Thanks, Danny!

For the first time in what feels like years, I am wearing my retainer. My pearly whites are in great danger of returning to their pre-orthodontic state and I, along with my toothpaste commercial smile will have none of this.

So, in my mouth is my retainer, in its wiry, purple and Canadian-flagged glory. (In Grade 8, when I got my braces off, I had the choice of what colour retainer I wanted, and with which image imprinted on the plastic part, selected from Windows '98 Clipart. Appropriately, my selection was a nice shade of eggplant with a Canadian flag.)

I wish to take this opportunity to thank my dear friend Danny for reminding me that wearing your retainer is important and one must not give up on the lisp-inducing little thang.

DANNY: "You have such a great overbite for making silly faces, Jacq."

My you-hate-me-because-my-teeth-are-nicer-than-yours confidence has since been deflated.

Faith in humanity: Restored

After my fruitless venture to the Russian Consulate, I reported to my Professor who is overseeing my upcoming eastern hullabaloo that is called 'language camp.' Defeated and ill, I had given up on trying to retrieve my passport and wished him via gmail to have a wonderful weekend.

AND YET-

I get a phone call on Saturday. It is Professor's assistant, reporting to me that, in his hands he holds my beloved passport. Professor had personally trundled over to the consulate and "begged" (as his assistant informed me) for them to let him have it so the poor girl (me) could go and see her father (Kaptain Kim).

Professor did not have to do that. (I should have just paid the additional $150 to get it processed more quickly)

After all, there are individuals on the McGill payroll who are not disinterested and ignorant robots, but kind Russian scholars with warm hearts and communist bartering skills!

In Russia there ain't no love, baby

Today, with my adorable babushka kerchief, pearly white and innocent smile, I went to the Consulate of the Russian Federation and thought I could con them into accelerating my visa papers. My California girl Kat came along because she's wonderful and really into interior decorating and I thought she might like to see the consulate.

Usually, I can talk my way out of anything.

But, in this country, this is not the case.

I walk in to the wood-paneled room adorned with Soviet propaganda, and all 15 people in there are speaking Russian ochen bistra (that means 'very fast'). I take a number, and we sit down, trying to take the situation very seriously.

In the office, there are two small windows, about 2'x3.5'. One is called "1" and the other is appropriately called "2." Everyone in the room had the same 3-4 papers in their hand, a passport and a solemn [Russian] expression. I realize this is not the place I should try to sweet talk my way into getting my passport back sooner (I am supposed to travel to AMERICA in a few days), so I go to the security desk to see what's going on.

JACQ: "Excuse me"

A man (let's call him ANGRY RUSSIAN) motions to press the white intercom button. I see it, I press it.

JACQ: "Excuse me, can I ask you something?"

ANGRY RUSSIAN: "GARBLAHSK OHMBER"

I think I missed what he said.

JACQ: "May I ask you a question?"

In the most Russian and incomprehensible accent I have ever heard, he points and says "Go to nahmber wan." (Go to number 1.)

JACQ: "No, I have anoth-"

ANGRY RUSSIAN continues to point to "Number 1"

I sit back down. I realize this is not going to work. Sometimes, my Crest commercial smile and doe eyes can't get me everything I want. Kat and I return to the car, I change the oil for the first time in my life (I mean, at least I accomplished something), and we go home.

I don't even think Kat liked the decorating inside.

Today was a hard day.

Win a dream date with Enrique Iglesias!

Your selfish selves and your one night stands... Honesty is the best policy, and when it all comes down to drugs and one-sided orgasms, I am thrilled to see that my faithful readers refuse to settle for the short end of the stick! Still, I am also very excited to notice how popular asphyxiation has become based on the number of votes the skull fuckers cast! Here is the verdict on this week's poll: Cocktails and anti-climactic missionary-positioned sex	(5%)
A bump, a line and a little bump 'n grind in the bathroom stall. You get off, they don't.	(42%)
Skull fucking and skull fucking	(26%)
Drinking wine and reading french poetry at his/her parents' house	(26%)

HIPSTERIA QUIZOMANIE!

Suck or click on these, baby. Reaffirm your hipsterdom to your one true hipster self, then go and have a self-congratulatory PBR.

