Sh*t my mother says

My mum lives in Cyprus; suffice to say I don’t get to see her that often. A week ago she came home for Christmas and since then I have been spending as much time as possible with her. We went to lunch today with some of my friends (a tradition we have for whenever she is in the country) and afterwards went to the supermarket. That’s how all good stories start, isn’t it “that time I went to the supermarket with my mom…” Well, that’s how MY story starts, so deal with it.
Anyway, so we’re at the supermarket with my friend (yes, I take my friends grocery shopping with me, I’m that cool) and we proceed to the check out line. We’re standing there, waiting for the slowest woman on earth to ring up our 15 items and for some reason we start talking about clothes. I complimented my friend on her top- because it was a really nice top- and then my mother took all credit for MY top as it used to be hers. I feel the need here to say that she GAVE that top to me. Following that, however, she accuses me of theft of another shirt. The following exchange occurred:

Me: “Mummy, I did not steal that top. It was an accident.’
My mum: “You looked me in the face and I asked did you just pack my top and you said yes.”
Me: “Exactly, ACCIDENTALLY”
-short pause-
My mum: “…YOUR FACE WAS AN ACCIDENT!”

I have never been so shocked. I have also never laughed so hard that I almost wet myself in a supermarket. And I have never been so proud to call my mother my mother. Suffice to say my previously mentioned friend now thinks I have the coolest mum on earth, and after a retort like that I can’t help but agree.

How NOT to hit on a girl

The lengths I go to for my causes. I am co-organizing a school Christmas event for this Saturday and am trying to advertise and raise attendance to our little shindig. I saw two young boys after school and approached them to sell tickets. This is how the conversation went:

Me: “Hey, what are you boys up to this Saturday?”
Boy 1: “What?” and he started to walk uncomfortably close to me
Me: “Saturday”
Boy 1: “Oh, not now?” stops
Boy 2: “Oh that Christmas thing?”
Me: “Yeah, that Christmas thing. Are you guys gonna come?”
Boy 2: “Yeah, maybe. How much does it cost?”
Me: “$20. All the money goes to charity.”
Boy 2: “Oh, alright. How much does it cost at the door?”
Me: “$20.”
Boy 1: “Do you have change for $100.”
Me: “Not on me, sorry.”

I know, I know, at this point in the recollection of this conversation you are probably thinking to yourselves ‘The only thing remarkable about this conversation is her lack of sales abilities.’ Wait for it, this is where things got weird:

Me: “Ok, well thanks guys. Hopefully I’ll see you on Saturday.”
Boy 1: “You know you real bess.” (bess is a colloquialism for hot, or attractive.)
Me: “Thank you” at which point I uncomfortably tried to walk away. But he stopped me.
Boy 1: “Wait, show him your tattoo nah.” So I did, I don’t know why, but I showed boy 2 my tattoo. Before you get any ideas, it is behind my left ear not any place suggestive or anything you perverts.
Boy 2: “That real cool.”
Me: “Thanks.” This was now my second attempt to walk away.
Boy 2: “You know, when I grow up I want to get a tattoo. It’ll be a star… inside a football… that’s on fire!”
Me: “I have a feeling you might change your mind.”
Boy 1: “Well, when I grow up I’m going to get a tattoo. Of you. On my butt.”
Boy 2: “Well when I grow up I’m going to get a tattoo of you on my-” judging from the way his lips were moving I guessed what he was about to say and used this moment to finally make my escape.

I replayed the scene in my head about 10 times as I walked away, more and more disturbed each time. If these boys honestly thought that would be effective flattery they may be lonely for a very long time. On the plus side, I am now fairly positive that they will be among the attendants for our Christmas event on Saturday. I hope it goes well, so I didn’t suffer through this for nothing.

hello world?.../I LOVE ORANGE JUICE

Hello world.
I'm just gonna come out and say it: Quite frankly my blog and I are feeling rather neglected these days. I was talking to some friends the other day and they were all “oh yeah, I haven’t read your blog in a while”. And on the outside, of course I was all cool and collected like “oh, that thing!” but really I died a little. I actually went in to a downward spiral of circular thoughts and innate ideas (just learnt that in history! Even though It’s most probably out of context) wherein I was thinking ‘if my friends, who I see on an every day basis won’t even read my blog why would anyone on the world wide web want to? Why do I exist? Ahhhh!” I realised that this is sounding rather desperate and pathetic so do me a favour and imagine the entire thing in the voice of a character from Teen Girl Squad. If you don’t know what Teen Girl Squad is we can’t be friends (although not really, ‘cause I’m desperate here guys!) If you are reading though, post a comment, or send me a message (can you do that?) or better yet, tell all your friends I'm cool!

I couldn’t think of anything particularly funny to post because I have recently got myself addicted to some pretty great vlogs. Well, two really, but still... I find the video much more enthralling than my boring text and the stream of consciousness (now I’m throwing in some English vocab! I’m such a nerd) is much funnier. Anyhooooo on a lighter note! I love orange juice. Yeah, I said. Except... there’s a catch. I actually don’t like any orange juice that isn’t fresh squeezed. Sorry, I’m an orange snob. I just find drinking it out of a box or a carton or whatever you want to call that is so unnatural! And any thing that comes out of a box and has ‘pulp’ is worrying if you ask me. That being said a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice is my favourite thing ever. Once I had a ridiculously bad day and I came home to find fresh squeezed orange juice and suddenly I was happy again. Is that sad? It is kind of sad, but that doesn’t matter because no one is reading this anyway! :P Seriously though, fresh squeezed orange juice is like liquid heaven. Yum ☺

