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When living away from the city, we all revert to a somewhat less civilized life than we’re used to.  I found the need to wash my hair while away for a weekend at a cottage.  While it was most definitely an absolutely ridiculous trial, I couldn’t help but feel that it was somehow full of beauty.  Somehow throughout the whole episode, I felt as though I was watching myself from afar with the feeling that I was watching something that I shouldn’t be.

The boys are digging a fire pit for the evening and others are off shooting an air rifle or what have you, and I’m pretty frazzled-looking after the boat ride.  After painstakingly brushing my windblown tangled hair, I walk barefoot in my old jeans and bathing suit top to the edge of the dock with an old-fashioned metal pail and some shampoo.  My ritual hair cleansing ceremony begins by kneeling at the edge of the dock and dragging the pail along the surface of the water.  It was so calm out it looked just like quicksilver.  I set down the pail and splash my face a few times, then wash my face as best as I can before emptying and refilling the pail.

I don’t fill the pail to the brim as it is too heavy for me to lift otherwise, and, kneeling once again at the edge of the dock with my head artfully leaning over the side, I lift the pail and empty the water over my head as best as I can from the nape of my neck upwards.  I do this a few times, all the while dripping water despite my best efforts to keep dry and end up with the knees of my jeans much wetter than I had hoped or intended for them to be.

To reach the front of my hair, I sit on the dock with the pail’s rim to my forehead and slowly lean back so that my head is hanging off the edge of the dock and the water is again pouring through my hair.  Now that my hair is thoroughly wet, I again kneel with my hair dripping off the edge of the dock.  I work the shampoo into my hair and repeat the previous pouring method to rinse the soap away.  After a few good pulls of the brush through my clean hair, I sat on the dock and left the sun and wind to dry my hair.

I felt so close to nature but I can’t help but feel that from an outside perspective this whole process would have been beyond hillarious.  At any rate, everyone was much to busy to be watching me foolishly trying to wash my hair without wading in the water, and so I’m certain that I haven’t anyone to share the moment with.  Seeing as there is no one to mock me otherwise, I choose to remember the experience as something beautiful.

Why bother?

There are all kinds of personality tests.  Some of them seem to be legit, but most of them do not.  For what my employers referred to as “fun”, my fellow co-workers and I were subject to a few personality tests.  The first one we did was pretty straight-forward.  Many questions, and three possible reactions to the situation stated in the question.  It was intended to judge a person’s style of learning, be it visual, auditory, or tactile.  Turns out I’m more of a visual learner than I thought.

For the second test, things got a little more sketchy.  Pun intended.  For this test we were asked to draw a picture of something, and depending on the location of the picture, its orientation on the page, how much detail was given to it and so on it was supposed to be a display of one’s personality.  Of course, we did not know this when we were drawing the pictures, but we were soon to be evaluated depending on our artistic output.

The trainer gives us some time to draw the picture, and when the time is up says “Time’s up!  Let’s see your pigs!”.  All of us hold up our pictures.  I hold mine up for all of 2 seconds before I realize that what I had drawn was anything but a pig.  I quickly flipped over my page and drew a little pig in record time, and held it back up for all to see.  Even though our trainer had mentioned a few times what we were to draw, somehow I got it wrong, and drew a very not-even-close-to-pig-like picture.

Don’t ask me how, but one way or another I was under the impression that I was to draw a cake.  And it’s not like it was a half-hearted drawn cake.  I’m talking about layers of cake on a platter, dripping with icing, topped with whipped cream and cherries.  Unmistakably a cake. Definitely not a pig.  Not even close.

It was interesting to hear what all the different aspects of the drawing of a pig were supposed to indicate, regardless as to whether or not such things have any merit.  There were a few things I wanted to ask about these indications, but for fear of ridicule I decided to keep quiet.  What I want to know is what it means if one drew a cake.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.

By the time I got off work this evening, I was absolutely exhausted.  This is actually quite unbelievable considering how little work I did.  Not that I didn’t work, but I wasn’t exactly hauling boulders from one end of the world to the other, if you know what I mean.  Clicking at spreadsheets all day and paperwork really isn’t what I consider strenuous work.  Regardless, I was beat once work was over for one reason or another, and I still had to go to my class.

