Someday I will be a great writer.
And when that day comes, it will be evidenced in my great book.
Which I will promote with a great video.
Just like the one embedded in this post.
Please watch it and take a hit of inspiration for the weekend:
And then please buy me that book for Christmas.
I turned in my last paper of the semester this afternoon, and as I left the classroom, I heard a chorus of angels.
No, really. I did.
At first I thought it was just in my head because I do that sometimes, but after a few seconds I realised the chorus wasn’t just singing one heavenly chord like they usually do in the heads of people on cheesy sitcoms, but instead they were singing an entire song—a Christmas song, no less.
Joy to the World.
By the time I realised the chorus was real, I had made it to the atrium of the university and was heading up The Staircase to my next class, but I couldn’t rest until I figured out where the angels were (running with the assumption that they were not, in fact, in my head).
I backtracked a few steps into the centre of the atrium and looked around—plenty of kids with headphones on, but none with ghetto blasters. And no choir in sight.
I walked back to the staircase and leaned over the railing, peering down a few levels to where the drama majors usually hang out, but all I saw were the regular black lipstick wearing kids—not exactly my idea of angels—and anyway they weren’t singing.
I decided to start walking up the stairs toward my next class to see if the angels were up there, but they weren’t: after an entire flight, the music only got softer.
So I walked back down the staircase (by this time anybody watching had surely deduced that I was off my meds or something), which, strangely, didn’t result in an increase of heavenly volume. Every direction I went, the angels were one step ahead of me.
I started to feel frantic—where were the angels? Why were they singing? Why wouldn’t they show themselves to me?
Just as I was about to ditch my backpack and jog through the halls to find them, I had an epiphany:
IT DOESN’T MATTER.
They were singing Christmas carols, they sounded beautiful, and if they wanted to stay hidden, I should respect that. They were angels, after all. They could smite me if I wasn’t careful.
So I reshouldered the burden of my heavy pack and headed back up the stairs to sit through my last class of the semester. As I trekked up that ridiculous staircase—the bane of my existence these long years—I decided that All Was as it Should Be. I had been sent a gift—a last-day-of-term miracle—and all I needed to do was accept it.
By the time I made it to the eighth floor, I had all but convinced myself I was God’s Chosen University Student, His particular favourite and enlightened. He had sent me a chorus of hidden angels (now they were singing “Hark, Hear the Bells,” my personal fave), and not in my head but in real life (even though they were nowhere to be seen). I was Joan of Lethbridge.
I rounded the corner from the staircase landing and stepped toward the hallway where my class was held. From the corner of my eye I saw a new installment on the wall beside the staircase where they let the art students hang their projects to make them feel like they’re real artists in a gallery instead of what they really are, which is a whole bunch of failures. The installment had a Christmas theme—fir trees, stars, the like.
Having just learned about German Expressionism in my art history class, I recalled the notion of “Total Artwork:” the idea that art consists not only of a painting on a wall, but of taste, touch, smell…and sound.
I tried not to do it. I tried to leave my faith unchallenged, unchecked, untried. I tried to walk straight on to my class without another thought, but just like Lot’s wife (she didn’t deserve a name, the floozy), I looked back.
And there, in the corner of the wall, was a speaker painted white so as to blend in, to conceal itself from the faithful.
The same sort of speaker that is wired into every wall of the university.
My angels were an iPod on a repeat loop hooked up in the basement New Media lab being negligently manned by a bearded grad student getting paid twelve dollars an hour to make sure nobody steals the audiovisual equipment.
I went to class, took my last notes of the semester, and drove away from campus without further incident.
Thanks to everyone who participated in last weekend’s Saturday Steals. I was worried that switching to a once-monthly routine would make everyone forget about the goodness of SS, but there was still an excellent turnout. Holler.
In case you were too busy or lazy to see what everybody got, here’s a quick recap:
Irene turned 24 and got a whole haul of gifts, including but certainly not limited to one of the Glee soundtracks. Jeal.
Nain scored two $5 gift cards to Starbucks just for completing a couple of surveys. I don’t drink coffee but I love me some peppermint hot cocoa. Jeal again.
Kelley landed a whole bunch of baby gear for free/cheap, which is excellent on account of the fact that she’s currently in the process of growing a baby.
Ditto Geevz, who through a series of really confusing purchases and returns somehow got a smoking deal on a bunch of baby gear (plus also too she had a baby shower, resulting in the above photo). Go read her post to see if you can make any sense of how she worked out her good deal, then come back and explain it to me in dummy terms. You never know, I might need to learn how to do land those kinds of awesome deals someday…
My English friend Ros (I cannot talk about Ros without calling her my English friend, did you notice?) scored—and I mean SCORED—this super cute skirt for SEVEN PENCE. In American words, that’s like…I don’t know, fourteen cents or something. SERIOUSLY? Seriously. I hope she paid for it in pennies, plunking them into the cashier’s hand one at a time.
