Poshing it up Chinese Style

Born and raised in Sichuan province, China, everyone I knew spoke in heavy Sichuan dialect. Yet somehow my grandparents managed to raise me speaking Putong accent. Maybe it was because I spent more time watching TV than interacting with human people… Early signs of my TV obsessions as an almost adult? Nah.

So there I was in a small town where there were more scooters than cars and giant tricycles far out-numbered taxis with an accent equivalent of the Queen’s English. I remember trying to speak Sichuan accent for a while in the first grade but I soon found out that I could only say one phrase: “I’m telling on you!” I can tell you that having a posh accent and compensating for it by shooting “I’m telling on you!” all the time is great way to get popular in school.

It wasn’t just school friends either but all my family spoke Sichuanhwa. Of course I understood it, having listened to it all my life, but to this day they still think I can’t so they always spoke to me in Putonghwa. Just imagine if you had some Southern relative who punctuated their sentences with yee-haws and ho-diggidies began speaking to you if they were an 18th century aristocrat. “Oh I say that roasted raccoon was jolly good!! Particularly with that savory flavor of last fort-night’s garbage.” My grandma never spoke Putonghwa though. She always called it Budonghwa, “Don’t understand speech”. It’s thanks to her stubbornness and pride in our province’s dialect that kept me able to even understand it after I moved to Canada and no one I knew spoke it.

i'm telling

The bowl cut helped too.

It wasn’t just my grandma who had pride in Sichuan dialect. Our provinces was so proud of it in fact that we decided to dub Tom and Jerry in Sichuanhwa when we broadcaster it. I’ll let you think about that for a second…. Tom and Jerry. The show that had no dialogue to begin with. And they dubbed it just to show off our dialect. Yup. That’s how proud we were of it. Though it did suit the comedy and the silliness of the show with all the strange slang. Sometimes the slang seemed just made up. In fact one time my grandpa made up “mender” which was his way of calling someone an idiot. No the whole family uses it. Maybe in 50 years it will be a real word in Sichuan dialect.

I’m getting pretty excited after writing all this to go back to China this summer and be immersed in this dialect again. Yes it’s silly and hickish but it’s also very caring in it’s own way. It’s loud and boisterous and familiar. You say little sis when you mean young lady no matter what you’re saying you sound excited. It lacks the politeness and grace of English or even Putonghwa but it never fails to make me feel at home in every sense of the word.


Boobies Rule

The other day I figured out how to spell boobies on my calculator to the utter amazement and wonder of the guy sitting next to me (and if you’ve read some of my other posts you’ll know that I’m not one to exaggerate). I’m not sure if it was the word itself or the fact that I typed it on a calculator that shocked him. I’m going to go with the former since we are talking about someone who managed to program Nintendo Games onto their calculator here. It was then that I came to understand the tremendous power of boobs over us all.

Back in December, I was hunting for last minute birthday gifts and I happened across Breasts. How could I resist? In the end though I choose a book about science instead since you never know what horrors may ensue when you give a 16 year old boy Breasts.

Hot damn.

But I took a look through the book anyways and that’s when the real horrors began. The thing was, this book actually talked about boobs! It wasn’t just funny, sexy stuff, there was real content. Real content about boobs!! It was freaky, like those high school health classes where they make you watch those birthing videos. You know in theory what that’s there for but you never want to see it happen and hardly ever even want to think about it. We don’t need to hear about the nitty gritty, just the nice stuff. Next thing you’ll know they’ll have a book called Nipple about vestigial traits.  in humans

Be honest, when’s the last time you’ve watched one of those culture documentaries about modern hunter gatherer societies and didn’t giggle at the sight of them badonkadonks just hanging about. And I still haven’t gotten over the fact that the breaststroke has nothing to do with using boobs as a means to float in the water. Who cares if society has so far sexualized a part of a human body that disassociating it with sex is the weird thing.  After all, what important function could they serve other than pleasure? Oh right. Babies. But that trend was so 2008.

I think the lesson learned here is that you really can’t top breasts.

That be a sexy piece of construction paper.

How to Beach (AKA How Not to Swim)


After a 3 hour bus ride to get to one of best beaches around, according to the lady at the hotel Tourist Services desk, you would expect to find more than a big, windy beach with hardly anyone on it. But what’s a bad situation if you don’t make a hilarious adventure out of it?

