Filed under: Wondering
Tomorrow is Berman’s birthday. Ever since I’ve come to school, Berman’s birthday has always been the event of the year. In fact, I have always celebrated her birthday more than my own. Part of the reason is that Berman’s birthday always falls during J-Term, when there is no school and nothing to do really, other than party. While mine always fell during the last week of the regular hockey season, or during playoffs. Which put something of a damper on my festivities.
This year Berman has to work the day after her birthday, and because she is a responsible employee, she doesn’t want to be trashed or horribly hung over, so we are celebrating today. I did my part by provided the two most essential parts of the birthday: Beer and ice cream cake. Frankly, it’s my opinion that no celebration is complete without them. Although, my mom does a really good job of picking out non-ice cream cakes. She knows my heart. And by heart I mean taste buds.
But this is the thing: If I always celebrate Berman’s birthday more than my own, and this year pretty much all we are doing is drinking -delicious Canadian – beer and eating cake, what are we going to do for mine?
Filed under: Rambling
Since I’m pretty much a grown-up now, I have been searching for skills. Snowboarding is among them. I also wish I was skilled at trash-talking and ass-kicking. My friend Gonzo once told me that if she was ever in a fight, she would prefer that I run away, instead of sticking around to ‘help out.’ Because she didn’t want to have to worry about me, in addition to herself. Normally I would be hurt, except that she’s basically right. If I was ever in a fight I would A) look like an easy target and B) not be able to fight back once everyone started pounding on me. Basically the opposite of help in a gang brawl.
When I was home for Christmas Aiden got his friends Luke and Stretch to help teach me some ass-kicking skills. A mixture of Brazilian jujitsu and tactical self-defence and I no longer fear getting my ass-kicked (that much). Though I would be lying if I said I was confident in my newly learned skills. Because really the only moves I remember involve covering my face with my shoulder when I punch people, not to underestimate the power of my elbow, when I kick people, use my shin and not my foot and what to do if my assailant grabs my hair (which I secretly hope happens, because that move was fun to do, and seemed really easy). And now that I have a start, I feel like once I go home, I can continue my journey one the road to being a bad-ass. Though I realize that by saying bad-ass, I lose all bad-ass credibility.
One thing you can’t learn in a class though: trash talking. Its just that when I find myself in the middle of a confrontation, my mind goes completely blank, and I’m lucky if I can say anything at all, let alone something witty and cutting.
Take for example: the time I was following this crazy bitch on my street on my way home from class one day. I know she’s crazy because at the beginning of the year she came to our house because she thought that Carboni flipped her the bird and unlike a normal person who would just go home and forget about it, she came to our house with an ass-kicking in mind. Her plan was only foiled when Carboni informed her that she had imagined the middle finger in her rear-view mirror.
The day that I was following her, she was swerving all over the road like she was drunk (at 4:00 in the afternoon) and then to top it all off, once we pulled on to our street, she came to a full stop (which caused me to stall my car, since I wasn’t expecting something that ridiculous), got out, and started waving her hands at me, then stormed over to my car, where she got all in my face because apparently I was tailgating her. A note: the crazy people in New Hampshire have different ideas of what constitutes tailgating. Whereas at home, it’s not considered tailgating if you can see their rear wheels touching the pavement, apparently in New Hampshire, you’re tailgating as long as you can see the car.
Anyways. So when the crazy lady came over to my car and started yelling at me, you know what I did? I apologized! I did nothing wrong, and still I apologized! Because I am a pussy, and have no trash talking skills, and when she was yelling at me, my mind went blank and training kicked in. And the only training I have is in being polite and using my manners. Thanks for raising me right Mom, a lot of good it’s doing me now!
So my plan is this: learn ass-kicking skills, and I will be able to speak softly but carry a big stick. As it were. Because at least if I am confident in my skills, then hopefully my confidence will deter people from thinking I am an easy target. And if it doesn’t, I’ll just kick their ass.
Filed under: Letter
Dear Owner of the Black and Tan Small Horse Masquerading as a Dog,
Today for the second time in a week your “dog” has chased me down and snarled at me while I was walking my dog on the PUBLIC street. My dog and I did nothing to provoke either instance, and both times were not only accosted in the (still) PUBLIC street, but then followed by your menace almost back to our driveway. Just because my dog is stupid enough to think that your dog, who was bearing it’s teeth at us with it’s hackles raised, wanted to be her friend does not mean that I thought the same.