Apparently, I'm a Bipster (a blue-collar hipster)

In this case, I'm a Trucker Hat Hipster (I'm hip and I don't even know it)

Perhaps I really am just a tortured intellectual as this quiz has informed me!

Ah! I am the shit. Or, I mean, the 'Comsummate Hipster'

Still too good for my former Euro Trash employers...

I quit my job on Sunday. Yep, no more corporate suits, nose-jobbed trophy wives, under-age dealer groupies (and their dealers, of course), shitty 'house' DJs, Quebecois celebrities, stripey-shirted douche bags, Arabian oil lords, seedy-yet-entertaining strip-club owners, or ignorant and rich little princesses who ask for no dressing (instead, salt and lemons) on their garden salads.

Well, at least for four months. Fear not, loyal readers, I will be a bar star once again and live to tell the many humorous tales.

So I asked my boss why I wasn't awarded the schedule I deserve. Why, oh why, may I not be the one privileged enough to serve vodka-Red-Bulls at a high volume to unworthy yet cash-bearing patrons?

"Well, you're not really enthusiastic enough. Sometimes you don't look like you're happy to be here." (this is code for: "You don't party here on your days off with us, and you don't grab our asses as much as we grab yours, and well, that is what enthusiasm means to us.")

Working for these boys isn't a job; it's a lifestyle.

Fuck that shit. I've got higher aspirations, like being a barmaid at some other shitty, $9 Heineken bar. But in the mean time, allow me to celebrate with the money I will no longer be earning! YAY!!!!!

You can send donations (food stamps, cash, drugs, clothing, non-perishables) to my unemployed ass at my mom's house (leave a comment and I'll send you her address).

Uncool

THIS IS SHIT.

I hate this magazine. I loved Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, but for her to call Cosmopolitan 'the Bible' is the most regressive statement this woman could make to millions of people.

Do you turn men on?
Are you a good flirt?
Do guys think you're sexy?
How mysterious are you?

I want to throw up all over these glossy pages and bubble-gumely templated website.
I know, I read Vogue. I am not hypocritical; I am Third Wave.

Post-feminism and Cosmo can go and fuck each other on a weighing scale and then cry about it.

Emily Ames is 21

So I know this fucking babe. I mean, she's HOT. Like, just as smokin' as me.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank her for exposing me to the Hives and drawing me away from my high school boyfriend's music collection that consisted of the Used, and, of course, Punk Goes Acoustic.

Emily, I love you.

Emily, you are the shit.

Emily, we were almost groupies once and you cut my hair off as carefully instructed by Pavement.

Emily and I treat people as cultural experiments sometimes and we only sort of do it maliciously. We had a radio show together in high school. On this show, we fueled the myth that we were 'Lakefield's Lesbian Couple.' We were the radicals of our small 'Anglican' private school, and although now we've sold out and read Vogue more often than Adbusters, we hold in our hearts a strong love for one another, in addition to the knowledge that we are better than everyone (may they be younger or older) who hates us because we are beautiful.

Happy Birthday, Lil.

Apparently, younger people suck because...

They are so obnoxious 3 (25%) They are so obnoxious, which reminds me of myself circa 2006. This is personally humiliating. 7 (58%) I am mature for my age 1 (8%) I wish I was still in high school 1 (8%) Finally, an honest response from my loyal readers. Allow me to take this opportunity to say thank you, and to request that with this general acceptance of your embarrassingly obnoxious past that you fuck off with your holier-than-thou pretension that you call 'experience.' For every younger person in this world who doesn't give a shit about you or your cocktail party banter, there are at least three people older than you who think you are a douche bag. Thanks for voting!

I think I'm a masochist

I've been sitting for 30 hours. Or more. I sit, I write, I stumble, I blog, I write of High Stalinism...

In the library, my choice spot to study is in front of the travel books. I sit, I type, and I stare at the plethora of Lonely Planets, knowing that I will not leave this library, never mind city, for at least another 30 hours.

Why do I torture myself so?

Sandwich Thief

There is an adorable Greek bakery-cafe across from both my apartment and the [YMCA] steam room. Yesterday, I sauntered over to get my $3 sandwich that I have grown to love so much.

