Kill The Goat

2012-01-22T21:45:00.004-05:00

For a long time, blogging was very fullfulling for me.

I started to see life in terms of how I would post it: something interesting (or banal but potentially still worthy) would happen, and my brain would ZING with words, excited to put it down and hit publish.

And then I fell away from it.

But you don't stop being filled with something that needs to come out.

I still have a lot that wants to come out and meet the world.

These days, I'm making connections with brides instead of bloggers.

I make wedding invitations.

I make really beautiful, glamourous, high-end, unique wedding invitations.

I make a small contributions to people's love and happiness.

I make something meaningful.

Sure it's business, but to me it's so much more.

I'm not trying to make a lot of money, I'm just enjoying being a working artist with a little studio and lots of lovely ideas.

Everytime I put a little sparkle into someone's day, a little bling, a little glamour, a little luxury - there's just something satisfying in that.

Taylor Made is a work of love - not just invitations, but wedding stationery: the thank you cards, the ceremony programs, the favour tags, the wine bottle labels...I love the layers. I love the love.

http://www.taylormadewithlove.com

2011-06-06T11:43:00.002-04:00

The doctor calls it a herniated disc, but I call it a good excuse to stay home on a sunny day.

Destination Unknown

2010-09-07T18:46:00.002-04:00

The term honeymoon apparently originated because friends and family were supposed to supply the newlywed couple with enough mead to last their "sweetest period" - which was estimated to be about a month.

Did anyone ever stop to think that maybe it was the wine making them sweet, and that if the couple kept drinking, maybe they'd also keep up the good times? Could we impact the divorce rate by subscribing newlyweds to the wine of the month club?

It's not that I wouldn't mind being showered with wine by our kith and kin - lovely vintages selected by Sean's parents, "flavoured" wines found in the 'party' section with a sugar content higher than alcoholic content donated by my sisters, random bottles lovingly given to my non-wine-drinking mother as end of the school year gifts from students regifted and probably still with original wrapping (and gift tag!) attached, and of course the cheap boxes of whatever was on the aisle and grabbed hurriedly by my broke and disorganized friends (sound familiar, Kate?) - it's just that my work (if not my liver) would probably object to this stewed state lasting literally until the moon had done its cycle.

The post-wedding vacation that we're craving might turn out to be almost as long anyway. We want to "do" Europe, as they say, and to do it well, we're going to need more than just a few days. But we're also going to need sunnier skies and more clement weather than February usually provides. So we're postponing it until summer and sunshine, knowing full well that it will more crowded and more expensive and more aggravating. But more us.

However, never the types to pass up an excuse to vacation, we're planning a February honeymoon ANYWAY. The kind with sunburns and sand and salllllllllty margaritas.

And king size beds.

But where is this?

Not the Dominican Republic, this much we know.
(I was married there in another life)

Probably not Mexico, or the Bahamas either, since I travelled to both those countries in 2010 and though beautiful, I like to expose my passport to new and interesting stamps.

So where does that leave us?

Pitch us your honeymoon! Tell us where to go! Where have you been? What did you love? What do you hear good things about?

Pick our honeymoon, and we'll be sure to send a postcard.

Peace By Piece

2010-08-30T00:07:00.003-04:00

This weekend really ended well for having started out with sobbing. Big, fat, uncontrollable sobbing.

Friday was the anniversary of Rory's death. This is not the kind of anniversary you celebrate, just...mark. And to mark it, because I had to, because it has certainly marked me, I wanted to visit her grave. In theory.

In reality, to visit her grave, I'd have to also drive by the place on the road where she died. Where her blood soaked into the ground and now fertilizes weeds. Where she spent her last conscious moments.

At home I have gotten to the good place where I remember the good times, and smile about them. I can look at photos without dissolving into tears. At the cemetery I can think of her "resting peacefully", or elegantly disintegrating back into the earth, dust to dust. That's nice.

But driving by that spot, THAT SPOT, with the underwhelming marker that doesn't convey one ounce of her preciousness, the corpses of flowers dead almost as long as she...I come undone. Rory's legal death happened almost 48 hours after her accident, in a hospital bed, surrounded by unbelieving relatives, and me. But her life ended on the pavement. And that spot makes me dwell on those last moments, whether the last thing she saw was the road as it rushed toward her, panic filling her lungs, and then terror, and then dark. Or did she lie there feeling the life rush out of her, regretting, already missing her daughter, feeling the pain of crushed bones and organs and dreams?

So I didn't go.

Instead, I was kind to myself. I took a rare night off work. I drank in sunshine and good conversation, and yes, daiquiris. Mango daiquiris! Banana-strawberry daiquiris! Between those and the gellato (lychee and cantaloupe), I've had enough servings of fruit for the week!

We walked for miles and miles, sweaty hand in sweaty hand, just to see what we could see. The flats I wore gave me 9 blisters (my feet were made for heels) and really earned the humongous steaks we ordered for dinner, along with a sharing platter that held the most beautiful black olive tapenade and smoked salmon that could turn a doubter into a believer.

We went to the drive-in, passing by the house that Rory last called her home, and I felt fine. Finer than fine. I was good.

We a saw a truly terrible movie (The Expendables), followed by a pretty forgettable one (The Switch). And we didn't mind because we sat together in the back seat and acted like obnoxious 10th graders. It was divine.

We slept sumptuously, our concave little bodies cradling each other, and woke up smiling. Maybe we knew that good news was on its way: my sister is engaged. Yes, another one. That's 3 out of 4 sisters, in case you're keeping tally. My mother wants to throw up (from happiness, I'm sure. I know I've thrown up from happiness many times before. Of course, as far as I'm concerned, "happiness" and "champagne" are interchangeable.)

And now I'm back at work, a 13 hour shift, the first of 12. It sounds a bit brutal, but I am recharged. And, in the likely event that my batteries don't last the entire stretch of work, I've also got my eye on the next great weekend:

I'm booking a weekend at a thrillingly expensive couples-only resort (and trying not to work out in my mind the number of hours I'll have to work to pay for it), treating myself and my honey to a private spa villa that has a fireside jacuzzi, a sauna, a calming 4-headed rain forest walk-in shower, a bed big enough for our imaginations, 5-star room service, a masseuse who will come to the room, and enough space to grow my heart and be at peace. Really, really at peace.

I'm Still Here.

2010-08-26T16:07:00.005-04:00

Wow, it's been a while.
Here we are in the Bahamas, and yes, we did come back.
We came back engaged!
(That ring on my finger, though beloved, was replaced by a diamond that was waiting for me when we got back).
He got down on one knee on the beach, at midnight, on our 6 month anniversary.
It was perfect.

We have 2 pups: Herbie is amazing, as always, and Gertie is his constant companion. They love the dog park, the cottage, bacon, and each other.

I got divorced!
Sean, conveniently, is a lawyer, and infinitely patient.

So now we're planning a wedding (for February) but not before my little sister plans hers first!
Perhaps not surprisingly, it's her wedding that has me all emotional.
Suddenly, she is a woman, in love, beautiful, and ready to start a family.
I feel old.
But also blessed, and excited.

And tomorrow marks the 1 year anniversary of Rory's passing.
Grief has changed me. Life has changed me.

I will miss her always.
I remember her laugh, her fingernails, the way she pulled on a beer, the dizzying feeling of embarking on an adventure together.
I remember the day she got engaged and barely took the time to say yes before she called me up and demanded my services as maid of honour.
The wedding never happened, but now, planning mine, I feel her loss keenly.
I bought my wedding dress by myself because I knew that anyone else's presence would just highlight Rory's absence.
I know that she would be happy for me, and I know that I am absurdly happy for myself, and I know that happiness multiplies, and I feel that, every day.

Against Medical Advice

2010-01-18T00:30:00.003-05:00

The doctor assures me that Monday's surgery will go very well and that recovery, though lengthy and painful, shouldn't have any complications as long as I take it easy, keep my stitches dry, stay away from the sun to prevent scarring and don't risk infection by exposing the incision to the germs in hot tubs or swimming pools.

I'm going to the Bahamas on Friday.

Clean up in aisle 69.

2010-01-09T22:17:00.002-05:00

Standing in the express lane at the grocery store, I wonder if the cashier will realize that all my items are foods I intend to lick off of someone's penis.

Sweetest Words.

2009-12-30T00:31:00.002-05:00

Sean, a chronic un-morning person, has requested a morning wake up call, so I climb on top of him and put my tongue down his throat. Just a little.

Mmm, he says, you make waking up so good but actually getting out of bed so hard.

I'll take that.

Love & Loss

2009-09-25T05:21:00.004-04:00

I met him this summer.
I fell in love with him this summer.
I am in love with him.

I knew that I was in love with Sean 4 weeks ago today, when my best friend's sister called me to say that Rory had been in an accident, and had hours left to live, and could I get to the hospital in time to say goodbye.

I was numb. I didn't believe it. Sean drove me to the hospital because I couldn't even get my fingers to hold a key. I really believed that it might be a prank. Even when the nurse confirmed that she was in the ICU, I didn't feel it in my bones.

I would have walked right by her bed had I not recognized the blubbering mass outside her room as her family. Her sister sat pale and still on one side of the bed, holding a hand that couldn't squeeze back.

The mess in the bed was not my best friend. It wasn't the girl who danced against me at the club, who clinked my glass before dinner, rubbed my back when I was sad, left dirty texts on my cell phone, borrowed my shoes, craved my mixed CDs. It wasn't just that she was unrecognizable, though she was. Completely. What was left of her face was swollen, purple, gaping, raw. The rest of her was simply mangled. Mostly, though, it was the emptiness of her. My Rory was gone, and I knew it even as I stroked her bloodied hair and held her limp, unfeeling hand.

Bleeding internally, her organs had already started to shut down. A pump emptied black blood from her stomach. Tubes forced her to breathe, because she would not have on her own. Her parents and grand parents had gathered to make their peace, and they made room for me, gave me the honoured seat by her side, and told me the stories that Rory had told them. They told me how much she had loved me. In their own grief, they consoled me. It took hours for her heart to stop, the longest hours that I've ever lived, and the last that she ever would.

He stayed.
He wouldn't go home, he wouldn't leave me. When I walked out of her room that first time, as the shock had begun to set in and the waves of grief and loss and anger and confusion had start to hit, he was exactly as I had left him, and he took me in his arms and held me until I soaked his shirt right through.

I felt like I had been fighting it for a while. I was resistant. I wasn't even sure if love would ever find me again. I'd had it once, and it expired, and maybe that was it for me. I wasn't looking for it, and didn't expect to find it. But I'd been feeling familiar twinges and wasn't entirely sure how I felt about it - whether I was ready, whether I could admit it, whether it was real.

But that night, that awful, awful night, I knew.
And it's hard to say that.
It should be impossible to feel your heart expanding even as it's contracting.
Shouldn't it?

Today I was in a store where I'd brought Rory just a few months ago, after she broke up with her fiance. I'd treated us both to pink sundresses that we wore to drink matching drinks on sunny days. That dress made her feel beautiful.
Mine is in my closet; hers is under ground.
I'm glad I didn't know then what I know now.

The past 4 weeks have been hell. Sometimes I go a couple of days between cries, and sometimes I'm lucky if it's a couple of hours. She would have turned 30 last week, but she didn't.

The past 4 weeks have also been beautiful. Sean is thoughtful and tender and he's good at knowing when I need quiet and when I need to be lectured on the brilliance of Randy Moss (actually, on second thought, note to Sean: never). He makes me laugh, often without trying, and he does this adorable squiggly thing with his eyebrows that he's not even aware of but that can make me melt. He sings wretchedly, and often, especially bad 80s tunes and country songs that he makes up.

And though he never met her (which kills me with regret, every fucking day), he tells me that he knows her, through me. Through the stories that he lets me tell and the photos and the memories and the tears.

A friend of the family had a baby recently, and 2 days later her father dropped dead of a heart attack. I don't like this cliche about life giving and life taking away. I don't think Sean is a replacement for Rory. A good thing happened, and a bad thing happened. They exist simultaneously, even if it seems incongruous. I walked out of that hospital room, shattered but alive. My life goes on, love & happiness, loss & grief, all of it together in a jumble that's hard to decipher sometimes. I'm still trying to figure it out. And I'm lucky. Not just because I have Sean, but because for a time, I had Rory.

Anatomy of a Birthday Gift

2009-08-06T20:04:00.002-04:00

Jay: What are we getting Luc for his birthday?

Matt: I don't know, what do you get for the guy who buys himself everything he wants?

Jay: Um...something he doesn't want?

Matt: That works. At least then we won't have to worry about getting him the same thing as someone else did.

Jay: Exxxxxactly.

When everything seemed like the movies.

2009-07-25T05:53:00.003-04:00

I am unsuspecting in my car when the radio serves me up a little piece of nostalgia: Iris, by the Goo Goo Dolls.

I had just turned 17 the summer it first played on the air. More than a decade later I can still taste 1998 like it was yesterday (a mixture of skittles and peppermint schnapps and my mother's linguine salad).

I was in the middle of my first love. He brought me camping. He made me mudslides. He played me the Armageddon song on his guitar and I hoped that the starlight and the flames from our fire were not enough for him to see me blush. I still remember the thrill of another camper referring to me as his wife. It was glorious and it was heady and it felt so fucking important, like this was it, and I'd damn well better be paying attention.

I was.

I remember cherry lip gloss and wearing doc martens with shorts and sitting upside down on a bean bag chair to talk on the phone for hours. I remember sleeping until 1pm and stalking MTV to catch my favourite videos and The Smashing Pumpkins poster on my wall. I remember my short spiky hair and how cool it was and how much gel it took to accomplish and how it melted in the rain at the big outdoor festival we went to and got sunburned at.

I remember half-seeing movies at the drive-in theatre and skinny dipping in the river and a pair of oversized Rice Krispie boxer shorts I inherited from the dead client of a family friend.

I remember dancing to that song so many times. I remember the ill-advised long red floral skirt that I would wear and the way we would sway and how it felt when the lights got turned down low and how my heart almost permanently beat quickly because everything was so exciting all of the time.

I remember the terribleness at the dinner table when my parents told us they were splitting up. I remember leaving our home and moving to my grandparents' basement and the dread of changing schools, leaving my friends, missing out. The pity in well-meaning faces. My sisters, inconsolable. My mother, terrified and exhilarated, pretending to be neither.

I remember the stolen kisses and the not knowing and the secrets, some shared, others kept.

I remember tears and fears and learning what it means to be strong.

And I remember always, always turning the volume up when our song came on the radio, and for once really understanding what they were singing about.

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive

2009-07-17T01:11:00.003-04:00

Tonight, I cried myself through a movie, and my dog curled up on my chest to console me.
He's losing his baby teeth. I'm rubbing his gums and letting him use my fingers as chew toys.
I gave him a paw-dicure.
I'm teaching him how to high-5.
I'm thinking it's a good thing I don't have cats.

Excuse me, Miss...