After downing dinner, I headed out to the university with full intentions of obtaining a caffeine-infused beverage to get me through my class.  The first university coffee spot I go to is unfortunately closed, so I scamper to a much farther one.  There, I obtain a huge cup of tea, put a bunch of milk and sugar in it.  I figured if the caffeine wore off, I might be left with a bit of a sugar high to make it out of that class alive.  With five minutes to my class, I click my way to class in my heels at top speed, spilling a decent amount of tea all over my hands despite having a lid on it.  I shudder to think how bad it could have been if there were no such lid.

So I walk in to class out of breath, tea dripping all over my hand which is now red from the scalding tea I have managed to pour all spill all over it.  I sit down, take off the lid to my tea to let it cool, splatter tea hither and thither, and not a paper towel or tissue in sight.  Despite the tea incidents, I made it to class on time and I try to get myself caffeinated and focused for class.

Unfortunately for me, my tiredness outweighed any amount of caffeine and about an hour into my class, the being that I refer to as “me” shut down and ceased to be.  All that was left behind was a shell of what I once was, and caffeine was all that was left behind.  My hands are trembling.  My left eye is twitching.  Caffeine had taken over as auto-pilot.  In most classes, that might have been alright, but in a language class the instructor often asks questions to the students.

It was my unlucky day.  Felipe is asking me a question.  I know that it’s a question, mostly because everyone is staring at me awaiting my response.  But alas, “I” am not in, and all I can do is tilt my head to the side an say “um?”.  Now I realize he’s asking me what my favourite day of the week is.  Clearly it’s Friday or Saturday.  The only people who don’t like Fridays and Saturdays are those who work the following mornings.  Sadly, I do not know how to say Friday or how to say Saturday, but I do know how to say Tuesday.  I say my favourite day is Tuesday and the agonizing attention that was put on me is finally unleashed onto some other poor student.

I suppose this means that I’m going to need to step up the studying so that I can stop lying to Felipe that Tuesday is my favourite day.  To be fair, Tuesday is a pretty sweet day of the week.

Ah yes, there’s nothing like heading back to work after a long period of time spent not working.  The reasons for this may vary from person to person, but as far as I’m concerned heading back to work is only pleasant because an excess of anything causes one to go a little mad.  Too much free time, and I start to panic because boredom may be just around the corner.  Too busy, and I start to panic – not because of the possibility of approaching boredom, but because of the lack of time to think and thus process the outer world properly.  It tends to lead to a meltdown.

After about two weeks of no working, I was definitely ready to get back to work.  Don’t get me wrong, having time is great, but when time is in abundance, one wants to spend it appropriately.  In order to “spend” time appropriately, typically a reciprocal amount of cash is also spent.  Therefore, without a job, there is time but no money.  With a job, there is money but no time.  A dilemma.  Anyhow, it was back to the workforce today and  I cannot wait for a paycheck to fund my insatiable need to spend time with people whilst consuming food and/or drink.

The interesting thing about this job is that I have worked there before, approximately two years ago.  Today I went back.  In the morning, I dress myself up in office-appropriate attire and get myself up before the crack of noon for the first time in weeks.  Naturally I do not leave enough time for me to both exercise personal hygiene and nourish myself, so I bolt out of the door with the ever-so-popular toast-in-mouth look.  I narrowly avoid missing my bus, and then relax for the duration of the commute.

Upon entering my former (and now current) workplace, I start to see my co-workers and greet them like old friends.  I’m starting to feel like I never left the place.  People ask me what I’ve been up to, where I’ve been, how was this, that, and the other thing and so on.  I’m really enjoying talking to these people like they’re my old friends, and also glad to see new faces who may or may not become my friendly co-workers in the future.  But once again, something very bad has happened, and I have yet to realize it.