Daylight Savings Time

Let me tell you a story.
For those of you that don’t know I live in the Caribbean, namely Trinidad and Tobago. Now, something about Trinidad and Tobago is that, come winter, TIME DOES NOT CHANGE. Before I lived here I lived in Holland with my mother, where, like most other places in the world, every winter the clock is set back an hour, and in summer it’s set forward. This, however, does not happen in Trinidad! My father did not seem to know this.
Every morning I set an alarm to wake me up for school, I usually turn this off and go right back to sleep though so my dad has to come in and remind me that I must get out of bed and shower so that I don’t scare away all my friends in school with my just out of bed look. Tuesday morning my father did just this, waking me up asking what I want for breakfast. Having gone to bed at 1am that morning I was extremely tired. Don’t ask me why I felt the need to watch Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet on a Monday night but, given the opportunity, I would do it again! Anyway, my father asked, as he does every morning, what I wanted for breakfast. The following conversation ensued:
My father: “Time to get up. What do you want to eat.”
Me: “MmmmmIdunno!”
My father: “Do you want an omlette?”
Me: “NO!”
My father: “Ok, no need to sound so unenthusiastic.”
Me: “Mmmmmsorry.”
My father: “Well what do you want?”
Me: “Just do the cat.”
My father: “What?!”
Me: “The Kitten!!!”
My father: “What?!!”
Me: “…..Mmmmnevermind. Just gimme a waffle pleease!”
My father: “Ok, now get up.”
Me: “Mmm.”

Now, I feel the need to mention here that we do not in fact own a cat. My sister has a kitten but they both live in New York so she was safe from my breakfast cravings. After this exchange I managed to drag myself out of bed, avoiding the mirror so that I would not scare myself, and made my way to the bathroom. On the way I had to turn on the lights, a usual necessity as showering in the dark would be hazardous in my morning condition. This particular morning, however, I managed to miss the light switch and walk straight in to the wall. I was a little dazed, annoyed that the wall had hit me in the face, but got into the shower. Twenty minutes later I got out of the shower, wrapped up in a towel and stepped out of the bathroom. The sky was pitch black. I stood there for a moment, observing the sky with sheer disbelief, thinking ‘I didn’t think it ever got this dark here at Christmas. It wasn’t like this last week, how does this change so quickly over one weekend?’ This should have been my first warning. Instead, however, I carried on with my morning ritual.
I did my hair, managing to tame it in my morning stupor, put on my uniform and ate my waffle (sans cat). My dad started to rush me, saying I would be late to school if we didn’t leave the house in ten minutes. So we did. Ten minutes later we were on the road and for the first time I looked at my clock. Meanwhile my father is saying “Wow, it’s really Christmas time now isn’t it. Look how dark it still is!”
Now, in the morning (as I have already demonstrated) I am quite inept. I am not, however, as ridiculous as my father. After checking the clock on my phone I turned to him and asked him, casually, what the time was. He looked at the clock in the car and paused. “It’s… My phone says it’s ten past seven.” To which I responded “My phone says it’s ten past six. Daddy why is there no traffic on the road?” Here he paused again. “Oh… the car clock also says its six.” By this point we were half way to my school and I was fighting to stay awake in the car. “Call my office,” he says (his brilliant solution) “and ask my secretary what time it is.” I did this, almost wishing I hadn’t when his lovely secretary confirmed for me that it was, indeed, ten past six in the morning. I AM NOT USUALLY OUT OF BED BY TEN PAST SIX IN THE MORNING. A couple minutes later we pull up outside of the school. I saw the security guards changing shift, as the night guards went home. My father burst into laughter and I burst into tears. I got out of the car and dumped my bags outside the reception. No one was there. I have never seen my school so empty. I made my way to the gym, luckily aware that some of my friends on the volleyball team went to school early that day to practice (crazy girls). I walked into the gym, startling them all. “Why are you here? What time is it?” one of them asked me. “It’s quarter past six!!!” I raged, before throwing myself onto a bleacher and attempting to sleep for the hour and fifteen minutes before school started. I got no more sleep that morning, but slept by the nurse for half the day.

Thanks pops, for conforming to the North American and European wintry practice of daylight savings time, but we live in the Tropics. See if I trust you in the morning every again!

Why I should not skip my History test to go sleep in the nurse’s room with my iPod on shuffle.. I hate Mondays

I had not studied at all for my history test and I knew that I could not afford to fail it, or get a bad grade, so I devised a ploy. Little did I know that, having been suffering from exhaustion and chronic migraines for almost an entire week, I was not lying when I meekly told the substitute teacher “I’m feeling really crappy. Can I go to the nurse?” She nodded, possibly expecting me to return to class at some point. She was sadly mistaken.

