Remember when I wrote about The Colour Story, a deeply complicated system for arranging clothing so that it is both pleasing to the eye and reminiscent of a favourite childhood tale? Well, forget about that! That is sooo last week! Now it's all about Colour Impact. While with The Colour Story, you alternate between two complementary colours, with Colour Impact you use many colours to create a colour explosion. It's less about using the colours to tell a story and more about surprising the eye with a unexpected colour twist. At least that's how it was explained to me by my boss recently.
Looking at the sample wall she had just arranged using these new principles, I thought I understood.
"So it's just completely random."
"No."
I waited for further details. When it became clear none were forthcoming, I searched her face for signs she would eventually tire of trying to teach me new things. And for a second I saw a glimmer of someone who wasn't all "I love my job" and "What we do here is important". I believe I saw a glimpse of an actual rational human being. I saw someone who, like me, feels deep rage knowing that someone at corporate headquarters is actually drawing a salary to come up with this colour garbage.
Now, I can't have her turning into a sympathetic, relatable person. That would ruin my day. Doesn't she know she's a recurring character in my blog and now that Shorty's gone she's the sole antagonist?
Not to worry. She didn't disappoint me. Before she went home for the day she left me with final instructions to "keep the colours flowing". WTF? If we hadn't just spent half the day on this colour bullshit, I'd probably have assumed she was inviting me to meet her out behind the store for a hit of acid. (I suspect my drug slang is out of date, but I'm not sure what the kids are calling it these days.)
In other colour news, guess who won't be making a Colour Impact? Employees at your local Walmart come February 2010, that's who. For over a year now, there have been rumblings that there will be a new dress code requiring that everyone wear black pants and a white shirt. You know, so Walmart can maintain its classy image.
Many of my colleagues don't seem to be nearly as outraged as I am, so I have been taking every opportunity to plant seeds of discontent citing impracticality and cost as suitable reasons for an uprising.
I'd really like to stand my ground on this dress code issue. If I only had to contend with my boss, I'm sure I could hold out; I delight in defying her. But the matter would eventually rise to the attention of our new store manager who is impossibly adorable. If he smiled and said please, I'd probably agree to wear a grass skirt and a bra made from a coconut shell.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Drug Raid
I thought once I moved out of my ghetto house*, I wouldn't have to worry about the police showing up at my home anymore. Well that was certainly naive of me. Let me just preface this story by saying: it turns out marijuana is illegal. I mean, I knew that, but it's one of those things that's so common it doesn't really seem like it's illegal. You know what I mean.
A couple weeks ago my roommate and his girlfriend invited me to smoke some pot with them out on the back step. They do this regularly and couldn't believe I had never been high before. I had nothing better to do so I joined them. They told me I was smoking a watermelon blunt and that I would want to remember this so I could tell any future weed buddies about my first time. I'll also need to know it for when I write the chapter in my memoirs called "Where it all went wrong", a chapter which will begin "So I applied for a job at Walmart...".
I failed at smoking pot. All the inhaling and holding it in and breathing out was terribly complicated. My inability to master Smoking 101 equaled no high. No huge loss. I went back to whatever I was doing and they went to eat Twizzlers and watch Supernatural.
Three days later, they were at it again. But this time a police officer showed up. After telling them a complaint had been made, the officer took their names and information, then searched my roommate's room and confiscated his remaining stash. Although I was home at the time, I was oblivious that all this was going on (I was in my room watching Criminal Minds). As soon as the cop was gone, my roommate filled me in. I saw his girlfriend eye me the way one might eye a nark and it occurred to me they may think I had turned them in. I was quick to blame our neighbours. Their house is very close and fumes could easily waft in their direction. I convinced them that was the most logical explanation. And we all agreed that the call must have come from the house next door, a transitional home for young people with physical disabilities learning how to live independently.
So to sum up, I just narrowly avoided being added to the Halifax Police list of troublesome drug enthusiasts and I may have started a war with our physically disabled neighbours.
*I use the term "ghetto house" not because of the house's physical location but because I had to keep a lock on my cutlery drawer and homeless people often came over to take baths.
