The burden of reality

Reality can be a mighty bitch somedays, what with her regulations, to do lists, and the like.

Her latest trick? Crushing my intentions to scurry over the border to Portland for a year to do my internship. Despite the fact that our internship programs are supposed to be a North American wide system, apparently all the VA hospitals in the U.S. are closed to Canadian students. 

*Princess pouts and stomps her feet*

Granted, there are a few other internships available in the area, but they aren't good fits for me, and I promised myself I would make this experience more about the program than using it as a crutch to live a glamourous life in my city of choice. 

Next thing, they are going to tell me that my pet unicorn has been delayed at customs. Daydream crushing bastards.

What cruel thing has reality thrown at you lately?

Cities

Some people, while kind and polite and every other generic positive characteristic, just aren't terribly memorable. They are pleasant to sit beside at a dinner party, but you may never have another thought about them once you walk out the door. 

I find cities can be the same way. While it is rare that I actively dislike a city, I find it entirely disconcerting how apathetic I can feel about them. They all have their cliched tourist attractions, be it their random museum, their ubiquitous waterfront pathways, their concrete shopping meccas. And while these may capture my attention for a series of moments, I always find myself looking for something about the city to speak more directly to me. I can't just let my only snapshot of it be the billboards around the highway to and from the airport, the tacky wall art in a hotel, the abstract patterned carpets in the conference centres, the glass walled skyscrapers. If this is all I see, I can't help but resent the five hour plane ride and taxi rides. I think that I could find this very same experience in my backyard. I wonder what drives people to live there, versus anywhere else in the world, and wish I had the time to figure that out.

Other cities just have an immediate spark. These aren't always the ones I would predict. While I loved the warm beaches and the people watching in Los Angeles, or I found the life amidst the crumbling buildings in Havana fascinating, they remained with me more as stories than a continued connection. I become a little insatiable in wanting to know these cities that I sense this spark in, to breathe them in, wander down random streets, to know all the banal details, like where people get their groceries and walk their dogs.

Montreal, for instance, has an instant charm. It could be that there is something both comfortable and exotic about feeling French flowing off my tongue again, hearing the rolling r's echoing out of my mouth. It could also be that it is such a stark contrast to the modernity of other Canadian metropolises, with its dramatic stone buildings, its cafes spilling into the streets, its steep staircases up the sides of homes. Even the most dilapidated neighbourhoods have this layer of character that other cities lack, making me wish to take photos of the chattering Greek men lined up outside a ramshackle cafe or the bold neon signs shouting "Club Supersexe!"

I was able to predict that I would like Chicago as soon as I started planning my trip there. Granted, when I emerged from an underground train into the looming buildings of the financial district, rolling bag in tow, the details of the city were a little overwhelming. However, in my week there, I relished the detailed architecture and the public art. I found myself picturing my life in a brick apartment building, drinking at the local pub. More than anything, I loved the unique flavour of the different neighbourhoods, how they felt like real communities in a sea of millions.

I just returned from a week in Portland. Often, when I travel, I feel a little vigilant and hyperaware the first few days as I grow accustomed to my surroundings. Portland put me at ease near immediately. People are kind, it is clean, easy to navigate, relaxed, without feeling small or quaint or boring. Although I could list off the features I adored, like the green parks and the eclectic market, it was more just a sense that walking the streets felt comfortable.

I suppose this is one of the best things about travel-- the idea of finding these connections in random locales. So, tell me, what cities have you felt an immediate connection to?

Roadtripping notes

So I think Hope might be right when she says that I am craving a little impulsivity, for I have decided, upon seeing approximately a ten block radius of Portland, Oregon (oh, and their section of the I-5) that I should probably live here. Let's see if this impression holds up when I venture out during the daylight!

The Duke and I rented some wee little car and jetted down to Portland yesterday.   The official reason? I am speaking at a conference that begins on Thursday. The unofficial reason? Roadtrips rule. 

Also, the Duke hasn't been to the US since a childhood trip to Yellowstone Park at around 10 years old, despite the fact that we live about less than an hour away from the border. This means I get to pretend to be all worldly. "Oh, darling, you know they have different currency here, right? And beer in convenience stores?"

