Oh! Sparkles!

I know, I have failed you all. I am especially sorry to you, my one reader from Sweden. I hope you name is Sven, as I have been calling you Sven in my head.

Though really, you all should be quite impressed by the amount of procrastination needed to not have created a post since December.  

It’s not that I forgot about you, I was just having trouble committing. 

Really, the title speaks for itself. 

I did try. I started making a blog post for January, then failed to make anything presentable of it. So I thought OK, better luck next month. No such luck. (So much for new years resolutions.) Then AGAIN I tried with no avail. I sat in the cafeteria alone in a corner, stubbornly trying to force my poor little ADHD brain to focus; and all I could think about was that everyone was looking at me. 

It's like people are always trying to decipher whether you just sat down and are saving a table for friends, or you obviously have no friends and no one wanted to sit beside you because you didn’t have time to look attractive and the only thing that was clean was your ugly Christmas sweater you bought as a joke but it was only four dollars, so why not? IT’S FESTIVE. 

Even if is is March. 

So as I was saying, it’s not that I had a lack things to talk about or was “actively ignoring you”. My Bloggers-block was sparked merely from an inability to catalog events and then condense and organize them into a comprehensible blog post for all you lovely people to read and enjoy. (Yes I am referring to you 110 readers from the UK.)

What is “actively ignoring” something anyway? What does that mean? Is it like the times when you know  you are supposed to be doing something, and you can’t stop thinking about how you should be doing it right this minute, but you really don’t want to do it because it takes to much effort to do, so you would rather wait until the last possible minute and pretend everything is fine?

If it is then I think my brain is the most active part of my body. 

It’s probably the only thing that's actually fit. 

That's OK, I have my ugly Christmas sweater to hide everything else. 

At the very least it clears tables.

That Sound Your Stomach Just Made? Yeah.. I heard it.

If you have ever experienced exam week, you will know it is the moment where your world becomes focused; where your entire body reverts back to ancient survival methods and all your brain is trained to do is get you out alive. 

If you are like me, your brain has no such function, and you lumber around in a fog of denial and confusion. Moving farther and farther away from the river of enlightenment and drowning in the sea of procrastination. Having just gotten through the worst week of my life, I have acquired a few pearls of wisdom.

One thing you must know, is you are WRONG about your exam date unless you have had three people including your prof email/text you the information. It is always a good idea to set an alarm on your phone, leave posted notes everywhere and have one of your classmates text you the night before. (trust me that last one is essential)

On the day of my last exam, I woke up late. And I don’t mean the usual “Oh shoot, guess I’m going out without mascara” kind of late, I mean the screaming “HOLY MOTHER! I AM LAAATEE! I DON’T EVEN HAVE TIME TO PUT ON PANTS!” while running high speed down the stairs, kind of late. But of course, when you live in ‘The Peg’ and the normal temperatures are -40 and the streets look like this:

                       It is necessary to take a moment and clothe your bottom in pants.

Now, normally my brisk walk to the bus stop takes me about 8 minutes, give or take a few to account for lost footing and face plants. That day I had to make it in 5. I have never been athletically inclined. Ever. I have a hard enough time walking without tripping over my own feet let alone adding ice into the equation.

Which makes the first minor miracle of that morning that I only bailed once head-on into the snow without breaking any important body parts. And the second, that I was able to scream loud enough and run fast enough to get the bus drivers attention before he left without me.

Once my (fully clothed) bottom was safely seated in the front of the bus* I was able to try and re-teach my lungs how to breathe, while trying to defrost my nostrils from sticking together. 

*See Tips and Tricks to Transit Safety 

Now, not having even been able to properly clothe myself, it is obvious I had no time to eat breakfast either. Missing breakfast, along with the added bonus of waking up at the ungodly hour of 7:00 am makes my stomach hate me, and turns it into the raging fiery acid pits of hell. Leaving me sitting uncomfortably trying to focus on one spot on the wall so I will not be sick and get thrown off the bus and miss my exam. 