A couple weeks ago my roommate and his girlfriend invited me to smoke some pot with them out on the back step. They do this regularly and couldn't believe I had never been high before. I had nothing better to do so I joined them. They told me I was smoking a watermelon blunt and that I would want to remember this so I could tell any future weed buddies about my first time. I'll also need to know it for when I write the chapter in my memoirs called "Where it all went wrong", a chapter which will begin "So I applied for a job at Walmart...".
I failed at smoking pot. All the inhaling and holding it in and breathing out was terribly complicated. My inability to master Smoking 101 equaled no high. No huge loss. I went back to whatever I was doing and they went to eat Twizzlers and watch Supernatural.
Three days later, they were at it again. But this time a police officer showed up. After telling them a complaint had been made, the officer took their names and information, then searched my roommate's room and confiscated his remaining stash. Although I was home at the time, I was oblivious that all this was going on (I was in my room watching Criminal Minds). As soon as the cop was gone, my roommate filled me in. I saw his girlfriend eye me the way one might eye a nark and it occurred to me they may think I had turned them in. I was quick to blame our neighbours. Their house is very close and fumes could easily waft in their direction. I convinced them that was the most logical explanation. And we all agreed that the call must have come from the house next door, a transitional home for young people with physical disabilities learning how to live independently.
So to sum up, I just narrowly avoided being added to the Halifax Police list of troublesome drug enthusiasts and I may have started a war with our physically disabled neighbours.
*I use the term "ghetto house" not because of the house's physical location but because I had to keep a lock on my cutlery drawer and homeless people often came over to take baths.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Watching People
Job interviews are painful. Don't worry; I didn't have one or anything. I just witnessed one and it made me cringe. I was on my lunch hour at Tim Horton's and there was a woman there interviewing a man for some job. From the bits I heard I couldn't determine what kind of job, but I recognized all the boring, horrible questions. "Tell me about a time you worked as part of a team". "Describe a situation where you acted in a leadership role". I hate these questions so much. I'm always thinking, "I'm bored. Are you bored? Can we talk about something else?" I think I'd rather be asked inappropriate personal questions. "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Saviour?" "On average, how much alcohol do you consume per week?" "You're not planning on getting pregnant, are you?"
Anyway this particular interview was interesting because after the interviewee left, the woman at the next table, who was sipping tea with her elderly mother, leaned over and started asking the interviewer what she thought of him as a candidate and the interviewer actually told her, and then they discussed him briefly, and then the woman started pitching her own daughter as a more suitable candidate. Can you do that? Is that something my mother might do? Just another thing to add to my list of worries.
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Fun Activity: Going to a corn maze! Last week I went with my parents to the Valley to visit my grandparents and other relatives. The definite highlight of the trip was a visit to an adorable farm in Wilmot with an incredible corn maze. It was a beautiful sunny day and I had a blast racing through the corn. We split up into two teams. Team A, my mother and my cousin, completed the maze quickly and enjoyed fresh apples and blueberries at the exit while they waited for the far less successful Team B which included me, my father and my aunt who took turns arguing about following the direction of the sun. Once we all finished the maze, there was a wagon ride around the farm. It's the most fun you can have in the country. The owners said they were planning on having the maze open at night leading up to Halloween. Can you imagine how fun that would be?! If you could deal with the fact that running through a corn maze at night almost guarantees you will be terrorized by a homicidal scarecrow, you'd be fine.
Anyway this particular interview was interesting because after the interviewee left, the woman at the next table, who was sipping tea with her elderly mother, leaned over and started asking the interviewer what she thought of him as a candidate and the interviewer actually told her, and then they discussed him briefly, and then the woman started pitching her own daughter as a more suitable candidate. Can you do that? Is that something my mother might do? Just another thing to add to my list of worries.
