Fly free, little story! Fly fly!

Well, I've done it. I've taken my first official step in the direction of becoming a professional fantasy writer. After spending 20$ on stamps and envelopes, and 7$ (!) on International Reply Coupons, I mailed "My Brother's Own Words" in a manilla envelope, along with an introductory letter to the editor, a SASE (Self-Addressed-Stamped-Envelope), and two of the exhorbitantly expensive International Reply Coupons. So any day now, my little story will be out in the world, bereft and alone, and force to rely on its own wits and the strength of its packaging to manage the exhausting trek from here in Canada to Hoboken, New Jersey. Good luck!

I am the Butter Queen!

Bow before me, pathetic mortals! Who among you believes themselves to be my equal? I denounce you then, for you are a liar! How much butter have you sold, hmm? Not as much as me, I'd wager - because I am the Butter Queen, High Clogger of the Canadian Arteries! Bask in my greasy benevolence, you peons of margerine!

Now that that's over with...Not only am I Butter Queen, but I am now bereft of four teeth that used to supply me with wisdom. I have no idea how I'm going to manage my Wisdom quotient without those four bones to help with production, but one does not exactly need wisdom to work in a movie theatre, nor, now that I think about it, to be the Butter Queen.

The dental surgery went swimmingly. I was actually quite terrified about the upcoming procedure - I'd never been put under sedation before, and my only memory of having teeth pulled (I was six - and they were removing a tooth that had set funny after I'd bonked it on a wooden pew as an infant) was not very pleasant. I was afraid it was going to hurt, and that I wouldn't adjust, and that somehow I'd wake up in the middle of the procedure and catch them removing my wallet or molesting me or installing an organ that I wasn't supposed to have.
Instead, they poked a needle into my hand (to freeze my mouth), and put a rubber hose on my nose and told me to breath it in, and in truth it was a lot like going to sleep. I don't really remember nodding off, I only remember praying frantically and feeling somewhat blasphemous when I couldn't remember the words (Dad says I got that from my Baptist heritage, and that all their prayers are made up anyway).

My sister (#1) had it actually worse. I recovered from the sedative rather quickly, and was soon rapidly inventing ways to talk around all the gauze in my mouth. My sister (who was operated on 40 minutes after me) was harder hit by the medicine, and didn't fully awaken from it for hours (we had to wheel her to the minivan in a wheelchair, and I had to hold her head on the ride home to keep her from slumping over).

Eating and drinking with the lower half of my face frozen was somewhat unsettling. The upper jaw thawed in four hours, but the lower didn't for about 10 (because the freezing stuff goes directly into the lower jaw, I think). My mother was highly amused as I ran curious fingers about my face, and as they touched something soft and damp, I asked her if it was my tongue ("Ahs thahs mah tong?"). She replied, "That's your lip, darling." Why did the dentists move it? Drinking with a frozen mouth was difficult, because not only could I not feel anything with the actual parts, but the rest of my head was telling me that somehow, my lips were not only frozen, but moved to a much more inconvenient part of my face. All in all, eating and drinking with a frozen mouth made me feel like I had developed an enormous underbite, with my lower jaw and lip having to rise higher than they were supposed to in order to connect with my upper jaw and lip.

I eventually thawed out, continued to take my medicine, applied icepacks to each side of my face for 20 minutes each every now and then, and proceded to make the most out of a lazy three-day weekend. Sister #1 and I settled our asses on the couch with pillows and books, and proceded to drink every can of Orange Pop and Sprite in the house, gorge on noodles and chocolate pudding and ice cream (neapolitan - three flavours so that I wouldn't get bored eating it all. That's foresight!), and monopolize the television. Truth be told, this was the first opportunity I've had to rely on the Total Parental Service Method for Curing Illness since I was about ten. You know, the kind where you get to lie around and do nothing while your parents do everything for you without accusing you of being lazy. It was a nice touch of nostalgia - for both me and my parents. Me for when I was young enough to demand they wait on me, they for when I was too young to talk. Yup, I had to keep my mouth shut (or as shut as I could manage) to help it heal, no matter how many loopholes I tried to find in the damn situation.

Those three days passed swiftly though, and so I had to go back to work on Monday. Physically, I felt perfectly healthy, but I was depressed to have to go to work again before I was fully able to eat popcorn. Three pieces of good news greeted me as I arrived, however, which brightened the rest of my day considerably. Please allow me to list them:

#1: I'd won the day for butter on my last shift. With the rest of my Chapters money, I bought magazines for writing (before the surgery, we took a trip to the bookstore, where I used the first chunk of my winnings to purchase "The Complete Idiot's Guide To Writing a Novel").

#2: I'd won the week for butter, because even though I only won three days, the people who worked on Saturday got such horrible numbers it negatively affected their butter percentage. This meant I got free passes! (only four this time, and no popcorn coupons, but I wasn't about to complain!) - along with the free pass I got from my payment statment, and the passes I'd collected from winning the last week, and the passes I got from sending in specially-marked CD cases - this got me to about 11 passes!

#3: The contest ended on July 7th - and I WON! I mean, the WHOLE THING. The contest has been open since May, but I've only been working since late June...but I had the highest overall percentage! The grand prize was a very nice watch.

So that set me up to be in a very cheerful mood, which would have been fine if I hadn't gotten sick in the middle of my shift with symptoms I had NOT experienced during the last three days of recover. Nausea, dizziness, and headaches - today, the dentist's told me that it was because I continued to take one of the painkillers after the time it was strictly necessary. That put me out for Monday, and today as well. So, you can imagine me signing out early, dizzy and sick, all the while accepting prizes from the butter contest and stuffing them, squirrel-like, into my knapsack.

However, this leaves me feeling rather depressed. I had to ask especially for Sunday off- on the employee bulletin board, all the "day off slots" for Sunday had been filled, which meant that no one else was supposed to take that day off. I'd had to ask the manager especially for that day off, for the express reason that I'd have more time to get better so that I'd be back to work on Monday! I felt horribly guilty having to leave early Monday (even though the manager was angelicly understanding - it was Monday afternoon, after all, not very business, and we already had someone experienced working concession), and felt even worse (emotionally, although a little physically) having to phone in sick today.

But, that's not to say that I haven't been productive. Do you like the new layout? It's pink!
And I've customized it to record my comings and goings as a writer. As I may or may not have mentioned, I finished the first draft of my first novel ages ago, and have been in the process of revising and editing. I have now begun to seriously consider my career as a fantasy writer, so I've been working hard on my days off. During my sick days, I was inspired by a crazy idea, and instead of just writing the idea down and forgetting about it, I turned it into a short story that the Proud Mother Times reviewed as "Fabulous! Something I'd Pay to Read!"

So, here's the plan - before I send in my first novel to a publisher, I would like to get an agent, a respectable one, preferably from the Jabberwocky Literary Agency, because they seem to be well known in the fantasy field, handle genre (thus, fantasy) fiction, and represent Tanya Huff, whom I adore and know to be Canadian, like me. To get a respectable agent, I need to have "the right stuff" - hence, credits, and a name for myself in the fantasy community. So, while I revise my novel, I will also write loads and loads of short stories and cart them off to respectable fantasy-themed magazines, so that potential agents-of-mine may read and be amazed. I haven't written a great deal of short stories, mostly because I have so much hope for the ideas that I get that I believe (falsely, in most cases) are simply too grand for a short story, they must be novels! When really, most of the novels I've written (and since given up writing) were abandoned because I'd run out before hitting the 100-page mark. Most of those ideas could have been rather good short stories, instead of mediocre novels stretched too thin.
As you can see, I've finished one story, and have ordered a free trial copy from Realms of Fantasy and picked up some stories from Fantasy and Science Fiction from the University's internet library, in order that I may be get a clearer idea of whether or not they would be willing to accept my story or send me back my Self Addressed Stamped Envelope full of ashes or confetti. I'm aiming high.

Summer (and Employment) Fun (or Lack Thereof)

My relatives have urged me to delete this post, in order to make sure my boss doesn't read it and fire my ass.

And I've lost it. I'm sure it was funny, but it belongs to God, now.

Ha ha! I'm Back! And I have Money!

Lazy, lazy me. I haven't written for over a month, and so much has happened!

My sweet job at the Second Cup? I got fired! No, wait - "let go", if you are more comfortable with the poorly-fitting euphemism. Yup, it turns out that the manager incorrectly estimated the number of employees that she needed - how could she have expected that nine former employees, some returning from years spent in Europe or Ontario, would converge on this tiny Second Cup branch, demanding full-time hours?

Because, in some former life, they all worked at a Second Cup, or some establishment that served similar beverages in a similar manner, they were granted seniority, and as there were now no shifts left, as the new kid I got bumped off the end of the bench because the other guys apparently had the right to a seat. Sucks to be me. My dad was appropriately outraged, and was only barely prevented from dousing the building with gasoline and lighting a match by my mother, who (correctly, I'll grudgingly admit) identified that Second Cup as the town square of our upper-class neighbourhood, and still frequents the place (along with me, when I'm in the mind for a free hot chocolate).