I did as planned and asked the nurse if I could lie down for a while as my head was still hurting- again, I really was not lying. I went into the dark little room with a single bed (the kind that they have in the doctors office with crinkly paper on it) and a stretcher propped against the wall. I set down my bag, took of my shoes, plugged in my headphones and tucked myself in.
What could have been two minutes or an hour later (I lost all sense of time once I lay down in that bed) I awoke almost screaming to the sound of ‘Vanilla Twilight’ by Owl City playing over my headphones. It is not an obtrusive song, in fact it is a lovely song, and the volume was not high so I have no idea why as soon as the song started playing I was terrified. Maybe that should have been my first clue. I checked the time, still half an hour before break time, turned off my iPod and went back to sleep. By this time I was noticing that I was rather uncomfortable. No matter how I covered myself I still felt as though there was a draft creeping in and I was shivering under the thick fleece blanket. My feeble school uniform (small khaki skirt and loose blue button up) was doing nothing to protect me from the wintry breeze. Nevertheless, I soon fell back into a deep slumber.
After some time I had the feeling that I really should wake up. I got out of the bed and crossed the small space to the long mirror propped against the wall. Turning on the light I checked myself to make sure my hair was not too unruly, upon deciding that it was I tied it up. At this point I checked my watch and realised that I still had half an hour before the end of the class I was so aptly avoiding so I decided to lie back down. As soon as my head hit the pillow however, I woke up to find that I had never gotten out of bed in the first place. My hair was strewn over my face, I was still cold, and there was no mirror in the room. I was confused, and dazed. I checked the time to find that I only had three minutes left of my little escape. Yet, I rolled over and went back to sleep. This is when things got really weird.
I seem to recall hearing my history teacher’s voice outside the door, only for it to be confirmed when him and the nurse burst into the room. He was livid, accusing me of feigning ill to avoid his test. Naturally, I pretended to still be asleep. The poor nurse was defending my honour, saying she thought I should rest and that they shouldn’t wake me. He insisted, however on getting a ‘real doctor’ to look at me, which he conveniently had on hand. I could not help but wonder how this must have offended the sweet nurse. Shortly after their fight the door was shut and I opened my eye to find a familiar man examining me as if under medical pretences. I recognised the man, however, as one of the school security guards. He assured me that he had no medical training whatsoever and that he was only there to appease my history teacher. Bewildered, and still tired I disregarded the entire fiasco and returned, once more, to my fitful slumber.
After what felt like two minutes I awoke to two of my friends frantically trying to get me up and out of bed. They informed me that there was a nurse (not my sweet nurse but another one altogether) right outside brandishing a knife and that they had to save me before she stabbed me. They bundled me up between themselves, covered my face, and got me out of there as quickly as possible. Straight out of the nurse’s office who should I run into but my history teacher, furious that I was all together cured as soon as his class had ended.
Immediately after this I awoke once more, still in the confines of the bed. My friend (not either of the ones who had come to save me from the knife brandishing nurse) was standing in the doorway declaring that I was late for chemistry class. As we walked to the lab she informed me that I had been sleeping, undisturbed, for two hours and that my history teacher wasn’t even in school. I can only assume that there was no homicidal nurse incident either.

Unconditional Love

Anyone who knows me should know that I don’t throw around the word ‘love’ a lot. Actually, that’s a lie, yes I do, but I don’t mean it as the romantic chocolate and roses nauseating definition. I have kind of made my own varying definitions for love, which usually lean either towards lust or idolization. In this case, I am going with full-fledged idolizing.
I could list men all day that I admire in some way or another, fictional, celebrity or otherwise. Jason Mraz, for one, Sam Winchester (though he gets kind of winy) Dean Winchester, Ned from Pushing Daisies, Charlie McDonnell, Topher Brink, Leonardo DiCaprio, Dorian Gray, Christopher Nolan, Atticus Finch, Rorschach, Prospect from Sons of Anarchy and so on. I’m sure there are about a hundred names that I left out of that list, but with great effort and precision I have managed to narrow my long list of ideal men down to four supreme beings whom I really and truly ‘love’:

4. Bob Dylan… ‘nuff said

3. Eminem- this man has managed to rise from living in a trailer park with his borderline insane mother (I mean no offense, I’m only going off the details in your songs Marshall) to being one of the most successful rap artists to date. I don’t care much for the age old rags to riches story, I mean good for him but that’s not what gets me, honestly as much as I respect the man its not really his persona at all that gets me. It’s his lyrics. Though I suppose, arguably, his lyrics are a part of him and his persona. It’s the circle of (rap) life. Eminem’s lyrics are sharp, meaningful, entertaining, thought provoking, funny, witty, intelligent, vulgar, obscene and just a little bit controversial. There is no lyricist I respect and admire more than my man Marshall Mathers. Plus, he seems like an incredible father, so there’s that.

2. Bruce Wayne, better known as Batman- who needs superpowers when you are a multi millionaire crime fighting vigilante play boy? I don’t care what anyone says I will argue this point to my dying day. Batman is, and always will be the coolest. What with all his bat-gadgets, his kick ass marshal arts skills, all that money and his undeniable charm Bruce Wayne is without a doubt the perfect man. Overlooking the fact that he is fictional, of course, even I’m not that delusional!

And now, the moment you have all been waiting for….
Number 1…
Is…
Lionel Messi
No words could describe the love I have in my heart for this man. In my eyes he is the best football player in the world (Christiano Ronaldo can suck it, that snivelling little fool). I may identify with him because of his growth deficiency, but he over came that and it made him the amazing man that he is today. Messi is adorable, humble, driven, successful, and awe inspiring. Before I saw this man play in the world cup four years ago I never enjoyed football, either as a spectator sport or an activity. Watching him play for Argentina back in 2007, sitting at home alone in my living room in Holland I can honestly say I fell in love. The way he plays the ball, bypasses the defence and gracefully rockets it into the opponents net is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I mean it when I say I can love no man like I love Lionel Messi. There will always be a special place in my heart for all 5 feet, 7 inches of him. Get well soon, Messi!

Pink Starburst

Remember when I mentioned that ridiculously smart friend of mine who has her whole life figured out and has a 4.16 GPA and I made her sound like a pretentious snob? Well she is. (Kidding!) She is actually a ridiculously silly and lovely person. When I first moved here her and her best friend adopted me into their little group of silliness and sat on me like momma birds and helped me grow into the wonderfully mentally erratic person that I am today. Thanks for that guys, I owe you one!
There are three major milestones that I look back on with the fondest memory as I recall the development of our friendship.

