I had my last test on Friday! I would have been done about a week and a half sooner but I accidentally forgot to go to a final. WHO DOES THAT?! I was so, so embarrassed. This particular exam was worth 60 per cent of my final grade. I’ve never failed anything in my life so there was no way I’d accept an F on my transcript. Luckily the teacher let me take the test at a later date with a slight penalty. Whatever, as long as I’m not failing.
I worked really hard this semester so despite my current heartache and emotional anguish, I decided to tear my butt off the couch and go out and celebrate. I met up with my friend Phil and watched the third period of the Habs game at Foufs. She got me Godiva chocolates! So good. Her friend joined us and we headed to Cafe Cleopatra’s 35 year anniversary party. If you’re a Montrealer who’s somehow unfamiliar with Cafe Cleo’s current predicament, allow me to fill you in – in an effort to ‘revitalize’ the Lower Main, the city is backing a plan to build Hydro Quebec offices and chic cafes and shops along the sketchy part of St. Laurent Boulevard. All businesses have given in to the pressure and have either shut down or relocated (even the famed Montreal Pool Room moved), except Cafe Cleo. Sadly, the strip club (bar, venue, whatever you wanna call it) is now facing potential expropriation. In some ways, the party acted as a benefit show. Even Johnny Zoumboulakis, the owner, came out during a Dead Dolls number and gave a little speech to the crowd. He’s awesome.
Though there were many notable acts, I was most stoked on the drag queens. I’d never gone to a drag show before. It was really fun. They were all beautiful (I was jealous of more than one pair of sweet legs), talented and hilarious. One of the hosts kept uncomfortably wiggling around and saying, “Sorry, I had to get it out of my ass.” It was amazing. There was party favors, too! Funny glasses, pointy hats, crowns and noisemakers. I played with the glasses all night. It doesn’t take much to please me. My favorite number was a rendition of Liza Minnelli on coke. I was actually supposed to go to Rockette after the show but Liza threw a big bag of cocaine (er, baby powder) all over me and I was forced to head home.
I appear to have neglected this blog again but for once, it’s not because I was too lazy to update. I’ll have you know that finals are kicking my ass hard right now but more importantly, I’ve been busy writing for an ACTUAL PUBLICATION. That’s right. Though by ‘actual publication’ I mean the school paper. One of the school papers. Regardless, I’m quite proud of myself.
You see, ever since I began studying journalism, my peers and teachers have repeatedly approached me and gushed, “Melissa, your writing is fantastic! You simply must write for the school paper!” OK, maybe that never happened. But even if it had, I was a jerk back then and would have said no.
Anyway, my friend Adam did some paintings for a bar on St-Laurent and so I decided to interview him about it. You can check out Adam’s previous work here and read my article here (or pick a copy up at Concordia). Let it be known that I am in no way responsible for that cheesy headline – the editor, who is coincidentally also named Adam and also quite awesome, is.
Ever since I turned 16 or 17, friends have been telling me that I have a look alike that could easily pass as my identical twin. They’ve even mistakenly said hi to her, thinking she was me. I’ve been on a quest to find this girl for several years now. I think we could be BFF. Here are some facts I’ve creepily gathered about her:
She may have gone to VMC:
People always ask me if I went to high school there. I say no and then they’re always like, “Are you sure?” Yes, I’m sure, assholes. The only plausible reasoning behind their reaction is that my look alike went there.
She probably worked at Foot Locker:
I remember a friend once asking me how long I’d been working at Foot Locker. I was like, “I have never worked at Foot Locker a day in my life.” He couldn’t believe it. I rushed to the Foot Locker in question the next day to see if my look alike was there, but she wasn’t. I was too shy to ask the people working if my face looked familiar – I regret it immensely.
She definitely went to Rouge last night, October 23, 2009:
Ah, the most important clue of all! Moments ago, I was sitting on my bed reading an old issue of Missbehave (RIP) when I got this text message from my cousin Sara, the person who probably knows me, my face and my quirks better than anybody else in this world:
Hiba and I went out for Nicole’s birthday Saturday. We got to McKibbins around 11 p.m. I thought I was super early but I wasn’t. At all. I’m starting to notice that I go out much later than other people. My bad, everyone.
Nicole was already drunk – pleasant and coherent, but drunk. I had time to enjoy one drink before she blurted out that she wanted to go to a strip club.
A strip club, eh? I wondered if I’d ever been to one. Had I? I’m still not sure. Vague memories of being in a strip joint at some point in time come to mind, but I think that may have been a dream. Sometimes I can’t remember if my adventures were dreams or real life.
