I Survived! And tales of Orlando Bloom.

I finished teaching gig #1! Although I had several things thrown at me -- computer keyboards, snowballs, insults, etc. -- I came out with minimal scars. As much as I wanted to blog & Christmas shop & make cookies, I spent this past week doing far more interesting things.

For the past 5 days, I have:

1) Sat on the couch

2) Knitted 5 scarves

3) Watched all of the Lord of the Rings extended editions + bonus material

4) Showered once

Have you ever listened to a song from your childhood/teenhood that you had forgotten about and suddenly remembered all the words? I felt the same way with LOTR. I was in love with them in the early 00s, and caught myself blurting out the lines along with the characters. Even the hobbit drinking songs. 

The one thing I think that I should mention, that played a huge part of my embarrassing life as a teenager, is Orlando Bloom. Legolas from Lord of the Rings. My obsession with him used to be almost as great as my obsession with David Bowie. You don't understand. My locker/binders/bathroom/Christmas cards were covered with his face. I had a birthday party for him when I was in grade 11. I made heart-shaped cookies with our initials in the center. I even made a giant Orlando man cookie, in the hope that people would fight over eating his crotch (nobody did, except me.) I even wrote Orlando love poems for the occasion and recited them to my hippie friends in the yearbook room. People came for the free cookies, but thought I was totally nuts. 

When I saw Orlando on the screen, things came flooding back to me. Facts about him. For example, I suddenly remembered that he lost his virginity at 14; that his favourite ice-cream flavour is mint chocolate chip; and that he broke his back while climbing a drain-pipe and falling. Just like the lyrics to a forgotten song, I found myself remembering facts and thinking, How do you remember these insignificant details? Even if you don't particularly like Orlando, you can't deny that Legolas is one of the best characters of LOTR. He utters ridiculous and intuitive lines like, "This forest is old. Very old. Full of memory" and "I feel a shadow and a threat growing on my mind." Ohhhhhhhh. Very deep. 

"I don't think I heard you properly. You made a cookie of me just so you could eat my cookie crotch?"

Here's to you, Orlando. I still have your autographed pictures in a box somewhere. Although I used to practice my signature with a "Bloom" at the end, I think it's great that you married someone, even if I think you could have done better than a Victoria's Secret model. Although you haven't done anything substantial since Pirates of the Caribbean, it's great that you've taken some time off the do theatre, or whatever. 

Now that this past week is over, I have lots to do. I have to catch up on all your blogs! I have to buy and wrap presents. I also have to make Christmas cookies. Maybe I'll make an Orlando one for old times sake...

What I've Learned This (Half) Week # 3

I can't wait until this whole teacher gig is done....then I can actually post pictures and NOT cut them off at eye level (or cover my face with a picture/facemask/someone's ass), as you've probably noticed is what I do. I've always been a paranoid person -- not in a schizophrenic sense, where I think the government is out to get me -- but in a sense that I will be busted for something I say. I'm TERRIFIED that someone will somehow, miraculously, find this blog by chance (although the odds are obviously 1 in a million) and this person will end up being a colleague. And BAAAM, I don't graduate and BAAAM I'm accused of "professional misconduct" for having a blog that contains swears and/or transvestites and/or details of how I provided evil students with poo-infested pencil crayons. And because I'm paranoid, I'm the worst gossiper. Sure, I can gossip anyone's ear off, but it has to be done:

a) in an enclosed space, like a car or jail cell
b) via text message (after I triple check that I've sent it to the right person, of course)
c) secretly -- i.e. I refer to the person I am gossiping about in code, and refuse to make eye contact with him/her if he/she is nearby

What I really mean to say is: gossiping is bad. Don't do it, kiddies.

Now that that's out of the way, here's some things I have learned this (half) week:

1) Twisted Sister's Christmas Album is THE BEST Holiday Music
Remember Twisted Sister, the terrifying & wonderful 2-hit wonder of the 80s? I got hooked on their Christmas album, A Twisted Christmas, last year. I have now given it the title of "Best Christmas Album Ever Besides A Few Other Good Ones." This is why:

Doesn't this song sound uncannily like their smash hit, "We're Not Gonna Take It"? They also have an amazing version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," so aptly re-titled "Heavy Metal Christmas." Instead of "a partridge in a pear tree," it's "a tattoo of Ozzy." Instead of "five golden rings," it's "five skull earrings." And most importantly, instead of "nine ladies dancing," it's "nine tattered t-shirts." By eliminating the spectacle of ladies dancing, this song is clearly feminist. Revolutionary. Ground-breaking. Pure genius.

