Baby-Sitters Club as a series of e-books!

I'll admit, I have some mixed feelings on the topic of e-books. While I totally value diversity and respect that what floats your boat may not float mine, I am also a super judgmental purist. Furthermore, I worry that the prevalence of e-readers will make it more difficult to follow this solid advice:

You shouldn't have to search everywhere for a tiny Kobo to find out if your date is literate.

I also appreciate print books for their sheer aesthetics, even the ones I haven't read or don't like. Ask me about my collection of Charles Dickens books: never read them, don't think I'd like them, had to buy them so Carleton would give me an English degree...but they sure do look nice on my bookshelf. (Did you know that Dickens was paid a penny a word? I learned this in one of my undergrad classes and it gave me a bad case of the rage-hives. How does this encourage legitimate artistry in any way? Do you have any idea what this blog would look like if I was being paid a penny per word? It would pretty much be like "Chesterfield. Hammertoe. Asparagus." and it would never end.)

Other reasons I don't own an e-reader include the fact that I am kind of poor and like to read in the bathtub -- it takes a lot more time and a lot more rice to dry out an e-reader than a book. Plus I hate trees.

As those of you who once visited my apartment/rooted through my personal belongs might know, I already own roughly half of this series. Now that I live with my mom again, they're in a box in the basement. I have limited shelf space and frankly those multicoloured pastel spines don't look quite as nice on display as Dickens does. However, I cannot part with these relics. They are like the macaroni and cheese I remember from yesteryear but can no longer eat because gluten. They are delicious and simple and smell a little funky. I take one out every now and then and read it in one sitting. I revisit Diabetic Stacey, Condescending Dawn, and Useless Mallory. I question what sane parents would ever leave their three-month-old with a preteen. Simpler times, the 1980s.

The box-in-the-basement solution isn't necessarily a bad one because that's where all old toys go, and I imagine those books chillin' out down there with Pooh Bear and Buzz Lightyear et al. However, I feel sort of guilty sometimes because were I to move out again (as I pray I one day will), I would probably want to leave them here. Ninety-five Baby-Sitters Club books take up a lot of space. Valuable, embarrassing space.

So I think I might finally understand e-readers. It's where you keep electronic files of the shit you don't want your boyfriend to know you own.

the road to hell is paved with great deals

So, this happened today:

Lest we forget to purchase large, sweet golden pineapples for the low, low price of $1.99.

Stay classy, Farm Boy.

it's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

Well hello, tiny Oh Henry bar. I'm not 100% sure you don't have gluten in you, but I am going to eat you anyways.

Just handed some candy out to a group of fifteen year old girls dressed as small prostitutes. While I sort of feel like if you're old enough for daily-wear fishnets, you're too old for Trick-or-Treating, there is a very real possibility these girls were drunk or on cough drops. And I might be super old, but far be it for me to deny someone that experience. Girls high on cough syrup need candy more than any other candy-needing group.

Sometimes I'm amazed I made it though my teenage years alive.

happiness is

I love it when Campbell's tomato soup comes straight out of the can in one smooth movement. This is one of those things I feel like I have no control over but which thrills me nonetheless, like catching a late bus or successfully locating a Chapstick in my purse or finding a bunch of tiny raccoon babies in the backyard. (Clearly, I am not a homeowner.)

What up, lunch.

in which I am the most attractive ever

Plans for this beautiful rainy day included hanging out with my biffle Pearl and finally going to see The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Instead, I found out I have pink eye. Life is so full of surprises. And eye infections.

In related disgusting news, I am fairly certain I'm gluten intolerant. In order to test this hypothesis/take some shred of responsibility for my own life, I've decided to give up gluten for a few weeks. I keep saying I'm going to do this and am generally successful for about three hours until I black out and wake up with my hand inside a loaf of bread. I'm being only slightly hyperbolic about this. Most recent experience was Wednesday, when I was mentally congratulating myself on doing so well until I looked down at the plastic bag on my kitchen counter and realized that I was in the process of chewing a cracker. Fail. But I'm serious this time! If I announce it on the internet, I have to succeed, right?

you wanna let's do it?

In a brilliant stroke of luck this morning, my cataloguing class was cancelled and I came home early to find that PAULA DEEN WAS ON! This was totally badass because I haven't watched Paula Deen in forever. Today she was preparing snack foods for a Girls' Night with her friend Susan whose face did not move. They made parfaits and some kind of shortcake and then they tap-danced. They tap-danced!

This is obviously not surprising because we all know how Paula rolls, but I was vaguely horrified at how much honey she thought needed to go on "plain vanilla yogurt" in order to make it edible. Plain yogurt is not vanilla-flavoured, Paula. It's just yogurt-flavoured. When the episode was over, I was left with a burning desire to go exercycle for a thousand years. I'm pretty sure there are calories involved in even just watching Paula Deen.

In honour of all this, I thought I would share my favourite Paula moment. The internet has probably already called this clip to your attention, but you can never have too much Paula Deen. Or too much lasagna sandwich.

I love this shameless lady.

distressing

This is probably in poor taste.

