No Really – It\’s Just My Face

I don’t hear/feel/see/care about that!

I have a general philosophy for many things in my life. You’ll laugh at it and roll your eyes, but I”m telling you, it will work 80-85% of the time. This strategy is to just IGNORE IT. Ignore what? Who knows. Anything. Except bills, you can’t ignore those or you’ll get fucked every time.

Is the photocopier at work not working and people expect you to fix it? Fuck that, fixing is for wankers. IGNORE IT! Tell people who harass you about it that you’ve tried, that you rejiggled the bobulator, you reconfigured the settings, you opened and reopened drawers, restarted it and gosh golly darn, nothing worked! But don’t worry! I’ve called the tech guy! (Note: at this point, you totally won’t have called the tech guy, cuz the tech guy is a dick and won’t do anything else that you can’t do). They’ll be okay with that and you can go back to ignoring it. Tomorrow it has an 80-85% chance of working. And you’ll look good, cuz you fixed it by being diligent enough to give ‘er another go before tech guy showed up.

Did you send an email to the wrong person that they shouldn’t have gotten? Don’t send a quick follow up explaining how you were momentarily held hostage by angry Colombian rebels who had a beef to pick and were too chickenshit to send the email from their account, so forced you to write it and send it, thereby attaching all blame to you. No, no. Don’t do that. IGNORE IT!! You’ve got an 80-85% chance of never hearing from the email recipient. They’re too embarassed to respond, I’m telling you. Do you really want to call someone up and be like, ‘You think i’m a big stupidface?’ ‘Yes, yes I do’ ‘Oh. Well then. You smell.’ Come onnnnn, it won’t happen. Just never speak of it again.

Get to work and realize you’re wearing a shirt with an inappropriate stain on it? Don’t go out of your way to try and cover it up or position yourself so it’s not so obvious when you speak to people. They’re never going to come out and say, ‘Hey, is that….um……you know….on your shirt?’ Of course they won’t! Just IGNORE IT. Again, there’s only a 15-20% chance they’ll point it out or ask. At which point, you can just be all, “yeah, thaaaat’s inappropriate! but it was fun!” Then awkward silence will ensue, but hey, they’re suffering awkward silence. You’re suffering awkward silence and reliving some fun sexual times. You win.

Did someone leave you an angry voicemail? Email? Want you to do something, but had to deliver the message through an electronic forum and never actually spoke to you? Lucky you, you can IGNORE IT! I’m telling you, they probably won’t call back. Anger subsides. If they really want something done, they’ll do it themselves and won’t bother with you again. If they DO call back, just blame it on old Alexander Graham Bell or Bill Gates. Fuckers!

They can’t even make technology that works?! Isn’t this 2008? Oh my GOD! (Act seriously outraged or apologetic, they’ll want to stop your internal meltdown and apologize that they didn’t follow up sooner, thereby taking all blame off of you). Listen to what they want (chances are their demands will have downgraded over time) and then assure them in your best grown-up voice that you’ll get right on that! Works like a charm. Once again, mutter about your stupid computer. It adds validity to your story.

Swear in church? Well. Don’t panic. Everyone gets one ‘whoops’. Don’t launch into a prayer apologizing your sinner face off. IGNORE IT. If you launch, you’ll be all, “I’m SO sorry I said motherfucking whore in church! Oh God! I said it again! Oh shit, was that blasphemy? Oh, fuck…DAMMIT!” When you do that, you’ll start freaking out because now you’ve totally outworn your first strike allowance. If you ignore it, you won’t repeat it. You know how when you tell yourself not to think of something it’s all you think about? Same deal. But this time, we’re talking important stuff here. Seriously, ignore yourself.

