I’m a slightly bitter, yet sarcastically funny 28 year-old with a large chip on her shoulder for no apparent reason. That’s all you really need to know about me, but I do have some real life advice for women out there if they feel like listening.
If my life were a song, the singer would be tone deaf. This actually isn’t as bad as it may seem, most of the time it sounds pretty good. And even when it’s horrible you still want to listen out of sheer amusement. Especially when you realize how much fun it can be to screw up. This is something I know a lot about.
Let me give you a big piece of advice because I know a lot of women are the same way. It may sound cliché but there’s really no other way to put it. Quit with the negativity and being so hard on yourself! It doesn’t motivate you, it won’t make you more successful and if you keep doing it, over time even you will get tired of it. It might be a girl thing. As if the whole glass ceiling thing isn’t enough, some girls seem to be programmed for self-sabotage. Wonderful! Why don’t we all just strap on an apron and practice saying, ‘Welcome home dear! The meatloaf is in the oven’? Let yourself make mistakes and find the fun in it.
Oh, and another thing! The cattiness and self-centeredness that is ‘stereo-strapped’ to girls is practically inescapable. What you experience in junior high is a drop in the pool of shallowness that will epitomize your high school experience and pollute your post-secondary education. For the greater part of the next ten years, it seems like the majority of girls around you try to chip away at the very essence of what makes you so unique. I guess I’m telling you all this for two reasons: first, to vent some of my frustration about women to woman cruelty and second, to let you know that it’s a rare thing to find a true friend. But trust me, they’re out there.
So we have come to the end of my little diatribe and you still don’t know that much about me. That’s ok though, this wasn’t really about me.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Monday, March 5, 2007
Wasting Time
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! I squint to filter the daylight, but it’s 2am…I think. I look around for a clock, nothing. They do that on purpose you know. Digging through my purse I pull out my cell phone. It's actually 2:11am. I’ve just finished work at the bar and I’m at the casino for the first part of my writing assignment; go somewhere you feel really uncomfortable and write about it. Brilliant, now I get to stay here for an hour.
I make my way past the first row of slot machines and remember the first time I went to the casino. I was 19 and barely convinced the security guard I was old enough. I swear I will get ID’d until I’m 40. I hated this place just as much back then; the lights, the people, the Ding! Ding! of the money-sucking machines. I’m tempted to go sit in T.G.I. Friday’s or the casino bar, but where’s the fun in that?
I sit down at one of the machines and immediately the image of an old woman sitting in this same seat wearing a diaper comes to mind. They do that you know. The really ‘dedicated’ (more like addicted) slot players wear diapers so they don’t have to leave their machines to go to the washroom. I squirm a little and sit at the very edge. The tips I made tonight are in my wallet. It was a good night; money for groceries and a nice bottle of wine. I look around and wonder what kinds of groceries these people buy. Probably pop and chips for the kids because they’re cheap and fatty frozen dinners because they’re fast. I scold myself for being so judgmental and get back to feeling uncomfortable. I flip open my cell, 2:21am.
The machine in front of me is covered with greasy fingerprints and I try to remember what kinds of diseases you can get from peoples hands. Probably just a cold or flu, but what about hepatitis? What did that commercial say? Crap! I’m too tired to remember. I put my gloves back on, take out my notepad and scrawl ‘This place is disgusting! If I get sick, can I sue Professor Emodi? I read it over. Written sarcasm is just not effective. I put the notepad back in my purse, which I realize I’ve been holding tightly on my lap. One of these gamblers would probably try and steal it; they’re probably staring at me and wondering how much money I’ve got. Great, I’m a judgmental, paranoid germophobe! Oh my god, where’s my cell?
At 2:32am I start wondering what I must look like. I’m sure I look pale under the harsh lighting and I curse the creator of florescent lights. I glare up at them and notice the black, glass domes that hold hundreds of security cameras. No wonder I’m paranoid.
I never intended to bet anything, but I should put something in the machine before they come after me for looking suspicious. I insert one of my hard-earned dollars into the machine. Now what? I poke at the screen, bet everything and find the button to make it spin. Pulling some kind of lever would be way more fun. The spinning stops. Now I have nothing. It’s 2:37am. That was fun.
I lost five dollars at a blackjack table a few years ago. All I could think about was the white hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles I could have bought while out with friends. That dollar I lost tonight could have been bridge fare to visit my family in Halifax. At this point, more irritated than uncomfortable, I decide to leave. I’ve figured out why I feel so uncomfortable there; the money wasted is nothing compared to the waste of my time.
I make my way past the first row of slot machines and remember the first time I went to the casino. I was 19 and barely convinced the security guard I was old enough. I swear I will get ID’d until I’m 40. I hated this place just as much back then; the lights, the people, the Ding! Ding! of the money-sucking machines. I’m tempted to go sit in T.G.I. Friday’s or the casino bar, but where’s the fun in that?
I sit down at one of the machines and immediately the image of an old woman sitting in this same seat wearing a diaper comes to mind. They do that you know. The really ‘dedicated’ (more like addicted) slot players wear diapers so they don’t have to leave their machines to go to the washroom. I squirm a little and sit at the very edge. The tips I made tonight are in my wallet. It was a good night; money for groceries and a nice bottle of wine. I look around and wonder what kinds of groceries these people buy. Probably pop and chips for the kids because they’re cheap and fatty frozen dinners because they’re fast. I scold myself for being so judgmental and get back to feeling uncomfortable. I flip open my cell, 2:21am.