At first, the letting-go part was rather painless. The manager had made a mistake, she said, it was not my fault, she said, I was an exceptional worker and was sure to find a job more suited to my intellect and talent, she said. As a naturally proud person, I agreed, and left the job more or less optimistic that I would find someplace better. I would not make the same mistake I made last year - where I sent in 11 resumes, minus cover letters and follow-ups. Oh no, now I had the insight to try for my dream jobs. I sent in resumes (and specially written cover letters!) to Chapters, to HMV, to Claire's and Ardene and Famous Players (which I initially refused, because they paid beans). I went to places that sold things that I loved - DVDs and movies and music.
I soon found out there were worse things than not being called - there was outright rejection. Not enough experience, not enough availability (I am restricted by bus routes), four different people who said they'd call no matter what by a certain date and time and didn't, and thus forced me to call them with some pretence or another only to be shot down. There was rifling through the "General Help" section of the newspaper and feeling inferior because I didn't have the muscles for general labour, didn't have the organizational skills for clerical work, couldn't get to a well-paying job because it was an hour and half ride on the bus. Nobody called, my favourite stores weren't hiring or wouldn't be hiring for another month, and I had a time limit.

Before I knew it - a month had gone by! A whole month, spent doing nothing, or close to nothing. A whole month without income supposed to be for my tuition. I decided I had no choice - so I returned to the McDonalds. I'd gone there first, before Second Cup, because the manager there said she could offer me full-time hours. I hated working there (you've read my earlier posts, right?) , but it was good money and good hours. So I went back. I spoke with a new manager, who verbally guaranteed that I could get steady 8 to 4 or 9 to 5 work. She said she'd call. She didn't. I called, several times, in a panic until someone brusquely replied "Could you please stop calling? We're busy." Finally, I called the day later, and she replied "Oh yeah, it's store policy not to rehire people who used to work at McDonald's."

Rejected. By McDonald's. It's like arriving at the house of the most acne-encrusted, bespectacled, bath-fearing, nerd in school all decked out for the prom, corsage in hand, only for him to say, "Oh, I don't date chicks who wear purple. I'm going stag! Whoo!" Even when the day before he'd said, "Oh my God! A girl talked to me! A real girl! Sure! Let's go to the prom! I'll pay for the limo! I'll pay for the flowers! I'll pay you if you want! Alright! Grandma's going to be so pleased! "

My own grandmother wasn't pleased by this rejection either, by the way. A woman who is usually so well-mannered and prim that she could sit on a whoopie cushion without making a rude sound (true story!), her astonishing reaction to the news that McDonald's kicked me to the curb was "Those bastards! I hope they burn in hell!"

I had few options left by this point. So, I chose to call back Cineplex Odeon City - a smallish theatre downtown where I'd had an interview and had been basically hired on the spot, if only I would call back. I didn't - which sorta makes me believe that the other people who never called back were really being manipulated by my bad karma. Needless to say, on the phone with the manager, I had to eat a fair bit of crow - but it tasted like buttery, buttery popcorn. I was hired!
Not only hired - but they actually worked my schedule so that I had work five days a week, pretty much the same time every day. Because I couldn't work past nine (buses again), I got day shifts, 10:30 am to 5:15 pm, and lots of them - five shifts my first week. I soon learned why - apparently, most people hired by movie theatres want to work at night - because although we get minimum wage (actually, a little above), we also get commission for every combo we sell, and more people come and eat at movies at night. So now you know why the people at concessions always pressure you to upsize - they get commission, and 90% of a theatre's money comes from concessions.

Still, though, I get two free shirts and a hat (to be returned if I quit), and everyday I arrive while it's light out and go home while it's light out, so I'm never nervous about being downtown. With every pay stub is stapled two free movie passes for me a friend, and in a movie season with Batman Begins and Bewitched and War of the Worlds and Fantastic Four, this is pretty much where I was planning to spend most of my spare money anyway. Now I can save it for Animethon 12!

Anyhoo, I feel much better, I'm working at an establishment that peddles something I love dearly (that is, movies) and the people there seem very nice and friendly. During my first training shift, after watching the obligatorily hilarious sexual harassment video, the manager explained to us the details of harassment (how it hurts people's self esteem, how it's derogatory), only to have it somewhat deflated by interruptions on her walkie talkie - one made by a employee who got stuck in the garbage room, and another by another employee who'd turned on her walkie-talkie for the purpose of laughing at him. "Jessica? Jessica? I'm stuck in the garbage room!" "HAHAHAHA!"

So now I have money. And movies. For now I am content.

Dear God...

Thank You. I know that even with all of my creative writing expertise, I cannot fully express the extreme depths of my gratitude towards You for helping me today. I finished all of my exams except for one, which was Anthropology 230 - Science and Technology. Now, I sat at the front of the class every time. You must have seen me. I paid attention (most of the time) and even took notes for a couple of disabled students. I tried very hard in that class.

I got 64% on the mid-term. I tried even harder.

I got 68% on my research paper. Yes, it's an improvement, but only the barest kind that is really more painful than encouraging.

With all of my exams coming up, I was only left with a day and a half to 1) Copy down all the notes I'd made from the three textbooks 2) Highlight all the notes, 3) Read all of the notes made for that class so that I'd be ready for my final final, Anthropology. I stayed holed in my room for a day and a half, reading until my eyes stung, highlighting until my fingers hurt, changing my position every hour so that my muscles wouldn't atrophy, and got up an hour earlier than usual to get all of my studying done.

You already know that I prayed to you when I sat down to take that exam, all jittery and bleary-eyed as I was with terror and horrible certainity.

I prayed for mercy.

You gave me a miracle.

I don't mean that in the goopy "I believe I can Fly" miracle - I mean, look at my grades! I had a 66% average in that class!

I finished the exam in thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five minutes that included my going over the answers twice to confirm how incredibly, miraculously, unbelievably easy the exam was.
And I have you to thank. I don't know how many strings you had to pull in my professor's head to get him to write such a simple exam, but you did it, and I thank you.

School's Out, Coffee's On...

Well, not quite - school isn't out until Friday, and I don't go full time at the Second Cup until after my exams are finished. But most of my important extracurricular activities have come to an end, at least for the year.

The Gateway: They had their last issue today, a spoof of Rolling Stone called Raging Bone. Understandably, but hilariously offensive. They didn't publish my article about rockers fighting for a cure to COOOV (Choking On One's Own Vomit), the #1 cause for premature rock star death, but in truth I can't compete with stories like Rock Back Franz Ferdinand Assasinated in Sarajevo.

Baka: Over for the summer -we watched some old episodes, and some news ones. We watched Hajime No Ippo ("Fighting Spirit" to American distributors), about a shy bullied teenager who blossoms into a shy bullied featherweight champion boxer. This episode was filler - about all the fame poor shy Ippo gets from the ladies (and the men), and the guilt that his most ardent fan feels when he remembers how badly he used to pick on Ippo, before Ippo developed a fantastically strong right punch.

We also watched the last episode of Scrapped Princess, which I didn't really watch - I came in when they were showing the last episodes, so I really had no interest. The Scrapped Princess Pacifica has been prophesized to end the world on the 16th birthday, so of course everyone's out to kill her - but she survives in the end, and so does the world, but as to how I'm not sure as I was not paying attention.

We watched a new show called Club-to-Death Angel Dokuro (I think) - which is about a 12-year-old perv who gets visited by Angel Dokuro, who reveals that 20 years in the future he will be a pedophile, and unwittingly create a technology that will keep all women from physically aging past the age of 12. Dokuro has been sent to beat him to death (with a giant lead club loaded with spikes called the Excaliborg), but she thinks that he's just so darn cute that she resurrects him every time she takes off his head. Very cartoonish Kill-Bill style violence, and lots of fanservice. Funny, but I wouldn't want to watch it in front of my mother.

Another show was Speed Grafter (or something to that effect) - which was basically a porn anime without the porn, about a photographer who sneaks into a meeting of a secret society - something about finding the secret of Estascy, and how this photog is discovered to have some Euphoria Effect - no nudity, just a really sloppy kiss and some scantily-dressed women in bondage.

Still, working at the coffee place isn't going to be so bad. It's very easy, the pay is good (standard) and there's lot of people to talk to.

I've also started reading the Manolo Shoe Blog recently, and I've even made some comments.

Coffee Agent 007

I've got a new summer job - at the Second Cup down the street. It's pretty much in the same area as the McDonald's and the Safeway, so it's within walking distance. Plus, their work policies make those of McDonald's and Safeway look like the Third Reich.

