Classic Snivel


 May 4, 1998.

I'm sorry about being absent for the past day or so. I was away from home and only just got back. Do try to check in tomorrow if you can.

M a y 5

Whoosh. What in the world happened to me, you ask? Well, it's easy. I'm a working boy now. After entirely too small a vacation following the rigours of exams, I returned to the entomology department in the K.W. Neatby building at Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada for some all new, action-packed adventures. I mean, heck, the Minister of Agriculture's office is just one massive building away. If you're a farm boy like me, well, that's practically like working for the president or something. In any case, much of yesterday was spent with me struggling to survive on one cup of coffee and starvation as I engaged in the those time-honoured procedures followed by student employees of the government everywhere... that is to say, by filling out forms. Forms of every shape and description. Sheets of paper every colour of the rainbow. Forms that said I accepted their job offer. Forms that notified them who to call if I were killed in some entomology accident. Forms to quantify my particulars, and forms which required me to decide exactly whether I wanted to pay taxes on my earnings or not (ultimately, of course, everyone has to, but as students we have the option of waiting longer).

I also had to get my handy-dandy security I.D. reactivated. Basically I have the same plastic identity badge that many employees in this society wear as a mark of their station (heavens forbid that I ever wear it around my neck the way all those defeated civil servants and computer programmers do that you see on the bus every morning); it bears a digitally captured image of my face, caught in a most unflattering sneer (the security chief had made some cheesy remark at the time) and a computerized simulation of my signature. The cool thing is that inside the millimetre-thick card, it has a tiny microchip that can be scanned by any of the multitude of gadgets located around the building. So if I want to get into a side door, thus bypassing any awkward converations with the security guard (I like him well enough, to be sure, and I always come in the main doors in the morning and say hello, but when I'm scurrying to and fro, say to the Carling building for research, I just want to use the most convenient access points. He's also affiliated with the house, and that's kind of zany. From time to time the house will be filled with gamers engaged in their live-action role playing devilry, and there he'll be. It's a little odd), I just hold the card up, a scanner beeps, somewhere in the security office a computer actually says "Permission granted to let Rob in fire door #7" (or wherever) and I'm safely on my way upstairs.

I only managed to get so much accomplished yesterday, therefore. Plus I had to fiddle with my computer, because they installed Corel Office 7 on the network, making the fraction of Corel WordPerfect Suite 6 which exists on my computer confused, and the majority which sits on the network nonexistent. Boo. Yes, Corel is based in Ottawa, and yes one of my dearest friends works for them, but I do hate Corel. Die, Corel! Die! I hate Corel Draw. I hate Corel Photo Paint. And I especially detest Corel WordPerfect. It was bad enough before they bought it. Whenever I hear anyone going on about the evils of Microsoft I just want to punch them in the face, and after they've finished rolling around crying and squealing and clutching their bloody, broken noses I'd force them to make me a purty picture in Corel Draw(!) and extol my praises in a WordPerfect document. With no manuals! Frankly, cold-blooded murder is considerably more humane than the majority of my rant-fueled plans for humanity.

Luckily for all, I'm a rather smart cookie, so I'd installed and tweaked everything I needed before my coffee (which had been sitting for half an hour already) got cold. I'd like to assume I'm more than earning every cent I make so far (heck, I'm practically deserving this money. Some might even say I'm honouring it by working for it. In any case, I'm much more humble than that. You can say it if you like, though), which is now about eighteen of them every minute. If I work for six minutes I've just entitled myself to a bag of chips. Whee! They also saw fit to give me a raise of sixty cents or so per hour, making my hourly wage the meaty sum of $10.85. I wish I could say I'd in any way earned it with merit or something, but it's because I've finished yet another year of university and that sort of standing matters in student work programs.

In any case, work is where I must be quite quite soon, so unfortunately I must depart. Try not to judge me too harshly for wanting to nap like a lazy bum, and consequently missing precious opportunities to update my page now and then.

