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.

Under the Northumberland Sun

While at work this afternoon, I finally made the call back to the old country to sort out my summer employment. This is something that brings me anxiety every spring and, like most things, I struggle between procrastinating as long as possible and getting it done as early as possible. We all know there is no magic employment tree -- jobs are limited, especially in small towns. I also struggle with where to work and what kind of work I want to do because I'm incredibly picky and like to get my way, which brings me to today's lesson:

Being an adult means putting on your big girl (or boy) underwear and sucking it up (in a strictly non-sexual context, barring certain career choices of course).

This is why I have opted for four months of farm labour back home rather than a job related to my chosen career (a concept that is rapidly turning into something distant and nebulous). Now, this is not on my family's farm, as that doesn't exist, but in the vineyards at the winery down the road from my house where I worked last summer as a Tasting Bar Rep and Server.  The bonus? Built in exercise and tan (after the inevitable burn peels off).  

So back to the sucking it up. My father has been telling me for years that I need to have what he so charmingly calls 'Fuck You money' saved up in case I'm fired, need to quit etc. so I'm going to slave in the dirt for now since unpaid internships may dominate my immediate post-grad period. If only I wanted to be an accountant. Or a plumber.

Pics or Lies

Sound sure does carry through the labyrinthine world of cubicles. While at work today I heard many things, from the benign (the selling of ad space, the offer of coffee) to the fantastic (guttural frat-boy-esque shouting and the following sporadic comments):

"... and I was like, 'What's this? Oh, it's a golden shower,' and I had to call upstairs to ask how to delete it from my computer..."

"... haha, it's a girl being pooped on..."

"... I think I found the end of the internet... It's this porn site..."

Which leads me to today's lesson:

If you think you've found the end of the internet then you obviously haven't seen 4chan.

HOWEVER, I warn you that this is, in fact, the true end of the internet. Do not be fooled by the site's primitive looking facade or the numerous anime/manga references you might first encounter, for lurking within those seemingly innocent threads live posts to melt your mind into an unidentifiable mess. If there's no room for ambiguity in your sense of morality, this is not for you. The people on this site should be institutionalized. If you can wade through the unimaginable inappropriateness of a large portion of the content there is some really funny stuff. Don't judge me. My gamer friends told me about this.

Viva la Gamer

I'm taking a Contemporary Grammar writing course this semester. I know, sounds riveting, right? We've been ever so slowly getting into the real business of it, but today's lecture left me intrigued, and fighting to suppress laughter.

We were talking about lexical rules and how as native English speakers we often know when a sentence is wrong but can't always articulate why (hence learning grammar). For example, some verbs are stative, meaning they don't describe a process but simply a state (like to be). These verbs cannot be used in the structure be + present participle (like is walking). Of course, an example was provided.

Here is the incorrect sentence:

Sue is owning a BMW.

The "correct" sentence is: 

Sue owns a BMW.

Which leads me to today's lesson:

Gamer's are taking English to the next level because there is a context in which that sentence is grammatically correct.

In the event of a woman vs. car confrontation, it would be correct to say that "Sue is owning a BMW" if she's beating the shit out of a Beemer. The car doesn't need to belong to her. It could belong to anyone. All that matters is that she is owning that noob of a car.

Honey, where's my apron?

I had some pasta cooking for dinner tonight and I thought to myself, I'll just wash these few dishes lingering in the sink while I wait. Mostly forks and knives, plus a glass or two and the giant blue plastic bowl Steph and I use for popcorn. I was moving from one item to the next as quickly as I could to get them done in between stirring the pasta. The old rag we've been using since our last sponge disintegrated was supposed to be my partner, my ally. It was supposed to have my back. But it seems I misjudged its loyalty. Or maybe just its abilty to keep up with my mad dish-washing skills. Which leads me to today's lesson:

Always ensure that the cloth or sponge is fully covering the blade of the knife before you run your hand along it.

Luckily, our knives are kind of cheap and therefore not incredibly sharp. I didn't exactly cut myself...it's more of a scrape... I scraped my thumb on the knife. Right on the inside where the thumb bends. Delicious.

The Secret Merits of Body Butter

I made the mistake of cleaning today. It started out innocently enough. Just some vacuuming and the tidying up of the millions of shoes Steph, Andrea and I own. Then it spread to my room. When I clean it creates a sort of snowball effect. I don't know if this is the way everyone cleans… But when I clean things have to get a whole lot messier before it looks like I've made any progress. All I wanted to do was organize my notes and desk area but I ended up beating the pulp out of my thumb. Which leads me to today's lesson:

Do not endeavor to fix something without the necessary tools.

Tonight I broke my bookcase by throwing a box of magazines at one of its shelves. It seems my dad's original handy work couldn't stand up to my arsenal of books. But I fixed it! Using a plastic mini screwdriver and a small tub of Shea Body Butter as hammers only to learn that Steph had a 3-hole punch that would have been much more effective.

The back of the case had come off so I needed to get the unit away from the wall to do my hammering. I was crouching on the floor in front of it and after being bombed with a framed picture of my friends and I at the beach I decided it was time to remove the potted plant from the top. I sat on the carpet surrounded by my bed, desk and bookcase with a barricade of loose paper forming a fourth wall. I wasn't getting out until the bookcase was fixed or I broke a digit trying. It was finally over after I hammered nine nails and my thumb into the cheap particle board which, despite its lack of substance, put up an admirable fight.  

I emerged from my brief foray into furniture repair with a couple of cuts and without the temporary use of my thumb, but I was victorious! And to avoid doing that again in the near future I'm going to be a lot nicer to my bookcase now.