Of course, there will be differences in how I work there. For one thing, I'm going full-time for the summer. According to the manager however, workers who want the benefit of summer full-time have to commit (using the honour system, natch) to continue working there part-time during the school year. I jumped at the chance, full of writhing doubts, and of course had second thoughts afterward. Due to a sudden spasm of low self-confidence, I basically had a crisis of "If I don't take this job, who's to say I can get another one"?

Still, I calmed down. This year, summer for me lasts 4 months (May-to-August) and I was originally sure that working full time for 4 months at the not-too-shabby rate of $7/hour would provide me with plenty of cash, even with some to spare for Animethon if I played my cards right. I should remind you, dear readers, that math has never been my strong suit. In fact, by resorting to a calculator to tally up the exact sum, my travails at the Second Cup should only amount to $3360 - a little more than half the yearly tuition. Which means that if I want to pay my own way, I'll have to spend my part-time money on tuition as well, instead of on social entertainments as I was originally hoping. Still, it's far better than the measly $900 I got from McDonalds.

So - this means one of several things. 1) Once again, I will NOT be touching any of the money I earn during the summer. 2) I will have to resort to saved-up allowance and freelance projects (weeding the garden, mowing the lawn, reviewing books for the newspaper) to pay for fun stuff in the summer (i.e. Movies, Animethon [which is in August, which gives me a little more time], parties, trips to the bar, etc.). Needless to say, my summer doesn't look particularily bright.
At least the work will be easy. Second Cup is rather lax, not in the manner that they are lazy, oh no, but that they demand a great deal less. I can wear earrings to the Second Cup, and spike my hair, wear necklaces and rings. I can talk to people (as long as I'm not busy), and I can drink (completary!) coffee drinks during my shift. I am also able to schedule days off in advance - which I have already done to prepare for having my wisdom teeth pulled (because, evidently, they weren't doing me any good anyway, according to my parents) and for Animethon which, to my joy, has expanded into a full 3-day event.

Maybe this is sign from God to work on my writing. Free of the restrictions of "fun" and "games", I will have plenty of free time to work on my novel and short stories.

Whoring for Candy

I realize, dear readers, that I am a young woman with no few faults. I am prideful (although I prefer the term "smugly self-confident"), I occasionally experience moments of filial hatred (as evidenced by the now infamous - among my family members, anyway - entry "My Parents are Sadists"), and I have an unfortunate tendency to not listen to people.

There may be several reasons for tuning out the mindless drones of my inferiors. Sometimes, it is obvious that they are just not putting in enough effort in keeping my attention, and in this case I consider my attention to be a lighted torch at the end of the tunnel, a goal to which the speaker must strive to attain as if it were as precious as the Holy Grail. In this manner, I am actually encouraging people to become better speakers, and thus improving the intellectual status of the social circles I attend.

However, my integrity is not an entirely unassailable tower of purity. There are cracks, there are nooks and crannies through which even the most helpless of orators may squeeze, if they contain the one key that inevitably draws me to them like a fly to honey.

Candy. Sugar-coated delights. A memory wrapped in a dream tied in an enigma and then dipped in chocolate and nougat. Sweets. Les bon-bons. Ever since I began attending univeristy, most notably the Student's Union Building (SUB), I have noticed that such places of public interaction attract people who are eager to get their message heard, their club noticed, their religion acknowledged as something a tad more legitimate than a clone-worshipping cult. Normally I ignore them, unless, of course, they grace their tables and displays with bags, boxes and bowls full of brightly-wrapped candy.

Then I take notice. Then I listen. Do I agree with what they say? Hell no, but I'll certainly act like I do for the few seconds it takes to distract them while I raid their "Please Take One!" platters. Would I like to join the Church of Lizard Stallion Queens? Well...hey, is that a mini-KitKat bar? Do I believe in practicing safe sex? Yes, because I have no sex! Hmmm...Hershey's Kisses...uh, no thanks, you can keep the complimentary condom. So that is it. If you have a ridiculous plan for a New World Order or are the head of an obscure club, as long as you provide the goodies, I'll temporarily provide you with a purpose for your empty, empty lives.

Of course, I'm not entirely without guilt. There's only so many times you can nod, and smile, and reach again and again for the chocolate-covered mints without the other person acquiring that rather disappointed, fixed smile that lets me know I've blown my cover. It's even more difficult if it's the same person who manages the same booth, because if they aren't keen enough to discern that I never leave empty-handed and that they can't recognize me from any of the meetings or Black Masses, they assume that I'm trying to develop a relationship with them and even go so far as to learn my name.

What is worse is when then ask me to offer my own opinion. It breaks my heart to liberate Tootsie Pops from the Baptist Ministry table (for a scientific experiment - how many licks does it take, really?) while telling them how my former Baptist father converted to Catholism and how incredibly happy he is now that he isn't going to hell. Or to unwrap a Werther's while pointedly demanding the Church of Latter Day Saints missionaries why God would create over 12 billion people, but only let 100 000 of them into Heaven. I am trying to wean myself off of it, really I am, but if all they want to do is talk...

Okay, so I'm exaggerating about the 'going to Hell' part, but the general idea is the same. The thing is, I may look like a beautiful, wealthy, fabulously talented writer/singer/public speaker on the outside, but on the inside I have a voracious sweet tooth that cannot be denied. Just so you know, I may look perfect, but I'm not. Mostly, but not completely.

La-la-la, I'm not crazy...la-la-la...

Animejune lives!
Thank for your incredible patience, dear readers. I took such a large, long break, and I've left you all out of the loop and me with at least a month's worth of news to divulge. So, let's make a list:

-Christmas: Greedily speaking, this was the most profitable Christmas this year. I can safely say that nearly everything I received was something that I wanted or eventually found a use for, even if I was previously unaware of that want until I unwrapped the paper. Along with a lovely book about the "1001 Films You Must Watch Before You Die" from Nana and Papa, I received the 2005 Short Story and Novel Writer's Market, and of course, lots of money and gift certificates that resulted in a number of wonderful packages that arrived later in the mail.

-Birthday: Yes, I am 19 now! My presents were lovely. My parents bought me a year's subscription to Locus magazine (although the first issue I received was August's. They must really have a backlog), a new dress (black, short, teh sexeh..), and tickets to see the Citadel Theatre's performance of West Side Story, which was sub-par, but that's hardly my parents' fault and I had a good time nonetheless.

-Topher Grace: I saw In Good Company and while not dazzling, was certainly well-written and pleasant. He hosted Saturday Night Live and I am very sorry to say that he was a Reactionary Host, and the whole thing was rather boring.

-Writing: I'm doing a whole lot of it, actually. I'm working on a short story, and I'm up to Chapter 14 of my novel (and page 292, if I'm not mistaken), and I've come up with at least two more novel ideas once my fantasy trilogy is finished.

-University: Very difficult. I'm a note-taker for a girl in a wheelchair with reduced hand mobility, and that's rather nice, but all of my classes require a buttload more reading and note-taking then before, and I have my mid-terms coming up in a week, and I have two papers due.

Once I clear March, however, I believe the whole thing is going to be rather easy. I'm also volunteering more at the Gateway.
I'll try to keep in touch.
-AnimeJune

Live From New York...

Sorry about that last bitch - this was the post that I was intending to make in the first place today. I am a big fan of Saturday Night Live. I have to say that I prefer the newer ones, simply because I'm of the right age to understand the impersonations and pop culture jokes a fair bit more than the old ones in the 1970s. Sure, there are still the classic skits that make sense even now, but there are a few that are rendered incomprehensible due to the generation gap. I'd say I've been watching SNL for about five years, and I've come to a conclusion about the hosts and the quality of the show. Now, again, these rules don't apply to everyone, just a fairly large percentage.

With the celebrities that host the show every week, I've noticed that there are two kinds of hosts. There are the participating hosts and there are the reacting hosts. They aren't necessarily based on whether the host is a musician or an actor or a comedian, and sometimes aren't even dependant on whether the celebrity has a history of being funny on television.
The reacting hosts are the hosts that aren't funny. They may be funny on their respective shows or their CDs, but they are the ones that tend to bring the show down. The reason I call them reacting hosts is because that is what they spend the majority of their skits doing: they play the straight man, the so-called "normal person" who reacts (hence the name) to the crazy characters played by the SNL performers. They may have a few half-hearted funny skits, but reacting is what they spend most of their time doing.

The participating hosts are the hosts that are the most entertaining, the ones that make the show worth watching. They do not simply stand by and let the SNL guys take the spotlight - they often participate in the craziness, and sometimes even come up with a hilarious character of their own. Let's put it this way, in Cheri O'Teri's "Simmah Down!" skit, the reacting host would be the offended person who's on the receiving end of her "Simmah Down!", and the participating host would be the lady's manager behind the counter, giving their own classic rendition of "Simmah Down!" (Tobey Maguire's "Donna Summer" gag is an example.)