M a y 6

I don't have as much time to write today, so I'll keep it short, yet with the promise that I'll include more once I return home tonight. I do feel a certain duty to update you as to how my now-legendary house hunt is progressing, and sadly I can't say a whole lot. I dropped off our application forms for the lease on Thursday at the house, with the hope that the sneaky bastards we're competing with wouldn't just show up later with their forms and dutifully toss ours away. In any case, it then became a waiting game to hear from the management company; a game which still unfolds. We've so far heard not a peep from them, and I can't even imagine what this means. I'm assuming they'll have the decency to tell us something about our lot, but at this point they've been less than forthcoming. We've been trying to get ahold of the property manager fellow to confirm that he at least picked our forms up, but he's hard to get ahold of, and I'd like to take it as a sign that if there were a problem he'd be a little better about getting back to us. Although we're still hopeful, we're not going to sit around and wait for the news. The search goes on, and tonight I'm taking everyone to see a different place in the Byward Market. It's an old Victorian house, five bedrooms once again.... a little pricey, but we can at least stand to take a look. The only complication to the search is that my office phone has been dead for the past two days. I'm not sure why -- I wasn't even aware that people couldn't call in until Broken told me she was having problems. Since I can place calls out there's probably something wretchedly simple wrong with the phone itself. It has a lot of buttons, and I'm sure somebody accidentally toggled a forwarding function that goes nowhere. This just means though, that if someone were trying to call me about the other apartment, they wouldn't be able to get ahold of me. Grr.

M a y 7

Blah. Well, tonight's the night. The much-anticipated house-hunt last night was postponed by a family emergency on the part of the man who was to show us the place. He called Broken, apologetic and conciliatory, and promised we'd have our viewing the next evening -- same time, same house. I only know so much about it, having not seen it yet. It's an old five bedroom Victorian house located on St. Patrick street in the Byward Market. It has two bathrooms and has been split into apartments, although they're letting the house go as a single unit. I'm figuring that two bathrooms must equal two apartments, so I think an arrangement with three bedrooms in one and two bedrooms in another could definitely be worked out... probably with some accomodations made to make it a little more open. After almost a year of hiding in my room, hating half my housemates, not using the horrible kitchen, obsessed with the dirt which seemed to be the staple crop of the house, and tired of sharing a bathroom with so many people -- horrible people with horrible eating habits... -- I really want a safe, comfortable, open environment I can come home to after the end of a long day of running around being sulky and self-defeating. I mean, even healthy humans can make unpleasant odours, but there's a big difference between the smell left behind by someone who eats nothing but pizza and someone who gets a little fibre now and then. And I hate to be so blunt (I'm hideously repressed about bodily functions, in spite of my big (almost vacuous) open mind... although do I have a most positive attitude towards menstruation) but it's awfully true.

I do have to say, as well, that I was wrong about the price. It's not as pathetically cheap as the first house we looked at (sigh.. at this point I can be reasonably assured that we're not getting it. Property agencies have this funny "Don't call us, we'll call you" attitude towards people), but it's highly affordable -- especially when the costs are spread out among five different people. I'm not, at this point, committed to taking four others with me, but it's at least an option. Pixiegirl has made a friend in the house, and while I only know so much about him, it does certainly seem like there's going to be a large happy family living there anyways... why not have one more? We'll certainly see, though. Sad but true, it's already the seventh of May, and we should most definitely have concrete plans by the twentieth, if not sooner. So be it a five bedroom, or a four... I have to get out of this place, and all aboard who's coming aboard, especially with houses of the size we need being in scarce supply as it is. I do have happy news, though, which is that Caira has made definite arrangements to move to a new house on the fifteenth of this month. It's a one-bedroom in Sandy Hill, which is kind of a studenty, bohemian, part of the centretown area. Charlotte lived there two years ago... it's a nice place to live. Lots of young, interesting people running around, quiet, trendy pubs, close to Ottawa University (Ottawa has two universities... locked in mortal conflict), and generally less marked with incidences of bums and insane drunk people than Bank Street or Elgin (interesting, busy, trendy and attractive streets in Ottawa, but consequently crawling with people, and as you know, you just can't take humanity anywhere) with in the evening.

Interestingly, her friends Frank and Janice are moving practically across the street from them by coincidence. They're a really intelligent, interesting, pleasant couple, and though I've only met them a handful of times, I really like them. Burrhus, as well, is moving out this summer, and is considering living in the same area. It really could stand to be quite neighbourly, so the pressure is on us now (because what is Caira if not a beautiful elbow in my spine?) to find a house in the vicinity.