Get a parking ticket and don’t want to pay it? It was probably total bullshit anyways, they have quotas to reach and you were the first car they saw as they felt their deadline looming. IGNORE IT. They’ll send you follow up letters, absolutely. But there’s an 80-85% chance they’ll lose it somewhere in the system. They want you to pay, but they’re not going to waste two years and hundreds of dollars chasing you down for $26 cuz you got a bit too snuggly with a fire hydrant. Trust me, I’ve ignored SO many tickets and never had to pay a single damned one.

This is getting a bit wordy, so I’ll leave it at that. I think you’ve probably gotten the idea. Remember, 80-85% are good odds. Don’t believe me? Ask Emerald. She’s seen me pull this off millions of times….ignore it and it’ll fix itself. Just don’t ignore me, cuz I’m right. Always.

Inspiration and New Beginnings

I’m in a serious, reflective mood tonight.

I was inspired by a speech I saw. In case you’ve been under a rock today, may I be the first to tell you that the world has lost an inspirational human being who had much to teach and not enough time to do it in.

Dr. Randy Pausch died yesterday, July 25th, 2008. He only became well known after he found out he was dying. He was asked by Carnegie Mellon University to deliver a Last Lecture. You can find that lecture here:

Clear an hour and 16 minutes from your schedule and watch this video.

I will guarantee you that I will never have that much poise and grace, humility and general ‘pulled togetherness’ when my day comes. What he actually says affected me much less than the between-the-lines stuff. The way in which he said it. The way in which he chose to deal with it.

It made me stop and think, which I think was his intended purpose. At least, that’s what I took away from it. I believe that when you are dying, you will not regret what you have done, but instead what you haven’t (as the old cliche goes).

There’s been something I’ve been wanting to do for a while now. After a few tears and a newly gained respect for this individual, I’m going ahead with it. Yes, I am motivated by fear. Fear that I will one day think that I shoulda, woulda, coulda.

On my blogoversary post, I mentioned that I often have things to write but don’t feel comfortable putting them here, since they don’t fit my general ‘theme’. Now, this blog is VERY true to who I am. I really am snarky, sarcastic and blunt, good bad or otherwise, it is what it is.

But there’s another HUGE part of me that doesn’t fit into that. The part of me that was affected by my childhood and subsequent occurrences, illnesses and repercussions. I’ve decided I want to share those experiences in a different venue. It’s here, if you care to see it. You don’t have to. I just thought that since I share all sorts of other embarassing shit about myself on here, I may as well throw that one into the pot too. I value transparency and honesty and I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t share it.

And that’s all I have to say about that for now.

Really though. Go watch the video. Take from it what he doesn’t say, or take whatever you will from it. I was fine until the very last line, which killed me and required some kleenex. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Thank you, Dr. Pausch. Rest in Peace.

My brush with the Olympics

I was watching TV and saw a commercial for the upcoming Olympics. It triggered a memory I thought I should share with the world at large.

The year? 1988.

My age? 5

Season: Dead of winter. In Alberta, Canada. AKA : Really goddamn cold.

Location: Some highway in the middle of nowhere.

Scenario: It was just before the 1988 Olympics, held right here in my country. They were in Calgary, Alberta that year. At the time, for a brief period in my young life, I was living in Hinton, Alberta. The only thing Hinton was ever known for was a tragic train accident just outside of town a few decades ago. Anyhow.

My mother, eternally trying to keep up the hypothetical Jones’, decided that we should take advantage of our relative proximity to the path of the Olympic Torch, which would be skimming past our shithole town on its way to Calgary.

We got bundled up in our snowsuits, mitts on strings, toques, boots and scarves and then promptly had to go pee. Haha, kidding. Anyways, we waddled out to the good old pickup truck and off we went.

We arrived to our destination, the ditch of a highway in the middle of nowhere. We pulled over and got out of the truck. My then-3-year-old brother and I stood at the side of the road, kicking snow in that bored fashion where you pick at it with your toe until a chunk loosens, then you kick it at the person beside you and laugh. I had no idea what the hell was going on or why there were so many people parked in the middle of nowhere in the freezing cold, standing around staring into the distance at nothing. Luckily I didn’t know what cults were at that age, or I would have been freaked out thinking this was some sort of mass suicide thing and we were waiting for our mother ship to fly by us on the horizon before we all toasted Mr. Cult Leader and drank some arsenic.