Although it may feel as though I have never left this office, the fact is that I don’t remember anyone’s name.  If I do remember anything about them, it’s their face or their hobbies.  Once I realize that I really have no idea what the names of half the people are, I start to panic.  This is one of those workplaces where people continuously use other people’s proper names when addressing each other.  It’s pretty difficult to get away with “Good morning…. you!”, so I’m tap dancing around the water cooler trying to coax the names of my co-workers from each other before I am obligated to say anyone’s name.

Luckily for me, there were no train wrecks, and I managed to escape the day unscathed by mobs of offended (as far as I’m concerned) nameless co-workers.  Hopefully I can keep this up until I actually have everyone’s name straight.

It’s kind of a long story that deserves more explaining than I am willing to do, but to make a long story short I am taking an university-level introductory Spanish course.  I would tell you why, but really it’s not all that interesting and it will involve a lot more words than is absolutely necessary.  What is important to know is that I am taking Spanish, and that I am incredibly excited about it.

So we, the class, congregate outside the class and eventually file into the class.  This is then followed by the ceremonial choosing of the seats one will occupy for the remainder of the semester.  You know how it is: keeners in the front, strong silent type in the back, laptop users near the outlets, the usual.  I choose a spot nearer to the keener-side of the spectrum, but soon regret it as I am soon to discover that the spot I have chosen is more or less behind the instructor.  This is particularly inconvenient when the instructor is showing you a page from the textbook which you should be at, and you cannot figure out what that page is for the life of you because you have neither x-ray vision, nor a biologically impossible ability to crane your neck.

Now that we’ve all seated ourselves, the professor begins to speak to the class and hand out the syllabus.  One would think this to be a normal start to the lecture, but let me tell you, it was not.  Once I receive the syllabus (which, by the way, I have an awful habit of accidentally referring to as “the syphilis”), I make a point of reading it over carefully so that there are no surprises during the course.  It doesn’t take me long to realize that this syllabus is in Spanish.  Now don’t get me wrong – between my knowledge of French and English it was comprehensible.  I’m sure there were some students who had a harder time with it, but regardless, it wasn’t English.  So I’m thinking “Ha ha, very cute, now hand out the English version”.  But there is no English version.  This is our syllabus for real.  I’m starting to think that this may have been a bit more than I had bargained for.  We shall most definitely see.

But do you know what the best part is about my Spanish class?  I’ll give you a few more words to give it some thought, but maybe you should give up now.  Alright, now let’s rewind a few weeks ago when I registered for this class.  Once the website displayed that I was successfully enrolled in the class, I naturally went to check the time and place of my class.  Guess what’s listed along with those details?    Why, the name of the instructor, of course!  And what could my Spanish professor be named other than “Felipe”!  Cut to me rolling on my floor trapped in an endless loop of snickers.  It was just too stereotypically Spanish-sounding to be true, but there it was, digitally etched before my very eyes.  And, even better than that, this particular instructor absolutely does not want to be addressed as “Professor” or “Senor”.  He actually wants us to call him “Felipe”.

Best.  Class.  Ever. (So far).

My thought for today is not my own, but rather an observation that my father made regarding the news.  There was a story about cases of the disease formerly known as swine flu – what it has now been deemed escapes me, all I know is that it is a combination of 4 letters and numbers and that I do not remember what they are.  This particular reaction to the disease formerly known as swine flu was in China, where the government or whoever is in charge decided to quarantine foreigners.  Among the foreigners quarantined were Mexicans and Canadians.

The Mexican government, upon hearing about this quarantine situation, was completely offended about the treatment of their people and sent a plane over to China to retrieve the Mexicans from this supposedly terrible situation.  The Canadian government, on the other hand, simply asked how long the Canadians in China were expected to be quarantined, which was only about a week or so.  The Canadian government found that the length of the quarantine situation was not unreasonable, and an inquiry about the treatment of the quarantined Canadians was answered in a similarly reasonable fashion.  In other words, as far as Canada is concerned, there’s not really anything to get worked up about.