2009-06-11T19:45:00.001-04:00

A man walks up to me at the grocery store and says "I'd like to pop one of your tits out of your dress and gnaw on it like a gummie bear."

A total stranger.

True story.

Punchbuggy (black and) blue!

2009-05-29T01:03:00.000-04:00

I had forgotten about this game, hadn't thought of it in probably a decade.

But for about ten seconds, it had been an obnoxious and not very entertaining way to pass time in the car.

It's one of those unforgiving, unskilled games that when played correctly leaves bruises.

What you do is: keep your eyes peeled.

When you zoom by a Volkswagen Beetle, be the first to scream Punchbuggy blank! (where blank is the colour of the car) while punching your companion in the arm with conviction and maximum knuckle.

It's an easy enough "game" to forget about, except when you're driving a little love bug yourself and witnessing (and in fact, inciting) incidents of abuse everywhere you go. Funny how they neglect to warn you about that at the dealership.

This blog is worth every penny.

2009-05-22T06:24:00.001-04:00

Find a penny, pick it up
All day long you'll have good luck

But what's so lucky about a penny, really?
You know what's lucky?
A 20 dollar bill, that's what.
Or a gift card to the liquor store.
But a penny?
Pennies aren't even worth the effort of bending over to retrieve them when you accidentally dump out your coin purse.

The only thing besides luck that a penny will buy you is a thought.
And when people "penny for your thoughts' me, I tend to get insulted.
One bloody cent? Really? Is that all you think I'm worth? I'm sitting here with this really great, nearly original, somewhat lascivious thought in my head, and all you'll give me is a fucking penny? I don't think so, chump.

Luck and thoughts must be the only two things in the whole entire world that haven't suffered inflation. Even a one-cent stamp costs more than a penny (thank you, sales tax!).

Pennies are so ridiculous that they're worth more as raw materials than the amount they're stamped with as currency. If you melt a penny down and sell it to a copper dealer, they'd owe you about 2 cents. It takes 4 cents to make the 1-cent piece. It costs the Canadian people $130 million a year to keep them in circulation even though there are already 20 billion of them floating around. The reason? People don't actually use them as money. They throw them in fountains, collect them in pickle jars, fill up the cracks in their car seats with them (and then maybe clog their vacuums with them). Any reasonable human being would not stoop over to pick up a dropped penny (I myself will not stoop for less than $1) and some people will even throw them out, out of pure penny-disgust, I assume. This is such a rampant problem that they've actually made it illegal to put them to the garbage (this, of course, has proved largely unenforceable). Even homeless people, who dumpster-dive and fight rats for aluminum cans will leave pennies on the ground.

It's hard to take the penny seriously as currency when even the Currency Act says that no business is obligated to take more than 25 pennies during one transaction. If you can't use pennies to pay for things, and you can't stick them into ATM deposit envelopes, then aren't they...not actually money?

And if they're not money, then they're just grubby germ-infested copper discs that weigh down your pockets or misshape your wallet.

Only 37% of Canadians actually use them and they'll all be dead within a decade (not from using pennies, but from old age - because they're old). If you're in a rush, or you have to pee, or you can think of anything you'd rather be doing than standing in line at the grocery store, then it's guaranteed that a very old, very shaky, and nearly blind senior citizen will be rooting through his or her stash of coins looking for exact change. It's geezers like Matty's Aunt Penelope who keep the penny alive (barely). She remembers "when a penny was worth something." When told of our anti-penny stance, Aunty Penny fondly recalled a time when penny candy wasn't just a figure of speech. But for those of us with a serious sweet tooth, we know that a trip to Sugar Mountain can cost us quite a pretty penny. But this day in age, when the cheapest long distance rate is ten cents a minute, gum balls are 25, and calls from a pay phone half a dollar, pennies have become all but obsolete.

Our moronic Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, explains our $130 million annual expenditure on worthless coins with some nostalgia: "I'm a coin collector from way back and I'd hate to lose the continuity of the penny," he said.

Ah, continuity.
I love when people use the "because that's just how things have always been" excuse.
Such a valid argument.
Let's count our lucky pennies he wasn't around during, say, abolition.

In fact, it's statements like that which inspire perhaps the only credible alternative use for pennies.
I don't like to throw around words like 'assassination' , but a sock full of pennies might just teach an important lesson.

Oh, I kid, I kid.
I'm not the type to arm myself with coin-based weaponry.
I'm not even the type to wish any real harm to Harper, whom I'm sure is a nice enough guy if only he was in charge of, say, a hot dog cart instead of my country. I wouldn't mind sending him somewhere that would neutralize him a bit though...like maybe an ice floe up in the Arctic where he could learn some fucking respect for the baby seals.

In the meantime, I'll just keep giving stupid politicians my two cents worth by flushing my pennies down public toilets.
That'll show em.

Herbie The Wonder Dog

2009-05-19T20:26:00.010-04:00

I had a couple of failed adoption attempts back in March, and they broke my heart. They reminded me of going to the SPCA in search of the perfect companion and walking by cage after cage of big dogs with sad eyes wanting so badly to be the one that came home with me that their pleading energy was palpable. I left because I knew that large breeds were unsuitable for apartment living, but was heart sick to leave them all behind.

I cried.

My sister adopted Tucker, a beagle mix, from her local SPCA and they both fell so immediately in love with each other that when she left on a week-long trip he suffered separation anxiety even though he was well cared for. Another sister adopted a golden retriever named Charlie who has boundless energy but doesn't bark because his previous owner duct taped his mouth shut.

I wanted one too, but twice the adoptions fell through at the last minute, leaving me emotionally attached and unfulfilled. But the moment I held Herbie in my arms for the first time, I knew it was meant to be. He was meant to come home with me.

Herbie is 5.5 pounds of pure crazy. He rips around my apartment as if it's his own personal obstacle course, deking around chairs, body-checking himself off my bed, bounding out of corners, flying off the couch, and all at the highest speeds achievable by 2-inch legs. And then he'll tire himself out, flop over onto his back, and sleep soundly with his belly exposed and all 4 paws in the air.

He loves car rides and walks. He makes friends wherever he goes. People constantly stop us on the street to say how cute he is, but they needn't bother, because he already knows it. His favourite part of the day is walking down the hall to the trash chute. He often finds treasures along the way: once some takeaway fries, and another time a coffee stir stick that he idolised for 30 whole seconds. Fortunately for Herbie, we take that walk many times a day because Herbie, though small, makes an impressive amount of waste.

Herbie has two girlfriends. One is a rubber chicken named Dolores whom he cuddles with at night and does naughty things to make her bawk during the day. The other is a border collie mix named Mika who is nearly 5 times his size. Mika licks him until he's dripping with her slobber and then they run together, Herbie running underneath her legs in perfect time. When Herbie grabs onto her, she swipes him around as if he's a mop, and they both seem to think that this is great fun.

Herbie has an excellent nose for fun. Everything is a game with him. He likes to collect all of his toys and pile them in his bed. He seems to believe that his bed is his home base, perhaps protected by a magic force field because if he hides something there, he truly believes that no one can ever find it. If he gets ahold of your shoe, guaranteed he runs toward his bed with it. Once it's there, it's his. And it's awfully funny to see Herbie carting around objects that are often bigger than he is. Even shoes can outweigh him, but he's persistent and tireless and he gets the job done. Underwear and socks are particular favourites of his and if I can't find Herbie, he's usually burrowed in my laundry basket having the time of his life. I'm pretty sure that when they say all dogs go to heaven, they mean a big stinking pile of dirty clothes.

Sure there are things I never thought I'd hear myself say until I had a Herbie:

Please stop licking my armpit.

Quit humping Max Keeping!

Make a poopie and then we can cuddle.

Please stop doing unmentionable things to my shoe.

If you keep sticking your head between the balcony rungs, it's gonna get stuck.

I appreciate your amorous efforts, but my arm isn't getting anything out of that.

But no matter how you slice it, no matter who has recently peed on my duvet or stopped to poop at a busy intersection or knocked all the bottles off the edge of the tub, I love this little guy. It helps that he has those proverbial puppy dog eyes. He's just too easy to forgive. But I know that I am fortunate, and that he was worth the wait.

He makes my home a happier place.

You just have to watch where you step.

I fell off.

2009-05-18T03:49:00.001-04:00

Two girls walk into a car dealership.

No, that's not the opening line to a really bad joke.

That's just the next logical step in the life of a newly licensed driver.

Granted, it's kind of a big step for someone who's only had a license for 5 days, but I'm nothing if not impetuous. One salesman told us enigmatically that if we walked around to the lake, any big fish that we caught we could take home for free. Another one told me that the car I was test driving was for "girls and fags." I told him it was a good thing I was a little bit of both. When another asked if Rory and I were roommates (roommates mind you, the kind that induce eyebrow wiggling and crotch grabbing, not simply roommates that split the rent), we were starting to get just a little put out. A good (guy) friend of mine offered to come with me to kick the wheels and such but I was stomping around car lots with an I-don't-need-a-man mentality.

And I didn't, in the end.

Weird conversation with Litgo:

Litgo is admiring my killer silver heels.

Me: My shoes can do way more damage than your shoes.

Him: In more ways than one.

Me: ?

Him: My shoes are vegan.

Me: Your shoes don't eat meat?

Confession:

I fell off the bandwagon of the 40-day challenge.
Well, actually, I was pushed.
I fainted.
I took a shortcut to restoring my blood sugar and I'm not really sorry about it either.
But now I'm back on, and I'm willing to add on extra days for penance.

Bad Haircut Blues

2009-05-13T02:55:00.003-04:00

She called me in tears.
Is it only women who cry over their hair?
After weeks of flipping through the pages of sample magazines, agonizing over the perfect colour, psyching herself up for a significant cut, and saving up the equivalent of half a month's rent, she strode into her hair dresser's armed with a photo and some courage.
She told the hair dresser exactly what she wanted.
And like many hair dressers, this one told her why she was a moron, why it wouldn't work, what she would do instead.
And then she did it.
And it was bad.
How do hair dressers get away with treating clients so shoddily? I thought only airlines could do that. But apparently hair dressers are extended this special privilege also. Whatever happened to the customer is always right? Or even remotely right?

Okay, so maybe they take one look at the photo of Angelina's hair and they know without a shadow of a doubt that it's just not going to translate well to our less-than-lustrous, thinning, kind-of-limp hair. And maybe this other style they have in mind really would suit us better. But if it's not what we want, why are we forced to get it?
If I go into a dress shop and pick out a pretty blue frock, the sales lady will not tell me "Actually dear, that's all wrong for you, let me sell you this ugly green jumper instead, it's really more your style."
If you go to a restaurant and order the lasagna, the waiter is not going to say "Um, no, I don't trust your judgement, let me bring you the grilled salmon instead."
And yet hair dressers don't care what we want. They don't care that it's our head, and we'll wear the humiliation for months until it grows out.

Sometimes they don't even tell you they're giving you the wrong haircut. Sometimes they cut away, making a big show of consulting the glossy photos you've brought with you for reference. And then when it's all over you look more like Katie Couric than Katie Holmes. Not cool.

Or you ask for a trim and you wind up with 8 inches on the floor. With bangs! And a body perm!

They think they know best and are unapologetic when the customer is squirming unhappily in the seat, panic-stricken, mentally running over their hat selection.
They are either unable or unwilling to say "I don't know how to do that cut." They always say "No problem!" and then you leave looking like your Aunt Bea.
It's surprising that there aren't more incidences of violence against hair dressers. Not that I advocate violence, but come on.
Instead on confronting the hair dresser, my friend made another appointment for 6 weeks from now, when she hopes something will be done to salvage the cut\colour. Do you realize what that means? The hair dresser is rewarded for a bad job. She gets more work.

I wondered if only women are this crazy, but a male friend of mine recently had an even more harrowing experience: the hair dresser snipped his ear! He bled, she giggled. And what did he do? He tipped her. To show there were "no hard feelings."

Are we crazy?
Are they?
And if so, why do we keep letting them get near our noggins with sharp sharp scissors?

We need to start a revolution.
We need to take back control!
Okay, so maybe that 50-something tanned-orange woman leaving the salon with pouffy bleached out hair looks ridiculous. But she also looks happy. She got what she asked for.
That's all we want: the right to make our own bad decisions.
If we gamble on a hair risk and lose, at least we'll learn for next time. But when a hair dresser goes rogue, we end up resenting the cut, and the bitch who gave it to us. We are being forced to pay for haircuts we didn't want, didn't ask for, and don't approve of. Nobody goes in looking for "punk-pixie" and is happy to leave with "skunky school marm." Nobody.

And hair dressers never learn.
My friend's hair dresser knew that she'd given a bad cut. She knew her client was dissatisfied.
She shrugged.
She didn't offer to fix it.
She still demanded payment.
Her client went home in tears.
I thought only accountants were allowed to make their clients cry.

So I'm wondering how I go about starting an angry mob.
Do I just go out into the street and start knitting my eyebrows? Shaking my fist? Do I need a megaphone?

Give me smooth layers or give me death!

God Loves Ugly

2009-05-11T00:03:00.002-04:00

I feel bad for those worms who come out to sing in the rain and then die horrible, dessicated deaths, dried out and alone on the sidewalks once the sun has come back out.

****

Weird Matty conversation:

Me: Are you still putting olive oil in your ears?

Matty: Yup.

Me: That seems weird to me. I'm skeptical of treatments that involve putting something foreign in our bodies when really it should be able to take care of itself.

Matty: This from the girl who just told me that she used to hide her cuts and scrapes from her mother so that she wouldn't try to pick the gravel out of them? Who just confessed that she let so many dirty wounds scab over that she's now probably made of at least 20% rock?

Me: Well. Rocks are organic!

****

So it was raining like the clouds were having a going-out-of-business sale.
I gave the parallel parking hell anyway.
I got my license.
I smacked that bitch right up.

****

The other night I was hungry at work.
I walked to stupid Tim Hortons, ordered a bagel.
No bagels.
Soup and a roll, then.
No rolls.
Homestyle biscuits, they told me.
No thanks, I said.
They cajoled.
But I know the score. A basket full of biscuits when all the other shelves are empty means they're rejects. They can't give those things away.
She tells me I can just take a bite and if I don't like it, to just throw it away.
Nuh-uh. I'm not disposing of their garbage for them.
I ordered the Disappointing Soup (they mislabelled it 'chicken noodle' - it wasn't). I left biscuitless.
Still not sure who won that one.

****

I saw Atmosphere at Barrymore's. It's nobody's favourite venue but fuck it was a good show. The opening act maybe left a little to be desired: he told us to put our arms in the air if we were STD-free. That's a new one. I don't think it's gonna catch on. But Atmosphere was hella-good. I was still vibrating when I got home. And when I guy offered to buy me a drink, I told him that I wasn't. I was good. And when my sister tried to get me to eat cake today, I resisted. She said that no one would ever know (besides the 5 other people at the table), but I would know. This is day 16 and I'm still trucking.

