A random, annoying, story that may, or may not be worth your time.

So yesterday I was Facebooking over breakfast and decided to browse people's so-called fun walls. I clicked on a video posted by a friend from Norway and a rather boring looking scene unfolded. It was a living room, probably in a basement, I'd wager, with a sofa on which someone slept. On the left a TV flickered and in the foreground stood a lone, white rocking chair. As I lifted my fresh (i.e. hot) cup of coffee to my lips, I noticed that the rocking chair moved ever so slightly, then a zombie creature flashed onto the screen and released a howl, which caused me to start, which caused me to spill hot coffee all over my dress, computer, and table cloth and finally yelp "SHIT!!!" Not because it was frightening, but because it was unexpected. I was rather upset. After making sure my laptop would survive I summarily removed the "fun wall" application from my Facebook profile and I really don't think I'll miss it.

Going Postal

Perhaps those of you who have attended the U of S have, at one time or another, attempted to post a letter or package at the Place Riel Post Office. And if so, perhaps you were served by a portly, curly-haired postal employee with a mean streak. Some days, angry postal lady is civil. I wouldn't go so far as to say that she can be polite or friendly, but she does, on occasion, manage civility. However, she has, in the past, insulted me.

One time I was involved in one of those ridiculously complicated transactions with which we all sometimes become entangled at a place of business. You know, it's like when you get to the till and they ring up your item and you hand them a twenty, but then remember that the item was on sale. So they call for a price check and you feel obliged to smile apologetically at your fellow customers in the line.

Finally, the price check lackey arrives with the correct price, but the cashier is having trouble voiding or correcting the previous amount. So then you offer to give them the exact change, but you need them to break the twenty dollar bill first. In order to do that you have to buy gum. And then you get the wrong change back from the gum and both you and the clerk are left scratching your heads, sharing the lingering impression that one of you has just committed an embarrassingly stupid mathematical error.

Well, that's the sort of situation I was in at the post office once, except that instead of both parties agreeing to sublimate that lingering mathematical insecurity, Angry-Postal-Lady asked me the following question in front of a rather large group of postal patrons: "What are you studying?" And I responded, somewhat, as you can imagine, confused by the question, "English Literature." Angry-Postal-Lady snorted and said, "Good, because you clearly aren't good at simple math!" To which I indignantly, and vainly responded, "Well, I speak three languages!" And then I trotted away to nurse my fragile, grad student ego. Consequently, I have determined that she is, in fact, the ultimate cliché: an angry postal employee who simply dislikes her fellow humans.

But finally, after three long years, I was vindicated. Although I have learned to avoid the Place Riel post office, I had need of some postal services while on campus. So, manila envelope in hand I approached the post office and saw that Angry-Postal-Lady was in, as she invariably is, but that she was accompanied by a pleasant looking woman I had never seen before. I stood in line at Pleasant-Looking-Woman's window, but alas, Angry-Postal-Lady was disoccupied first. I reluctantly approached her, but inwardly I promised myself that she would get her comeuppance.

I placed my yellow envelope before her and said, "I need to send this to Vegreville, Alberta and I want to know how much it will cost." She did not speak or acknowledge me in any way, but she took took the envelope and weighed it. She then addressed Pleasant-Looking-Woman and asked, "How much is 29 plus 34?" I watched with interest as Pleasant-Looking-Woman grabbed a calculator and announced, laughing nervously, "Sixty-three...I know it's terrible that I had to use a calculator to do that!" I wondered if Angry-Postal-Lady had at some point also insulted Pleasant-Looking-Woman's math skills, and I gloated inwardly since Angry-Postal-Lady had not been able to do that simple math in her head either!

But then Angry-Postal-Lady, with her Harperesque shark eyes, asked, "Do you want to send this regular mail or express?" Well, of course I wanted to send it the cheapest way possible and so I asked what the difference in price would be. I learned that it would be two dollars or so to send it through the regular mail, but it would take four days, and that it would be nine dollars by express, but it would be there in only two days. I opted for the regular mail and asked for package tracking as well, to which Angry-Postal-Lady responded by sneering, "That's why I told you to take the express!"