I digress.

Time passed and the masses around us seemed to be getting antsier. Before I knew it some caravan was slowly chugging down the road towards us. People seemed to be getting really damned excited. I still had no idea what was going on.

As they got closer, I could see some guy running in front of a pack of cars which were following him. Running, running, I realized he was holding fire. Remember, I was five and fire was bad.

The caravan got closer to the crowds and then…….Running Guy stopped in front of our truck. Before I knew it, some stranger (ah! Stranger Danger!) was waving fire in my face, muttering something about something. I freaked out and cowered behind my mom’s leg. He then assaulted my brother with his crazy fire. My brother took it from him, which seemed to make my parents pretty happy.

My memory of that day is sketchy, cuz I was so young. All in all, I had no idea what the hell was going on.

There are photos of that day, documenting my chickenshit response and my brother’s far cooler response.

I had an opportunity to hold the Olympic Torch and I just hid behind my mom’s leg. Score one for Talea.

Who can say that? Who can say that they held the Olympic Torch? It’s semi-cool and probably wins you a few drinks at the bar occasionally. I was seriously pissed at myself for passing up a once in a lifetime opportunity for many years. To be part of something so momentous and time-honoured and all that jazz. Plus, I was annoyed that my total failure was documented and preserved in our family photo albums.

However, I’ve let that anger go. I now see the Olympics for what they are; a showcase and celebration of those wealthy enough to afford illegal substances and/or those who are very adept with the ol’ Gillette and manage to remove all of their body hair without any visible bumps. Granted, shaving one’s entire body and then gallivanting around in front of millions is definitely something to be applauded for, but it hardly equals athletic prowess. Applauding some teenaged overachiever who’s mom has forced them into the gym every day at 4 AM for the last seven years is just kind of odd to me, not spectacular.

I’m not really very sorry I didn’t participate in the pomp and circumstance associated with that.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Country Living = Not for Talea

The boyfriend was making supper today and realized we were out of pasta sauce. So I moaned and groaned and braved the rain outside for a whole half a block and went to the store to grab some.

I was annoyed, cuz it’s Sunday and the store actually in my building was closed, so I had to walk about 48 steps further to the corner. While I cursed the fact it was Sunday, my relatives popped into my head. They live in the middle of nowhere (seriously, they have NO POSTAL CODE) and I was bitching about going next door to get my sauce.

I realized then how damned lucky I was to not live in the country. Then I started thinking about what a train wreck that would be. Here’s the reasons I couldn’t live in the country:

• BUGS. The city tends to not have bugs. I don’t know, maybe there’s some trucks that drive around in the middle of the night and suck them up. I don’t care, I’m just glad they stay out in the ‘burbs and the country. I hate bugs, especially ones that fly.
• THE DARK. I accept that I have not seen the night sky in years and years and years, with a few blips here and there. I stay in places that have street lights and neon signs lighting my way 24 hours a day and that’s the way I like it. Boogiemen and souleaters live in the dark you know. I don’t need to be running into any of that shit. Yeesh. When I am out in the country, I’m astonished each time at how fucking DARK it gets. You can’t see anything! People didn’t invent lightbulbs for nothing, and I will worship their fake glow every single evening.
• SAFETY. For some reason, serial killers have a real penchant for dark, quiet country roads. I do not need to be the house that they take notice of, during one of their late night drives. When Freddie Kreuger comes after me in the city, I can run a block and scream like hell and surely, someone will notice and Freddie will be forced to fuck off. In the country, when I run and scream, the only thing that’ll happen is the deer will look at me and an owl might hoot at me. Then I’ll fall down cuz I’m out of shape and be hacked to bits. And nobody will find me. The country is BIG dude! Anyways, my body will be devoured by all the fucking bugs out there (refer to bullet point #1). No thank you.
• COFFEE: I make the world’s worst coffee. It does not matter if I have a fancy assed espresso machine, a good old Black and Decker 12-cup special, or a french press, I will screw it up. I will make either coloured water or toxic sludge. Therefore, it’s vital that I have coffee nearby that someone else is making for me. Unless I’m trekking to my neighbour’s, this isn’t an option in the country. Living without caffeine is also not an option, meaning the country would not work for me. Just ask this guy, I made him my bestest coffee….he didn’t finish it.
• 
• CAR: From what I hear, there’s no subway or streetcars out in those wide open spaces. If I wanted to get anywhere beyond my property line, it’d require a car. I’ve owned two cars. And now that I don’t, I do NOT miss them. Cars mean I have to be awake and alert to drive them. I can stumble onto the subway half asleep and still drunk from the night before and not have to worry. Cars mean gas, maintenance, car washing, parking, oil changes, lease payments, insurance and traffic. On the subway, I sit down and pull out my knitting, a book, a crossword or just close my eyes and have a nice little nap. And can we talk about driving in the winter?? Uh, hells no. Unless I get a sled and a bunch of huskies, I’d be staying at home for 6 months of the year.
• WATER: Here in Toronto, when I turn on the tap, water comes out. It’ll keep coming and coming and coming and I don’t have to be concerned about it. In the country, there’s no water pipes under the houses. You have to call a truck that hauls water out and fills up your tank. Every time you use your water, you have to make sure to not run out. Granted, some folks may have a well, but I’m not in to well-water. What if the water truck gets snowed out? Then I’m stuck high and dry.
• THE OTHER WATER: Dirty water. Yeah. Septic tank. Enough said. Here in the city, I flush and I never think about it again. Out there, I’d have to call the honey truck in and get it sucked out. Blech.

• DIAL UP: The cables don’t run out to the middle of nowhere. Did you know that in 2008, I have relatives who live in the country and can’t get cable internet? They have Dial up!!!! I have not had dial up since 1998 and I do not plan on going back.
• GETTING ANYTHING: Need milk? Really want some Thai food? Want to rent a movie? Run out of eggs? Just blow a hole through your pants? Well my country friend, you are shit out of luck as us city folks would say. Too bad for you. For me in my downtown, I can get any of those in the next 15 minutes, tops. I won’t accept the reality that I might have to go far to get something. That isn’t okay with me.
• ISOLATION: I’m a loner by choice. But being by yourself with nobody around all the time would be too much, even for me.
• BRIDGE BURNING: People don’t like me. I tend to make a rough first impression with my quietness and slightly angry looking face. In the city, I don’t care if they don’t like me, I’ll never see them again. I doubt I can burn 5 million bridges even if I try. However, what if my new country folk neighbours don’t take a liking to me? Or I mouth off at them? I’ll probably need some support system out there in the wilderness and if I piss them off, they might not respond when a bear is eating me in their driveway.
• DIRT AND GARBAGE: The country seems dirty to me. I am in no way a germaphobe, I’m talking more about dirt. So much dust. Not my scene. Plus, there’s always just crap scattered around beyond city limits. Old cars and worn out stoves just seem to die in people’s front yards. They just sit there and become homes for scary critters…..OR, potential weapons for the aforementioned scary killer types….they could rip off a bit of rusted metal and kill me. The ambulance would take forever to get out there and we’ve already determined my neighbours aren’t even going to lend me a band-aid. Bad scene….bad scene. Plus, rusted out old cars and outdated appliances in front years are not classy at ALL.

Okay, so I’m done now.

I’d like to say at this point that I know that some people who are reading this may be sitting in the country. Please don’t beat me up in the comments section. I know the country has lovely bits to it. I guess. I also know that the city can suck HARDCORE sometimes and turn even me into a homicidal angry biznatch. Feel free to make up your own ‘why cities suck’ list. I’d get a kick out of that.

