Thursday, September 24, 2009

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.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

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.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

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.