2) Bringing Jack Daniels-Filled Chocolates to Class Will Not Make You Cool
The grade nines think they can get drunk on these. It reminds me of the time I had some friends over and I made alcohol-free punch. We were 16, I think, and they begged me to put alcohol in it. I told them I did (I didn't!) The fake drunken shenanigans were great. Placebo effect, anyone? They emptied the punch bowl, and when I refilled it, I actually added booze. But nobody touched it because "it tastes gross." These things don't really have anything to do with one another besides the fact that young teenagers are dumb when it comes to drunkenness. But that's old news.

3) I Have Horrible/Cool Pants That Could Rival The Hammer Pants
That's right, I said. I found this baby tucked away at the back of my dresser. In Grade 12, I paid to have a seamstress sew all these ridiculous patches on my pants (in a careless, splattered way to look like I didn't care, of course). I wore them for a day -- and got so many confused glances -- that I shoved them away and never looked at them again. Until recently. Not only am I shocked at the things I once found cool (Blink 182, Care Bears, and patches for swimming achievement) but I am shocked at how tiny these jeans are. It would be a freakin' miracle if I could fit one leg into these pants now.

They do go longer, but there's a patch that reveals where I live. And then, for sure for sure, potential colleagues could read this and KNOW where I live and then bust me for professional misconduct. So, sorry!

That's right, these pants will be vintage someday. Although I am planning on having cats, not kids, I'm sure teenagers of the future will be dying to get their hands on these. I scold my mom for getting rid of her bellbottoms & platforms of the 70s, so I've learned that clothing from the past can become cool again someday (platforms + Spicegirls anyone? Very cool.) But the only way that I see myself having children in the future is if these men mix their sperm in a turkey baster for me...

The Canadian Tenors -- the Canadian version of Il Divo. Go ahead, laugh. But I saw them in concert and they made my soul melt. In a good way.

or...

If I could travel back in time and Tim Curry could let me "see what's on the slab."

Never mind, I don't have a shot.

I Apologize For Quoting Beyonce

Let me start this post with a snippet of a Beyonce song: "If I were a boooooyyyy..."

Julie Andrews, pretending to be a male drag queen in
Victor/Victoria. When I was younger, I used to pray that she'd adopt me
and whisk me away to Austria and sing me goatherd lullabies.

Don't roll your eyes at me, thinking, "Geez, she's gonna talk about how she wishes she were a boy because menstrual cramps suck." Yes, that's obvious, and I'm not going to talk about it. I'm also not going to talk about how men are called "studs" and women are called "sluts." Everyone knows that. I will tell you that sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I were a boy because I'm not as amazing as Julie Andrews. She can pull off pretending to be a guy pretending to be a girl, but I'm not quite as talented.

As you've undoubtedly noticed throughout my posts, I have a thing for drag queens. Let me rephrase: I have a thing for good drag queens. I only like drag queens that actually look like women. And before you go all "whoa, I don't want to hear about your sexual fantasies!" let me clarify. I am fascinated with drag queens. I don't necessarily want to rip their thongs off with my teeth (unless it's Tim Curry's circa 1975). I just want to go backstage with them, allow them to do my makeup, and join them onstage for a Whitney number. Oh, and I want biceps and a bulge in my crotch, just for fun.

I have quite the dilemma you see: I am a girl. I guess I could dress as a drag king -- but where's the fun in that? Sure, wearing a suit and slapping on a fake stache is liberating, but not nearly as fun as super-huge eyelashes, 5-inch heels, and fake boobs (I'm sure many guys would argue that the penis tuck is not fun, however). And lord knows that I could use some eyelashes, a pair of heels, and some boobs, because I am definitely lacking in all three.

No, I wouldn't call this a gender identity crisis. I don't actually want to be a boy. Boys are gross. All of the ones I've encountered in real life are douchebags/sleep in pizza boxes/cannot spell. (FYI: I know this is very stereotypical/false/unreasonable but very truthful/accurate/real for all the men I've dated. So, don't get your patriarchal panties in a knot, people). Plus, boy parts are gross. 

"If I were a booooyyy...I would have boy parts that I'd have to look at every time I take a pee and I would be grossed out..... whoa oooohh whoa."

Okay, maybe that was a bit offensive. If a guy said, "eewww, girl parts are gross!" I'd be offended. 

Anyways, I guess I'll never be able to have my wish of becoming a drag queen fulfilled. Also, the drag shows in my small city SUCK. I guess I'll just live vicariously through my favourite ones. Sigh. A girl can dream, right? Or rather, a girl who wants to be a guy so he/she can dress up like a girl can dream, right?

I will now leave you with RuPaul, who in my opinion, is the best of the best. And yes, the juxtaposition of the image to the above right & the one of Beyonce was completely intentional.