But good luck uploading photos of our traffic with your slow dial up, suckers!

In which I almost learn to keep my mouth shut.

I have a big mouth. I am a very opinionated, very blunt, very honest person. I will tell you that your pants make you look ugly, or that you have snot hanging from your nose. If you smell bad, I’ll let you know, and if you’re pissing me off, you’ll be well aware of that as well.

The thing is, I just don’t have the mental energy to pussyfoot around you. I am going to get my point across and be done with it. I actually don’t like the physical task of speaking, so the fewer words I have to say (usually), the better. Plus, I really have trouble understanding the logic behind building up to something that’s very simple to say.

Just be out with it!

Now granted, I know that this is not really the most commonly acceptable way to converse in our society. Most people would like to be sweet about things and not offend or hurt anybody. I figure that I’m going to offend them somehow anyways (how did I know you had a traumatic event involving fruit salad when you were 9? Sheesh!), so I won’t waste my time trying to avoid the inevitable.

Now, I’m not a total social retard, so I DO know when to reign the bitchy mouth in and put the ‘you’re special, I’m special, we’re all special’ act into effect. That mostly happens between 8:30 and 5:00. Mostly.

However, there was one day about two years ago or so that my happy friendly special way of speaking was totally steamrolled by my blunt, too honest, maybe a bit harsh way of speaking. Old blunt Talea was in full force and taking no prisoners. Or hostages. Whatever that saying is.

Let me set the stage. *Insert Wayne’s World wavy hands and trippy music, triggering a trip to the past*

I was working as an office manager at another job, and was in charge of a glorified telemarketing department, amongst a few other things. Telemarketing sucks, so the turnover was ridiculous. Very few people stuck around for longer than a full week, at which point they realized that the job sucked some big time ass. But, as with any job, there were some folks that seemed to like it, and really stuck it out, despite the humiliation, crap pay and lack of benefits. I watched the revolving door of employees spin round and round until one day, in HE spun.

This particular guy made a big first impression. First, he’s a big fat guy, so you notice him. Second, he’s loud. Third, he seems to know a bit about everything, so he is the King of Small Talk (which earns no points in my book, but did make me notice him while he walked around chatting it up with anyone and everyone). He even managed to throw a few Saskatchewan tidbits my way.

I was immediately suspicious, as was this cat.

Something was off with this guy. Every morning, he’d rumble in, bellowing ‘Good Morning! It’s gonna be a GREAT day!’, complete with the arm swing and everything. He did NOT sit right with me.

Over time, he quickly befriended the big wigs and had them eating out of his palm. My relationship with him deteriorated very rapidly. He just seemed totally full of shit to me. I let him know as much. There was little to no love lost in our relationship.

One of his regular habits that he seemed to enjoy was pulling in members of a seperate but associated division and talking to them in a very hush-hush top-secret sort of manner. Frankly, I just did the paperwork, so I didn’t care what type of crap they had going on between themselves. But after watching him do this and walk away from conversations he’d be involved in to go talk to someone he deemed more worthy of his bullshit, leaving the other person standing there gaping, I’d had enough.

So one day when he pulled someone into my work area (which was solely mine and he had no reason to be in there, but to draw attention to himself), I thought it was slightly uncalled for.

*This is where my big, blunt mouth comes back into the story*

He sat behind me, doing his best stage whisper with another employee. After a few nasty glances in his direction, I piped up.