1) On my very first day in the school I sat down in a class called ‘Physical Science’ which I knew I would hate because I hate physics and I suck at science. These two friendly, albeit over excited and a little frightening girls invited me to sit next to them. Happy for the fast friendship I quickly obliged. My little derrière had barely touched the hard plastic of the seat when the blond, and quirkier one, turned to me and said: “You just moved here from Holland right? Is Holland where they yodel?” No, in fact, Switzerland would be where they yodel, if the do still yodel in Switzerland, and I told her as much but she never quite gave up on the hope of me one day serenading her with my Hollish yodelling capabilities. I am afraid I have disappointed her.


2) Sitting at a table in the lunch room for no apparent reason I turned to my new friends and verbally assaulted them by accusing them of being “Blonde! And Autistic! What’s wrong with you people?!!” according to their recollection I then stormed out of the cafeteria and didn’t speak a word to them for the rest of the day. This is when they knew we would be friends. (I might not have mentioned before hand but I am socially awkward and therefore find it difficult to make friends at times… with this kind of introduction I really can’t imagine why…)


3) The third, and most prominent event is isolated to the afore mentioned ‘blonde one’ (who also happens to be the crazy smart one). We were in the school gym, witnessing an International Volleyball tournament which our school was hosting. I should mention that there were numerous cute boys present for this particular happening. I cannot for the life of me remember how, but I found myself with a single pink starburst in my hand. There I was, innocently moseying along the sidelines of the volleyball court (there was no game being played at that moment, or things might have gone very differently) thinking to myself “Someone gave me a pink starburst. I don’t remember how I got this but the pink are the best kind. Someone must like me!” As I came to this happy realisation I began to unwrap the joyous starburst to enter it into my eager mouth. The next thing I knew a mass of blonde hair and limbs was rushing at me from the other side of the court. In retrospect I probably should have shoved the candy in my mouth then and been done with it but, not knowing her as I do now and frozen to the spot in fear I stood there as this new acquaintance of mine slide tackled me to the floor, wrestled the starburst out of my hands, shoved it in her mouth and ran away. That girl must have had the nose of a blood hound because I had only peeled back one corner of the wrapping. I lay on the ground for a moment, dazed and confused thinking ‘Does this mean we’re friends now?’ We have been best friends ever since. Here I would like to add that she has since replaced the starburst in an act of sincere friendship (which was reassuring after the introduction I had to our so-called friendship). Mind you she took three years to think to give me back that starburst, but it’s the thought that counts.

Chris, this ones for you.

Recently I was studying for an upcoming AP European History quiz. Now, we all know what happens when I try to study (or at least you should by now- keep up people!) That being said, I went off on one of my notoriously useless self-distractiing thought processes. Now, just to enlighten the situation, the specific topic which I was studying was The Columbian Exchange… ‘nuff said.

I’m just gonna come out and say it. Christopher Columbus is history’s biggest douche bag. Seriously, there should be an award. I mean Alfred Nobel invented the A-bomb or something and look at him now! The most prestigious award in the world is named after his oopsy. All I’m saying is there should be a ‘Best jerk-off of the year award’ named after Christopher Columbus. (This, for example, would have gone to Kanye West last year after the VMAs... we all know why.)
I mean, the man accidentally discovered the Americas and the Caribbean when he was really looking for a direct trade route to Asia. Hey ass hole, look at a map. I know for a fact that ‘navigational manuals and cartography made map making more accurate’ because that’s going to be on my test so Chris, YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE! I mean sure, you didn’t know they were there so you thought if you just sailed around the globe for a little while you’d hit land and that would be your jackpot. Instead you brought about the greatest demographic catastrophe in human history… well done, I hope your happy.
Not only did Chris’s ‘little mistake’ lead to the spread of European disease in the Americas and devastation of natural landscape but (and here’s the kicker) if it weren’t for Chris and his big discovery there may not have been such a high demand for the slave trade. That’s right, you heard it here first. CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS IS THE REASON BLACK PEOPLE STILL HAVE THAT CHIP ON THEIR SHOULDER! Blame him brothers, I do.
All I’m saying is that if Christopher Columbus had turned left, like all the sane, respectable explorers of his day did, the Americas and those beautiful Caribbean isles may still be in peace. The natives could have gone about their happy heathen ways, what with their cannibalistic rituals and their sexual indecencies. Sure some idiot was bound to sail into them at some point, but Chris, that idiot was you and you should not be proud of yourself.

Why I would NEVER want my parents’ job.

Growing up I was an… interesting child, to say the least. Aside from the fact that I was all sick and what not and everyone was all sad I think that there must have been more than one occasion when my parents stopped and thought ‘Why did we do this again?’

My sister was an angel apparently, quite child with pretty hair. If you ask me she was BORING. I came along to bring excitement to everyone’s lives, and excitement I brought. I’ve always been an over achiever so you can imagine I took this task very seriously. I fought with my ‘angel’ sister constantly. Let me tell you, in the heat of battle she was not very saintly. I always won though, so much so that she still tells the stories of my brutality. Once we got new electric toothbrushes (don’t ask, we were 90’s kids ok that was high tech!!) anyway, I wanted the red toothbrush, but so did she. So what did I do? I took the green toothbrush she left for me and attacked her with it. Now, if you were a 90’s kid like me you would know that early electric toothbrushes were not quite so sleek, it was a big heavy sort of device. (What can I say, the things we do for our teeth.) In any event I beat her on her back with the green toothbrush until she relinquished and I got the red one. Victory!
Another occasion was when she decided to put blue food colouring in my breakfast pancakes. Now, first of all I am not and have never been a morning person. I am not someone you want to mess with in the morning, if ever. That being said I don’t know why she felt the urge to cross me that morning, but it did not end well. Let’s take a moment here to reflect on what caused the fight, she wanted to put blue food colouring in my pancakes. We were weird kids, we liked colourful food. Remember when Heinz brought out purple and green ketchup that really looked more like Shrek than a condiment? I am still convinced they got the idea from a spy that followed us around in our youth. Mind you, neither my sister or I eat ketchup but I imagine we were still a goldmine in strange creative ideas for weird little children. If we could eat it, we wanted to dye it. Our kitchen cabinet was full of food colouring. That morning, however, I did not want blue pancakes. I wanted normal pancakes like a normal rabid morning monster. My sister, on the other hand, did not want normal coloured food. She took out the little pot of blue liquid, got a straq and stuck it into the pot and I grabbed the large spatula out of the hot pan (everything seems bigger when you’re but 8 years old) and chased her around the house with it. Wielding the hot spatula as my weapon I chased her down the hallway into the living room and up a curtain on the window. I have to give her props for her agility.
I feel the need to mention, here, that my sister and I have since settled our differences and are now thick as thieves as they would say. Who ‘they’ are I am not sure, but I’m sure they’d say it.

