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29 November 2006

Tonight was my last night class. Once a week, for three hours, I established just how poorly I am at math. Once a week, for three hours, I wondered how my sister can have such a passion for such a subject. Once a week, for three hours, I, somehow, found tangible answers to that particular subject's lofty questions. And I'm sitting at a 73. The class average, the mean, or better still, the best measurement of central tendancy, is 88. I suppose it would be important if I gave a particular rat's ass. Status quo, baby... or better yet, slightly below.

I have an itching rant. A great desire to curse the world, swear at The Man for stifling my existance as I know it. But I've got nothing. I'm tired and the drive home was a real pain, but I made it and now I'm in bed. It's as if every day that goes by I'm a little less like myself and I can't put it any more decipherable than that. Taking into account mom's universal advice: Don't worry Andrea, you probably just need a period.

Hi, allow me to introduce myself, Ms Dare2dv8, Drama Queen Extrodinare

for fuck sakes.

One a funnier note though, I was at mom and dad's last night, helping mom wrap christmas gifts (good night... please note: anything outside of school is classified as very good) and friends of theirs arrived.

At first glance, these particular friends are good people. Colourful, hardworking, honest - the type that would give you the shirt off their back, even if it was their only one. They kind that are always there to lend a hand. Where we come from, there is a dialect that is found only along the banks of the Miramichi River. Conversations are spoken quickly and words are often found running together or phonetically impossible to spell. Last night Dad and Paul were discussing all the changes that had occurred in our little town over the course of their lifetimes (they're not quite 60), how we went from being a hub, so being, well, little more than the Tim Horton's that sustains the retired / unemployed community wailers meeting to discuss their current woes. They talked about how the railway yard had shut down (tracks have been removed), how there were 6 general stores, 3 mills, and restaurants galore, t our present day, little. And Alta (Paul's wife) looked at me and said, and I quote:

"My gawd in heaven, andrea, I kid ya not, land sakes, pom me word, I swear to jesus you could stand up by the picnic site and fire a cannon and the son'awhore wouldna touch a thing' till she struck the catholic church in Blaffville!"

And this struck me as quite funny. So much so, I've thought about it all day when the rest of the prisoners at UNB got too close.

Allow me to translate.

First off, it's important to understand that "she" is a unversal pronoun. Usually referring to what most of the free world would say was "it", "she" is all encompassing. As in "My gawd, she's some cold out, ain't she?" She = weather. "She's a beauty!" She = vehicle, new plow, new fourwheeler, new chainsaw, etc. Important to note that it is never used in reference to significant female other. And don't think for a moment that I'm beyond language such as this, because let me tell you, I'm not. From "gettin' the right good scald on 'er" ("'er" is shortened form of "her", which could translate into "it"), which means "cook it thoroughly", to "I got right hot!", which is the same as "I warmed up rather quickly".

So what Alta was really was saying was this:

Andrea, the town has gotten so quiet in the past while. I think that if you went up the road and theoretically fired a cannon down Main Street, the likelihood of it actually hitting anything, is minimal.


The Taint Dance is on December 30th and it looks like we're going. If you're unfamiliar with the Taint Dance, it's a long standing tradition around these parts. Held between the 26th and no later than the 30th, it T'aint Christmas and it T'aint New Years, so we may as well have a party!

Reason enough for me.

:)


English usage is sometimes more than mere taste, judgment and education -- sometimes it's sheer luck, like getting across the street.

EB White

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