What to do

Today I lost two dollars.

This adventure actually started yesterday, when Sarah and I found ourselves with a broken (so we thought) toilet (gross).

This morning I received a text while mostly asleep, which I ignored, and then read when mostly awake, an hour later. It was from Sarah. It read: (1/2)"So our toilet is still ducked. It drained so I tried to see if it would flush this morning and it almost flooded again. My advice would be if you need t.........(2/2)o use it flush it Asian style with a bucket of water. Ghetto"
Good thing I didn't need to pee. Good thing I was going somewhere (school) where there were an abundance of toilets.

I then phoned and described the situation to my mother who told me to phone Laura (my landlady). Thirty seconds after hanging up she phoned back to ask if I had called her. Through a giant mouthful of Cheerios, I told her no, as I had had no time between the snapping shut of my phone and the picking up of my spoon. Thirty seconds after that, I called and left a message with Laura.

By the end of the day Laura still hadn't called back, and though I had returned home to take a shower, I knew I couldn't stay for long in the now third-world ghettoness of my home. So, off to Starbucks I went, a place I knew would never be un-of-a-toilet, what with the majority of their sales in one form of diuretic or another. Several hours and two large americanos later, I was ready for what I had actually gone there for. I needed to pee.

Off I went, and felt, as one should, decidedly satisfied with the world. As I got up from my cold ceramic seat, I turned around just in time to see a toonie fall out of my pocket and straight into the toilet.

What to do.

Really. What to do.

I considered the glittering coin from three different angles:
1) As a poor student
2) As a girl and;
3) As a person who was already quite familiar with toilet troubles

Though I realized that two dollars wasn't really worth it, I realized that actually, it was. It was gross, probably the grossest thing I would ever have done to date. That left me with three options:
a) Leave the toonie and flush the toilet, with the possibility that a flush+coin might = disaster
b) Leave the toonie and the toilet with no flush, saving the possibility of danger and disgust for another, braver soul or;
c) Get the toonie. (And flush, c'mon people)

Somehow, option c) got the better of me, so I rolled up my sleeve and, with the courage of a Fear Factor contestant, plunged my hand into the toilet. Silently screaming, I kicked the door of the stall open and shot straight for the sink, at which point I turned the tap to burn-me-at-the-stake hot and let the pain disinfect my hand. Two washes with a 10 to 1 soap to water solution later, I had damaged nerve endings and a successfully cleansed hand (make that two).

Somewhat mollified by the fact I had at least gotten my two dollars back, I headed home with my mother, who had graciously agreed to pick me up and have a look at my plumbing, as Laura had finally called with some suggestions.
As I got out of the car, it hit me. Sitting in the sink in the bathroom at Starbucks, were my two dollars.

I don't know what's worse, that I went through that trauma for nothing, or that some stranger is going to pick up two dollars that has been sitting in my urine.

Well, at least my toilet's fixed.

What are there, why are, and other super google-able questions

I have recently discovered the most useful part of google: the suggestion tool.
This tool crops up when you begin writing a sentence in google and narrows down the searches as you complete it.
For instance, typing in "nutcracker" will give you the following options in google.ca:

nutcracker toronto
nutcracker ballet
nutcracker sweet
nutcracker vancouver
nutcracker montreal
nutcracker suite
nutcracker calgary
nutcracker esophagus
nutcracker syndrome
nutcracker ottawa

Disregarding the uneducated who made a grievous spelling error three lines down, there are only two rather unorthodox suggestions (I'm referring here to esophagus and syndrome, unless some Family Feud visionary thinks two of the five mentioned Canadian cities are the odd ones out in this category).
I then tried typing in "why are there" and received the following in the number 1 position:

why are there school

.......................................................................................................................

Was that a rhetorical question? I don't even have words.

Lastly, but most certainly not least, I put in "what are" and got the best answer thus far this evening:

what are these strawberries doing on my nipples i need them for the fruit salad


This so completely boggled my mind that anyone would need the answer to this question, that I followed the link through. What I found was more than I bargained for. Apparently "What Are These Strawberries Doing On My Nipples? I Need Them For The Fruit Salad!" is the title of a book by one Vanessa Feltz.
Since the link had brought me to Amazon, I went ahead to see if this gem had any reviews. And did it.


Review by M. Thompson, "A Helpful Guide", July 25, 2009
I had been trying to figure out how the strawberries got there after my frequent blackouts, and this book answered that question for me AND told me where to hide the bodies. Thanks Vanessa!