I sit down, organize my things and as I put a text book to my right, nearing me from behind is a very interesting looking woman. She has giant, uncombed frizzy hair and her outfit leads one to believe that she was playing bohemian princess in 1967 at age four and hasn't changed clothes since. They were just that dirty and that pink and purple-y.

She assumes I have put my book beside me to discourage her from sitting there. I know this, because as I put the book down she says, "Oh! Now we're really talking!"
I don't really care if she wants to sit beside me; I just have a lot of books. So I apologize and offer her a seat next to me.

She shuffles over, humming and screeching (I can't make the noise, there simply isn't an
onomatopoeia to describe it) and starts to pull out some things from her bag.
First, she pulls out two paintings of kindergarden-style butterflies on purple and pink construction paper.
Next, a terribly scratched Best of Van Morrisson cd.

Between us rests my beautiful swiss cheese, tomato and lettuce of which there is such abundance that it it struggles to fit neatly inside the fresh baguette. The woman hums and screeches, pointing at my sandwhich. Her fingers are filthy.

I think she is just pointing at it because, you know, she's an artist and a Van fan, so maybe she likes to point.

No.

She takes one half of my sandwich.

Shocked and suprised, I quickly take it from her and say "Nothat'smine!"
"Just a bite?" She says quickly.
"No," I reply.
"Cigarette?" She asks.
"No," I reply.

Bitch almost stole my sandwich.

The guy on the other side of her is less tolerant. He asks her to leave because she is bothering him. Screeching and humming, she packs up her Van and her butterflies and shuffles away.

McGill can eat my gut rot

I'd say that I drink about seven cups of coffee per paper-writing day.
Today, I'm at three cups. But it's only 2:30. I've eaten a handful of almonds (salted!) and some jam with porridge.

Anyway, I took this test.


Created by OnePlusYou

I didn't want to try too hard, you know, because then I'd be a try-hard. According to the test, I am "productive" and "jittery."

Again, if anyone has a little brother with ADD, CALL ME. Facebook me. Email me. Blog me. Text me. Smoke signal me. Sign me. You will be compensated for your time, services and kindness.

Y'all dig crying in public because...

I like to be pitied	3 (25%)
Crying in private is gay	2 (16%)
My life is like a movie	6 (50%)
I have never cried in public, and I am lying	1 (8%)

Esteemed readers, I am pleased to announce that the crying in public survey polled an all-time high of twelve votes! Ilovestagemoms is on the rise in the blogosphere!

Now, allow me to slap six of you across the face to tell you that you do not transcend reality, nor do you have a camera crew following you around with Coldplay blasting as the original score to this self-indulgent crying that is "like a movie."

Your life ain't like a movie. You want pity. Liars.

Don't forget to vote on my next poll!

My laptop keeps me from leading a balanced lifestyle

Yesterday evening, my plan was to go to the gym for some elliptically-induced cardiovascular exercise and a steam. I put on my spandex, sneakers, and sweat band, got my ipod and water bottle, and went to my check my email quickly-- you know, in case anything minute or drastic has changed on my voting poll.
I sat, I sat, I sat at my computer. I stumbled, I googled, I blogged and I DID NOT GO TO THE GYM. I just sat there.

Sexually aggressive and completely untrustworthy

My dear friend Nik has shed some light on how I might go about summarizing my personality to potential suitors. I've been floundering around this soggy city for quite some time trying to figure out who I am. Luckily, I have Nik.

NIK: "So I'm going out with this girl tonight,"
JACQ: "Oh yeah, what's she like?"
NIK: "She's kind of like you, actually."
JACQ: "Really? What do you mean."
NIK: "Well, she's sexually aggressive and completely untrustworthy."

Oh. That sounds about right.

Nik, you are my Oracle.

I need study drugs

This is getting out of hand.
The paint on these walls here is so abrasive that I'm getting an abdominal work out trying to prevent myself from vomiting over my Stalinist Cinema notes.



If anyone knows a guy who knows a guy who can score me drugs that are really for pre-pubescent boys who can't sit still, let me know. You will remain anonymous and your generosity will be greatly appreciated.