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Fun Activity: Going to a corn maze! Last week I went with my parents to the Valley to visit my grandparents and other relatives. The definite highlight of the trip was a visit to an adorable farm in Wilmot with an incredible corn maze. It was a beautiful sunny day and I had a blast racing through the corn. We split up into two teams. Team A, my mother and my cousin, completed the maze quickly and enjoyed fresh apples and blueberries at the exit while they waited for the far less successful Team B which included me, my father and my aunt who took turns arguing about following the direction of the sun. Once we all finished the maze, there was a wagon ride around the farm. It's the most fun you can have in the country. The owners said they were planning on having the maze open at night leading up to Halloween. Can you imagine how fun that would be?! If you could deal with the fact that running through a corn maze at night almost guarantees you will be terrorized by a homicidal scarecrow, you'd be fine.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Crimewatch
So the South End Sleep Watcher is still on the loose. For those not familiar with this infamous case, there's some weirdo (see photo) going around the south end of Halifax sneaking into women's bedrooms and watching them sleep. When they wake up, he runs away. Based on this police sketch, I suspect Ben Affleck. So far, he has sleep-watched at least 14 people. He is becoming quite famous. People are planning to be him for Halloween (the Sleep Watcher, not Ben Affleck). One night last week I woke up three times to check and make sure there was no one watching me sleep. It's just so creepy! A&E runs Criminal Minds marathons on the weekends so, of course, I watch every episode and imagine that the South End Sleep Watcher has evolved into the South End Strangler. Hopefully he'll be caught soon and punished for his crimes (the Sleep Watcher, not Ben Affleck).
Today's Good News/Bad News
Bad News: I bought some chips from the vending machine in the staff room but after eating a few, I decided they were poison because they smelled like paint.
Good News: I was still hungry so I bought a chocolate bar and the machine gave me two!
Bad News: I feel sick now, possibly because I ate some of the poison chips, possibly because I ate both the chocolate bars.
Good News: I kept the remaining poison chips as evidence. They're in my locker at work. If I don't make it, please avenge my death.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Summer into Fall
I keep meaning to update the ol' blog, but it's just that I'm so busy doing important, interesting things. I'll write soon. In the meantime, enjoy these photos from my vacation home.
Krista and I having an algae fight at the beach.
Here we are frolicking in the surf. Clearly one of us misinterpreted the photographer's directions. Krista's doing "Baywatch Barbie" and I'm doing "I just stepped on a razor clam and then got struck by lightning."
Now enjoy these photos from my new house. This place would be great if it weren't for the four other people who live here. I've lived here three days now and there doesn't seem to be any stand-out assholes, so I'm sure we'll all reside here happily together.
Krista and I having an algae fight at the beach.
Here we are frolicking in the surf. Clearly one of us misinterpreted the photographer's directions. Krista's doing "Baywatch Barbie" and I'm doing "I just stepped on a razor clam and then got struck by lightning."
Now enjoy these photos from my new house. This place would be great if it weren't for the four other people who live here. I've lived here three days now and there doesn't seem to be any stand-out assholes, so I'm sure we'll all reside here happily together.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Rich in Love
It seems the recession is affecting women's taste in escapist fantasy. Men who are filthy rich have always been popular fare but I found this list of today's top selling Harlequin romance novels and it's very telling. It features one millionaire, three billionaires, but not one single cowboy! (Unless Valentino is a cowboy. I'm going to assume he's not.) Sure, cowboys are a sexy treat when times are good, but when the economy's in the crapper every girl wants herself a proper billionaire.
1. The Sicilian Boss's Mistress
2. The Greek Millionaire's Secret Child
3. Billionaire Extraordinaire
4. Valentino's Love-Child
5. The Ruthless Billionaire's Virgin
6. The Tycoon's Rebel Bride
7. The Moretti Arrangement
8. Billionaire Doctor, Ordinary Nurse
9. The Maverick's Greek Island Mistress
10.Temperatures Rising
Number 8 on the list, "Billionaire Doctor, Ordinary Nurse" is by the same author as last month's bestseller "Spanish Doctor, Pregnant Nurse". Maybe I could get a job at Harlequin going through books changing the word Spanish to Billionaire, and Pregnant to Ordinary.
"The Ruthless Billionaire's Virgin"? How could that not be good?