They tried to make me go to rehab but I said

2009-05-08T01:35:00.005-04:00

A brilliant blogger was telling a charming story about how she felt her life was revolving too much around the word NO. She said no to her kids more than she wanted to: no you can't have that, no we can't stop here, no we don't have time. She resolved to make the effort to throw a few more yeses into her life, and she very quickly realized how lovely a difference it made to her kids. A quick stop at the 25-cent merry go round at the grocery store made their day.

I wrote to her to tell her that I seemed to have the opposite problem. I am a Yes Girl. Yes I'll have another, yes you can stay over, yes you can cum in my mouth. I'm not a pushover though. I can breezily say no to the things that genuinely distress me. I say no telemarketers (usually quite forcefully). I say no to those annoying salespeople with the perfume and lotion samples. I say no to gerbil-sitting for my wheezy crackhead neighbour. But I don't say no to life's indulgences. I buy the fancy shoes, and the air conditioner I was saving up for be damned. I accept more adult beverages than is wise (how else, but for strawberry daiquiris, would I get in my fruit and vegetable dietary requirements?). I stay later than I should. I buy concert tickets on a lark. I duck out of work early to go dancing. And I'm glad I do, I'm glad I treat myself, it's good to be happy.

But it's also good to flex my fortitude. I'm proud to find this reserve of resolve. I have will power, dammit, and I'm not afraid to break that shit out.

So that's why I'm on this crazy 40-day challenge.
That's why I've said no to roadtrip timbits, and my mother's gummy worms, and fries off Rory's plate, and shots at the bar. No, no, no.

And while it hasn't (so far) been as bad as I thought, it hasn't been easy either, at least not today.
Today, I worked 16 hours straight, went home for a 3 hour nap, came back for 8 more hours of work, will go home tomorrow for a 4 hour rest, work another 8 hours, and if I'm lucky, get another 4 hours of sleep. My resistance was low. Wayyyyyyy low. In the 11th hour, I remember thinking how much I deserved a treat. But while that may be true, I settled for a sandwich and a brisk walk to good tunes despite the crappy weather. And it was okay. I made it through. I kicked some day 13 ass.

So it turns out all my friends were wrong. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm just a happy lush who "can quit anytime." I'm not addicted to YES. I'm not an incorrigible hedonist. I can say no to the luxuries to which I've become accustomed....just don't ask about the sex. Everyone needs a vice.

Car Sick

2009-05-06T02:00:00.000-04:00

Panic.
Thick, dark cramps in the lowest pit of my stomach.
I feel my self esteem hinged on my (in)ability to parallel park.
There's a reason I don't drive, a good one. I don't talk about it, because these are the feelings it elicits.
My friend tries to teach me his technique using his belt buckle as reference. I am distracted.
Another friend uses her pickup truck to teach, though she admits that even she can't park the thing.
I pay for lessons and spend the whole time trembling and flinching.
I hold it together behind the wheel, but as soon as I'm done, I am sick. Literally. Usually on the sidewalk.
I'm trying to shake the past, to forget the things I can't forget.
But I keep reaching for the lever to turn on the windshield wipers to wipe away my tears.

I can do it when no one is watching.
I can learn on my own.
It's the instructor who makes me nervous, the idea of the tester and his clipboard and his judgement.
Pass - fail.
Fail.
FAIL.
It scares me to be so vulnerable, to have someone witness potential mistakes. It takes me back to a time when those mistakes would be punished with blows.

I am terrified.
Driving triggers my terror.
I am terrified.

How do I feel this good sober?

2009-05-03T00:35:00.003-04:00

I gave up booze, and to celebrate one week of sobriety I spent the night at a bar called Tila Tequila.

I was well-behaved:

I felt at least a dozen different erections pressed in my back without losing my temper;
I was grinded on by hordes of drunk frat boys;
I danced on the second floor catwalk above the bar with my friend like we were a couple of unemployed strippers without caring that my dress was too short and my panties not plentiful enough;
I blew kisses at the fans we made doing so;
I told one boy that my name was Sophie
and another that I was 35 (he would have guessed 27)
and another, celebrating his 20th birthday, that Rory was my girlfriend....and listened to his "I saw Brokeback Mountain and I totally get it" \ "Women's bodies are so beautiful, and I bet you girls have quite the advantage!" diatribe without cracking up or giving anything away;
I asked a stranger to lend me some toilet paper (I didn't give it back);
I kept my cool when a guy asked if I was "wearing anything underneath" and told him it was a mystery;
I danced in another direction when the same guy asked for a peak;
I smiled and shook hands with the admirers outside who'd enjoyed our show, and told us to "keep up the good work";
I grinned through the pain, and when my knee was quickly swelling up to the size of a watermelon during the cab ride home, I simply commented "at least it's still sparkly!"

I did.
I did it all without a single drink.
Even when my friend insisted she would keep the secret, that she would take it to the grave, that I'd never have to admit that I had a single sip, and that no one would ever know.
Even when she asked if shots count.
Yes, they do.
I had none. Just a bottle of water.

Day 7? Day 8?
Pft.
A fuckin breeze, man.
Bring it.
I got balls.

Outdoor fucking starts today.

2009-05-01T00:05:00.005-04:00

Day 6...

We heard a noise.
It was kind of an ordinary noise, a dull bang. A thud.
We didn't know that anything was out of the ordinary until we saw the body on the ground.
Ambulances raced to the scene, but they sure took their time leaving.
So we knew.
We knew before we saw the lumpy body bag that he was gone.
Another jumper, the second in two months.
The second in two months.

That's what I saw tonight.
...

We had a puff or two out on my balcony, but I munched on rice cakes instead of reese's pieces. It didn't make the weirdness go away, that spot in my belly that still hasn't come to terms with the sudden loss of a friend or the body lying broken 4 floors below.

It was a strange sort of day. I drove in the rain. My dog pooped in the middle of the street. I feel off.

Today is the first of May.
Horray, horray.

Bonjour, paresse

2009-04-30T01:45:00.005-04:00

Day five...of the 40-day challenge.

Posters in my lobby have been announcing today's fire drill for a couple of days now, but that doesn't make me any happier about it. It asks for our "participation" (and I'm guessing they don't mean flashing my middle finger while yelling my favourite obscenities off the balcony) but this is the equivalent of 3am for me. I will be asleep, in the best part of my sleep. And they plan on jarring me awake, forcing me into a pair of pants, and having me stumble down flights and flights of stairs with a squirming dog in my arms and knots in my hair and mascara smudges down my cheeks. Not cool. And I'm guessing if they tried this at actual 3am, there'd be some dissent. But there's just no respect for the night worker. God damn.

But then they didn't do it and I got all riled up for nothing.
I even wrote that whole above paragraph for nothing.
:)
Yes, I am so ridiculous, thank you for noticing.

So after a good little sleep, I woke up to my lovely Rory's visit. She's my friend because she's awesome and pretends to like my stories and doesn't mind taking silly pictures with me. She's my best friend because she doesn't mind my addiction to crystal light and she goes along with my whims as if they make sense, even though we both know they make nothing of the sort.

She amusedly watched me do my groceries, and wisely didn't comment on my lazy selection of fruit from the pre-cut section. She retrieved her shoes from wherever Herbie attempted to hide them. And there was sushi, and girl-on-girl stories, and eventually, even a walk by the wacky apartment I wrote about yesterday.

Our favourite pasttime is to sit lazily\indulgently on my balcony, tops off, and drink daiquiris. Or margaritas. Sometimes martinis. This may have been our first alcohol-less visit, but it was okay. Rory is "supportive", which probably involves at least a little behind-the-back laughter, but what else are friends for? Instead of having a drink together, we drove to a gas station where I had my first gas pumping lesson, which is just as important as a driving lesson, actually, only nobody ever gives them. A zillion years ago, I pulled into a gas station with good intentions. I left 10 minutes later, probably red-faced, definitely humiliated, and with a still-empty tank. It didn't go well. I've never been back.

So today was good for a lot of reasons, not least of which is the fact that I've once again been cheat-less. I'm sticking to it, with a little help from my friends.

Zombie chickens couldn't drag me away...

2009-04-29T00:27:00.005-04:00

Day four...

There is no such thing as a good day to bury your friend. There is no such thing as a fitting tribute.

Today was for the most part a luscious, lazy day. Aside from the driving lesson (the only thing worse than learning to parallel park? doing it in the pouring rain), the day treated me well. I got some sleep, even if it was fitful. I got zestfully clean in a loooooooooong shower. I got books in the mail. I had a happy-neighbour-knock on my door. Green apples gave a satisfying crunch. Herbie almost didn't pee on the carpet.

On our walks together at night, before I leave for work, Herbie and I pass by this one apartment that's lit up and curtainless, which makes for excellent spying. I mean observation. The decor is hideously fantastic - blood red walls, an oil painting of Elvis, devil pitch forks mounted on the wall, a framed photo of Jim Carrey as The Riddler, enough kitsch to fill 17 curio stores, and more neon green fake plastic trees than should reasonably fit into the space. Also on our walk tonight: the sound of bagpipes, sourceless, and a truck leaking fish-smelling fluid that Herbie was way, way into, and I was not.

Thank you to Stoneskin for gifting me with the Zombie Chicken Award, apparently for my belief in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. I haven't really had many chicken-related incidents lately, although my best friend was pulled over by the cops and accused of selling chickens out of the back of her truck. Not to worry though. She took a page from Jay, batted her eyelashes and said "No officer, I did not" and he said "Oh, okay then" and she drove away. How's that for inspiring?

Bizarre happening of the day: opening a plastic fruit cup of mandarin segments, the juice came magically spurting upwards, unprompted, unaided, defying the force of gravity and logic everywhere.

Thing I wondered about the most today: why I always seem to be wearing velvet ballet flats when it rains. You have not seen a more sodden shoe, I guarantee it.

Thing you don't necessarily care to know, but I'm telling you anyway: it's surprisingly freeing to pee in a public washroom with the stall door open.

What I craved today: nothing edible, nothing drinkable. Just to see his face again. I'd give it all up forever if I could, just once.

Procrastinating my way to success!

2009-04-28T00:21:00.001-04:00

Day three...

Today was a freak crazy-beautiful day - the regularly scheduled crap weather will resume tomorrow - but today was lovely, July-hot with winning sunshine and a happy-go-lucky breeze. It's impossible to sleep when you know that kind of wonderfulness is going on outside your window (well, this his hypothetical since as a day sleeper, my bedroom window is blacked the fuck out) so I just didn't.

Herbie of course was delighted to run and play with me outside. He particularly loves pooping in front of the asian market around the corner from my house. Stooping and scooping is a little embarrassing in front of all the merry shoppers lugging 20kg bags of rice, but I get over myself pretty quickly when I remember that this is one shit not taken on my carpet.

It was patio-perfect weather, and when I walked by Pub Italia, two very cute boys invited me to have a seat. I was strong, flashed my most glamourous, woman-in-demand smile, and made my apologies. Hurdle overcome!

I've rediscovered the art of making dinner. Cooking is still one of my loves, but it's something I only do when guests are expected. I haven't cooked for my single self in over a year! It's shameful, I know, but I have a freezer full of Lean Cuisines (well, and vodka...and tequila) and a fridge brimming with yogurt and apples and water, and that's about it. Once in a while I'll have a fit of inspiration and have the fixings for turkey sandwiches or spinach salad, but that's as far as my cooking commitment will allow.

No more!
I'm feeding myself, taking the time to prepare something I enjoy, and eliminating some of those hunger pangs that lead to bad decisions. I did have a little yen for something sweet after supper, but it passed. I figure that my procrastination skills are so vast that I shouldn't have a problem waiting out my cravings. It's practically second nature anyway.

I am anticipating a second hurdle, though. I'm at work now, starting to feel a little noshy, but armed with fruit and yogurt to get me through. In the morning, I'll be tired from being up all night, and drained from the work, and I doubt I'll feel like taking my driving lesson.

Yes, I said driving lesson.
That was another challenge I gave myself for 2009: to become one of you demented drivers. It's been a good decade since I last drove. I gave it up for a good reason: I hate it. This has been an emotional, nerve-wracking experience for me, eased only slightly by my instructor declaring me "not dangerous." But I'm betting that come tomorrow morning, my white-knuckled hands leaving sweat marks on the steering wheel as I navigate stupid Bank street during stupid morning rush hour, I'll wish I had just a whiff of caffeine to steady my nerves. But I'll be brave, I promise. I mean, if I could not be felled by two cuties on a patio, a fucking Yaris doesn't stand a chance!

Knee-deep in blood and filth and piss and shit.

2009-04-27T02:33:00.002-04:00

Day 2 of the 40 day challenge...

Yesterday? Nothing to it.
Of course, it would be rather pathetic if I was on the floor convulsing after just a few sugar-free hours. I actually eat pretty well most of the time. This is not about changing my behaviour, because I think bad habits are what make life worth living. This is about proving to myself that I can.

My colleague seems at least a little worried that I can't because last night, to play it safe, he was a "good citizen" and ate his sweet chili chips covertly, out of my line of sight. His consideration is legendary, but come on man, everyone knows I'm a dill pickle girl anyway. And anyhow, I've discovered the secret to craving control success: a nazi book (coming soon to a book review site near you!). I challenge anyone to read just a few paragraphs about being knee-deep in remorseless blood and filth and piss and shit and then think "Mmm, I could sure go for a McFlurry right now."

Random middle of the night sugar-free conversation: Was math discovered, or invented?

Weird thing that happened to me today: Walking down my street, a man pulled over in his car, rolled down his window, and made kissy noises at me. No reason was apparent.

Stuff I was grateful for today: new micro-suede curtains, my adorable man-magnet puppy, friends and colleagues who don't tiptoe around grief, my rockstar mother, chicken caesar medley, having enough money at the grocery store (unlike the girl ahead of me, who had to put stuff back).

Today's motto: "Folded deck chair" is the new missionary!

Good day? Yes it was. And busy too! It's amazing what you can cram into a day when you sacrifice sleep. However, I foresee a bit of a problem tonight at work when my second and third and fourth winds peter out and I'm left without a hint of caffeine to see me through the night. I think I might take up smoking.

Salvation is just a vending machine away.

2009-04-26T20:06:00.003-04:00

Day one....

It's probably a bad sign that I've put off starting my 40-day challenge until I could get in one last bender, but it's no surprise to any of you that that's exactly what I did.

Yes, there were daiquiris.
Yes, there were margaritas.
Yes, there was toe sucking.

A good time was had by all. I was even drunk enough to want to give my dog a "haux-fawk" (goddamned drunken dyslexia).

And from now until June 4 (June 4!), not one bad thing shall pass my lips.
Well, you know, with maybe the one exception.
But it's rather low in calories, cannot really said to be delicious, and frankly, no one's mistaking me for a saint. I think 2 out 3 addictions is impressive enough.

Whining will probably commence in about two hours. I'll be at work, I will hit that 2am wall and think: my salvation is just a vending machine away. The Diet Pepsi, with its whisper of caffeine, will be calling my name. I'll wonder if there's $1.75 in my wallet, and know that I'm not above changing a $20.

