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.