>Attention all political science scholars: Stop putting numbers/graphs/technical blah blah jargon in your articles. Nobody reads them (shut up you totally don’t), and your argument is lost in them. Stop it this instant.

-ezmy

>
Do you know what I did today? I purchased an exceptionally silly pair of miniature oven mitts. I did NOT finish the readings that I wanted to finish. I did NOT finish the assignment that I wanted to finish. I did NOT remember to pick up the dry-cleaning. But I remembered that one time, a while ago, I burned my hand in the oven and I decided that today was the day to purchase mini oven mitts. Which in itself is ridiculous because mini oven mitts don’t cover the whole hand – more to the point, they don’t cover the part that I burned before… you know, the burn that spurred the whole mini oven mitt purchase. But I couldn’t really afford the regular oven mitts. Well, I couldn’t afford the cute regular oven mitts…there were lame ones there in my price range but they had grandma flowers all over them or little pictures of cheese graters. No thanks. So I picked up these polka dot semi-useless mini oven mitts that are very cute and that will certainly not work properly for me long run and that I will eventually replace with new, full-sized oven mitts which means that I will have spent WAY more than was necessary on effing oven mitts in total.

My brain hurts. And now I’m off to read about other people’s existential crises. I should wear my cute polka dot mini oven mitts while I read. Get some use out of them.

-ezmy

>

I remember watching American sitcoms when I was in highschool (Friends!) and thinking about how cool it was going to be when I was old enough to party it up on spring break. I had these images of myself going to Mexico with my crazy cool friends and we’d all wear bikinis and go to dance parties and be on TV. This, after all, was what university was all about right? Parties! And being on TV!

Right. So I’m on “spring break” right now. Have been for a few days. And I am not writing to you from some posh resort in Mexico and I am not sipping a fruity beverage from a hollowed out coconut. I am, instead, sitting in my cold apartment in Ottawa, land of the never-ending snow, sipping cold twig tea and sifting through a stack of articles concerning women’s movements from around the world. What the hell? And I know people who are in Acapulco right now having the time of their lives. I know others who are in New York shopping and drinking and eating and BAH! I’d like to know where people, especially people in GRAD school, get the bloody time. Because I sure don’t have it. I mean money aside (which I don’t have either), how do these people do it?! In between researching for other people, reading, writing papers, reading, marking, reading, coming up with discussion questions, and of course reading, I can’t even find the time to make-out with my boyfriend for crying out loud. God.

In other news, I’m on a sugar-free, alcohol-free, exercise kick right now. The goal of this is threefold: 1) to identify the source of my ulcer-like stomach aches, 2) to prove to myself that I do in fact possess will power and 3) to become a goddess-like picture of health. Ha. Every now and then I go through one of these phases; they usually last about one week and are generally kicked off by some sort of social event I feel I need to prepare for (my sister’s wedding, xmas holidays away, etc). This time, it’s my highschool reunion. Which is funny because I don’t actually think I’m going to go. I hated highschool with the passion of a thousand burning suns so why the hell I would want to go back for a fun-filled night of “reminiscing” about this time of my life is beyond me. But if I do go back, I want to look hot. Which is shallow and stupid and I don’t care. I’m able to justify it with goals 1) and 2) so there.

-ezmy

>So grad school really sucks the life out of you. Meaning blogging doesn’t happen. And now, because blogging hasn’t happened in a while, I have too much to say. Let’s see how far I get:

First, I’m happy to report that grad school kicks ass. Going back felt like going home. Back to the land of paper writing, arguing with Marxists/Libertarians/Conservatives, and discussing the inner workings of the Just War tradition. Bliss. But holy crap it’s busy. It’s not really the classes that are crazy – although the classes do bend the mind in ways I never thought possible – it’s everything else….the TAing, the RAing, the always-degrading-rarely-rewarding hunt for grad school funding, the conferences, etc. I know people who have social lives but I like to tell myself that they aren’t doing well in class (even though I know that’s not true). I’ve been told it gets easier though so here’s hoping.

Second, and related to the first, I’m back to TAing only this time I’m marking…a lot. And holy hellfire but marking, especially marking first year papers, is one serious test of the sanity. In order to highlight what I’ve had to spend my Saturdays reading, the following is a list of interesting “facts” of which I was not aware before I began marking:

-Osama bin Laden and George W Bush planned the war in Afghanistan years before it actually happened so that the United States would be able to attack China if it had to.

