Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Camping this weekend was fun: The new gals are an interesting bunch. They're utterly boy-crazy, for one -- was I like that in grade 10? Lordy, I was tiresome if I was!
Memo to new lasses: Daniel Radcliffe is NOT hot. Not! Not! Not!
Anyway. Yeah, camp was fun. I ate chipmunks, for the first time in my life (it's a warm brownie, cut in half, with a melted mint wafer between the halves. Don't panic, I'm still veggie). And I'm not sick, which for me is majorly strange after tent camping -- guess the echinacea worked! Sunday morning I took a walk down to the lake and it was lovely with ducks and geese and golden morning light. I stood philosophically on the dock for a moment, then got cold and went back to the campsite. Huzzah.
Awards night tonight at Facey: Kim did not come. Stupid Kim. Sat with Tom, Paul/Jesus, and John Melcher, instead of with Katie, Keith, and Colleen. I'm so afraid of losing them with this boyfriend thing... they're some of the oldest of my nearest and dearest, and I really feel like I've been neglecting them this year. We haven't really been the Musketeers like we used to since Keith came along, but he fits in quite well too, and a car with four wheels is no bad thing, especially when two of the wheels are rolling solo. But now it's just the one wheel rolling solo (Colleen, that is) and I feel like I'm kind of halfway between being a proper wheel on the car and just being a sidecar.
Why does every post turn into a melancholy dirge about separation and the splitting effects of change? Stupid dirges. Bah!
And Bev's quitting choir, to which I say: [of course I am French, why do you think I have this out-RAG-eous accENT?]*hock-ptuh!* I spit upon you and your quittingness. Your innards are of inferior goat upholstery. Zees ees a 'umiliation! [/accENT] And to Laura I say: Quit and I will mush your eyeballs into your head with grapefruit spoons, after I have roped you to a chair with barbed wire and waxed your armpits using DUCT TAPE!
Butterscotch chips taste kind of funny if you eat them for too long.
Memo to new lasses: Daniel Radcliffe is NOT hot. Not! Not! Not!
Anyway. Yeah, camp was fun. I ate chipmunks, for the first time in my life (it's a warm brownie, cut in half, with a melted mint wafer between the halves. Don't panic, I'm still veggie). And I'm not sick, which for me is majorly strange after tent camping -- guess the echinacea worked! Sunday morning I took a walk down to the lake and it was lovely with ducks and geese and golden morning light. I stood philosophically on the dock for a moment, then got cold and went back to the campsite. Huzzah.
Awards night tonight at Facey: Kim did not come. Stupid Kim. Sat with Tom, Paul/Jesus, and John Melcher, instead of with Katie, Keith, and Colleen. I'm so afraid of losing them with this boyfriend thing... they're some of the oldest of my nearest and dearest, and I really feel like I've been neglecting them this year. We haven't really been the Musketeers like we used to since Keith came along, but he fits in quite well too, and a car with four wheels is no bad thing, especially when two of the wheels are rolling solo. But now it's just the one wheel rolling solo (Colleen, that is) and I feel like I'm kind of halfway between being a proper wheel on the car and just being a sidecar.
Why does every post turn into a melancholy dirge about separation and the splitting effects of change? Stupid dirges. Bah!
And Bev's quitting choir, to which I say: [of course I am French, why do you think I have this out-RAG-eous accENT?]*hock-ptuh!* I spit upon you and your quittingness. Your innards are of inferior goat upholstery. Zees ees a 'umiliation! [/accENT] And to Laura I say: Quit and I will mush your eyeballs into your head with grapefruit spoons, after I have roped you to a chair with barbed wire and waxed your armpits using DUCT TAPE!
Butterscotch chips taste kind of funny if you eat them for too long.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Spare block. Sitting in the library, surrounded by Spady's social studies students. Oh, the tedium. Have just finished working on an essay about my dad's job in Canada's mixed economy. My essays always turn out long-winded and /boring/. I don't know how Mr. Meston can stand to read them. Well, he's only had to read one so far this semester. I wonder if I'll get a "zzz" on my marking rubric?
Happy West Wing premiere day!
Have a cross-country meet after school. Hope weather is not Sicky McSicksick.
Happy West Wing premiere day!
Have a cross-country meet after school. Hope weather is not Sicky McSicksick.