Donna and I went to North Shore because we were told that it was a must see in Honolulu. What we weren’t told is that it was primarily a surfing beach. As two generally nonathletic people, one of whom can swim about as much as a fish can recite Shakespeare, we saw the beach and thought that we had wasted 3 agonizing hours standing on a hot, crowded bus for nothing. Spoiler alert: it turned out to be one of the best parts of the trip. And luckily for us, Donna’s parents were testing out a new camera and took loads of pictures of us while we were swimming. I was looking through them today and they seemed perfect for this week’s DPchallenge of capturing a moment (or in this case several moments) of pure, unadulterated joy on camera.

The waves were bigger than those at the more popular beaches we’d gone to so the first thing we did was walk into the water until it was neck high then let the waves push us back about 5 meters, an idea we got from an eight-year-old we saw on the beach. We were laughing and rolling around in the water in no time. Then we got our floaties and embarked on an epic quest to swim as far out as we could. You know, all the typical beating on, floaties against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past type of stuff. You would swim out and then the waves would pull you back and you’d just keep at the swimming out until your field of vision got bluer and bluer. It was very relaxing really. That is until the big billboard in the sky lifeguard yelled at us through his megaphone for going too far.

triumph of the dondon

Even though we couldn’t go too far out, we found various ways to amuse ourselves. Donna’s favorite was ‘accidentally’ losing grip on her floaty so I would have to run after it while it got blown all over the beach by the wind. I got even by teaching her to play catch in the water with my glasses. As you can see from the photo above, Donna enjoyed it just as much as I did. It’s strange how much joy one gets from being able to simultaneously not drown and catch something in one’s mouth. Maybe it’s just a primal drive, the same type of motivation a puppy has for playing catch that makes it so emotionally rewarding. Or maybe I’ve been classically conditioning my best friend to be my human puppy since my mom won’t let me get a real one. We’ll never know.

theft of the floaty 2Despite her obvious love for pretending to be a dog, Donna retaliated anyways by keeping my glasses and taking the floaty too. I don’t know if it was the floaty itself, the disturbances to the brain caused by the bobbing up and down from the waves, or just her sadistic nature but I have never seen Donna so happy and so in love with anyone or anything more than that floaty at that moment. Or maybe she was just happy that she had stolen my floaty and was only hugging it because she didn’t want to drown. There’s something about being surrounded by nothing but water that brings you back to playing games like children and laughing like children. There were so few people there that we felt alone out in the blue waves, that king of the world type of feeling. And that feeling was great.

Needless to say, we spent the rest of our time on the beach fighting over the green floaty and completely ignoring the blue one. By the end of the day we were both smiling despite our fatigue and the 3 hour bus ride back to the hotel.

5 Ways to Clean for the Exceptionally Lazy

My whole life I’ve never once been burdened with the chore of cleaning my room. See it’s sometimes good to have clean-freak type parents. Sure you have to keep emergency coasters everywhere and wear special shoes for every room of the house (and god forbid you walk into the kitchen with your living room shoes on!) but I’ll take it any day if the reward is to never have to clean my room. It seems a bit contradictory to grow up with a parent who’s obsessed with keeping everything nice and tidy yet never actually clean but over the years I’ve developed this fool-proof strategy: if it gets messy enough my mom will clean it.

I like having my room clean too and I would clean it if it got too messy. The thing is my mom’s messiness threshold is far lower than mine so she loses control and cleans it long before I do. She’s tried on occasion to get me to clean it myself but after putting it off for a few days she’ll snap and clean it for me. It’s a great system. It’s worked for seventeen years so why should it change now?

This fall I’ll be going off to Mordor University and it seems like I’ll have to develop some new strategy to clean since my mom won’t be doing it anymore. I’ve been brainstorming about this and here are some of my ideas

Method 1: The neighbor

This is my favorite of the strategies. It’s relatively similar to the good old way of getting my mom to clean it but applied to neighbors or roommates. The closer they are the better. I’ll just make sure to leave some fish and raw meat lying around for a few days, maybe put a fan beside it to really get the smell spreading, and before long everyone on the floor will be fighting for the chance to clean up the stench.