Sometimes the reacting host isn't always bad - sometimes they get the short shrift, but the main reason that a host is reacting is this: they aren't funny on live TV. However, the skits aren't the only indication that this particular episode that you're watching is going to be sub-par. Here are a few indicators of bad hosts:

1. They star as "themselves" in skits: This is a prime factor in whether they are bad or not. With "fake talk show skits " like the "I'm Just Keeding!" guy and the "Prince Show", the participating (ie: good) hosts usually do impressions of some other celeb. However, the bad hosts are forced to play themselves because they can't be funny otherwise - they have to squeeze laughs out of the fact that they are playing themselves and doing weird things "as themselves". Sad examples of this would be Colin Firth, Jennifer Aniston and Robert DeNiro. Exceptions to the rule would be Ben Affleck's classic skit where he spars with a mentally retarded man while filming Gigli.

2. They're not the centre of their opening monologues: This is a good indicator - it tells you straight off the bat who's going to be taking centre stage in the skits later on. The awesome Sir Ian McKellan did an entire monologue by himself with no help from others, Steve Martin was the centre of an entire musical number, and Ben Affleck had the hilarious T-Shirt joke about how he couldn't profit off of the "Bennifer" name because the branded T-shirts arrived after he and JLo broke up. Even Christina Aguilera sang one of her songs acapella (let's see Ashlee Simpson do that!). Examples of how this goes wrong would be Cameron Diaz's monologue - where her talented ass-shaking was upstaged completely by Will Ferrell's "ass choreographer" character, or Reverand Al Sharpton's bit when he was pushed aside by Tracy Morgan's impression of him.

3. "Featuring a Cartoon by Robert Smigel": The reason they show animations? Because that means less time for a bad celebrity to make an ass out of him/herself.
Remember what I said at the beginning that a host's hilarity factor has little to do with fame, or whether they are funny in other shows? This holds true - here are some examples of horrible hosts:

Jennifer Aniston and Megan Mullaly - I know! They're hilarious on Friends and Will & Grace! Why not here? Well, Jennifer falls prey to the "look at me I'm funny just because I'm Jennifer Aniston" attitude, and Megan Mullaly basically rips off her character from W&G for every skit. Dullsville!

Halle Berry - We don't care that you won an Oscar. Your skit about the Quickie Pills does nothing except reveal to us that you must have a really good sex life, because you're really bad at faking an orgasm.

Colin Firth - Don't make fun of Jude Law! That doesn't make us laugh, that makes us angry!
Al Gore - have you people even seen him on TV? Why would you want him to bring that vibe to SNL?

Now, the good thing about good hosts is that sometimes they surprise you. They come out of nowhere, waving their arms and pitching their voices in ways you never thought possible. Some of these people made me groan when I heard they would be hosting - but they quickly changed my mind with their surprising talents.

Justin Timberlake - 6 words: "Bring it on down to Omeletteville!" I thought you'd be some stuck-up person who used his "Justin Timberlake" persona to phone it in. You didn't! You danced in an omelette costume to "I'm a Slave 4 U!" You blasted Michael Bolton and Jessica Simpson! You said "I was only partially diddled" and "We need another napkin - this one's on FIRE!" with a straight face, and yeah, you did have to hide your face to keep from giggling over Jimmy Fallon's "Brothers Gibb Political Talk Show" skit, but we forgive you because Jimmy Fallon laughs at his own jokes, too.

Sir Ian McKellan - I didn't even know you were gay until this show! Your "Hot Air Ballon Inspector" skit was pure comedy gold, you gave two nerds an orgasm by "imitating" Gandalf from LOTR and then promptly disappointed them with your "horrible" rendition of Magneto from X-Men. You seared Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench with one blow and then promptly did what millions of women have longed to do - catch Jimmy Fallon helplessly by surprise by turning what was meant to be a harmless peck on the cheek into a French kiss that Jimmy will never forget.

Elijah Wood - I guess something about the Lord of the Rings films makes actor's reading to try new things. Your "Soprano Choir Boy" performance is one that I will always remember at Christmas time, and your imitation of Boy George is almost disturbing in its accuracy. You also added some new life to Chris Kattan's tired "Old Vegas Comedian" gig, even if you did look like Screech from Saved by the Bell, only with better '80s clothes.

Jack Black - my dad keeps mistaking you for Meat Loaf, and you only added to his confusion with the brilliant "New Birthday Song" gag that roasts Jim Steinman and Meat Loaf's love for long, complicated, and "epic" song styles. You skewered fairy tales as the monster who "doesn't want a fair maiden, but a slutty older woman because she knows more", and then potheads with your "High Times Investigative Reporter" skit. Way to go! You met all expectations!

Ben Affleck - If your next high-profile relationship pans out, if your latest big-budget film goes down the crapper, if your career seems totally washed up - fear not. You will always be welcome at Rockefellar Center. The fantastic turn-around on Jimmy Fallon's last "Boston" skit - as the recurring macho character who turns out, at the very end, to be gay, or as Dan, Dan, the Garbage Man who schools Jimmy Fallon's repulsive "Shock Jock" - you can turn even old, dead skits into gold - at least while you're in them. You are not afraid to make fun of yourself - and that is a must for good hosting.

Did you think we'd really forget you? Never! The Holy Quadrulogy of SNL Hosts - Steve Martin, John Goodman, Alec Baldwin, Tom Hanks. There isn't enough space to congradulate you for all the good hosting you have done. You are integral to SNL culture. Three cheers!

Walking Through a Weepy Wonderland 2: Revenge of the Ornaments!

Hello there. I know you, dear readers, have probably thought that after many parental admonitions, I would stop burdening you with tearful accounts of my progenitors' transgressions. Not so! Of course, the whole disastrous affair is partly my fault as well, and I know they are decent parents at the end of the day, but I'm only telling you these things now so that I don't have to remind you later and spoil my bitching. One can never bitch properly if one takes the blame.

Every year, we go through the same Christmas ritual - the week before Christmas, we set up our fake tree (it spares the environment, saves us money, and no pine needles need be cleaned afterwards), fill our 5-track CD player with our five favourite Christmas CDs and set it on Spiral (plays song #1 from the first CD, than #1 from the second CD, etc. etc.), and put up all our decorations. We use none of those glass balls, and our candy canes are always secreted on the space of the branches close to the trunk so that we can't get at them until Christmas is over.

Our ornaments tend to be a mixture of wooden miniature toys - wooden angels, wooden figures of Santa playing various musical instruments, rocking horses, boys on drums, the odd eccentric decorations that we receive as gifts from friends and relations - the fat ballerina, the heart-shaped mirror with my name scrawled on it in long-hardened glitter gel, the red and white felt birds in tiny golden cages (although the white one had long fallen off its perch), and old handmade ones that are wretched, but too dear to us to throw away - my sisters' laminated construction paper stars with their first-grade photos on them, along with numerous figures made out of various kinds of uncooked, spray-painted pasta.

I love going about the whole affair - listening (and often singing along to) the Christmas music, while hanging out with my family and joking while we convert an artificial representation of a pagan symbol into an artificial representation of a Christian symbol with our various knickknacks suspended on gold thread. There were years when Mum wouldn't do it, or when Sister One or Sister Two had a hissy fit and removed her presence from the activities, but I could never remember a year when I didn't help. I'm sure during the early years of my childhood development (ages 11 months - five years) I may have been a little reluctant to offer my decorative services in favour of running away and hiding, or else trying to pull the tree down around my ears, but once my mind could grasp the meaning of the word "tradition", I like to believe that I was wholeheartedly devoted to it.

Count this year out, then. Today, Sister One had a belt exam for Tai Kwon Do (she's moving up from green striped to solid green, apparently) in a town that is about half an hour away from our own. Loyal parents that they were, Mum and Dad agreed to drive and spectate the entire 3-hour event (I passed - I had to study, an activity which, er, I will begin to do shortly. I promise.). We were all rather late risers, so at 10:30, everyone realized they had to hurry and get showered, dressed, and decorate the tree before Mum, Dad and Sister One (I wasn't sure if Sister Two would be going) had to leave for the exam. We rushed to our respective showers, but Mum got to hers first, than Sister One, so I had to wait. While in my room, I heard someone start playing Christmas music downstairs. I grew rather suspicious (and rightly so), but I clung to my (now proven to be wrong) assumption that my family, who were aware of my devotion to this annual activity (yet another wrong assumption) would alert me to any early commencement of decoration.

Of course, after waiting through two showers, I had my own, got dressed, and went downstairs - to discover the entire tree was finished. My family had not waited. My family had done it all without me. Oh, they'd left "a few" decorations for me to add as a paltry consolation - six of the cheapest ornaments we had, that were gaudy enough to give my family members pause as to where, exactly, they could put them without attracting any undue attention to them. Don't get me wrong. After much thought, I'm not really angry at my parents for doing this. They had very little time before they had to leave. They couldn't wait for everyone to start. They assumed that I'd respond to the Christmas music the way Pavlov's dog responded to the bell and that any absence on my part was entirely of my own choosing. And they had, after all, thought they'd told everyone to start while Mother had her shower first.