Monday, April 06, 2009
Shorty Doesn't Live Here Anymore
It seems my nine month ordeal is nearly over. On Saturday Shorty and girl Shorty packed their bags and the landlord came to collect his keys. Tomorrow Shorty returns to pick up the rest of his belongings. When he leaves, I call the landlord who sends someone to change all the locks. I never thought I'd see this day. I sure will miss the little scamp.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Shorty got Served
Two Sheriffs stopped by today to serve Shorty his Notice to Vacate orders. It's about time! He has to out by Sunday. Shorty told me he intends to comply with the orders. I'll believe it when I see it.
Story developing...
Story developing...
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Dueling Pyros
Shorty update: He's still here.
He tried to burn the house down yesterday. The good news is we now know the smoke detectors work. The bad news is he broke my toaster, although that was a completely unrelated incident. The fire started when he tried to cook french fries in a pot on the stove. Not to be outdone, I left my straightening iron on all day while I was at work. There were no injuries.
But that was yesterday. Today brought a whole new chapter in the Shorty saga. It had already been a crazy morning and I was trying to get ready for work. When I came out of the bathroom, there were two policemen in the hallway. "Ma'am did you know your front door is open?" I did not know that, but it didn't surprise me. Just last week I had gone upstairs around midnight and found the front door open, not just unlocked, but wide open. I looked around but there was no one in sight. I'm way beyond caring about such trifles. There's not much point in locking your front door when the kind of people you're trying to keep out have keys.
The police had shown up as a result of the morning's activities, for which I was only partially responsible. I was still asleep when I heard the landlord come by and started pounding on Shorty's door. After a round of yelling, he announced he was going to enter the room and throw Shorty out. Then I heard him fumbling with some keys. He tried about seven different keys unsuccessfully and then started cursing under his breath. Since he can't do anything right, I was forced to enter the fray, discreetly opening my door and handing him the correct key which, as the previous tenant of that room, I had held on to for just such occasions. I ducked back into my room, as the landlord burst in on Shorty and his lady. More yelling and some shoving followed. In case this story isn't suspenseful enough, it's helpful to know that Shorty's girlfriend is prone to seizures brought on by stressful situations. And in case this story isn't trashy enough, it's helpful to know that she was mostly naked at the time. The fight didn't last long. Likely the sight of Mrs. Shorty's semi-nude, drug-ravaged body caused the landlord to recoil and flee.
When the police showed up, I assumed the landlord had finally decided to do something about this crazy situation, but no, it was Shorty who called the police to report that he had just been assaulted. I cooperated with the investigation by providing the landlord's phone number and a phone to call him on. I was really embarrassed that the police were going to see how messy my room was since I had to go in there to retrieve my phone. Not that there was evidence of any arrestable offences, but they wouldn't be able to help but judge the occupant of such a disaster area. Fortunately, the officer stuck to questions like "How long have you lived here?" instead of "Is that any empty cottage cheese container on top of that pile of dirty laundry?" as I dug through my purse. While the hot cop used my phone to call the landlord, the other cop listened to Shorty's tale of abuse and discrimination. From the side of the conversation I heard, I'm beginning to suspect my landlord is even more unscrupulous than I thought. He denied most things, didn't have any answers for simple questions, and refused to come back to the house. I hoped the cute officer would ask to jot down my number so he could "follow up", but he didn't.
In the end, nothing was resolved, no charges were laid, and no deviants were evicted. On a positive note, Shorty still doesn't seem to suspect me of plotting against him, even describing me to the police as "a nice girl". I'm pretty sure nice girls don't live in places like this.
He tried to burn the house down yesterday. The good news is we now know the smoke detectors work. The bad news is he broke my toaster, although that was a completely unrelated incident. The fire started when he tried to cook french fries in a pot on the stove. Not to be outdone, I left my straightening iron on all day while I was at work. There were no injuries.
But that was yesterday. Today brought a whole new chapter in the Shorty saga. It had already been a crazy morning and I was trying to get ready for work. When I came out of the bathroom, there were two policemen in the hallway. "Ma'am did you know your front door is open?" I did not know that, but it didn't surprise me. Just last week I had gone upstairs around midnight and found the front door open, not just unlocked, but wide open. I looked around but there was no one in sight. I'm way beyond caring about such trifles. There's not much point in locking your front door when the kind of people you're trying to keep out have keys.