My sister was not the only one who was subject to my strange childhood behaviour, however. My poor mother, who for reasons I still cannot uncover, loved me dearly despite my abnormality, has told me stories of how I used to ‘worry’ her. Apparently I had an obsession with death. My death. This must have especially disturbed her because, as I’ve said, I was extremely sick in my early days and almost didn’t make it. Somehow, though, I did, and my parents still say their glad. However, I suppose I was not satisfied with that. I used to sit in the back of the car when my mother was driving on the highway and announce things like
“Mummy, you know if I opened the door right now I would fall out into the street and the car behind us would run me over and I WOULD DIE.” I imagine I had crazy little crazy eyes while saying this.
Another example would be, looking over my grandma’s balcony on the top floor of her apartment building
“I bet if I climbed over the balcony and jumped off the edge I wouldn’t land in the pool… I would hit the ground and I WOULD DIE.”
I have no recollection of any of these occurrences but my mother assures me I was one scary little freak. This is why, looking back, I can honestly say I would never, ever, want my parent’s job. If I were them I would lie awake at night thinking ‘maybe we should have stopped after the first one.’

Can I just skip the college part?

My entire life I have always imagined myself growing up, graduating from high school and going to college. NOT going to college has never been an option for me. I mean all those feminists before me fought for this right? Who am I to undermine them?
Well now that it is all happening, and all happening so fast I might add, I have a major beef with all those old feminists. Back in THEIR day they didn’t have to stress over college applications and choosing a school and deciding what to do for the rest of their lives at 17 freakin’ years old and take the SATs all while juggling 3 AP classes and heaps of extra curricular activities that everyone only takes to look good on their college applications anyway. And in this modern day of facebook, who really has the will power to do all of that?! Except I look around me and everyone seems to be getting it all done, some of my friends have already submitted their applications, and I’m just chillin’ in their wake dazed and stuffing my face with ice cream because that is what I do when I am stressed. (Actually I’m just always stuffing my face with ice cream.) Currently I am writing this post instead of correcting my Bio test, drafting my History essay and answering about 6 pages of questions on Hamlet for English. Not the best game plan…

Now, all I want to do when I graduate from high school is become a hermit. For realsies, when anyone asks me what I see myself doing in five or ten years I get an image of myself sitting in a big comfy leather chair surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves with a cool ladder on wheels like in those old libraries. Forget the great ‘college’ experience making friends you will never forget and partying until you DO forget. I can skip all that.
In fact, at the moment all I want to do is be an ostrich. I want to dig a hole in the sand and stick my head in it and pretend that no one can see me. I had this conversation the other day at the lunch table with my friends and one of them said “But ostriches have brains the size of peanuts! Everyone would think you were stupid if you pretended to be an ostrich.” But I wouldn’t care, because my ostrich friends would accept me. And I would even feel superior amongst their peanut sized brains. While this was going on one of my friends- the one that has already applied to her college of choice, already knows what she wants to study and has chosen a career- pulled out her transcript because she just HAPPENED to have it on her, because that’s what the cool kids do these days, and somehow let slip that she currently has a 4.16 GPA. 4.16! MY OSTRICH FRIENDS WOULD BE PROUD OF ME FOR MY 3.4! They might even make me their queen... :) I should really be amongst my peers in the ostrich world. I obviously cannot cope with being a senior. And it’s only been three weeks…

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, two young girls found themselves in a land far far away, called Bosnia. This mysterious land was foreign and unfamiliar, but that is not what disturbed them. Neither were they very upset by the rubble around them, the constant threat of land mines or the bullet holes in the side of their apartment building, for these girls knew that there had been a war recently in the land called Bosnia, and that these were all expected side effects. No, what disturbed the two small girls in the far away land was that they had no friends.

Not speaking the language of the local people of this mysterious foreign land the two girls had no choice but to be each other’s friends. This proved difficult because the two girls were sisters, and we all know that sisters are not meant to be friends, right? Wrong! When each other is all you have each other start to seem pretty damn great. But that never lasts very long.
These two girls, more specifically my elder sister and myself, took to collecting little plastic toys from the centre of Kinder Bueno chocolate eggs. I never actually ate the chocolate so my sister always got double, in hind sight that might be why we were such good friends at the time. In any event, these toys in the centre of the chocolates were our only source of entertainment. We collected every toy imaginable and created our own toy world where they were all somehow connected. The lead characters of our made up toy land were two elephants, because naturally if my cool older sister chose an elephant I wanted an elephant too. The thing is, we had absolutely no say in what we found in the centre of the chocolate, as one would imagine, so we had quite a spread. Everything from our two staring elephants to rolled up pieces of paper with secret messages and some monkeys and aliens I believe. We didn’t mind; all the toys in our toy world were happy.