There is absolutely no reason why I should have to fear walking down the street, because it is PUBLIC. I could understand if my dog and I were traipsing around on your private property, but we weren’t. We weren’t even on your side of the road. And there is still the fact that even after we had retreated from your property (which, again, we were never actually on) your dog continued to follow us, snarling every time I turned around to check if it was still there.
If this happens one more time, I will have my brother send me a taser, which I will be more than happy to use on your dog. And please do not for one minute think that I am kidding. We grew up in a bad neighbourhood, my brother knows people. I just hope, for your dog’s sake, that it loses interest in me and my dog.
Sincerely,
The Angry Bitch Down the Street
Today I took Avi for a walk again. I wanted it to be a short walk, so I tried to go up our street. Except we ran into the enormous, angry dog again. This time it got to within two feet of me, growling the entire time. I tried to yell at it, and that worked for a little while. Stupid Avi though, thought the dog wanted to play with us, and kept trying to break away from me and do the whole meet and greet thing. Uselesss. And all I could think about while it was happening was: If I was walking Lassie, at least if this dog attacked me, Lassie would run for help. Avi would run until she got tired, and then go home for a nap.
Remember how I said that I think my job is totally awesome, and I wish I could do it forever? Not if every night was like tonight. In fact, if I knew that every night was going to be like tonight, I would quit.
I emailed my boss a couple hours before I was supposed to start work: Katie is feeling really, really sick. I know we’re short-staffed tonight, but if I give you one of my workers, can she stay at home and not spread her germs? Sure. Cool. It seemed like a good idea in my head. I just have to open the penalty box every once in awhile, not a big deal. Totally do-able.
I get to the rink two hours before the game, and have a note from my boss: You’re working the box, and you’ll have to train Holly to do the shot chart. Seriously? Berman, could you be any more selfish, choosing to work at the Peak where you will make more money, and leave me high and dry? So I decide: I’ll just do the shot chart myself. A men’s game is not a good “learning” game. And while I’ve never done it before, I used to play hockey, and I know the basics. Okay. So now I’m doing a penalty box, the shot chart, the music and announcing…. something isn’t going to work.
I rally the troops (aka Meg and CJ) and we decide that teamwork will see us through this one. Meg is going to do the game sheet and the music. CJ is going to do the clock and helping Meg, and I am going to do the box and announce, with Meg and CJ writing all the info down. This is a much better plan. It even seemed likely to work at the beginning of the game. Everything was running as smoothly as could be expected until about half-way through the second period.
When the refs went on a penalty-calling spree. All for the home team. Who’s box I was working. At one point I told Meg to not even bother writing anything down for me, because there were five men in my box, all of them irate and malodourous. All of them basically sitting on each other while I perched precariously on the back edge of the box, clinging to the glass while I tried to keep an eye on the play for shots, and the clock to make sure that everyone was leaving when they should. It was nothing short of a miracle that I, the clumsiest person in the universe, did not fall off the edge of the box, plummeting to great injury. Like last year when I fell off the top row of the bleachers at one of Katie’s softball games. Embarrassing.
By the end of the game – which of course went into overtime – I was practically ready to collapse from having been in a constant state of high-stress basically since the game started. CJ was throwing up, because really, why wouldn’t she be? Meg was shaking her head and mouthing “this is a mess” to me every time I looked over at her. It was brutal.
After the game the three of us trudged upstairs, where it took us forever and a day to compile the shot stats, and then another year or so for the refs to make sure that Meg had recorded all the penalties properly. I was an unhelp, since I am terrible at math, and at this point basically brain-dead. After that, I had the pleasure of informing the coach that he had been given a secret misconduct penalty for abuse of the officials (who called a brutal game and deserved it). That was fun. And then I had to go and try to explain the whole clusterf**k to my boss. Cool.
Good teamwork tonight ladies, I couldn’t have done it without you!
Filed under: Letter
Dear Timberland Customer Service,
I just wanted to thank you for the superior craftsmanship that you put into your boots. I purchased a pair of your classic Nubuck boots this winter. I won’t lie, at first I bought them because the Timberland name carries some weight in my neighbourhood, and I’ve always wanted to say that I owned a pair of Tims. Now, you can consider me a customer for life.