It would have been a five star rating, but it fails to explain the smell of brimstone whenever I open this book, or the man in clown makeup tied up in my basement. (Was the makeup there before I tied him up, or did I apply it? This question keeps me up at night) Still: if you have similar problems, this book is for you.

Review by C. Jenkins, "Amazing cornecopia of information useful for survival", July 28, 2009
First of all, a warning. This book is packed with such useful and POWERFUL information, it should be approached with caution. Amazon has not provided a synopsis, and rightly so. I attempted to download a summary to my computer and my monitor EXPLODED. Normally, I would complain to the author and demand a refund, but the mere opportunity to witness this miracle of written word is payment for my loss ten times over.

In addition to the eternal question "What are these strawberries doing on my nipples?", you'll also learn life saving information, such as answers to questions like "Should I be concerned that an as of yet unidentified rodent species has taken up residence in my colon?" Additionally, you'll find instructions including battle tactics, suggested weaponry and equipment, and other fun facts for assailing the lost city of Atlantis to wrest control from the resident Merlords, giving you an access to a rare element that is known to give chewing gum viagra-like properties (for Asians and Serbs only, unfortunately). I save further examples for fear of your safety.

The only negative I can give about this book is the fact that reaching the end of it will give you an intense sadness. The only parallel I can construct for the amount of sorrow this will cause is to beseech you to imagine yourself as a T-rex in a room full of T-ball poles and large soapy bubbles. Your stubby arms would render the pleasure-power of this room woefully out of reach. Only the strong-willed should undertake reading this book.




If, upon reading them, you have the need for another dose of utter euphoria, there is a third waiting for you, right here.

What I learn at university

I should have started profiles on people, notably professors, long ago, but today's lecture taught by none other than the exceedingly smooth University of Calgary academic, James Rutherford Hume (JRH) propelled me to actually do so.

At one o'clock on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I have the pleasure of listening to the use of words like "languidly" and "outlandish" employed by JRH, a man who sports oxford tweeds and tones that range from scholarly to dulcet as he discusses mangled and mutilated babies, incestuous rape, and the maniacal spewings of drugged-up women. Welcome to Ancient Greek Religion.

The best part of today's lecture came in the form of one of a number of divine pairings: Hephaestes, God of Forge and Fire, and Athena, Goddess of Civility and Wisdom. Apparently, Hephaestes, having been scorned by Aphrodite, who eliminated him from the playing field for being too ugly (Ares being the better-looking yet douchy-er choice), was picked up by Athena. As the daughter of Zeus, Athena was also better-looking than Hera's smith-son, but clearly had neither the beauty of Aphrodite nor her selection, having frightened everyone off with her full-body chastity belt.

At any rate, the two lived in relatively harmonious peace until one night when Hephaestes, not the brightest tool in the shed, tried to get some from our civil virgin, and came too soon, spraying all over her leg. Understandably grossed out, Athena shook/wiped his seed (this taken from ancient texts!) onto the ground, at which point the Earth, embodied by Gaea, decided that this was a great opportunity to make a kid, and from this tale the Christians managed to come up with immaculate conception.

Unfortunately that was the end of class. Next time I'll try to find something amusing about bank closure in early 20th century America.

What (not) to wear

Living with Sarah has given me a lot to think about.

In my wardrobe, that is.

Before I leave the house, I go to the mirror by the door and check to make sure that I'm dressed exactly for the activity I'll be doing, or day I'll be having. For instance, for school, do I have the "pretentious but genuinely eager to learn" look for James Rutherford Hume's Ancient Greek Religion class, that at the same time presents itself as "stylish, scholarly, and sarcastic" for Frank Towers' American History, and at the end of the day will get me through biology with something that says "Not a first year or going to med school; I'm only here for the David Attenborough clips"? It's a tough call.

I didn't always give my outfits this much thought, but after Sarah's appointment with Jeremy-from-the-gym, where she sported the "I'm prepared to go to your gym but I'm not paying anything more than $50/mo" look and I told her the classy fall accessories paired with lulu pants did in fact portray this, I knew I had changed.

So the next time you see me, be prepared for a visual onslaught of meanings and themes through the magic of pashminas, dark-washed jeans, and a pair of heeled black leather boots that practically yell "Yes, I am fully aware that I'm a giant. Yes, that's great. Thanks for pointing that out to me. You're right, I need constant reaffirmation. What was that? Eff you, these are Arnold Churgin."