It is then, at the very next stop a lady gets on with a stroller. And (being in prime seating) sits next to me. Normally, babies are happy to go about their daily business. Eat, Burp, Sleep, Poop. Repeat. With not much thought in their minds besides: “Why is that person making weird faces at me? I would like that to stop.” and: “Look a bug, can I eat it?”, But no. The Galileo of babies had to sit next to me. 

This baby had an impenetrable gaze. No matter how long I looked away, or looked right at it, it just stared at me. Not blinking. It’s like it was seeing into my soul and judging me harshly. It was like it KNEW I was completely unprepared for my exam, and that instead of finishing my study notes I coped out and watched Inception. Not only was the unwavering glare of the small disdainful child uncomfortable, but it was doing nothing for my bus sickness. 

There is no eloquent way to say “Excuse me miss? But if you can’t get it to stop staring at me, I may vomit on your child. So sorry.” Trust me I tried to find one, nothing came to me. So I kept my mouth shut and stared back. You have never felt worse then when a  baby looks at you and seems to say, “Yes, even I am better then you, Mother pass me that bottle!” 

I was a minute away from losing the battle of don’t barf on the baby, when my stop arrived. 

Now it seemed a clear shot from there, just walk into the school, up two flights of escalators, and then write the exam! Until I got to my classroom and remembered that I was in a different room during the exam. Which lead to panic. This school is big. And my ability to get lost in more familiar areas has astounded many. Including myself. In a small moment of sheer luck, I spotted a familiar face. 

Brain:

That girl?

She.. SHE IS IN YOUR CLASS!

FOLLOW HER!

FEET! QUICKLY NOW! 

Stalking: 

to proceed in a steady, deliberate, or sinister manner 

“Famine stalked through the nation.”

I like a villain with a bad moustache, stalked my classmate all the way to the room on the fourth floor. She looked back with insecurity quite a few times, it almost made me think I DID have a bad mustache, so to make her feel comfortable I hid behind a locker once.

I did indeed stalk her like famine through a nation. I am not ashamed.

When finally seated -near the front as to ignore the glare from the stalked- I thought I would be able to silently await my peril in peace. Not so. 

The longest, loudest, angriest sound came from my stomach. Creating a giant disturbance and causing all 18 sets of eyes (including those of the prof) to be focused on me. To the rest of the world it was: BLURRRRPSAISOISBUBBLESNAP, But being well versed in the language of my stomach, I recognized it as FEED ME. 

Slouching in my chair to avoid the ‘what the HECK is trying to eat its way out of your stomach?’ looks, I tried to laugh it off.

Me:“Oops, missed breakfast this morning, good thing the exam hasn't started yet! Ha-ha.” 

Silence

(Sharp intake of breath in the room)

My professor stood up in complete shock and disgust.

Prof: You missed breakfast?

Me: I was running late.

Prof: Breakfast, is the most important meal of the day! You cannot take an exam on an empty stomach! How is your brain to be fueled?! You better hope this doesn’t affect your mark!

Me: No. I am not going to fail my exam because I didn’t have time to choke down a bowl of cheerios this morning. (I’m pretty sure. I hope.)

Quickly the room settled into the silence of exam tension after that. While most people tried to quickly grind that last tiny little bit of information into their brain, I began to fantasize about bowls of cheerios and their many flavors. Starvation was stalking me, just as I had stalked my classmate. It was getting to the point where I worried I might begin to nibble on the exam booklet when it was finally handed out. And then, I remembered. In my jacket, which had been laid for safe keeping on the desk ahead of me, in the pocket was a granola bar. I had been to nauseous to eat on the bus, but it was still in my pocket!

It is of course after resolving the goal of consuming said granola bar that a huge stack of paper THUDs onto my desk. 

Prof: Exam starts now. You have three hours to finish. No talking, texting, food or drinks.

Some days, life just seems out to get you. 

It took me a good twelve minutes to pull my tunnel vision from the pocket of my coat, and finally onto my exam where it belonged. And then another five to realize I could actually start. 

Three hours can pass in the blink of an eye when writing an exam. When it was all finally over, without ending in tears or an embolism, I did what any self respecting woman would do, ordered a plate of fries the size of my head.

One thing I learnt from this whole experience? 