This winter I have fallen in love with my Tims. They’re waterproof, so I feel like I can walk anywhere in them and not worry. They look good, so I can wear them when I want to add a touch of class to my jeans. Even then they’re all scuffed, instead of looking beat-up and shoddy, they look rugged and well-used. I have even used them in lieu of snowboarding boots. Granted it was on my front lawn, and I’m not good enough to really notice the difference, but the point is that when I need them, my Tims are there.
Please don’t ever stop making this amazing product!
Sincerely,
Your Number One Fan
This Fall Berman and I made a pact that we would learn how to snowboard this winter. The reason: We want to look cool. I have always wanted to learn an “x-sport,” because I think it gives a person a little something extra on the Cool-o-Meter. And since we are both finished school, it stood to reason that now, while we can snowboard for free at Pat’s Peak, would be the opportune time to learn. Snowboarding seemed like best option, since skateboarding has led to more broken bones and scars than I can count, and I’m not near the ocean, so surfing was an automatic out.
But, since we got hit with a foot of snow today and as everyone knows my car is not exactly what you would call a champion when it comes to navigating a snowy/icy driveway we didn’t want to attempt the drive to the Peak. Also, there is the small matter that the only accessory I have for snowboarding is the pimp goggles that I got from my Nanny and Grandpa for Christmas. As a side note: the company guarantees that some new technology they use will prevent the goggles from steaming up, but because I give off so much heat, I’ve managed to prove them wrong. But I still look good, and as I said before, that’s all I really care about. See, shmee. I digress. So when Berman suggested that we try and hone our (non-existent) skills on the front lawn, I said “hells yeah.”
Berman stole her cousin’s snowboard and boots while she was home, so she was all set. I decided to use Carboni’s old snowboard, and I was going to use her old boots too. Except my McDonald’s-style arch prevented me from being able to cram my carny-sized foot into them. So…Tims it was! I figured that it wouldn’t matter that much, since I suck really hard either way.
Next stop: Our front lawn. There’s a fairly steep hill leading down to our driveway, and it seemed a perfect substitute for a bunny hill. Needless to say, hilarity ensued. Most people would assume that since I grew up playing hockey and softball that I would be A) a lesbian and B) co-ordinated. Both are untrue. And so, when I try to learn a new skill, it takes me longer than the average person, and I usually need to be shown multiple times in slow motion. Today I settled for reckless abandoned, since I was surrounded by a pillow of fresh, fluffy snow.
While I managed to become far wetter than I imagined, since all my outerwear was waterproof, I also managed to escape without bodily harm, so I’d say it was a good day.
Filed under: Rambling
So today was the first day that I was really home alone. Just me and Avalanche. Hanging out. All day. Thrilling, no? Katie brought Avi into my room at 7:30 when she was leaving for work. And after a brief episode of The Beans because Katie and Berman were leaving, she settled down and we slept until 9:30. After that, the real fun began.
Because I love the way my bed looks covered in hair, I invited a heavily shedding Avi to join me as I watched “Signs.” Normally I don’t get down M Night’s movies, but I love “Signs” for some reason. It might be because I went through a geeky phase (one of many) of being obsessed with UFOs. After “Signs” I decided it was time to implement part of the “Look Hot For Graduation” plan, and we went for a walk.
At home, when I walk Eddie, I let him pick the route. Because there are actually choices. Here there are only two: Up the road (and past the Texas Chainsaw Massacre house) or down the road (and past the shady trailer park). The other day we went up the road and had gone about 100 meters when we were chase back by a very angry, very large german shepherd/lab mix. And then I sank into a snow bank up to my vajayjay. So today I opted for the trailer park.
Walking Avi is a full-body workout. Why, you may ask? Because she is the worst-trained dog EVER! I’ve been spoiled in the past, having my parents to train the dogs. No such luck anymore. Katie and Berman always take Avi to the tennis courts or the little league field, where it’s fenced in and she can run around until she can’t stand up anymore. While that’s all well and good, I didn’t feel like having my car look like a small bird had been killed in the back seat, nor do I benefit from standing around in the cold, watching her. So while my legs get a workout just from trying to not get dragged down the road, my arms get a workout from dragging Avi out of the brush or away from chipmunks or out of the way of cars (as Henniker thinks sidewalks are silly).