I'm just surprised. Surprised that they'd think I would refuse to participate in such a wonderful activity without giving any discernable reason. What if I had fallen on my head and been knocked unconscious in my bedroom? They should have checked! Surprised that they'd think I would be perfectly mollified by the "honour" of being able to put six - only six! - of the ornaments on the tree, after everyone else had finished (although, given the ridiculous alternative - taking all of the decorations down and starting again at a later time that was convenient to everybody - I can be a little tolerant of that). Surprised that they would not remember my enthusiasm for the holidays of previous years. They've known me for eighteen years! How - how could they just have forgotten that? I was especially surprised when they had the gall to suggest (after I'd made the only response I thought was appropriate at the time for such a nasty discovery - bursting into tears and fleeing to my room) that I'd ruined the whole experience for everyone. My reaction was bad, yes, and it wasn't entirely their fault - but knowing that isn't suddenly going to make me any less miserable. I am miserable. I didn't get to decorate the tree. Granted, it was due to a miscommunication on my part (what Mother said: "Everyone have a shower, and start decorating the tree!" What I heard: "Everyone have a shower, so we can start decorating the tree!"), but knowing that it's my fault and that there's nothing I can do about it doesn't fix anything. The tree is finished - and not by me. How's any of this supposed to make me feel any better?

For some reason, my parents expect me to be happy now. But I'm not. Christmas 2004 is officially tainted for me now, because I will never be able to look at that tree without remembering that I didn't get to help with it. I think God was trying to spite me today, because Sister One's Tamagotchis (little virtual pets that programed to know the date and time) started making Christmas trees of their own on their tiny square screens - while mine made a poo, and not a Christmas Poo either. Bah! Humbug!

In conclusion, however, I want to get one thing straight. I don't hate my parents. They're wonderful people. This whole thing was made out of a huge mistake and miscommunication. I don't even really blame my parents for this. The main reason for writing this is that it makes me feel better - and I needed an outlet to articulately express my misery at having missed this holiday treat.

Barbie kicks Disney's Ass!

Still weeping a little over that little Canadian Tire commerical...*sigh* And now I've taken up a habit of forgetting my purse at Christmas parties, very annoying. Sisters One and Two have acquired the hobby of tormenting me, citing my "retardedness" as a perfectly legitimate reason for their disgraceful actions, regardless of where we might be at the moment, like church. They're sinful little heretics, but I love them for Mother's sake. I can't understand what she sees in them, other than half of her genes that, in my opinion, are wasted on them.

Getting back to news...As most of you, dear readers, have already figured out by now, I'm a child a heart. Being "a child at heart" is, actually, a rather flimsy excuse for being immature, or retaining an interest in things that are intended to be childish. I'm not talking about anime (it is not always intended for children...if you screened a copy of Ninja Scroll in front of a crowd of five-year-olds you would scar them for life and doubtless have them packed off to Child Services), but I am talking about American animation in general.

While a few shows attempt to aim for older set through sly in-jokes (Animaniacs, Fairly OddParents, the "Beat-Alls" episode of Powerpuff Girls) or just plain weirdness (how, exactly, do pineapples get under the sea? And why would sponges live in them, much less wear pants?), there are very few that were not initially intended to entertain children. That is much the same with American animated movies.

I like to flatter myself by telling people that I grew up in the Golden Age of Walt Disney - or at least, the Golden Resurrection of Walt Disney. Born in 1986, I was just the right age to enjoy The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, and The Lion King without causing my parents to roll their eyes and mutter about how they won't buy the DVDs because they would be a "bad investment for my life". However, recently, most animated movies for kids have, in my opinion at least, dropped in quality. Walt Disney, after being briefly resurrected in the '90s, died again, horribly. This is for several reasons, which I shall explain:

1) They got rid of the music - one of the best qualities of The Lion King was the African music. They managed to keep the toes tapping while not having to resort to Broadway numbers every time. Disney movies have consistantly been nominated by the Academy Awards for original music, why would they slaughter that golden goose in favour of cheesy background music? Look at Tarzan and Treasure Planet. The Goo-Goo Dolls and Phil Collins have both produced good music, where they're writing it for radio. It just makes the movies dull, what's wrong with them singing?

2) Too many famous people. This doesn't only apply to Disney films - Sinbad was also a blaring example. The good animated movies were mostly voiced by irrecognizable actors from TV or radio, with maybe one or two noticeable celebrities to make it funny. Robin Williams was in Aladdin. Eddie Murphy was in Mulan. What other powerful, A-list personality was in those films? The thing with too many famous people, is that they already have a Star Persona, something I learned about in Film Studies. Each actor with a Star Persona has an emotional, personal, psychological baggage that they carry into each movie. George Clooney is smug. Julia Roberts is cheerful and loves to laugh. Johnny Depp is weird and ooky - and sexy at the same time. Even hidden behind technicolour characters, people will still recognize those people, and their Star Persona taints the animated film that is intended for children. Adults can't watch the film with an open mind. They're not watching Sinbad go through an adventure, they're watching Brad Pitt do a series of animated stunts in a recording studio. Shrek 2 is a bit of an exception, but that's mainly because this movie breaks the next rule even more.

3) Too many pop culture references. You know, people still watch Cinderella, and Beauty and the Beast, and Snow White. They still appreciate the magic and excellent music and storytelling. Why? Because they're timeless. Putting a pop culture reference in a movie is the same as putting an expiration date on it. Same with music - nobody I know can listen to Prince's Party Like It's 1999 without giggling. Shrek did a little bit of that, but it mostly stayed with skewering fairy tales and Disney films. Shrek 2, however, falls into the pit of Going Overboard. There were hundreds of pop culture jokes and asides and in-jokes in that film. Sure, people laugh now (even I did) and maybe they will in the next ten years - but fifty years from now, no one's going to understand it or enjoy as much as we did, and that's is a mistake. Pop-culture may be the animator's way to get adults to like a film - but they're going to die first. Why not cater to the future instead?

4) Poo has always been funny to the younger set, but the adult animators and filmmakers used to be too polite to mention it. Now they throw it in our face. That's another downfall of animated films - and children's movies in general. Farts. C'mon, say it with me. Farts! Poo! Pee! Hee hee! Boobies! What the hell is wrong with you people? Children have always giggled over sex and poo jokes - I have, my sisters have, my parents did when they were young. They've done it before kids movies ever started exploiting it for humour. Making movies about it just encourages it, instead of letting them grow up and discover the hard way that poo and farts are stinky, and boobies are only really appreciated once you reach a certain age.

Now, let me get to my final point. Some of you with children may be aware of this. Barbie, that slim blonde do-it-all doll (who recently dumped her boyfriend Ken of 40 years for an Australian surfer named Blaine) has been starring in films. No, no, not for theatres, direct to DVD. They've been based on popular stories and fairy-tales that have not yet been captured by Disney's lawyers. The Swan Princess, the Princess and the Pauper, Barbie and the Nutcracker. Now, I'm not ashamed (okay yes, I am a little ashamed) to admit that I've watched the Nutcracker one all the way through, and a bit of the Princess and the Pauper. They're better than Disney. Modern-day Disney, anyway.

The animation, which is Computer-Generated and uses motion-capture technology along with the Toronto Ballet Company, is decent, even if all the houses and dresses and carriages are pink. The storytelling is fine, childish yes, but in a way that encourages breathing room and growth without attempting to catargorize childhood into tight little boxes of Thinks Poo is Funny, Likes Jokes that Talk About Other Movies, and Wants to Buy Our Toys. Well, maybe not the last one. The tall blonde main character may be called Annabelle, or Clara, or Odette - but everyone knows it's old Barbara underneath. While the first two films (Swan and Nutcracker) didn't use musical numbers, they pulled up the proper music from the corresponding ballets and had them produced by the London Symphony Orchestra instead of some dork's computer. And from what I've briefly heard of Pauper's songs, they aren't half bad. At least they're not Phil Collins.

They're colourful and interesting, and they don't force children to stay children with poo jokes, but they don't force them to be adults with in-jokes. They're finely balanced and it's obvious that a lot of work and effort was put into these films. If I had a daughter, I would much rather plug in Barbie and the Nutcracker than waste both of our lives watching Home on the Range or Sinbad.

By the by, before you comment, movies produced by Disney and PIXAR don't count as Disney. They're too good, and ten bucks says that Toy Story III, which is presently being made by Disney without PIXAR's genius, will be relegated to the bargain bin along with The Little Mermaid II and The Hunchback of Notre Dame II (what's that sound? Oh yes - Hans Christian Anderson and Victor Huge spinning in their graves!)

Walking Through a Weepy Wonderland...

'Tis the season, dear readers. I have recently been discharged from University in preparation for the inevitable finals, the end of term, and Christmas. I am firmly of the belief that I have everything in order, school-wise, to be able to study steadily during this week while still taking leisurely advantage of the sudden excess of free time that has been bestowed upon me.