Sunday, September 21, 2003
Just watched "Frida" with the parents. My sister's gone camping for tonight, so we figured we'd go crazy and rent an R-rated movie. The visuals were beautifully lush. Colourful paintings, bright clothing, gorgeous chunky jewelry, great atmosphere, and lots of glowing Mexican skin... you could pretty much play a drinking game based on the number of pointless sex scenes ("Trotsky's screwing? EW! Communists are asexual!").
I'm still sick. And today I've been coughing, too, which makes my legs hurt. Here are things that happen when I'm sick:
~ My shins and knees start aching and my skin gets sensitive to small touches.
~ I really like to eat bread. No wait, that's normal.
~ Pajamas stay on till 6 p.m.
~ My mouth constantly feels dirty. Four tooth-brushings so far today!
~ I'm so tired, but I can't sleep, standing on the edge of something much too deep. It's funny how we feel so much, but cannot say a word... Before dinner I lay in bed for 50 minutes and didn't drop off despite being exhausted.
~ I get bored reading, but not, say, watching a cherry tomato on the counter. For five minutes. Did I think it was going to move?
Spent much of the day (previous to my Mexican/Communist Porn Experience, that is) completing a social studies workbook about democratic socialism. This has resulted in me knowing more about Sweden than I thought I ever would. Go on: Ask me how long the waiting period is before you receive your unemployment pay, which is 80% of what you'd make at your old job. And there's still an essay to write tomorrow... but Mum has promised to take me shopping. Hurrah for shopping. I think she wants to buy clothes so that she doesn't have to do laundry as often: She left the hamper for a week and it was overflowing like a Toronto garbage bin during a public workers' strike and my sister and I had absolutely no underwear. Seriously, I was down to my emergency granny-panties. (Everyone has those, don't they? The ones you never ever wear if you have other underwear but still keep around in case, you know, all the other pairs have been stolen or doused with gasoline and burned or eaten by piranhas.)
Talking to Jessica Yates on MSN. She says Cameron (nobody calls him that but her, right?) has finally asked her out. We're all growing up and pairing off and moving in different directions. Sometimes I wonder if class 9-1 will have anything in common in 20 years, whether we'll all still carry that little grain of mutual loathing and love for our junior high years, or whether we'll all have changed so much that any shared experiences will mean nothing more than what /was/. I guess what I'm asking is: Will our futures still relate to each other because of our shared past? I've got this complicated visual in my mind with a plant that grows off in thirty-two different directions and each vine sprouts a different bloom, but the common stem might just be enough to make those thirty-two flowers go together. Hell, even if we're all different plants, we started off in the same soil. It'll be interesting to see what transplants take place, who ends up where, and if we get along the way we used to if we get shoved in a room at some point later on. I know that Brittany and Jaime still hang out together, and Katie and Colleen, Savanna, Cynthia, Vanessa, and Steph King, but we're getting more and more fragmented. It's sad, but I sort of knew it would happen.
I'm still sick. And today I've been coughing, too, which makes my legs hurt. Here are things that happen when I'm sick:
~ My shins and knees start aching and my skin gets sensitive to small touches.
~ I really like to eat bread. No wait, that's normal.
~ Pajamas stay on till 6 p.m.
~ My mouth constantly feels dirty. Four tooth-brushings so far today!
~ I'm so tired, but I can't sleep, standing on the edge of something much too deep. It's funny how we feel so much, but cannot say a word... Before dinner I lay in bed for 50 minutes and didn't drop off despite being exhausted.
~ I get bored reading, but not, say, watching a cherry tomato on the counter. For five minutes. Did I think it was going to move?
Spent much of the day (previous to my Mexican/Communist Porn Experience, that is) completing a social studies workbook about democratic socialism. This has resulted in me knowing more about Sweden than I thought I ever would. Go on: Ask me how long the waiting period is before you receive your unemployment pay, which is 80% of what you'd make at your old job. And there's still an essay to write tomorrow... but Mum has promised to take me shopping. Hurrah for shopping. I think she wants to buy clothes so that she doesn't have to do laundry as often: She left the hamper for a week and it was overflowing like a Toronto garbage bin during a public workers' strike and my sister and I had absolutely no underwear. Seriously, I was down to my emergency granny-panties. (Everyone has those, don't they? The ones you never ever wear if you have other underwear but still keep around in case, you know, all the other pairs have been stolen or doused with gasoline and burned or eaten by piranhas.)