Method 2: The guilt trip

Bribery or blackmail work just as well as guilt tripping but it all accomplishes the same thing. Just find someone who owes you something or who you can extort it out of the clean for you. No problemo. Of course this strategy does involve the work of going out a finding someone. The guilt tripping/blackmailing/bribing is easy enough but to actually walk around and find someone? That’s way too much work, especially when all you have to do for the first method is to not throw out your trash.

Method 3: Hire a maid

This is the trickiest one of the 5 methods. See first you have to put up an ad or look through craigslist for a maid and then you have to figure out a legitimate form of payment. Then there’s all the paperwork and having to remember to actually pay the maid. Not to mention the whole “employer etiquette  thing. I’m not suggesting anything but you wouldn’t have to worry about any sexual harassment at the workplace law suits with method 2.

Method 4: Bring my mom

This is really a last resort if you can’t hire a maid and/or are a Hufflepuff and can’t find it in your gooey little metaphorical heart to blackmail anyone. Really this is doing a service on my part more than my mom’s. She’s cleaned for me all my life! How do you expect her to cope when I move out and she loses the opportunity to wait on me hand and foot. It would be simply torturous. So if I’m feeling particularly kindhearted I’ll let her come to university with me and clean for me there as well. I mean she needs some time to adjust to the idea of living independently after all this time. The only problem would be keeping her away when the room’s clean but I guess every silver lining has its angry naggy cloud.

Method 5: Clean it

We’re all friends here so I’ll be honest. No matter the intention this method will only work for maybe the first 2 weeks. After that, like any new years resolution to exercise or write a book, it spirals exponentially downward. Luckily when this method inevitably fails to leave my room in a giant hole of chaos, this method brings us full circle back to method 1.

Armed with these 5 flawless strategies to clean my room, I’ll be surprised if I don’t get some cleanliness award next year. And applied correctly, these can do the same for you.

Warning: infants and seniors may mistake this for a chewy toy and swallow. These methods may or may not contain peanuts and lactose. Fortunately every method comes with a tube of lactase to aid digestion.

Mr. Muppet : The Teacher Who Could

Have you ever seen a Muppet that didn’t look 70% stoned? It would still be the happy little embodiment of childhood that ninjas a bit of learning into your regularly scheduled program of silliness and games but without looking like a creepy homeless hipster. [Sidenote: the homeless hipster is a rare creature. Also know as the anti-hipster they are a breed that is actually homeless but goes to thrift shops to look like they are posh soccer moms.] The point is, if you can picture one of these miraculously normal(ish) Muppet you are picturing my elementary school French teacher who we’ll call Mr. Muppet because it’s impolite to post personal information of teachers online and completely not because I forgot the name of a teacher who taught me for four years.

As an eight-year-old, I was pretty proud of myself for getting (mostly) the hang of English. Sure I still had a heavy accent and thought “fauquxe” was an appropriate spelling for a 3 letter word but I was friends with the white people in my class now and I even had some of the slang down. But I guess the universe saw fit to crush my growing ego. The universe’s weapon of choice: French. The 5 years of mandatory French classes taught me two things actually related to French. Firstly that fish is poisonous and secondly that France doesn’t believe Quebec is real. That’s not to say I didn’t learn anything in French class. Au contraire, I learned the importance of hoarding and several slightly impressive magic tricks.

You see, Mr. Muppet was the ‘fun’ teacher. He had a beard, toys, lots of games that made it look like we were learning when we had the answer sheets hidden in our laps under the desks, and he always wore bright colourful sweaters. He wasn’t a full time teacher at my primary school but the French teacher that taught at a bunch of different schools that were too small to have an actual French teacher. So seeing Mr. Muppet two or three times a week very quickly became a spectacle for the class, something to look forward to. We would spend maybe 10 minutes of the class learning then the rest would be dedicated to fun and games. Of course there was the regular grade school junk like singing songs and colouring. But Mr. Muppet would have these little game-show type games with French vocabulary or grammar and every time you got a question right he would give you a little slip of paper you could write your name on. These were the all-mighty tickets. At the end of classes every day, you were supposed to put all the tickets you earned into a little paper bag and on Fridays, Mr. Muppet would draw a few names out of the bag and a lucky few would get prizes. These were usually those magnet toys or little cars from the dollar store. But by 5th grade everyone in the class had figured out that once in a while Mr. Muppet would bring in a spectacularly cool prize and suddenly, the whole class would have an abundance of tickets. Every year after the book fair at the school, Mr. Muppet would end up with a few of the leftover posters and bookmarks and I always kept my tickets for those Fridays. He must have known what was going on but he really didn’t care. All he did was smile like usual and turn a blind eye to the tiny blackmarket that revolved around his tickets.