On being a giant, and single

Again I bypass my own slightly-less-than-briliant rhetoric in favour of two links that were brought to my attention this evening that are so relevant to my life right now I couldn't pass up the opportunity to share them.

Among other citrus fruits life has thrown at me, like reading about the president of my university and his 4.5 million dollar pension plan, I am currently above the average male height, which for starters does wonders in the dating world, and single; refer back to the previous part of the sentence.

Sex and the City does wonders for my attitude when contemplating these subjects, as, for example, in season 5, when Charlotte decides to find herself a self-help book to get over her last relationship and surf her way to a new one. Among the titles she peruses are "Starting Over, Yet Again", "Reservations for One", and my personal favourite, "I'm fine, NOW".

Just over a week fresh from my own, expected failure, a friend posts on my roomate's facebook wall one of the more amazing dating faux-pas', recorded thanks to voice-mail, and then spread over Toronto's radio network. This, perhaps, is one of the reasons why so many have turned to wholesome dating websites such as "Plenty of Fish" (so clever!) and Lava Life, where true love happens over discussing how laid-back, fit, and funny you are - just like all other 62387429 people currently online. For your pleasure:

The reason some girls stay single

If that hasn't quite satisfied you, when I then returned to my own facebook page I was greeted with this:

#890 Really, really tall people

I somberly realized that shit only gets more hilarious with each inch you grow, so no wonder Gregg laughs at his own jokes.

Why I Love Americans

I actually wrote the following in June, but thought it should have a part here also.

So I wrote my cousin an e-mail, but had to re-send it to a different address since the previous one didn't work anymore. As suggested, I sent it to his hotmail account, one Robert.Jack@hotmail.com
However, as some of you may have cleverly noticed, Robert Jack is a very common name. And so, on this lovely June afternoon, I received a reply to my e-mail and it went like this:

Anne,

It's nice to know there is another Robert Jack out there and if you compare E-mails you'll find that you sent this letter to the wrong one.

I'm glad you are enjoying your current job and i'll take the hint and never go to Ottawa (wherever the "F" that is.) The hippie house sounds interesting from a comical standpoint. Reading your letter though I get the impression that your not a
very happy with the way your life is going. A little piece of advice...focus more on the positive. Then you letter's won't sound so depressing or cynical.

You take care and I hope everthing works out for you. Feel free to write me anytime after all who can say they know two Robert Jack's and by the way I'm cooler than the other one because I'm the original.

A little something else...My Mom's name was Anne

Robert Jack

From Washington State


And here is what I wrote in reply:

Dear Other Robert Jack,

I am very sorry to have mistakenly sent you an e-mail intended for my cousin. Thanks for the advice though. I'm sure you're very cool, despite the frequent grammatical errors.

Ottawa didn't suck, the job did. And, as an aside, it's the capital of Canada, that large, cold country that borders yours to the North.

-Anne

I really, really, really hope he writes back.

**As a side note, he never did write back. Poor Other Robert Jack. But really, poor me.

Accidents at the Gyme

A couple stupendous things have happened lately and it would be a shame not to chronicle them as historic fact for someone 3000 years from now to read in...consternation.

The first of these eventful happenings was the accident at the gym, which I will henceforth call "gyme" after one particularly brilliant Simpsons episode. If I was as technologically-inclined as some others, perhaps I could link you to it, but the reality is I would fail so completely at such a task that you'll simply either have to already be in the know, or wonder forever.

Last Thursday, as all Thursdays, as I was contemplating my unemployment (this is much more easily done on a day with no classes), I decided that I should at least not let myself become fat and unemployed, and so headed to the gyme. All gymes have pretty much the same machines, and similar setups, but it still takes a bit of getting used to switching from one to another, a lesson I wish all my (few) readers to depart with.

Finishing up the leg portion of my workout, I snaked my way around one juice monkey, two bicep machines and a pile of dumbbells and ended up at the calf-raise machine. Now the hilarity begins because my now wounded appendage is my thumb, which cannot possibly be further from the area this machine is supposed to work, but my graceful and elegant self still managed to make it happen.

As I was pulling the lever out to adjust the machine so obviously set for a much smaller gyme-goer, reading the sign stating in bold lettering to be extra careful with it, the top bar previously being held by the lever I just pulled out slammed down on my thumb, which was perfectly positioned at the point of contact between the top solid bar and the hollow bar that it falls into.

