Work In Progress

If I were to start all over again, would I forget everything I've known and start anew?

I can show you my loose tooth as proof

that I am a fighter, not a lover, but that I do love a good fight.

I refuse to kneel before those who tell me I am wrong even though reason screams that I am right.
But don't you ever say that these fists can't become hands that reach out to help you up,

and don't you dare ever say that I've closed my eyes before fear,

because I have seen danger and looked it in the face and not dropped a single tear.
And I learned that I am allowed to laugh, and I am allowed to cry,

but I am not allowed to let pride soar into the sky,

because when it falls down, it will crush your spirit,

and there is nothing you can do about it.

It's vicious, it likes to destroy

a) friends

b) success

c) love

d) all of the above

and I would tell my children that it's not what you think but how you think that matters

And that you can't step over others because you were helped to grow taller

and commitement isn't a prison, it's only being strong enough to trust your own heart.

And trusting isn't a fault, it's learning to fall and fly

and that honesty hurts, but it's better than to tell a crashing lie,

and that it's ok if you're not ok.

And I would tell them that life is not a path, but a maze where you can't go back.

And when you have to dig that tunnel on your own, how easy it is to push others away.

And when you cry for help and no one comes, you'll discover like never before the strength of your own nails, as you dig through the mud that others try to move before you.

And if you ever do come through,

wipe your brow because it's not done, you'll have to keep walking until your legs give out.

And you'll learn that death is inevitable, and how lucky you are to be of those who die,

because how many did not live? How many did you beat to the breath of life and how many did not

even get a chance to race,

and compared to others, you were raised in golden lace.

And when the first tear falls and you get to taste the salt in it,

I hope you know how to dance through the rain, and not wait for it to pass.

I am a fighter, not a lover, but if I could I would tell my children all this so that they don't repeat my mistakes,

so that they can live in a hopefully better world that I helped to make with my own hands for their own sake.  

Writer's block

I've had literally the worst writer's block ever, for the past couple of months. I don't know if you've read my previous blog posts, but the quality has been dropping steadily, until a month ago or so, I haven't been able to write anything at all, even though a bunch of events have taken place in my life. I re read the very last poem that I've written, about a year ago, and it is by far my best one.  I may post it on here at one point.
I'm currently going through a confusing (not difficult, but I'm not sure how to deal with it) ordeal right now, and I've been trying to get my thoughts down on paper. A paragraph just won't cut it, and it's not the type of thing I can write a short story about, since I don't understand what's going on myself. I've been trying to get it down either in a poem or in lyrics, armed with my guitar, but nothing is happening and all I can do is improvise a couple verses that end up boiling down to nothing. I've therefore decided to do a series of writing exercises that have done nothing at all for me. Frustrated that I couldn't find a creative and logical way to summarize my bio notes, I decided to get back in touch with my creative side, as it apparently has helped me to study in the past. I also decided that the "ordeal" afore-mentioned that I'm living is keeping me from concentrating properly, and that writing a poem describing my exact feelings about it would help. So I sat down in the middle of the library, kicked off my shoes (I'm in the hipster library, it's fine, I won't be judged for it) and tried not once, but eight times to start a poem that made sense. Nothing. Therefore, I literally just wrote whatever came to mind, without stopping. I wrote for about two minutes, which is still a lot considering you have to think words for two full minutes, and here's what I came up with:

I have so much to say but I literally cannot get it out

I would love to repeat my successes of the past

but the rhymes are stuck somewhere between

no man's land and the crater that my creativity has

landed in, out of reach, out of bounds. What am I to write

when the words are stuck somewhere in my throat and my fingers

can't find the right keys to press to make a masterpiece,

when my brain is frozen and my thoughts slow as in a fog,

fighting like a parachute-ridden sprint across a grey

landscape, the one they call “writer's block”.

What am I supposed to write when all I want to express is my

frustration as to why I cannot get my feelings out, such as they

tumble out of my brain, out of my heart until they all get stuck

at the threshold of my expressivism, until all I see are

questions in eyes of those that I want to speak to, but cannot reach,

as if communication was the fire to my inner cave man.

I can feel them fighting to get out, but every time I sit down

to right them down other things take over and the words, once so

helpful and friendly, fight me in order to let themselves be hidden once more,

in the prison of a cage of something I can't even define,

when jadis the paper was my escape and the definitions were

subtelties that could help me express one thing over it's synonym's

and only those well written could understand the nuances of

everything that I felt and saw in the world around me.