Friday was the best day of French class not only because it was prize day but because it was magic day as well. In retrospect some of the tricks weren’t that impressive at all but when Mr. Muppet always made it seem like he had just brought a corpse back to life or conjured an infinite supply of chocolate. Most of them were simple card or string tricks and they never failed, even after four years, to inspire awe and applause in his audience. I’m still not sure if it’s because he just had that sort of resounding enthusiasm about him or because we were all just that stupid back then. When we were really lucky, he’d show us how he’d done the magic trick. Usually I didn’t understand his explanations but there was one I still remember. It had something to do with gluing two playing cards together, folding them in half and flipping them in your hand. I was so awestruck when he showed us the trick and then even more so when he explained it that I went home, glued and folded the cards, and showed it to my friends. Naturally, they saw right through it and I couldn’t understand how he could do it so well and I hadn’t managed to fool a single person. I ended up deciding that it was because he was magician and muggles just aren’t as good at magic tricks as real magicians.

The most amazing thing about Mr. Muppet wasn’t that he gave us toys or let us get away with a lot of things or even that he could do real life magic. His most amazing trait was always being happy. We’ve all had teachers who were never really that great because at some point they just stopped caring about whether or not their students succeed and stopped liking their job. Don’t think your students can’t tell because even the small ones can. It’s rare to find a teacher who’s been teaching all their life and still has all that enthusiasm and general cheerfulness of a 20 year old. He always talked happily with all the kids and I never felt condescended by him which is one of the reasons he’s kind of a Muppet He never talked town at you and even when he was giving you instructions or criticizing your work it didn’t feel like it. He was one of the kids, one of us. The huge, well defined line between adult and kid defined my childhood and still nags at me today but Mr. Muppet had a strange ability to cross over to the kid side at leisure and the kid side was the side that was safe and okay which made him safe and okay.

One year there was this terrible snow storm and the school had been closed. And even though he didn’t work at my school exclusively, he got there at least half an hour before school started (which was when I got there, not knowing that it was a snow day) and just stood by himself in the parking lot. When my mom pulled into the parking lot he ran to the car and told us, smiling the whole time despite the wind and snow, that we’d have to go back home. I even remember him throwing a joke in there. And when my mom was just about ready to close the car door and drive off I did one of those annoying curious child things and asked him if there was anything he was afraid of. He said the teletubies then politely listened as I bragged about the scary TV show I had managed to watch all the way through last night. Even as a child I registered that Mr. Muppet didn’t have to do any of that. Maybe he had to stand by the parking lot and tell people to go home but it was a testament to his character that he managed to smile and make small talk and stand in the storm instead of just wait inside. He was about 60 at the time.

There was only one time I remember Mr. Muppet being sad. It was my last year being taught by him but I was still a relatively young and innocent little kid. I didn’t understand war or meaningless violence and I didn’t know what 9/11 meant. It was December 6th, the anniversary of the École Polytechnique massacre. I didn’t understand a lot of the things he said but I got the general gist of it. He was talking about a man killing a lot of women just because they wanted to study and that made me sad so I understood why he was sad. And then he started talking about his daughter who was all grown up now and just graduated from university which made me even more sad and I wasn’t sure why because it’s good that he has a smart daughter even if it’s bad that women like her were killed. I think that was the first time I’d heard of real life tragedy and it was much worse than when Kira had to fight Athren or when Buckbeak was nearly killed because it was so meaningless. Fictional tragedy serves the purpose or driving plot or teaching some lesson But in the École Polytechnique massacre there wasn’t any reason for tragedy or at least not one that made sense. And in the end there wasn’t even a happy ending.