Also, finally, it has snowed in my city, and it looks like the white stuff is here to stay, thank God. You Americans ever wonder why Canadians are so polite? How do you think we keep warm in the winter? Yes, through the heat of our fiery repressed rage! To take out our anger about the Vatican or the re-election of George W Bush and his long-lost brother Ralph Klein, we don't bitch to the media (or most of us don't, anyway) or have long, perilous riots outside of the Legislature, or go bomb another country, we put it to good use on our sidewalks and driveways, to scour off the layers of snow and ice! Yes, rage - while not morally safe, it is both available and affordable at all times, and doesn't burn through the ozone layer.

While I certainly feel less vengeful (I have shoveled the driveway twice this week already), some other emotion has started to take a hold of me. Over the recent years, I have noticed a strange apathy towards Christmas come over me during the holiday season - for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to feel as excited about it as I used to. This year, I noticed a happy return to the anticipation of yore - I was already feeling the half-pleasurable-half-uncomfortable tug in my gut that I usually experience only on Christmas Eve or when I am complimented expressly by my relatives - as early as November. While I felt happy that I could undergo the same masochistic pleasure that every young child feels as Christmas draws near - the painful desire to have Christmas be now while at the same time not yet because the waiting was so much fun - it seemed to burst some other, ill-defined emotional dam that had previously kept my less desirable feelings in check.

It all started when I saw a commercial on TV for Canadian Tire. In it, a child asked his father how Santa was going to come and give them presents when they didn't have a fireplace. The father replied that Santa would figure it out because he was very clever. However, while the parents are shopping at Canadian Tire for gifts, the child weeps, "Santa's not coming because we don't have a fireplace!" while screen shows the boy's nightmare of seeing an empty tree. I don't believe in Santa, nor do I approve of his work ethic (The elves work all year round, all you do is drive the sleigh - stop being so damn full of yourself!), but somehow, I just felt so incredibly depressed. Tears welled up in my eyes for the child who "didn't have a fireplace" (the parents acquiesce to his wishes by buying a fireplace - which sort of reminds me of that story of the mom who sold her father's ghost on Ebay because her child was convinced he was haunting the house), and I came close to sobbing. Why? I had no emotional connection to the advertisement, heck, I can barely write about it now without tearing up.

What was worse, was that my newfound sensitivity to all things cute or attempting to cute was not limited solely to misinformed children with fears that they aren't going to get what they wanted because they are greedy little bastards at heart. I was forced to sniffle into my sleeve during a Telus commercial! The one where the chameleons have a stampede with the cowboy music and duel with the piglet who has a cellphone! What could possibly be important or significant or depressing about a pig who doesn't want to share?? Chameleons have no feelings! Damn you, Babe! Damn you!

I am really going to have to get a hold on my feelings once more - because I don't want to have to explain to my parents why I'm weeping over Snoop Dogg's incompetence with fabric softener or the Honeybee's unrequited love for Honey-Nut Cheerios.

Winning and Losing...

I have both bizarrely good and frustratingly bad news for you, dear readers. As is customary, I shall entertain you with the bad news first.

I have bad luck with interviews for The Gateway. For my first interview, I was assigned to interview the famous rock band Yellowcard - I wasted a precious hour of my life waiting for them to call the Gateway office so that I could question them, only to have them not call, for inexplicable reasons. Very frustrating. Despite my misgivings, however, I took on a second interview - one for a choreographer who was having his special youth-oriented dance show performed in my city.

I wrote up my questions and e-mailed his publicist a full three days before my deadline. Of course, he (the choreographer) says he'll get back to me. And guess what? I waste my entire weekend (and most of today's afternoon) waiting for some guy to call me like a lovestruck, thirysomething lonelyheart. Of course, he never calls, just sends me e-mails of condolences of how busy he is and how fragile his schedule is, never pausing for a moment to consider just how precious my time is and how thoughtlessly he is wasting it.

You're an artist, for pete's sake! You arrogant bastard! How do you think your show is going to get any publicity if you have no regard for the press who volunteer their free time to make you look good? Of course, I am fully aware of how ridiculous my side of the argument is, but where else can one rant articulately about nothing in particular than in one's blog?

Needless to say, regardless of the perfectly reasonable explanations he has for ruining my weekend and clawing my article to shreds, I still think he's an ass. A stupid, prideful, silly little dancer/choreographer who is so "focused on youths" that he ignores the youth (namely, me) who is trying to make a name for herself through his words! I spit on you! Moron! I'm supposed to vote for my province's premier today, and how can I do that if I have to wait on you?
For the bizarre good news, I won first place in a singing competition. One my friend's friends saw posters advertising a singing competition, and eventually I caught wind of it and signed up. It was hosted by the South East Asian Students Association (SEASA for short), and one could basically sing anything they wanted to. I, in all of my innocence, believed that all sorts of people would show up to participate. I felt actually rather nervous and underprepared. I mean, I wasn't the big fish in a little pond of Catholic French-speaking highschool students anymore. I was in University! Surely, among the 30 000+ students there must be some who can sing! Who else could have auditioned for Canadian Idol when it coasted into my city?

I, along with one other girl who mumbled unintellibly along to a cassetteplayer playing "The Way You Make Me Feel" by Michael Jackson, was one of the only white people there. Everyone else got up and sang in Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, Japanese (I'm assuming, I can't really tell the languages apart firsthand) - one person did sing in Finnish, for some strange reason - with karaoke music blaring on the speakers in the background.

I, glowing in all of my Catholic Irish/Scottish/Polish paleness, got up to the stage alone, without music, and sang "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" right off the top of my head. I won first place, an elaborate trophy, and a bookmark with SEASA written on it. Enscribed on my trophy were the words "South East Asian Student's Association Singing Competition 2004 - First Place". Full to the brimful with pride, I sailed home on the bus, where my parents soon opened my eyes to the guilty humour of the situation.

How, exactly, could I put in my resume that I had won the South East Asian Student's Association Singing Competition, when the full majority of the competitors had all been South East Asian? I'd imagine any interview would go something like this:
The Employer reads: South East Asian Student Association Singing Competition Winner. He looks up, and sees a nervous caucasian girl whose speaks as if everyone around her is slightly deaf. He looks down again. Then looks up again to examine her more clearly.
Employer: "Hmmmmm....something's not right here....."

My parents, of course, all thought this was very funny, but I felt guilty. A felt like a colonist - or a white rapper who wins the prize away from all of the black rappers (Eminem, with his rare talent, is exempt from this metaphor. Not so fast, Vanilla Ice...). This was a competition hosted by a club that was obviously intended for its own members. As my mother put it "They couldn't very well disqualify you because of your race, that would be illegal." Everyone else had put time and effort into their performances, and then I swept in, in all of my white upper-middle-class glory, and performed, acapella, a song that I was still memorizing the words and music for an hour before the competition started.

Let's just hope I don't get called back to do an encore for the South East Asian Student's Association Singing Competition 2005.

Acquired Habits, featuring the element of Satan: Lithium!

