MORVEUX

Just look at that confidence.

It's rather difficult to have a nice white smile when you have the complexion of Snow White. I don't smoke or drink coffee, but it's a lot easier to have that million dollar grin when you're Samuel L. Jackson. And everyone knows with a "whiter smile," you are more confident.








So I bought some white strips on Amazon.com, because you can trust any website that's only a letter away from a perfectly good, recently broken up band.

Now, lately I've been sounding like Tom Waits, and not in the good way. I've had a slight touch of acute sinusitis, so I've been netipotting it up. And me, I'm all about multitasking and saving time (in order to make more space for procrastination).









If you aren't picking up on the hint yet, I was running low on time like a bed-ridden American in her nineties and currently in the thirty-minute process of teeth whitening when I decided to attempt to use my Neti Pot. At the same time.


Let's just say, it didn't turn out too pretty. As you can see, it's already quite concerning without the whitening strips. I was so stopped up, none of the solution was coming back out my nose, so all this snot was mixing with this camel spit whitening shit in my mouth, and by the end, I just looked a little something like this:

...But with a lot more snot and spit running down my face, and more pathetic-looking. Oddly enough, I think I felt better by the end of it.

Yeah. Good story.

This brings me to my point today.

This is a really fucking excellent idea, one that I wish we could see more of in the states.

If you can't figure out the correlation between the two topics, don't worry. I was just trying to multitask again and I ended up with 321 words of snot on this page. But oddly, at the end, I felt better.

Knockin' on Heaven's Sewage System

Let me tell you (again), for five straight weeks, I heard French everywhere I went. 

...everywhere--except on the boat when we went whale watching, since our "tour guide" couldn't speak French. I soaked up every English word I could, nudging closer just to hear her say something about music and lobsters.

Did I mention I ate an entire "homard" for the first time, and for a mere $5?

(Red Lobster is justified in just serving the tails in the ultimate feast. A full lobster alone is an ultimate [adventure] feast.)

Back to the boat. We couldn't speak in English to her, so that was rather entertaining. And exhausting.

You don't understand. I'm an ex-English major (as I had to explain to my professor). I bleed English. Well, technically, I'm a helluva lot more German, but who wants to claim that after World War II?

Anyways, back to the first time I went "whale watching." They should really call it hide and go seek with whales; that's a much more playful, and...honest title. Except that the whales don't have to seek you, they know where you are…and that's why they're hiding. 

Alas, it didn't take much to rock the boat. Literally.

And that last one is what caused the boat to flip. 

Okay, so the boat didn't actually flip, and I have no idea how that picture got on my camera. We really did see a few handsome dolphin fins (perhaps of a(n) harbour porpoise or Atlantic White Sided Dolphin), along with meeting a cool phoque.

Hey, sup?

Oh, and we did see just a smidgeon of a Minke Whale, a good 15 - 30 ft, but that's only big when you're talking about a guy's privates. 

Yeah, that was it. 

Anyways, I learnt my lesson. Never pay those premium prices for Hide and Seek with Whales, because you never know what's going to happen that day. What you do know is the reason one company's sign said "Worth it just for the Zodiac ride!" …because that's all its customers got. 

Luckily for me, it was free, or what I like to call, "included in my student activity fees." I do know that if I ever go whale watching again, it'll be just me, a pair of oars, and a row boat (did I mention I went canotaging in Canada?).

On a More Serious Note (Or Serious Stomach)

It was the third Monday when I realized what I'd really done. I'd sworn off communication to the outside world for five entire weeks--no texts, no Facebook, no blogging. Only losing money, not earning. And that half my summer would already be over when I returned to the states. That for five weeks I'd wake up at 7 only to speak in a language I didn't know and clumsily attempt an activity I couldn't really do. 24(hours a day)/7(days a week)/5(fucking weeks of my summer), and by the end of all traveling/living/tuition/luxury (meaning you can legally buy alcohol at 19 in Canada) expenses, spending over $4000 out of pocket, my pocket to go to class and study for tests…

Okay, so really I was only in class three hours a day and the work was a breeze, and the government had pretty much given me that excess aid over time, and I knew enough French to survive. And I cracked halfway through and re-added Facebook. 

I guess what I'm really getting at is that on that troisieme lundi I started wondering why the hell a quiet little home-loving, lazy Cancer gave up nearly a tenth of her year to be 2,000 miles from home away from almost everyone she knew. Almost because I actually had my best friend from high school with me; I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't been there. 

I don't approach people. They approach me--and at least half of them are scared off. The rest, I think, stay out of mild curiosity or boredom. For instance, one of the only friends I managed to make on this trip thought I was a bitch the first time she met me. I have a habit of giving off that aura when I don't know you. I thought it was just me being shy, but I get the feeling a lot of people have felt that way throughout my years. 

But on that same day I sneaked a peak at my Tumblr app while on break during my atelier. There was a quote by some Walsch guy, and it hit home: Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. 