Fries can fix anything.

Oh yes, and set your alarm.

The Till That Destroyed My Chances of Respect And A Raise

There are moments in life where you are thrust upon acting adult like. For instance, when someone hands you a baby. No matter how utterly terrified you are that it will start screaming and spew acid vomit into your eyes, you must smile and nod like it is the most beautiful baby you have ever seen, not a pink space alien. 

Another instance would be when your boss looks at you and thinks, 

“Huh. I’m pretty sure  if we gave her a key she couldn’t find a way to destroy the store.” 

And when they actually hand you such key your reaction shouldn’t be, 

“WOW! I don’t even have a keyring!”

Boss: You don’t have a keyring?

Me: I don’t have any keys..

Boss: Not for your house?

Me: My parents make me use the garage..

Boss: a car?

Me: I don’t have a license ...

Boss: You don’t have a license??

Me: I prefer not to drive...

Boss:......

Me: .... Your re-thinking this aren’t you?

Much to my surprise (and most likely due to desperation and lack of employees on my boss’s part) I was still given a key. A key that would cost me 500 dollars to replace if I lost it. 

Me: What, was it gold inlayed with unicorns horn or something?

Yes, they still gave it to me.

Now, this is a prime example of being thrust into adulthood. I had a quick crash course in closing and then the next day it was show time.

Boss: So do you understand everything?

Me: *Blink*

Me: Yes..

Boss: Because I can stay and help you out for the first time, I’ll just have to cancel my dinner with my family..

Me: No no! Don’t do that! I have made a list! It all seems understandable! I’m good! 

In my defense everything did seem understandable, except for my handwriting.

Something that should have been: 'And then hit send to close till two', In my mad dash spaztic writing ended up looking like: 'And then bite the flea, monkey sex tools'.

And really how is that of any help to me?

Answer: None.

I did everything short of burning down the store. 

Ok, thats exaggerating a bit. But not by much.

After closing one till successfully without any of my crappy instructions, I felt like a champ. A capable, slightly heroic, adult-like champ. And I should have known that this was bad, things always get bad when I think I’m adult-like.

I then proceeded to till number two. I pressed a few buttons, sure that this would be as easy as the first and I would be out on time, with everything counted perfectly and my boss would then stride up to me the next day exclaiming:

“RAISES FOR EVERYBODY! But not really, JUST FOR YOU!”

Alas, a shrill beeping shattered my fantasy.

The till was screaming at me. Whatever button I unknowingly miss-pressed threw the till into a tantrum of hate and demonic possession. To which I panicked and replied 

“STOP DOING THAT!”

I pressed a few more buttons, which lead me to louder beeping and a lockdown of the cash drawer and the keyboard.

“DONT DO THAT! I NEED THAT! PLEASE STOP!!” 

No amount of pleading could get it to reconsider its hasty decision to ruin my reputation as a keyholder, or an capable adult in general.

To ashamed to call in my failure to my boss, I took the cowards way out, and left a note.

(The Boss probably wouldn't have been able to hear me over the tills painfull screeching anyways.)

Dear Boss:

I found out the till hates me.

I tried to be nice to it, I did everything I could,

I couldn’t read my own writing and that was my downfall.

I may have hit it, twice.
I’m sorry I destroyed your morning. I was to ashamed to call you..

I got one till done at least, And look how clean the floor is!

I tried to fix it!

Ps.

Please don’t fire me!

Love Teagan

That note is now pinned to a bulletin board.

And may be the only thing that kept me from being fired.

Trapped: in a public bathroom

Everyone has had that moment, the one terrifying- albeit later hilarious- moment, where you psych yourself out. Whether it be mistakenly thinking you left the stove on, and you’re already at the grocery store, or when you are fairly certain that you have a communicable disease...because you typed all your symptoms into WebMD and they matched.

Myself, begin a normal human being, and a hypochondriac, have had several of these types of psych outs. But they are not the ones to which I am referring. 

No ladies and gents, I am talking about the ever dreaded moment you look over and realize that you have no toilet paper. None. I’m talking about the sinking, anguished feeling of being stranded on a toilet. 