Our walk was going fine until we were coming back up our driveway (masquerading as a large sheet of ice lately) and we came across one of our neighbours. He’s a super nice guy, I know because before Christmas he helped push my car back up the driveway the first time it snowed and I tried to go to class anyways. I better be careful, or it will sound like I actually enjoy school (!) Anyways. So Avi and I came across him as his dog was helping him unload the car. Imagine my embarrassment when the dog came over to us and, instead of just sniffing his butt like a normal dog, Avi tried to ride him like a pony. And I couldn’t do anything about it, because I was standing on the ice and too busy trying not to get ripped in half or fall on my face – both very real possibilities. So congratulations Avi, you’ve once again proved that you are your own boss. And very possibly mine as well.
I am so afraid that I’m going to get stuck in a career that I hate. I think part of the reason why I fear having a grown-up job is because I have been spoiled with fun jobs that I love. For instance: right now I am technically working a grown-up job (or at least Assistant to the Sports Information Director sounds important) and I am having an insane amount of fun.
I worked today during the womens’ hockey game and even though I had a reasonably important job to do, it didn’t really feel like work. I was in charge of running the whole game, and basically anything that went wrong came down to me. But it just felt like I was hanging out with my friends.
Once the game starts Berman, Meg, CJ and I are cracking jokes the entire game. Quoting funny movies. Breaking out in (really bad) dancing. How can I make this my grown-up life? There were times when I hurt from laughing so hard. If I had to choose, why would I ever pick a desk job over something like this?
The problem is that I can’t do games management with my friends for life. Because even if I don’t ever grow up, it’s likely that sooner or later they will. And it’s inevitable that one day we’ll go in separate directions. If for no other reason than the fact that my Aunt Pauline will beat me soundly about the head and neck if I so much as think about staying in the States once I’m finished. That, and I don’t have a green card.
And so the search for a career continues. So far I have pretty much eliminated a boring desk job. The last time I worked one of those, I wanted to chew my own arm off every day, just so I could go home early. I wish I could work an outdoor job the whole year, but those seem to not exist. I also wish I could go and work in a whole bunch of different countries, combining my desire for travel with my desire to not work a real job. It’s the best of both worlds really?
So, if anyone has any tips (unless you are my mother, in which case I have heard all your tips before) let me know. I open to suggestions.
I hate telemarketers. But I don’t have it in my heart to be mean to them. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’ve worked shitty jobs before, and they are made all the more shitty when people are rude to you. All the telemarketers that call the house ask for me, because the phone bill is in my name (I also get all the junk mail, sweet) and all the roommates have strict instructions to tell whoever asks for Ms. So-and-So that I’m not home. Even if I am sitting on the couch next to them.
Today I was rudely awaken by a telemarketer at 8:40! Now, I know most people would be like: “Maybe your lazy ass should be out of bed by then!” Maybe you’re right. But then, maybe I am just smart enough to have a job that I can A) do from home therefore B) don’t have to wake up at an ungodly hour just so I can be on time to sit a desk. After I was jolted awake, I found that I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I just went about my day.
While I was watching VH1’s Best Year Ever, I got another call. Of course it isn’t from anyone I know, that would be silly. It’s from another telemarketer. Thankfully it wasn’t from the New Hampshire Police Association. They scare me when they call, and are as tenacious as a shark. But I never hang up quickly on them like I try to do with everyone else, because as soon as I hear “police” I get nervous and forget to deny that Ms. So-and-So is home. It was from a man calling from the American Veterans something or other. And I felt so bad for him!
I accidentally told him I was home, because instead of asking for Ms. So-and-So, he was just like “Ms. So-and-So?” and I felt like I should know him. Stupid!
“How are you today, Ms. So-and-So?”
“Not too bad, how are you?”
” – I’m well thank you. You know you are the first person to ask me that today?”
That is totally cheating! How dare you make me think you are a real person with feelings! Have you no pity? Needless to say he conned me out of $15 to support veterans of an Army that my grandmother is convinced will one day in the near future attack my country. So, there’s that. But I get a free decal. Which, if I actually put on my car might get me beaten up once I go home. So I guess it’s a win-win.
Filed under: Rambling
My grandmother hates Wal-Mart. More than just about anything in the world. Except maybe rap music. But I love it! I know that they exploit cheap labour or whatever (I don’t actually know anything about their practices, because as soon as Grandma starts talking about it, I zone out) but I have found it in my heart to look past all that. The reason: Every time I go, I see something amazing.
