Attack of the Crab Monsters

When I was in my first year of university, I lived on the first floor of the all-girl residence.  And oh how I loathed it there. It's strange, because I consider myself blessed with several close female friends now, but in high school I almost exclusively hung out with boys - so the transition to 100% ovaried-residence life was rough on me. What made matters worse beyond the general gendered culture shock, was the fact that all the girls on my wing were, in a word, idiots. 

I don't know quite how or why things came to be like that. Sprinkled throughout the building were several brilliant, funny, wonderful young women - yet on my wing, I swear I was the only one of my ilk. 

"Baloney!" you're thinking, "Marg, you were just too awkward, withdrawn, and cynical to see the merit of your wing-mates!"

And hell, maybe you're right. Maybe. But the Attack of the Crab Monsters speaks volumes to my version of history.

As is prone to happen when there is one all-female dorm on campus, Vanier Hall has developed over several decades a fantastic reputation. The nickname "Four Floors of Whores" was always a charming reference to the building. I only lived there for one school year, but I have to assume that these sorts of rumours run amuck there annually. That year, the big thing was... crabs. 

Yeah, that's right. Everyone freaked out because they thought that the building (yes, the building) had an infestation of pubic lice.

We had to go to a god damn wing meeting about it. 

Now, I was the sort of April-from-Parks-and-Rec sort of enthusiastic 18 year old who would rather pull out my own fingernails than attend a wing meeting. But, due to the mass fucking hysteria going on, there was no escaping this one. I dreaded it, and sat in silence as the absurdity began:

"I heard there's crabs!"

"I don't want to get crabs from like... sitting in the lounge."

"I heard so-and-so got them from Nicky Zee's." 

"They had to shut down a res at UNB over this, my cousin told me."

"How do we get rid of them?"

"Girls, there is no infestation of crabs..." (poor RA.)

Then, the crowning glory of the conversation:

"I know that there are crabs," said one girl, defiantly and confidently, about to blow the cover off the entire crab conspiracy, "I saw one flying around the bathroom!"

And that is why I hated living there.

21st Century Love Letters

Part Two* - Or, "D-Bag"**

December 2008. Two Facebook messages.

4:37am - "I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry if I seemed like a dick tonight. Or like a "d-bag" as you may have put it. And trust me, you didn't really fail in corrupting me."

4:39am - "Also, You do have beautiful eyes for the record."

*I forgot that I meant to do this as a reoccurring series (until yelled at).
** This writer was not a d-bag, as it happens.  

An important message from Rah Rah.

You think I don't know anything about pop culture.
Well, listen to this.
Hilary Duff almost got accused of stealing a sombrero on her birthday.
She's not really Disney anymore.
There you have it 

 -Saturday, Feb. 19th, 2011, 6:18pm. 

Rolling Stone Magazine.

Rah Rah: the band is not the magazine, right? Like, the band..they are not also journalists, are they?

Me:  ... oh. my. god.

Rah Rah: I'm just making sure, because all I ever hear about them is that they are really old, so I wondered if maybe they stopped playing music and founded a magazine. But I guess not, then. It must be named after them.

Me: No. It is named after a Muddy Waters song.

Rah Rah: I told you, I'm not so knowledgeable on the pop culture. I could not even name a song they sing. All I know is that they are old and I think they have a ballcap* with a pink** tongue as their symbol. wow.i thought..you know..oprah has a magazine.

*A ball cap?

** Nope.  

I don't even know how to drive.

Marg: How much do cars cost? More than $72?

Ben: Only the good ones. 

Marg: Ah. I can't afford a good one.

Ben: I'm not looking for quality here, Marg!

Marg: Still, I'd also have to go to some sort of car... emporium. 

Ben: They're called dealerships, hon. 

Marg: I prefer emporium. 

Ben: They don't. They get real mad. 

Marg: That's why they won't let me have a car.

Be Mine (men of the NBC Thursday Comedy Block)

I really wanted to post something yesterday, but my mum’s computer said “Nay!” and willed it not to be so. I had written down a quote from my aforementioned mother which was to be the sole content of the post, but I left it at my parents’ house which is like way far away. I hope I remember the nuances of language that she used. We were talking about the time someone gave me a poem to express their feelings that I am pretty to me - which led Mum to say “It is so tough for young men who watch television these days to be cool, hip, and with it. They don’t know what to say to women since they aren’t rich or vampires.”