The funny part about all of this is that the reporters were really trying to get the Canadian representative to say something controversial or insinuate that the Canadian government was offended in a way similar to Mexico, but the Canadian really didn’t have anything of the sort to say.  Having not heard the interview myself, I imagine it to go something like this:

Interviewer: Aren’t you horribly upset about the treatment of Canadians in China?
Canadian: What are you talking about?  They’re being treated just fine.
Interviewer: Err… well the Mexican government doesn’t share your opinion regarding their own people in China.  Would you care to comment?
Canadian: It would seem to me that the Mexicans are overreacting.
Interviewer: …
Canadian: Anything else?
Interviewer: You’re not mad?  Not even a little bit?
Canadian: Nope.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s all good.

So from this, my father has deduced that this is an excellent example of what separates Canadians from the rest (for better or for worse).  I have to admit, inquiring about the length of the quarantine and how those quarantined are being treated before judging whether or not the treatment is too harsh seems a lot more rational than just sending a plane to go pick up your locals and bring them home.  Can’t be too good for foreign relations.  I just can’t help but wonder if the Mexicans are wondering why they didn’t ask those questions first.  I’m not saying that Canadians are better or worse than others, just that they’re different.

Besides, “good treatment” of Canadians really only consists of allowing them access to a television for the sole purpose of watching hockey and supplying them with the occasional beer.  Honestly, we’re a simple people.

Pants.  Most of us deal with them on a regular basis.  I would even venture to say that the average encounter with pants is daily, and if you think about how many days there are in a year, that’s a lot of pants encounters.  This morning, I had a run in with a pair of pants.  Before I get into it, I would like to remind you that we all have our moments, they just seem to happen to me more often than most.

I had to get up early this morning for one reason or another, and even though 30 minutes would have been ample time to get myself together, I am naturally woken up a good 2 hours before schedule.  Ordinarily this wouldn’t have been a real problem, but I apparently consumed more caffeine than I ought to have consumed yesterday evening, resulting in a serious lack of sleep.  Before I knew it I was the only one awake in my house, those guilty of waking me having vacated the premises.  Probably for the best.

I roll out of bed and realize there is enough time for me to go for a run before I need to head out.  I topple into my gym clothes, drag my sorry self down the stairs and throw myself at the treadmill.  As I begin to trot upon the human version of a hamster wheel, consciousness begins to slowly permeate my head.  Thoughts and the like begin to frequent my brain once more, and I realize that something is horribly wrong.  Something just isn’t right.

At first I was of the belief that I was gaining and losing weight in awkward places.  The rear of my pants seemed rather tight, and so I consider upping the speed.  Then I realize that the material is absolutely gaping at the front near my hips, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe my pelvis has given up on life and started to disintegrate.  All the while I feel an increasingly uncomfortable wedgie creeping its way into existence, if you know what I mean.  Suddenly it dawns on me.  My pants are on backwards.

Now, ordinarily, one would stop what they were doing and remedy the situation by replacing oneself inside said pants so as to be wearing them as they were intended to be worn.  I, however, am on a time schedule, and do not have time to restart my run.  It somehow escapes me that there is a massive yellow “pause” button at my mercy, but does it occur to me that such an option is available?  Clearly not.

To make a long story short, I paid my dues for lacking the mental awareness to dress myself accordingly and toughed out the rest of my run.  As I finish my run and enjoy the sweet satisfaction of changing into appropriately oriented clothing, I take comfort in the fact that I am not misshapen, but only unable to use my mental faculties without the appropriate amount of sleep.

Symmetry is a wonderful thing.  It is often something that is taken into account when assessing beauty.  This is not always the case, but let’s be serious – if Picasso’s paintings were people, we’d probably not put them in the “drop-dead gorgeous” category.

I have always been appreciative of symmetry.  Balance is a key point around which most of my personal philosophies gravitate around, and symmetry is definitely a form of balancing.  There’s nothing wrong with artistic quirks and tasteful asymmetrical pieces.  Japan has shown me that the wabisabi (“rusticness and loneliness”) aspects found in much pottery and art shows the beauty of imperfection.  Funny from a culture that spends a lot of money on plastic surgery.