But I'm feeling strong.
Ish.
Okay, that's a lie.
What I'm mostly feeling is that I'd be really embarrassed to have failed on the first day.
And embarrassment (or the avoidance of it) is a pretty powerful thing.
The tequila blanco is weakening in my blood stream already.
At what point will I start fighting Herbie for his dog treats? And if worse came to worse, would you go for bacon-flavour hearts, or gravy-flavour strips?

40 Days of Hell-th: A Diary

2009-04-23T14:22:00.003-04:00

Day: T-1

When I was a kid, I performed amazing feats of will-power in the name of God; we called it Lent. Lent was the longest 40 days of the year for me because I took it very seriously. Even my grandmother cheated on Sundays, but me, I held fast. My best friend gave up olives, sort of, except the days she really couldn't resist. I went without junk: no ice cream cake on my sister's birthday, no maple syrup at the sugar bush, no popcorn at the movies, no candy binges for March break. Either 9 year olds possess more self-discipline than I remember, or Jesus held a lot of sway for me, but in any case I'm embarrassed that I can't seem to muster that kind of strength anymore. I'm hard pressed to go three days without a little nibble of something salty. I may not be a Christian anymore, but I'm a 20-ahem year old who (mistakenly?) believes herself to be mostly in control.

Welcome to the day before my 40 day challenge:

-no candy, no dessert, no chocolate, no unrefined sugar

-no crappy snack food no matter how profusely my uterus may be bleeding

-no fast food, no yucky\yummy takeout (goodbye, butter chicken)

and worst of all

-no diet pepsi (I feel shaky just writing that)

-no booze (ohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigod)

I'm already thinking I'm going to cave on the no drinking part. I never had to contend with that as a kid.

I'm already thinking this is the worst idea ever.

I'm already counting the hours before I can order a pizza again. And I never order pizza anyway. But now that I can't, I want to. Desperately. Just 960 hours to go!

So I'm thinking that after I go through the agony of withdrawal, I figure I'll have about 37 days left of awesome bitchiness that will be worth recording, so I'm also making the effort to post every day about me and my stupid ideas.

And just a teeny, tiny, barely-there addendum: I haven't had my first patio drink of the season yet, and frankly, that's a crime. So the reason I'm starting Sunday and not today is that I'm planning a blow-out, patio-hopping good time over the summery weekend we've been promised. There's nothing like having your stomach pumped to really strengthen a commitment!

Wish me luck, I think I'm gonna need it.

Bad Behaviour & Butter Chicken

2009-04-20T08:50:00.002-04:00

So my colleague Matt thinks I'm odd, and I'm sure he means odd in that lovable, sitcommy way, but still. Odd.

And it's at least in part because of my allegedly "bizarre" approach to self-discipline.

He still laughs about the day I spent 3 hours wandering around the city, trying to find my way home, blisters oozing and shoulders burning in the hot, hot sun. I was dying of thirst but determined to right myself. I knew the city marginally well and I was certain it was nearly impossible to get as lost as I feared I was. I kept on, rather bravely, possibly stupidly, and finally I saw the street sign that would solve all my problems: Bank. Bank! You're never lost if you're on Bank. Just walk north, I told myself, and then promptly started walking south, believing in my heart that I was awesome, that I had worked it out, that I was headed home, that I was no longer lost. And I wasn't lost, not exactly. I just happened to be headed in the exact opposite direction of where I wanted to be. Eventually I recognized my mistake and fought back tears as I turned around and recovered the ground I believed I'd been gaining. It was cruel. I had cash and a bus pass in my pockets but I let the cabs and buses pass me by - if I had cheated and taken one home, it would be like rewarding my bad behaviour and I'd be likely to repeat the same mistakes. So I denied myself the easy way out, bandaged my swollen and bloodied feet, and have never gotten lost in this city again.

But I continue to negotiate with myself for all kinds of things. One of my favourite vices, as anyone who knows me remotely has heard me rave, is the butter chicken from the indian place just down the street from me. Often, when the day ahead seems particularly daunting, I'll do myself a little deal.

Inner monologue:

Hey Jay.
What?
I bet you're thinking about that butter chicken.
Well, I wasn't, really, until you mentioned it just now.
But it sounds good, right?
Oh yeah.
Well, tell you what. If you do your laundry, and go to the post office, and write 3 pages without complaining, you can get some for supper.
Really?
Yes, really. But only if you're a good girl all day long.
Oh, I will be!

And then I am. All day long.
Now, my problem is not that I admitted to Matt that I talk to myself.
And it's not that I motivate myself with tasty indian cuisine.
It's that moment of disbelief - the Really? - that split second where I doubt that I'm actually going to follow through on a promise to myself. But it's that seedling of doubt that keeps me honest, that forces me to stay on the right path and actually get the work done that needs to be done.
Have I ever not earned the butter chicken?
You betcha.
And I sit at home pouting about it too.

Is that really so odd?
I mean, if I gave myself everything I wanted, I'd be a spoiled brat.
And fat.
Well, okay, fatter.

But it's not all about the discipline.
If I do something good, I let myself know how proud I am, usually with a note on the fridge, but sometimes also with a bunch of flowers or an extra shower (yes, okay, even I think that sounds strange, but showering is one of my favourite parts of the day, especially when I turn on the music and dance and splash about).
I tell myself I'm awesome all the time. I even have a song about it.
No, I won't sing it for you. It's private. Except for that one time I won an arm wrestling competition after 4 Mike's Hard Lemonades.

In general, though, I'm very well behaved. I hardly ever embarrass myself or have to send myself to sit in the car. So now matter how you slice it, I must be doing something right.

Right?

The Inevitable Heartbreak Band

2009-04-15T21:32:00.004-04:00

He's beautiful.
He's not my type.
I hardly know him.
I'm a little in love.

We met randomly, only to discover we're from the same neighbourhood.
On our first non-date, we met at a park at 2am and we swung, and we teetered, and we made out.
He rode his bike to meet me, total 5th grade flash back, except for all the hands-down-the-pants action.

He's incredibly humble given his success.
He touches me a lot.
I like his belt buckle, and his love of pho.
He looks good in my bed, and doesn't mind when my dog chews his toes.

He's going to break my heart.
I see it coming, that he must, and even why it's pretty much my own fault.
And I'm letting it happen anyway.

Postcard from Punta Cana

2009-04-06T20:12:00.001-04:00

Punta Cana was Punta-Fabulous.
I almost didn't come back.

The mamajuana conspired to keep me on my ass: red wine, honey, and of course lots of domestic rum fermenting in a jug with twigs and herbs and other mysterious whatnots to make a beverage that people call Dominican Viagra for reasons that quickly become obvious.

Bars in pools may be God's greatest invention. And floating drink menus? Pina colada, margarita, daiquiri, banana mama, dominican peach, blue hawaiian, sex on the beach...all just a wink away. Uno mas, por favor. That's Spanish! See how quickly we can learn new languages when we're motivated?

Ladies' Night has a different meaning in the Dominican. Yes, ladies get in free. Yes, ladies drink for free. Yes, the cute boys who brought you drinks in pineapples all day long are now removing their clothes for you in the disco.

Snorkeling is cool. Swimming with hundreds of tropical fish is an experience to be savoured. Rubbing your forehead with a banana beforehand so that the fish will be attracted is possibly a small bit of rum-induced madness. But swimming with sharks? Oh sure, it will be a cool story. If you survive. And of course you're brave about it when you're drunkenly signing up for it the day before. But once in the water with a whole bunch of sharks who probably have it in for you (this is purely conjecture, but they did give me a look), it's a whole different story. Nervous is one of those words that fails spectacularly at describing some situations. At one point, I swam over 4 or 5 of them who were all hanging out together, and I thought to myself: if one of them suddenly throws a fit, and they all storm off in a rage, I'm lunch. But it was the sting rays that really freaked me out. And whoever thought it would be a good idea to pose for a picture with one? They tell you that Cassandra is a friendly sting ray, so long as you don't poke her here, here, or here. Or swish her by the tail. But nobody tells you that Cassandra is enormous, and slimy, and heavy, and creepy. And that she has some sort of blow hole that she angrily directs at your face, and then does this floppy thing that is very disturbing. Do I regret throwing the sting ray? Yes. But I still maintain that it wasn't really my fault.

Getting into your scenery-sensational hammock is heaven. Getting out of it 3 banana mamas later is less so. Kinda makes you wish you'd brought panties, but it's not really a vacation unless it's a vacation from underwear. Am I right?

The Places You Go, The People You Meet.

2009-04-02T01:08:00.004-04:00

4 adults in a car, we argue about the things you'd expect, like whether a man can be feminist. Well, can he? Please enlighten us, because they refused to agree to disagree and I refused to tip the scales in any one direction.

We are on our way to Montreal to eat in a restaurant run by a man who calls himself the Veggie Nazi. We're all a little worried. We have heard the kind of shit that goes down at the Spirit Lounge: there is no menu. You eat whatever vegan crap he sets in front of you, every last crumb. That's his Golden Rule - no waste. Waste is sin. If you leave something on your plate, he either charges you extra, or he throws you out on your ass. This isn't rumour, these are actual possibilities. The stuff of sitcoms, yes, and it's funny when it happens on Seinfeld but will it be funny when it happens to us?

Once the miracle of parking in Montreal has been performed, my anxiety is such that I must immediately find a bathroom, and I refuse to let it be the one in the restaurant (I am afraid that he will dole out 4 paltry squares of toilet paper and tell me to be wise with their usage). I actually, bafflingly, find it preferable to use a gas station toilet. The one I frequent is equipped with that ubiquitous sharps container I keep meeting up with, and is lit solely by a black light above the mirror. It's great for not being able to see the Hepatitis that is probably swarming all over the place, and even better for making my zebra-print panties look cool.

The restaurant exceeds our expectations, especially the unfavourable ones. The decor involves copious amounts of foil, a collection of crucifixes, and a gold-sprayed collage on the wall that gives a second life to dominoes, GI Joes, and bits of broken license plates. The tables are cobbled together, and the layers of Salvation Army table cloths do little to hide staples in the plywood.

Soup, slivers of bread and tap water were presented to us with a flourish. This is prison food, according to my mother (though I was astonished later in life to learn that actually, felons eat quite well). I'm not going to lie: the soup was delicious. I ate it willingly, practically with gusto. The bread was...dense. And damp. This is food without preservatives, I told myself, until I caught a whiff and thought this is food that should have been thrown out 3 days ago. It smelled dank, the way dungeons smell, or a wet bathing suit that was balled up and thrown in the trunk of your car and slept on by a sweaty dog, or the forest floor's wet mushroomy, earthwormy rot, or, you know...mouldy bread. I elected not to finish mine, breaking the golden rule, but I was clever and hid my crust on the other side of the bowl. A fellow dining companion was not so lucky. Sure he talked the big talk before sitting down to dinner, boasting that he would purposely break the rule just to get a rise out of the owner, but when the Veggie Nazi spotted his uneaten portion and commanded Eat your bread in his smarmy french accent, he ate that bread like he suddenly believed that it would grant him superhuman strength and lifelong immunity to...well, the perils of eating putrid food.

We'd survived the appetizer, mostly, but were feeling shaky about the main course. It was described as a casserole consisting of mainly cereals and eggplant, and as delicious as it sounds, it looked even worse. But there was no getting away with leftovers, so we ate dutifully, grimacing, chewing apprehensively, fearing the worst with each tension-filled bite. Raw vegetables and fruit were served on the side, marinated in a salty oil-based dressing that was nice for broccoli and just dreadful on apples. I began sneaking pieces onto someone else's plate, not because he enjoyed the food but because I knew he would rather vomit on the sidewalk outside that engage in open conflict with the Veggie Nazi.

And then came dessert. By this time, I was smart. I ponied up on someone else's, and between the three of us, we managed to get it eaten. And with the dinner portion of the evening out of the way, thus came the show. Rozman, as the Veggie Nazi has chosen to rename himself, bestowed upon us one of the rants he is famous for, an incomprehensive diatribe against Coca Cola, women named Natalie Tremblay, and capitalism. I notice however, a few holes in his arguments:

1. It's great that he's got these lofty anti-capitalist ideals now, but where were they when he used the welfare funds provided to him by us working pigs to upstart his business?

2. While I suppose it's possible that he really is the only person to ever really understand anything, I find it just a smidge more possible that he's naive and immature and pretty fucking high and mighty.

3. When you tell a paying customer that You don't know what urine smells like and mean it as an insult...maybe you need to work on your customer service skills a little bit.

4. The traditional definition of 'asshole' is not someone who does not finish their dessert. Although suddenly he's got more in common with my grandma that I would have imagined possible.

5. When you use finger pointing and spittle to emphasize your point instead of, say, rationality, it may be time to reconsider the point.

Now, I do admire a man's passion and convictions, but this guy is ridiculous. He doesn't have beliefs, he just believes he's better, and that's probably a more dangerous concept than any of the things he rants about from his pedestal.

But that's not all Montreal had in store for us....

With our bellies full of asparagus puree, we headed over to Le National because les boys bought me tickets to see The Weakerthans in concert. Don't feel bad if you don't know The Weakerthans, just feel bad if you don't immediately go look them up. The show was awesome. The band was great, beyond great, and that's not just the rum and cokes talking.

Even the opening band was fantastic, because they provided so much fodder for ridicule, from the leader singer wearing Mom jeans and sipping a glass of red (wine is sooooo not rock & roll!), to the guitarist who played as if he was actually being stung by 13000 bees, and then would switch spots with the keyboardist who played as if he were a marionette with invisible strings being manipulated by a man with a severe cramp, to the bass player whose instrument was either under a different gravitational pull than every other atom on earth, or was under the influence of a giant bass-attracting magnet hidden cleverly across the room.

It was a great night. A grrrrrrreat night. We all agreed we'd even go back to the restaurant because it's not really about the food, it's about the experience.

But next time, we'll stop at McDonald's first.

The puppy who had no name.

2009-03-29T08:39:00.004-04:00

If names had to be accurate describers, then so far Crotch-Sniffer, Whiny Bugger, and Cutie Patootie would all be winning, but instead the new love of my life is still nameless, so I'm asking for your help. Vote with your comments - does he look more like a:

a) Rex

b) Toby

c) Bruce Lee

d) Panda

e) Macaroni

f) Herbie

g) Marvin

Helpful Household Hint:

2009-03-16T13:33:00.001-04:00

When you break a glass, a good way to make sure you got every last little sliver is to just take off your shoes and socks and walk around. It's guaranteed that if even one rogue piece evaded the bristles of your broom, it will come out of hiding to lodge itself in your foot in less time than it takes to say “Shit, I missed a piece.” Glass and the soles of your feet are locked in some sort of epic, time-honoured magnetic love-hate relationship. They cannot resist each other. Plus, in these trying economic times, I think it's important that we do what we can to make sure no one ever has to bail-out the bandaid factories.

You're welcome.