The police had shown up as a result of the morning's activities, for which I was only partially responsible. I was still asleep when I heard the landlord come by and started pounding on Shorty's door. After a round of yelling, he announced he was going to enter the room and throw Shorty out. Then I heard him fumbling with some keys. He tried about seven different keys unsuccessfully and then started cursing under his breath. Since he can't do anything right, I was forced to enter the fray, discreetly opening my door and handing him the correct key which, as the previous tenant of that room, I had held on to for just such occasions. I ducked back into my room, as the landlord burst in on Shorty and his lady. More yelling and some shoving followed. In case this story isn't suspenseful enough, it's helpful to know that Shorty's girlfriend is prone to seizures brought on by stressful situations. And in case this story isn't trashy enough, it's helpful to know that she was mostly naked at the time. The fight didn't last long. Likely the sight of Mrs. Shorty's semi-nude, drug-ravaged body caused the landlord to recoil and flee.
When the police showed up, I assumed the landlord had finally decided to do something about this crazy situation, but no, it was Shorty who called the police to report that he had just been assaulted. I cooperated with the investigation by providing the landlord's phone number and a phone to call him on. I was really embarrassed that the police were going to see how messy my room was since I had to go in there to retrieve my phone. Not that there was evidence of any arrestable offences, but they wouldn't be able to help but judge the occupant of such a disaster area. Fortunately, the officer stuck to questions like "How long have you lived here?" instead of "Is that any empty cottage cheese container on top of that pile of dirty laundry?" as I dug through my purse. While the hot cop used my phone to call the landlord, the other cop listened to Shorty's tale of abuse and discrimination. From the side of the conversation I heard, I'm beginning to suspect my landlord is even more unscrupulous than I thought. He denied most things, didn't have any answers for simple questions, and refused to come back to the house. I hoped the cute officer would ask to jot down my number so he could "follow up", but he didn't.
In the end, nothing was resolved, no charges were laid, and no deviants were evicted. On a positive note, Shorty still doesn't seem to suspect me of plotting against him, even describing me to the police as "a nice girl". I'm pretty sure nice girls don't live in places like this.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
You're a Shining Star
It's awards season at Walmart. Nominations are now being collected for the coveted Shining Star Award which rewards excellence in customer service and not getting fired. Rumours have been circulating that this year's winner will have their photo taken and then the photo will be taped to a star cut out of yellow construction paper. If the budget allows, the star will have glitter on it. God, I want it so bad I can taste it! The walls of the staff lounge are plastered with dozens of glowing recommendations and believe it or not, there's not a single one for me! Obviously my boss has been going through the nominations and throwing out all of mine. She simply refuses to let me shine. Until my nominations start rolling in, I have been reading obsessively what makes my chosen co-workers sooooo special. A common phrase in many of the nominator's testimonials is "goes above and beyond". No one can tell me I don't go above and beyond! How many times have I been working in the lingerie department when an old lady comes up to me and says, "I need you to help me find a certain bra." I am very polite, "And which bra is that?"
"This one" and they hoist their shirt up. If, by some miracle, I am able to stare long enough to identify the bra they're wearing and then find it in the store, I still have to deal with the inevitable "be a dear and check what size I'm wearing". I am not equipped with tongs or a long stick or anything to retrieve these measurements. Feeling up seniors = "above and beyond". If someone asks me to check the size on their underwear, I stand behind them, poke them with a hanger and just guess.
"Team player" also apparently describes many of the nominees. I'm sure I must have, at some point, described myself as a team player to get this job. I may have even believed it was true. But in reality, I once refused to cover for the door greeter because it's cold by the door, even though she's 73 and needed to take her pills.
It's okay. I don't want their stupid Shining Star Award anyway. No, I'm serious. I really don't.