My unfortunate story takes place at a mall not far from here. Not to be confused with the one I actually work at, making it just unfamiliar enough to get turned around and lost.

Ironically, I was there for a work related reason. I was sent to a retail conference to learn how to “more effectively” haggle people out of their money. 

Let me just say that being trapped in a tiny overheated conference room, in the back halls of an over-capacitated mall with 20 people is not fun. By the time our thirty minutes of freedom rolled around, (aka: lunch) I was itchy with the prospect of breathing fresh air, that hadn’t been circulating around the room for the last three hours. 

Of course, the first thought in my mind was: Get to food. My stomach had been having a lively and rather loud conversation with my brain (and everyone else in the room) making it hard to concentrate on anything else but obtaining and consuming a sandwich at the very LEAST.

When I had finished the last of the most glorious sandwich I had ever tasted and a large  Orange Julius, I realized that my bladder had swollen up to the size of an overfilled water balloon. The kind that is so full you can actually see the plastic working up a sweat to contain all the sloshy water. It was bad. And I was in pain. I Potty Shuffled* to the nearest bathroom in a quick and orderly fashion.

(*not to be confused with the “potty dance” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DacxAfN_T-Y although it has to be said, the elderly mad holding his crotch in short-shorts at 0:32 would be enough to set any toddler back from potty training for years) 

When one has to pee as badly as I did, your first thought is GETTER DONE. You do not stop to check your surroundings, you are lucky if you enter the right gender washroom, let alone reach a stall in time. So you can imagine my extreme distress and utter disappointment after finally achieving the flooding feeling of relief, to realize toilet paper was no where to be found. 

At this point it was a race to what would happen first, my limited time to get back to the conference room running out (five minutes and thirteen seconds), or someone coming to use the washroom. You’d think it would be fine, that people have to pee all the time. 

That is not the case. No one in the world ever has to pee when you need them too. 

Robert Munsch even wrote a book about it. (http://robertmunsch.com/i-have-to-go/)

For two minutes I sat there in silence. Alone without the tinkling sound of companionship. Distraught over the undoubtable reprimand I would receive for being late. I was getting desperate. 

At three minutes I threw dignity to the wind and started yelling. 

After a minute and a half of “HELLOOO??” and “TRAPPED! IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE!!” my prayers were answered. The familiar clickity clack of painful-but-attractive-shoes, echoed down the bathroom hall.

Me: “Um Hello? I know this must be rather odd, and I’m sorry for the awkwardness, but I am stranded on the toilet, and I am late.”

*Brief pause*

Laughter.

Then HALLELUJAH! From the hands of an amazing mystery woman a wad of toilet paper! 

Finally freed from the confines of the stall I met my savior. A sweet thirty-something year old mom who had tears in her eyes and blotches on her cheeks from laughing so hard. 

Me: “Thank you so much! I am eternally grateful.”

Savior: “Happy to help. You made my day, in fact this might have made my month!” 

After a brief discussion on the dangers of public washrooms I was flying out the door and back to the conference room. Turns out running against mall traffic in heels is not an easy feat to accomplish. Nor is it very attractive while doing it.. 

But the point is I was there ON. TIME. And I am sure the group of seniors I plowed through like a bowling ball are all fine. 

I never saw that awesome mom again, but if you happen to stumble upon this, know that your aid was entirely appreciated. There is not many who would be as cool as you.

I Blame Never Being Able To Post Anything Longer Then A Sentence on Essays

In fact I blame everything on essays.

For Example:

Why it's been two weeks and I still haven't emailed my Grandmother back,

Carpel Tunnel,

Child Labour: due to bitter angry people who had to endure writing copious essays during their university career. Therefore taking out anger and hatred on multitudes of chinese children.

The Dramatically Climbing Ratio of Car Accidents in Winter: Who has time for winter tires? I need to finish this Essay for yesterday. 

Old People Haters: They are already DONE their essays! They never have to look at another one till the day they die, which might be soon.

People with Weird Annoying Laughs: They've been kept behind a computer screen for so long that they forget how to mingle with general society, causing random outbursts of laughter. But they haven't laughed in weeks because of the essay they wrote on the bubonic plague and its death count of sixty billion fluffy bunnies clutched by helpless children, and life just doesn't seem worth it anymore.