Nain, valiant stealer that she is, came back for round two of Saturday Steals to show off the $99 gift card she won at a 5k—good for a new pair of running shoes! I WOULD be jealous if I ran. As it is, I’m just happy for her.
Chloe got married (holler for marriage!), and as a wedding gift, her new in-laws gave them a flat screen TV. Um, AWESOME! Plus it’s LG which is my absolute favourite brand of electronics and also household appliances. (I like the smiley face in the logo.) You done good, Chloe. I’ve married men for far less. : )
And Mrs. Five-to-Nine Furnishings (aka my awesome big sister) scored this headboard/footboard combination free with a purchase of a dresser from some yahoo on Craigslist. She’s a sly one, that sister. She’ll turn a profit on it for sure.
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As for me…
The only things lying between me and the end of what has arguably been the worst semester of my college career are these: one day of classes, one research paper, one creative writing portfolio, three final exams and FIVE GOLDEN RINGS.
Not really about the golden rings. (And anyway, who needs that many rings? Don’t you think five is a bit overkill when all we have are ten fingers in the first place? One or two golden rings seems sufficient. I’ve always thought so.)
Oh. And a Christmas choir program. And three or four holiday parties (or is it five), plus the desserts I have to take to each of them. And Christmas presents to buy (scratch that: Christmas presents to think of) for my family and Poor Kyle’s. And a new timing belt for George Jettson’s Christmas present—(see ya later, my lovely thousand dollars; you were wonderful to have even if only for a little while). And fourteen days.
But after that, then Poor Kyle and I are breaking OUTTA this joint. For two solid weeks. Freedom.
Two weeks have never seemed so long to me before.
But the worst is over and I am on the home stretch now, baby.
And you? What’s standing between you and your freedom? What’s blocking you from sheer bliss right this very minute?
Talk to me.
Hello, and welcome to another rousing round of Saturday Steals, where what you see is what you get and what you get is cheap or free!
To participate, simply:
1) Steal a steal.
2) Write a post about it on your blog, mentioning that you’re participating in Saturday Steals (you can steal the above image if you so desire), and
3) Add the link to said post to the list at the bottom of this post.
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As per the requirements of the central theme of my life [insert theme: Poor College Student], I have not spent much money lately. As much as I am seriously itching for a new pair of boots (I live in Canada, if ever I will have an exucse to wear boots, this is it), or some aviators, or two new winter coats, or a white dress, or a new laptop, or all of the above, I have had neither the time nor the liquid funds to embark on the shopping spree that haunts my dreams.
Pretty much the only money I’ve spent lately has been on car repairs and food.
And those purchases have left much to be desired. Needless to say.
So in keeping with this theme, I thought for this month’s Saturday Steal it would be nice to take a brief sabbatical from my research paper(s) to show you how nicely I have mastered the art of poverty and eccentricity (two main ingredients of being me).
I pack my own lunch for school nearly every day. (I used to pack Poor Kyle’s too, but I stopped when I realised that four days out of the week he ended up throwing them away once he got to work, or worse, letting them sit on his toolbox for days until the contents became a disgrace to the name of leftovers. People like Poor Kyle don’t deserve hand-packed lunches.)
Anyway, it is a fact of adulthood that packing your own lunches saves a lot of money in comparison to buying them from the fast food joint closest to your school/work. I probably spend $3.00 per day on my lunches (which my superstar couponing sister could whittle down to three cents, but then she’s always been the favoured child). Three dollars per day works out to be one thousand dollars per year LESS than what my husband spends on his lunches. He spends more on snacks at the vending machine than I do on my first two meals of the day, but whatever. It’s his money. It’s his arteries.
And yet again, I digress.
Because I feel guilty for spending so much of my husband’s money on my college education, it only seems fair that I spend as little as possible on my own basic necessities.
And now I will show you how this is done, lest you at some point find yourself in just such an unfortunate situation:
Step 1: Buy bread in bulk from Costco. Freeze two loaves while you use the third. Bread defrosts just fine.
Step 2: Prepare the dry parts of your sandwich at home: I add my meat and cheese (forgo the meat and cheese if you’re really poor and just sprinkle some salt and pepper on two slices of bread instead) at home and then squeeze the whole mess into a Ziploc bag every night before school.