Bright Flashing Lights

2009-03-12T13:29:00.000-04:00

It lures you in with the promise of an all-you-can-eat buffet – seafood and prime rib. I can't vouch for the vats containing mounds of homogenneous, mostly unrecognizable food, but the shrimp skewers are lovely, and the crab legs divine. Plus, the staff hardly even look at you sideways when you fill a soup bowl with garlic butter sauce for dipping. And if that wasn't enough, the guy at the dessert station practically begs you to take a third scoop of ice cream, makes you feel like it's hardly worth a trip to the buffet at all if you don't leave with at least your weight in pie.

Only a casino can afford such generosity, and it does so, calculatedly, for one of two reasons:

1- to entice you through its doors in the first place
2- to keep you within its doors once you're there

The casino makes every effort to deny the world outside of it. There are no windows. The machines sing their songs 24 hours a day. The bright lights make it so that there is no day and no night, just gambling time and more gambling time. A crappy band in matching sequined vests plays on a continuous loop so that fleshy middle-aged women who mistakenly think they're still sexy can slither around to Mustang Sally. There are no clocks, of course, no reference to the passing of time at all if they can help it, but eventually the hour makes itself known by the rumbly in your tumbly. Your belly growls, you are hungry, and those measly little bags of chips clipped to the drinks cart just aren't going to cut it. The casino fears that if you followed your urge to eat, say, to the nearest restaurant, that you might not come back. That you might waste your hard-earned dollars elsewhere. And that would be tragic.

So they erect a massive gorging hall on premises – a buffet, naturally, something for everyone, and always at the back of the building so that even if you attempt to leave without hemorrhaging cash, you'll have to bypass at least 13 000 one-armed bandits first, each of them calling out to you: Hey baby, why don't you drop a quarter in my slot. You know you like it. Give it to me, stud. And people do. They stay, they pull up a stool, and they part with their money. Only not their physical money – the days of dropping actual quarters into the machine are behind us. God forbid the handling of tangible coin would remind you that this is real money we're talking about. It's way less intimidating to put a plastic card into the slot, and to print out a paper voucher when you're done. Makes the whole thing feel like Monopoly! Like it's just a game, and not your savings account. And when your plastic card runs dry, there are easy reloading stations right on premises that tap into your bank account so there's really no need to leave, ever! Hell, you can even remortgage your house at the casino. This is solely for your convenience, I imagine.

The casino is a beautiful place. It's all ornamental and shit. It's fancy so you can feel good about yourself while you lose th money you should have been spending on pampers and formula. Even the bathrooms are classy: the countertops are marble, the stall doors are cherry wood, the mirrors are lit up by individual glowing bulbs as if they were vanities belonging to celebrities, even the toilet seats are velvet-lined. Okay, that last part's not true. But the bathrooms really are quite posh, except for the sharps containers affixed periodically to the wall. Sharps containers are usually found where a lot of needs are used, like hospital emergency rooms and gas station bathrooms known to be popular with junkies. It's funny that an establishment that goes to such lengths to convince us of its great esteem also admits to a seedier underbelly. Funny but realistic, I suppose. An addict is an addict, no matter what the dress code.

Irrational thoughts on vans, and the creeps who drive them.

2009-03-09T08:29:00.005-04:00

He pulls up beside me in his white utility van, slowing enough so that the pace of his lumbering vehicle nearly matches my own, its physical presence cutting me off from the rest of the world. It's eerie, being stalked by this great white whale. If his intention is to thoroughly creep me out, he's doing a good job. He rolls down the window to ask directions, and once dispensed, he does depart. But I can't shake my apprehension, nor can I believe that it never crosses his mind that this scenario is inappropriate. He could have stopped at any number of gas stations, but instead he turns down an isolated little side street and pursues a woman walking alone in the dark in an area not particularly well-lit. Yet he never considers that this is exactly the thing her mother has warned her about; exactly the thing that half of all email urban myths are about; the very essence of Stranger Danger personified.

He has to know that a man driving a large van is most often described as a suspect, or else an “alleged perpetrator” in the crime blotter section of any major newspaper. Those vans are the kidnapper's vehicle of choice. Even the car salesman at the lot sheepishly hands over a glossy brochure that says

“Perfect for abducting to your heart's content! Park it in a secluded spot and you can dismember in the privacy of your own fully-automatic vehicle without ever worrying that someone will overhear. Driver-controlled power locks ensure that no victim will ever escape. Now available in child-molester white!”

So yes, I'm wary of men in vans who drive up beside me in the middle of the night when I'm all alone. The question is: how is it that it never occurs to these men that they're giving me the bad kind of goosebumps? Because a week later, it happened again.

Another man pulls up beside me in another van, same quiet street, same time of night. He asks for directions, and I give them, generally, even though my beating heart tells me to run in the opposite direction as fast as my little legs will carry me. Placated, he drives away, once again leaving me wondering how these men can be so thoughtless, and whether scaring solitary women half to death is a common hobby among van owners, or if the neighbourhood predators really are just doing their recon work on me.

I don't get very far on my path or in my thoughts though, because van guy is back. He wants me to get in the van.

Suddenly, I'm feeling worse. He doesn't take no for an answer. He persists, trailing me at an ominous 5km\hr. If I guide him to where he wants to be, he says, he'll drop me off at the train station. He seems genuinely mystified that I'm not hopping right into a strange man's car. I walk briskly and ignore his yells and whistles. I don't know how far he might have followed me had I not turned up a pedestrian-only path.

And this is how I have come to dread my nightly commute to work. Common sense has refused to teach these men that some behaviours are just not acceptable and I'm paying a price. I've been made to feel unsafe in my own neighbourhood, which is not actually a dangerous place. But when I'm alone at night, I'm not reciting soothing crime statistics in my head. I'm fighting tears and quickening my pace. I'm not rational when it comes to protecting myself from harm.

Luckily, my momma didn't raise no fool. I won't be willingly climbing into the back of one of those vans unless the driver is really, really cute, or he's offering me an awful lot of money.

Rainbow Brite

2009-03-05T16:47:00.006-05:00

One day last fall, my ex and I were standing in line at the LCBO and I let him pull out his wallet to pay for all the booze in arms, but instead he pulled out a hempy velcro excuse for a wallet.

"Andrew," I gasped, "what is the story behind that thing?"

He shrugged. "No story. Why do you ask?"

"Because a grown man in his 30s who still carries a velcro wallet had better either have a very good excuse or a very deep shame."

"Oh."

So then Christmas rolled around and I bought him a manly wallet, a leather trifold that I wouldn't be embarrassed to have foot my bar tabs. I felt quite smug about my bettering of poor Andrew until I made it down to the family home for Christmas myself, and ended up unwrapping a new wallet of my own.

My sister's reasoning was that I was the only one in the family who didn't have a proper wallet, by which she meant, a ridiculously expensive one. Which is true. I had my cards and cash stuffed into an oversized coin purse with skulls and crossbones on it. And I know you're thinking that's about as lame as a hemp velcro wallet, but actually, it wasn't lame, it was me expressing my individuality and my unwillingness to submit to the arbitrary requirements of adulthood. Or something like that.

But my sister insisted that I too should belong to the "nice wallet club", which I interpreted as "The rest of the family and I have decided we won't be seen with you in public until you convert to carrying something more reasonable." So for the past few months I've been walking around with a wallet that's too good for me, tucked away inside a purse worth a fraction of its cost and I've felt a great deal of unrest. I knew the moment I unwrapped it that this gift would end up costing me a fortune. Not only would I have to sign up for at least a dozen more credit cards in order to actually fill up all the empty slots, I'd also have to invest in a hand bag that would be worthy of my wallet.

Luckily, I had a savings account that used to be called "Jamie's retirement fund" but which quickly got renamed "Jamie's purse fund." Boxing week sales were still on, so I enlisted the help of my family to find me a purse that would make them proud. It was immediately clear that my "taste", as I erroneously called it, was actually an alarming lack of (good) taste according to everyone else. The first purse I pointed at, a zebra print bag that I honestly loved, was vetoed unanimously and it was decided that I would no longer be part of the selection process as my schizophrenic shopping was just slowing them down.

I never did get a purse and I've continued to use the ones I already owned and loved. One is constantly complimented for its bold purpleness, and another was recently given the Big Purse Award by my colleague. But last weekend, I found a bag that seemed to fit the right criteria: it was absurdly expensive, shiny, and had enough metallic junk on it to let others know that I had just spent about 3 months rent on it. But there was problem: I assumed that since I liked it, it must be wrong. Especially since it was orange. But my mother reassured me that it was in fact a "nice purse" and that it would make the others mad with jealousy. So I dug about 6 credit cards out of my wallet and between them, I bought the damn thing.

And then my mother asked what I would wear it with, and I answered that I thought it would be cool paired with my purple coat.

She cringed, visibly.

My family seems to think I am colour-retarded. They each have a brown purse, and a black one. I have a red one, and a pink one, and a purple one, and now an orange one (clementine, actually), oh, and a tiny clutch that's a very rude shade of yellow. Neutral my ass.

My approach to colour is: if I've seen them together in a box of crayons, it's kosher. I'm not colour-challenged, I'm colour-ballsy. People just can't appreciate me. I mean, it's not like I said I'd wear the clementine with my fuschia coat (no, my coats tend not to be in neutrals either, but I don't wear my red purse with my red coat, or my purple purse with my purple coat. I've never been matchy-matchy.)

I bravely bought a cashmere sweater in the most awesome shade of acid green, and people's first impression is always "Hey, that colour looks great on you!" Of course, half an hour later they're usually like "Whoa, that sweater's still pretty green, eh?" which I take to mean that they are insane with envy. My hair and my toenails tend not to be colours found in nature, either. I gravitate toward anything that can be seen from space. I don't think I clash, exactly, but let's just say that in a sea of people playing it safe, I'm my own little rainbow.

A rainbow with a very cool purse.

For the love of god, save the whales!

2009-02-26T09:43:00.003-05:00

Okay, so remember when I bored you all with my new obsession with nature, and you all tried not to yawn too conspicuously (some of you unsuccessfully)? Well, here's more!

Planet Earth raises some interesting questions, like what exactly is "wildlife" anyway? Is wildlife just life that we humans haven't managed to destroy? Yet? Destroy yet? And why are we automatically discounted from it? Granted, we're not exactly wild, no matter what we hope our sports cars and permed hair say. We're pretty fucking domesticated. But we are animals, not necessarily any more or less important than camels or sting rays or krill. I recently read an interesting book called The Well-Dressed Ape that reminded me just that: we're all just animals, lowly wonderful animals, living and trying to make the best of what we have. Humans just so happen to have a lot. We live in the suburbs and have hair straighteners and make sock puppets. But we seem to think that our ability to film nature documentaries makes us something better.

So my colleagues and I have spent several of our most recent shifts absorbing this BBC goodness. But then we ran out, and had to make do with that Keanu atrocity, The Day The Earth Stood Still. The basic premise: aliens come to save the earth. Not to save humanity, mind you, but to save this mad-awesome planet that has amazing skillz, such as the ability to sustain complex life. The aliens have rightly surmised that it's not worth losing the earth for one lousy species, and really, that's all we are - just one species among many. And pretty arrogant too. When we've raped the land enough to threaten the existence of an animal, we then deign to make a last-ditch effort to try to save it from extinction. And now here we are. We've made ourselves into an endangered species: if we kill our planet, we kill ourselves. Every other species gone to extinction at least had the grace not to do it to themselves. They can blame us, mostly, or predators, or a bleak environment. We're the only ones to do it to ourselves. So maybe it is time for someone else to step in. I mean, what have we done lately?

Recycle? Fuck that. Recycling barely keeps pace with the useless new packaging we're always encasing things in. Our need to wrap water in plastic means that one day an archaeologist will unearth our decayed bones from under mountains of Evian bottles and think What strange creatures. At least the dinosaurs could blame a comet.

Save the whales? Save the lowland gorillas? Who are we saving when we can't or won't even save ourselves? Right now, hundreds of human babies are dying of the most retarded shit - hunger, preventable disease, lack of clean water. And here we are putting loonies into tin cans to save the noble rhinoceros. Meanwhile, our answer to "saving" endangered species is to yank them out of the wild, which we've pillaged beyond recognition anyway, and lock them up in a zoo so we can watch extinction up close and in person, and charge $48 a head for it, and pave over more paradise for it, and continue to fuck things up.

And when the last few of their kind are locked up and unable to breed in captivity (no one ever thinks of this before capturing them), our next instinct is "Hey, no problem. We'll just clone them. If we can't have snow leopards, we can at least have copies of snow leopards. That's good enough, right?" Well, you might want to ask the snow leopards. Or tell the curator not to worry that the Mona Lisa just burned to a crisp, because you made a photocopy, yo. Have we not learned that invasive human intervention is the problem, not the solution. How much more ridiculous can we get?

Save the whales!

2009-02-23T08:58:00.005-05:00

I love panda bears.
I love polar bears.
I hate walruses.

I adore my job, but I can't tell you much about it. Confidentiality and all that. But what I can tell you is that it affords me plenty of opportunity to work my way through an enormity of DVDs...

I've always had the typical appreciation for elephants and zebras and giraffes and those big majestic beasts that are not normally found in my backyard or the petting zoo or the deli section. But watching the brilliant BBC series Planet Earth has taught me to love some of the less infamous creatures too, like otters, for example, which have now moved to #1 on the list of "Animals which I wouldn't mind being reincarnated as, if reincarnation exists, which I don't think it does, but just in case."

It has also taught me a healthy respect for Mr David Attenborough, who narrates this documentary. It took me about 16 seconds before declaring him "definitely a glass half empty kind of guy." He's a fan and enthusiastic user of devastating, unforgiving adjectives. A predator is never just a predator - it must also be fearsome, gargantuan, unrelenting. And a landscape must be harsh, deadly, gruelling. His stories usually go something like: the baby cub clings desperately to its starving mother, drinking her retched breast milk for the first three months of its life because it is blind and unable to fend for itself. And then it dies.

Attenborough himself almost becomes another specimen to observe, especially when he's making value judgements on unsuspecting animals. A bird, rejected by the female it was trying to impress, is further depressed when David intones "It's sad when even your best isn't good enough." Ouch.

It's funny how watching these animals and their strange habits and habitats makes you think so much about yourself. There's this one sequence when seals are forced, every single day of their lives, to swim across shark-infested waters just to get to their feeding ground. Meanwhile, the sharks chase after slippery, elusive creatures, just trying to get a bite. I picture myself in a field, faint with hunger, trying to convince a cow to sit still long enough for me to get a kebab out of him. Or worse yet, I picture myself darting across a parking lot being monitored by a sniper to get to my supermarket. This series has given me immense grocery-store guilt. My life up here on the top of the food chain is too easy. My prey doesn't try to bite back, or claw me in defense. It's pretty placid, in convenient portions, wrapped in plastic, ready to go.