(Side note- My impression of a car rental company: "Oh hi. Look at our super cheap and flashy website. We are a million times easier than taking a bus! *go to pick up rental car* Oh, whoops, our website had no mention of the complete and utter lack of any insurance in that cute little price... which is actually more than the actual cost of renting the car!")

So what did yesterday's adventures entail?

The Duke making us stop at Jack in the Box because we don't have it in Canada. All we know about Jack in the Box is that it once killed somebody and the commercials are really damn annoying.

Now having actually dined there? I'm not entirely sure there is a reason for it to exist. Especially at every single highway exit. 

Also, I'm not a big fan of the big bolded calories right next to the prices, especially since I noticed them after ordering. I'm not happy about being at Jack in the Box in the first place. I certainly don't need to know that my chicken strips have approximately half my daily recommended calories in them.

Though curly fries are always a good thing, and lead one to wondering about the rad assembly line that makes said curly fries.

Me trying desperately not to belt out the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs too loudly. The Duke may have been with me for years now, but I'm still not sure he can entirely handle that.

Getting lost in Olympia trying to find Dairy Queen. 

Getting a crash course (not literally!) in converting miles to kilometres.

Rushing to check into the hotel in time for a playoff hockey game, only to discover that out of four ESPNs, not a single one was playing hockey. A re-run of a football game, but not playoff hockey.

We had to resort to a livestream a few inches wide on a laptop.

I am way too excited about HBO, Forever 21, mashed potatoes with cheese in them, and free robes that are so big on me it looks like I am being devoured by a terrycloth monster. The Duke is excited about the proliferation of microbreweries.

We watched Fox News before bed, simply because it is a bit of an urban legend up in Canada (we only get CNN on regular cable). It was everything I could have dreamed. And I had nightmares about Glenn Beck.

Today? If I can get the Duke unwrapped from the sheets in our king sized bed, we're jaunting off to the Oregon Coast. And I should probably, you know, practice my talk, as not to contradict my "official" reason for being here.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned

Envy is my deadly sin, if we're to be specific.

Now, before I launch into my tale, I want to make a few things clear. First, I know this entire reaction is silly and irrational. I am aware than I have a damn good life, and to imagine something different would be to picture something entirely disingenuous to who I am. I know that given the choice, I would remain wearing the same shoes I am now, as despite them being less shiny than others, they fit me a hell of a lot better.

That being said, what is the purpose of having an anonymous blog if not to write longwinded posts complaining about petty things?

So... I took an impulsive surprise trip to HomeTown for the Easter long weekend. As part of the process of surprising my mom, upon arriving, I went directly to my little sister's house.

By sister's house, I mean the house recently purchased by her new boyfriend. By new boyfriend, I mean her boss, who is 12 years her senior, and who she moved in with after dating for two months.

By house, I mean something a lot more glamourous than anything we lived in growing up. I mean three bathrooms, jacuzzi tub, amazing view, so many extra bedrooms that they can spare a "studio" for their brand new hobby of painting on top of the usual spare bedrooms and office-- plus shiny new non-Ikea real furniture. On top of this, they have jumped full speed into responsible homeowner's mode, speaking of replacing hardwood floors, knocking down walls, landscaping, putting in a hot tub. My sister speaks in confident tones, making statements such as "Well, I certainly don't want to sell anytime in the near future" and "I'm not sure if I like his idea of building a suite in the garage, although it would help with the mortgage."

In other words, my sister jumped from broke and moving back in with the parents to a half million dollar home (in a town where that actually buys a lot)-- all in one fell swoop.

And me? Well, since graduating high school, I suppose you could describe my trajectory as consistent... upwards and mediocre paced. I've done all the practical things... multiple degrees, paying off my credit card balance, putting off buying a car, working while going to school, keeping separate bank accounts, waiting the appropriate amount of time to take the next relationship step. And, well, to show for it... I'm living in the nicest one-bedroom I've ever lived in. And while it does have a dishwasher, a substantial lack of spiders, and actually room to move, it certainly doesn't have a backyard, and guests get to sleep on the (admittedly comfy) couch.