ME: “You know John, it’s really rude to whisper in someone else’s presence.” (Am I right? I know!)
HIM: *Sitting with his back to me, stops talking and spins around*: “WHAT did you just say?”
ME: “I said, ‘It is RUDE to whisper in someone else’s presence. If you have something to say, I recommend you step out of the office or into an empty room.” *Bug my eyes out, shake my head and lean forward in the universal, ‘uh….yeah….so?’ movement*
HIM: *Wheels his chair over to about a foot in front of me, at volume setting 11: “You know Talea, I have had ENOUGH of your fucking ATTITUDE, you selfish little bleepbleep (*^*%^$*^%*^)(*&^&^$$W#@#!#!$&#*^%(&*^(^&^$^%#^#$%@#@@!# Would you please SHUT UP AND FUCK OFF??”
ME: “John!! That was highly unprofessional!” (In a totally mock ‘aghast’ tone, completely sarcastic, intended only to ratchet him up further)

He was Enraged. Capital E. Bright red, heavy breathing, sweating, balled up fists, En-raged. He got up and stormed out of the area, to the very quiet and very stunned main area. Everybody heard him lose his fucking mind.

Honestly, in my very unflattering cockiness, I was amused. He’d just blown his nice guy cover. I had no nice girl cover to blow, so I’d come out relatively unscathed.

Then he stomped back over for his finishing round. I don’t even remember what he said to me, I’m sure it involved the words ‘bitch’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘hate’ and ‘enough of you’. I just sat there calmly, watching him get angrier and angrier.

After I was called in and told that I would rather work in a janitor’s office with rancid Lysol dripping on my head than work with him again, I thought the ordeal was over.

UNTIL a while ago. While flipping through the channels, I stumbled onto W-FIVE, a lame Canadian documentary show that exposes scams, creeps and weirdos for the safety of all Canucks. I about shit my pants when I saw HIM on the screen.

He was on the documentary for being a professional con artist, which explains the smoothness. He likes to pray on women through Lavalife and lie through his teeth in general, which isn’t the point. He’s been in jail TWICE for assaulting women. Apparently, he has a bit of a rage/temper issue. THAT is the point.

I was retroactively terrified.

I flashed back to that then-funny confrontation and my oh-so-fucking-witty, cool, calm and collected response intended to do nothing but to piss him off more.

Perhaps in this one instance, speaking my mind with no filtering was a bad idea. I probably could have just let him whisper his lame ass craziness to others. But no. Talea had to speak her mind, had to open her big mouth. I’m lucky the bastard didn’t clock me right then and there.

Have I learned to keep my mouth shut since this revelation? No. After all, it was on CBC. Everyone knows Canadian television is garbage. Who the hell pays attention to that crap? I’m a loudmouth, not an idiot.

Six Word Memoir, or, We’re all Stubborn Mules

I’m sure all you blog-whores have seen the six word memoir floating around out there. While nobody has tagged me (pft, whatevs), I am taking it upon myself to share my six word memoir. I’m sure there’s rules and junk that I’m supposed to post, but you can read that on almost everyone else’s blog. You didn’t come here to read rules.

Here it is, my six word memoir:

You Can’t Change Anybody But Yourself.

Oh, so very very true. Now if I could actually apply that to real life, rather than just knowing it and thinking I’ll listen to it, my life would become so much less complicated.

Folks, whether it’s the idiot in front of you at the store, arguing over a 23 cent discrepancy in the price of eggs or the nasty nasty things someone said to you today or the person from your past who hurt you or the resident ass monkey at work……no matter how much you fight, it’s useless. People are stubborn.

Trying to change others is like herding cats. It ain’t gonna happen. If you require change, you’re the one who’s going to need to do some morphing. Only you can affect your life, your environment, your relationships. Nobody is a mind reader and most people won’t care enough to try to become one for you.

It’s what I’ve learnt (through more tears and miniature breakdowns than I care to admit) and I think it’s really key to getting through the days with minimal stress and maximum contentedness. I’m not asking for happiness really……..just want to be content.

So there you have it. My six word memoir. And a bit of Talea-wisdom (patent pending).

Guitar Hero, the boyfriend and…Ed Harris?

We recently acquired the newest Guitar Hero release……..the AEROSMITH one.