At that moment, I had two options: 1) Follow my usual instinct of politeness and apologize for not having understood or, 2) Give her a taste of her own Angry-Postal-Ladyness. So I retorted, "Well, you didn't explain that!" I perceived an instant change in Angry-Postal-Lady, I had pierced her mean armor with a bit of her own meanitude. She softened and actually looked me in the eyes when she said, "Oh! I'm sorry."

It was an incredible victory. After the Daniela Forces had been beaten for so long on the Postal Plains, they had finally out-flanked the Angry-Postal-Lady's minions and had won a small victory. There was much rejoicing.

Ode to Martyn

At the risk of setting a potentially annoying precedent in which I have to write posts to each of my readers (now totaling 3 people), I felt compelled to give Martyn what he asked me for: an ode.

But, frankly, I'm not feeling poetic. So, to make it up to him, here is a short video that I think speaks for itself and that Martyn will enjoy.

And so, without further ado, I give you Miss. Such As South Africa Carolina For the Children.

For Lyla

I do believe that you, Lyla, are my only reader. Not that I blame anyone but myself for disregarding poor little Biased and Myopic--unless you count Facebook, which I really do blame. But, in any case, I have vowed to share the mundane events of my life and that is exactly what I intend to do! First, and foremost, as I am sure you, my one and only reader, would like to know, my application to graduate has been received and approved by my college. Which means that I will graduate in October, apparently despite my owing some three dollars on my printing account. I have already cleaned out my office, which was a sad and tedious job. Who knew I had so many postcards on the wall? I cannot conceive of anyone else dwelling in that cupboard I called an office. I have also returned my beloved copy of Villette to the library. That was a very sad moment. I had that book for three years and was loath to part with it. I even considered stealing it! But then I could not bring myself to deny others the opportunity of having that particular copy of Villette, which to me was filled with so much meaning. So I settled on writing my initials and the year on the last page of the book as near to the binding as I could so that I would somehow maintain a connection with that book. I guess it's strange to have become so attached to a particular edition of Villette, but it's just part of who I am.

But now, on to less nostalgic topics! I got my hair cut and absolutely no one has noticed. Well, Lindell noticed, but besides him no one has mentioned it once. It doesn't bother me, it's just rather curious. It could be that my new hair-do is so nondescript that there's nothing much to say about it...or it looks so bad that no one dares to mention it. Personally, I think it is merely nondescript. Or perhaps it's because when I've mentioned my haircut to friends it has been in conjunction with a fascinatingly mundane story of racism, so that the requisite "your hair looks nice" gets lost in the tale and afterwards seems like a rather trite comment? But now I've piqued your interest (or at least I meant to, so if it isn't piqued just pretend it is and keep reading) and must tell you the Tale of The Non-Racist, Racist Hairdresser.

I'm still unsure of how this topic was broached, but it happened somewhere between the scalp massage and the hydrolic-chair. The topic of racism in Canada being raised, my hairdresser began to express her own tolerant views and disgust with racist beliefs. I commented that racism is a very difficult question because most people do not self-identify as racist or prejudiced against people of other cultures or races. I also mentioned that most of the people whom I have heard tell racist "jokes" would never, under any circumstance, admit to having even remotely intolerant beliefs, and yet they do tell jokes. "Oh yes," my hair dresser agreed, "I like to talk with a Chinese accent sometimes, but not because I don't like Chinese people, but because they talk funny."

Feeling that my point had been COMPLETELY misconstrued, I decided to attempt to drop the subject, but the non-racist, racist hairdresser had one more point she wanted to make. She told me that her brother was "half black" and was married to a "white" girl, which meant that their son had a lovely skin color--this was her non-racist opinion--, but she went on to describe her nephew as "looking Iraqi"--which I would call a racist comment. Feeling rather uncomfortable at this point, I changed the conversation to a discussion of reality TV. Bad idea. Apparently, she was a big fan of The Biggest Loser. After talking about which contestants could be good looking (after losing significant weight, of course) she went on to tell me her own dieting strategy which consisted primarily of the appropriate motivation. She said that when she feels the urge to eat potato chips she sticks a note on the cupboard that reads: "You don't need it, Fatty." Which is a whole other kind or prejudice.