So, yes, although I will only admit this in whispers through gritted teeth or with several beverages in me-- I'm a little jealous. I'm almost too much of the poster child for making sound decisions, and my sister is anything but-- and she is the one living the high life as we speak.

I know what comes out of everyone else's mouth when I do admit this. "But you'll be better off in the long term".

I might snap if I hear the words "long term" one more time. I have been thinking in terms of the future since I started university nearly ten years ago. Almost everything in my life is decided for with the "long term" in mind. Anytime I describe plans for the future, it has twelve steps in between.
"Well, first I will finish my dissertation, then I have to move for my year internship, then we go to the city where the Duke is finishing his PhD and I will get registered and hopefully find a job, then we probably move once he's finished to a place with a good university for him to work at... and then we can relax! That or it is time for me to take my maternity leave."

More than anything, I am probably envious of how simple it all seems to be for her right now. In the middle of a never ending to do list, I yearn for that simplicity. Even though I know this is probably just a clear case of grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side syndrome, of wanting what you can't have. As the Duke points out to me, I would be horrible at living a quiet life. I need to bust my butt to get what I want. It's in my basic chemistry. 

The truth is, she's happy. I see it in her eyes when she's with him. And so am I. In my life, and for her. Just because I'm envious doesn't mean she doesn't deserve this happiness. So I probably owe a few hail marys for this one.

The statistic down the hall

A friend of his gave my boyfriend cocaine for his birthday.

Nevermind that he has never done cocaine and doesn't intend to do cocaine.  It is a little reminiscent of adolescent peer pressure, like when I was convinced that it was a really good idea to serve as the requisite "egg" in a rambunctious trampoline game of crack the egg or to try a dip of chewing tobacco. (Note- These weren't good ideas. At all.) This is the same friend who encouraged us to try to hunt down some Cuban cocaine while traveling- yes, the same country with the shady communist regime and that tried to kill us with something as banal as a hamburger.

So, despite the Duke telling him how absurd this suggestion was, he has decided to try another strategy- the classic selfish birthday gift, kind of like when Homer gave Marge the bowling ball. He apparently wants another stimulant buddy.

It's on occasions like this when it occurs to me how naive I can be. It's not as though I'm blind to drugs. I grew up in a town where pot smoking was practically a formalized afterschool program. I came of age in the rave era, where, as I danced under strobe lights with outstretched arms, friends were frantically hugging all those around them on an ecstasy buzz or tripping out on a bushel of pillows in a corner. But I guess I just assumed that people just got over it.

Sure, we all hear of the academic-type distinction between functional and dysfunctional drug addicts. We're told that there are just as many uber-successful briefcased types snorting cocaine off bathroom sinks on the weekend as there are junkies passed out with needles on their arms in a back alley. Still, though I agreed with this on principle, I never quite expected the reality of it. 

I didn't occur to me that academics in their early 30s were really wiping the white stuff off their noses between teaching classes and writing manuscripts. I was shocked that with the revelation of one friend, the tumbling domino effect that followed, in which I suddenly realized that a number of the people I'd had beers with had also become semi-regular cocaine users. I was also amazed at the lack of discretion, the expectation that this was a casual enough of a hobby to just drop in conversation, like the movie he saw last weekend. 

And, suddenly, I was reminded of the time this happened before, of the fellow down the hall in a former apartment building. I used to borrow sugar from him and watch the Sopranos at his place on quiet weeknights. Only when he was evicted was he revealed to have a fierce cocaine habit while being smart enough to wait until we were back in our apartment to pull out his baggie.

It's always an odd revelation that the statistics are the same people you are having lunch with.

Taste of salt

Written after my first full day in Cuba.

8pm in Varadero. I'm barefoot on our deck. The sky is the consistency of muddled blackberries and a breeze rustles the palm leaves. It is eerily quiet, with only the melody of cicadas and the resonance of the shower seeping through the silence. Everyone here seems to prefer the company of the noise and crowds in the lobby bar to the still humidity elsewhere.

