If not, it won't be the end of the world, at least not for that reason. I'm out of couscous. That could be serious, as for the most part, couscous is the majority of my summer diet.
Start with a bowl that is larger than you think you need. Take halfish a bullion cube, disolve in 1.4 cups of boiling water from a kettle, add 1 cup couscous immediately and cover for 5 mins. Add some olive oil and a good mixture of any of the following: garlic, green onions, purple onions, tomatoes, chopped bell peppers. Spices are good too, especially when they're fresh. Basil, oregano and mint are always safe bets. Don't follow my measurements though. I don't measure things.
I have more things to do, now that I think of it. I should put together a portfolio with some of the writing and graphic design I've done, so it looks nice and pretty. Not my web design though. I suck at that. But I've made some other, reasonably nice looking stuff and it would be nice at some point or other to get paid to make more reasonably nice looking stuff. This is my thought exactly.
I should be thinking more about school right now. I have to write a paper on journalism for Tuesday, topic to be determined. I have to do a big corporate profile thingie about Bell Canada for Wednesday. Joy.
Loyal non-reader Jim asks: have you moved in yet? as I meet him crossing the street, on his way home from work with a cone of fish and chips. "Only sort of," I reply. And that would be closest to the truth, really.
It is Raymi's birthday today and I can't think of anything good to say that hasn't been said before. I first found her blog through the likes of Matt Good and Tony Pierce because they were always always saying nothing but nice things about her, and you know what? They're right. A lot of the blogosphere is boring but she isn't. I just thought I'd mention that.
It's one of my favourite pasttimes, writing up long lists of things to do that I will never accomplish. When I first began doing it, I was naïve and thought that writing things down would somehow compel me to get them done. Now I'm older and I know better. I still write out the stupid lists.
It's something about feeling organized, I guess. There are a lot of people that assume that I am because I've always done alright in school and at times I seem to be a very rational person, but they're sorely mistaken. All you have to do is take a look at my desk or my room, or my locker or pretty much any other space I inhabit to see that.
I live in a constant state of clutter, living space, work space, mind, body and soul.
I think it would be nice to charge someone with the responsibility of keeping my head on straight. This person would have to live with me and I could cook for them as long as they don't mind cleaning up a bit too because I forget and I don't really like doing that anyways. I'm not sure if such a person really exists.
So I write lists. I wrote one up today with all the things I want to accomplish over the summer and I doubt I will get many of them done. Regardless, I thought it was fun at the time so I figure it can't be all bad. I figure I'll probably do 20% of what I wrote down. The other 80, for the time being, can screw themselves. Either that or they get an honourable mention, a kind of runner-up prize to be determined at a later date.
I really don't know what I'm talking about right now. This is the worst blog post ever.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that the majority of the things I said I wanted to do need money. That means I need a job. There's not much I can really do on that front right now, or for the next couple of weeks, for that matter. This is precisely why I hate spring.
I confess to feeling only half as much dread this year as I did this time last year, or the year before or the year before. I suppose that's a good thing. In fact, for the past couple of months I've felt better than I have in years. I can't say that I mind that much. There are a few people to blame for this but I don't feel like singling them out right now. They either know already or if they don't, they probably don't need to anyways.
George and I disected a bilingual newspaper today. Being a non-native speaker himself, he derived much joy from being able to pick apart all the grammatical errors in the English section of it, especially the ones in the letter from the editor.
Seems to me that among other things, editors are supposed to proofread and edit things to make them sound right. Apparently the editor of this one wasn't quite doing his job. As he said, some of the pages in the paper were "defected", as in they ran away to join other papers. Perhaps they ran away from other papers to join this one. Neither of us were sure.
At the grocery store I was ridiculed for my strange use of hand gestures while I explained that, given the choice, rats and mice will choose healthier and more organic foods over crappier equivalent varieties, because they are smarter than us.
