Throwin’ Zs — Not Catchin’

Whether it’s my infatuation with the moon, my complete and utter lack of respect for the effects of caffeine, or my unconditional love for late-night vacuum infomercials, I am awake a LOT.

I’m currently operating on a sleep schedule of about 11:30 P.M. to 4:00 A.M., but that four and a half hours usually wiggles around anywhere between 11:00 P.M. and 8:00 A.M. Even on the weekends that I don’t go out (rare, but still) I’ll try to call it a night early and/or sleep in the next morning, but I max out around five hours of shut-eye.

As you can imagine, this is a pretty nifty little skill when it comes to school. Aside from the fact that I often look like I’m about 17 seconds away from a complete nervous breakdown (four cups of coffee a day will do that to a girl), I can get hella work done in the 20 hours I’m awake. Play with my dog, watch a season of The Office, make a bomb ass breakfast sandwich, play with other people’s dogs, write a screenplay, star in a Selena Gomez music video in my bathroom, make a video montage, lose five games of cribbage — the possibilities are endless.

Sometimes I overhear people say they only got six hours of sleep the night before and I’m like “damn, you lazy bum.” More often than not, they’re actually complaining, which seems ridiculous to me, so, naturally, I judge them immediately.

Who needs more than five hours of sleep? Are you a sloth? A koala bear? Look alive! Sure, the constant, violent shake of my hands has freaked out a person or two over the years, but as long as you keep me away from hot beverages (thank Yeezus white wine is best served chilled) you’ll be safe. My regular attacks of the giggles due to being over-tired have earned me a bit of a reputation around town, but I’m okay with it. Keeps people on their toes, you know? There’s no telling what sort of sleep-deprived hysterics I’m going to burst into. I’m like a more obnoxious version of a Jack-In-The-Box.

And yes, I would love to be seen with you in public. Thanks for asking.

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$8.50

Guys! I’m a columnist for the RRC Projector! Here’s my first article! Exclamation marks! Excitement! Go me!

Fully Fletched

I’m not sure if any of you are familiar with the Greater North Kildonan Area, but I hail from East St. Paul and spend a lot of my time travelling up and down Henderson Highway.

There are two gas stations I visit on the regular, the Red River Co-Op at Strood Avenue, and the Esso in East St. Paul. Many a Saturday or Sunday morning have included embarrassing myself at either one of these two establishments, but I have to confess one of the lowest moments was this past weekend when I pulled into Esso to get gas.

$8.50. Eight dollars and 50 cents in gas. Not kidding.

As ashamed as I am about the contents of my car (way too many empty boxes of Naked Grape Pinot Grigio, a family-size bottle of Sriracha, three half-pairs of shoes, and various items of clothing), I almost hoped the attendant would peek in and see the backpack and pencil cases and come to the conclusion that I am a student.

We’re nearing the end of the semester now, and funds are at an all time low. Homework, meetings, projects, and other out-of-class commitments have really interfered with my work schedule over the past few months, and my bank account is now drier than that pork chop I tried to barbecue once.

I make sure I always have at least enough for a glass of wine at all times — priorities — but there are some drastic measures I’ve had to take to keep the Grape flowing.

For example, and I hope the Highlighter Jackets don’t nail me for this, I have found a way to park at school every day for a very reasonable rate. Impossibly reasonable. You might even call it “free.”

I probably shouldn’t have published that.

Anyways..

Try to bring a lunch almost every day to avoid the temptation of bagels smothered in herb and garlic cream cheese, but on the days you sleep in (not such a rare occurrence for me), swing by the Red River Mercantile for a hearty cup of Mr. Noodles. It’s less than two dollars and, provided you have hot sauce on deck at all times, you can spice it up until your mouth burns so bad you don’t think you’ll ever eat again.

Other budget-savvy tricks include:

  • Crying in your room at night instead of going out for dinner and drinks with your non-student friends,
  • Never turning on the heat in your car to save gas, and
  • Searching the furniture at your local coffee shop for spare change.

 

Hang in there, guys, only a few weeks left. Good luck!

Rave: SNERPCHERT

*assignment

 

Despite the fact that it’s made me all too aware that I have what Amy Schumer calls an “At-Risk Chin,” Snapchat remains my favourite app.