That whole heart-pounding scene had me shouting Go seal, go! but later, when the seals had developed a taste for "blubber-rich penguins" I was like Fuck you, you dirty rotten seals! It seems that in these contests of nature, that one almost instinctively champions the underdog. You root for the prey, because prey are invariably cuter. I wonder, though, if we matched up dolphin vs baby deer, which I would cheer for.

But that's the difference between them and me: they worry about survival, and I worry about strictly hypothetical situations occurring to me from the office of my cushy job where I sit and watch nature-as-entertainment. A few bad weeks for these poor fellas mean that their whole food chain collapses, whereas the worst that happens to me is a lettuce shortage, resulting in romaine costing $4 a head instead of $1.29. And this overproduction of crops to feed all the privileged western mouths is what's destroying their precious habitat to begin with. Imagine what it would feel like if an iguana rang your doorbell and said: Pack your bags! I'm growing crops here now, you'll have to move. And that would be kind of the iguana to give you notice, because I don't think we do a very good job of that ourselves. I'm fairly certain that the discomfiting sound of chainsaws is their first indication that it's time to leave the neighbourhood.

This series pulls hard on your heart strings. At one point, with the picture facing away from me, I could only hear the tragic tune that was accompanying it. "What terrible thing is happening?" I enquired, only to be told that "A flower is growing." Well, it sounded like Schindler's List. Everything in nature is dramatic, never dull. You might think that a bump on a log is boring, but it's only because you're not looking close enough. The tragedy is there, lurking, believe me. But there was a small slice of upliftingness: Sadly, not all the mommy penguins come back, and some of them who do discover empty nests. The lady penguins turn their unrealized motherly instincts toward the poor orphaned penguins. In fact, so many would-be-mommies compete to adopt the orphan that they end up trampling him. To death.

But seriously, I've seen some amazing things too. I saw humpback whales do this crazy spiral move that would have earned them at least a bronze medal in synchronized swimming at the Obese Olympics. I saw General Sherman, a tree so big it has a name, and a title; a sequoia so huge it is the equivalent in weight to 10 blue whales. How can they know such a thing? Well, maybe they made it up. But still. I saw dolphins hydroplaning, because why not make hunting fun? I saw the terrifying vampire squid - from hell. Actually, it was more like the depths of the ocean, which is good because I can probably expect to go to hell, but I'm pretty sure I can manage to keep off the floor of the ocean, and let me tell you, I don't want to be wherever this guy is.

So, I've run out of room before I've run out of steam. I'll save the rest for later, and you're not going to want to miss it: I will explain what happens when you mix up a nature documentary with a bad Keanu Reeves movie (yes, I am aware that the 'bad' was redundant.) Roar!!

Rock out with my mock out.

2009-02-18T03:10:00.003-05:00

The new boy brought me to a café nestled strangely in Chinatown. It's the only place in a 4 block radius that doesn't sell pho. What it does sell is lifestlye. It's aiming for the sweet spot of chic-and-trendy-but-not-trying-too-hard-but-hard-enough-to-justify-charging-$8-for-a-cup-of-coffee-that's-not-even-fair-trade. It’s the kind of coffee house that is proudly, fiercely independent, decorated with dream catchers, a collection of porcelain owls, and mismatched tables and chairs that I wouldn’t be surprised to learn were leftovers from the set of The Wonder Years.

A leopard print chair distinguished our wobbly table from all the others, and once seated we were visited by a gypsy woman with a basket full of pygmy instruments – I got a tiny bell, and Boy got finger cymbals. “It’s not much, but it’s participatory,” the gypsy woman said by way of explanation.

Participatory? Before we could properly digest this thought (or contemplate bolting), the gypsy lady and all the glorious layers of her gauzy skirt climbed up on the stage, slung her antlered guitar around her neck, and hence commenced an intense affair most commonly known as “café rock.”

Yes, her guitar had antlers.

Yes, her sidekick played such various instruments as the organ, the pan flute, and the wind chimes (these in particular meant that we should all join in with our own “participatory” contributions, eye-rolling optional.)

Yes, the gypsy woman closed her translucent eyelids, sighed an ethereal breath, and said “Now I’m going to play some Dolly Parton.”

“I hope it’s Jolene,” whispered Boy, as sarcastically as a whisper can be.

“It’s Jolene” said the gypsy woman, and so it was. And about halfway through the flakiest excuse for Dolly that I’ve ever heard, the coffee grinder behind the bar, beside the bucket marked POTATO that was literally only big enough for the one and thus aptly labelled, made a noise oddly akin to my Katy Perry ringtone. Normally I’d be relieved that it wasn’t my cell phone interrupting Great Art, but at this point I’d been plotting my getaway for nearly an hour, rueing my perch of high visibility, and was more or less numb with Great Art and was intensely craving a Great Escape. Or a brownie, which looked delicious behind its glass dome, but probably tasted of commitment (for at least as long as it takes to eat a brownie, which to you may be a modest ten minutes or so, but when the music devolved from lyrics to odd throat noises and the clanging of cutlery against green glass bottles, every painful second counts.)

Mercifully, we capitalized on gypsy woman turning her back on the audience because “lyrics are hard to remember when you’re emotional” and we fled the scene, preferring to roam the frigid February night air than to rock out over herbal tea for one more minute than we’d already had.

My mother used to tell us If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

But my mother never said nothin about blog posts.

Where the grass is greener.

2009-02-10T00:04:00.003-05:00

So maybe it wasn't always the most exciting of relationships. The truth is, it's been good for me - safe and dependable, and I've had nothing to complain about. Or nothing major, anyway.

It's been a good ride, these past few months, and I've been content. Grateful, even. It's been interesting getting to know someone new, learning to trust, putting faith in someone else again. But the passion of novelty soon wore off and I was left feeling just...comfortable.

I don't know how to say this other than by the most direct means: I was with someone else. I cheated. I am a cheater, and the worst kind because I knew it was wrong but I did it anyway.

And now I'm marinating in a thick broth of guilt, as I deserve to be, and I'm contemplating what it will mean to confess. I am not by nature a dishonest person but the stress of my sins has me reaching for an arsenal of justifications that I know full well are self-serving bullshit. So what if I was unhappy? Is that an excuse? In the light of day, it seems a very poor one. I could have\should have ended things honourably, but instead I've become this deceitful person who shared her secrets with someone else, let someone else touch her shivery spot at the back of her neck.

And you know what keeps me up at night?
It was good.
It was damn good.

It was better than I'd been fantasizing about, better than I've had in a while. I know it isn't fair to compare but yes - better.

If I'm going to end it anyway (and that's certainly my intention, once I find the balls), is there any point to coming clean? Would I be doing it for my benefit, or for his? Can't I just spare him this hurt, and spare myself from being branded a holy-awful-disgusting-disappointment? There's a bit part of me, the coward part, telling me to avoid the conflict and just let the relationship ...trail off.

I know, I know, it's my own goddamned fault. I did this to myself. I turned my back on the gentle soul who has been faithfully and lovingly caring for my hair since that fateful day back in August when nobody else was open. I've let another man shampoo me, wisp my bangs, rub serum on my roots. I can't take it back, even if I wanted to, but with highlights like these, it's hard to feel remorse.

The hair knows what it wants and will break hearts to get it. I'm sorry to see a relationship end of course but these shiny, lustrous tresses deserve to be adored, and I'm glad they've met their match.

Thanx For The Memories.

2009-02-02T14:25:00.001-05:00

It’s a neighbourhood pub with ambition.

The red velvet-lined banquettes scream “Aren’t we neat and eccentric!” while the hanging rack of mismatched, hepatitis-stained beer steins assures “But we’re not even trying!”

We sit down at a table too small to fit all four of our knees underneath it. Apparently we should have left some of them at home. We make food selections off a central chalkboard because the “menu” is just a Xeroxed piece of paper with fresh (as in, still damp) gravy stains on it (at least, I hope to god it was gravy) and Andrew gets something on tap that he pointedly refers to as “not a stout.” It’s not the usual pub grub coming our way: there’s goat cheese to be had, and porcini mushrooms, and other things that aren’t wings and onion rings.

There are two men sharing a table nearby. They don’t exactly eat off each other’s plates, but they do halve their portions for sharing. I spend the next hour trying to decide if they’re gay. The fringed scarf trend really throws off my gaydar. Maybe the difference between gay and straight really has become that negligible.

The low lighting clearly appeals to the lugubrious kids and their dubious dates. Stacks of alternative newspapers cater to the theatre students who come to discuss truth, beauty, and America’s Next Top Model , but a bookcase full of important titles beckons to the intellectuals as well (unless you take a closer look, notice the uncracked spines, and revise that to pseudo-intellectuals.) You can see how the prop chess set and the scotch list play into the sweetly contrived ambiance, but the mood music, well, that’s another story.

Now, I suppose it’s possible that I might have interpreted the music as sexy if I was Merv Griffin, but the truth is, 70s game show themes are rarely my cup of tea. I was telling Andrew about my sudden compulsion to “Come on down!” when the music literally changed to the intro to The Price Is Right. And then it got stuck there for 20 of the most temple-throbbing minutes of my life. Thank goodness the music was so loud as to preclude so much as the attempt of conversation because otherwise I fear that I would have treated my fellow patrons to words not even seasoned pub-goers are comfortable with.

Our food arrived, rather quickly I thought, mercifully quickly, by wait staff that seemed blissfully unaware of the noise pollution assaulting our ears and who were friendly in that not-too-friendly sort of way. I watched Andrew pick perfectly harmless tomatoes off a burger that was thicker than any human jaw could hope to conquer and navigate legendary wedges the size of walruses. Walruses! Oh, the bulk! The sheer bulk of them!

The pile of potatoes defeated him in the end, but I ate his tomatoes so they wouldn’t feel self-conscious, thus restoring karma to the universe, or so I thought. Perhaps I was a tad unfair to the venerable restaurant business in a past life (or, more likely, a past post) because I can only assume that what happened next was destined to be.

Just as I was getting into the groove of The Price is Right, maybe jonesing for a little plinko, the music came to a scratching, screeching halt and something even better replaced it. I can only describe it as a fusion of blaxploitation\super hero music, porn-style. The lights went down and I braced myself.

I imagined a drag queen in thigh-high kinky boots, rocking an extravagant Tina Turner wig and eyelashes extending halfway to Maine making her grand entrance.

I anticipated the arrival of a slick dude with a plume in his hat and goldfish in his platforms who would shuffle between tables, slapping people on the back and winking at anything in a skirt. Or at the very least, I thought a caped man suffering from disco fever might make an appearance, but you know what happened?

Nothing. Nothing except for a fat guy in a very open-collared shirt taking the mic and complimenting himself on the music selection so far and psyching us up for his imminent vocal stylings .

We left immediately. We grabbed our coats and headed out into the chill to see what trouble we could find, or if trouble would find us, and on Elgin street, neither is to be discounted.

The Closest I'll Ever Come to Heaven...

2009-01-29T07:40:00.001-05:00

The difference between a regular hotel and a bed and breakfast is not so much the breakfast itself, but the fact of having to eat it with the other guests the morning after you’ve had loud, disruptive sex and kept them all from a good night’s sleep. A hotel’s relative anonymity means you might get some wall-knocks in response to your bed-rattling, curtain-swinging, sheet-crumpling session, but you’ll never have to face them the next day and ask them to please pass the jam.

Awkward French toast aside, we did pass a lovely night in an old converted barn, now living a torrid second life as a bed and breakfast cum yoga studio cum photo gallery. Snow was falling on cedars, and on pines, and firs, and on anything else that had the audacity to be outside. Soon, that would include us. Because obviously -24 degree weather would inspire anyone to shed their clothes to wander around outside in frostbite country, and not only enjoy it, but pay for the privilege too. Some have called it folly, others call in torture, but the business card says simply Le Nordik – spa en nature\outdoor spa.

The principle of Le Nordik is easy to grasp: hot, cold, rest, repeat. The hot part is happily obliged: either you sit in a hot tub nestled among the rocks and trees while snow collects on your eyelashes, or you lie about in the Finnish sauna (“Dehydrates strips of caribou while you relax!”) or you breathe in the goodliness of the steam bath (“Tastes like menthol!”) And then, once you’re good and sweaty, in order to achieve the ultimate relaxation, close the pores, and fully detoxify, comes the cold: literally, a hole is chopped through the ice on the lake and you jump in. Or, for the more romantic-minded, you may luxuriate under the iciest waterfall that will ever constrict your balls and pinch your nipples. Either way, it’s a deep freeze that chills to the bone. And if the shock stops your heart for more than the expected 30-45 seconds, the staff have hooks on long poles, perfect for fishing frozen corpses out of environments more suitable for polar bears. Just kidding of course. Polar bears aren’t that crazy.

For those of us who survive the jaw-clenching cold and are too incapacitated to make a screaming escape to the car comes a restful reward. You can flop yourself down on a lounge chair, or warm yourself by the fire in the gazebo, or stretch out in a room full of mats that plays host to the most wonderful thing I’ve ever witnessed – adult nap time. And then you do the whole thing over again, And again, for as long as you can stand the mind-blowing bliss.

God it was good. It was so good. It was fat-free chocolate-covered pretzels while you shop for pricetag-free Manolos on the first day of a three day weekend good. Andrew and I stewed in the hot tub for so long that our fingertips passed pruney and broke new territory in raisin land. We scuttled between stations in just our bathing suits and our flip flops, neither of which, in case you’re dense, do much to cut the cold. We had robes and towels, but they grew icicles after their first use and became slushy articles of discomfort that we were better off without.

Logically, I knew that it was -24, but I never really registered it. Hot tubs have amazing thawing capacities, and making out in hot tubs is truly divine. I was too blissed out to even mind my wardrobe malfunction. Predictably, I fell out of my impractical bathing suit. But since it was just the one boob, I doubt if it even counts.

After several hours, we fortified ourselves with wine and cheese so that we could withstand the travails of a massage.

It was the kind of massage that elicited the kinds of appreciative noises that could easily be misinterpreted by anyone listening in. This is supposing that my groans were now drowned out by the ubiquitous canned sound of fake birds fake chirping in the background – constantly. The funny thing is, Le Nordik is tucked away in a forested setting and has no need for nature fakery. Perhaps if the real birds are taking a day off from this freeze-your-nuts-off weather, we could just, you know, muddle through somehow without them. I doubt I’d be sitting in the hot tub all tense and nervous thinking God damn, if only there was some imitation bird to be had!

At any rate, I have now seen nirvana, and I’m hooked. By the end of the day I nearly did a face plant into my injera, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay for paradise.

Baa baa black sheep, have you any Grey Goose?

2009-01-24T07:42:00.004-05:00

Le Mouton Noir, it calls itself, which is a funny name for a bar, especially a bar that appears to be mascotted not by a black sheep at all but by an aloof pug named Fred. Okay, I made that last bit up. There is a pug, but the bugger couldn’t be bothered to properly introduce himself. But I suppose his name could be Fred. Nobody ever told me it wasn’t.

