Egos are a funny thing

In this hypercompetitive world, where one’s self-worth and mass-worth can be arbitrarily judged and changed on the whim of others, it’s not too surprising that I’m reticent to delete the 6 spam comments I’ve gotten on my blog. I can tell they’re spam – I’m just not sure what for…

The comments run along the lines of “You have a really unique perspective… you should add some pictures and videos and then your blog will be at the top of its class!” They’re exciting, full of praise, and – surprisingly – grammatically correct. Yet I can tell they’re spam because of their lack of specificity. “I have these problems too,” proclaims one comment – on a post about how my roommates haven’t yet learned to cope with my dirty mind. Problems? Where? Spam. Yet the comment goes on to say “Great work!” and it’s just so damn encouraging that I hesitate to be rid of it.

What’s a girl to do? When she recognises that her most glowing praise was generated by spam-bots, yet still can’t summon the guts to delete a positive review, false as it may be?

Drumroll please…

And now, the much-anticipated Interview With My Sister! She has her own web presence at and she is witty and errm, unique, as you will find below.

Me: Would you rather be a toaster or a lamp, and why?

Sister: I would rather be a lamp, because I can imagine that being a toaster would get quite itchy, with the crumbs and all.

Me: Makes sense. Besides, who doesn’t love lamp? Now, what would be the most dramatic way to announce a life-changing revelation to your friends and family? (the time mom found out about our tattoos does not count. I’m talking like, you’re secretly amphibian. Or lamp.)

Sister: First, I tell them that you got me drunk when I was fourteen (deflection) and that I think that’s the probable reason I’ve drank away my university fund. Then, I tell them that I dropped out of school. I say I got four more tattoos (and that one is of Christopher Walken’s face) and two tongue piercings, and am considering one on my weenus (I’ve seen it done before, don’t give me that look). I explain that I am moving away to live somewhere shittier than Ottawa, like Scarborough, to be with my baby daddy. I then tell them not to worry, because his parents have promised that he can stay in the basement without paying rent as long as he’s unemployed.

Then, after mom has fainted and won’t hear the bad news, I tell everyone that I’m an amphibian and they’re all happy for me (their newt-dars had been ringing for a while) and then they all buy me zippy newt food so I can lift them up when I’m big and green. (please see picture below).

 Me: Good job on pasting photos here, sister. I’m assuming it was a picture of Ned’s Newt, who was actually blue. WAY TO REMEMBER OUR CHILDHOOD. Here’s a chance at redeeming yourself:  Turn a random word into a euphemism and explain it.

Sister: Impossible, I cannot think of a single word which is not already a euphemism.

like, egg, or velveteen, or arpeggio.

See what I mean?!

 Me: Huh, good point. Along the same, euphemistic lines, what’s the stupidest thing you ever ate?

Sister: Well, funny story about this one, for years I thought the answer was MY TWIN WHILST IN UTERO because a certain family member used that as an explanation to why I had an apparent twin in the ultrasound pictures, but not in real life, even though she was only like nine and clearly had NO IDEA.

probably a turkish delight.

 Me: Ugh, I remember that. You were throwing up for hours. It was gross. Kind of like the time you… oh never mind, I won’t post it on the Internet. It’s too embarassing, even for an older sister to point out. Now, if someone you kind of know, but not really well, smells awful, like, embarassingly awful, are you going to tell them? and how?

Sister: I won’t tell them, their cologne was probably really expensive and even though it’s illegal in nine countries and smells like Bigfoot’s dick, I hear that it’s *actually* the smell of a woman’s desires.

Me: 99% of the time, it works every time. Here’s a random question: Which is your favourite pair of socks and why?

Sister: The ones Charlotte (baby sister) stole from me (shut up, that kid has ABNORMALLY large feet) when she was here because she has them and they’re mine and I want them!

And also because they had rainbow stripes 😦

Me: Imagine every enemy you ever had was now a four foot bug. What would you do?

Sister: Oh dear lord, I get my roommates to kill them. We actually put guns on the shopping list in case we ever see a Coconut Crab (picture below)


 Or convince them to ride in anything with a Capissen 38 engine (they fall right outta the sky).

(what, you can turn them into GIANT BUGS and I can’t get a low- level english comprehension from them?)

Me: Capiwhatnow? I don’t even know what that means. Capybera. Ahem. In which category will you receive the Nobel Prize, and for what? 

Sister: Hmm, well there isn’t a category for anything I excel at (sarcasm, drinking diet coke like it’s my job, or David Bowie fan- girling) I guess I could try physics. It seems easy enough.

Me: Isn’t your major politics? Seems like that’s pretty easy, if Ford can become mayor of Toronto. He gets scared of 60-year-old ladies in Warrior Princess dresses. Sheesh. Moving right along. What’s the best bathroom graffiti you ever saw? (bonus points if you recreate it and post a picture)

Sister: I can do you one better- I saw this lovely picture (below) and began recreating it whenever people write whiny things on bathroom walls.