Every now and then the washing machine in our small apartment would rebel. The door would burst open and all of the almost clean clothes would be spat out along with all of the almost dirty water that they were soaking in. The washing machine was in a little room of it’s own so when this happened that sacred room became a magical flooded kingdom. It was our favourite time. We would grab our little plastic elephants (I think mine was named Ellie because I was so astoundingly original back then) and run into the room before my mother could attempt to mop up the mess. We were so eager to abuse this rare treat that we would even offer to clean up for her if she would just give us some time in there with our toys. I should say at this point that I was already about 8 years old and my sister was pushing 11 I believe. Not the height of maturity but old enough to be expected to have a life beyond little plastic toys…
One day, in such a magical adventure, the water was a little higher than usual so instead of splashing around in exuberant folly our elephants actually began to drown a little bit. This was about when my ‘cool older’ sister decided that her elephant was magical. That’s right. HER elephant got to ride on a magic carpet and cast spells and use magic and never drown and her elephant made my elephant it’s bitch. My elephant was the dumb little shit that had to help her dismount from her magic carpet or clean up if she messed up a spell or something equally unglamorous and unexciting. I then decided that I wanted my elephant to be magical too, so we could be equal once more and be magical together. My sister’s elephant, that autocratic little shit, deemed that unacceptable. I did not fully understand that my sister’s elephant was really just a puppet in her cruel selfish attempt to assert her authority over me, probably fearing that I was growing cooler and more imaginative than her and that she had to squash it before it started (mighty foreshadowing I might add, she never did squash the fact that I AM in fact cooler than her). Not realising this at the time however I appealed to my older sister to please have her elephant allow my elephant to have magic powers. No such luck. Eventually the game lost it’s joy and when the washing machine exploded we just let my mum clean it up. I think I’ve had a subliminal resentment for little plastic elephants ever since.

After the phase of the magical autocratic elephant and its subjects my sister and I ventured out into the world and actually made some real, life sized, flesh and blood friends. But that is a story for another day.

I'm going to Cyprus, and you're not!

That's right, I said it. I'm flying to Cyprus and you are NOT. Sucks to be you.

Actually it sucks to be me because I have been stuck in my boring house all Summer. But now, three weeks before it comes to a painful end, I'm FINALLY getting out. Tomorrow I fly to London, overnight with my godmother whom I love dearly, and then catch a plane to Cyprus where my mum lives now.
After two weeks there I head to New York for another week, hopefully of shopping all day and partying all night (if only I had the money…) and then, and only then, I come back here for… wait for it… school.

So, other than to bore you with my late but great Summer plans and to rub it in your face that I AM GOING TO CYPRUS AND YOU'RE NOT! this post is mainly to inform you that I will be away for three weeks and therefore will not be posting anything in that time. I'd like to think it's because I won't be awake at 1:31 in the morning, bored and with nothing better to do with my life. But really it is because I am leaving my laptop here.

Try not to miss me too much.

Got a problem? Throw therapy on it.

Ever seen ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’? Know that crazy old grandmother that fixes any problem from a pimple to a broken heart by spraying some Windex on it? That’s my dad. Whenever anyone in my family, namely my sister or myself, has any sort of problem he doesn’t break out the Windex, he breaks out the chequebook. Windex is to that crazy Greek grandmother as therapy is to my father. Here’s a day in the life of living with my father (mind you, this is a good day):

Father “Is something wrong?”
Me “No, I’m just tired.”
Father “…Do you want me to call a therapist?”

Father “Why do you get angry at everyone so easily?”
Sister “Not everyone, just you.”
Father “Maybe you should see a therapist”

Father “I notice you haven’t been spending much time with that boy anymore.”
Me “Oh yeah, about that. We broke up.”
Father “Did he break up with you?”
Me “I guess you could say that.”
Father “… I’ll call a therapist.”

And, my personal favourite:

Father “I have something to tell you. It’s about your turtles.”
Me “Why, what happened?”
Father “Well one of them was very sick, and…”
Me “It died.” [I think the lack of remorse in my voice ticked him off on this one.]
Father “Well, yes. I put it in the freezer.”
Me “Wait… WHAT?”
Father “I thought you might want to say goodbye.”
Me “You put my turtle… in the freezer?!”
Father “…Perhaps you’d like someone to talk to. Would you like me to call the therapist?”

Learning to drive

Recently I have been studying for my driving test. As I have mentioned I am not very good at studying. My mind tends to wander and I end up on the most counterproductive thought trains. Today, while reviewing the ‘International Traffic Signs’ booklet I got a little distracted and ended up making up my own captions for some of the signs:




In all honesty, I feel very prepared for my test. I also reviewed the questions booklet of local driving laws. My favourite question by far was, in short, “Who other than a police officer has the lawful right to stop you on the road?” Answer? “A man with a horse or any other animal.” Really, I got quite excited. I mean any other animal? That’s a lot of possibilities! I figure now if I fail my driving test I can just take my cat out on the road and demand that someone pull over and give me a ride. I could even use a gold fish.

ADDITION:
Upon further inspection the grammatical incorrections in the legal examination booklet of 'Light Motor Vehicle Driver's Examination Study Guide' make it so difficult to focus on what they are trying to ask. For example "What does the law require as regards tinted glass and windshield of vehicles?"is not proper English, that kind of question would not be accepted in the real world. Now I blame my inability to study on the incredible need for these people to hire a literary editor and not my borderline ADHD. Good to know it's not all my fault.
Wish me luck!

What do YOU want to be when you grow up?