I completely realize that hairdressers are in an industry that relies on standardizing beauty, which tends to mess with their own perceptions. But even so, it was rather shocking.

So, I hope you've enjoyed this post, Lyla, and I promise to reinvigorate good old Biased and Myopic. Afterall, I find Facebook to be a little boring. After thinking up a new status message for the day, there is very little to actually do.

I Blame Facebook

Facebook has made me shirk my blog responsabilities. Well that and the Xbox that a procrastination fairy left at our house. Also I took a trip to Calgary, that was rather distracting. Oh, and also my thesis has gone to committee and I'm getting ready to defend. Such a lot of distractions to keep me from telling you the following random things that (now) occurred quite some time ago:

1. We went to see The Inconvenient Truth in Regina. Three things of note ocurred in connection to this adventure. The first was that we felt tremendous guilt as we drove Moby Dick, the new, big, white car, all the way to Regina with only two people in it. The second was that one of L's highschool classmates unexpectedly sat next to us during the presentation, which allowed us to solve the first problem on the way home since we gave him a ride back to Saskatoon. The third was that two silly girls sat next to me. SIGH. Dear reader, do you have any idea the will power I had to employ NOT to elbow them in the ribs or give them a much deserved wet-willy?

We all know that people who are not from here have a rather difficult time pronouncing Saskatchewan. If you watch the national news, you'll notice that almost all the anchors say it "wrong". That is they put the emphasis on the "e" instead of the second "a" which means that they say: saskatch-E-wan instead of sask-Atch-ewan. Al Gore, not being from Saskatchewan or even Canada is doubly disadvantaged and that is not even considering that he's southern and therefore will pronounce things oddly to begin with, pronounced the name of this province the "wrong" way...throughout his entire presentation.

I could understand a giggle from someone who had never heard the word pronounced by someone from outside the province, though how you could get through puberty without having that experience in this day and age I am at a loss to explain. But these vile girls giggled EVERY TIME.

Yes, every time the man said Saskatch-E-wan.

Can you imagine how many times he said it? It had to be at least 30 times in an hour and a half. How did they have the energy to continue giggling at the same thing, 30 times? Really? Really.

2. L and I were walking from Biology towards the E lot where our car was parked. It was a clear day in early April and I looked up into the sky. What do you suppose I saw gently gliding, looping, and soaring above our heads?

A plastic bag.


I do not mean that it was only ten or twenty feet above us, but perhaps a couple hundred. It was distinctly a plastic bag, though it was very far away; I could tell by the way it moved, by the shape of the falling object, and by its speed. We watched the thing sail downwards toward Innovation place and disappear behind some buildings. Curious as that was the second plastic bag drifting in the horizon was even more confounding. Where had they come from?

Suddenly, there it was, a tiny arrow-like object flying several hundred feet above us. I ask you, is it possible that someone **flushed** the two plastic bags? Why would someone have done that? What was inside them? And do planes really (REALLY?) eject toilet waste onto unsuspecting people below them?

You know you're a grad student when...