Me: I once got into a theological, social, anthropological and psychological debate about chastity balls (lol balls) on a bathroom wall at U of T. Loves it.

Sister: Time for a shameless plug? OK!  Follow me on tumblr if you like music from the 60’s to late 70’s (with a bit of 80’s and a sprinkle of 90’s), pictures with “funny” captions, generally nerdy .gifs, Matthew Gray Gubler, allusions to my childhood and the inevitable nostalgia that follows, or David Bowie’s crotch. Below is a typical blog  entry.



Kate actually helps me find pictures on occassion, so following me would be like following her. But less deep, if that were possible) (It’s pretty difficult to get less deep than me.)

 Convinced? Not Convinced? Go to to decide for yourself. (You sound like a voting ad.)
Me: Well thank you, sister, for being such a good sport and fodder for my blog on a day when I felt like Bejeweled was going to eat me with its shiny, shiny gem-teeth. One last parting shot: Write a paragraph (of at least 12 sentences) about whatever the flup you want.

Sister: What I really want to do is drop out of school and join the Beatles. I heard they got acid from their dentist, and well, I don’t trust mine for things like that, so I suppose that’s the only way around it; I’ll have to use theirs. Problem is, he’s the dentist to the Beatles, so I’d have to join to get the acid. I’d be quite easy on him, considering the lot her normally deals with, eh? I’d totally be great for fanservice, because I would ensure there were rumours that members of the group were sleeping together. The rumours would be true, of course, but only 25 % true; I’d only sleep with George because his hair is adorable, I really like skinny awkwardness in males, and he dances worse that I do (which is a complete turn on). [No, I am not being funny, George really is my favourite.] Of course, when John heard the rumours, he would assume I was sleeping with Paul – wildly considered the prettiest- and get jealous, creating a wonderful sort of dramatic irony. This was my goal in life for about five hours, until I regrettably remembered something of crucial importance; I’d end up making a movie like Magical Mystery Tour, and that simply wouldn’t do. So I guess I’ll finish school and become batman.

the end. 

To be continued…

I have to leave for work right now but I sent my sister her interview questions. I’ll post them later on tonight.

In the meantime, here’s some poetry by my other sister (the 9-year old):

Bella wears a dress.
It is pink with polka dots.
She is a monkey.


Interview with my sister

She lives in Ottawa which is far too far away from me to have any kind of normal-people conversation*. So the post to follow will be our kind of people conversation.

*We may not have ever had any normal-people conversation, but right now I’m going to blame lack of normalcy on the distance.

Putting the Pro in Procrastination

Because I am so good at it. Seriously. I should get paid for this shizz. I could give expert seminars on how to procrastinate with utmost inefficiency. And then I wouldn’t have to get a real job.

For example, I started this blog post about an hour ago and I’ve since hit a top score on Bejeweled. GOD DAMN YOU POP CAP


Since I woke up two hours ago (sometime around 2 pm, aw yeah) I have managed to microwave two hotdogs to prevent myself from starving, drag myself back to the kitchen to get some ice cream (because I’ll be damned if I eat lunch without some dessert) and then fill a mug with 5-Alive and a generous helping of vodka from my bedside flask. And that counts as productive for today.

Damn. I have to be at work in two hours. That entails work. Work is the antithesis of procrastination. All my hard not-work gone to waste.

Good thing I’m such a pro at this.

Edited to add: My sister isn’t helping very much. I was all “eee I have to work AND I have to shower, why does god hate me and why do I have to do TWO things??” and she was like “French braid?” But I don’t have enough hair. But I don’t have to be at work for another almost two hours, so she was like “just stand in the shower for two hours, it’ll be like a hot tub in anti-gravity” and I was like SWEET, DONE. So eventually I’ll get off the computer to go stand in the shower and hope the shampoo will lather and rinse itself.

Ghost story

Ever since she was small, my baby sister (now 9 years old) has complained of “blue, pixellated” people that periodically walk around her room at night. Now, I’m going to put it right out there and say that yes, I do believe in existence outside this plane of being – whether that means post-mortem or multi-dimensional I’m not sure – but I do believe my sister saw whatever she saw, 100%. Mark me as crazy if you must, but science-fiction isn’t always entirely out of the realm of possibility.

She has seen whole families “having picnics, walking around, or just standing there like this” (with hands clasped in front of her, staring forward) and they only appear at night when the rest of the household is asleep (and she should be, too!). At first, when she began to report them, around the age of four, I thought she was dreaming. But the reports became more frequent, always consistent, and with an eerie sense of believability – whether she actually saw something or thought she saw something, she herself believes it and thus the listener with an ounce of Mulder-like open-mindedness is inclined to believe her convictions as well.

Tonight, as we were preparing for Hallowe’en, we were swapping ghost stories – I’d heard all hers as nightmares at the time, but now, with her retrospective view from the ripe old age of nine, I can tell that whatever she experienced was either waking and paranormal, or the most vivid series of dreams imaginable.

