2009 In My Nutshell

Seoul.
Coffee.
Panic
New Friends
Old
Malaysia.
Coffee.
Bad decisions.
Good decisions?
India.
Chai.
one job, two job, three job, four...
Italy.
Mardi Gras
Tiny people...
Bigger people...
Adults?
Coffee.
Soju.
Coffee.
Pirates.
Ninjas?
Coffee.
Implosion~~~
no.
Good decisions.
Bad decisions?
Coffee.

New Year, New Plan

So it appears as though everyone has something to blog about as of late. Everyone with the possible exception of my little cousin, who is not blogging not for a lack of things to blog about but rather because, upon her return from Australia, seems to have been sucked into a vortex of misery and despair. Of course, I can neither confirm nor deny this suspicion as she is also no longer replying to any attempts made at communication...

But I digress.

Everyone who's anyone seems to have something to blog about these days. Even those who don't have a blog could blog should they so desire. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck...

My point being, everyone has something to blog about. And I, alas, do not.

Due to this fact I have spent the last week planning my descent into hermit-dom. This essentially involves locking oneself in one's bedroom, eating copious amounts of chocolate, engaging in countless DDR tournaments (with oneself, of course)and wallowing in self-pity.

Today, however, I have seen the light.

Today I have decided to emerge from the cocoon of solitude, vanquish the soul-wrenching sorrow I feel at having to return to work tomorrow, turn off tournament mode (I have yet to move beyond basic anyway) and suck it up.

Today I have developed a plan.

First part of the plan?

Avatar.

Baby-steps.

Everything I Need to Know About Life I Learned From Grade Nines.

*"douche", "phoque" and "faire cuire" are the only words/ phrases in the French language that are worth remembering.

*C-I-L-T is a dirty word, suitable for games of French Scrabble. (I have begun to question those who insist that literacy is on the rise...)

*Tila Tequila got her big break thanks to a leaked sex tape. Who knew?

*Knowing who Tiesto is makes you cool.

*$100 was worth more in the seventeenth century than it is today because of inflammation.

*Teaching about hypothetical sentences? Try using the verb "VENIR" as your example. The lesson goes as follows:
On the board, write out three sentences. "S'il vient, je serai contente. S'il venait, je serais contente. S'il était venu, j'aurais été contente."
When the students say that they're still confused, write the sentences in English: "If he comes, I will be happy. If he came, I would be happy. If he had come, I would have been happy."
When the kids start laughing, look up and read the board. Realize what you've done. Begin laughing so hard you can barely breathe. Stop lesson. Revisit the next day using a different example.

*the word "condom" is even more hilarious than drawing penises. On everything.

* les Filles du Roi were most definitely prostitutes, seeing as Louis XIV pimped them out and all.

* When in doubt just say "Ils ont rocked out". That'll pull you through.

* Wear short-shorts to gym. Then forget to change and wear them to class. Insist on doing lunges to and from the bookshelf every time you need to use a dictionary. This should occur approximately every five minutes.

Re-Surfacing

Admittedly, it's been awhile.

Understatement of the century...

It's not my fault though. See, I found a job. That's right, a "REAL" job.

Well, before I found that job, I found another one.

A bit has been happening...

Anyway, the point being, I have a job. A real, tried and true teaching job. I get up at 6 am five days a week, drive to Guelph and proceed to teach Grade 9s French. I am being trusted with their education.

I think I may have grown up.

How the hell did that happen?

More importantly: how do I make it stop?

Teaching Grade nine essentially consists of attempting to convince a room full of 34 hormonal vapid narcissists that they do not, in actually, want to talk about sex. They want to learn French. The result? Every textbook and handout in my class is covered, from top to bottom, in sketches of penises. What can I say? My little proteges are burgeoning Picassos...

And each one of them knows how to say "penis" in French. I considered it a "teachable moment".

Oh ya. Also, saying "we're going to take this up orally" is a really bad idea. Just in case you were wondering.

So the point is, I have a job. I am now a productive member of society. I have attained my goal.

So why am I yearning for Korea?