My skin is sticky with the residue of sweat, sunscreen and sea water. My lips taste faintly of salt. He finds such textures unnerving, and frequently dashes to the shower to rinse them off. I find it almost a little sensual, a reminder that I am in the tropics, the land of thick air. 

Perhaps there is part tropic in me, for my skin absorbs the tint of the sun almost like a sponge. He tells me I look somehow more appropriate with this hue in my cheeks, as though it makes my features, my dark eyes and olive tinged complexion, look more at home. I also love the freedom my limbs have in the heat. Instead of being restrained by the puddles or frost, they are free to loll around in the softness of a loose sundress, my toes sinking in the sand.

It feels more comfortable here when there are fewer people around. While I had my face pressed to the bus window as we drove through town, I find the people watching in resorts almost infuriatingly stagnant. Sunburned flesh, speedos, fanny packs, drunken self righteousness. We are not entirely cut out for the land of all-inclusive. Today I saw a fat man ash his cigar in the middle of a swimming pool and I wanted to scream.

The employees are deceptive in trying to keep us in the confines of this odd compound. They overact being shocked when we ask for information on the actual city of Varadero, or, worse yet, the "regular" bus to Havana. They feign ignorance, encourage us to go on a tour instead. 

On the bright side, there are pina coladas for free, $2 mickeys of rum, all you can eat ice cream, and towels shaped like swans. There is also sand soft like cotton sheets, and water the lightest and sheerest shade of turquoise I've ever seen. And there is the taste of salt on his lips after he laughs at me when I fail to avoid the breaking of a wave in my face, and I chase him in slow motion through the pulse of the tide. I suppose that makes it worth all the drunk fanny-pack wearers in the world.

The Mechanics of Falling

Disclaimer and other such babbling: Since I made the decision to post my email address on this page, I've received a number of marketing appeals. It seems the blog is the way of the future in terms of advertising, be it a used car website or a new form of cell phone mediated dating. I even received an email offering me free tampons... in return for a review of my experiences with them on this site. (I can feel the massive sighs of disappointment that I declined this gracious offer). 

However, recently, I received an offer that appeared legitimate-- to review a book (and not a self-help book... as recently discussed, I simply don't do those). The premise was simple- I get a free copy of the book in exchange for a review of it. An honest review, even- believe it or not, I will not sell my soul for $30 or so. Even better, it seems like Trish of TLC Book Tours had actually given my blog a read before sending me the offer- unlike the clandestine singles meeting via cell phone fellow- as it was a book that looked to genuinely appeal to me. Hence why I am harkening back a few years in what I hope doesn't sound too much like a book report...

***

I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with short stories. On the one hand, they can remind me too much of high school, in their attempts to pour gallons of symbolism into a few pages. On the other hand, it can be a little delicious to consume an entire take in one sitting, with no pauses or bathroom breaks. 

Still, though, if a short story is well-written, with engaging characters, it can be a disarming process to consume a whole tale at once. I am the type of person who feels there is a ceremony in reading. I can't merely close a book and pick up the next one. I wait at least a day to let it simmer. If there is nothing leftover to simmer, it is likely they had very little substance to begin with.

The stories in Catherine Brady's The Mechanics of Falling need time to simmer. It isn't that they are overly convoluted and need deciphering, but rather that you can't simply turn the page at their conclusion and move onto the next one. You feel as though you owe the characters more than that. In fact, one of my only complaints about this set of stories is that they end too abruptly sometimes. Then again, in a book about falling, it would be a little deceptive to not have these tales conclude a little like hitting the ground. As a reader, though, it takes a few minutes to reflect on that sudden tumble, to imagine how the character then picks themselves off the ground.