When I was younger and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up the answer was always easy, but never the same. Sometimes I would say “a model!” in my over eager squeaky pre-teen voice. Other times I would say “a scientist” in an effort to justify the freaky experiments I used to conduct in my bedroom (I am normal, I promise! No one ever got hurt.). The most frequent, however, was my heartfelt dream “I’m going to be a writer.” Or journalist, I said one or the other; point is I wanted to base a career on utilizing the English language and earn a living off nothing but my words. I no longer want to be a model (I’m not tall enough…) and I most certainly have no interest in being a scientist, but I have not quite pulled my head out of the writing cloud.

Now when people ask me what I want to do with my life they expect a more definitive answer. My dad’s friends want to hear that I am going to follow in his footsteps and become a lawyer, my sisters friends all ask why I am not perusing the performing arts as well, and my mum’s friends… well she doesn’t really have any friends. (Just kidding mum!) In any event I no longer have my idealistic view of life and now my only answer is “I have no idea.” It’s about that time, however, where I should decide these things. Or I should at least make an attempt to. I suppose when applying to colleges and choosing a major they would be less than pleased if I said ‘When I grow up I want to be just like Allie Brosh! (Hyperbole and a Half) or Charlie McDonnell (Charlie is so cool like)’

I took AP Psychology this year and in a sleep-deprived stupor I even allowed myself to think ‘maybe I want to be a therapist…’ I then envisioned some of my future sessions:
Client: “There is this girl…”
Me: “Ew.”
Client: “I think she’s the one.”
Me: “10 bucks says she isn’t!”
Client: “But she makes my life worth living.”
Me: “The window’s right over there. If she’s all you’ve got worth a damn I suggest you do yourself a favour. We’re on the 21st floor, the drop should give you some time to think.”
I imagine, however, that after that first session my nice 21st floor office would be taken away and my license would be revoked.

All roads seem to lead back to writing. I even wrote a book last year. A friend recently told me I should get my work published, but as I said it’s just a dream. Dreams don’t really come true, now do they?

I hate birds

Dear birds,
I hate you. Every morning I wake to the sound of your ecstatic chirps and squeaks and screeches. I feel like I am being assaulted by your exuberance. This is not okay. I do not enjoy being assaulted by your exuberance. It is not fun for me. Especially on days like today when I wake up with a splitting migraine for the fourth consecutive day.

Your range of pitch varies between mind numbing and brainwashing me into stabbing small, fluffy animals. I like fluffy animals. Do you know the theory that various audio waves or frequencies can stimulate an individual to do things they would not otherwise be inclined to do, like Zoolander killing the president of Korea or whoever he was going to kill. Your early morning pitch does that to me. You make me want to stab fluffy animals, birds, and that is not okay.
Likewise, if I am forced to retreat from the world and come home early because afore mentioned migraine that I started the day with has worsened to the point where it hurts to blink, this is not an open invitation to fly into my bedroom and declare how much you missed me while I am trying to rest my weary head.
Chances are, I did not miss you birds. I do not love you.

Sincerely,
Tara

PS- I am not Cinderella, I do not need you to sing to me as I get dressed in the morning.

People who watch movies like they're in them

There are some people in this world that feel the need to comment on life, like a sports commentator that took a wrong turn, missed the field and ended up sitting in the seat right behind me in the cinema. I recently saw A-Team for the third time in two weeks, but this was certainly my most interactive viewing yet. Do you know those people in the theatre who sometimes forget the movie is just a movie? They end up commenting on everything on screen as if they were there too, living through the action. Trouble is, I know that if they actually were there they would get themselves (and probably all the big movie stars) killed. As fun as that would be to watch it would cut the movie very short and I don't know if I am willing to pay money to watch a 20 minute movie.

I got into the cinema early this time and picked a seat right in the middle. As the 'coming soon' trailers started three men walked in and sat in the seats right behind me, my sister, and my good friend. I didn't get a good look at two of them but the one sitting just behind me to my left (the only one I could see when I looked over my shoulder) was short, overweight, and wearing a black skull cap with Jack from The Nightmare Before Christmas printed on the front. For anyone who has not seen The Nightmare Before Christmas (some of Tim Burton's finest work if I do say so myself) it is not something that grown men walk around donned in related paraphernalia.
As soon as the lights dimmed my Nightmare Before Christmas friend behind me (let's call him Jack) declared to the darkening room "Oh de light goin’ down, try not to touch me"… Right Jack, because that was on the top of my to do list. He then felt the need to read out every word that flashed across the screen. Now Jack, I may not be a 30 year old deadbeat parading around in the accessories of a 12-year-old boy, but I assure you I can read.
In this particular movie there was a catch phrase of sorts that the lead characters have coined: "Alpha Mike Foxtrot". Jack boy was very proud of himself because after the first two times they said it he figured out what it meant and liked to recite it as they said it in the movie. Jack, I am sorry to be the one to tell you this but those men are fictional characters. They are not real. They are not your friends.
Speaking of friends, half an hour into the film Jack's friend (sitting directly behind me) thought it best to answer his phone. He proceeded to have a conversation with who I can only assume was his mother about coming home for dinner and cleaning his room. I kid you not, this man was pushing 30… Way to grow up my friend.
Needless to say, the person in the film that these 3 men most identified with was the mentally unstable pilot with a death wish. Surprise surprise.