Talking to Jessica Yates on MSN. She says Cameron (nobody calls him that but her, right?) has finally asked her out. We're all growing up and pairing off and moving in different directions. Sometimes I wonder if class 9-1 will have anything in common in 20 years, whether we'll all still carry that little grain of mutual loathing and love for our junior high years, or whether we'll all have changed so much that any shared experiences will mean nothing more than what /was/. I guess what I'm asking is: Will our futures still relate to each other because of our shared past? I've got this complicated visual in my mind with a plant that grows off in thirty-two different directions and each vine sprouts a different bloom, but the common stem might just be enough to make those thirty-two flowers go together. Hell, even if we're all different plants, we started off in the same soil. It'll be interesting to see what transplants take place, who ends up where, and if we get along the way we used to if we get shoved in a room at some point later on. I know that Brittany and Jaime still hang out together, and Katie and Colleen, Savanna, Cynthia, Vanessa, and Steph King, but we're getting more and more fragmented. It's sad, but I sort of knew it would happen.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
You know what's exciting? WEST WING PREMIERE SEPTEMBER 24TH! I'm volunteering my house as a gathering place for you local Wingnuts/Wingaholics -- so basically, Jeanne's coming over for Oreos. So far as I know. Probably should run it past the parents first. Eh, mi casa, su casa.
Hey everybody. I keep meaning to update, but then... I find some other use for my spare block at school. Like that pesky, pesky homework. And SAT practice questions: Less than a month till testing time! Eeks.
Date with Tom tonight. We watched "Wayne's World" and dropped in on a party, and he played some guitar for me. His room is so great: There are like three shelves of Warhammer miniatures, electric and acoustic guitars, and a bass. The walls are navy blue and he has Ninja Turtle sheets. And he's a really really amazing guitarist and he reminded me of the kid from a book I just lent him, "Soul Music" by Terry Pratchett, where the guitarist gets sort of taken over by his instrument and focuses so intensely when he's onstage. Except that the kid in the book sort of dies when he doesn't have his guitar around. Tom doesn't. But anyway he's quite amazing, and taught me to play "Smoke on the Water" which is such a great song. And I'm turning into that stupid teenage girl who talks constantly about her boyfriend, right? Yeah.
So Wednesday night my homie Jeanne-Marie and I went down to the Legislature and totally laid the smack down on the capitalist populist scum at the Youth Legislative Forum, who want to give us all our tax money back. And we were like, screw you. And we smoked them in their undersized heads with a pizza box, then grabbed the budget, ran out of the room, rewrote it, called an emergency session of the Legislature and /passed that baby!/ No we didn't. We wrote snarky notes back and forth. Almost as good.
Finally met Bev's Devin Monday at choir practice. He seems nice. I'm glad she's so taken with him and so happy (so far). She keeps talking about how sensitive, sweet, caring, and devoted he is even on MSN, and I didn't really pick up on extreme emotional advancement in my 15-word conversation/introduction with him, but then I guess that kind of excellence is hard to convey in 12 seconds.
My neck hurts from headbanging at the party. It's like the spine damage from a day of snowboarding, compacted into just a few seconds of violent hair-swinging. Jen Morton looked awed, though she was getting tipsy by that point so it may not mean much.
Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day to all! Arrrrrr, me hearties!
You are The Cap'n!
What's Yer Inner Pirate?
brought to you by The Official Talk Like A Pirate Web Site. Arrrrr!
I'm going to go play "Smoke on the Water" over and over on my dad's crappy acoustic now. Kay? Kay.
Date with Tom tonight. We watched "Wayne's World" and dropped in on a party, and he played some guitar for me. His room is so great: There are like three shelves of Warhammer miniatures, electric and acoustic guitars, and a bass. The walls are navy blue and he has Ninja Turtle sheets. And he's a really really amazing guitarist and he reminded me of the kid from a book I just lent him, "Soul Music" by Terry Pratchett, where the guitarist gets sort of taken over by his instrument and focuses so intensely when he's onstage. Except that the kid in the book sort of dies when he doesn't have his guitar around. Tom doesn't. But anyway he's quite amazing, and taught me to play "Smoke on the Water" which is such a great song. And I'm turning into that stupid teenage girl who talks constantly about her boyfriend, right? Yeah.
So Wednesday night my homie Jeanne-Marie and I went down to the Legislature and totally laid the smack down on the capitalist populist scum at the Youth Legislative Forum, who want to give us all our tax money back. And we were like, screw you. And we smoked them in their undersized heads with a pizza box, then grabbed the budget, ran out of the room, rewrote it, called an emergency session of the Legislature and /passed that baby!/ No we didn't. We wrote snarky notes back and forth. Almost as good.