At it’s worst, it broke up couples (remember when you could see everyone’s top friends?), and at it’s best, it showed me that I actually look better with a rabbit nose and ears.

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I’m not really selling this. Let me start over.

Snapchat lets you send pictures, videos, and messages to your friends faster than any other app. AND they all disappear in 10 seconds. Doesn’t get much better than that, right? You guys would be SHOCKED to see the ways I can twist and smush my face. Is it me? Is it one of Floop’s Fooglies? Who’s to say.

(Don’t get too crazy though, your gutless friends will screenshot your hideousness and tweet it or something. Someone did that once. Not me. I don’t know who would be that cruel but it definitely wasn’t me.)

Snapchat also assigns emojis to your friends if you’ve been going back and forth with them for a while. These tend to change with every new update, but emojipedia.org has a sick legend to end the confusion. Check it out by clicking on the rabbit version of me up there.

My favourite part about Snap is the option to surprise someone with your face when they’re texting you. For those of you that have literally no idea what I’m talking about right now (Mom, I see you), I’ll try to break it down.

Imagine you’re staring at the huge font on your phone, scrolling slowly, only one GIANT word fitting on the screen at a time (okay I’m done) and all of a sudden MY FACE POPS UP AND I START YELLING AT YOU AND MAKING RIDICULOUS FACES.

Snapchat tells you when the person on the other side has the conversation open and gives you the option of making your face pop in front of them and scare the shit out of them. Or sometimes chat face to face but mostly to scare the shit out of people.

Second favourite part is definitely the Snapchat Stories. My stories are always filled with Kate and I singing in the car, playing wine pong at her house, or her yelling at me for being annoying. After watching my videos, you’ll probably be yelling at me for being annoying too, but whatever then don’t add me.

Just kidding, do add me:

kylafletcher

 

Reservations

*assignment. no swearing or jokes*

 

On Monday night I went to a play called Reservations with my entire CreComm class. It featured only three actors, one of them being the writer, and focused on indigenous issues. There were two halves, the first about a farmer and his family in Alberta and the second about a couple in Winnipeg.

Contrary to most of my classmates, I enjoyed the second half more than the first. Being based in Winnipeg, I thought the subject matter was relevant and related well to many of the issues that have been brought up in the local news lately, which made it easy for me to connect to.

The play was about a middle-aged white couple who had raised three aboriginal siblings since they were very young and were now concerned they were going to lose them to CFS.

The acting was on point and gave me an accurate view of what it’s like to be parents in this position. The last scene was a university lecture, which I didn’t love (reminded me too much of my years in university of which I slept through most of) but the rest of it kept me engaged.

I liked the way the dialogue explained each side of the issue, both from the perspective of the white couple as well as the aboriginal social worker. I also found the changes in setting throughout the second half made it more interesting, as opposed to the first half, which all happened in one place.

I’ve been to many plays, but none based around such heavy cultural issues. The integration of indigenous people with modern settlers is something I’ve always been taught throughout my schooling, but I’ve never seen it presented in a creative way. The writer did an excellent job of educating the audience on the issues subtly through dialogue while remaining consistent with the tone and attitude of the characters.

The play gave me a new perspective on the CFS issues in the city. Reading about them in the news provides and accurate views, but very factual and impersonal. I liked having the insight of a couple that’s being directly affected.

The talkback session after the play wasn’t very helpful. The questions answered by the sound and lighting directors were very interesting, but the answers from the actors were too vague. It could have been because of the questions the audience was asking them, but I wish they would have gone into more detail about creating the play and portraying characters facing problems different from what they’d experienced in their real lives.

RANT: Clowns.

Okay, not actual clowns.

I’ve found that recently there’s been a heavy influx of “contouring” videos popping up on my Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook feeds. And, let me tell you, I want nothing to do with it. Simply watching them is exhausting, never mind actually putting in the work. To be completely honest, they freak me out a little bit.

Who has the money to spend on 18 different shades of powder made from coffee beans hand-ground by the Queen of England and magic fairy dust extracted from Tinkerbell’s used Kleenex? Not I. I also don’t have the patience, hand-eye coordination, or concentration to spend two hours every morning smearing shit on my face so my cheekbones look sharper than J Bieb’s.