These men really made this an interactive experience. They had something to say at every point in the movie. I will now share with you their repeated opinions:
On Murdock the crazy pilot "Murdock is a real G!" I know that G is supposed to represent gangster but I cannot wrap my head around how being a 'functional lunatic' makes you a gangster so I will try some alternatives. Great? No, 'a real great' is just grammatically incorrect. Good man? Well he was responsible for many explosive deaths in that movie so he is not good in the general definition of the word. The best I could come up with is "Murdock is a real giraffe.” He was a relatively tall man? I don’t know, I do my best.
On the backstabbing evil CIA agent "This man is a real noob!" You think that the man who betrayed everyone close to him and plotted and executed many murders is a noob? Thanks, I can sleep well at night. Need I remind you, Jack, that you are wearing an animated skeleton's face on your head?
Their views on BA, the replacement character for Mr T however were undoubtedly their best. See, for some reason, all three of them got it into their collectively small heads that they would be a better Mr T than the hired actor. All they seemed to have to say whenever the token black guy was on screen was "I pity the fool!" My friends I am sure he pities you.

That being said, I feel the need to mention my sister, maybe because the crazy man was also her favourite or maybe because she is what I like to call 'an interactive TV watcher'. Now, I have a very special place in my heart for my dear sister but some of her quirks are just so fun to mock. When I am watching a TV series with her sometimes I find it hard to keep my eyes on the screen. I guarantee if you sat facing my sister with your back to a TV screen while she was watching one of her favourite series you would know everything that was happening. She is loud, she is fidgety and she is very emotional. Hey, at least she didn't cry when Bambi's mom died.

'Words of Wisdom'

When I announced to my facebook world that I had joined the wide world of blogging the first response I received was ‘Oh I can't wait to see what "wisdom" you are going to impart on the world at large.’ Naturally it was riddled with sarcasm but it gave me an idea. Maybe, just maybe, I could combine my advanced humour with my mature wisdom and create a hybrid blog. Funny and smart? I thought to myself, I could be unstoppable! Then I remembered; many out there are not yet evolved enough for my superior ways of thinking. Or, put more modestly, I find it hard to be ‘wise’ in the blurry tired days of summer. But I promise, wisdom will come. Until then, I share with you my humours ways as I had primarily intended.

(Until my wisdom comes to me and I find the words to share it with you, check out Zefrank.)

How a 6 year old made me his bitch

I was standing on the staircase by the library with my friend and her beaux, killing time before class. I suppose my friend and I were being rather inconsiderate in our spatial awareness, as we seemed to be standing on the same stair, blocking any passers-by. I did not realise this, however, until a young boy who must have been about six years old came trotting up to us, books in hand, and muttered “excuse me” to my feet. Said friend and I separated, clearing space for the small boy to continue up the stairs. If I had thought about it at the time I may have wondered why he was heading up the stairs in the first place as the elementary school is strictly the bottom half of the building, leaving the middle and high schoolers to dominate the upper level. This detail, however, was unimportant.

Just as the child came level with my friend and I- that is to say, as soon as his foot touched down on the same stair that we were both standing on- he fell. I’m talking ker-freakin-splat. Out of nowhere! I had to fight to stifle my laughter as I was positive that the poor boy was close to tears. At this point my friend bent down and helped him collect his books and sent him merrily on his way. However, two steps later, he was on the floor again. Splat. I know it is not right to laugh at other’s misfortune, and a small child’s at that, but I could not stifle the giggle that escaped my lips then. This must have been what alerted him to my presence. He gathered his books on his own this time, but did not get up. Instead he sat on his stair and turned to directly face me, staring me down. Finally I offered “Would you like some help?” in what I thought was charity (and a little bit of guilt from having laughed at him). His response however, was an expectant “yes.”
I ascended the two steps between us and bent down to help this little kid up. I gathered his three thin books in my own arms and waited as he steadily rose to his feet once more. I moved to hand his books back to him, but before I could the little rascal was bounding up the remainder of the staircase, not a slip or a wobble to his step (‘from two tumbles to this swift escape?’ I thought here). Following him up two flights of stairs with his books in my hand I could not help but wander what had just happened. Finally we reached the top, I handed the boy back his books, and he scurried away.

I returned to my friends at the bottom of the stairs, now all snickering at me. I looked at them, a group of four or so people, laughing openly now at the puzzled expression on my face, and revealed my concern. “Guys,” I said, “I think that boy just made me his bitch.”
I guess there is a first time for everything.

Blogging

I have never blogged before. I have read exactly four blogs in my lifetime and only really followed three of them. So, suffice to say, I am new to this particular activity. I guess I decided to blog for two main reasons:

1. I am a very open person. Wait, no, that’s a lie. I actually hate sharing my feelings. In that way I am very not open- closed I suppose you could say. Guarded. Aside from that, however, I am a very open person. I share my opinions like candy at Halloween. When I feel strongly about something I will say it. If I really like someone’s shirt I will tell them. If I really dislike my teacher’s teaching methods, I will tell them (usually not a good idea, FYI). Also, I have recently stumbled upon the fact that sometimes, in the right circumstance and after enough sleep deprivation, brain surge from studying, or sugar intake, I can be quite a funny person. Which leads me to my second point.

2. I really, really, really don’t like studying. I’d much rather blog.

So, after careful consideration, I decided to start a blog. Then came the age-old-questionwhat should I call it?

Growing up I was always- and I suppose I still am- more than a little awkward. Physically I was short, sickeningly thin, and had long frizzy, curly hair. Not much of a looker, to say the least. I like to believe that’s improved over the years, or at least I hope it has, because my resounding confidence would be really unfortunate if I were still so unattractive. Now my main awkwardness is reserved for social interaction. Anyway, when I was in primary school my cunning classmates discovered that my name, said backwards, is (and I dread to say it) A Rat. It became my nickname, even when I moved to a new school at fourteen my new ‘friends’ dubbed me Rat-Rat. The humiliation has followed me throughout my short life so I decided if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em! I am embracing the title and have decided to entitle my blog Memories of a rat. How’s that for original.

Enjoy!