So that was my French teacher who taught me about magic, hoarding, and empathy and not very much French. I haven’t thought about him in a few years now until I was trying to think of someone quirky yet inspiring enough for this prompt and it might be the nostalgia but I think Mr. Muppet is a great man or at the very least a great idea. Through the course of writing this, the ideal of Mr. Muppet has become a role model for me. Thinking about him now, he seems happy and so much wiser than I ever gave him credit for. I hope he’s still happy and I hope he knows that he was an amazing teacher and (as cheesy as this sounds) the sort of teacher and person I aspire to be.


Like every melodramatic sap in the world, I’ve watched my share of sunrises but there’s one that will always stick out to me. It’s not every night (or morning technically) that you see some guy drag a possible murder victim to the dumpsters.

It was a nicely air-conditioned summer’s morn three years ago. My best friend was visiting for the week so we decided to make the most of our time by playing Pokemon and Rayman Raving Rabbids into the wee hours. The most productive thing we did that whole week was play a dance game on the Wii while eating fried dumplings. I say it was productive not because it accomplished anything actually substantial but because the whole eating whilst dancing thing is pretty hard to coordinate, especially when you add chopsticks into the equation.

And so our candy fueled ‘gaming’ led to that fateful night when my friend had sugar crashed and fallen asleep by three so I was left to my own devices which meant that I had to grind Pokemon all by myself. Oh the humanity! Eventually I did get bored of battling Pokemon ten levels under mine just to get that little bit of exp. without anyone to complain about it to so i resorted to walking around the living room in the dark. This was how it came about that I was looking out the apartment window at four AM at beautiful view of the parking lot and dumpsters outside.

It was strangely peaceful. It was that nice bit just before the sunrise when you can see the first beams of light crawling up the sky. It’s the anticipation that really gets me. There are moments in life when you feel like you’re just waiting and preparing. You spend the majority of your young life getting all learned up for the future and being told that certain things are restricted until you are older such as booze, freewill and the right to die for the landmass you’ve attached emotional significance to. I think I liked the waiting part better than the actual sunrise. I find that the longer you wait for something the more disappointing it actually is when it happens. So I tried to appreciate the just before bit of the sunrise which isn’t too hard because the diffusion of light blueness into dark blueness and all the colours that come in between is just magnificent. And that was the first time I really genuinely enjoyed the waiting part. I barely noticed the sun rising very very slowly and was a bit surprised when I saw the sky completely lit up.

Oh yeah and then some guy drove into the parking lot and threw a few big, heavy garbage bags from his trunk into the dumpster and drove off in a hurry.

[This is the first installment of my Lifescouts posts. For more information see the video and site.]

Life of Crime

As frequent readers of this blog will no doubt know, I have been burdened with absolute, unadulterated badassery since birth. It’s not been easy to be so awesome but, you know what, I make do.

Now I’ll admit I was pretty wild when I was a little yonion. Some poor sap once left a car window half open on my street which I, being the rebellious three year old that I was, tried to steal. Unfortunately  the younger me neglected to consider keys so I had just contented myself playing with the buttons. But don’t let my adorable babyness fool you, I was tough as nails. My family learned pretty quick not to cross me or they’d be subject to cruel and unusual punishments. One of my favorite tactics for revenge was super-gluing blank pieces of paper onto the walls. I even had a samurai sword to threaten them with (though granted it was child sized and made of wood). All cowered under my ruthless regime.

And it didn’t stop when I was an infant either. Primary school was the first time I was around other kids. Through this I found loads of co-conspirators to plot and wreak havoc along with. In first grade, we would take skipping ropes and wind them through our clothes so that the ends stuck out our sleeves and we could pretend they were machine guns. With our pretend weapons of mass destruction in hand, our brigade completed several missions into the dangerous lands of the older kids area of our playground. Dramatic deaths were faked, punches were thrown, knees were scraped, and basketballs were narrowly dodged. Of course I had to tone it down a bit when I moved to Canada, Canadians being so Canadian and all. I had to be sneaky about everything. Instead of regular blackmail, I had to resort to writing threats and insults on valentines cards. One year I gave everyone chocolates in little baggies and one girl’s baggie was very mysteriously broken. I won’t admit anything but let’s just say that she received the message and those chocolates were delicious.