-Africa is not a continent but is, in fact, a country.

-Rwanda has no history after the 19th century.

-Multi-national corporations are socially responsible and are picked on too much.

-the United Nations deserves its own neutral territory and army.

-peace in the Middle East is possible if we just give Jerusalem to the Palestinians.

-the US started the Cold War in 1979.

In actual fact, it’s not the ideas that bug me half as much as the absolutely APPALLING grammar. I mean my good god people. If you are 18 and do not know the difference between there, their, and they’re, we have a problem.

Phew, I knew I would get tired half way into this. I’ll complete this post tomorrow.

>So, I never really got around to blogging about this but I shaved my head. Back in June. I had been colouring it black for awhile and was just plain tired of it….tired of the money spent, the environmental damage, the having to go to the hairdressers (note: I hate going to hair salons at the best of times – it’s the mindless chatter…I can’t STAND the mindless chatter. And when you are having your hair cut, coloured AND blow dried, it means you’re going to be at that salon for a good couple of hours. That means two hours or so of “So are you married? Do you have any kids? you know, I think Posh Spice is just fantastic! Have you heard what happened to Britney? It’s such a shame isn’t it? blah diddy blah blah. And don’t try and tell me that I could just not talk back because I can’t, alright? I’m just not capable). Anyways, all of this added up to me thinking I want short hair again. Which led me to think, huh, maybe I could raise some money for having short hair. Which led me to begin a little fundraising campaign, which raised about $1300 for ovarian cancer research. Yay me.

So it’s growing back now, as hair will do. It’s about half an inch long. And today, I went into a public washroom at Chapters and there was this girl in there with her mum. And she, the girl, was staring at me. I mean really staring at me, to the point where I thought “I wonder if this kid has a problem or if I’m wearing my bra on the outside of my shirt”. Looking down to check, I conclude this kid has a problem. Then the kid says loudly “Mummy!! What’s a BOY doing in OUR washroom!!?”. And do you know what her mum says? “I. Don’t. Know.”

You don’t know? YOU don’t know?

It’s not even that I’m insulted by this (my ego is bruised but, having lived and worked with supermodel-esque women for most of my adult life, I’m used to this by now). It’s that I don’t understand. Did this woman really think that I was a boy? A boy with C-cup breasts? Really? And if she did think so, why didn’t she say something to me? Something like “um, excuse me but I think you’re in the wrong loo” to which I could have responded with “um, excuse me but I’m a girl hence the purse, mascara, and (annoyingly) visible bra-strap” (note: when WILL they make a bra that works for people with little to no space between shoulder and boobage?). Does she just accept the idea of men wondering into the women’s loo? And if she didn’t think that I was a boy, why didn’t she explain to her inquiring offspring that some women choose to wear their hair short? Would it have been that difficult to have this earth-shattering conversation? I mean, it’s not like the kid asked where babies come from or what a lesbian is or something (I get a twisted joy out of watching parents squirm and search for baby-proofed, dumbed-down answers to these sorts of questions). Now the kid goes on thinking that all girls have long hair and all boys have short hair. She probably also thinks that all girls love to cook and sew and that all boys love trucks and building things.

Argh.

>Less than a year ago today, I moved out with A., aka funniest man I know. We had known each other for at least two seconds. We ran away to Ottawa and tried to settle into our one bedroom apartment situated at the crossroads of Loserville Ave and Iregretmyteenagepregnancy Lane. The place was cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and came complete with a screaming toddler who I can only assume was being tortured regularly down the hall.

So when A. suggested we move, I hesitated. What would I do without my daily dose of screaming Carter, the king of the terrible twos? And what about our waterfront property, overlooking the swimming pool of sludge that overflowed with dirty diapers in the winter and with rotten children in the summer? How would we find a place to match our current apartment bliss?

And it’s not just our current apartment that the new place would have to measure up to. Take a look at these juicy chateaus of awesomeness:

1998-1999
Ezmy resides in a one bedroom basement flat twenty minutes from UVic. Said flat contains: One broken chair with matching three legged table, one tired goldfish, one futon bed that fills the bedroom entirely, and a collection of mismatched pots and pans. The entire apartment save the bathroom is carpeted in new-born-baby-poo coloured carpet. The couple living upstairs, affectionately referred to as the Laundry Nazis, argue constantly and refuse to let her use the washing machine. They do, however, deliver chocolate cake on occasion. But the joy of this is quickly muted by the handwritten message shoved under the door informing Ezmy that she is not allowed to have “gentlemen callers”. She moves out after four months.