Before the end of my spring semester back home I'd already started a list. I called it: The Ouroboros of the Summer of 2011 (subtitle: it's gonna be an interrobang). [I'm all about a good title.] Since freshman year of college I've gone all Michelangelo on my being, chipping away at former values, polishing up old ones. I've been attempting to make way for my future life--making an actual individual out of myself, and not just who they molded me to be. Anyways, I'd said before: this summer, I'm really gonna hit home, I'm really going to…"become me." (Yes, I went there.)

And me, I've always been about comfort.

And here, I'm just shy of comfortable. Or more. 

So I guess that was it. That was my sign that I was finally maybe actually possibly getting somewhere with this sculpture. Maybe Dr. Frankenfurter would finally un-glue/whatever me and I could start going somewhere. Maybe on that third Monday, trente mai deux-mille-onze, whoo!…life began. 

Then again, maybe it was just the poulet pizza + 'shrooms I had for dinner that night. 

Cerises

Now, as I've said before: I was restless without things to do in Canada. Everything I wanted to do included English. So, I finally broke down and downloaded Angry Birds. I figured if my 30 year old brother and my 6 year old nephew could enjoy it, pourquoi pas? 

It all started with beating Rio (free vs) during the first week, but then I realized I hadn't even downloaded the original yet. I became obsessed with playing Les Oiseaux en Colere anytime waiting was involved--on the toilet, before an event, on the toilet--and then it happened. There I was, getting stuck on the beginning of Level III. 

I mean, it took me at least a day if not more of bathroom-time to beat that, and I have Crohn's disease. How was my nephew getting anywhere in this game? 

I guess this would be a good time to mention I'm pretty much terrible at everything I try, including video games. And that's probably the reason my older brothers wouldn't let me play with them when I was a kid. Instead, I spent hours sitting in front of the television, watching Splinter Cell on repeat for hours. I guess that's why the only thing I'm occasionally decent at is writing; I followed those game stories to a T. 

I also can't do a cartwheel, or a handstand, or ride a bike or stand on a skateboard, or keep a rhythm, or win at cards, or, you know, anything remotely cool. I think it's got something to do with the fact that a few years back whenever friends, for instance, asked if I wanted to play Texas Hold 'Em, I said no. All because I never knew how. Nowadays, I try to remind myself all I'll be able to say is no if I don't ever say yes and simply learn. 

I can snap backwards though, and I'll bet not many people can do that. But it's okay--I survived. Like a vegan in a household of carnivores--you can create substitutes. Thus, when my friends rode their bikes on campus, I halfway caught up by riding my scooter, all the while looking like Anne Hathaway on The Princess Diaries (but worse and more poor).

Yet I can say I had a lot of firsts in Canada. Albeit rather badly, I tried my hand at many things: french immersion, for starters. I think the only time I've gone more than five weeks without speaking english I was still in diapers. 

But that's not the only new thing. I got a little taste of Poi, a big taste of Acadian Rappie Pie when we prepared it in class, I attempted juggling and a few "simple" acrobatic stunts, I (perhaps re-)learned 21 during Casino night (as well as re-learning how to properly use a canoe), and I stumbled my way through weeks of various dancing (African, Salsa, Waltz, some strange Louisiana two-step), watched a cornicopia of foreign films for the first time (let's schedule a movie night to watch CRAZY in English, okay?), and I'd certainly never been that far from home before and, aside from college (which I count as my second home), never so long. I met fascinating people who've done some really cool things, and they're the same age as me. 

This inspired me to step up my game. My personal resume. You know, like Match.com or eHarmony. 

Karen Cockrum

Born in Texas, 1991

Interesting Facts:

1. Devoted half a summer to complete French immersion at a university in Nova Scotia

…

…..

……..that's it.

(…which could also be read as:

Not all that Interesting of a Fact:

1. Spent five expensive weeks partyin' it up with Canadians)

Actually I don't think that's how those website are set up at all. I wouldn't know--I have to be at least…28 before I sink that low. Anyways, the point besides me being uninteresting is that I've had a taste of adventure, and I want more. 

Well. Time to go play Super Nintendo Aladdin.

Debutants + Alcohol

Okay, how about two extremely mediocre posts today to make up for the lack of a point?

So while I needed intermediate credit, as I predicted (due to one hectic semester during my French II course), I was placed in Debutant II. This is because, while my writing section of the placement test may have been stellar for a know-nothing beginner, I bombed the oral half.

This might be due to the fact that when the man giving my test asked (en francais) if I wanted to go to China, I thought he asked where I wanted to go with my dog. So I replied, "I would go to the park." I thought that was a bizarre question. 

As embarrassing as it was when my esprit de l'escalier kicked in, I wiped it off with a, "well, I'll never see that guy again."

That guy ended up being my professor for five weeks. It turns out he's something of an Acadian-country-weird-combo musician that goes by the stage name Blou, despite the fact that he literally wore yellow every. single. day. He was pretty cool, though a stickler for pronunciation. 

One time I slipped up rather badly, to his standards at least. I was reading the list of people that got to visit Smuggler's Cove that day and he asked, "oh, est ton nom sur la liste?" 