As I left my parents’ house tonight, I had the song “Let it Rain” by OK Go stuck in my head, just in the back, barely making itself known in my brain, when suddenly a line from that song hit me:

 “Vision blue and blurry, fallen angels in a flurry, spinning ’round the empty room”

Is this a common experience? If so, why is the blue, unfocused spectre overlooked in popular ghost lore? None of my experiences (within memory) have ever involved a direct, clear view of a spirit, entity or vision such as this, but it has been said that the boundaries between our inhabited world and different spiritual planes are softer and more flexible in childhood. Either way, it was an eerie moment for me to hear that my sister’s heretofore unique visions may not be so unique after all.

Happy convocation!

My li’l brudder’s high school convocation is today and he was looking dapper as ever, all six-foot-two of him suited-up and ready to grab his OSSD. I couldn’t be prouder 🙂

Congrats, Mittens!

Victory Playlist

Something in the bedroom above mine is squeaking. Fairly rhythmically, but to be fair, one of my upstairs neighbours is a drummer.

The squeaking has stopped. Time to put on my Victory Playlist: five repetitions of Queen’s We Are the Champions.

I hope I never meet my upstairs neighbours.


I apparently have a very tragic tradition involving Hallowe’en, that most sacred of pagan nights wherein disguised phantoms roam the night in search of candycandycandysugarcandy.

My tragic tradition was once more unwittingly furthered this Hallowe’en season. I appear to be cursed.

My curse?

Incomprehensible costumes.

Take, for example, the earliest Hallowe’en that I can remember choosing my own costume. (The year before I had been a ghost at my mother’s behest; it’s easy to hide a snowsuit under a sheet in Canadian Octobers.) My first costume, sewn by my mother and picked out by me, all on my own, was a little known 1993 Barbie known as “Secret Heart Barbie.” So the silver lamé and pink broadcloth went fairly far in the way of Barbie fashion. What really put it over the edge in terms of confusing people was the long blonde wig on a four year old half Asian girl. That was the first Hallowe’en I had to explain myself – over and over again – and why exactly it was that I chose to dress as whatever the hell it is I was.

Several more confounding costumes have ensued, all of which seemed perfectly understandable and even a little clever in the planning. Either I have a very strange mind or I suck at costume execution. Or both.

I have been a garden, a wood nymph, a one-person-piggyback (which to be fair was difficult to see in the dark, and since my little sister was a washing machine that year, I changed halfway through the trick-or-treating to become a Pile of Laundry), a Scottish granny in her pajamas (don’t even ask, I don’t know), an extremely-clothed can-can girl, a courtesan (in grade 10 before I accurately knew what a courtesan was but by the time the 12th graders knew exactly what), a CSI, Juno (I totally nailed that costume too, I don’t understand how nobody got that… I HAD A NAMETAG THAT SAID HI, I’M JUNO), and most recently, this year, a Vivaciously Vixen-like Version of V from V for Vendetta. I love that movie, we’re nearing Guy Fawkes’ day, and the mask was only $8. Plus, if I’d dressed as Evey, I would’ve had an even harder time explaining what it is I was supposed to be.

Vemale Version of V

What, Moi blow up British Parliament?

So that ^ was my costume for this year’s Early Hallowe’en Party last Tuesday with my friends. We’re a bunch of geeks. November 5th is my roommates’ anniversary. So I figured, the mask is EVERYWHERE, the movie wasn’t too long ago and it’s shown every year on Teletoon, everyone will know exactly what I am the female version of! This has got to be the year that I don’t have to explain myself! (Granted, that year I was a Blues Brother was pretty good, but when my brother wasn’t around it didn’t really make much sense. Then I was just a chick in a tie and fedora.)

I digress. I showed up to the party lookin’ like I was gonna blow the place up with gunpowder in the basement. (Which I wasn’t, mostly because I’m not sure how to go about doing that and also because I don’t really wanna blow anything up.) I got my rose, my gloves, my trenchcoat which is not pictured (I know, it’s supposed to be a cape – do you think that’s where I went wrong?) and MY GIANT GUY FAWKES MASK. And I got a lot of “I know I’ve seen that, but what are you?” all night. I even got a sheepish, confused “Tuxedo Mask?”


Tuxedo Mask? TUXEDO MASK??? Does that look like a tuxedo or Tuxedo Mask’s mask to you??

Apparently it’s true. Hallowe’en for girls should not be clever or out-of-the-ordinary. It just leads to confusion. Hallowe’en for girls should be slutty sluttiness with sluts on top.

So next year for me should be pretty self-explanatory. I’m going as Hester Prynne.

Weekly comic

I’ve decided that Tuesdays shall henceforth be known as Weekly Comic Days. I will update my blog each Tuesday (or Wednesday morning, as it technically is right now) with a low-tech pencil-drawn comic highlighting cultural and social observations or scholarly ennui (i.e. I thought of something weird or I was bored in class).

Here’s the first:

Don't you hate it when that happens??

I can’t be the only person to whom this phenomenon occurs. I’m sure this is all one big engineering joke that only those of us who absolutely require handrails for balance on escalators who practice escalator safety can truly understand. Cruel, cruel engineers.