1999-2000
Ezmy moves to Wallace, a residence on UVic campus. Single room = fantastic. “Mature Building” = I’m sorry what? I couldn’t hear you over the beer funnel. Cafeteria food, fantastic crew of friends, and the constant flow of fresh, young guys/gals to corrupt make this place the best place Ezmy lives in for years to come. It’s like Spring Break every day.

2000-2002
Having failed everything due to the awesomeness of the previous living arrangement, Ezmy drops out of school, runs away to Toronto at the wise old age of 19, and moves into a one bedroom basement shack with good pal AB. While there is no heat, the only bathroom is in the bedroom which means that when AB has gentlemen callers, Ezmy gets to hear them pee. Also interesting is the persistent dog smell and the complete lack of security. Ezmy and AB are a simple bathroom door lock away from the rapists and murderers. The apartment is furnished with a couch retrieved from the street, a coffee table donated to them from AB’s aunt, and a 1960s black and white television. Capping off this splendor is the couple upstairs who argue loudly all morning about money whilst their screaming toddler plays Let’s Catch the Dog on rollerskates.

2002-2003
Ezmy relocates with AB to a new apartment. They are joined by two other ladies who turn out to be strippers in disguise. The new house, a four bedroom Leaning Tower of Pisa, is over-flowing with mice which Stripper #1’s cat takes to drowning in her water bowl. The fridge, when it works, is full of rotten canteloupe and leftover eggs and the shelves are stocked with laxative tea. The front balcony has bags of garbage on it that are there when Ezmy arrives in July 2002 and still there when she leaves in May 2003. The kitchen light never works. When not practicing their routines, Stripper #1 and #2 are either a) baked, b) entertaining “clients”, or c) both. For a full week, Ezmy listened to “I wear my sunglasses at night” on repeat because this was the new routine song. Sometimes the Strippers go on eating binges – while fun, this generally means that Ezmy will not be able to use the washroom for the next two days as it will be occupied.

2003-2004
Ezmy moves to Roy Jodrey Hall, a residence at Acadia University. Once again, she is forced to live on cafeteria food (read bagels and cream cheese as this is the only edible food substance in said cafeteria) and cheap beer which somehow isn’t as fulfilling a diet as it was back in 1999. Also, there is a distinct lack of people to make out with, largely because the campus ratio is 4-1 but also because Ezmy is old at 23. Luckily Ezmy meets DM, a strapping young lad who proceeds to make the next three years extremely difficult albeit interesting. A massive learning experience is about to take place. But before then, Ezmy must endure a full year of listening to a student metal band down the hall destroy Black Sabbath tunes and sharing a washroom with a guy who pees around instead of in the toilet and a girl who wears more perfume than all of France.

2004-2005
Ezmy and DM move to a two-bedroom apartment across the street from the local cemetery which is disturbingly busy for a town of 3000. Said apartment is carpeted with beige shag from the 70s and a brilliant yellow floral tile from the same time period. The bathroom has an intriguing colour scheme of robin’s egg blue, porn-star orange, avocado green and dirt brown. From the day they move in to the day they move out, the entire place smells of furniture polish and fish eggs.

2005-2006
Ezmy and DM relocate to a one bedroom cement shack in the same town. This apartment is made entirely of cinder-block which has been painted white, presumably to give it a more home-y feel but resulting in a stark, psychiatric ward feel. The kitchen is not so much a room as a glorified hallway leading to the bedroom. The bathtub has no tile around the faucet but instead has packing tape holding said faucet to the wall – packing tape which grows blacker with mildew every day but which is impossible to remove from the wall. The ceiling leaks every time the people upstairs shower, contributing to a persistent wall of mold in the bathroom and an equally persistent smell of used shower curtain in the apartment. The man living next door refers to his girlfriend affectionately as “Stupid Bitch” and the gentlemen living above us have a steady stream of underage “hoes” visiting them. The apartment itself is located on top of the largest hill in the world at the bottom of which is the university, grocery store, and all other necessities. This goes from being a pain in the ass to a downright hellish nuisance when DM decides to move to Halifax, taking his car with him. Ezmy gets amazing legs.

