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What is wrong with our society? I, being a willingly sheltered little Mennonite girl, never really was exposed to the party scene or to people who were into sex and drugs and rock’n’roll. I willfully hung out with people whose definition of party was playing apples to apples or watching a Disney movie. We had good times.

So when I went to a club for the first time in my life last night, I was appalled. I mean, I knew our society was still sexist, and that women were sex symbols in music and in magazines, but  I didn’t realize quite how bad it was or what that meant. But last night, everything just hit home.

One of the first things we noticed as we walked in was the tv screens with dancing people on them. But these weren’t just random dancing people having a good time, they were naked or about to be naked silhouettes of girls dancing seductively with themselves or with other girls. This played on the screens the whole night. There were also various tables and surfaces that girls could get up and dance on to show off their stuff. The songs were all about having sex and scoring and men’s “bitches.” Girls and guys were grinding all over the floor, the guy hoping he could make a score tonight.

This shocked me. This is a horribly blatant use of women for sex symbols. Getting men drunk and then sticking them in a room full of provocative imaging is just asking for men to see the women as objects of sex and to go a little to far, to harass women, to rape them. After all, the women are just there for their viewing and grinding pleasure. What are we telling the guys in our society? This whole mentality, that partying is fun with half naked girls and some alcohol, where does that leave our young women in society? No wonder women can’t get past the glass ceiling. No wonder they’re not taken seriously. How can you take someone seriously when you’re using their body as a means of getting pleasure for yourself?

I thought we were better off than this. I thought sexism existed, but fairly subconsciously and that we were possibly close to eradicating it in North America. But I was so far from right. With this image of fun, when talking about girls in this way is ok, when it’s socially acceptable to plaster half naked girls everywhere to sell things to guys and to give guys pleasure, we’re never going to get anywhere. We need to start now, standing up, saying “this kind of partying is not ok. These kinds of messages are not ok. These kinds of images are not ok.” Because until we do, we’re never going to be able to defeat this.


Oh, what misadventures I do have. I’m like a really lame, really horrible super hero. Whose super power is not having common sense. “It’s a rock!” “It’s a lump of clothing” “No, it’s Common-Senseless girl” “Who told her to come?”

This misadventure starts in the kitchen, as all good misadventures do. I was baking scones for a bake sale and decided that 64 was a good number to make. However, my friend’s kitchen only had one pan. So I could only do one pan of 16 scones at a time, and they take 22 minutes to bake. Lets just say it took forever.

My first bump was the butter. Usually, I freeze the butter overnight and then grate it into the scones with a cheese grater (the colder the ingredients, the flakier the pastry. Remember that, kids). However, I only had it in the freezer for a couple hours. So, my friend Steve starts grating the butter, because he is a nice person. However, his hands start melting the butter, and it all clumps together, resulting in a scone mixture with huge clumps of butter that would not be conducive to good scones. Common-senseless girl’s bright idea? Take out all the little pieces of strawberry (these were strawberry scones) and then use a fork to cut in the butter like normal people. So, I pick out a cups worth of strawberry chunks, which takes a ridiculous amount of time because they are sneakily disguised by flour, like little fruity spies. Every once in a while I’d squeeze what I thought was a butter chunk and it turned out to be a strawberry, and red guts would burst out from between my fingers and I would feel like I just committed murder. But I prevailed and eventually won the battle of the strawberries.

(this is a picture of a scone I actually made once. Be impressed)

Finally, everything works out and my scones are baked, smelling and looking absolutely delicious! (Like always). Now to actually get them to the bake sale. The email I had gotten informing me of my duties as baker said that I was to drop these scones off by 8:00 AM on Saturday in someone’s apartment. I figured that 2 in the morning  on Friday night was to late to drop them off, so I decided to wake up at 7:30 that morning and take them then. It sounded like a good plan…

It is 7:30 AM. I wake up, decide that it is entirely too early for humans to function, and lay in bed like a useless log for about 10 minutes, trying to figure a way out of doing this. You see, I have an enormous aversion to knocking on doors. If a door is closed, it is closed for a reason. Even when it’s my good friend, and I know them and their roommate, I still have been known to walk up to the door, notice that it is closed, stare at it for a couple seconds with a confused expression, try to wish it open with my mind powers, panic, and run away like a scared puppy with my tail between my legs. I also have an unusually strong aversion to using the telephone to call people. What if I disturb them? What if the phone rings at an extremely obnoxious time? Oh, the horror.

The apartment to which I had to go evokes both of these fears, until they combine to form an extra-strength fear that is powerful enough to knock out a hippo. I avoid the apartments at all cost. To get into an apartment, you have to call the inhabitants on a little speaker thinger, which makes their phone ring (phone phobia). And if you are let inside the building, you still have to knock on the actual door (door knocking phobia). So you see, this is really quite a feat for me to accomplish.