According to Walmart, there are Five Principles of Apparel. As a fashion sales associate, I should know what they are and apply them to my work. I even have a badge that lists all the principles and snaps conveniently behind my name tag. I've actually only used the badge once- to pick broccoli out of my teeth, but I guess I must have skimmed over the words because something my boss said the other day sounded familiar. She said, "Kathleen, has anyone ever taught you about The Color Story?". Showing a Color Story - it was Principle #4 on my almost totally useless badge. If she was surprised to hear that I hadn't managed to pick up this very basic information over the course of two and a half years she hid it well. As a ten year Walmart management veteran she's naturally very practiced in dealing with incompetence and apathy.
She started out in the women's junior section showing me how the shirts along the wall alternate between purple and green and then how each rack showcases these colors on the ends, purple, green, purple, green.
"Ok, purple, green, purple, green. Got it."
"Good"
"So what's The Story?"
"That's it. That's The Color Story."
Now maybe I should have known better than to expect anything more. But when I hear "story" I'm expecting a little drama, a plotline at the very least. I'm no English major, oh wait, yes I am, and so I think I know a story when I hear one. And purple, green, purple, green is not a story.
"So...it's really more of a color scheme than a color story."
"Yes. A color scheme or a color story."
This didn't sit well with me at all. So...
Quiet and reflective, Purple tended to go unnoticed. That is, until the day Green came along. Purple and Green had much in common and complemented each other beautifully. They fell easily in love.
Purple's mother, Red was horrified when she found out about Purple's relationship with Green. She demanded Purple stop seeing him immediately. This only made Purple want him more.
Purple and Green had been seeing each other for some time when she visited his home for the first time and was introduced to his parents, Blue and Yellow. When Red heard about this meeting, she sat Purple down and told her they needed to have a talk.
"Purple, before you were born I lead a very colorful life. I left home very young because I clashed with my folks. I wanted to escape. I think I tried every drug in the spectrum...it's not important now. But I got mixed up with a lot of different characters, including Green's father. Purple, there's no easy way to tell you this. Blue is your father."
"But that means..."
"Yes. Green is your brother."
That's a color story.
"This one" and they hoist their shirt up. If, by some miracle, I am able to stare long enough to identify the bra they're wearing and then find it in the store, I still have to deal with the inevitable "be a dear and check what size I'm wearing". I am not equipped with tongs or a long stick or anything to retrieve these measurements. Feeling up seniors = "above and beyond". If someone asks me to check the size on their underwear, I stand behind them, poke them with a hanger and just guess.
"Team player" also apparently describes many of the nominees. I'm sure I must have, at some point, described myself as a team player to get this job. I may have even believed it was true. But in reality, I once refused to cover for the door greeter because it's cold by the door, even though she's 73 and needed to take her pills.
It's okay. I don't want their stupid Shining Star Award anyway. No, I'm serious. I really don't.
According to Walmart, there are Five Principles of Apparel. As a fashion sales associate, I should know what they are and apply them to my work. I even have a badge that lists all the principles and snaps conveniently behind my name tag. I've actually only used the badge once- to pick broccoli out of my teeth, but I guess I must have skimmed over the words because something my boss said the other day sounded familiar. She said, "Kathleen, has anyone ever taught you about The Color Story?". Showing a Color Story - it was Principle #4 on my almost totally useless badge. If she was surprised to hear that I hadn't managed to pick up this very basic information over the course of two and a half years she hid it well. As a ten year Walmart management veteran she's naturally very practiced in dealing with incompetence and apathy.
She started out in the women's junior section showing me how the shirts along the wall alternate between purple and green and then how each rack showcases these colors on the ends, purple, green, purple, green.
"Good"
"So what's The Story?"
"That's it. That's The Color Story."
Now maybe I should have known better than to expect anything more. But when I hear "story" I'm expecting a little drama, a plotline at the very least. I'm no English major, oh wait, yes I am, and so I think I know a story when I hear one. And purple, green, purple, green is not a story.
"Yes. A color scheme or a color story."
This didn't sit well with me at all. So...
Quiet and reflective, Purple tended to go unnoticed. That is, until the day Green came along. Purple and Green had much in common and complemented each other beautifully. They fell easily in love.