Step 3: Prepare your wet toppings. For a poor girl like me, this is limited to dill pickles. If you are fortunate enough to find yourself in a position of greater wealth, you might consider tomatoes, onions, bean sprouts, avocados, or liquid gold. Whatever your budgetary limitations, slice ’em and dice ’em and pack ’em in an airtight/leakproof container for safe and odourless transportation. You wouldn’t want the juice of your liquid gold leaking out of your lunch box and announcing to the world the status of your 401K. Better keep a lid on it. (p.s. Did I mention that the reason you should pack your wet toppings separately is because it will prevent your bread from getting soggy? Nothing makes a poor college student feel worse than she alreay does about her station in life like a soggy sandwich.)
Step 4: Upon finding yourself stuck at school, drag yourself through your morning classes as best you can until lunchtime. Then, find yourself a nice deserted classroom and bunker down. Assemble the components of your sandwich, taking care to leave no inch of bread un-pickled. (Also, if possible, arrange your curvy pickle slices so that they’re spooning each other, because you might just need that kind of culinary pick-me-up at this point in your miserable day.)
Step 5: Enjoy. If you can.
Step 6: Here’s another tip for if you’re eating at home instead of school or work: I have found it incredibly useful to have a DDP chilling on the back deck for liquid refreshment.
TOTAL COST OF LUNCH: Negligible.
DIGNITY: Irretrievable
LONG-TERM VALUE OF THIS EXERCISE: It had darn well better be worth it.
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Now it’s your turn! What have you stolen lately?
Add your steal to the link list below. It will be open from now till Sunday at 11:59 p.m.
p.s. This will be your last chance to participate in Saturday Steals for a month—until the first Saturday in January [when, incidentally, we will resume with our regular weekly scheduling of Saturday Steals, hoorah].
This Friday evening will mark the start of the last Saturday Steals opportunity of the year.
AKA a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
AKA be there.
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In other news, my head hasn’t exploded yet but it almost did the other day.
Thank goodness I dodged that bullet. (DDP + Chuck Season 2 = Life-saving Combination.)
Also, winter tires are my new BFFs (sorry Poor Kyle and Anonymous My Sister and Chelsie, you’re all great, but you can’t give me traction like my main man Goodwrench).
What else? Oh, I decided I needed to bulk up and store some extra fat for the winter so I took to eating candy around Halloween and then I never stopped, so there’s that.
It’s been over two years since I have purchased an item at a Walmart. (Best decision I ever made for my consumer self.)
I’ve decided that even though Mrs. Meyers™ cleaning products seem insanely overpriced, I really don’t clean that much, so they last forever. Opportunity cost, people.
Poor Kyle called me out on nagging for the first time in our marriage, but don’t worry because the honeymoon was already over—it imploded right around the day he started throwing away the lunches I packed for him and eating from the vending machine instead. Insulted.
But it’s okay because he turned 29 and I didn’t get him a birthday present, not a single one.
Oh and it warmed up to only freezing now so don’t worry about me any more—I’m back to wearing flip flops again.
T minus 21 days and the flip flop thing will be a reality,
Camille
I have a perma-runny nose.
It’s one of the countless benefits of living in the world’s worst country.
Oh, FINE—Canada’s not the world’s WORST country. Not while Yemen is still around. It’s just cold here. Really cold.
The other day, though, after shoveling snow for 30 minutes in sub-freezing weather, I wasn’t feeling so generous toward my country of residence, and I may have accidentally exploded hate vomit for this place all over Poor Kyle’s head at dinner.
What kind of place is this? I shovel and shovel and every day there’s just as much snow to shovel. I park the car with a clear windshield and twenty minutes later it’s covered in white dust again. I turn the heater on because it’s so cold and then I turn it off because it’s too hot but in five minutes I have to turn it on again because there is no good temperature! This country’s motto should be “Come on over, relax, stay awhile! Get comfortable…if you dare.”
I wasn’t expecting Poor Kyle to get offended by my trash talk for his country because, quite frankly, he’s the least patriotic Canadian I know. Oh, he’s proud to be a Canadian and all…but he’s not the kind of guy to sugar-coat the place. He acknowledges that the cost of living is stupidly high here, and that the government is as annoying as any other. He’s not one of those irritating don’t-you-dare-say-anything-bad-about-MY-country-because-MY-country-is-the-best-and-yours-makes-you-look-fat kind of patriots. He can take a Canuck joke with the best of them.
But he did not like my hating on Canada the other day.
I guess I don’t blame him. I was getting pretty nasty. But in my defense, my brain was still defrosting.
At any rate, I managed to gulp down the last of my hate bile. I apologised for my rant and he forgave me and we went on our merry ways.
But that night, my stifled animosity, furious that I had pushed it to the dusty corners of my subconscious, reared its acrid head.