I've corrected the typos, but apart from that,  I've left the rest untouched, french words and made up words included. I'll be posting the poem that I did write, the one that I like, later on (did I already mention that?) but here is the product of my writer's block. Writing this post is actually much easier than writing the last one (I don't know if you noticed, but it's ridden with typos and it's jerky) and I feel like I'm thinking much clearer, so there's that. 

Veronik

Allienated

Note de l'éditeur: This was really not supposed to become a rant. I started off by thinking I would write about my experience coming from a non-conventional house hold (which is totally an understatement) and getting suddenly thrown into society, but it turned into a development of my mental and psychological issues.
Under no circumstances do I want you to think I suffer or am depressed. It's just how it happened, and I am quite happy with my life :)

I've been sitting in this cafeteria doing homework for the past hour and a half, longingly staring at the Van Houtte twenty feet from me and the wall plus not ten feet away. However, two girls are sitting at the other end of that table and I have to cross the cafeteria to get coffee. And to me, that's worth sitting here, typing on a semi-dark screen so as to save battery on a de-caffeinated brain, surviving on the fumes of freshly brewed coffee. I mean, literally, the only thing that is stopping me is the nagging voice in my head saying that people will judge me if I suddenly get up and move.

When I was younger, I begged my mother to get me out of homeschool and into school. The first day of third grade, armed with a mushroom cut, an ugly sweater (to be fair, I don't remember what I was wearing, but knowing what my wardrobe looked like at that point in my life, I'm fairly sure it was faded jeans and an ugly shirt) and buck teeth, I bravely stood in line, amongst people that already knew each other for four years already. I'd already been to school before, in first grade, at Hélene Gravel. I don't remember much, except for bits and pieces, especially one part where we were standing in line after recess and were expected to sing the school song, which clearly, everyone was expecting me to know, but how could I? I was knew and it was early in the school year. Now that I think of it, it probably wasn't so early in the year, and apparently, I was in gymnastics for a full year, although I can swear I was only there for a bit. I do remember them expecting me to know the full warm up routine and who my teacher was, but I was pretty lost as a young girl.
I blamed it for a long time on my lack of the english but I'm pretty sure I'm just really good at building walls around reality. If I don't want something to exist, I will block it out. I forget the existence of people and events if I need to.

This trick proved useful when I presented in front of classes. Or when I had to talk to strangers, such as the cashier at the store, or someone who smiled at me in the street. Obviously, it's not the perfect solution and it creates more problems than solutions, but at least I can buy things at the store now.

As a little girl, I was confident, helpful, full of joy, intelligent. Slowly, after joining school and not figuring out what a BigMac was until 7th grade (my third grade teacher had mentioned it once in a math class and it had stumped me until some guy who ate McDonald's every day brought three in and everyone was talking about it. I only recently tasted one, and I'm in university), I realized not only did I think everyone but me was stupid and didn't think very much, but also, they thought I was weird. I was always the outsider, not necessarily bullied, but put aside if possible. To be fair, I was pretty much a bitch to everyone, and it only got worst when we got to high school and there were cliques. I eventually made a group of friends who I wasn't so close too until a year or so later, but I always felt put apart.

At one point in eleventh grade, my boss stuck me in a closed booth with some girl from school I absolutely despised, and trust me, it was mutual. I told myself I'd convince her everyone at school was wrong and I was actually not a control freak. For the first two or three weekends, I had to work really hard not to tell her what to do and ask her opinion. Little by little, though, we became good friends and I started trusting her, more than I trusted my best friend. I also slowly started loosening up and realizing not every one was a total idiot. I started talking to people at school, but due to my reputation, I was obviously not well received until stag, where too much alcohol proved that I actually do have a sense of humour hidden somewhere under all the facts accumulated by too much reading.

My grades also dropped. Being logical and friendly all at once was clearly too much, but I'm learning.
Not only did my grades dropped, but so did my confidence. I used to walk into a room like I owned it, strutting and talking loudly, but  the more I smiled when I talked, the meeker I became. I let people start walking all over me, even writing essay outlines for people I barely knew (to be fair, we were a graduating class of 80 people, so when you "barely" knew someone, you knew their full name, their family links, and the general vicinity of their house).

Over the summer, I woke up one morning and it clicked: no one actually cares who you are and what you do. My confidence came back. So did my logical thinking. So did my bad attitude.

When I moved to Montreal, where I got a job with the public and where people are much more vocal about your physical appearance, I became more sweet with people, just as before, in grade 12. I also raked 50% across the board that semester.
This semester, I'm trying to balance it. I'm still trying to figure out how the society works instead of each individual person. The comments are coming back, though. Not exactly bullying, but the fact that in a circle, I'm always standing slightly outside. In a conversation, I'm usually listening, not interjecting. I'm also maybe more sensitive to it, and I take each joke a little bit harder than it's meant.