There was no question whether or not this would find it’s way into our house. I worship Aerosmith. Most importantly, I am madly in love with Steven Tyler and want to have his babies, but that’s a whole other blog post. It’d probably also involve Vin Diesel and Ed Harris. Yeah. Ed Harris. Is there something wrong with that?

Nope. Nothing wrong with that.

Anyhow, back to Guitar Hero. I love Guitar Hero. It’s tons of fun and provides for many heckling opportunities. It’s even better when alcohol is factored into the equation. What could be more fun than classic rock tunes, friends, plastic guitars, booze and a fake sense of stardom? Not much.

Until you throw in…….the boyfriend.

The boyfriend is truly a rarity when it comes to the world of Guitar Hero. In that he sucks so bad at it. He seems unphased by this fact. He’s aware of it, but cares not.

First off, Guitar Hero will make anybody dance. Even myself and the boyfriend. You can’t help it. If you don’t dance along, you’ll get booed off the stage, cuz you won’t be into it and you’ll miss all the notes. The boyfriend isn’t immune to this magical spell of Guitar Hero. But he doesn’t dance, he sort of….bops. There’s slight bending of the knees in a rather jerky manner. If he’s really into it, he’ll go back and forth, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

If you know the boyfriend, you can see why this is so hilarious. He’s just as serious looking as I am. He’s not one to ‘let loose’. If you don’t know the boyfriend, you may not see the humour. So I present another factor……the fact that his tongue is plastered to the side of his face throughout each song. He sticks out his tongue, to the left, always to the left and curls it up.

So we have jerky knee bouncing, random side-swaying, and a permanently stuck out tongue, like one of those dogs that always have them stuck to the side.

Now, the boyfriend apparently has no hand-eye coordination whatsoever. I didn’t realize this really until this game came out. He can’t hit a note for his life. But he tries over and over and over, bless his heart. He really brutalizes the songs. It breaks my heart to hear Aerosmith mangled so wrecklessly. Poor Steven. And whoever the hell else is in his band. Whatevs, I concern myself only with Steven. The boyfriend claims to have an affliction he terms ‘the claw’, which prevents him from hitting anything other than the green and red keys. Or hitting any two keys at the same time. Or hitting any two keys that aren’t beside each other in succession. Or hitting any notes really quickly after one another. Or….you get the idea.

So he plays his own little tune, full of the clinks, clunks, feedback and silence that Guitar Hero feeds you when you miss your note. The songs are unrecognizable, but the laughter you get from watching and listening to this is unlike anything else out there.

When he quits, he insists on reliving each song. He’ll tell you how he almost hit that riff, and how the guitar was rubbing against his wrist, so all the blue notes were out. He claims to have ‘overplayed his ability’. You see, he simply kept on rocking out for too long and just started sucking.

Then while I laugh at his lame ass, he’s all, “It’s a hard song! You couldn’t do it either!”

Which is total crap. Cuz I’m the original Guitar Hero. No lies, I RULE at that game.

As long as it isn’t on anything above medium. Cuz once you have to start playing with the orange key, I’m totally fucked.

Stupid orange button.

Worst Job Interview. Ever.

So as we all know, I love to relive my embarrassing moments and awful situations for the amusement of all. This one is particularly fantastic.

When I was an undergrad, before my 1st or 2nd summer, I actually thought my degree would give me a job in the environmental field. Clearly, I was still a bit green (hardy har har). As we all know, university for me turned out to be a waste of time, money and sanity…but I digress. My young enthusiasm knew no bounds.

I sat in the computer lab one day between classes, turning to my government to give me a head start in the job market. I found a fantastic site that allowed university students to enter in info about themselves, classes they’d taken and their fields of study blah blah blah, so that different Ministries could search the database for a student who they’d be willing to take on for the summer.

Imagine my delight when I received a phone call from someone who had found me in the database. I think it was the Ministry of Natural Resources, but honestly the whole thing went so badly that I’ve blocked it from my memory and can’t be certain. The woman who called me was quite lovely, and told me that it was a summer job, rural, throughout Saskatchewan, where they’d be looking at the habitats of birds, bird this, bird that, blah blah blah, yay birds.

