The Snuggie Sutra

Pop culture will never cease to amaze me.

While "attempting" to do my screenwriting homework for tomorrow morning and chatting with Jess, I was presented with something hilariously beautiful. During her Internet horoscope mission, Jess discovered The Snuggie Sutra ("The Kama Sutra of Snuggies").

As the site explains, "You have a Snuggie. You have sex. This was inevitable." I think 'nuff said. Check it out and bask in the genius, hilarity, and oddly cute cartoon diagrams.

Here In My Room...

I've been back in London for a week and a half and my room still isn't tidied. The mess I left behind when I returned home for my Christmas break is still collecting dust. Every day I pick up a shirt, organize a surface, shuffle the items in a corner, but the mess remains. Groups of student have already started touring the house for next year. As our house battles the rental company due to its early and unlawful disruption of our lives, we keep our fingers crossed that a group will choose our house ASAP and I know having a clean house will help. I also know a clean room will help me get through this final semester. But the more time I spend in here, the more I resent it. How did I end up living in my bedroom?

When I was permanently living at my parents house, I rarely spent much time in my bedroom outside of the necessary sleeping and dressing. While I value my alone time, I get bored very quickly back at home and prefer to do my work in the company of my stay-at-home mom. I think we both prefer to have someone to chat with as we go about our daily tasks, and we've always been close. Then I moved into residence for my first year of university where my bedroom was my room and 'alone time' was a scarce but generally unwanted commodity. But since moving into my off-campus house (which I have lived in since moving out of res), I go through phases where I live in my bedroom.

I do work, eat, and sleep in here. Had I known I would be spending so much time here I might have decided against painting my walls Commie-red. As I become more restless here and more anxious to finish the year, I find more to dislike about my bedroom--my voluntary prison:

- the closet is way too small (I have a lot of clothes...and shoes...)

- three of the four drawers in my dresser are broken

- my bed is about one foot too high

- one window = adequate lighting for only a few hours

- the carpet is old

- my desk is small and lacking drawers (why do desks not have drawers anymore?!)

- my bookcase is overflowing with books, DVDs, and CDs and is threatening to collapse any day now

And the list continues. This semester needs to end, if only to liberate me from my student housing bedroom life. There are only 83 days until my last day of class. Will my bedroom and I survive? Tune in tomorrow for an exciting vacuuming episode.

Beam Me To Campus, Scotty

For those not living in the lovely city of London, we're coming to the end of our first week of a transit strike. So let me begin by saying:

Congratulations, ATU Local 741.

You're officially On Notice.

The LTC offered a 9% increase over the weekend but apparently that wasn't enough for the ATU, despite the current economic situation that has many people thankful to have jobs at all. Yes, at this point not even a week without transit has passed (no where near the two months Ottawa endured), but for weeks leading up to the strike the frequency of buses was reduced to exam-period/holiday levels, making it difficult for people to get to school and work on time.

For a brief period this week there were even rumours that the ATU would set up picket lines on campus because some of the transportation services arranged by the university were allegedly being viewed as strike-breaking maneuvers.

The silver lining here, if you can call it that, is today's lesson:

Nothing brings a community together quite like a transit strike.

I'm quite proud of the efforts Western has made to keep the safety and education of its students its primary concern. Campus Police has ramped up its security; the University College shuttle service expanded its routes; carpool sites were created; a van service was added (47 rented vans driven by volunteers, which cater to students living in areas more than a 30min walk from campus); professors, staff, and students are offering rides to classmates and those living nearby; and the USC organized a bike check in the UCC gym. So to the Western community I say thank you. We should be proud of ourselves.

While I don't mind walking to class (so far the weather is still relatively warm), walking home is an incredible inconvenience. By the time classes are over I'm usually hungry, tired, and generally fed up with school. Today was our first day of rain during the strike, but knowing London we can expect many more days like today. And most importantly, because it's so late in the year it's dark by the time I have to walk home. Thankfully, as far as I know, no one has been raped, abducted, attacked by animals, or thrown into the Thames while walking to or from campus. Let's keep it that way, London.

And so to the ATU I say bring it on. Because I'm just itching for another thing to complain about.

Of Magnets & Marine Life

Bloggers, did you have a Magna-Doodle when you were wee children? I certainly did, and hot damn did I love it. In fact, my Magna-Doodle played a major role in one of my favourite home movies.

My brother was just a baby, lolling about a blanket, so I was probably about three or four. My family was hanging out in the living room and I think a Jays games was on TV... Or a Leafs game... My mom was filming my brother and I playing because personal camcorders were a big deal in the early 90s and my parents wanted plenty of hilarious and embarrassing videos to show Adam and me when we got older.

I excitedly tromp over to where my dad is sitting, wielding my Magna-Doodle, to show him my newest work of art. On the screen is a nebulous blob with an eye, a smile, and what appears to be a bayonet protruding from its "head." Wow, Nicole, what's that? my dad inquires. It's a baby narwhal. The bad men were trying to kill it on Danger Bay, I explain with more than a hint of concern in my voice.

Bloggers, I would like you to take four things away from this childhood anecdote:

1. This clearly foreshadows my future artistic abilities.

2. Danger Bay had some badass story lines.

3. Magna-Doodles are better than those stupid Etch-a-Sketches.

4. Jess found this awesome t-shirt for me:

Obsessors, Be Anonymous No More

I'm going to come out and say it: My name is Nicole and I'm an obsessoholic.

Obsessions have been a topic of discussion in a couple of my classes this week. When it comes to obsessing, there are conflicting opinions on how healthy and productive the practice is in our real lives (as opposed to the lives lived in the safety of our own minds).

In my Popular Music and Gender class we talked about how obsessions factor into music fandom. It's highly feminized and generally associated with deviancy. Think Beatlemania with the screaming, crying, fainting, mobbing teenyboppers. Men, of course, don't do this. They think "Oh man, that dude is so f'ing cool, I want to be just like him and sleep with tons of sexy women and play mad guitar..." But girls, girls want to marry John and have Elvis shake his hips in their direction and shoot them one of those famous snarly smiles. Go beyond the screaming to the next level of fandom/obsession and peer into the bedroom of someone with posters all over the walls, figurines and albums littering all surfaces, a camera with a telescopic lens and a pair of night-vision goggles... That someone is a stalker. Stalking = bad kind of obsessing. As someone who has been followed home from an exam, I can tell you stalking does not make your stalkee want to hang out with you or, least of all, have sex with you. Shocking, I know.

Moving on, we've been having guest speakers in my Writing Portfolio class. Today, Western's current writer-in-residence Penn Kemp encouraged us to have obsessions. The fixation on something specific can lead to inspiration. She finds inspiration for much of her work (which includes a lot of perhaps strange, yet whimsical, poetry/sound concoctions) in those things that nag her and constantly swirl around in her mind. When you obsess over something you're likely to think about all kinds of aspects of that thing and delve deeper into it than you would a passing interest. More importantly, if you're obsessed it means you're passionate and what are writing and creativity without passion?

As I said, I'm very obsessive. I believe I suffer from what can only be described as Sudden On-set Obsession Syndrome. Perhaps this is a result of a short (albeit intense) attention span or technological induced ADD. But if this week of dreary academia has taught me anything, it's that I shouldn't be ashamed of my obsessions. This is in part due to my highly respected professor Norma Coates revealing her Sex & The City obsession. If obsessions can fuel my writing then I shall whole-heartedly embrace them, and I encourage you to do the same. Obsessions make for great party themes.