Anyhow, while I appreciate both symmetrical and asymmetrical pieces of art, I must whine about the lack of symmetry in my favourite coffee shop.  It’s a quirky little place and I love it to pieces, but I can’t help but think that the picture frames were meant to be hung in such a way that one might be able to appreciate them while standing naturally.  Instead, this picture can only be viewed while standing on a rather drastic slant to the left.  Because the ground is not uneven in the coffee shop (and I can’t imagine while it would be), one must tilt their head at an angle to really be able to enjoy the picture at all.

What made matters worse is that the picture hung directly beneath it appeared to be perfectly even, but because the picture above was at such an awkward angle, the two seemed to be hung off-kilter regardless as to whether or not they were.  It took all my willpower not to stand up in the middle of my conversation and adjust it myself, but really, who am I to adjust the paintings hung in a coffee shop?  For all I know they’re supposed to be that way for artistic emphasis.  Sometimes I don’t understand art.

Upon reflecting about the coffee shop in general, it occurs to me that there are probably a number of irritatingly uneven or asymmetrical things going on in that place.  None of those things (assuming there are any at all) have ever bothered me, but this set of pictures just got to me like nails on a chalkboard.  It was the kind of thing I couldn’t help but notice, and upon noticing, developed the inability to ignore it.  I wonder why some things get to me like that, and then other things in a similar vein won’t even faze me.

I have developed a new appreciation for my fathers’ obsessive compulsive adjusting of paintings in our household.  I will sincerely feel sorry if I ever knock the one on the staircase again.  Which, being the klutz that I am, will likely happen tomorrow.  I then will spend the rest of the day trying to adjust it just so, and upon realizing that it is impossible, will rock back and forth in a shadowy corner until my father fixes it.

For the first time in ages, I went to go visit my grandmother.  I can’t even remember the last time I set foot in her apartment.  Even though she’s on her own, she does pretty well, and it was nice to visit her – especially because she was happy to see me.

The funny thing about the elderly (and I know a few things about them) is that they like to do everything early.  I haven’t even been visiting for 10 minutes and my grandmother asks me if we should get going on dinner.  I look at the clock.  It’s just after 4pm.  It was too early for me, so we made a break for her favourite old-people restaurant at about 4:30.  Tons of fun if you ask me.  It’s great being the odd one out from time to time, and I most certainly was.  By about a decade or more until the screaming children joined in.

My grandmother is just so happy that I went to spend time with her, and all she wants to know about is me.  Being young and consumed with my plans for the future, I’m happy to chat about what I’m up to, but I have so many things I want to ask my grandmother.  And do you know what the worst part about it is?  I just can’t do it.  There will never be an opportunity, and even if I forced it, she’s the type that wants to avoid awkward topics of conversation and so it’s best I leave it well enough alone.  I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.

When I’ve spent any time around the grandparents of my friends, I often hear them mention the war.  My grandmother never mentions the war.  The tidbits I’ve heard are through my mother.  Things like how my grandmother doesn’t take sugar in her coffee because her brothers kept stealing her rations.  Or how my grandmother started to like hockey because her brothers tied her to a chair and made her listen to the game on the radio.  But my grandmother never says a word about the war.  I think she lost a brother in the war.  There’s a picture of a young solider with her maiden name in her apartment, and that’s the best I can guess.

I want to ask her about my grandfather.  He’s never been around in my lifetime, and as far as I can tell he wasn’t around during much of my mother’s lifetime and so I can’t ask her too much.  I’m not even sure if he’s dead or alive, but I assume the former.  I often wonder why my grandmother never remarried, but then again it’s not really something that her generation really considered anyhow.  Sometimes I wonder if I should try to set her up with some of my friends single grandfathers.  It’s probably a terrible idea, but sometimes I think they might be cute companions.

But I’ll never know about the war.  I’ll never know about my grandfather.  I’ll never have the chance to ask.  I’m physically capable of forming the words and dropping them out of my mouth, but it’s just the kind of thing that is better left unasked.  Such a shame, but there’s nothing that can be done about it.