Every once in a while, the realisation that came over to me this summer hits me in the face. No, no one cares who you. You are literally just another girl in a ponytail, playing a game on your phone, or sitting with your legs crossed. People will brush over you, some thinking about you for a split second, going "She has a pretty face" or "that's an awkward way to sit", but within twenty seconds, maximum, no one will remember you. I know what the girl behind me is wearing because I noticed it when I sat down, but I cannot for the life of me describe her face.
I'm typing this from a plugged computer, right before going to get my coffee before I die. I'm sure I'll do something embarrassing soon enough and go back in my shell, but if I can come out for just a second at a time, I'll be ok.

  

2014

Well hello, fellow new yearers.

My New Year post is way over due, but it is because I was in Sudbury for New Year's and nothing happened.
Literally. I sat in my bed watching Netflix until 12:11, at which point I answered a few texts of Happy New Year and then shut the light, pulled my blankets up to my neck and closed my eyes, quite like any other night.

The New Year, however, oh man. So far, I've started school, which shouldn't come as a big surprise,but this time, I'm feeling pretty confident. There was a whole mix up, involving the fact that my parents wanted me to get into university as fast as possible (I'm actually in prep year right now. So technically, not university, even if I go there and pay for it anyway), but since I couldn't get into McGill (I was missing my physics credit, so I couldn't get in in 2013, and transfers almost never get in unless their grades are amazing, which mine are far from being) or go back to high school to get that credit (there would be no point), or go to LU to start first grade right away (which I thought was a brilliant idea, but my parents weren't enthusiastic) or go to CEGEP (which is two years anyway) I'm pretty much stuck at UofM, which I'm happy about, but my boyfriend isn't.

That's right, I also got myself a boyfriend, which was, I think, a little bit of a shock to my entourage, since they're so used to having me be the independent, Idon'tneedaboyfriend girl in their lives. Anyways, it's long distance, which is nice because I get to focus on my studies, but I am learning it really sucks not being able to see him when I want to. I'm thinking of getting my own personal jet for this situation, actually.

One other major change so far: I've cut my hair. And not in the two-inches-off-and-got-bangs, nono, I'm talking sixteen inches (that's going from my hair squarely touching my butt to it being just passed my shoulders) off, layers in, and died ginger (which is now fading to blonde, thank GOD, as it was supposed to be blonde this whole time).
I'd post pictures, but having me on this blog makes me nervous, so if you know me well enough, go see on facebook.

I've also deactivated (read: gave my friend my password so she could change it and I can't be tempted to go back ever because I have no will power) my facebook until April, which is nice. I liked it the first time I did that, as I think I've mentioned in another post.

Speaking of no will-power, I've also started Breaking Bad, which is a disaster to my social and academic life because I'm totally addicted and it's ruining my life, but I'm almost done so in two seasons I'll be able to resume my normal life. amen. Gonna go watch that right now even though I'm uber tired and have to get up tomorrow, because, really? who needs sleep? not me.

I am the one who knocks,
Veronik 

M sur Masson

I know I'm posting this before my New Year post (which is long overdue) but I needed to write it down before I forgot.

My father had to come down quite unexpectedly to Montreal and on his first night here, he brought Lex, my eldest sister and I to a restaurant.

My father is actually here to visit his grand-father, and trying to be supportive and also erase some of the guilt left over from not visiting him sooner, I offered to join. The only snitch is that I had just come home from school, was at my transfer, and it was 8:30pm when he picked me up there. I therefore did not get to visit my grand-father, who was sleeping, but my father, quite loyal to his habit, brought us to a restaurant on a whim. This time, it was M sur Masson.

Now, every time I go to a restaurant with friends, I describe three aspects of the place: decoration, food, and price. However, my sister is a graduated chef from l'ITHQ and my father is quite a foodie, so critizing the food seems somehow wrong... especially that having lived in Sudbury all my life, and therefore having mostly gone out there, I know just enough of grill and sports bars to know that the deco is generic and the food is mildly bad. Therefore, I don't know what the difference between good and excellent food is. I will, however, describe it to the best of my ability, as well as the rest of the night, starting from the beginning.

