A Little Ish

It's 8am; I've given up any form of personal appearance and traded it in for a uniform of sweatpants and baggy tshirts; I'm living off crackers and boxed noodles, and I reek of exam studying and lack of sleep, but it all comes down to today. One day, two exams, and my gateway to freedom. LET'S DO THIS.

Thanks to global warming, Hamilton is still lined with green grass and snow-free streets. Though I am a big fan of wearing shorts during the Canadian winter, the schizophrenic weather is proving to be more than just warmer winters. After days of tepid temperatures, yesterday felt like a cold slap in the face.

Cold weather and I have always had a dysfunctional relationship. Heartbreaking movies don’t inspire more than a sniffle, but there is something about the abusive icy winds always make my eyes water. As soon as the temperature dips below tolerable, I strategically change to waterproof mascara and prepare for my walks to class to be accompanied by tears. Yesterday was one such day. In an attempt to minimize my exposure to the frosty outdoors, I decided to bike to class. Biking there was great. The wind was so strong that getting to class was a breeze (har har). The way back; however, was like riding with an elastic band attached to the back of my bike. The closer I got to home, the harder it got to peddle. The wind was so strong that I was peddling just so that I could stay upright. Tears were streaming down my face. I could barely see, my legs had become faint cyclone-like blurs spinning parallel to my bike, and I was moving so slowly that old ladies were walking past me. The wind eventually persuaded me off my bike; though walking home was slower, it downgraded the wind to a less violating breeze.

Lesson learned: Being bullied by the weather is not worth it. Now that environment is PMSing, retreat indoors where you can play God and control the climate.

After the high stress forced labour that was November; Mac students have moved into December with a dwindling will to persevere. Classes are finished and motivation is decreasing as rapidly as Tiger's reputation. Campus is a ghost town haunted by the faint shells of overworked and under-rested students. The streets are empty, but the libraries are full. With the tease of Christmas vacation, concentrated studying is comparable to walking through the desert in order to get to a distant oasis. Paradise free from the harsh reality of academia is in sight, but the closer I get, the harder it is to keep working. Two more weeks until I can sleep until noon, watch movies all day, eat fabulous food, and not worry about the work that I "should" be doing. The end is nigh, and I can't wait.

I am completely bogged down with assignments so naturally I’ve been spending a lot of time sitting on the couch, with a computer on my lap, and pretending to work while I watch television. In my academically overloaded state, I have not found the time to go grocery shopping. Though I’m getting to live out my childhood dream of living on Nutella sandwiches and Kraft Dinner, my taste buds have gone into a state of remission. The other day, I settled into my natural position of procrastination on the couch and started ‘writing my paper’ while watching The Tyra Show. When Tyra was forced to stop talking about herself and go to a commercial, an ad for Pizza Pizza came on the screen. All of a sudden, my taste buds were doing the samba and I was drooling enough to water the desert. The commercial was showing all the fancy fresh toppings that you could get on your pizza; tomatoes were rolling out of baskets, water was dripping off lettuce, and mushrooms were ricochet off counters.

Watching all the water droplet laden produce bounce around in slow motion made me feel like I was watching the agricultural version of Baywatch. Since when has bounce-ability of vegetables translated to freshness? As I watched onions rebound off a cutting board, I was instilled with the need to throw down all future produce and seeing if they rebound with the vigor of televised freshness. Considering the questionable nature of the contents of my fridge, this test will come in handy. Thank you Pizza Pizza for teaching me that if it bounces back, you’re good to go.

All we need to do to combat obesity is to make the world into a playground.

During the school year, I allow myself to become completely engulfed in university life. For the eight months that I live “in the bubble”, my computer screen functions as my window to the ‘real world’. On a particularly unproductive day last week, I found myself wandering the endless viral videos on Youtube and ended up browsing movie trailers. To my surprise, Hollywood was still thriving despite the fact that I no longer had time to frequent my local AMC.

As I browsed through the online trailers, I found the Technicolor, mock-indy movie Whip It; the newest ‘alternative’ comedy soon to be cult film. The movie is further proof that the ageless Ellen Page can popularize anything. She did it with teen pregnancy and now she is doing it with the underground world of roller derby.



Though the movie cited the formulaic layout of Juno, it has once again summed up to a great movie. The script is packed with quotables from every character, small town quaintness, retro rock references, and unattractive male leads that awkwardly smile their way into your heart despite their minimal dialogue. Like its counterpart, Whip It boasts a phenomenal soundtrack that highlights Indy artists teetering on the edge of mainstream music. The twenty-one songs that make up the soundtrack are the original reason that I wanted to go see the movie and I have since played them on constant repeat.

The trailer gives away the overarching story but the movie does save a few punches for moviegoers. In her directorial debut, Drew Barrymore achieves a balance between beauty and brutality. The intertwined love, family, maturity, friendship, and sports sagas that make up Whip It all work together without overpowering each other. I walked out of the movie wanting to hug my mother, support my best friend, and put on a pair of skates and take out anyone who got in my way.

Giving students suggested readings but no assignments in the first few weeks of school is like telling kids to eat their vegetables and then turning around so they can run out the door. The keen kids will chow down on broccoli, but the majority will wind up escaping to the playground. After weeks of gallivanting through campus bars, local restaurants, bike rides, weddings, and anything else that would keep me from my work, I was finally hit with a deadline.

My gallivanting came to a slowed trudge as I entered the doors of Mills Library. I buckled down and after a solid four hours Facebook avoidance; I managed to punch out my paper. I emerged from the dark study rooms high on pride. I walked over to the overstuffed bike racks and maneuvered my way through the tangle of wheels and spokes only to find that a bird managed to specifically target my bike seat. Since I had nothing to wipe the nasty green present off with, I was forced to use my jacket sleeve. I put the Styrofoam box containing my tasty Chinese leftovers on the ground behind my bike and began to wipe the bird poop off my seat when I heard a crunch. I turned around just in time to see some guy ride his bike over my lunch leftovers. In forty seconds my happiness was literally shit on and run over.

Lesson Learned: Don’t smile on your way out of the library. You’re just asking for it.

Putting forth your opinion in a class of over eighty upper years students can be daunting to say the least, but add in the conversation topic of racism and things get as uncomfortable as naked family dinner with your in laws. This past week in my Critical Race Studies class, the conversation was getting heated. People of all colors and ethnic backgrounds were passionately discussing prejudice and its various forms. Looking to contribute, a female student baring a vague resemblance to Drew Carey raised her hand. When she was called upon she shared a story about her girlfriend’s racial profiling experience. At the first mention of her ‘girlfriend’, the buzzing of excited whispering erupted amongst the rest of the class. Was the tomboy referring to her friend that is a girl or was she in fact revealing her sexual orientation by sharing a personal story about her female partner? The class quickly abandoned their critical examination of prejudice in order to gossip about our classmates potential orientation based her stereotypical appearance.

Lesson Learned: Actions speak louder than words.