Daffnee

I have a cheque that I don't want to cash, which ought to seem unusual considering I call myself "functionally unemployed" (much like how I'm a functional vegetarian, or a person that doesn't eat meat because of practical -- not moral or nutritional -- reasons). It's still sitting in my wallet, folded three times neatly, and perfectly innocuous despite the weight of cultural precedent that it represents.

The past week and a half was spent cursing at my poor 3-year-old laptop for not being an Apple G4 underneath its bland, black IBM exterior. My aunt commissioned me to put together a professional website for her, sticking to the old adage (is there any other kind?) to "keep it in the family"; I personally thought she just didn't want to pay some anonymous hack at the Real Estate Board to do it for a sizable sum, especially when she could give her niece the same sizeable sum, stir up a bit of family tension to keep things interesting, and shanghai herself some company for lunches and dinners, besides. So, I got to live the hectic life of a realtor for a few days (which reminded me a lot like job shadowing in Grade 12), and went a little cross-eyed while I taught myself a little bit of html.

Having the work was, admittedly, a relief. "Unemployed", whether functionally so or not, isn't a label I generally like wearing -- and three weeks of only the most scanty kind of work (by way of tutoring and more studying) makes for one depressive me. I feel wrong taking any money for this job just for that reason alone; if she hadn't asked me, I'd likely be locked up in the looney bin right now. Feeling guilty about taking money seems to be a trend with me, but having family ties on top of this doesn't make it easier. I wish she would've been content with taking me out for food every now and then.

Speaking of food, I tried these "Stresspill" vitamins a few days ago, and I'm surprised the government doesn't release it into the city water; I never believed tranquility could be bottled and sold in pill form, but I've been proven wrong again! That makes for another bout of self-confidence crisis, but I have the B-vitamin complex I need at this point to rectify that chemically, once and for all.

I finished my first Margaret Atwood book today, which I mention because I'm shocked that it's taken me 20 years to be inducted into this not-very-elite group. The Handmaid's Tale was Orwellian enough, I suppose, though the repeated references to "purple overalls" has the effect of an MADE IN THE 80s sign on it. (Did they have purple overalls in the 80s? I hope so, otherwise I'm just backing up the sorry truth that I only became socially conscious circa 1995.) I am, for some reason, comforted that science fiction, of a sort, can still be regaled as Canadian literature; as much as I enjoy sixth-grade adventures featuring intrepid European boys in the hinterland and soul-searching recantations of Canada's racist past, the warped and the wacky still hold sway over my heart. No, really -- my mother's side sucks when it comes to heart disease.

And now for something completely different! Being unemployed, I caught myself wondering what my answer would be if someone -- well, anyone with the right to -- asked me what I thought my greatest weakness was. My first, instinctive thought was, I'm not religious. I'm probably flinging myself into a minefield here, aren't I? I really wanted to stick in a witty quip somehow linking spirituality and Eliza Dushku, but so sorry, Buffy fans -- it's been a long day.

I made muffins today. True to form, having no orange juice in the house I resorted to using orange pekoe -- they'll never notice the difference.

From 1445h to 1830h today, I had Selphie Tilmitt hair. Why do hairdressers always decieve you by having awesome hair of their own and yet manage to make you look like a pixelated Final Fantasy character? And have the gall to say it's "cute" besides? I know that after a few washings and a week of hair ruffling I'll get over it, but getting a nunchaku when you wanted a chain whip has got me a little unsettled right now.

Disclaimer: Dan, don't freak out. I'm just exercising my shoddy logic here. =)

Here's a bit of a conundrum: if, as Canadian law has it, we are guilty on intent alone (regardless of whether the crime we attempt succeeds or not), would watching romance films be considered a form of cheating? I know there's been a bit hubbub over whether online relationships constitute cheating, but I think this one's more pertinent; after all, it's an entire genre unto itself. The concept of "cheating" implies that some trust has been violated -- some contract must be violated -- and some involved party harmed by the act, so consider individuals (or even couples) who watch romances. But in buying into a romantic film/book/etc., can couples say they maintain mutual trust in their relationship while watching another, more perfect version of the way their relationship ought to be? Doesn't that very act undermine confidence in what is real, and basically say that reality isn't good enough? (The argument that the media and entertainment industry perpetuates a false ideal is older than Hugh Hefner, but maybe we've been letting the consumer off the hook a little too easily.)

OK, so what spurred this on? Put quickly, 6 hours of A&E's Pride and Prejudice and a (long) evening with two old friends from junior high. In retrospect, Pride and Prejudice was probably a really bad choice for me: it involves English accents, a witty heroine and Colin Firth. Well, not Colin Firth so much, but I don't remember any scenes that revolved exclusively around scones and tea, so he'll have to do instead. There are too many tie-ins to everything else to be mentioned here: English as the new Religious Studies, East-West loyalties, how the old empancitory principle of 'happiness' in life over material security has become the unattainable ideal, the problem of empire waists.

Shopping malls are the vampires of suburbia, I've decided. They suck the life right out of you -- not to mention money out of the wallet, if there was anything to buy! Which, it would seem, there isn't. All the same, I should have bought something frivolous today to commemorate the two-decade mark tomorrow; apologies to everyone on my ICQ list that's been receiving those annoying birthday reminders, by the way. I remember when Andrew was complaining to me about being "over the hill at 20," and I have to say I don't feel it yet, but then again, my dad offered me happy pills tonight (he tends to do stuff like that) and while I'm trying hard not to read too much into it, all that English hermeneutic training says otherwise. I'm as volatile as I was when I was sixteen, only with voting power and no more legal excuses to turn down alcohol! Something along the lines of a Starbucks espresso maker would've been in line for tomorrow, I think. Since that's a bit outside my budget, will have to settle for making scones tomorrow instead. Anyone wanting some couriered to them should get your reservations in ASAP -- I promise they'll be appropriately stale and tasteless as the moment I take them out of the oven.