During my time in school, I was also the proud instigator of what is now known only (by me) as Kid Wars One, Two, and Four. Three went completely out of hand but rest assured, it had nothing at all to do with me. KW2 was pretty brutal too though. So many caterpillars lost… How was I to know they needed food? I mean they’re bugs! Surely poking holes in the lid of that water bottle was generous enough of me. Oh the cruel casualties of war.

Well besides that little mishap my childhood was awe inspiring in the totally badass sort of way. And I know what you’re all wondering: How are you so awesome? Well my friends, I have thought long and hard about this and there could only be one explanation  That’s right. I am in fact Batman.

GALE’s War on Humanity

Mmmmm look at dat artificial lighting y’all.

So I was watching a Vlogbrothers video today, as I do when I should be mathing, in which the question of Peeta or Gale was asked. Listening to this, I wrongly thought they were talking about the boobtastical PETA organization that also has something to do with vegetarianism or something but mostly boobs and its opponent, GALE which I assumed to be  some overly preachy organization against PETA and for meatism. Gentlemen Against Lettuce and Etc. or something (don’t ask me why an acronym includes an abbreviation, I didn’t come up with this grammar), an organization determined to abolish vegetarianism and sway the the food eaters of the world to their ways. And my friends, it saddens me to tell you that, should GALE succeed in their endeavor, it could only mean the end of times for humanity as we know it. [Sidenote: what’s with the phrase end of times anyways? I mean it is used to signifiy the destruction of the world but rest assured, time (singular or plural) would continue regardless of Earth’s present state of existence].

Think about it, without the need to plant crops for human consumption all we would rely on for oxygen would be the 180 million acres of cropland used to grow livestock feed. That doesn’t sound like much but don’t fret, if things keep progressing the way they have been for the past few years, the 180 million is going to double in no time at all. So we don’t have to worry about oxygen shortage or the extinction of vegetables just yet. No, what I’m more concerned about are the greenhouse gases. With the banishment of vegetables, everyone will just eat burgers all the time. And where do you get burgers? That’s right: McDonald’s. And what happens when you go eat at McDonald’s? You get fat’d. And once the GALE movement has swept the nation, everyone will have to go around in scooters because they’ll have become all fat’d up from McDonald’s and can no longer support their own weight. I mean let alone the 31% of greenhouse emissions from the production and transportation of livestock, the CO2 produced by the McScooters (because if McDonald’s is going to throw the world into extreme obesity, you bet your ass they’re going to profit) will be the death of us all.

The scariest part of this whole GALE ordeal is the possibility that they will evolve into a super extremist group. These super extremists are in the news all the time nowadays for no other reason than being completely nuts. You have people like the Westboro Baptist Church, that one guy who pretended his kid was in a balloon, and of course, Snooki. If GALE starts out with banning humans from eating vegetables, their next move will be to abolish vegetables all together! They’ll have rioters with pitchforks and torches purging the world of all its brussel sprouted goodness. And after that, they’ll go for the fruit! And after that, the grain! Sure they’re not technically vegetables but they grow and stuff. You know, rubisco, calvin cycle and all that jazz. And then what have we I ask you? Ice cream without fruit flavors? Pasta with just cheese and meat? Fancy restaurants without your free basket of bread or your lemon wedge? Chaos, friends. That’s what we have.

So join me in resisting the tyrannical reign of GALE, the fictional organization to doom us all. Instead, support PETA. They strive for a world with hot, naked chicks everywhere. Wouldn’t you take that over sausage any day?

Vive les seins!

Sleeping Away the Holidays

I feel like a drunk and passed out baby too.

Winter break: the perfect excuse to do nothing but sit around, read, sleep and eat which is exactly how I’ve spent the past week.

I’ve finished 3 books and started 3 more. Unfortunately  I still haven’t gotten through Game of Thrones though with all the boobs and sex, you’d think I’d finish rather quickly (winky). All this reading is partially because my new kindle has just arrived but mostly because I just don’t know what to do with all this time I suddenly find myself with. And my god, freedom from schoolwork  feels great!