This is a collection of eleven stories, of an amazingly diverse set of characters, from a man who abandons his family to dedicate his life to Christ and a homeless shelter, to a family overcome by the realities of a house that seems dedicated to drowning and overwhelming them, to a college drop-out caught up in a tangled sort of romance with a horse trainer. In some ways, they are linked by the depth of the seemingly most ordinary of events. These are not stories of epic romances, or disasters, or confrontations, but rather the nuances of real life, and the fact that these little idiosyncrasies may have greater effects than the massive crises we see in the news or depicted in blockbuster films. They are also tales linked by, as quoted in the book jacket, "moments when the seemingly fixed coordinates of our existence abruptly give way." They are on the verge of a very real fall, prepared or not.

One of my favourite stories is "Slender Little Things", the tale of Cerise, a single mother, and her precocious daughter. The essence of the story is woven masterfully through the very first paragraph, with each sentence later linking to another segment of the story. Cerise struggles in her relationship with her 16 year old daughter, Sophie, as shown in the segment below:

Sophie was not closing her first over some last small thing, not relinquishing but multiplying her needs. No longer was she satisfied for Cerise to simply crush a spider's body with a balled up tissue. Sophie was sure it had been a female spider, its body full of microscopic eggs, and Cerise must wash the wall with disinfectant, or hundreds of baby spiders would hatch and come after Sophie. How could Sophie allow that man to touch her? Cerise knew from experience what a man his age wanted from a sixteen-year old girl. A stock boy at the drugstore where Sophie worked after school, a high-school dropout, and the one time Cerise had met him, too lazy to fit his belt through all the belt loops on his baggy jeans. Sophie, who sat up late at night finishing papers and already kept a file for college applications, did not even bother to defend him to Cerise.

The funny thing about these tales is that you forget they are but snippets. Often, I find that I spent the first few pages of a short story trying to place the characters, the setting, get it all lined up in my head. With Brady's stories, within a few pages I'd forgotten it was a short tale I was reading. It was more like a novel, with characters I'd gotten to know over a multitude of chapters. It is a talent to be able to say so much with fewer words.

(You can read an excerpt of another story here, and an interview with Catherine Brady that gives a little more insight onto this collection here. And, of course, you can purchase the book here.)

Translation FAIL

Reasons not to eat a one dollar burger from a bus stop cafe in Havana

... alternatively titled "Sometimes I miss McDonald's for its predictability. And the fact that it doesn't try to kill me."

Havana

A dog lies dead on the sidewalk in Parque Central. 

For a moment, I believe it to be sleeping, an odd moment of peace in contrast to the pulse of the rest of Havana. Then I realize that I am perhaps the only one who has paused to notice.

It is not so much that it is chaos here, like that you expect in a Moroccan market or a New York subway. It is more that Havanans are just so busy living. The line between the public and private is hardly even a line, but more a series of vague fuzzy dashes. 

People are living everywhere- in the tops of formal looking ornate buildings, amidst crumbling walls. Their lives leak out into the streets. In fact, the streets are their front yards, sidewalks serving as baseball fields. They hold conversations from their narrow balconies with the people below, as though they are merely across a table from one another. The sidewalks are skinny, and as you squueze along, you can often see into open doors into their front rooms, people having dinner two feet from the curb. Women stand in their doorways, expectantly, less than arms length from all who pace by. Couples kiss each other frantically beneath dropping roofs, mere steps from their friends. Even this home we stay in, up two precarious flights of stairs, is separated from the open hallway by but a wrought iron fence. The walls of the home aren't entirely sealed in from the overlapping roofs, like a bungee corded tarp.

Yet, despite these missing walls, they just live. Unlike us, they don't lock two doors behind them before they face the world. The world is always just there.

The great divide (between grad students and non-grad students.)

The last guest post in this wonderful series is from one of my favourites, in blogging and real life, Distracted Spunk. This post hits a little close to home...

***

Non-grad students say, "It's just school. Why can't you come out on Friday night?"

Grad students respond, "It's Friday? Shit. I thought it was Tuesday. Wait, which week is this?"

Non-grad students gasp and say, "Oh my god, you wrote 82 pages?"

Grad students exclaim, "Is 82 pages enough? I knew it wasn't enough. I have to go write some more."

Non-grad students are secretly thinking, "She used to be so much more interesting before she went to grad school."