Even though Valentine’s Day is almost over, I think that any gentlemen readers out there might still want to note that romantic role models on television are not all wealthy vampires! Two shows might just be of some assistance… learn from:

The Men of Community: Impress her with vast pop-culture knowledge like Abed, be enthusiastic like Troy, and look like Jeff Winger. (Or Troy.)


And!


The Men of Parks and Recreation: Learn the manly arts ala Ron Swanson, the swagger of Tom Haverford, the soup-making skills of Ben Wyatt, and more importantly, learn that being “nice” and “in a band” go very far indeed, just like Andy Dwyer.

Eeyore.

I begin my 25th year in two days time. 

I think I might hate my birthday.

It's not the getting older part per say - though, naturally I feel like a crum-bum failure in that regard because at 25, some people really seem to have their shit together, and I, my darlings, decidedly do not. 

No, I think I hate my birthday in general because I always seem to have a shitty time on my birthday in one way or another. Yes, I realize that this is now destined to be a self-fulfilling prophesy - I mean, how can I expect to have a good day when I really don't expect I'll have a good day? 

So, over the years, I have made a decided and distinct effort to have superbly low expectations for my birthday. I never secretly hope for lots of presents, or expect anyone to deliver me a giant cake or flowers, I don't ask for big parties or sky-writers or tattoos in my honor.

I think one of the main things is that I really don't feel comfortable planning something big for my own birthday. I don't like the concept of me saying "I got born! Let's celebrate mutherfarmers! Be here at this time and bring your cheer-faces, for reals." 

Sadly, there are people in this world that I could say those words to... but they aren't in the same city as me right now.

 

So tonight, I'm this guy.

In an effort to cheer me up, one of those people I could call a mutherfarmer, my lovely Rah Rah Sotvedt wrote me this:

"aw. if i was there, we would go to snooty fox and probably have some drinks and you would wear a crown. you might refuse to wear one, but i'd get drunk and violent and make you and matthew would be there, and he'd get drunk and forget it was your birthday and yell at me for forcing you to wear a crown which does nothing but hold us up in our plans to do whatever we are trying to do."

Scourge of the modern age.

E-Dawg: I'm writing emails about you.

M-Unit: What kind of emails?

E-Dawg: Nasty ones, insults.

M-Unit: You can't do that! That's cyberbullying!

Single Women at the Grocery Store

After my 9-hour shift today where everything that could go wrong decided to do so, I missed the bus. I decided to go to Sobeys before the next one came, and eventually found myself waiting in the checkout line of utter depression and despair. That is, I was in the line seemingly exclusive to single women in their thirties. 

I watched as the lady in front of me placed a bag of Cheetos onto the conveyor belt. She was short and plump, and dressed for the office. Her hair, blond and bobbed, seemed to create a shellacked dome around her pink face. The Cheetos bumped up against her two weight-watchers meals for one and 6-pack of stubby-sized Coke Zeros. As she drew the entire roasted chicken from her basket, I knew that it had been a long day and she had no intentions of cooking for herself tonight. 

I glanced over my shoulder as the woman behind me spoke on her cell phone. "He says he's not ready for anything serious," she said, as she flipped through US Weekly, "...I know, right? What could that mean?" 

Her cart was full of at least five different types of yogurt, and several packages of Crystal Lite. And maxi-pads. She looked probably thirty-three.

"Do you think I'm being too needy?"

As I placed my cat food on the belt it struck me - I'm twenty-five next week, I'm buying cat food in the single women grocery line. 

The cashier rang through the Meow Mix and dish detergent, and I grabbed a package of Wild Berry gum at the last second. 

Once, an ex-boyfriend of mine kept borrowing gum off of me, then complaining because I only ever had fruity stuff. At the time I comerserated with him at how quickly it loses it flavour and said I probably wouldn't buy it again, but the truth is I love it. 

It's intense and ridiculous and fleeting, but it is worth it, I think, in the end.