Hmm. Am vaguely concerned about today's stomach-ache after this recall of my favourite noontime cereal:

less-than-good news

This may pose a serious problem in my long-standing love-affair with Mini-Wheats.

in which Tessa and her mom kick some ass; strip some screws

Although I am neither twelve years old nor a first-year university student, I recently decided to downgrade to a twin bed. Paul has a pillow-top mattress and I guess he's cute enough, so I haven't actually slept at home since June. Meanwhile, my double bed takes up a lot of valuable bedroom real estate for something that isn't even being used. Thus, in the interest of finally having enough space for two dressers and two bookshelves, my long-suffering mom and I trekked over to IKEA last week; today, we built a Brimnes.

HOW TO BUILD YOUR BRAND-NEW IKEA BED

What could possibly go wrong?!

1. Print off 32-page instruction booklet.
2. Open boxes.
3. Build outer shell of bed frame.
4. Congratulate selves on ability to understand wordless IKEA diagram despite neither of you having the requisite penis and testicles.
5. Having completed the frame, begin to construct drawers.
6. Use screw number 100372 to attach metal track to drawer case.
7. Express surprise at unwillingness of screw number 100372 to move easily into its new home.
8. Push down on screwdriver with increased pressure.
9. Experience shoulder pain. Realize there are another ten screws to go.
10. Also realize that you are stripping the screws.
11. Wonder if boyfriend has electric screwdriver? Call boyfriend.
12. Boyfriend asks if you are using a Phillips-head screwdriver to put in your IKEA screws. You obviously are. 
13. Boyfriend, with weird, preternatural, ostensibly penis-stemming knowledge explains that this is a common mistake made by IKEA customers while they build their shitty IKEA furniture. Learn that IKEA generally provides screws with unusual Pozidriv head which unfortunately looks almost exactly like a Phillips-head.
14. Watch as boyfriend pries screws out of bed frame with a pair of pliers.
15. Send boyfriend home. Use newly loaned Pozidriv screwdriver to put in more screws.
16. Strip the hell out of these screws, too.
17. Throw hands up in air.
18. Send loved one to IKEA store to find extra 100372 and 102138 screws.
19. Learn that IKEA doesn't actually have any extra 100372 screws in their giant effing magical giant new giant IKEA, but will order some that should arrive in five to ten business days.
20. Enjoy your new bed!

Much like the last 93 nights, I will be sleeping at Paul's tonight.

Téléfrançais fantastique!

After (perhaps rashly and unwisely) quitting my job as a telesurveyist, I am now taking library and information technician classes at Algonquin. I'm having mixed feelings about this program so far and I'm sure I'll write about it in potentially career-limiting detail later (ideally once I figure out how to get my full name off of my Google account), but for now, the important part is that I'm taking a French class.

I took core French up until grade ten and have not used any of it for the last eight years, so it's pretty rusty. Rusty to the extent that yesterday while doing an activity on futur proche, I wrote a whole paragraph about what I am going to do demain thinking that demain meant today. Needless to say, I do not have class on Saturday and my whole paragraph was fundamentally flawed/full of lies.

When I mentioned to Paul that a classmate had suggested watching children's shows for French practice because 1.) they use basic vocabulary and 2.) they repeat everything until your ears bleed, he drew my attention to Téléfrançais, which I've heard of before but don't personally remember. After watching a few episodes, though, it's pretty much my new favourite thing.

For those who were, like me, robbed of this beautiful childhood experience, the premise of Téléfrançais is that there is this wide-eyed and somewhat aggressive pineapple who lives in a junkyard and speaks French. Neighborhood children Jacques and Sophie have parents who clearly do not love them or care about their welfare and thus these kids spend all of their time hanging out with the talking pineapple, occasionally leaving the junkyard to have age-appropriate adventures such as skydiving, foraying into the forest alone, etc. They also spend a lot of time having circular discussions about whether or not things are possible. Sample dialogue:

Jacques: Et tu parles? Ce n'est pas possible!

L'ananas: Oui, c'est possible.

Jacques: Non! Ce n'est pas possible!

L'ananas: [angrily wielding cane] Oui, c'est possible!

Téléfrançais is basically what would happen if Tommy Wiseau and TVOntario ever had a baby. And if all of this hasn't already sold you, you should probably know what the ananas looks like:

Paul changed my iPhone background to this picture the other day when I wasn't looking.

I've been asking around and people in my age group seem to either have super vivid memories of this show or have no recollection whatsoever. I asked my mom if she remembered my watching this as a kid; she responded with complete certainty that there was no way in hell I ever saw it because she would remember my subsequent nightmares. While this may have been the case at age four, it's twenty years later and I'm pretty sure this pineapple is going to change my life for the better.

freedom. horrible, horrible freedom.

Unemployment makes me want to eat everything in sight.

today is the first day of the rest of my life

Today is my last day at what I hope will be the worst job I ever have.

Since May of 2011 (and for a couple of two-to-four months stints before that), I've worked at an outbound call centre doing surveys. Basically, this means that I am the person who calls you during dinner because I knew you would be eating dinner right this very second and I really wanted to ruin your night. This is a genuinely terrible job in that way that all minimum-wage jobs are genuinely terrible, except with much more yelling than I remember experiencing back when I worked at Loeb.