In the midst of a slightly jazzy new-age twenties number that was blasting through the earphones of my ipod, my brain realized that blood was spurting out of my thumb at an alarming rate. Rather than your normal , expected reaction, all I felt was utter frustration at having to cut my workout short and getting blood on my shorts. Tough stain to get out.

To make a short story even longer, the next 48 hours were spent ripping off kleenex and bandaids from the sticky open wound, being denied through long wait times, closure, and lack of evening doctors the application of stitches, and eventual self-medication.

It's been nearly a week now and still no stitches, but I think I've passed the gangrene hazard. All this to the same thumb that did eventually get stitches after slicing too fully a piece of cheese. Somewhat like Hansel & Gretel only more morbid, I've started leaving a trail of Anne everywhere I go.

Moving Out

What it's going to be like living with my new room mate:
“I like to think im just a quirky single lady.. not a sad pathetic one” - Sarah Bungay

In between inspiring statements like “Gee I hope we have room for my treasure chest” and “I'm mostly just changing my sheets” I realized how special Sarah and I were. I think this is why kids are supposed to move out at 18. That first bit of freedom tastes mostly like frat parties, dirty laundry, mouldy pizza, a healthy dose of alcohol and/or cannabis, and maybe a dollop or two of exam stress. Instead, we're worrying about matching kijiji-found glass kitchen tables to the delicate striped tones of my mother's donated loveseat.

P.S. No one will have to worry about us burning, as she has also graciously decided to donate a fire extinguisher. Nothing says a mother's love like pressurized nitrogen.

And so it begins...

If you are one of the few that haven't been the lucky recipient of one of my stories, then the following few paragraphs are mostly for you, with a bit leftover for the ones that have heard them, since one telling is never enough, or so I'm told.

I had hum'ed and haw'ed for nearly five whole minutes over the title of this blog - or as I will rename it, my unpersonal diary - until finally settling on "Milk", having already come in at least second place to my first pick, "Big People Little World." However, with another 30 seconds of deep and debilitating thought, I realized that that title did not, after all, reflect my individuality as much as I would have liked, and silently sent thanks to the brilliant person who had clearly needed to use it in written context more badly than I did. So now I have a title that is the literary equivalent to a piece of modern art - no one understands it, but everyone pretends they do.

In order to negate unnecessary development of fine lines and wrinkles, which could inevitably lead further on to a severe case of botox here and there, I will explain why in fact I did not pick from the renaissance, classical, or post-modernist periods.

Having discontentedly lived in Edmonton for nearly 4 months, I had come to terms with the many facts that come with adapting to both a foreign environment and the smell of the Albertan capital's downtown core. Firstly, under no circumstances should I pick up hitchhikers in the suburbs, unless I wanted to get stabbed. Secondly, should I have wished to permanently inhabit the city, I would have to become a vegetarian, unless I wanted to get stabbed, and thirdly, to listen to the advice of perfect strangers, unless I wanted to get laughed at. This is where this particular story begins.

Having exited the gym after yet another workout where I was forced to do squats surrounded by several of Edmonton's finest juice monkeys, I realized I had no adequate after-the-gym snack. In light of this discovery, I jumped in my car and headed towards the nearest Mac's. I navigated towards the back, grabbed a classic favourite, the 1 - litre jug of chocolate milk, and made my way to the cash register. Standing at the counter was a 40-something Sikh, who after a second of complete non-caring looked down at my purchase. He looked at me, then at the milk. With something suspiciously close to hilarity, he looked back up at me and did the most unexpected thing. He laughed. He laughed hard. And then he said: "Are you sure this is enough? Is so small for you! You go back and get the 4 litre!!!"

..........................

Now as some of you may have cleverly observed, at 6'1 my height is a bit above the average for your typical female (except others of my kind, but they're all enjoying equally tall men back in Norway and other parts of ancient Viking territory) and I've gotten my fair share of obvious statements about sports I should be playing. This, however, was entirely new. Having never properly prepared myself to respond to this kind of suggestion, I merely stared at him, gave him my money and headed for the door. As I open it, and the man is helping the next customer, I hear his poor attempt to muffle raucous laughter threatening to escape his forest of a beard.

Having no words at this point, I got in my car and drank the milk. Halfway home and all done the milk, I chivalrously conceded that giants do, in fact, require more than a mere 1 litre chocolate milk.