(Why didn’t I just pick a girl? I don’t know.)

The worst part is they suck me in with the first step, which usually looks fairly simple. Couple dots of foundation here and there, a smear of concealer, duck face into the camera lens and you’re on your way.

WRONG. FOOLED YOU. GET OUT THE TOOLBOX CAUSE WE’VE BARELY STARTED.

YOU NEED WHITE PAINT, BROWN POWDER, THREE TUBES OF CAULKING, A LITRE OF LIQUID GLITTER, HALF A BUCKET OF PRIMER, CLEAR NAIL POLISH, BLACK SHOE POLISH, CAR POLISH, SURFBOARD WAX, GIRAFFE SPIT THAT DRIES MATTE, BABY PUKE TO MOISTURIZE, BENJAMIN MOORE PAINT IN GLOSSY, SUPER GLOSSY, AND SO-GLOSSY-IT’LL-SCARE-YOU, TREE SAP, PORTABLE VALENCIA FILTER, ONE CONTAINER OF BETTY CROCKER SPRINKLE ICING, SIX OREOS FINELY CRUSHED IN A MORTAR AND PESTLE FROM INDONESIA, HOT FUDGE, EXTRA PEANUTS, TWO CHERRIES, HALF A BANANA, CHANGE MY MIND NO PEANUTS, EXTRA CARAMEL and blend lightly with a big, fluffy brush.

Wtf, ladies.

I’m not hating on those that actually do this, cause yes you look fierce, the entire process is just violently overwhelming to me. (I also wear men’s clothing every day and only brush my hair once a week, so maybe, definitley, I’m not the authority on this. Or really in any position to speak on it at all. Ever. Sorry.)

This is how I assume my face would turn out if I attempted this business, facial expression included.

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(Thank you to Hannah, @dairyduchess, for the picture, and for making me cry all of my mascara off by tweeting it at me four minutes before class started. And sending it again later. In the middle of a work period.)

RANT: Flipping Me The Bird Will Get You Nowhere.

I was driving a friend to the Victoria Inn this morning around 9:30 and found myself in stand-still, three-cars-per-light, person-next-to-me-watching-me-sing, is-that-a-cop-oh-shit-it’s-a-cop, how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-switch-lanes, can’t-see-anything-around-these-damn-semis, might-be-late-for-school, OH-MY-GOD-PULL-UP-CLOSER, OH-MY-GOD-GET-OFF-MY-ASS-I’M-AS-CLOSE-AS-I-CAN-GET traffic.

Horrendous.

And at 9:30? What the hell is everyone doing on Route 90 at 9:30 in the morning?!

Probably driving their friends to the Victoria Inn, but whatever.

So as we crawl South inch by inch, I see that the right lane (that I’ve literally just switched into, sorry green Caravan) is ending about a block ahead. Luckily Winnipeg drivers had their heads on straight this morning (I was probably the biggest dick out there) so there was no aggressive zipper action happening at the end of the curb lane, but that is rarely the case.

Y’know when there’s construction on Lag or Hendy or whatever and it’s been there for like a month (naturally) and you KNOW that everyone in the area has definitely encountered it before and yet there’s STILL those assholes that will drive right up to the end of the lane and try and sneak in?? I definitely never let those people in, and I will usually laugh at them as they curse my little red Cobalt with the shark teeth where the spoiler used to be.

But my brother-in-law, Dale, has got me beat.

He’ll make eye contact, smile, build a friendship, and wave the unsuspecting sucker in with the warmth of a Bible salesman then ROLL DOWN HIS WINDOW AND YELL AND POINT AND SCOLD AND NOT LET THEM IN.

This is probably one of my favourite things about him. The public shaming of assholes mixed with road rage, a (heavy) sprinkling of course language, and the element of surprise is definitely something I can get on board with. I would watch a TV marathon of anything that can promise me these four things.

So, if you are one of these self-entitled goons that thinks you are above the common courtesy of the zipper effect, I invite you to swan dive into the shallow end of an outdoor swimming pool in the winter.

Thank you.

Frenchness, Fire-Pokers, & I Need To Wash My Jeans

So I went to Festival du Voyageur with my CreComm homies this past weekend. Having never been, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I ate poutine (and a hotdog), made friends, and learned a lot. My attempt to get cultured also prevented my mom from being that disappointed when I came home the next morning with some less-than-cute Caribou stains down both my legs, so that’s a win.