UPDATE: Radmama has pointed out another fun fact about the above apartment that I can only assume I missed because I’ve subconsiously tried to block it from my memory. Living above us was a guy I refered to as “Creepy Dan”, a single father with a kid who I’m still convinced he rented to give him the appearance of being normal. I’ve never met anyone creepier and I lived in downtown Toronto for years and worked in some pretty sketchy bars/restaurants. He’d sit on his porch while his rented kid rode his trike around and he would stare at the “hoes” and, more annoyingly, me. Long, greasy hair in a pony tail, skinny, and just icky. Icky, icky, icky. You had to be there but trust me, Icky with a capital I.

Shockingly, we were able to find an even better apartment than those listed above. After an extensive apartment search (read we looked at two apartments one lazy Sunday), A. and I decided to rent the second floor of a house. Two bedrooms, balcony, sunroom, nifty bathroom complete with claw-foot tub (yay!), and a stone’s throw away from everything including a Starbucks. Doodle and Zoe are in seventh heaven as the place is full of sitting spots from which to view all of the doings in the neighbourhood. Aside from the slight smell of hardwood floor polish, which I assume will air out shortly, this apartment is perfect.

After living on her own for 10 years, Ezmy has finally found a place that feels like home.

Pictures to be posted soon…

>So this morning, I was walking toward the elevator with a co-worker. We were chatting and paying little attention to a tall fellow directly in front of us. The tall fellow, wearing a t-shirt that says “I survived Team Building 2006” went into the elevator and began hastily pushing the ‘close door’ button. But since we were directly behind him, we managed to get in. He, elevator loser, was heading to the 13th floor. We were heading to the 5th floor. The following dialogue ensued:

Elevator Loser: (muttering) “crap, missed it.”

minute passes…

Elevator Loser: (to the other guy in the elevator) “That’s my biggest pet peeve. When people get on the elevator after me, and then get off on a floor before me.”

Other guy: “yeah, I know eh?”

I’m sorry, but WHAT? God. I have days where I wonder if I’m even remotely related to the human species. This was one of those days. One can only assume that this man is constantly peeved since we work in a building with 13 floors with hundreds of other people who, presumably do not all get off on the 13th floor with elevator loser or avoid this man’s elevator like the plague. Every morning, these people all crowd into the elevators to get to their offices, often spilling coffee on my shoes and chattering about their sex lives/children/spouses or what have you. How does he manage? Interesting also is that THIS is his biggest peeve. Biggest. My good lord but this man lives in a tiny world. He’s not as peeved by say, people who walk at the pace of snails through the mall. He is not as peeved by people who refuse to remove their screaming child from a movie theatre. He is not as peeved by people who don’t put their turn signal on until the last possible second, thus forcing you to sit behind them through an entire light and the one after while you wait for them to turn left. Nope. People using the same elevator as him without having the courtesy to get off on the same floor as him. THIS is what really cooks his cheese.

Sigh.

>Two interesting developments in my professional life: I was issued a corporate credit card AND I was given a business card with my name on it and everything. (Is it weird, by the way, that even with this spiffy “real” job, I still feel like a kid in a grown-up world? I always sort of thought I’d hit an age where I would feel….older. Grown-up. Fully adult. Where I’d emerge, phoenix-like, from my uncomfortable adolescence and suddenly have better clothes, hair, and skin, and a sharp, professional persona. It occurs to me that I’ll be 30 in a couple of years and this phoenix-phase hasn’t happened yet. But I digress.)

Anyways, so yes, I have a corporate Amex. Which really means nothing but looks sophisticated sitting in my wallet. It means I can take business lunches with important clients – that is to say, I could take business lunches with important clients if I had any, which I don’t. It also means that when I travel for work, which happens about once a year, I can charge it myself without having to beg a senior executive for their card to expense my flight. Exciting. For me, the corporate Amex really signifies a trust that I’ve never had from an employer. Up until now, I’ve only ever worked for companies who assume that I am a thief who just hasn’t been caught yet (submitting myself to bag checks, being told I can’t enter the premises after a certain time, having to log every minute I spend not working, having someone double count everything I do, etc etc). Microsoft not only lets me come and go as I choose, but gives me a credit card to fund my comings and goings (to a limited but still interesting extent). It’s nice to be considered trustworthy.