• you have difficulty reading anything that doesn't have footnotes.
• you understand jokes about Foucault.
• you consider caffeine to be a major food group.
• you've ever brought *thesis* books with you on vacation and actually read them.
• Saturday nights spent studying no longer seem weird.
• the professor doesn't show up to class and you discuss the readings anyway.
• you appreciate being able to choose which twenty hours out of the day you have to work.
• you still feel guilty about giving students low grades (you'll get over it).
• you can read course books and cook at the same time.
• you schedule events for academic vacations so your friends can come.
• you hope it snows during spring break so you can get more studying in.
• you find yourself citing sources in conversation.
• your office is better decorated than your apartment.
• you are startled to meet people who neither need nor want to read.
• you have ever brought a scholarly article to a bar.
• you rate coffee shops by the availability of outlets for your laptop (by the by, Browser’s sucks for outlets).
• everything reminds you of something in your thesis.
• you have ever discussed academic matters at a sporting event.
• you can tell the time of day by looking at the traffic flow at the library.
• you look forward to summers because you're more productive without the distraction of giggling undergrads.
• you regard ibuprofen as a vitamin (Amen).
• you consider all papers to be works in progress.
• professors don't really care when you turn in work anymore.
• you have given up trying to keep your books organized and are now just trying to keep them all in the same general area.
• you have accepted guilt as an inherent feature of relaxation.
• you find yourself explaining to children that you are in "20th grade".
• you often wonder how long you can live on pasta without getting scurvy.
• you look forward to taking some time off to do laundry.
• you wonder if MLA style allows you to cite talking to yourself as "personal communication".
  

This list is adapted from this website.

The Absent-Minded Wonder Strikes Again, But Has Finally Gone Too Far.

While typing away at my introduction yesterday, I had attempted to charge my iPod. This involves plugging my wall-charger into a socket, but upon doing so I found that the socket in my cubicle didn’t work. So, I easily resolved the issue by plugging the iPod into my laptop. A while later I went for coffee and never returned.

Twenty-four hours after my coffee break, L asked me where my iPod’s wall-charger was. “In my backpack,” I responded. But it was not there. Then, in a flash, I realized that I had no memory of ever having unplugged the charger from the socket. I left it in the cubicle of the Natural Sciences Library!

We immediately jumped into our somewhat fancy rental car and sped to the university. Needless to say, though I will say it, I felt quite useless. I understand that my studies grant me a certain degree of absentmindedness, but this was simply going too far. Those things are like forty bucks!!

Well, we arrived at the university and L said I should mentally prepare myself not to find it. I parked the car in the loading zone and ran to the library. Flinging open the rather heavy doors, I ran up the stairs to the second floor. You could tell from the speed of the clicking of my boots that I was no sleepy-eyed undergrad, sluggishly making my way to a cubicle where I will half study, half sleep for several hours. No, the clicking of my boots on the library floor suggested intention. I knew precisely which cubicle to check and I wasted no time in reaching it.

In said cubicle I found an older, international student, whom I impetuously accosted with a “Pardon me, I need to check your cubicle.” He, of course, seemed bewildered by such a demand, so I quickly explained that I had forgotten a wall-charger there and would like to see if it was still in the cube. He stood up and turned over some papers, lifted his laptop, and checked under a bit of bubble-gum wrapping, but before I had finished explaining the purpose of my search I had already seen that it was not in the socket. I told him that it was “okay”; he continued to shuffle papers. I expressed that it “is not there,” but he checked under his laptop. I thanked him, and he confirmed that my lost object was not beneath his gum wrapper. I don’t think he understood what I was looking for.

Plan B involved more fast-paced, determined boot clicking all the way down to the circulation desk. I’m certain the person behind the desk saw me enter and heard my loud boot walk, so as I made my way down the stairs, he was already looking in my direction. Then I corrected my course to walk unmistakably in his direction. Having arrived at the circulation desk and pausing to take a deep and hopeful breath I asked: “You wouldn’t happen to have a square, white iPod wall-charger in the lost and found, would you?” Without a word the clerk wheeled his chair two feet away toward a cardboard box marked “Lost and Found.” I could see that there was a long, black scarf in it and I held my breath as he lifted the scarf and, to my amazement, held up my small, square, and white wall-charger.

“IT’S A MIRACLE!” said I, taking possession of my precious object.

So I would like to publicly thank the person who sat in that cubicle sometime between 2:15pm on Friday and 2:15pm on Saturday, not only for returning my wall-charger, but also for confirming my faith in humanity.