Finally met Bev's Devin Monday at choir practice. He seems nice. I'm glad she's so taken with him and so happy (so far). She keeps talking about how sensitive, sweet, caring, and devoted he is even on MSN, and I didn't really pick up on extreme emotional advancement in my 15-word conversation/introduction with him, but then I guess that kind of excellence is hard to convey in 12 seconds.
My neck hurts from headbanging at the party. It's like the spine damage from a day of snowboarding, compacted into just a few seconds of violent hair-swinging. Jen Morton looked awed, though she was getting tipsy by that point so it may not mean much.
Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day to all! Arrrrrr, me hearties!
You are The Cap'n!
Some men are born great, some achieve greatness and some slit the throats of any man that stands between them and the mantle of power. You never met a man you couldn't eviscerate. Not that mindless violence is the only avenue open to you - but why take an avenue when you have complete freeway access? You are the definitive Man of Action. You are James Bond in a blousy shirt and drawstring-fly pants. Your swash was buckled long ago and you have never been so sure of anything in your life as in your ability to bend everyone to your will. You will call anyone out and cut off their head if they show any sign of taking you on or backing down. You cannot be saddled with tedious underlings, but if one of your lieutenants shows an overly developed sense of ambition he may find more suitable accommodations in Davy Jones' locker. That is, of course, IF you notice him. You tend to be self absorbed - a weakness that may keep you from seeing enemies where they are and imagining them where they are not.
What's Yer Inner Pirate?
brought to you by The Official Talk Like A Pirate Web Site. Arrrrr!
I'm going to go play "Smoke on the Water" over and over on my dad's crappy acoustic now. Kay? Kay.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Hey, I guess I took Jeanne and Star's advice about older men: Tom is exactly one month older than I am. And he's only in grade 11.
Hi all! I have just had the most super day on the face of the earth, even if I had to pick up dog poo and my leg brushed against someone's vomit! It's been one of those days where you feel like a proper teenager, like adolescentus canadensis. Care to find out why?
1) I drove! All the way to church and back, which is about 10-15 minutes total. And I didn't maim or kill anyone at all, and I drove the speed limit, and Mum hardly freaked out at all. Father Jack blessed my driving, which was nice of him because now the van has this little halo around the roof rack... no it doesn't.
2) I went to a party. John from the band at school (he's a strumpet... trumpeter, that is) hosted, and did a nice job, I thought. A lack of sweets, but we fixed that alright. There were drunk people, but not scary amounts of them, and only one really totally blasted kid (hence the vomit... I went up to say bye and it was on the bed, but it wasn't the really sick chunky kind and why am I going on about this? It's not the important part. If there even is an important part). But yeah, it was fun. Tom and Nicole and I walked down to the IGA and got cookie dough, which we ate on the way back, and apples, because everyone wanted apples for some reason, and icing and gingersnaps just because. Tom drank a 2L vanilla Coke. We played in the playground and I went on the monkey bars with success. Sort of. More like with unwieldiness. And hey, remember the werewolfy-looking guy from Heights? Adam whatsisface? He was there too. Which was weird, cos someone mentioned him to me the other day, in the context of, "remember that guy from Heights who had a full beard from the time he was like thirteen? Wasn't that strange?"
3) Tom drove me to the party. At the party I hung out with Tom. We went on the monkey bars together, he played the guitar and did *not* drink (he doesn't like to -- extra points) and he drove me home. And once we were in the driveway, he asked me if I wanted to see him. I didn't kiss him, and am regretting that a bit, but not too much. Besides, we were in a van, and there would have been a Grand Canyon-esque space to lean across, plus I'm so bad with the hand-eye co-ordination that I probably would have missed and gotten the seat. So no regrets. And I may no longer be the joyously embittered single girl we've all grown to know and love! But don't worry, I won't have a lobotomy. Some people (I imagine) are incapable of separating themselves from their current other half, and lose themselves totally to this transitory, impermanent relationship, which is depressing somehow. It's like, "what would you do if I stabbed your boy/girl toy to /death!/? Hey? Would you come back to our world then?!" But I don't actually know anyone that bad. So it's fine. What was I talking about? Eh, it's late. This is what happens when I stay up past my bedtime.
1) I drove! All the way to church and back, which is about 10-15 minutes total. And I didn't maim or kill anyone at all, and I drove the speed limit, and Mum hardly freaked out at all. Father Jack blessed my driving, which was nice of him because now the van has this little halo around the roof rack... no it doesn't.