Purple's mother, Red was horrified when she found out about Purple's relationship with Green. She demanded Purple stop seeing him immediately. This only made Purple want him more.
Purple and Green had been seeing each other for some time when she visited his home for the first time and was introduced to his parents, Blue and Yellow. When Red heard about this meeting, she sat Purple down and told her they needed to have a talk.
"Purple, before you were born I lead a very colorful life. I left home very young because I clashed with my folks. I wanted to escape. I think I tried every drug in the spectrum...it's not important now. But I got mixed up with a lot of different characters, including Green's father. Purple, there's no easy way to tell you this. Blue is your father."
"But that means..."
"Yes. Green is your brother."
That's a color story.
Friday, February 06, 2009
25 things
Most people did this on Facebook but there are too many people on Facebook who I don't want knowing anything about me. So here's twenty-five things you may not know about me:
1. I'm allergic to chocolate.
2. I'm named after a woman who used to live in our house. She carved her name, Kathleen Randall along with the year she moved in, 1884 in a window in the living room. When I was 12, I broke the window by accident with a tennis ball. I got in trouble.
3. I think my hair always looks really good or really, really bad.
4. When I lived in England, I pretended to be a Methodist for six months because I really liked the people I met at church.
5. A co-worker paid me to write an English essay for her. We got a B+.
6. I won't watch scary movies.
7. When I put a piece of intense gum in my mouth, I always sneeze twice.
8. I owe a lot in overdue library fines.
9. I don't want a job.
10. I'm a pretty good scrapbooker.
11. As a child I couldn't handle kids who wanted to play with Barbie dolls and baby dolls together. You can't do that!
12. I have to go to New Zealand before November 2009, or I will lose $960.
13. By the time I was 18, I had driven over a hundred different cars.
14. I only own one CD -The Beach Boys. I love The Beach Boys.
15. I'm scared of dogs.
16. The most stressful job I've ever had was wedding photographer. I was 16 at the time and had no idea what I was doing.
17. For the most part, I don't understand poetry.
18. I learned to hold a pencil properly before I learned to walk.
19. I think I'm the only one of my siblings who looks anything like our parents.
20. I like going to the dentist.
21. Someday I'd like to meet the Australian penpal I wrote to from 1993 to 2000.
22. Most of my dreams are still set in either my childhood home, church, or the beach behind my house.
23. I only ever went skiing because I liked having hot chocolate by the fire in the lodge. I never much cared for the skiing part.
24. I hate inspirational sayings and books like Chicken Soup for the Soul.
25. I really wish I could have some chocolate right now.
1. I'm allergic to chocolate.
2. I'm named after a woman who used to live in our house. She carved her name, Kathleen Randall along with the year she moved in, 1884 in a window in the living room. When I was 12, I broke the window by accident with a tennis ball. I got in trouble.
3. I think my hair always looks really good or really, really bad.
4. When I lived in England, I pretended to be a Methodist for six months because I really liked the people I met at church.
5. A co-worker paid me to write an English essay for her. We got a B+.
6. I won't watch scary movies.
7. When I put a piece of intense gum in my mouth, I always sneeze twice.
8. I owe a lot in overdue library fines.
9. I don't want a job.
10. I'm a pretty good scrapbooker.
11. As a child I couldn't handle kids who wanted to play with Barbie dolls and baby dolls together. You can't do that!
12. I have to go to New Zealand before November 2009, or I will lose $960.
13. By the time I was 18, I had driven over a hundred different cars.
14. I only own one CD -The Beach Boys. I love The Beach Boys.
15. I'm scared of dogs.
16. The most stressful job I've ever had was wedding photographer. I was 16 at the time and had no idea what I was doing.
17. For the most part, I don't understand poetry.
18. I learned to hold a pencil properly before I learned to walk.
19. I think I'm the only one of my siblings who looks anything like our parents.
20. I like going to the dentist.
21. Someday I'd like to meet the Australian penpal I wrote to from 1993 to 2000.
22. Most of my dreams are still set in either my childhood home, church, or the beach behind my house.
23. I only ever went skiing because I liked having hot chocolate by the fire in the lodge. I never much cared for the skiing part.