Dear readers, have you ever had the pleasure of watching a certain Japanese film called Shall We Dance? Or perhaps its inferior but still enjoyable American remake of the same name? There is one scene in both films where the protagonist is confronted by a fellow who shares his hobby (in this case, ballroom dancing) who tells him that his interest in ballroom dancing is beginning to show, in his posture, in the way he walks. "You probably don't even notice" the co-worker insists. For some reason, the protagonist is sometime nonplussed by this realization.
The point I'm trying to make is, I really hope that I won't begin to unwitting acquire habits similar to those of the people at BAKA. They're all very nice, sociable people, and I like spending time with them (today alone, without overtly begging, I was treated to a box of Nerds, a plate of fries, and a packet of Pocky by three different people. They're very generous). However, there are a few tiny quirks that I find intensely annoying. For instance, there is a friendly girl that I will now refer to as T. T is an artist, and for National Write a Novel month (November, silly), she's drawing a comic book. Now, while in all other respects she is a respectable, amicable person, she occasionally interjects her own speech with random phrases in Japanese. She's Caucasian (as far as I know), and these aren't only Japanese phrases, they're catchphrases from certain anime characters, so only the people who A) understand Japanese, or B) have watched that specific show that utilizes that particular catchphrase will understand and appreciate the joke. Otherwise - it's fairly irritating. Now, she's not so bad, because she seems to only do this while she's in the company of fellow anime fans, so it's understandable.
Another visitor to the BAKA office is someone who doesn't seem to realize she's using annoying Japanese phrases, so I'm assuming she actually uses it in casual conversation with non-anime loving people. The concept is really quite chilling. At least T's catchphrases, when taken in a certain context, are cute. The quotations this girl uses are grating, to say the least. They are random, high-pitched exclamations that no one understands, like "Oro! Oro! Oro?" and "Hein!!" If any of you, dear readers, can make sense of this, feel free to speak up and tell me what they mean.
I like these people, okay, and they're allowed to have their kooky flaws from time to time. I just hope that I don't pick up those habits unintentionally and spread their pestilence to the rest of the world who firmly believes that animated series are for children. Believe me, it would just be giving anime a bad name to those who already hold it in low esteem.
Speaking of low esteem, something else I have little taste for is lithium - specifically the kind that comes in laptop batteries. I recently discovered, to my everlasting chagrin, that the batteries of MY laptop are lithium, and I never checked before I started using my laptop willy-nilly. The thing about lithium batteries, is that they "remember", through some bizarre scientific process that at present I am unable to fathom, when they are recharged, and they mark it as their "low level". This means that you're not supposed to recharge your laptop's lithium batteries until they are completely empty, or have reached a low enough level to satisfy you (say, 1-4% power remaining sounds fine). So - next time, when recharging, the lithium batteries will "remember" how long it took them to recharge from 0 - 5% of power back to 100%, and they repeat it. At least that's what I heard, I haven't done any serious research into the subject. The Reasons: I have essays to write, and I'm lazy. Due in part to that laziness, I never got around to reading the operator's manual concerning the battery - so I used the battery when I wasn't near an outlet, and recharged whenever I was, regardless of how much I had used on the battery. For three months, nothing happened, the computer worked like a charm - I simply began to assume that the batteries of my laptop were not "those" batteries - the kind that have to be completely depleted before they are recharged. Today, however, in my Earth Science class, I turned on the computer that had been plugged in throughout the weekend, only to have it tell me that there was a "Critical Battery" situation - only 4% of the power was remaining! What? Who? How? Needless to say, after giving that little message the laptop promptly crapped out, and it was only due to the extreme luck of finding an electrical outlet underneath the seat next to me that I managed to take any notes on that class at all.
I spoke to my friend's friends - and they relate from experience that the battery will probably be that way for good - which means I have to fork over 60$ to get a new one if it's too late for the warranty to kick in. Some luck, huh? I guess it serves me right for not reading the manual fully......

Surprises, both nice and...no so nice...

Yesterday, on Halloween, full of excitement, anticipation and general anxiety, I had my father drive me to the dim sum place where I would meet My Guy and, presumably, spend the entire day with him. I'd put a some effort into my appearance, as I intended to strike a balance between casual and fancy, so that, regardless of what the date turned out to be, I wouldn't end up looking underdressed or, as my mother would quaintly put it, like I was "the tart of the mart".
So, I put in my silver heart-shaped earrings that were pretty without calling undue attention to themselves, and I wore my matching heart-shaped locket with the photos of both my parents tucked inside (as a precaution, should they die prematurely, against forgetting what they look like). I put more care into my short hair - instead of just mixing hair cream into the bangs and parting them, I did that and I also perked up my hair in the back with hair wax as well. I applied eye make-up (black eyeliner and the oh-so-convenient roll-on silver eyeshadow) and lipstick (Maybelline Forever Metallics #15 - Copper Pink).
It was upon my arrival at the Dim Sum restaurant that I met My Guy waiting in line for a table - along with two of his male friends. A female friend (with a car) was supposed to arrive as well, but a sudden illness due to allergies had prevented her from joining us. Ah. Of course. It was a friendly get-together, and I, socially inept as I am, had immediately assumed he was asking me on a date where it would just be me and him and platters of deep-fried squid. I felt quite stupid and ridiculously over-dressed, and silently prayed that My Guy would fail to recognize the extra effort I had put into my appearance, and thus realize my foolish mistake.
Most of those feelings were quashed by the rest of the get-together, which was really quite pleasant. His two friends were quite charming, and the food was exceptional - lots of squid and shrimp and sticky rice (the ingredient that makes it so delightfully sticky - pork!). Our conversations were refreshingly free of adult worries - jobs, politics, religion - and were more inclined towards entertainments of the virtual variety - television, film, videogames, and webcomics.
After the meal, we proceeded to walk over to My Guy's building of residence. Before entering, I, hesitant about entering a strange house with three adult men, only one of which I was entirely comfortable with, called home just to let them know where I was and what I was doing. After that, feeling relatively secure, we entered, and proceeded to watch internet anti-Bush propaganda, movie trailers, and flash cartoons, as well as select clips from the Emmy-winning HBO miniseries, Angels in America. It was altogether rather pleasant.
Of course, there were minor problems. Seeing as the young woman with the automobile was too ill to attend our meeting, we were left with no transportation with which to get to our movie, Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence. My Guy, instead, called his mother to beg a ride from her, but that temporary solution fell through, leaving me to beg My Father to lend us his minivan for our convenience. Surprisingly, he obliged quite cheerfully, with none of the "I work all the time, don't make me drive all day" vibe he usually gives off. Perhaps he was just eager to meet My Guy in person. The two got along rather well, as they discussed mainly politics and law - which my Dad likes. In the end, both men parted with the generally feeling that the other was adequately cool.
The movie was nice, very colourful, I bought my own ticket and My Guy bought concessions. After the movie was over and the six of us (two more of My Guy's friends joined us on the way to the theatre) exchanged brief opinions of the film (general concensus: brilliant visuals, but overly long), we parted ways, the five men to see if the buses would be running after 6 pm on a Sunday night, me to rather guiltily call my parents to let them know that the movie was over and not-so-subtly hint that I would like a ride home. On the way home, my mother and I discussed the unexpected outcome of my supposed "date". Did My Guy just want to be friends? Was he gay? (That option was swiftly dismissed.) Did he really like me? I didn't know, and neither did my mother. I decided that I was expecting to move, relationship-wise, just a little too fast, and that I should wait it out. Even if, in the end, he just wants to be friends, it's better than nothing. Back in high school I had no friends at all.
The Sunday evening continued on as usual upon my return. I supped on hot pea soup and french bread, with the occasional mini-chocolate bar that was not thrown out of our front door to appease the ravening mobs of costumed children, and drank tea with the parents while watching Desperate Housewives.

Cheque, cheque, testing, testing...

My Guy and I have continued our regular correspondence, to my overwhelming glee. He had since invited me to see "Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence" with him, which is an anime about robots that go crazy and kill people, and the cyborg police who have to crack the case. I haven't seen the first one, or watched the series, but judging by the synopsises (is that the right word?) I've been reading, I don't think it'll be necessary. He has also, more recently, added the bonus of getting dim sum along with the movie, something I've never had but I'm sure I'll enjoy. I'm still a little worried, though. I've never before been in any sort of relationship other than one of pure convenience with the members of the male gender, and as I have never dated, I am still a little rusty on how things should be done. While he asked me to the movie, and the dim sum, it would be proper to assume that he will be paying, just as I would had I asked him. However, regarding a few choice words he made in his most recent electronical correspondences, I'm beginning to suspect that he expects us to go dutch. That's no problem for me, but I'm not sure how to ask him to clarify without being rude. He's a student with a part-time job, I'm not expecting him to be the Donald. However, how do I deal with this? When the inevitable situation of the cheque comes up, what will I do? Do I say, "I'll pay half"? If he was truly planning on shouldering the entire financial burden, that might offend him. However, if I stare blankly at the cheque and he is assuming that we will both pay, he might think I'm greedy, or exploitative, or stupid. I'm treading on thin ice here, as I have absolutely no experience. For now, I'll just bring some cash and my credit card just in case, and try to subtly hint that I'm unsure of how the bills should be paid...
I've completed all of my mid-terms with nary a scratch, and in my Earth and Atmospheric Science class, the interesting professor who had us read a huge chapter a day has switched to another professor who is just as interesting but only has us read a chapter a week, and you have no idea how much free time I have as a result. So I've begun writing my novel again, a habit I had neglected to pursue for the last few months due to the fact that I was busy copying the entire looseleaf manuscript onto my laptop - and the result was around 150 pages of writing! Yes! I believe this is the novel that I will finish!
I've also finished reviewing all of my books from the Green Man Review, so that means I will be receiving more books in time for the Christmas holiday, which is quite fine and dandy. As for clubs, I have regularily attended the BAKA meetings, and I recently won the Iron Chef of Pain Contest by presenting to the audience the 2nd episode of the "Bob the Ball" flash animation series. I plan on winning again next week with an entry that is just an nonsensical, but a mite less entertaining than the first. I'm still writing for The Gateway, and it is fab. So far I've received three free CDs for review, and I got to see "Shall We Dance?" in theatres equally free of charge. I also was assigned an interview with the rock band Yellowcard (quite famous), but they never called at the designated time and so the assignment collapsed with nothing to show for it. I've become inspired since acquiring the knowledge that students who contribute at least 15 articles to the paper get the bound edition of every Gateway issue of that year, which is personalized with one's name on it. It's about the size of an encyclopeidia (there's no spell check! argh!), and I wants it...yessssss.....
I've also taken to reading my mother's blog as of late (The Lesser of Two Weevils by Talmida) and post comments on them. Rather recently, I posted (anonymously) a bizarre question about generational punishment and why the Prince of Darkness is called the Prince and not king...read the comments of her recent entry, and you'll understand. Upon returning home, my mother immediately regales me with a tale of some "crazy person" making foolish remarks on her blog. With a straight face and a sympathetic smile, I witnessed my mother's rather nonplussed reaction to my spontaneous secret comment. I quickly go downstairs (where we have our second computer, the one I am writing my blog on presently) and write an equally funny comment that reveals my identity. Five minutes later I can hear her uproarious laughter all the way from the basement. Success! Yay for me!