I know, and here's the crappy part. I have to go to work. Last night was my younger brother's birthday, so I couldn't write anything, but honestly, after we see the house, I'll let you know how it went.

M a y 8

If I talk about the house we saw last night, I'll jinx it. Ordinarily I'm not at all superstitious, but if there is a God, He's probably not exactly, to say, on my side on most issues (especially the masturbation thing. Woo. It's not a good thing to piss off a major deity so consistently, but what can I say? If God hadn't wanted people to indulge themselves in gross hedonism like that, he shouldn't have let us get away with creating an internet where you can so readily find pictures of people having sex with dogs), so all the better for me if I don't announce my intentions or high hopes to anybody for any reason at all, ever. When I sign a lease I'll talk about it. I'll show you pictures. Whatever. For now I'll just have to buy your silence with promises of free membership in my ever-growing harem. And honestly, the number of adventures your given eunuch has in a day is just mind-boggling, so act fast.

On the way to the place last night, though, I ran into Lucretia, an ex-girlfriend in general and an extraordinarily complicated part of my life in particular. She and I have loved, and fought, and loved, and fought, and loved, and fought, and I honestly don't know why she never got around to murdering me in my sleep. I have a wretched, ugly upturned little puggy nose... if she'd stuffed a good pillow in my face, I'd have been dead in minutes. Of course, I'm grateful she didn't, but nevertheless I remain truly surprised.

As it was, she was sporting an entirely different look than her usual mass of shockingly long, braided hair. I mean, it was still braided, but she'd done it in a way reminiscent of dreadlocks -- and yet, they were most decidedly not dreadlocks. How filthy unwashable matted clumps of hair conveniently arranged into tufts ever became fashionable I'll never know. Anyway, she was wearing a lovely blue shirt, and her famous slacks, and shoes of a description I can't entirely recall. She'd been roused from a nude slumber by people coming to view her apartment, which, to her surprise, was allegedly going up for rent June first (it had been her knowledge that it was July), and subsequently barging into her bedroom and frankly being annoyed that she was so surprised and upset. Househunting does turn people into complete bastards, as even I know (either they're screwing you, or you're screwing them. Anything is game in the name of being able to victoriously shout "I WIN!" and renting, leaving, and finding an apartment are all about exploiting the weak). In any case, she was spending a leisurely day, now that she was up, running errands, picking up CDs, and buying razor blades so that she could shave her legs (at this point she hiked up a leg of her pants to illustrate). It was actually an impressive sight... she'd gone the natural route, having refined her already independent and laissez-faire personality to the point of exhibiting more leg hair than I do (granted, I pride myself on hardly being hairy at all), and while I can't honestly say my Western sensibilities have been eroded enough to truly have an attraction to such things (because we're all trained to know that women just don't have body hair), I was still proud of her for being more concerned with what made her happy, versus expectations placed upon her by our eternally patriarchal and superficial Hollywood-fuelled dream world of aping, envying, and worshipping people who are more beautiful than we are. And certainly she was still achingly beautiful. She hugged both Broken and I goodbye when we arrived at the house, and later, when Broken and Pixiegirl and I were having dinner in some greasy spoon, Broken remarked how truly and exceptionally soft Lucretia was. All I could say was,"(sigh) yes, yes she is." Very beautiful, very soft, and very bad for me.

And if I was melancholy at all last night (and of course I was. I mean, hey -- it's me.), it was because she told me that she was moving away in two weeks, and heading for Vancouver. For those of you unaware of Canadian geography (because, sadly, many Americans do think that Toronto is the capital, and that's the tragic truth), Lucretia and I live in Ottawa, which is located north of such fine states as Michigan (Detroit is perhaps an hour away by air), so understand that it's situated in the approximate eastern half of the continent, not terribly far (at least if you're looking on a map. Canada is, in reality, a freaking big country) from your average Great Lake. Vancouver is on the west coast. It's far. I could go to Vancouver, throw a rock, and miss Clorinda (in Washington state) only by a hippie or two (they're like roaches over there, and they'd get in the way with their big hippie heads). In any case, she's just staying long enough to possibly see the Hayden concert at Barrymore's on the 23rd (we're both huge fans), but that's it. She'll even miss our friend Laura's wedding. I suppose it doesn't make sense, exactly, since we don't spend much time together anymore, but I really am going to miss her.

And I'll expound more upon that thought later.



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