24. I hate inspirational sayings and books like Chicken Soup for the Soul.
25. I really wish I could have some chocolate right now.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Trash Day
So not a great start to 2009. I spent the entire first day of the new year in darkness. The power was out in Bayfield for 23 hours. Compared to other people we were in pretty good shape. We had a wood stove and a fireplace. We had a battery-powered radio. We had a kerosene lamp, lots of candles and flashlights for every family member. We had lots of board games... It was the single longest day of my life. My family is great, but I was never so happy to have to go back to Wal-mart. Had the buses not been running, I'd have hitchhiked back to Halifax.
My brother sent pictures of his holiday adventures in New Zealand, which caused me to briefly reconsider joining him there. Over Christmas he went skydiving, hiked on a glacier, and helped build a house for Habitat for Humanity. I watched a bunch of Road to Avonlea reruns and ate two boxes of chocolates.
When I did get back to Halifax there was no heat upstairs so the bathroom and kitchen were absolutely freezing. I had to wear my winter jacket and hat to the bathroom. I let the shower run hot for ten minutes to warm up the room before even going in. This disregard for conservation went against everything David Suzuki ever taught me but it was really, really cold. The situation has since been resolved, but only after four days and two calls to the landlord.
Tomorrow is Trash Day. I hope to take out the trash. And by "trash" I mean Shorty, and by "take out" I mean wave good-bye to from the front step. Shorty has a date with the Tenancy Board tomorrow and I'm hoping it doesn't go his way. I don't really know what a Tenancy Board is but I'm told they may be able to get rid of our pest problem. The landlord seems pretty intent on getting rid of him, so fingers crossed. Chances are Shorty won't be coming home happy. I'm bracing myself for a day of cursing, yelling, and stealing the likes of which I haven't witnessed even at Wal-mart. Just two months ago, there was seven people living in this house. Now only the three toughest/craziest remain. The third roommate, the NSCAD student has had it easy because she has been gone for the last month. She returned last Monday from Christmas break and her greeting to me was "Is there a crack ho living in the basement?". Now, I understand her point of view; there is a crack ho living in the basement and that's definitely an important topic but she could have opened with "How are you?" or "Did you have a nice Christmas?". Whatever. Shorty's cracked-out lady friend seems to have moved in and while she seems docile enough, I am keeping all the sharp knives locked in my room, just in case.
My brother sent pictures of his holiday adventures in New Zealand, which caused me to briefly reconsider joining him there. Over Christmas he went skydiving, hiked on a glacier, and helped build a house for Habitat for Humanity. I watched a bunch of Road to Avonlea reruns and ate two boxes of chocolates.
When I did get back to Halifax there was no heat upstairs so the bathroom and kitchen were absolutely freezing. I had to wear my winter jacket and hat to the bathroom. I let the shower run hot for ten minutes to warm up the room before even going in. This disregard for conservation went against everything David Suzuki ever taught me but it was really, really cold. The situation has since been resolved, but only after four days and two calls to the landlord.
Tomorrow is Trash Day. I hope to take out the trash. And by "trash" I mean Shorty, and by "take out" I mean wave good-bye to from the front step. Shorty has a date with the Tenancy Board tomorrow and I'm hoping it doesn't go his way. I don't really know what a Tenancy Board is but I'm told they may be able to get rid of our pest problem. The landlord seems pretty intent on getting rid of him, so fingers crossed. Chances are Shorty won't be coming home happy. I'm bracing myself for a day of cursing, yelling, and stealing the likes of which I haven't witnessed even at Wal-mart. Just two months ago, there was seven people living in this house. Now only the three toughest/craziest remain. The third roommate, the NSCAD student has had it easy because she has been gone for the last month. She returned last Monday from Christmas break and her greeting to me was "Is there a crack ho living in the basement?". Now, I understand her point of view; there is a crack ho living in the basement and that's definitely an important topic but she could have opened with "How are you?" or "Did you have a nice Christmas?". Whatever. Shorty's cracked-out lady friend seems to have moved in and while she seems docile enough, I am keeping all the sharp knives locked in my room, just in case.
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