The machine in front of me is covered with greasy fingerprints and I try to remember what kinds of diseases you can get from peoples hands. Probably just a cold or flu, but what about hepatitis? What did that commercial say? Crap! I’m too tired to remember. I put my gloves back on, take out my notepad and scrawl ‘This place is disgusting! If I get sick, can I sue Professor Emodi? I read it over. Written sarcasm is just not effective. I put the notepad back in my purse, which I realize I’ve been holding tightly on my lap. One of these gamblers would probably try and steal it; they’re probably staring at me and wondering how much money I’ve got. Great, I’m a judgmental, paranoid germophobe! Oh my god, where’s my cell?
At 2:32am I start wondering what I must look like. I’m sure I look pale under the harsh lighting and I curse the creator of florescent lights. I glare up at them and notice the black, glass domes that hold hundreds of security cameras. No wonder I’m paranoid.
I never intended to bet anything, but I should put something in the machine before they come after me for looking suspicious. I insert one of my hard-earned dollars into the machine. Now what? I poke at the screen, bet everything and find the button to make it spin. Pulling some kind of lever would be way more fun. The spinning stops. Now I have nothing. It’s 2:37am. That was fun.
I lost five dollars at a blackjack table a few years ago. All I could think about was the white hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles I could have bought while out with friends. That dollar I lost tonight could have been bridge fare to visit my family in Halifax. At this point, more irritated than uncomfortable, I decide to leave. I’ve figured out why I feel so uncomfortable there; the money wasted is nothing compared to the waste of my time.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Personal Free-Write (Untitled)
Having a Minister for a father, I was born into a family of strong faith; faith in the divine as well as faith in humanity. Sundays were spent at church and Sunday school, prayer was said before bed and bedtime stories were often from a children’s bible. All of which were normal, familiar and comfortable. It wasn’t until my late teenage years that I truly began to question the teachings of the church and my beliefs. It wasn’t that I did not believe in the existence of a God, but whether or not there was good reason to. Always the petulant child of four sisters, it was consistent with this to once again go against the norm; but I kept these doubts to myself.
During my bachelor’s degree at St. Mary’s University, I took a number of classes in philosophy: intro to philosophy, basic logic and philosophy of human nature. I was fascinated by the sheer simplicity of the ways in which complex human traits and characteristics were broken down and explained like a mathematical equation; if A is true and B is true, then A plus B will equal C – the reasonable outcome. Everything ordered everything logical. I truly believed that the deep-seeded questions I had about my own life and future would somehow find answers from the works of Aristotle, Socrates, Plato and the like. Taking a somewhat contradictory stance to the theological perspective, the discussions challenged a lot of what I was brought up to believe.
Armed with what I believed to be ground-breaking, philosophical evidence to support my harboring doubts about faith and religion, I finally brought my questions and opinions to my father. Sitting on our deck on a mid-summer afternoon, I laid out what I believed to be a rock-solid argument against the credibility of religion. This was the first time I had ever voiced my skepticism and I don’t think I really knew what response to expect. But what I received should not have been wholly unexpected; my opinions were met with equally well thought-out responses and a long conversation about faith, hope and the interconnection of philosophy and theology. What I had believed to be strongly opposing forces, were in fact historically intertwined. We talked well through the afternoon and into the early evening until it was too cold and there were too many bugs to stand. In the end, no worldly issues were solved and my own doubts still lingered. But somehow by voicing them together, they became less ominous.
One of my most valuable lessons was learned that day; to question and give a voice to my thoughts, I may be wrong but I will learn.
During my bachelor’s degree at St. Mary’s University, I took a number of classes in philosophy: intro to philosophy, basic logic and philosophy of human nature. I was fascinated by the sheer simplicity of the ways in which complex human traits and characteristics were broken down and explained like a mathematical equation; if A is true and B is true, then A plus B will equal C – the reasonable outcome. Everything ordered everything logical. I truly believed that the deep-seeded questions I had about my own life and future would somehow find answers from the works of Aristotle, Socrates, Plato and the like. Taking a somewhat contradictory stance to the theological perspective, the discussions challenged a lot of what I was brought up to believe.
Armed with what I believed to be ground-breaking, philosophical evidence to support my harboring doubts about faith and religion, I finally brought my questions and opinions to my father. Sitting on our deck on a mid-summer afternoon, I laid out what I believed to be a rock-solid argument against the credibility of religion. This was the first time I had ever voiced my skepticism and I don’t think I really knew what response to expect. But what I received should not have been wholly unexpected; my opinions were met with equally well thought-out responses and a long conversation about faith, hope and the interconnection of philosophy and theology. What I had believed to be strongly opposing forces, were in fact historically intertwined. We talked well through the afternoon and into the early evening until it was too cold and there were too many bugs to stand. In the end, no worldly issues were solved and my own doubts still lingered. But somehow by voicing them together, they became less ominous.
One of my most valuable lessons was learned that day; to question and give a voice to my thoughts, I may be wrong but I will learn.
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