Somewhat less thrilling is the business card. Here, I have to admit I was a little disappointed. I had always envisioned my first business card to be…well cool. This one isn’t. I mean, it says my name on it and my important sounding position, but it’s not cool. I don’t know how to explain it. I mean, what was I expecting? 3D holograms or dancing girls to just pop out of it? I don’t know. Still, I can leave “my card” places, which I’m going to do, randomly, just to confuse people.

I’m not sure why I thought I’d share this with the blogosphere, but whatever. Off to work now – a billion pointless emails to answer and some leftover cake (oh office parties) to munch on.

-ezmy

>
Hello!
Alright, so I haven’t been around for awhile. The truth is that I kept trying to start an “update” post but it was just so dull and lengthy that I kept giving up. So here’s what’s happened in point form:
*I have a new job – Internal Sales Support -Public Sector at Microsoft Canada
*I have new hair as evidenced above.
*I am going to Carleton University in the fall to work on my MA in political science.
*I won a bunch of scholarship money for being all brainy and such.
*My younger sister is getting married which officially makes me old.
*My relationship with the l-dog is still going strong – a fact that may not be big news to those who don’t know me but is probably pretty surprising news to those who do.
*I celebrated my one year blogger anniversary, albeit without my blogger buddies.

That’s the whole shebang. I mean, I could get into the long and sordid story of how I quit my job at Jacob (I walked out one night – it was bee u ti ful) but it’s pretty much your basic I-hate-retail-management-pushed-me-over-the-edge-would-have-killed
-a-customer-if-I’d-stayed-much-longer-so -really-I-did-this-for-better-of-humankind sort of nonsense. I could also get into the details of my two hour stint at a call centre, where I learned the finer points of selling health insurance crap to Americans, but that story is pretty much a shorter version of the previous. I could also get into the details of how I moved from receptionist at Microsoft to Internal Sales, but that story is a little dangerous. Let’s just say that the person who was working in Internal Sales is no longer with the company and, given how she left things, will unlikely be hired anywhere else in Ottawa this century. Thank god for people doing stupid things is all I can say. Now I have a spiffy job with my own cubicle, computer, and phone line. Hello corporate Canada, I’m here to have my soul sucked in a different way. I’ll admit that I felt bad about working for another giant corporation, but rationalized this career move (rather accident – I basically fell into this one) by saying that a) it’s only for a little while and b) at least my soul is being sucked for more than minimum wage. Further, the office is fantastic and I’ve met some great people. So whatever.

Anyways, I’m back. I must be off for a film now but Happy Easter everybody – not that this means very much to me, what with my being completely void of religious sentiment and all. I hope you’re all having a lovely time thinking about J-boy or whoever it is you think about on this day. Tata for now!

-ezmy

>

HELLO!

I know, it’s been centuries. But I’ve been ridiculously busy. An update:

*it’s 2007
*I was visited by THREE different sets of company, thus making me (and l-dog) feel very popular
*I no longer work in retail

First things first. It’s 2007! I love the new year feeling. At no other time of the year do I have that redo-fix-er-up-this-is-your-time feeling like I do at New Years. But before reviewing my lofty, overly optimistic goals for this year, let’s sum up last years dismal achievements, shall we?

1) I learned how to knit.
2) I got a BaH in Political Science.
3) I semi-successfully relocated to a new city.
4) I raised a tiny kitten, who is now a crazy cat (ok, I’m reaching here but I really didn’t do all that much).
5) I did NOT kill a single customer.

Oh and I met a singularly attractive man and managed to convince him that, while I am crazy, I am also a worthwhile relationship investment. Silly boy.

Anyways, given that last year was rather uneventful in terms of great achievements, (such as discovering the cure for AIDS or fine-tuning my proposal for brain transplant procedures), this years goals are as follows:

1) To get accepted into an MA program, preferably at Carleton University.
2) To learn how to speak French well enough that I can say bilingual on my resume.
3) To not get pregnant, married or similar.
4) To become a certified yoga instructor.
5) To discover the cure for the common cold.

Right. I’m off to a good start. Applications are going in and I’ve plugged some French dialogue onto my iPod so that I spend each morning listening to Mme so and so buying a “juicy steak” from the butcher and Mon. so and so talking about the weather a la francais. I am not, to my knowledge pregnant or married or similar. And I’ve researched yoga studios in Ottawa and am signing up for classes to get back in shape as we speak.

The common cold cure will have to wait until March.