That's right. I'm desperate for those little hellions that made up 6A2. I would kill to have to sing "Pretty Leaves Are Falling Down" a million times a day for a week. To read "Bear Shadow" for the hundredth time in a day. To give Andrew a sad face for picking his nose and rubbing it onto Nicky's shirt.

Problem? I think so.

Of Deep Friers and Manure

When my 26th birthday rolled around this past April, I came to the realization that I'm now the other side of 25. Officially having begun the descent on the slippery slope that leads to thirty, I sometimes find myself thinking about where my life is going and what I want out of it.

Recently, McDonald's is featuring more and more prominently.

Allow me to explain.

I picked up a summer job thinking that I could make a little money, get back into shape and generally keep myself busy. It seemed like a great opportunity to learn more about sport horse breeding from a reputable and highly renowned place and, really, what better to do for a summer than ride and get paid for it?

However, now that I'm older, I have a greater sense of self-preservation. I still consider myself to be relatively young and stupid, just not as young and stupid as I once was.

I now have a problem with not being told vital information. Information that could, well, save me from dying or being horribly maimed while at work. My current employers apparently have no such qualms. Over the past few months I have fallen off more times than ever before, been cornered by a pissed-off alpha mare and been kicked in the head by the same horse that almost crushed me in cross-ties, all because no one thought it necessary to tell me about certain horses'... quirks...

During this time I have also witnessed a co-worker being kicked in the face by a feral foal and another who was almost crushed by a round bail; I've seen a foal euthanized because of a broken leg caused by unsafe barn design and generally been placed in unsafe conditions time and again because of managerial staff that have absolutely no horse or, for that matter, commonsense.

One day I was talking to a horsey friend about the BS that is my job when I admitted that I would rather work at McDonald's than spend another day at my current place of employment.

Her response?

"Ya, at least you know that the deep-frier is hot. You don't find out three months into your job when it finally tries to burn you."

Score one for Ronald.

Too Early...

for work.

Ladies of the Feline Persuation

I'm not much of a partier.

Don't get me wrong, I like to go out with my girls and cut the occasional rug. I can even hold my own with the liquor when the time's right (if, by "hold my own with the liquor" I mean "have two drinks before I'm intoxicated enough to forget what tomorrow's going to feel like", then I can most definitely, unquestionably, "hold my own with the liquor").

Anyway, it had been quite some time since I had cut a rug, or any other form of floor covering for that matter, so this past weekend I opted to accompany Loren back home to Barrie for a much needed, well-deserved nocturnal adventure.

While we were getting ready, the girls began chatting about clubs, bars and boys. Or the lack thereof in our respective age group.

Here's the thing: we have now attained a new rank. We have moved up a box on the census age bracket. We are all, for the most part, hanging out in that grey area that is 26-30.

And while our friends are settling down, getting hitched and contemplating the finer details of procreation, we are, well, not. But that doesn't mean we wouldn't like a member of the opposite sex to peak our interest from time to time. It would be an added bonus, and so much more acceptable, if those guys had, say, graduated high school. Even better? Had a degree, diploma or work experience to add to the resume.

This of course lead to the inevitable question, the inescapable query: given our recent descent on what can only be described as the slippery slope toward 30, are we, or are we not, potential cougars?

Come on ladies, from the moment you first walked into the club and realized that that guy you were chatting up at the bar was, in actuality, your grade 6 reading buddy, you've been asking yourself the exact same question.

So when, exactly, does one become a cougar?

Well this particular group of friends are true philosophers and so, on this fateful night, I was introduced to yet another important theory. While we may not have solved the age-old cougar riddle, I was informed that we, without a shadow of a doubt, are NOT cougars.

We are pumas.

That's right, pumas.

Although the exact reasoning of this distinction has been lost in a fog of Tom Collins', white wine and deliciously girly martinis, it stands to reason that, while we may be older than some of the guys out at the club, we are no where near old enough to be their mothers.

Which I suppose would qualify as a definition of a cougar...

Two birds, one stone.

This coming from the ladies who decided long ago that every woman must have a "dick match" somewhere in the world, and that she should neither give up nor give in before she finds it.

Solving the world's most pressing issues, one case at a time.