Grad students are secretly thinking, "I wonder if that paragraph works in the context of the larger argument. Is my argument clear enough?"

Non-grad students point out, "You used to blog frequently."

Grad students say, "I have a blog? Oh crap, I have a blog!"

Non-grad students talk about all the sex and relationships and adventures they're having.

Grad students talk about their latest conversation with their advisor and whether or not they might be able to publish an article based on their work.

Non-grad students roll their eyes when they come across a faction of grad students.

Grad students nod and shake their heads in shared understanding when they come across a faction of grad students.

If only we mere grad students had a secret handshake. Then our lives would be infinitely more interesting. Or lame.

The Audacity of Hope

Hi there, I'm Hope. I can usually be found writing navel grazing posts about love (or you know, the lack thereof), relationships and singledom over at Hope Dies Last. When I asked Princess to suggest topics for my guest post she sent me a whole bunch. And I loved them all but as the day approached for me to send her my post, all the subjects I chose felt wrong. This was too depressing, that one was too boring, that one required a complete back story to understand.

Instead, I decided to write about a subject that is close to Princess’ heart.

Psychology.

That was far too broad. It needed to be narrowed. As I drummed my fingers on my desk, I remembered a very brave confession Princess had made recently.

“I have not read any of the following: The Rules, He's Just not That Into You, anything by Dr. Phil, aka. the Devil, or, in fact, any self-help book ever. It is against my psychologist's pride”

This post is in support of that one sentiment.

My background is in psychology; I have a Bachelor of Arts in Social Psychology and a Master of Science in Applied Psychology. I would have pursued a PhD was it not for the fact that I could not make up my mind about an area of research. That, plus you need to have cajones to continue studying for that length of time.

And I really don’t.

But I am also perpetually single. And like most perpetually single women in their 20s, my book shelf contains a number of books.

Why Men Love Bitches and the follow up to that Why Men Marry Bitches

He’s Just Not That Into You

Quirkyalone

I keep them as far away as my serious books as possible. Books like:

The Psychology of Criminal Conduct

Social Cognition

Abnormal Psychology

I keep them as far away as possible because my mind, trained to dissect every piece of research in order to find its weaknesses, wants to laugh at them. But my heart, my heart longs for simple answers, for tried and tested ways to find a man.

The thing is, though, that they haven’t been tried. And they haven’t been tested. Not in the psychological sense anyway. They haven’t been put through rigorous experiments. They don’t have control groups. They don’t account for individual differences. So how can they be generalized to the rest of the population?

Simple answer? They can’t.

These self-help books simply fill in a gap. They are almost like religions. There is no proof of God’s or Allah’s existence. Yet, millions and millions and millions of people believe. They believe because they need a simple answer that will comfort them.

And this is the same gap that titles of books like, “He’s Just Not That Into” fill.

Now they’re not all bad. In fact, overall, the message that they hold in their pages is something I can get on board with. In a nutshell, they all seem to be saying “Be who you are. Enjoy your life to its fullest. Be complete in yourself. Then? Love? It will come.”

It’s the details that I have a problem with. If he does not call within 4 days? He’s just not that into you. If he’s got a girlfriend? He’s just not that into you. Except we ALL know cases where he didn’t call within the allotted time and HE WAS INTO HER. We all know cases he did have a girlfriend. HE WAS INTO HER and it did work out.

It’s the comments that I get on my blog sometimes that irritate me. “Hope, you really need to read He’s Just Not That Into You. Because The Man Friend? HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU.”

I never reply to those comments. I don’t reply because I refuse to accept an argument that is based on an OVERHYPED book that has generalized human behavior into about 11 neat categories. Let’s not forget that the authors—Greg Berhendt and Liz Tuccillo—are American. I am not American. The men that I come into contact with are NOT American. There is such a thing as cultural differences, you know?

My point is that all those books should be taken with a very large grain (think mountain-size) of salt. People are different. Every situation is different. Sure, they have similarities and it’s probably NOT a good idea to expect a man with a girlfriend to be your soul mate, but what if he is?