So Little Time, So Little Time

Y'know, I would write in my blog more often, but I'm simply having too much fun being over-worked at University. Let me rephrase that. The work isn't hard, not in the least, it's just that I'm having trouble focusing on all of it, as well as reading ahead and studying for mid-terms. I'm relatively lucky in that regard - I have five classes, but only three have midterms, and all are in the last week of October so I still have a sizable amount of time to study for them.
Still, I am presently being torn to bits by the amazing amount of new TV shows out there that I simply must see, and the amazing amount of homework that I must learn in advance. I think I'm going to have to give up some of my favourite shows so that I can juggle the remainder of my time between reviewing books for Green Man Review, writing articles for The Gateway, doing my homework, and writing my Fantasy Novel. So, here is my tearful farewell to the shows I will have to do without for the rest of the term:
Goodbye, 'Smallville': Your last season was a horrible mess, with each episode ending with a soppy conversation between Clark and Lana that went absolutely nowhere. However, your new season seems to be quite intriguing, but I really can't trust you anymore, and it's impossible to see you now due to my BAKA meetings.
Goodbye, 'The 4400': As a miniseries, I can always pick you up in DVD form over the summer, and it's really asking too much of my sisters to tape you while I'm twiddling my thumbs at my Film Studies 205 lab. Your fables about super-powered alien abductees will have to wait.
Goodbye, 'That '70s Show': Worry not, sweet prince, there is always syndication! And plus, Topher Grace has two new films coming out this winter so that should satisfy my lust for lanky nerdy men. Again, my Film Studies lab stands between our happiness for now.

Well, now that that's over with, I have stuff to do. I met a guy! I shan't reveal his name, but he does exist. A third-year film-major, he shares FMS 205 with me, and thus today we get to share a movie! Yes, it's a lab, so it's free, but that doesn't matter! We met at my second film lab (where we watched "Chungking Express"), and it simply flew off from there. He always saves a seat for me next to him in class, and he took me out for pizza and revealed his gargantuan store of film knowledge which makes my love on the cinema seem downright bland. Now, I'm trying very hard not to have expectations, or to throw myself at him simply because he's the first adult male to show any shed of interest in me. I must say, I hold expertise in many subjects, but not those of social interaction. I have to try hard to LISTEN, to not BABBLE incoherently about unfunny things or subjects that don't matter, and to KEEP IN TOUCH, something I'm notoriously bad at. I don't want him to think I'm a twit, or a ditz, or an idiot, but sometimes I feel that I can't help acting like one. Gah! I haven't had much practice. I really hope he's the patient and tolerate type.

Screwing up my Schedule!!

Yes, it's true, readers! I am still alive! The main reason for this latest long period of silence has been my recent entrance into University, and I've had to deal with a lot of challenges and deal with a few cliches that are happily inaccurate.
First, the workload. I know, it's still September, but most of my classes are small, or the books are easy and fun to read, or the professors are understanding. My classes usually start at 10 and end at 2! Plus, all the classes I have are classes I chose because I was interested, so all the work is stuff I like doing and generally finish rather quickly. Usually, after that, I tend to work ahead so that I may have brief periods of free time to write my blog. Huzzah!
Second, the notorious Freshman 15, I'm discovering, is turning out to be true, unfortunately. I'm pedalling my ass off on the excersise bike every morning to combat the inevitable results of succumbing, day after day, to the salty, fried wiles of the university's two food courts. I'm starting to wean myself off it, slowly, but it's horribly difficult. They have an A&W's and a New York Fries in the same freakin' building! It's sinful! Gah! However, it plays much easier on my soul to purchase food with friends --
WHICH I OFFICIALLY HAVE NOW! Friends friends friends friends! Haha! I spit in the face of Sisters One and Two! One is, actually, someone I met during the High School Model United Nations project back in high school, and who is currently living in Lister Hall. I'm planning on inviting her over to dinner sometime in the next week, partly to spare her a night of having to force down microwaved "Michelina's" pasta, and partly to convince Sisters One and Two that she does, indeed, exist. With the other, well, I'll schedule a drinking date with her in the near future. She paid last time (and I actually drank alcohol! Wee!), so this time it's my turn. Maybe we'll go to the PowerPlant for lunch. It's fun to drink in the afternoon.
Thirdly, I joined the "Gateway", our University's official newspaper. Free CDs, books and movies! Huzzah! Plus, and excuse my one big-head moment here, I totally kick ass at it! It's a little hurtful, however, whenever they edit my articles (articles published to date: 2), because somehow I feel that I don't deserve to have my name at the top because the article isn't wholly mine. But once I finish writing my novel, someone's going to edit that too, so I should get used to it while I can.
Fourth, I met a guy. I think. So far I've met several, but we've done little but exchange a few words before class ends. Sigh. I met this guy, who shall now be referred to as Mr.?. I met him while perusing the office of BAKA, the anime club (which I joined!). He laughed at everything I said, and I laughed at everything he said, and we like pretty much the same things... he wasn't at any of the meetings, however (Baka meetings attended to date: 2), so I'll just have to look around the BAKA office.

Memoirs of a non-asian Geisha...

I had my eyebrows waxed today, in preparation for my re-emergence into the world of sociable young people at Orientation on September 6th. My sisters, who are still in highschool, are presently vegging in front of the television and shooting me green looks of envy, as I get to start my education a week later than they do. I must say, I don't entirely understand their anger, because I am quite excited to get started in University. My mother and I made a rather delightful excursion to the Student's Union Building just a few days ago to test out the wireless connection on my shiny new laptop. There were a few moments of brief tension, as I insisted on treating my 2000$ machine as if it were made of glass, but we got it settled down and I surfed the Internet all by myself on my very own computer! Joy!
Having little else to do that day, we explored the Student's Union Building a little more closely, scouring the U's bookstore for random school supplies we had not picked up yet, including a pencilcase for me and 31$ worth of Post-It's for mother. For one short moment, we considered purchasing a very large and fluffy black teddybear wearing a University T-Shirt (believe me, teddy bears are never useless buys for me, because I actually use them -- don't ask.), but we decided it against it (I was still carrying on a solid relationship with my Folk Fest Bear, and I wasn't entirely sure whether the slogan "Once you go black, you never go back" was accurate in this situation).
Finally, my dear mother decided to indulge me by searching for the office of the club I desired to join at University - BAKA, the anime club. We found it among a shabby little warren of offices with peeling paint on the doors and ratty carpeting, identifying it mainly by the doodles of catgirls taped to the walls around it. No one was around, but we did discover that they kindly shared their limited space with the Iranian Students' Association. Good to know.
I suppose by now we should return to the subject I started out with, namely the waxing of my brows. I am cursed -- or blessed, depending on how you look at it -- with thick, wild, black brows that could give Brooke Shields or Jennifer Connelly -- heck, even Peter Gallagher of The O.C. -- a run for their money. While at first, in the early days, I was held back by both the acknowledgement of my dangerously low pain threshold (as a child I cried when my mummy washed my hair) and a fierce, unreasonable pride in my unaltered appearance, I have now had the proceedure done several times. Up until now, I only had it done to "tend the garden" as it were, to make sure that my brows did not reunite above my nose, or swallow my eyes entirely. Today, however, I wanted to do something different. I wanted them to be thinner. I didn't want to look like a young woman with humungous, if well-tamed, black caterpillars on her face.
Of course, along with the loss of all that hair, there would naturally be more pain involved. I was used to the whole thing taking only a few moments, but it took a bit longer this time for the nice lady to make sure they were even and all that. Of course, the moment she tore the strip off my face hurt very badly indeed, but it was worse when she plucked. With waxing, the pain is there for two moments, for plucking, it's a never-ending series of tiny, but nevertheless intolerable, pains.
When I finally got home, and looked in the mirror, bizarrely enough the first thought that came to my mind was that I looked like a geisha. Pale, pale face (sunlight is scary!), red, red, lips (as amusingly scatterbrained as I am, I had put some one earlier in the day and forgot about it) and moderately sized, jet-black, perfectly maintained eyebrows. My mother also thought I looked asian, but believed that was due to the fact that my eyes looked smaller because my brows were relatively swollen and puffy from the ordeal. I'm sure once the swelling dies down I'll look like a nice Irish-Scottish-Polish-Catholic girl from a wealthy neighbourhood once again.