You Can't Make This (Bishop) Up

This special “Pre-Reading Week” edition of YCMTSU will come in two posts and is dedicated to all of my friends in school. Do you ever feel like what you’re writing is meaningless dribble? Does it seem like your essays or assignments can’t get any worse? Are you convinced that you’re the most awful student in the history of academia? Well, my dear friends, I’m here to tell you not to worry. Although you might feel frustrated and disillusioned at times, you are far from the pits. In fact, I happen to have in my possession the official Worst Essay of All Time. I like to call it: The Bishop Essay.

Before I include it for your reading pleasure (in tomorrow’s post, btw), I’d like to provide some contextual information about it. I wrote it back in Grade 7 for a Religious Studies assignment (perhaps this brings back fond memories, Dustin?). The assignment was to write a 2-page essay about bishops, and most of the students in my class promptly called up their local diocese and set an appointment to speak with a pastor about all things bishop-related. These students put a ton of work into their essays, and they included detailed analyses of the symbolism of bishops’ regalia, ceremonial duties, and so forth. Me, I asked my Baba what our bishop’s name was, and I tried (rather halfheartedly, I might add) to fudge the rest (double-spaced, and in 18-pt font).

Well, the best stories are those that have a bit of a twist to them. In this case, my Grade 7 teacher wasn’t stupid. She knew that in the scope of life, a mark on a tiny Grade 7 Religion project—low or high—wouldn’t matter so much. She also knew, though, that the scars from pre-teen humiliation can last for a lifetime. So… she announced to the class that only one paper had been given a perfect score. Only one. The catch: the person with the perfect score would have to read their paper out loud to the rest of the class.

No big deal, right? Except that the perfectly scored paper was mine—my crappy 10-minute paper in 18-point font—and I had to read it to all of the people who had put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into theirs.

My teacher wasn’t stupid, indeed. I’m sure she sat back with a gleeful smile on her face and watched me shrink in front of my peers, reading out my horrendously vague yet overdramatic Bishop Essay. I’m lucky I survived the bike racks after school that day…

To this day, whenever I feel like things in school can’t get any lower, I ask myself: “Is this worse than the Bishop Essay experience?” and the answer is always ‘no’. In turn, dear readers, if you ever feel like you’re signing your name to the worst piece of writing ever, I invite you to compare it to the Bishop Essay. You might be surprised...

In tomorrow’s post: The Bishop Essay!

PeaPod update: I guess when my sister’s water broke, I expected PeaPod to come whooshing out like a white water rafter or something. Obviously, I don’t have much experience in the birthing room! PeaPod is still in utero, and if s/he can hang in there for another week or so (which apparently is possible. And safe! Who knew?), there is the distinct possibility that my sister can be flown back to Calgary and be induced back home! Going back to Calgary is what my sister wants more than anything right now (healthy baby prayers aside), so please keep your fingers, toes, eyes, etc. crossed for that outcome. Thanks!

The Pod herself, circa 1988

Update: The Pea is Still in the Pod

I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for all of their kind words and support during this time. I am touched by the thoughtfulness and generosity of everybody from friends to strangers, and it gives me hope to know how many people are rooting for my sister and PeaPod!


I'll be updating the blog with new developments as they become available, so stay tuned to hear the latest on PeaPod, the preemie cap knit-a-long (thanks for posting about it, Terra!), and the (very informal) gas money blog-a-thon ($25 and counting-- huzzah!!).


And now, for something completely different:


I feel like I accidentally applied to work for the CIA or FBI (what are the Canadian equivalents of these? The RCMP? Haha- yeah right.) Yesterday I had my fourth interview for a position at a local clinic, and I can't help but feel that four interviews-- for any position-- is a little excessive... I have spoken to four different people now, but I have been asked pretty much the same questions. Are they checking for consistency in my answers? Is this a test? When can I get hooked up to the lie detector machine?


Q: Did you ride your bike to the interview?
A: Yes
Q: Do you ever ride on busy roads?
A: I try to avoid them if possible--
DING DING DING DING! THAT'S A LIE!!!! I SAW YOU RIDING ON A BUSY ROAD JUST 10 MINUTES AGO!!!


Oooh, busted.


Anyway, I *supposedly* find out in the next few days whether or not this coveted top-secret position is mine. If I get it, I guess I'll have to mysteriously delete this post so nobody can find out about my cunning alter-ego (e.g. 'I may look like a simple clinic staffer, but in secret, I'm actually GUARDING THE QUEEN'S CROWN JEWELS!!!'). If I get passed up for it, though, I'll have to reassess the merits of poly-blend interview tops and the whole 'four interviews' process in general...


At what point do you say 'you know what? Forget about it. Unless you feel like paying me, I don't think I'll come around for the nth interview.' I was so excited to go to the first, and even the second, interview. The job itself still excites me, but after so many interviews about the same trivial things (e.g. 'Yup. I'm still a non-smoker!'), the novelty of the situation is wearing off big time.