Moreover, it’s like I once wrote on my own blog:

“Perhaps, I do not pick up on those apparently obvious ‘he’s just not that into you’ signals. Perhaps, I choose to ignore them because of hope. Perhaps, I choose to ignore them because I am stubborn and proud. Because, why the hell should he not be into me?”

So, my fellow Hijinkers, what do you think? Have you read these books? Do you like them? Dislike them? Have they helped you at all? Have I misunderstood them? Been too harsh? Lets talk about it.

Popcorn FAIL

Hi folks! This guest post comes from one of the sweetest bloggers I've had the fortune to get to know, Gemma of Closets are for Clothes (aka. the blogger formerly known as Libby).

***

Great. One month in to my new job and already I’ve got an incident under my belt that I’m not going to live down anytime soon.

I burnt the popcorn. As in smoked it. As in smoke literally ballooning up in greyish clouds when I opened the microwave door and wafting out the kitchenette doors. As is my eyes were watering and I was coughing.

NOT. COOL. I wanted to melt into the ground, I was so embarrassed.

I mean, it’s not like it’s never been done before, right?! It happens all the time! I mean, it’s practically a fact of life I tell you. But it never fails that no matter how common a boo-boo it is…everyone and their mother will comment about it (my internal retorts to each comment in parentheses):

“WHAT is that SMELL?” (Do I really have to tell you?)

“WHO burned popcorn?” (It was meee ok? IT WAS ME!)

“GAWD can someone open a DOOR or something?” (I don’t even KNOW, I’ve been here a month, if there is one please, do the honours and open it)

“You KNOW that smell is gonna stick to everything in here for, like, a WEEK” (Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in)

“Stop bringing popcorn here, ok?” (UMMM, pretty sure the dozen other times I’ve brought it and popped it perfectly, you were ALL salivating and more than happy to take some.)

_____________________________________________

So yeah, I get it. I’m sure I would have reacted in a similar way if someone else had burned their afternoon snack. I’m extremely embarrassed, but, as I relive it in writing this post, I’m a little indignant as well. Seriously, it was no worse than a “I was just sitting around the campfire” smell. But I apologized. I cleaned the microwave. And now, all we need to do is give time some time and the smell will be gone on its own. I’m crossing my fingers such a trivial incident won’t void the headway I’ve made in terms of working to earn the respect of these people I have to work with. Maybe it’s silly of me, but the worry is really there. So as not to dwell on that, here are some of the ‘positives’ of my popcorn FAIL:

• I have the day off tomorrow so I don’t have to deal with people still harping about it until they’ve hopefully cooled off and the smell has hopefully dissipated by Monday.
• I’m super grateful to the guys who (in my mind, anyway) seemed to get that I was already embarrassed beyond measure and who played the incident off with jokes of their own (i.e. when asked “how can you stand to go IN [the smoky kitchen]?”, responding “because I’m a MAN.”; or when people were exclaiming WHAT IS THAT SMELL, saying “Oh that? It was me,” rather than singling me out)
• My boss had already left when in the incident happened, and may still be absent tomorrow. This is the best case scenario so that he doesn’t smell the strong odour tomorrow. If he IS in…well, at least I’m not, HOWEVER, this also means I won’t be there to be on rumour patrol about me ‘intentionally’ setting the timer to 21:00 minutes…(bugger.)
• At least the popcorn didn’t catch fire/blow up/set off any alarms with the smoke. THAT would have been disastrous.

All in all, I’ve learned my lesson.

Notes to self:

• TRIPLE-CHECK that the timer on the microwave says 2:10 and not 21:00 minutes before you turn your back on it. Better yet, don’t turn your back on it.
• When a tiny voice at the back of your head wonders “Shouldn’t the timer have gone off by now?”, LISTEN TO IT. Do not (I repeat, do NOT) wait until the acrid smell starts to permeate the air. It will be too late.

This truly is the first time this has ever happened to me to this extreme extent when popping popcorn. I think I’m going to stop bringing it to work, or get my own microwave or something. I’ve still got half a giant Costco box to go…