Anyway, we got up and went to one of the many sketchy establishments on Ste Catherine St. Oddly enough, the doorman knew Hiba. He kept saying something like, “Habibi, you came to see me!” Apparently, she’d been to that strip club before. Perhaps she’s wilder than I thought.
So we all paid our stupid $5 admission fee, then our coat check fee, and were greeted with NO BUFFET. All strip clubs should provide their patrons with snacks, amirite? My stomach was growling!
We sat by the stage (but not directly in front of it because we’re not pathetic old men) and ordered some drinks. I asked for a vodka soda. I was given vodka water. Vodka tap water, actually. After seeing the bill (and pushing my eyeballs back into their sockets), I began sipping my disgusting drink very, very slowly; two drinks totaled $27, sans tip. Twenty-seven-fucking-dollars. Incredible.
I was bummed but hoped that boobies would cheer me up.
I did it! I finally purchased a Diva Cup this weekend. I found one in Blainville at Jean Coutu for $34.99. Yeah, it’s far. But I also found one at a Rachel Béry homeopathic store on Ste-Catherine E. It’s next to an IGA near Berri metro and they sell it for $39.99.
As soon as I got home, I rushed to the bathroom to test it out. First things first, READ THE INSTRUCTIONS! I thought I could just ram it in there, but then it plopped out (ew). You’re supposed to fold the Diva Cup a certain way and then insert it. Once it’s in there, you have to turn it a full 360 degrees, a seemingly simple task. I stood there, in my tiny bathroom, holding the wall, one foot on the edge of the bath trying to turn the stupid cup but my fucking vagina skin kept getting stuck in my fingernails. It hurt so bad! I don’t know if I have too much vagina skin, is that possible? I guess I should have cut my nails shorter.
I took a chance and decided to not turn it and luckily I didn’t have any leaks. The next morning, I took out the cup in the shower to avoid any potential messes. It took a while to remove it, what with my nails pinching excess skin. When I took it out, I stared at it for a while. For some reason, I decided to take a whiff of it. Ew, it smelled so bad! Like ten times worse than regular period smell. I cleaned it a bunch of times but there’s still a faint odour. Maybe silicone traps smells, I don’t know.
Anyway, I’ve been wearing the Diva Cup since Sunday and have experienced zero leaks. I don’t feel it at all once it’s up there, unless I didn’t put it in right. It’s just a bit of a bitch to stick it in and especially to take it out. The easiest way to remove it is to sit on the bowl as if you’re gonna take a poop and then just inhale and exhale and it’ll come right out. I gotta say, it’s a little awkward to balance a cup full of blood in your left hand while wiping or trying to pull your panties up. Also, I wouldn’t attempt to take it out at school or at a friend’s house, that’s kind of raunchy.
Overall, I give the Diva Cup a 8/10.
I hate crowds, I hate taking the metro and if there’s one thing that really sends me over the edge, it’s taking the metro with a crowd of knuckle dragging hockey fans. Fandom in general freaks me out. I can’t fully grasp why people become so obsessed with their favorite band, actor (those Twilight fans, wtf?) or in this case, a hockey team.
Canadiens fans are fucking annoying and deserve to get shit on. As I wrote this line, three people signed onto MSN with the Habs logo as a display picture. Pathetic. This post is gonna generate a lot of nasty comments, possibly even some hate mail. I don’t care, this needs to be said once and for all. I know I’m not the only one fed up of seeing face-painted, fat drunk guys running wild.
I don’t mind sports and I can understand a certain level of fanaticism when it comes to rooting for your fave team. However, there’s a difference between wearing a hockey jersey on game day and wearing a fucking Habs belt to work, every day. Yes, they sell Habs belts. That’s not the only thing which bears the Habs logo, the list is much longer than you think…
We love getting emails. And compliments. Emails that include compliments are twice as good. Reader Leslie Nikole recently wrote to us in hopes of finding out why women can’t use public bathrooms without making a gross mess.
First of all, I love your blog. It gives me something to do beside count the number of mutated spiders that climb around in my classroom’s corners. It also makes me happy that you’re Montrealers, it’s like we have some kind of common ground.
Anyways, since you’re older and in university, I wanted to know if the disgusting shit I see in my high school bathroom (I’m in Sec 4/Grade Ten, thank God I’ll be outta there soon), used pads and tampons and their wrappers thrown all around the floor will also be a common hazard when I go to college/university? And what should I do about it in the meantime because the janitors (ha!) don’t clean for shit? Am I gonna be stuck holding my pee or what?
( http://yngblkqwncnfsd.wordpress.com/ , just in case you’re interested.)
A youngin! I feel like an old fart now but I will advise you nonetheless. I know you’re hoping that my answer will be positive and reassuring, but unfortunately, it’s not. Women of all ages are disgusting. Especially when it comes to toilets.