Eventually, I realize that the faster I get rid of my scones, the faster I can go back to sleep! This idea excites me, so I head down my ladder to begin my task. However, my sky bunk (basically, it’s the top half of a bunk bed, with a desk underneath instead of a bottom bed) is not happy with the fact that I chose to part with it so early; it apparently wanted more cuddle time. In an act of enraged revenge, it gives me a ginormous splinter in my middle finger. I swear profusely in my head, not wanting to wake up my slumbering roommate. I attempt to yank this monstrosity out of my finger, but my pain tolerance is so absurdly low that I am unsuccessful. I start thinking things like “Eh, so what if I have a sliver of tree in my hand, and it’s throbbing like mad. No one will notice. I’ll just go around the rest of my life with this ginormous splinter.” Thankfully, common-senseless girl gets a better idea and decides to run her finger under hot water, and it slides right out. Hooray!

Now on to my actual task: delivering the scones. I read and reread the email to make sure that I am not getting it wrong. I figure surely she must be up at this time, because you wouldn’t write 8:00 AM on your email if you weren’t planning on being awake. I tell myself this over and over until I am thoroughly convinced. I walk out the door in my black flip flops, fuzzy snowflake PJ pants, and my long, black, wool creeper trench coat. I do not put in my contacts because I figured I’d just be going right back to bed anyway. As I stumble along the hallway and run into railings, I regret this decision immensely. However, I’m already halfway there, and the scones must be delivered!

I get to the apartments. The dial pad stares at me omonously, daring me to make a call and disturb people at 7:30 in the morning. It seems to taunt me, saying “They will all be sleeping and you will wake them up. Nobody gets up at 7:30. You’re probably doing it all wrong. You screw up. Failure. Life is going to be akward.” Little did I know how right the dial pad was. Touche, dial pad. Touche.

I almost walked out the door, but then I remembered how much work these damn scones were to make, and I was not letting that go to waste. I gather up my non-existent courage, and call the apartment. And it rings. And rings. And rings. And I start to realize that I’m not very intelligent, and that I am most definitely waking people up. But there is no backing down now! Finally, a voice answers. A male voice. Not the girl I was looking for. Oops.

With a trembling voice, I manage to squeak out “I have baked goods for Ellery?” a phrase which was meant to be a statement but whose intonation went up so much at the end that it sounded like a question on steroids. I am buzzed in and I proceed to open the apartment door without knocking (shocking, I know. But whatever, I already screwed up).

I look around and don’t see anyone, but then again, I don’t have my contacts in, so everything looks blurry. A disembodied voice declares, “I think they wanted all that stuff in the great hall.” I was pretty sure the email said her apartment, but I wasn’t about to argue with a disembodied voice that I had just woken up at 7:30 in the morning. I frantically search the room, desperate to find the source of this voice so that I can look like a semi-intelligent being and look at who I’m talking to. But I fail miserably and end up muttering “oh, I, uh, sorry, my bad” to thin air, and sheepishly back out the door.

I close the door, sigh heavily, and make my way to the great hall. I see tables and things set up inside and lights on, and my heart leaps for joy, thinking “Oh, yay, there are people setting up and I can just give them my baked goods and everything will be ok.” I go to pull open the door and… it’s locked. There are no people inside. I stand there, contemplating my poor scones’ fate. The deadline was 8 AM. I am not going back to those apartments. Maybe I’ll be too late and no one will get to enjoy my hard work! What a tragedy!

Suddenly, I realize that I don’t care. I’ll bring them down later; I tried my hardest. I pick up my disgruntled scones and drag myself back up to my room, plop them on the chair, and snuggle back into bed. However, body decides to be a complete jerk for the second day in a row and doesn’t let me fall back asleep. At all. Not even a little tiny bit. Being fully awake at 8:00 in the morning for no reason is just depressing.

Eventually 8:30 rolls around and I decide that I’m going to try again. This time, the door to the great hall is open, but no one is inside. Not really caring what happens at this point, I saw a table with cookies on it and deposited my dear scones on top. We said our heartfelt goodbyes and parted tearfully, for I knew I would not see all of them again. I naively slumped off to bed for a second time, hefting my tired body up the ladder, being careful not to be impaled my the malicious sky bunk, hoping to get a little bit more sleep. I did not get any more sleep.

Well, when all else fails, it’s breakfast time! I decided that if I couldn’t sleep, I would go eat myself some breakfast. So, I go down to the cafeteria and get myself a nice bowl of instant oatmeal. Although oatmeal looks like a thoroughly unappetizing brown goopey blob of grossness that is waiting for the right moment to congeal itself and attack my sanity, it is quite tasty. But not 5 minutes after I sit down, the 2 people I sit with decide to leave.

Common-senseless girl finds herself sitting alone after a traumatizing morning of failing to act like a normal adult human being, staring out the window and eating her gloopey oatmeal in solitude. A depressing start to a depressing day.

Disclaimer: 5 minutes after I was sitting alone, more people came to join until we had an overflowing table. But mentioning that takes away from the dramatic effect. All is good. Don’t worry about my mental health any more than you already do.

What day is it again?

July 2018
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The Dusty Archives of my Mind

‎"If I went through life by myself, I'd waste a lot of my time wandering around in the wrong direction"