While New Hampshire isn’t good for much, it is good for mullets. I love mullets! Almost nothing warms my heart quite like seeing a good mullet, a 10-90, business in the front, party in the back. I am an amateur Mullet Hunter, and I consider it a good day if I can see a mullet. As a side note: I have never had a mullet myself, nor will I ever have one. I will, however, actively encourage anyone I know to get one. One of the reasons Wal-Mart is never a bad time is because it would appear that people who prefer their business in the front, with a party in the back naturally gravitate towards this Mullet Mecca. Amazing!
Today I went with Berman to The Mart to do some grocery shopping. I was not disappointed. Only it wasn’t a mullet; it was better! I never thought I would be able to say that, but it’s true. We were perusing the varieties of spaghetti sauce when a man walked past us in what looked like an orange cape. Naturally I followed him around the corner of the aisle to investigate further. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was, in fact, a sort of large bag for the man’s dreds. I should mention that he was about 55 and white. And had taken his obviously ample hair and fashioned a sort of bag out of what I can only imagine was a large, orange, canvas tarp. It reached down past his knees, and wound around itself a few times, clearly for security purposes.
Berman says I embarrassed her by following him through the store and then staring at him as he walked away. I say that it’s not everyday you get to observe something that unique in it’s natural habitat. It was clearly my duty to science, and I am not one to shirk my duties.
Today I finally made it into my parking space. I felt like celebrating afterwards with a much deserved beer, but as it was 4:00 and I was all alone, it seemed like a step in the wrong direction (ie towards alcoholism).
Before lunch one of my roommates, Berman, and I went out to check on my car, to ensure that no one had smashed into it while they were leaving for work. Though we both have jobs, neither of us were silly enough to be sucked into a 9-5, and the only reason I was dressed before noon was because I didn’t want to get my pyjamas dirty when I went to check the car. It was safe. But it had been joined by another car, which was parked – and when I say parked, I mean stuck in a ditch – on the other side of the driveway. Sweet. So after plenty of deliberation, Berman and I settled for turning the car around and keeping our fingers crossed that no one came home before I left to drop Berman at work.
Someone did. When we came out again at 3:30, we noticed that there was a third car that couldn’t make it up the hill. A red coupe that neither of us had seen before. We proceeded to curse it and the fact that I am unskilled at navigating icy hills and our landlord for not clearing the driveway and anyone else that came to mind. We decided that our best shot at getting around the car that had very considerately boxed me in was to try and back up, while Berman pushed from the front bumper, to make sure I didn’t roll into the car (love standards!). No sooner had the smell of burning hair and the sound of skidding tires started to fill the air when the owner of the red car – previously known as Bitchy Volvo Lady – steps out of her house and tells us if we wait a second, she’ll move her car. Luckily both Berman and I have an irrational fear of being late, and left more than enough time to dilly-dally before she had to be at work.
Once I get back, I pull snugly into my now-familiar parking spot 400 meters away from my actual house, gather my things and begin the embarrassing walk back to the house. Its embarrassing because I frequently slip on the ice, and on more than one occasion came dangerously close to ripping in half – painful – because one leg started to slide down the hill while the other tried valiantly to stay planted. It’s at times like this I wish I had more control over my body. I made it about 50 meters before another neighbour poked her head out the door and started yelling to me.
“Do you think you could actually make it up the hill?”
Are you serious? Do you think I just like the exercise? “Excuse me?”
“Do you think you make it up the hill? Because I just called AAA to come and tow us out, and I’m not sure the tow truck will be able to make it past your car.”
My car? You car is the one that’s actually stuck in the ditch, blocking my progress up the hill! I’m parked off to the side. “Well, I would try, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll hit your car….”
“Okay, well, I’m just afraid he won’t be able to get past…”
So the well-being of your car doesn’t concern you? Fine. “Okay, I’ll try…” And before I even make it back to my car, she’s back inside. A little help? No? Nothing?
Don’t worry, after basically red-lining in second gear I made it up The Slippery Slope of Death without even brushing that slut bucket’s car. And don’t worry, the smell of burning hair eventually went away. And I even made it up a second time, after I had to leave to pick Berman up from work. So it looks like I won’t have to sell my liver on the black market to buy a Subaru with All-Wheel Drive after all.