Another activity I’ve been indulging in is eating. More specifically, eating chocolate. My family’s gotten several boxes of chocolate and cakes for Christmas and I’ve been gorging myself on them. I’m well on my way to my goal to gaining 10 pounds before the new year. All the fancy dinners I’ve been to haven’t helped matters either. I think I’ve eaten a month’s worth of regular dinner this week alone.

Aside from lazying around, there’s been plenty of partying for this blogger. But alas, ’tis not the fun sort of partying where everyone gets drunk and sexes each other.  ‘Tis the plague known only as Asian parties. It’s just a fancy dinner all for the purpose of showing off recent basement renovations or what have you to acquaintance followed by drunk karaokeing of 80’s Chinese pop songs and pingpong.   And the youngsters are left to play Wii and eat copious amounts of chocolate with people they’ve known most of their lives from the annual Asian parties. I learned two things at the Asian party at my house last night: it’s extremely awkward to have a pastor in your house when you haven’t gone to church in over a year and I mother fucking kick ass at Just Dance.

Maybe this is what being retired is like. And if it is why the hell are old people so cranky? I mean you get all this time to do whatever the hell you want and you don’t have to worry at all about the future. You can even go to North Korea just for kicks and giggles (which one of my old teachers did do right after she retired). I’d be one of those secretly awesome old people. I’d act all senile and angry at the world but when the yonions aren’t around, I’d be playing video games and otherwise rocking out all day. Man I just can’t wait to be king  old.

Peter’s got the right idea

Why grow up? It’s hard and boring and scary as all hell.

We all remember being kids and wanting nothing but to get older so we’ll be allowed to stay up late and watch the PG programs on TV. I had some idea of waking up on my 18th birthday and inherently knowing how to be an adult. I would walk around and people would just know: that there’s a responsible, all grown up, 100% adult. I’d be respected and be an automatic genius. And best of all: I wouldn’t have to listen when Mommy said I had to say goodbye to my friends at the end of the day. We would have sleepovers every night and stay up till 12 AM playing Pokemon. Yup. Being an adult would be great. Continue reading

Passive Aggressive Canadianism

Sorry this caption is so pointless.

I’ll admit it: I’m Canadian.

Big surprise eh? I’m sure you’ll have noticed my “incorrect” spelling of certain words in previous posts. Hell with the lack of Canadian/UK English spellcheckers on some sites I’m not even sure if my incorrect spelling is right.

But I’ve not always been Canadian you see. I was born in Chengdu, China and moved to Canada during elementary school. And boy is there a culture gap. I mean in Canada you spend less than 50% of your time doing math, wear shoes inside of houses, sleep on mattresses, sit on toilets, and you’re all lumberjacks! It’s a wonder the country’s economy hasn’t been completely ax murdered yet what with only producing maple syrup and poutine and having to rebuild the igloos every year. And cheese? What’s with that?

And yeah, there are a bunch of confusing things like the great white North, there’s a bunch of good as well. Everything’s so clean here. There are trees and the sky is blue coloured instead of smog coloured. You can actually breath in public restrooms in Canada. And the money very easy to use being colour coded and all. Oh and freedom is a pretty good and all. OH! And Timmy’s. You can’t forget Timmy’s. That’s definitely the most important of all the things listed here.

I guess the most potent thing about Canada is how nice it is. I mean we’re talking about a country that achieved sovereignty by asking nicely. And having lived here for so long, it’s even made me become a nice person…. whether I wanted to or not (cue ominous sound effect). The other day I was at a Chinese Supermarket and I nearly walked into this other guy coming around the corner. And though we didn’t really have to, both of us instinctively said sorry. And you could tell: neither of us were happy about it. We both said it very sourly then promptly walked away.

So I’ve concluded that there’s only one possible explanation to all this sugarplums and niceness: Canada is just too close to the North Pole (and therefore Santa’s workshop) so the field a love and kindness and all that crap has a stronger pull in Canada, making Canadians nice. [Sidenote: I’m assuming these goodytwoshoes forces are weak nuclear forces.] I’m assuming a similar phenomenon happens in Scotland due to it’s proximity to Hogwarts.

So having accepted my Canadianness and inevitable niceness, I’ll leave you with this song about dear oh Canada.