2) I went to a party. John from the band at school (he's a strumpet... trumpeter, that is) hosted, and did a nice job, I thought. A lack of sweets, but we fixed that alright. There were drunk people, but not scary amounts of them, and only one really totally blasted kid (hence the vomit... I went up to say bye and it was on the bed, but it wasn't the really sick chunky kind and why am I going on about this? It's not the important part. If there even is an important part). But yeah, it was fun. Tom and Nicole and I walked down to the IGA and got cookie dough, which we ate on the way back, and apples, because everyone wanted apples for some reason, and icing and gingersnaps just because. Tom drank a 2L vanilla Coke. We played in the playground and I went on the monkey bars with success. Sort of. More like with unwieldiness. And hey, remember the werewolfy-looking guy from Heights? Adam whatsisface? He was there too. Which was weird, cos someone mentioned him to me the other day, in the context of, "remember that guy from Heights who had a full beard from the time he was like thirteen? Wasn't that strange?"
3) Tom drove me to the party. At the party I hung out with Tom. We went on the monkey bars together, he played the guitar and did *not* drink (he doesn't like to -- extra points) and he drove me home. And once we were in the driveway, he asked me if I wanted to see him. I didn't kiss him, and am regretting that a bit, but not too much. Besides, we were in a van, and there would have been a Grand Canyon-esque space to lean across, plus I'm so bad with the hand-eye co-ordination that I probably would have missed and gotten the seat. So no regrets. And I may no longer be the joyously embittered single girl we've all grown to know and love! But don't worry, I won't have a lobotomy. Some people (I imagine) are incapable of separating themselves from their current other half, and lose themselves totally to this transitory, impermanent relationship, which is depressing somehow. It's like, "what would you do if I stabbed your boy/girl toy to /death!/? Hey? Would you come back to our world then?!" But I don't actually know anyone that bad. So it's fine. What was I talking about? Eh, it's late. This is what happens when I stay up past my bedtime.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Hey. Bev has reminded me to update my blog, so I am. For her reading pleasure, I suppose. I've been keeping my journal fairly regularly and blathering on and on in there.
Here's a bad joke for you: Ancient Scots never die, they just get depicted! In the same vein, old punk rockers never die, they just get defunct (defunked). Made that last one up myself, and you can tell, can't you? Oh well. It's better than my primeval knock-knock jokes...
"Knock knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Caroline."
"Caroline who?"
"Caroline, lettuce, and Michael!"
I kid you not.
Anyway, back to school has been okay. For tonight I'm ignoring my math homework, choosing instead to do it during my spare. This is going to be a pattern, I can tell already... But you can't tell me I'm not being productive. I'm self-publishing and Mulling Over Monologues (M.O.M.ing). All of the monologues I ever find involve death: Medea, crazy-old-lady-with-dead-sister, and now a "kill your cheating husband, Flo!" or a "the Yuppie movement is dead" one. No, wait, there's an exception! My "Princess Bride" monologue, which is Buttercup nattering on about How Much She Loves Westley. WAIT!
Mum just found me a monologue. It's Lily Tomlin's, and she's talking about being the Phone Company. Hurray!
So back to school has been okay. It's fun and colourless at the same time. Sometimes I feel sort of alone in a huge crowd of people. Maybe it's just because the school's so much more crowded this year. It seems to be, anyway.
Here's a bad joke for you: Ancient Scots never die, they just get depicted! In the same vein, old punk rockers never die, they just get defunct (defunked). Made that last one up myself, and you can tell, can't you? Oh well. It's better than my primeval knock-knock jokes...
"Knock knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Caroline."
"Caroline who?"
"Caroline, lettuce, and Michael!"
I kid you not.
Anyway, back to school has been okay. For tonight I'm ignoring my math homework, choosing instead to do it during my spare. This is going to be a pattern, I can tell already... But you can't tell me I'm not being productive. I'm self-publishing and Mulling Over Monologues (M.O.M.ing). All of the monologues I ever find involve death: Medea, crazy-old-lady-with-dead-sister, and now a "kill your cheating husband, Flo!" or a "the Yuppie movement is dead" one. No, wait, there's an exception! My "Princess Bride" monologue, which is Buttercup nattering on about How Much She Loves Westley. WAIT!
Mum just found me a monologue. It's Lily Tomlin's, and she's talking about being the Phone Company. Hurray!
So back to school has been okay. It's fun and colourless at the same time. Sometimes I feel sort of alone in a huge crowd of people. Maybe it's just because the school's so much more crowded this year. It seems to be, anyway.