As I've mentioned before, it was a total impulse decision, one that was clearly on going when I stepped into the car, my sister and my father whipping out app names and search bars in order to find the best rated, reasonably-priced, open restaurant in the near vicinity. We almost decided on Phuket at that point, because that's pretty much what we were almost all feeling (I have to give credit to my sister on that one, although I did giggle like an idiot for ten minutes and felt the need to put it in here). As it was a quick decision, neither my sister or I were completely dressed for the occasion. Luckily, I'd pulled out a shirt with lace and a necklace that morning and I was almost acceptable, but my sister was wearing a dress over jeans (2003, anyone?), so she stopped by a dollar store to grab nylons and ended up looking quite stunning. Meanwhile, my father and I walked around the block, me resisting going up to every stray cat and my father undoubtedly resisting the urge to get a spray bottle (my father is not a cat person).
When we finally did enter the restaurant, we came nose to nose with heavy, red, velvet curtains. Standing, crowded in the small space, we were unsure what to do until my father pushed them aside and walked in. We followed and found ourselves in a "chic" bistro-like setting. Low lights, dark wood, wooden stairs with spaces between each step, artistically half-painted ceilings and bathrooms that were marked "W/C" printed white on a matted glass door. Clearly, this place was chic. And the people that went there were supposed to be chic. Until it wasn't. I mean, supposed to be all snob like classy. The people there looked like they were quietly enjoying themselves, dressed on the nice casual side (not casual nice - jeans were a little under, but pants on ladies were acceptable) and the waiter that we had was polite but not extravagant. It's a water-is-served-in-a-glass-bottle while there are fake plants (without a trace of dust, mind you) lining the counter behind you place.
We took our time ordering from the two-dozen or so itemed menu. I had the hardest time remembering the specials that had been specified to us, so I ordered something from the menu. My sister and I shared a tripe cassoulet as an entrée, then moved on to the main course. My father had ribs with fried sweet potato squares, I had a steak bavette with fries and my sister had hare ravioli.

I've never been a fan or ribs unless they're barbecued, charred and a summer dish, but my father's dish was good. My sister's ravioli were rich, flavourful (sooo many flavours. One after the other, in your mouth. So miam) and overall delicious. My father said that they were the best meal on the table that night, and he's probably right, but I was craving a steak and fries and my dish was pretty darn perfect. The steak was perfectly seasoned, cooked pretty much to perfection (I had asked au bleu, but it was more of a very rare. Which is what I usually look for, but am too shy to ask because I'm not doing that to any chef, ever. Working in a restaurant changes you). and the fries were oh-so-crispy and just the right amount of oil.
We ended dinner by sharing two pears poached in beet juice, sitting on pistachio paste and accompanied by banana ice cream sprinkled with pure cocoa between the three of us. I'm not really sure what the pistachio paste was doing there, and the pears hadn't been poached or decorqued correctly, but it was still pretty damn awesome, and it's something I'll be trying in the near (hopefully future)

I ate way too much, but I am so glad to have spent time with my father and my sister, both of whom I don't see nearly enough.

Final verdict? If ever you're in Montreal, you can try M sur Masson, but there are tons of restaurants that are "typical Montreal". A little bistro feel with a "chic" environment, polite servers and pretty awesome food. There's always a new one to try, with new items on the menu you've surely never tried. I've never noticed how tired I was of bix-boxed, loud, commercial, bright-lighted restaurants with reheated prepped-two-days-in-advanced food until I met Montreal's greatest charm: little cozy places, where sitting and talking comes naturally. 

Christmas

Well, it's been a ride. Family's in and all that, for five days. I've picked up extra shifts and done zero workouts. I'm now in Sudbury, for Invisalign, round number two.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, can we please talk about the fact that I made pies. Because I'm pretty damn proud of my pies. I made two lemon meringue pies, from scratch, for the very first time in my life, in my wayyy under-stocked grand mother's kitchen, using unfamiliar and old equipement and they turned out pretty rad. Pics or it didn't happen, you say? No problem :)

 This is the dough. I thought I had a picture of it rolled out somewhere but I can't find it anywhere. Which is a shame, because that ball of beige stuff turned out to be a gorgeous, white, thin dough for my pie.

 Here is the first crust, you can see where I messed up and filled it in. I didn't know the sides had to be pinched so it's a little thin on those but I managed to not rip it.

 I ended up not making enough holes in the dough on the side of the plate, so there were air pockets. This is attempt numba one, and the crust is full of air pockets but it was flaky and delicious, so I decided to use it as a shell anyway.

 Here is one pie full (the first one, with the air pockets) of delicious lemon curd (made from scratch, which was a suprisingly entertaining and easy task) and the second attempt. Still some air pockets but I'm starting to get the hang of it.