We cruised through Fort Gibraltar and ducked in and out of the different cabins listening, learning, and hanging around the fires for as long as was appropriate. One of the cap-sporting, vest-rocking young men sat behind a table working intently with some rough leather and small tools. I watched him for a while and learned that this handyman was not only making a sheath for the fire-poker on the table, HE ALSO MADE THE DAMN POKER. Just mind-blowing. See for yourselves.

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Louis-Simon Olivier, 17, works quietly by the fire as a young boy looks on in one of the cozy cabins in Fort Gibraltar at the Festival du Voyageur on Friday, February 19./FLETCHER

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The tools and materials used by craftsmen in the 1800s are displayed for Festival du Voyageur visitors to learn about and see in action on the evening of Friday, February 19./FLETCHER

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Louis-Simon Olivier, 17, fashions a sheath out of deer leather and twine while working in one of the many cabins in Fort Gibraltar at the Festival du Voyageur on Friday, February 19./FLETCHER

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Festival du Voyageur visitors watch and listen intently as Louis-Simon Olivier, 17, explains the traditional process of making a sheath in one of the warm cabins in Fort Gibraltar on Friday, February 19./FLETCHER

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Louis-Simon Olivier, 17, works with quick and nimble hands threading twine through pieces of deer leather to create a sheath for the iron fire-poker he created himself at the Festival du Voyageur on Friday, February 19./FLETCHER

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Louis-Simon Olivier, 17, shows off the iron fire-poker he made himself at the Festival du Voyageur on the evening of Friday, February 19./FLETCHER

NEITHER: Just Some Cool Info

Okay so this past weekend my dad flew to Toronto to go to the Bruce Springsteen concert with his brother and he just got home today and we were gabbin about music n shit and he lays THIS knowledge on me:

Every time Bruce Springsteen plays Dancing’ In The Dark at a concert he pulls some random chick from the audience on stage to dance with. A) shit yeah, Bruce, B) jealous, and C) GUESS HOW IT STARTED!

So when they were shooting the music video they wanted it to be like a concert video but they planted three chicks in the front row and he was going to pick one for him to dance with. None of the girls knew who was going to get picked they just knew it was going to be one of the three of them (this way he didn’t pick a random fan and have some broad covered in tears and snot all up in his music vid cause she was too excited to do anything but cry).

SO he picks this sassy little brunette in the middle to come snap her fingers onstage and GUESS WHO IT IS?!?!?! THIS IS HOW SHE GOT DISCOVERED. I AM BLOWN AWAY.

(lots of you probably knew this already but I just lost my shit)

(also yeah I know I didn’t tell you who but just watch the damn video)

(is the suspense killing you?)

(are you still reading?)

(I have eaten so many avocados in the past three days)

(and hot sauce)

(but I always eat hot sauce)

(are you still there?)

(shit, you must like me)

(k just watch it)

(just kidding. hey! still here!)

(nah, I’m kidding, let’s do this)

WATCH IT

 

RANT: Pure Nonsense

“Bite the bullet.” – Or don’t. Are you getting shot in the face and have the reflexes and timing of a ninja on cocaine? Probably not, so don’t try this. This is the Get Rich Or Die Trying version of the shoot-an-arrow-through-this-apple-on-my-head. Just stupid.

“Blood is thicker than water.” – Okay I know this means that family comes first, but why is everyone else water? My friends are definitely wine. Or gin. Or beer. Rarely water. Also the image of thick blood is super narsty so it’s a no from me.

“Cat got your tongue?” – How close are you getting to your cat?? If you’re dumb enough to put your face that close to a vicious, murder-plotting feline then I don’t want to hear what you have to say anyways.

“Butter them up.” – Yeah, if you want Newman to eat them. Butter is good for bread and noodles and bagels and cooked vegetables and baked potatoes and pretty much anything else, but not for humans. Take a lesson from Kramer and cool it on the spread, dumbass, you’re setting yourself up for dry toast and regret.

“Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.” – I’m sorry, WHAT??? Parent of the GD year over here. Did this actually have to happen in order to create this saying? Who made this up? I pray to Oprah Winfrey that this person did not have children.