In dream form…
There I was, trudging through mounds of waist-deep snow away from George Jettson in the University parking lot toward my first class of the day. As usual, snot was running out of my nose, trailing down my face to my mouth. I couldn’t wipe it because my hands were in my gloves and my gloves were shoved into my pockets. I tried snorting it back up, but it was too far gone. I thought about waiting for it to freeze on my face, but decided I had more pride than that.
Finally, I resolved to dig out a tissue from my backpack so I could blow my nose and be done with it.
I found a tissue, crumpled and a little crusty from previous uses, but it would do.
I wiped the snot-stream. I prepared for a solid nose blow. Cupping my hands and the tissue around my schnoz, I took a deep breath, squeezed my eyes shut, and blew. First my left nostril, then my right.
I blew my nose until I started seeing tiny flashes of fireworks in my head, and just as I decided I’d given it a solid enough effort—just as I was ready to conclude my task—I felt a definite THUNK land in the tissue.
The THUNK had an unfamiliar feel to it.
It was more solid than snot.
It was bigger than a boogie, of that I was sure.
Not normally one to inspect my snotty tissues after a nose blow, I was paralysed with indecision: should I look? It’s so tacky. I hate when people look. But what if I have a tumor, and I just blew out some cancerous matter? My doctor would want to know about it.
Finally the curiosity got the best of me, and I did look.
I opened the tissue and peered down.
My eyes bulged at what they beheld: There, steaming proudly in my sopping wet tissue, sat a perfectly-shaped cylindrical pellet—brown—the approximate shape and size of a single Mike ‘n Ike™.
I had blown my nose so hard that it pooped.
Today, when I got sick of wracking my brain for something—anything—intelligent to say about romantic literary theory, I allotted myself five minutes for a little breather. I decided to spend it in pursuit of my very favourite pastime: scouring the internet for real estate in Mesa, Arizona.
Just in case I ever fall into riches, I need to be prepared to pounce on a sweet deal for a house down there (and let’s face it, there’s no house for sale that ISN’T a sweet deal in Mesa right now {honk if you love a good recession}).
I opened up Craigslist, typed in my preferred zip code (my fingers know that five-digit magic number by heart) and waited for the exhilaration to kick in—the exhilaration that always overtakes me when I’m living out my imaginary perfect life.
I pored over images of phat crown moulding in super-quaint houses in the historic district. I smiled at the curb appeal of houses in the quainter parts of town. My mouth was watering at the invariable lack of snow in every single front yard…
…until I stumbled upon a suspiciously familiar image, and in an instant my fun was over:
That, my friends, is Taco Bell™.
Or at least, it was Taco Bell™, back when I was a whippersnapper (whatever the heck a whippersnapper is). Those readers living in less-progressive cities who haven’t yet had their Taco Bells™ updated from the ’90s will recognize those telltale arches from a mile away.
A few years ago, this particular Taco Bell™ closed down shop and moved into a brand new building they constructed in place of—what was it, I forget—a gas station?
The new Taco Bell™ was less than a block away from the old Taco Bell™, and when work was complete on the edifice, it stood in all its newly-built brightly-hued glory, plainly mocking its not-so-distant past.
“Ha,” said the new Taco Bell™ to the old, “take that.”
After its cruel abandonment, the old Taco Bell™ struggled.
Limping along, it became home to one suspicious-looking Mexican food dive after another, never holding its new tenants for more than a couple of months. Super Burrito™, I confess, was decent—their green sauce was better than Filiberto’s, and they served it generously—but they never did get many customers. I tried to keep the place afloat with my weekly carne asada burrito purchases, but when I moved to Canada in 2007, and took my patronage with me, Super Burrito™ crumbled.
The building was cursed. If Taco Bell™ didn’t want it, nobody wanted it.
It was cursed, and I know exactly why: none of the new tenants could take the place—none of them could fill it out with any measure of dignity—because none of them were Taco Bell™.
None of them were the Taco Bell™ where my mom stopped—if it was a lucky morning—with me and my sister for breakfast burritos on our way to school circa grades one through six. None of them were the Taco Bell™ where together we three mourned the day they stopped making their excellent Picante Sauce. None of them were the Taco Bell™ where I learned to love the sixty-cent sides of nacho cheese chips and pintos ‘n cheese.
None of them were Taco Bell™; therefore, none of them would do.
You’re a kid, you feel secure, you think these places will always be around when you need them to be; but then you grow up and they’re not and it doesn’t even matter anymore because you’ve moved out of the dadgum country to a place where Taco Bells™ don’t even exist or if they do they fulfill only a shadow of their true purpose and they have made horrible adulterations to their menus like french fries supreme.
I never thought I’d live to see Taco Bell™ up for sale on Craigslist.