Compounding this is the fact that I work at what ratemyemployer.com suggests might be the worst call centre in Ottawa. I don't think this is necessarily the case, for the record, although it's worth noting that we have fewer chairs than booths and under ten working headsets. Every now and then we hear these Utopian rumours about one specific call centre just down the street where, allegedly, they are allowed to eat food and read and surf the web while they dial. These rumours stop just short of La-Z-Boy recliners and monkey butlers so I'm pretty sure they're not true, but the thought that our suffering might one day end or that we too might eventually make the pilgrimage down the street keeps us from losing hope during a five-hour shift in a chair with no back.

Given all of this, it's surprising that I'm actually a little bit sad to leave. Here's the thing: I am great at my job. I think everyone has certain terrible minimum-wage jobs that they're more or less cut out for, and if that is true, this is mine. Despite how quiet I can be in person, I am bitchily persistent on the phone. I greet you with "Hi there!" and sound like every overly enthusiastic restaurant hostess you've ever had. I am a fantastic voice actor and know when to drop my voice a few octaves so men stay on the phone with me. I know when to politely laugh and am super patient with confused elderly people/non English-speakers (even though everyone around me at work can see that I am making faces and banging my head against my desk). In short, I have surprisingly little shame.

So, I thought that I might compile a list of things I won't miss about work, just for when I'm feeling poverty-stricken and unproductive as a member of society.

THINGS I WILL NOT MISS ABOUT WORKING IN AN OUTBOUND CALL CENTRE

• Having to hide my rage as respondents make ethnic slurs
• Having to hide my rage as respondents make homophobic slurs
• Having to type your racist and homophobic comments into open-ends verbatim  
• Questioning my integrity
• Having to pretend I don't know what you mean when I give you a scale of
  Strongly agree
  Tend to agree
  Tend to disagree
  Strongly disagree
  and you pick Somewhat agree. I understand that probably you mean the option between Strongly agree and Tend to disagree. But I am paid $10.40 an hour to clarify your answer and maintain quality control and so, unfortunately for both of us, that's how this rodeo is going to go down. 
• Dying inside a little bit every time the aforementioned exchange happens and the person who had previously picked the non-option Somewhat agree suddenly changes their answer to Strongly disagree and is as emphatic about it as if it was the first answer they'd picked, completely refusing to acknowledge their sudden ten-second turnaround in dogmatic fuck-you opinion
• Super Fun Bonus Round if the new, polar-opposite answer they pick is also not on the list, e.g. Totally disagree. It's at this point that I start using my super-calm Scary Teacher Voice because I'm excercising breath control in an effort to restrain myself from screaming at you because holy shit making $10.40 has never been so hard.
• Questioning my integrity
• Being called "lady" in an angry way
• People who pick up the phone and in lieu of saying hello simply breathe into the receiver
• When people have their children record the answering machine message
• Being hung up on three demographics questions away from the end of a survey that never should have taken half an hour but it did because you are (and I say this with as much respect as possible) super elderly/unable to speak English/a beligerent moron
• Super Fun Bonus Round when you not only hang up on me three questions from the end but do so by saying, "I don't know what to tell you. Leave this work, find boyfriend."
• Having to hide my angry and derisive snickers as respondents actually say things like "I thought the greenhouse effect was a good thing?"
• The sick feeling I get when I've spent fifteen minutes recording the fact that you think the biggest issue facing America is the breakdown of family values due to the oppressive presence of gays, Mexicans, and hairy-armpit feminists...and now I also get to record that you have a Ph.D. Lovely. Education at work.
• The malfunctioning space bar in booth 15 that causes one to recordopenendslikethis
• Threatening calls and emails from my employer regarding my legitimate doctor's-note-certified illness that meant I missed one week of work over the course of sixteen months
• Inconsistent presence of soap in the bathrooms
• Questioning my integrity (and cleanliness)

inaugural blog post

Well, hello there!

Lately, it's occurred to me that I might need to increase my web presence. I'm not on Tumblr. I don't fully understand what Instagram is. My Facebook usage is at an all-time low, which, to be honest, I'm actually a little bit proud of...but all the same, I worry that the internet might be forgetting I exist.

What I do have is a Livejournal account which I've been using since I was fifteen years old. I am an essentially geriatric twenty-four now, so you can imagine how embarrassing those 796 entries are. Most of them are about boys. While I have such reverence for this humiliatingly earnest realtime account of nine years of baby-steps toward becoming a grown-up, I think it might be time to expand.*

Thus, this is where I hope to continue becoming a viable candidate for adulthood, just documented in a slightly less incriminating sort of way. I intend for this to be a place where I start sentences with capital letters and use correct punctuation. It will be a blog that my mom can read (though I assume she has much better things to do). And, perhaps most significantly, it will be a place where I only talk about my super-cute boyfriend sometimes.

*But don't worry; I'll still keep my Livejournal for the goriest stuff.