Wish me luck nonetheless. God knows I have better things to do with my time than make up conspiracy theories for every clinic in the city!

What a Difference a Day Makes

(Follow this link and listen to the song while you read the post!)

This weekend proved to be different than most.

I mentioned a few posts ago that I was going to be a first-time aunt in April. Well, PeaPod (as my sister’s in utero baby is affectionately known) decided that it would be better if I became an aunt right. now. My sister’s water broke on Friday evening—two and a half full months before her due date—and what followed was a laundry list from anybody’s worst nightmare.

My sister’s pregnancy is considered high risk, because she is at a higher risk for blood clots than the ordinary pregnant woman (we can thank Ortho Jansen and her brand of birth control pills for that). She needs special care in the delivery room, mainly to make sure she doesn’t bleed too much from her blood-thinning injections during birth. Anyway, it turned out that the special care she needed wasn’t available in Calgary when the water broke. Unfortunately, it also wasn’t available in Edmonton, Regina, Saskatoon, Vancouver, or Victoria. Hence, she had to be flown via air ambulance to the nearest hospital with the appropriate facilities—in Great Falls, Montana. Montana!!

My sister’s partner was ready to make the journey with her, but he was denied the opportunity because he doesn’t have a passport. (New US border laws require anybody flying across to carry a passport.) So. She made the flight by herself, scared nearly to death, while her partner made plans to drive to Montana the next day.

She landed safe and sound, and so far, it looks like her and PeaPod are doing OK. Her labour will have to be induced by the end of this week, and after she gives birth, she will probably need to stay in the hospital until PeaPod is strong and healthy enough to make the flight home. This means that she can expect to stay in the hospital until her regular due date—April 14—at a minimum. I don’t care who you are—that’s a long time to spend in a hospital, and it’s a long time to be away from your friends and family, too.

I’m grateful that a system is in place to get women who go into labour prematurely the medical care they require, even if it means transporting them to another hospital. However, my heart breaks when I hear how scared and alone my sister feels. My mother is with her now, but my sister’s partner, friends, and the rest of her family will only be able to make weekend trips to be with her, if that.

I spent the weekend knitting my first ever preemie caps and a log cabin preemie blanket to send with my sister’s partner on his next trip down. In the meantime, I’d appreciate any and all of the support you can offer. I trust that this situation will have a positive outcome for everybody involved, but it’s a bit frightening for the time being.

How to Help Out:

• Keep my sister and PeaPod in your thoughts and prayers (thanks so much to everyone who is already doing this!)
• Consider using your soft scrap yarn for preemie caps and/or blankets. Most hospitals accept donations of knitted items on an ongoing basis. This site has some basic instructions and sizing guidelines for caps. Basically, caps should be knit to fit an orange or your clenched fist.
• For the results-oriented, instant-gratification types out there, contact me to arrange cash donations for gas money, hotel costs, and other expenses in Great Falls, Montana. Money is tight for expectant couples of all sorts, and this case is no exception.

Adventures in Thrift Land

I went thrift shopping the other day to beef up my ‘professional attire’ collection. Most of what I own already wouldn’t make the ‘business professional’ cut (by a long, long stretch, unless ironic Titanic t-shirts with sludgy orange silkscreens of Leonardo DiCaprio are suddenly the rage with all walks of working professionals), so I figured it was time to get my ass in gear. The job interviews were getting more frequent, and there was only so many times I could wear the same two ‘classy’ outfits without somebody noticing something—wrinkles? Sweat? A nasty stale smell? Crusty deodorant? Yesterday’s lunch? Sooner or later, something about those recycled outfits was bound to give me away.

So... I hopped on my bike and proceeded to comb through the selections at my local Women in Need store. Given that I tend to get a bit carried away in thrift stores at the best of times, and given that I haven’t brought in a decent income of any sorts since… oh… around December 2005, I set myself a pretty strict budget, and I made a silent pledge that I would only look at things that met the following criteria:

1. The ‘business professional’ criterion: Could I wear the item to work or to an interview and come across as put together/decent/conservative/safe enough? If not, no deal.
2. The ‘it matches something I already own’ criterion: Do I already have something to wear with the top or bottom? If yes, then great; if not, I’d either have to purchase a coordinating item as well or put the item down. Back away from that random top!
3. The ‘no drycleaning’ criterion: I don’t care if it’s the swankiest item in the whole store! Machine. Wash. Only.

With those rules in place, I immediately laid my eyes on my first purchase:

So yeah, it might be a tad too small, and it probably needs to be drycleaned, and I doubt I could pull the look off at my next job interview, but at least I already own pink or white socks to match. I still maintain some standards, after all!

You Can't Make This Shit Up, Vol. 3

Today’s piece of sound advice comes to you from the tag of a pair of secondhand pants:



Truly, you cannot make this shit up.