The Black Sheep Inn, misnamed or not, bills itself as a “musical destination” in rural Quebec. It’s the kind of place that has ski-doo parking out front and boasts nachos with “red sauce” as the highlight of its limited menu (and indeed, when they arrive, the sauce is exactly that – unidentifiable and yet unmistakably red). To show that we’ve paid, the backs of our hands are stamped with a bingo dauber, and with that, we are absorbed into the crowd.

I drink rye & diets; I don’t need to ask for a drink menu to know this isn’t a martini kind of place (if nothing else, the unironic wood panelling screams it sufficiently). Andrew is happy to continue with his love affair with stout, and this is just the place to indulge him. The tables are sticky and wobbly so we hold our drinks and don’t make the mistake of resting our elbows more than once. I feel overdressed in my jeans and t-shirt because I am not visibly sporting thermal underwear.

The first (of three) bands is setting up, and I am quick to notice that they are the kind of band who wear “interesting” sweaters and drink tea instead of beer. The singer tunes her saw. Yes, you read that right. Her saw. With the bow of a violin, naturally. But I am disappointed during the performance because the saw never makes an appearance. However, I am delighted that the fuzzy sweater has disappeared and she has donned a rather affected pair of white leather gloves that she swishes around moodily while on stage. She breathes a “bonsoir” to us from under her tousled hair, and visions of Edith Piaf dance before our eyes. My opinion is further improved when an accordion player is invited to join them on stage. I now believe that if you’ve never seen anyone wail enthusiastically on an accordion, then you’ve never really lived. Have you ever seen someone really feel the accordion? I’m talking spastic, eyes-closed intensity here. Whew.

Next up to bat was a fun and funny folk singer named Bob whose protest songs are directed towards dogs, who discouraged applause after a song, delightfully entitled “How to Build a Fence”, about the literal building of a fence, the fancy kind, with a gate that swings and everything, by saying Oh don’t clap, that song only had 2 chords so it really wasn’t that hard, and who dazzled with such insightful lyrics as If singing the blues is a gift, next time I’d rather have a toaster. You just can’t lose with shit like that, and I could have listened to this guy all night long.

It seems to me at this point that the acts tonight are a bit incongruous, but hell, this place has an African mask on the wall beside a dart board that’s beside a Che poster that’s under a disco ball that’s hanging next to a dusty ceiling fan. You might think that clashing is an intended theme of the mouton noir, but when you get a load of the waiter in his ear-flap toque, and the dog who sits his ass on the bar in flagrant disregard of any health codes, and the audience members who bang their beer bottles on the table instead of clapping, you begin to have an understanding of a sense of belonging that no bar in the city will ever have.

The, ah, headliner, if you will, goes on last (duh), and we’re apparently supposed to know that he was once in Blue Rodeo, but the only thing I recognize him from was his frenetic accordion playing earlier in the night. The accordion, it seems, was just the tip of the iceberg with this guy. He sets up a multi-media show that is accompanied variously by him on the guitar, the keyboard, and of course, the accordion, which continues to be my favourite. He really breaks that fucking shit out, he plays it like he means it, and I doubt that I will ever recover from the haunting tune that played during the death of a hand puppet. Although come to think of it, he may have almost been upstaged by a video of an older man beat-boxing so maniacally that I nearly mistook it for an epileptic fit. But then he closed the show with a tour de force on the piano so amazing that even he couldn’t stay in his seat, thus cementing his title of Coolest and Most Bizarre Thing I’ve Seen Since At Least Last Tuesday, And Maybe Longer.

And through it all, the premature clapper showed us her approval before it was ever appropriate. There’s always one in every audience, isn’t there? They over-anticipate the end of each song and clap way ahead of time, as if it were a race. Well, she won. Every damn time. Her early applause drowned out the best bits of every song, and some of it was so ahead of time that I would mistakenly attribute it to the fact that maybe one man in ten managed to zip up before exiting the washroom, but no. She just wanted the artist to know that she liked the show before any of us other fools did.

And then it was time to put our snow suits, get on our snow mobiles and make tracks homeward. Except not. Being out-of-towners and wearing galoshes-less shoes, we opted for a car in the direction of our B & B because – oh yes – if you thought my night at the Black Sheep Inn was awesome, well then hold onto your socks for my next instalment , which is even awesomer.

Anti-Social

2009-01-15T07:33:00.002-05:00

The walls are red, the plates are square, and the pan-fried calamari is spiced with cumin and pretension.

It’s not a bar.

It’s not a restaurant.

It’s a lounge.

You know you’re in a lounge when they don’t just plate food, they present it. Presentation involves disguising the fact that “dinner” consists of only 4 shrimps by stacking them vertically. Vertically! It’s brilliant, really. I can hardly believe I’ve wasted so many meals eating plain old horizontal food; things just don’t taste as good when they’re not piled on top of each other. And if there were just 4 little shrimps sitting forlornly on my plate, my brain might think “Four shrimps! What a rip-off!”, but when they’re artfully arranged into a leaning tower of shellfish, my brain thinks “What a delightful mountain of deliciousness!” Presentation doesn’t stop at stacking though; it also includes an ostentatious and often inedible garnish that usually looms larger than the main course itself.

You know you’re in a lounge when the wait staff is hired to stand around looking pretty – literally. Their main qualifications include trendy haircuts, cute dimples, and an all-black wardrobe. Once they’ve nailed the “I don’t hurry because I’m pretty” work ethic, they move on to the “I’m just doing this until I get my big break” attitude and the “God you people fucking bore me” look. Then they mostly stand around discussing their love lives and car payments while customers starve and eventually get their own drinks.

You know you’re in a lounge when they use some pompous euphemism for French fries on the menu. Call them frites all you want, but I know the truth: you’re just too goddamned lazy to come up with an imaginative replacement for them. Who do you think you’re fooling?

You might be in a lounge when some of the tables and chairs are replaced with – get this! – couches. You know, for lounging. And for sitting awkwardly in your dress, wondering how many germs are lurking in the fabric, and increasing spills by 86% (because what else would you do with your $18 martini other than have half of it coat the already-sticky, definitely-wobbly, and more than an arm-length’s away side table?) And please note: when I referred to “replacing” those tables and chairs with sofas, what I really meant was not removing them at all but just squeezing them into the already-tight dining space. Because if someone’s ass doesn’t brush your spaghetti carbonara, you’re not really living it up. But boy, if you’re strewn on a sofa, you must be having fun. You might actually start harbouring the delusion that you are “funky” or “with it” if you’re the kind of desperate middle-aged man who hasn’t realized yet that’s tragically out of touch. But there is nothing inherently cool about couches. Hey lounge: know who else has couches? My grandma. And she also serves drinks, and trays of compartmentalized food we used to call the cheese and pickle platter, but I suppose if we started calling them “tapas” then she could start charging us a cover, right?

You might be in a lounge if the nicest thing the newspaper reviewer could think of to say was “Dan Aykroyd ate there once!” and Dan Aykroyd probably had the right idea. A lounge is a place to see and be seen, and then retreat to your hotel room, crack open the mini bar (where drinks are so much cheaper) and have a shawarma delivered to you from across the street.

You’re probably in a lounge if the menu uses an excessive amount of quotation marks. For example, the menu might offer seared “rare” yellow fin tuna. You expect that quotation marks tell the reader something unusual is happening here: either you have a reservation about using the word, or you’re using it ironically. In this instance, we may guess that the tuna is not exactly served rare. However, when the same menu includes a dessert comprising of carrot cake and “frosting”, I really start to wonder what is so objectionable about the supposed “frosting.” Putting random quotation marks around things makes them sound ominous. Like maybe you shouldn’t trust the “frosting.” Like maybe someone’s pulling a fast one on us with the “frosting.” Like maybe it’s safest just to skip the “frosting”, if that is it’s real name.

You’re likely in a lounge if you hear the word ‘atmosphere’ thrown around a lot. Posh is what these places aspire to be; coolness is a great way to justify the exorbitant prices, and possibly the only way, especially when other negligible factors such as the quality and (god forbid you should ever leave a lounge sated) quantity of the food just don’t cut it. In fact, you’re almost certainly in a lounge if you pay 138$ before taxes and tip for a drink, an appetizer, an entree and dessert, and you still leave hungry.

You might be in a lounge if there’s a special menu that comes after dinner but before dessert. In another world this might be accurately named the cheese menu, but you’re in a lounge, so nothing is ever so easy. Instead they have to call it Quebec Thermalized cow milk, with triple cream, and bloomy rind. Because to call a rose by any other name....I mean, you’d still order it if they said they’d thrown a couple of cheese slices over some saltines and microwaved it, right? Oh, excuse me, they would never stoop so low as to serve it with mere crackers. In a lounge, it’s served with fig-walnut bread or some other snobby carbohydrate. That’s another thing about lounges: you’ll notice that everything on the menu has to sound at least vaguely disgusting, or else you’d never know you were eating something "innovative."

I'm not a hater, though.
Oh no.
I can bring the shi-shi with the best of them. I can drink martinis that took 30 minutes to arrive at my table like nobody's business. I can cross my legs and accidentally knock the napkin off the lap of a lady sitting 3 tables away and apologize with a big phoney shit-eating grin like you've never seen before. I can fit right in.

Just promise me we can stop at McDonald's on the way home.

Holy Hell.

2009-01-11T01:15:00.002-05:00

Either Dante miscounted, or hell is expanding.

Currently, hell has circles dedicated to gluttons, misers, and sodomites where they undergo punishments supposedly commensurate with their sins. But I'm here to tell you there are things worse than boiling blood, demon whipping, and marinating in human shit.

The tenth circle of hell is called Bikini Village.

The good news: I'm going to Punta Cana!
The bad news: I'm going to Punta Cana!

Luckily (or unluckily, maybe), I'm not going until March, so I either have 2 more months to search frantically for that which does not exist (ie, a bathing suit that doesn't make me want to "drop" radios in my bathwater) or I have 2 more months to cancel Punta Cana and book some sort of arctic vacation instead. Nobody every broke out in hives because of how they look in a parka.

And the thing is, I don't really mind how I look in bathing suit.
I just mind how I look in a bathing suit under fluorescent lighting in a dressing room when the only colour on my entire body is the little red lines from the elastic on my socks.

I think it's fairly popular to blame our own bodies for the fact that swimwear just doesn't do us justice, but I will pass the buck if there's a buck to be passed, and I blame the suits.

I'm not disputing the fact that nobody ever told my hips that I didn't want children, and so they grew thinking that I might one day give birth to a litter of small volkswagons and are thusly proportioned. That part is true. But am I the only hippy woman walking around? No, I am not. In fact, if you sit outside of Bikini Village for 10 minutes, you will see every shape and size imaginable walk by, some of which will mystify and stultify, but walk by they do. But 30 seconds inside Bikini Village, and you quickly realize that bathing suits are cut to one shape, and it ain't mine, and it may not be yours either. Four more minutes inside that store, and you will hear cursing from the dressing rooms, witness crying by the mirrors, and see reluctance at the cash register.

I'm too short to fill out the normal swim suit, so either I put my boobs into the cups and let the torso portion just pool around my stomach unflatteringly, or I tie the boob holes around my neck and smooth out the tummy part. It's not a choice I wish on my worst enemy.

And all bathing suits make it evident that the swimwear people and the Brazilian wax people got together and conspired against us. Your normal grooming just won't do. Bathing suits ride up into territory you didn't even know you had - and when that ultra-white strip of skin is inevitably newly hair-free and exposed to sunlight in the first time in forevah, it's going to burn like a motherfucker.

But going on vacation is fun!
It's just that next time, I'm going to save myself a little sanity for the beach and book myself into one of those nudist resorts.

Christmas Who?

2008-12-25T20:11:00.004-05:00

It's not that I'm going all bah-humbug on the holiday, just that someone had to work it, that someone being me, and so I'm in Christmas-oblivion until the 27th, which is when my celebrations officially begin.

I celebrated Christmas Eve with all the somber reverence due to the birth of baby Jesus, in a greasy spoon called Zak's Diner, home of excellent home fries and uncomfortable seating. Andrew took me there when I got off work at 7am and it's as close to Christmas dinner as I've come. And no, that's not a complaint. Although I did raise my eyebrow ever so slightly when the waitress asked how he wanted his eggs, and he said "Scrambled."

"What's wrong with scrambled?", he asked.

"Nothing," I said, "if you're 12."

Frankly, he deserved a good ribbing after I had inspected his driveway earlier and declared that reindeer had definitely been afoot (ahoof?).

"No," he said, "we just have rabbits."

Now, granted, I had just got off a night shift and I was exhausted and bleary, but that's still no excuse for him to think it possible that I might confuse reindeer and rabbits. I'm not that blonde.

"Well if you're not referring to the tracks in the snow, then what do you mean?" he asked.

"I smell them" I said.

"You smell reindeer?"

"I smell magic!"

So then we kissed goodbye and he sped off toward his hometown, an 8-hour drive he managed in just 11, which sounds ass-backwards, but this is December in Canada and all things considered, he made good time. I have it on good authority that he is currently drinking generous portions of scotch while making awkward conversation with his Nana and trying to tune out Anne Murray's screechy Christmas album.

Meanwhile, I went to work on Christmas Eve in my fuzzy Christmas jammies, ready for all manners of office antics with just a pinch of party, but instead I spent the night alone in the dark while my coworker stretched out on the yoga mat and intermittently snored and ignored the annoying ringtone\alarm on his phone. For 7 fucking hours.

Merry Christmas to me!

Christmas day meant little more to me than the rest I'd need before heading back into work, but after approximately 47 minutes of sleep I discovered that any more would be impossible. Awesome. Nothing says Christmas like a nice glass of Redbull, I've always said. Maybe I could crush up some candy cane and give that a snort for some extra energy and a brief but minty ride on the festive train.

My youngest sister, bless her little heart, has spread Christmas cheer via text. She has sent blurry images that I assume are Christmas-related along with enigmatic updates such as "Now we're playing spoons!"

When I wrote back that I hoped that meant that our grandfather was attempting something by Beyonce, she (to my disappointment) clarified that spoons were not being played musically as I had imagined, but rather, it's an ill-named card game. Or a well-named card game, for all I know. But still.

If you think I sound grinchy, then you clearly don't know me very well.
This is how I always sound.
I'm an inspired complainer year-round.
It's part of my charm. Trust me.

Actually, I don't so much mind working through Christmas. I'm a contractor, which means I work for myself, so I could have had it off, but then someone else would have had to sacrifice their plans.

Andrew and I celebrated the night before he left by feasting on thai food and watching half a movie before he stoked my fire with his yule log.

And my mother has generously offered to host "Christmas: The Sequel" upon my belated arrival.

So I might not be roasting chestnuts on an open fire tonight, but I'm making pancakes and watching Hamlet 2, and you know what?

That ain't bad.

Happy holidays to all.
xo

Puppy Love

2008-12-22T07:46:00.004-05:00

When Andrew picked me up last night he said "Wow, you look really great", which is more or less what he always says when he picks me up. He'd said an approximation of that very same thing the night before, but I was more willing to accept it then, being decked out in a little black dress and heels. Later that night, sitting on the leather sofas at Social, martini (deliciously named Anika Sky) in hand, he told me that my breasts looked "particularly fetching". And yes, he really said fetching.

