Football and Thanksgiving

This weekend in Canada is apparently what one calls Thanksgiving. Also known in scandinavian countries as tacksängelsdagen, all relating to some sort of ‘thanks.’ For whatever reason, in North America, with thankgiving comes football; more prominantly in the United States where they have their huge shin-dig about the overweight ball players that can’t run any faster than a morbidly obese grandpa with a cane and arthritis.

That having said, I took my heckling attitude to the pitch yesterday to cheer on the Mounties (whoo go ducks!), and surprise to me is that they came back and tied Acadia in the final minutes, only to loose in overtime shootout. There were not many people there, holidays and all, and the weather was perfect for tanning. Thus Rania, Emily and I all headed down and were met by Chey and Ayla, and we named ourselves the International Cheering Section. We all know nothing of football, except Emily cause she’s from Maine. We just laughed and made fun of the kickers, but two of them were really cool and did this handshake with a body slam.

I was pleased and a smile came to my face.

But what of Thanksgiving you say? Well I was awoken quite rudely this morning of the wailing that was coming from the general direction of Hussian’s room and the kitchen. Ben bought a turkey for what I refer to affectionately as “the fiasco” for obvious reasons. Hussian was degutting it, I assume, and as usual she’s screaming and yelling at, disturbingly, isn’t the top of her lungs.

I find that it’s tolerable on a normal day, when she’s in her room talking with someone and her voice carries to a point where even at a normal conversation level, I can hear her from the wall, clear as rain. She just has a voice that is booming and powerful, and thus she’s not descreet… At all. In any case, whilst laying in bed, I smiled inside my head slightly when she was complaining about the guts, but since I want nothing to do with the fiasco over here at The Red Light District, I’m going to meal hall tonight and have some real food.

Plus I fixed my door, bought cleaning supplies, and forgot to do laundry. What does this mean? It means that on Ben and Sebrina’s days, I’m going to use the laundry machine just like they do on mine. What’s the point of being control freaks, and inforcing strict rules when you don’t follow them yourselves? It screams hypocracy, quite frankly. But having said that, the next time somebody uses my laundry day, Friday, without asking me, I will stop it in the middle of the load, remove the clothing, and use it myself.

Don’t like it? Lump and deal with it.

PS: I dispise the fact that I’ve been taking refuge in the library recently. I feel like I’m catching some sexually transmitted disease by sitting on those chairs in a public space… *ick*

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