My mother, you see, has an irrational prejudice against organic cereals, because the last time we bought some, mice got into them and mouse terds look suspiciously like some varieties of cereal out there, especially the ones with flax or wheat germ. She will not eat the stuff.
But instead of actually countering my argument with a well thought out rebuttal, she chose instead to resort to an ad hominem attack on the stupid way I was flailing my hands around in the air. Yes, it was stupid, but that's beside the point.
This meant, of course that I had to spin around in a circle a couple of times for no apparent reason because that's exactly what you do in a supermarket. I'm cool.
My sister put her hands within a metre of my neck, which made me squeal because yes, I'm that ticklish.
Then I took the shopping cart on the scenic route around the parking lot because I forgot where the car was.
Fin.
Unfortunately for me they weren't even remotely entertaining. It doesn't matter what the messages are, I still have to pay for them, so the least that any wrong number can do is say something funny to amuse me, especially when I'm not able to skip to the end of any of my messages. Every second counts when that's how you're billed.
Apparently some guy who mumbles and doesn't sound all that smart wants someone to pick up his or her clothes. He said in another message that he doesn't care when and in another, that his dad will help. After a while, he decided that he wasn't going to waste his time. When he said that, I was thankful. But in spite of that, he left five more messages.
Buried underneath the pile were four messages for me and by that time, it was too late for me to answer any of them. There's always tomorrow.
The interview that I was supposed to go to today has been rescheduled, and I have another one after that to go to too. Kind of makes me feel popular, though in my experience, an interview means absolutely nothing when it comes to actually getting a job.
I must say that the whole working year-round thing seems very appealing right now. It would be nice to not feel like I'm haemorrhaging money by this time of year. Not that I am. It just feels that way. I'm actually pretty good at saving and budgeting. It would just be nicer if I had a little more in my budget for my coffee and alcohol fund, that's all.
As for my phone, I'm getting kind of tired of these people fighting, the people calling for Bosco and miscelaneous guys calling me at weird hours. My phone number is really cool and easy to remember, and consequently I think it gets given out in bars a lot. I may have to change it.
Just finished off a bowl of squash soup. I didn't have any ginger to add to it so I put in extra pepper, all of which sunk to the bottom of the bowl only to be found suddenly by my unsuspecting tounge. Ouch, that's good pepper.
Tonight already I've drilled myself on my lecture notes and stared at the stars until I was dizzy, the stars of Ursa Major Alkaid, Alcor, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda and Merak and Dubhe. I used to know all this stuff but now I forget. It's not that important anymore anyways. They don't control me.
I could write horoscopes though, just as well as anyone else. I could write fortune cookies too, but I already have. Some of them came true y'know. Apparently there's a special flickr group that deals only in chickens and I seem to remember them asking for the one in that pose specifically. I don't want to know why. I gave it to them anyways.
I drew a picture for you but it was covered in blots. Maybe I should have used a different pen. Maybe the blots were the whole point of the thing. There must be something lying latent in there somewhere.
Ponder it, grasshopper and tell me tomorrow.
At this stage in the game my concentration's shot. Here I am making lists of things I want to do over the summer when summer's not for another two weeks at least. That being said, should I take anthropology or women's studies over the summer? Both worthy, in my opinion, but I can't take both.
The majority of my plans for the summer hinge upon getting a second job. It's simple.
job + stinginess - tuition payments = Erin goes to Norway.
Though a much more logical solution to this equation is
Norway arrives on Erin's doorstep = Erin says hi. That's how it works in my brain.
Did I mention that my brain is fried? It's always like this this time of year. I need some time off.
I'm not in the habit of doing memes, but this one amused me.
According to google
Erin looks like 21 years old.
Erin looks like number 3.
Erin looks like she's a Barbie doll, college girl/Hooters waitress...
Erin looks like she's under water...no?
Erin looks like she's playing basketball?
Erin looks like she's ready to cry.
Hey Erin, looks like you are doing real well.
And Erin looks like a great big sister!