 Here it is, with meringue. In the confusion of christmas and eighteen eager cooks (I'm barely exaggerating, here) in the the kitchen, it got slightly burnt, but apparently the inside was perfectly gooey and the outside was lightly crisp, so that turned out ok. I'm pretty damn proud of it, and I'm also hoping that it wasn't just beginner's luck. There's only one way to find out (who wants pie? ;) )

I had a bit of dough left over, and a project I saw on Pinterest (praise that site) sprung to mind. I've never done apple pie before and I don't know how to make an apple pie mix so I kind of stuck butter, brown sugar, white sugar and cinnamon in the microwave, took it out and rolled my apple slices in there, lined my apple with crust, put the apples in, and topped it with more dough (as seen above) and ovenned it. It was disgusting. But then again, I don't like apple pie. and I also improvised. So there you have it.

Peace out my friends, as I am about to go see The Hobbit; Part 2, (which I will then write a rant and review about, don't you worry your pretty little minds) and I can't wait.

Veronik

Pre-Christmas

So many things have happened since my last post. For one, I went back to Sudbury, which was a twelve hour long journey (I wrote a post about it on the bus, that I will maybe post later on) and three days of whirlwind-like coffee dates, sushi dates, tim-bit dates, study dates and phone dates, as long as trying to cram as much study time (study dates, you see, do not count as studying, because even though your books are open in front of you, you'll be damned if you can't beat that level in candy crush for your study partner) as I could, since it was the weekend before finals. Of course, that wasn't my best move, and I did pay the price for it when I was forced to cancel a movie with my group of best friends when I realized I wasn't going to be able to tackle three chapters of bio on two hours of sleep (I need a minimum of four per night if I want to stay semi-fonctional). At this point, my body had already slipped into zombie mode, where even though I was running on three hours of sleep, I was still able to appear like I was doing useful things, but when my friends texted me that there had been a mix up and that, long story short, I'd be getting home around 1 am, I was absolutely unable to face it and canceled the whole thing. My best friend, Sarah, joined me for the afore-mentioned timbit date, and stayed until 11 pm while the rest of the crew followed the original plan and caught the movie before presenting Jen with her birthday gift. Said birthday gift was tickets to Hedley, and I gave money to Sarah so that she could pass it on to Kelsey, who had bought the gift. Later, I learned that there had been a definitive cold  (definitely a frenchisism here) that passed between the girls, and it had nothing to do with December weather. I'm supposed to be going back to Sudbury for Invisalign, round two, in late December, so I'll see if I can fix it since I won't have the stress of exams pressing down on my shoulders.

Speaking of, I've apparently survived my first final exams in university, although half my hair and my dignity haven't. I have seriously thought of dropping out of school, and at least 1/8th of the time I had to be studying for chemistry was used for considering serious options that had nothing to do with school. Free lance writing, for example. And then I remembered most of my hits were 140 characters long and I dropped that idea.
My grades, honestly, aren't the best, and I am thinking of taking that semester again, but we'll see what the school tells me after I finish this one, where I intend to bust my ass, even if it kills me. Hopefully it gives me better results, as I have a calculus class, physics, organic chemistry and evolutionnary biology, which is far from a walk in the park.

I've been unaccustomly quiet on social medias lately, and by lately, I mean after exams, where every fifteen minutes, my followers could read a short, but not sweet message about school. I managed to keep my frustration down and not set half the campus on fire through panicked texts to Dee, always there to tell me to shut up and study (what would I do without her), and frustrated tweets. Thankfully, my facebook friends did not have to suffer through this with me, because Dee had switched my password, effectively stopping me from using facebook as a procrastinating device.
Since, in my genius stupidity, I've managed to trick Google Nanny into letting me see my Procrastinating Sites (herefore called PSs), I've also blocked them. Definitively. No time slots, no timer, nothing. I'm not sure how many of you use it, but if you do, you know how much of a pain it is to change it back and I have therefore not been on my PSs since the beginning of my exams, even though I finished four days ago. So far, I've cleaned the house (who really needed it), did the laundry and somewhat regulated my eating schedule (Friday, the day of my last exam, I had a bagel, officially the first non-caffeinated thing I'd had in four days in a row). I've also started the huge stack of books that I had been longingly drooling over for four months now and I've just returned from an exam jury, signifying my semester is officially done and over with. I've been picking up extra shifts while I can, though, so I'm not exactly on vacation. I also have to find myself a dentist and a doctor in Montreal, so I definitely won't be sitting by the fireplace this winter. 

However, I leave you before I write an entire novel, but I'm sure I'll be back with more adventures as Christmas with the family starts (I intend to be at the gym most of the time) and also when my new semester starts.