Christmas Haters: Christmas presents? Screw Christmas! I need an elf to keep in my closet whose soul purpose in living is to write my essays. 

Lack of World Peace: due to George Bush's inability to write or understand one. 

Dying alone: You have been holed up in your room for what feels like 3,00480,3974970 weeks and everyone thinks you are dead. Your own mother daren't look in your room for fear of seeing the carcass of her daughter draped in spider webs.

Animal haters (minus monkeys): The ONE time having thumbs is a bitch.

Procrastinators: For fear of becoming any of the things above.

New Transit Transportation: Move Over Buses!

Say buh-bye buses! Winnipeg has a new form of transportation, and frankly it beats you. 


Keeping with its prairie/farming heritage Winnipeg Manitoba has apparently decided to update its Transit vehicles to nothing other then: Tractors.

It may take about 30 hours longer for everyone to get where they are going, but when they arrive, it will be about 30 times more epic.

Graduating= Insta-Adult

I am here to disprove a common theory, a rumour if you will. You know the one:


Mix one cup of graduation, two teaspoons of diploma and add a dash of university acceptance, and BAM!
Instant Adult


I don't know where the common misconception came from, but I would like it to stop. Just because by some unknown force I was able to acquire an acceptance letter, does not mean I am about to drop my disney obsession, wear grown-up shoes and become an adult.


The last time I seriously tried to act like an adult, I was seven. My parents were out doing yard work and I decided not only was I parched, but ravenous as well. (Words brought to you by Sesame Street) I decided the only way to rectify the situation would be to make my family Kraft Dinner. Because I was an awesome kid who decided to feed not only myself, but my family as well.


So I got myself a pot and a wooden spoon, two instruments I had seen my mother use to make the fabulous dish that is KD. I put the pot on the stove and turned it on high (as I assumed one does when making macaroni). I then opened the box and poured out the contents in its entirety into the pot. I stirred once and then went to finish watching Stickin' Around, while my KD magically formed into edible food.


Really, I should not have been punished for this. How was a seven year old supposed to know that in order for something to boil there needed to be a liquid? How was I supposed to know the cheese packet needed to be opened to release its cheesy goodness? Is it so wrong that in my act of kindness I naively assumed that if I were to put it all in the pot and left it there, it would then turn into food?


Halfway into Rugrats, a displeasing smell entered my general vicinity. Though I was too enthralled to really worry or notice. Finally a shrill angry beeping sound exploded through the house and interrupted Tommy Pickles, forcing me into reality. Like FBI agents my parents busted through the doors. My father through the back screen door and my mother through the front. Both racing in to secure the safety of their darling child. I -being the innocent, exemplary, honest child I was, figured this would be a very good time to hide.


In hindsight, this probably wasn't my greatest plan. And I probably should have come out of hiding after the eighth time they called me. Probably. But at that point I was afraid for my life. Especially after my father finally got the smoke alarm to stop ringing and I heard my mother say: What is it with this kid and setting things on fire?! I should have cleared my name and told them of my good intentions. Plus that was only the second time I had accidentally set something on fire! That accusation hardly seemed fair!


In the end, the pot was salvaged, after many a srub-and-soak from my mother. Though to this very day you can see the effect I had on it. Since then I have never tried to act like an adult, or cook something in the kitchen ever again. Mostly.

If you look closely you can see the destruction.

Admittedly, there have been times that I do put a little effort into being adult-like. But those efforts are usually aborted or deteriorate before they have a chance to be aborted. Take starting my essay yesterday afternoon, I took all the necessary steps to beginning:

This is A, not really being a good example and texting when she should be studying for her Calculus Exam.

1. Went with a friend to the Quiet Room (Affectionately dubbed the Nap Room) 
2. Found a comfortable chaise lounge to sit and start
3. Pulled out my laptop and then....
4. Watched Hercules

Enjoying Disney movies with childlike abandon.

I am the living breathing proof, that all that go to university are not adult.

Theory Disproved.