Stolen from other people.
Auswin: If I could write you a song it would start out all majestic-like, with lots of cellos and then it would get big and belicose with screaming horns and everything assaulting your ears.
Erin: Victory through sheer volume, eh?
Auswin: Exactly. And the in the end it would fade to a whimper.
Erin: The story of my life.
Auswin: Yep
Erin: And if I could write you a song it would sound like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm while it's still raining, the sky glowing topaz as the sun sets, traffic lights reflecting across the slick street, people still walking with umbrellas, unaware that the rain is letting up. A head-on collision on the road, the screech of tires, metal on metal, percussion and concussions.
Auswin: How typical.
Erin: Not that it matters. I can't write music anyways.
Auswin: Story of my life.
Erin: I know.
Among other things today, I saw Sara Davis Buechner featured in a performance of Dmitri Shostakovich's Piano Concerto No. I. If there was ever someone who were to destroy a piano out of sheer enthusiasm, she would be the one to do it. She attacked that poor Steinway so hard that it shuddered under every impact, and she forced some of the most amazing, chaotic and spirited music out of it that I've heard in quite some time. I was very impressed.
Shostakovich was a pretty interesting guy too. You'd have to be to be both so in and out of the favour of the Soviets at the same time.
Hugh Fraser made an appearance as well, not only as a trombone soloist, but because it was the premiere of his Primary Colours. He's pretty talented too. I always wanted to play the trombone but I've never really had the chance to try.
As always, Sundays out are finished with dinner at the Red Onion: hot tuna salad, moose pie, extra ice cream. I'm so predictable.
Some mornings she washes my face. She'll start with my forehead and work down my nose until she gets as close to my lips as I can stand and I get up.
Other mornings she's all claws. Damn, she has long claws.
Still other mornings she sits on my bed and begins to knock things off of my bedside table, one by one. That one's probably the most irritating, because you lay there, awake, figuring that the longer you pretend to be asleep, the more discouraged she'll get and the more likely she will go away and bug someone else. But, the longer you lay there, the more likely she will knock down something that is fragile, special or something that otherwise should not reach the floor in that manner, so eventually I get up.
This morning though, she found something that really works. I was fast asleep when the little bugger stuck her nose directly into my right nostril. Shit. It wasn't irritation that woke me up but pure survival instinct.
I'm sure we evolved that way to prevent bugs and creepy crawlies from burrowing up there and eating our brains. In this climate at least, it isn't exactly necessary, but nonetheless that seems to be how I'm programmed.
If you ever want to wake me up in a hurry, that would be the way to do it. Shove something up my nose.
The little bugger.
I hear Mr. Dressup singing upstairs right now. I seem to remember that when he died in 2001, some of us in highschool felt substantially more affected by it than by the attacks on the World Trade Centre seven days earlier.
Not that we're callous and unfeeling people. No, it has to do with proximity. Ever heard of the Afghanistan complex? Here, one death in Vancouver is as big as 4 in Toronto and 10, maybe in New York, 50 in France and 500 in Afghanistan. Something like that. But Mr. Dressup was like family to so many of us so that made him even more important to some, I guess.
Or maybe it was just that the sudden loss of a fixture of all our childhoods was somehow more important than the undoubtedly important things that we were seeing on tv at the time. I don't know.
Got an email from a friend saying Hey Erin, you spelled my name wrong on the website happyface, to which I replied Sorry about that, I'll fix it right away happyface, to which he replied thanks happyface. And all's well.
He looks kind of like a goldfish.
Sometimes I wonder about some of my other email though. Got a message from God the other day and he said that he was playing a club in Auckland. I replied with much regret that I couldn't make it.
I got a different one that simply said:
Liked your blog so much, I decided to eat the person next to you. Good luck, hope you survive. (incidently, bad neighborhood)I can only imagine that he was talking about Urban Dead, which I must say is one of the most addicting games I've found on the internet to date. Maybe I'm just easily amused.