Looking back, I should have pulled out the ol’ bird book and beefed up a bit.

I don’t give a shit about birds and frankly they scare me, but I set up a phone interview for the next week.

At the agreed time, my phone rang. I took a few deep breaths, picked up the phone and spoke confidently to the folks on the other end, while they were none the wiser that I was sitting around in lounge pants and hadn’t left the house that day. Ah, the life of a student. We passed along the common courtesies and they let me know that they’d be asking me a few questions to determine my background knowledge and that they understood it wasn’t my field entirely, but that it seemed like it might work based on what they’d seen on me from that site.

Okay, all good.

Them: “So, Talea, you’re from Saskatchewan and would be willing to move back here for the summer, correct? We would be travelling to remote locations, and you’d have to be sleeping in tents, you’d have no internet or cell phone access, are you okay with that?”
Me: “Of course! It’d be great to travel around the province and see different parts of it, better than an office job, I’m a kiss ass!!”
Them: “Great. Can you please name for us three endangered shorebirds that nest on the ground in the southern half of Saskatchewan, between 8 and 30 metres from the water’s edge?”
Me: (Inside my head, thinking…’is this a fucking joke? does ANYBODY know that shit??’) “Um…..no. No, I can’t.”
Them: “Okay. That’s fine. Would you be able to name three birds who live in the northern half of the province and who nest inside dead trees and are being threatened by the path of caribou through Siberia?”
Me: (Inside my head….’oh for fuck’s sake, this has to be a joke) “Um……well, just let me think here…..ha, these are hard questions! Um, yeah, I’m sorry, I’m coming up with a blank. Sorry.”
Them: “Alright. Have you ever banded wild birds before? Do you know the procedures for this?”
Me: “No. I haven’t.”
Them: “Okay. Can you name for us three birds who live within 1.63489 kilometres of fox dens within the grasslands of Saskatchewan located at such and such a latitude and longitude?”
Me: “Yes. I can. Flamingos, penguins and ostriches.” (Seriously, I said it, I mean………what the hell did I have to lose??)
Them: “Mmmmm…….”
Me: “…………..”
*The sound of fake coughing is heard on both ends of the phone, breaking the awkard silence brought on by my smartassedness*
Them: “Okay, now onto the other side of the position……are you able to drive a standard transmission?”
Me:”Yes! Yes I am! My car is a standard! I love standard!” (Inside my head: Hahahaha! Suckers, I’ve got you now!)
Them: “Great. Have you ever driven with a trailer on the back of the truck? Approximately the size of a horse trailer? Would you feel comfortable doing this?”
Me: “No, but I’m pretty confident that I could do that, no problem.”
Them: “Yeah. Okay. Well, uh, that pretty much gives us what we need to know. So, are you available at this number if we have any more questions? We can also contact you by email, correct?”
Me: “Yeah. But honestly, I won’t hold my breath. It’s okay. There must be someone out there just a wee bit more qualified than myself for this job.”
Them: “Right. Thank you for your time, Talea.”

And that was that. My shot at a sweet gig with the government. I mean, other than knowing nothing and being a bit of an asshole about it, I’m not sure why I didn’t get a call back. They hung up before I could tell them that I once had a birdfeeder as a child, that I’m proficient in flipping the bird and that once a bird pooped on me. Jerks.

But let’s go back to the beginning. I filled out a little survey thing. Presumably, they reviewed what I checked off and wrote about myself. Nowhere on there, even in my made-up interests, did it say anything about ornothology. Who the hell knows that crap? I would have loved to meet the winning candidate for that position. He probably clinched the job by demonstrating his fantastic bird-mating call impersonations.

Anyways, I didn’t need them. That summer, I worked at a wastewater treatment plant and shovelled shit all day long. I sure showed them!