"Oui," I smiled as my friend entered, "et tu!"

He gasped, "Tu? Tu? Et quoi classe es-tu dans? Tu es débutant deux!"

I can't help it, I explained. I'm an ex-english major. It's natural. Et tu, Brute?

Me, I was a big fan of the franglais in Canada. The friend I convinced to join me, however, was purely devoted. She tried her hardest, even if she kept accidentally (and even still, incorrectly) saying things like "do me" or:

"Hey. I'm a hot shower."

And while we both adored Canada--more beautiful than the U.S. with better men--halfway through, we were the Tired and the Restless. 

I, for one, missed sitting around and doing nothing but trolling the web all day. Cat missed less finer things, such as the fancy gym she went to. In fact, sometimes she was so desperate that she started hopelessly weight-lifting random objects in our room, like a bottle of Oland Export or a half-empty (that was naturally typed, guess that means I'm a pessimist?) container of Surf (I reckon that's the Canadian version of "Tide"). 

What was that? You were stuck on the phrase, "Oland Export"? And "you're underage," you say? Not in Canada, my friends. Let it be known world-wide that my very first legal purchase of alcohol was of: 

…and some Sangria…and a pack of Mike's…and a Corona, but that last one was for Secret Santa. My residence (Belliloise!) loved the alcohol. 

As for me, I was a beast. Save the Hawaiian soiree when I puked on my new Canadian friend's shoes, but that was due to a combination of things. I felt bad though. The next day when she told me what I did, I just stood there, smiling and nodding, because she was in the advanced class, and I had no idea what she'd just said. 

And that is why I was in a beginner level. People always talking to me, me not knowing what they were saying. Imagine being in classes and activities for four weeks and not really knowing what they were telling you to do differently. 

That, however, allowed me to cruise straight through my course and not have to really feel like I was in school. It made me realize I never want to take a real summer course. 

Anyways, like I said, this particular blog doesn't particularly have a point. Still got tha jet lag. 

The Journey to Canada...

'Twas a long one. But the journey to the correct Airline check-in: you can't even compare the two. My mother dropped my friend and I off about thirty-three gates too late, and that's even further than it sounds when it's 4:30 AM and you're carrying at least your own dead weight all over your weak human form and, being from Arkansas, have never heard of a luggage cart. 

^me on the plane

After all my joints were pulled out of their proper sockets, I was more than content to collapse onto my floatation device seat at 6:10, despite the fact that some dude took a dump before the plane could even lift off. Between the snoring men, crying babies, and the pssssssssssssssst of someone blowing up their travel neck cushion, Cat and I looked like two wasted fairytale characters with a pigicorn between their shoulders. 

I suppose I should explain the pigicorn. You know those pillow pets you see ("only") on TV for ("just") $9999.95 (+tax & shipping & handling)? 

Cat brought this hot pink unicorn, and it just looks like a pig with a horn (or peut-etre a tooth if it were a narpig), and before we were sharing the "adorable" little thing, it just glared at me. It sounds cute…but trust me, it's evil. 

And at some point I traded pure evil for my friend and she endured 127 minutes of being stuck under me...

Also, despite the fact that I've got Crohn's disease and have ridden many planes, for the first time ever I broke down and used the restroom. While I expected it to be some sort of Hobo Jungle Park (that's a real place in my hometown, by the way), it was an incredibly spacious, lovely environment. 

http://www.booksofadam.com/2011/05/four-days-of-pretending-to-be-rabbit.html

Well, that was the flight to Philadelphia, at least...the second flight I had to sit right next to the "toilet," and I think everyone had Crohn's disease on that flight. Not only that, but I wasn't so lucky to get to sit next to mah bff due to a jam-packed plane. The lady I sat next to was, however, very kind. 

And a little strange; but then again, she was Canadian. She was this tiny, hippy-in-another-life, pink-cowboy-hat-wearing little thing, and she was very sharing. 

First she offered me some sort of liquid for the hands.

"No, thank you."

Then, "this banana's pretty big, do you want half?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

...."what about one of these maple candies--"

"Sure."

And okay, I'll admit that even though I was simply trying to politely get her to stop offering me shit (what kind of college student am I?!), I've gotta say, that little candy was pretty badass. It was like a little plastic wrapper sample of sweet Aunt Jemima's love. 

Some weirder things happened with my neighbor, but honestly I can't recall the details at the moment. 

Really, I lucked out. I know for a fact it could have been a lot worse, just like whatever roommate you get signed up to live with freshman year of college. Or like the time Alissa and I were leaving New Orleans and actually talked to one of said-possible-passengers: a British man in midlife, who clearly had something wrong with him, as he kept repeating the same two things every 30 seconds. 

At first, both of our eyes lit up. Some random Brit talking to us about the Beatles? But like I said. Alzheimer's jokes, they aren't funny, but this guy had something, I tell you. 

Anyways, now I'm tangenting as usual. This time, it's due to the jet lag, as I just got home last night. K. Tomorrow. Bye.