“On it’s last legs.” – Not everything has legs. Major flaw. Also, I’m pretty sure the legs I have now are my first AND last legs. How many legs do I get? Actually there’s science so maybe by the time I lose a leg I’ll be able to get a new one. Whatever, still dumb.

“More than you can shake a stick at.” – Why do you have a stick? You just get excited when you see a large amount of something and start shaking sticks at things? I am much more likely to wave my arms, legs, or bottle of wine at something when I’m excited.

“Faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” – There are so many things faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tale. It should be “faster than Kyla will return your high-five” or “faster than Kyla will make a dirty joke.” Cause that would impress the shit out of me. Also, why is everyone shaking things. Cool it.

“Rubbed me the wrong way.” – Don’t rub me at all.

There was probably a point in time that these sayings made perfect sense, but 2016 is not that time. 2006 wasn’t even that time. 1996 probably wasn’t either but I was only three so what the hell do I know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying the phrases my generation uses make any damn sense either, but at least I know where they came from.

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Me in NZ with a couple of lamb’s tails. They were slow.

RANT: Dawdlers & Other Slow People That Piss Me Off

Confession: I am chronically late.

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Not by much, mind you, but usually by 5-10 minutes. My dad is rolling his eyes right now cause he knows this is true and if I can admit it then why the hell can’t I fix it???

I don’t know why, DAD.

Regardless of how early I wake up, how much I prepare, or how many lies I tell myself about the time my day actually starts (“okay dinner is at 5:30, Ky, so let’s just pretend it’s at 5”)(and yeah, sometimes my day starts at dinner) I still end up being late.

This, in turn, leads to my deep frustration (and by frustration I mean RAGE) with other people who are not chronically late nor have any consideration for those who are.

I was walking to my car today to grab my purse before meeting some homies at King’s Head for a beer and got stuck behind the

SLOWEST.

HUMAN.

EVER.

Seriously, you guys, this dude did not give a shit about anything. Backpack hangin’ so low on his arms he looked like a superhero bully tied his superhero cape into a knot behind his back. Elbows borderline touching.

Dude had on some jeans that were waaaay too long for his average length legs and some beat up converse with the laces flopping around like cooked spaghetti. People think I don’t give a shit? THIS DUDE DID NOT GIVE A SHIT. He was dragging his feet so hard his footprints looked like he was cross-country skiing down William.

I half jogged behind this freaking PENGUIN for an entire block waiting for a convenient time to pass him, but it never came. I literally had to hop the fence into the parking lot to get away from this slop-tart (it’s like a foot and a half high but it’s up a hill and shit so it’s still a task). Really it took about four minutes out of my day but COME ON, MAN.

Another pain in the ass is people that talk slow. Well, not really talk slow, just take a long ass time to tell a story.

“And theeenn….”

“And theeennn…”

“OMG and theennnn…..”

HOLY MOSES. YOU LOST MY ATTENTION LIKE 4 MINUTES AGO. THIS STORY IS LONGER THAN A CURLING GAME. YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A PUNCH LINE. STOP GETTING DISTRACTED. I HAVE TO PEE. OR GO TO CLASS. OR GO TO WORK. OR DO LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE BESIDES LISTEN TO THIS STORY. I WOULD RATHER DO A GROUP AB WORKOUT THAN PRETEND TO CARE FOR ONE MORE MINUTE. I COULD HAVE TOLD THIS STORY IN UNDER MINUTE. ACTUALLY, NO. LESS. ZERO TIME AT ALL BECAUSE THIS IS A TERRIBLE STORY THAT IS SO BORING AND DUMB THAT I WOULDN’T TELL IT IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I know I’m being insensitive but, y’know, what else is new.

Just a couple things to remember:

1. Walking down the street?

I’M IN A HURRY.

2. Driving literally anywhere?

I’M IN A HURRY.

3. At the mall on December 23? Or ever?

I’M IN A HURRY.

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Pretty much the only time I’m not in a hurry is on like a cloudy Sunday in bed watching The Office or That 70s Show or a rom com or napping or ordering $50 of Italian food or cuddling a dog.

And I’ll bet you 3 speeding tickets that I’m staying out of your damn way.