But that was Saturday night; last night, Sunday night, I was wearing cords, and let's face it - no one looks sexy in corduroy. It's a functional fabric favoured by us citizens of colder climates. It is not h-a-w-t.

Obviously the response to "You look good" is "Thanks" but I tend to go with something like "I know!" instead. And I do know. Someone as gorgeous as I am, as smart as I am, as funny as I am, with such impeccable taste, unimpeachable opinions and superior skill at almost anything worth being skilled at (from the proper pouring of a stout to the impressively flawless removal of red wine stains from suede) will obviously become accustomed to receiving compliments. But that hasn't made me very comfortable or particularly gracious at accepting them. (Incidentally, my mother once wondered aloud how someone so conceited came from her womb, which made me wonder if someone this beautiful can really be said to be "conceited". Conceit implies that the self-flattery is excessive or worse yet, imaginary. Conceit, therefore, belongs to the uglies. Us good looking people who know we're good looking are simply self-aware. And that's a good thing, right?)

Anyway, after Andrew and I finished arguing about whether I looked dishy, we drove to his friends' place because their dog just had puppies - twins! - and we were eager to bask in their cuteness. At just 3 days old, the little tan ball of adorable sat in my palm with room to spare. It snuggled up to my chest and sighed contentedly. Andrew's puppy, however, mewed a little and squirmed against him. Perfectly understandable, of course, since they're newborn, still blind, and unused to being away from Mummy's nipples. Mine was the anomaly of course, but I've yet to come across a male who wasn't happy to nuzzle at my breast.

I didn't volunteer this perfectly reasonable explanation of my puppy success though, because I was meeting Andrew's friends for the first time and I was on my best behaviour. In fact, sometime before we pulled up (and possibly partly prompted by my repeated use of the word CUNT in the previous post), he'd warned me not to use the word pussy. So, after dating for a couple of months now, Andrew has pegged me as:

a) the kind of girl who can really rock a pair of cords; and

b) the kind of girl who would randomly insert inappropriate vagina-substitutes into conversation with complete strangers.

And he's not really wrong, on either count.

Earlier I had fucked with his hair a bit because he looked like he was about to sit for his school portrait. It's hard for anyone to compete with my new haircut ("the most punk-ass in the 613" according to my stylist) but when he asked me if he looked dangerous I had to admit that maybe "responsible" was a bit more accurate.

"Coming from you," he said, "I know that's not a compliment." It's difficult for most people to think of responsible as being an insult, but again he's hit the spot. This kid, he's starting to know me. And this fact, slightly startling on its own, was compounded by having occasion to talk to my ex this week. My laptop was stolen last weekend and I needed the serial number from him for the police report. On a manic high last summer, he'd promised to finally return my things, box up what was most important to me, and get it to me right away with a side of divorce papers. Six months later, I haven't seen any of these things materialize, but after watching my life be torn apart by his bipolarism, I guess I'm just a bit beyond disappointment these days. We've since had months of silence in the interim, which is not something I really regret. His curiosity got the better of him though, and he initiated our first conversation since August. I was surprised to find that the 8 years we'd spent together had somehow...dimmed. The feelings I once had for him, both the loving ones and the angry ones, have evaporated. I was struck by how strange I seemed to him. He doesn't know me anymore.

He doesn't know me anymore!
Even more shocking to me: someone else knows me now (and I don't just mean biblically). I mean that I can tease him in that way that I have and not worry that he'll fall apart. He gets my scathing sense of humour. He knows where I like to be rubbed, and why I can't just put a lid on a cocoa and pretend it's a white hot chocolate. He already knows that I'm never wrong, and that if there's any sort of competition between us, I will win.

Especially if it involves puppies.

Ode to Vulva

2008-12-16T05:33:00.001-05:00

I remember very clearly one of my earliest classes in the psychology of sexuality because it consisted mainly of a 3-hour slide show of penises.

Penises, penises, penises. I'd certainly seen my share (perhaps even several shares) live and in person by that time, but to see them disembodied, out of context, in all their glorious shapes and sizes, in various states of arousal or flacidity, some straight and skinny like a fleshy misplaced bolo tie, others gently curving like a piece of mushy unappetizing fruit, it was simply too much.

Too much!

The next week I was bravely back in the lecture hall, pen in hand, optimistically thinking that I might actually be taught this time (although it's possible that the only note I took that entire semester was "Clitoris rhymes with Doris"), and that I probably wouldn't miss sausage all that much, now that I could no longer bring it to my lips when lo and behold, the unending penis slide show was followed by an equally lengthy one on vulvas!

This time, after bearing witness to literally hundreds of vulvas, I felt rather enlightened. Up until that time, the only vulva I'd spent any quality time with was my own, and I left with a heightened appreciation for just how goddamned cute mine was. Still, I went home to a hand mirror, a camcorder and some well-placed throw pillows that night just so I could admire her some more.

Mimi and I (that's her name) have had some very, very good times.

Very, very.

Well, I suppose that makes it sound like the good times happened just between me and Mimi, and that's not what I meant.

Though it is equally and absolutely true.

If I'm supposed to feel some measure of shame in admitting that, I don't.

Mimi is so pretty that you can't help but be drawn to her - such a luscious shade of pink that I'd gladly wear it on my lips if only Revlon could get their shit together and weren't so adverse to printing "Jay's Cunt" on the sides of their tubes. Personally, I think it has a nice ring to it.

Yes, I said cunt. Sometimes I think it's the only word really worthy of it: powerful, arresting. Cunt.

She's so affectionate it breaks my heart, always striving to be the best that she can be.

My vulva, myself.

I love her.

Things I Recently Dropped in the Toilet: A Poem

2008-12-11T08:31:00.000-05:00

The shampoo
Luster and shine guaranteed
Now with green tea extract;

The toothpaste
No longer so minty fresh
Still recommended by 4 out of 5 dentists;

Nail polish, extreme blackcurrent
Sank straight to the bottom
And looked like sunken treasure;

A whole roll of toilet paper
Quickly took on water and went glug glug glug
Fished out a soggy, pulpy mess;

A happy rubber duckie
Who looked so homey in his new pristine pond
That I left him there until I had to pee;

A candle shaped like a shoe
Extinguished with a mighty splash
Never to be lit again;

The ring right off my finger
Seemed to be committing suicide
But I rescued it and closed the lid, thus saving others as well.

Flush.

I'm not mental, I'm mentally hilarious.

2008-12-09T00:19:00.005-05:00

I work as a crisis counsellor. Basically, people call me and I talk them out of killing themselves. Or at least, I hope I do.

I'm not really trying to make light of it. It's just that after months of hearing horrific disclosures involving all manners of abuse, sex crimes, broken hearts, abandoned children and lost souls, you're just not the same person and you do what you can to survive it. There are days when I come home and cry. There are days I come home and run myself a hot bath to cry in. There are other days I pour myself a glass of shiraz, run myself a bath, and sob as I gulp wine greedily. But despite these challenges (and maybe a tiny bit because of them), I love the work I do.

I even love the fact that I get to do it at night. People become desperate creatures at night and every time the phone rings, I know I have the potential to save a life. What I love a little less though is the toll that working nights takes on your social life. My schedule goes like this: I work 7 nights in a row, get 3 days off, work another 7 in a row, get 4 off. By the fifth night, you feel a little undead. It's been forever since you last saw the sun, you have no idea what the idea of "suppertime" is anymore, and you have a personal vendetta against all banking institutions which are open only in the narrow window during which it is imperative that you sleep. Mercifully though, I am right now enjoying my 4 days off, Sat-Tues, or as I refer to them, Saturday!, Sunday!, Monday!, Tuesday!

The Saturday and Sunday I reserve for what we counsellors have taken to calling "filling up the reservoir" after a particularly cheesy workshop, but really consists of making sure we don't burn out or wind up in need of crisis counselling ourselves (both happen with frightening frequency).

Saturday was a lovely day. I sacrificed sleep in order to be among the people, and I hit up an indie craft fair where I spent my money on such silk-screened gems as a pair of panties that say "Eat Local" and a tie that has a TV set admonishing the masses "Read a book you dipshit." These are the things you risk missing out on if you do the "healthy", "logical" thing and sleep when you're exhausted. Saturday night I went to Gatineau to visit a friend, play some poker, and eventually, when I was drunk enough, embarrass myself at Guitar Hero.

Driving home, we were already a fair piece down the highway when my girlfriend rang my cell and said Jay, you forgot your wallet on the stereo. Andrew was kind enough to turn the car around and allow me to retrieve it without laying on the guilt. Did I mention that having a fucked up sleep schedule really messes with your memory? It does.

Sunday morning I made my way home before the sun had even risen after spending the night not sleeping in Andrew's bed. I went home and crashed for less than two hours before springing back up in order to enjoy Another! Day! Off! Andrew and I spent a blissfully quiet day on my living room floor drinking wine and laughing.

On Monday I should have swung into high gear in order to get around to all those errands that are particularly hard for those of us who work the night shift: grocery stores, passport offices, postal outlets, banks, even the laundry room in my building, they're all open hours that are only convenient to the majority but sadly not the totality of the people.

But....I didn't. I had finally allowed myself a few consecutive hours of sleep before waking up and realizing that I needed to be getting ready to get to my friend's house if I had any hope of being in the vicinity of "on time".

And I was, barely, but still. And I had a great night. I am blessed with friends who hardly complain at all about my schedule. I knew that the next day would be crazy for me, now having to pack 2 busy days worth of errands into just the one, but I managed to put that stress out of my mind and just enjoy myself. I work hard, and I deserve some quality down time. I got back home quite pleased with myself, started steaming milk to make some white hot chocolate, ran a bath and realized....I had once again left my wallet behind.

I never do that, but I've now done it twice in three days and for all I know Sunday was safe only because I never left the house. I sat in the bath panicking. No cash, no debit card, no credit card, no gym membership, not even my lousy laundry card to my name! The Christmas shopping that so desperately needs to get done? Forget it. The stamps that need to be bought? ID that needs to be renewed? Arms that need toning? In fact, the whole damn list of things begging to be checked off? Nope, none of it.

It sucks.

And yet, I have accidentally given myself a gift.

I have nowhere I can go and no means to do anything. I will be forced to spend the day at home, alone. For the first time in a long time, I will truly relax. I will sit, and read, and eat cookies, maybe watch movies, maybe nap, probably open some wine and turn the Christmas tree lights on. I might even call my mother! It will be the complete opposite of the day that my to-do-list requires, but it will be the exact day that my tired soul has been longing for. Sadly, I all too often leave myself off the list (while scolding clients who do the same) but my unconscious has apparently identified the need and has worked hard to ensure that I treat myself to a real day off.

Thank you, dear wallet, for saving me. This act of deliberate sabotage is the most selfless thing an inanimate object has ever done for me.

Today I will shower in the dark with expensive body wash.
Today I will touch flame to virgin wicks.
Today I will go panty-less in order to preserve what clean laundry I have left.
Today I will savour every last minute.

The glory days of a bi-hockey couple.

2008-12-04T01:02:00.002-05:00

He's handsome and thoughtful and has great taste in music, but he's deeply, deeply flawed.
Andrew cheers for the wrong hockey team.

No, I take that back.
The Ottawa Senators are not just the wrong team, but the worst team.
The rivalry between Toronto and Ottawa is legendary. Politely referred to as "the battle of Ontario", fans use much more colourful language in the stands.

But with a twinkle in his eye, he invited me to the game, and despite the fact that I felt fairly confident that it could spell an end to our relationship, I accepted.
Foolishly.

He picked me up wearing a StinkySens Volchenkov jersey and hardly batted an eye at my skirt and white leather motorcycle boots (if you doubted for a second that I was the kind of girl who'd wear a skirt to a hockey game, then get the hell out). But when I ditched my coat in the car to reveal my own jersey, he lifted an eyebrow. My blue and white should normally repel his red and black, but instead they brushed together as his hand in the small of my back led me up the steps towards the monstrosity that feels entitled to sell beer at $12 a glass.

The ticket-taker was the first of many skeptics.

Are you two sitting together? she asked.

Apparently, I replied, rolling my eyes.

But otherwise I bit my tongue, which is not normally one of the many things I like to do with my tongue, but in a sea of Sens fans on their home turf, I know when to pick my battles. Plus, I didn't feel like getting jumped.

I wasn't the only Toronto fan in the building, but I was sitting in a section saturated with Senators sweaters (Andrew has season tickets, natch). I expected some ribbing, and I got some. I also got lots of high-fives from the Leafs fans pouring down periodically from the nose-bleeds in pursuit of more beer. One Leafs fan in particular was very vocal in his approval of my jersey. He went so far as to berate Andrew.

Dude, he says, if you're going to sit beside this lovely lady, you should have worn the blue and white.

I smirked.

Andrew grunted.

Or at least, he did the first time.

The second time he got razzed by this guy, he was a little less amused. The first period of the game had been intense, the Sens scoring within the first 4 minutes and the Leafs tying it up just a couple of minutes after that. The boys behind us shouted their anti-Leafs sentiments in their smug french accents while Andrew and I engaged in friendly one-upmanship. If he was on his feet clapping, then I'd be jumping up and down doing my damndest to drown him out. And then we'd make out and ignore the ice completely. It was good.

It was good up until the persistent Leafs fan showered me so strongly with compliments that he talked himself into proposing marriage, down on one knee on the concrete steps of the Scotia Bank place in a foam cowboy hat and face paint. Hawt. He took my hand and looked into my eyes and, refusing to be rejected, he assured me that though Andrew may have splurged for better seats, the real fans were further up in the stands, and that he'd have a seat saved and warmed for me when (not should) I choose to join him.

Equilibrium was not restored until a Sens fan threatened to throw me down the stairs. The entire section, witnesses all of them to the awkward scene that failed to end in an engagement, erupted in laughter, enjoying having put the Leafs fan back in her place and their energy carried them through a battle into overtime and finally a (surprising) Ottawa victory in a shoot-out.

We spilled out into the crazy-packed parking lot after the game in a sea of jubilation. Andrew grabbed my hand in the crush and we strolled happily towards where we estimated the car to be parked, having already mostly forgotten which team lost and which team won, when yet another random person stopped us in our tracks.

This one though congratulated us.
If a Leafs girl and a Sens boy can still be holding hands, I have hope for this world yet. Anyone can get along together if you guys can.

So, beacons of hope that we were, we drove home together to rip the offending shirts off our backs and do the things that make us forget that we have any differences at all, except the anatomical ones that we tend to quite enjoy.

Where the men are, sort of.

2008-11-19T18:57:00.002-05:00

There were better bars, more worthy bars, deeper into the bowels of the market, but I was wearing spike heels and a dress so short it barely (maybe not even) covered my girly bits, and there was wetness bordering on snowness starting to fall, and our bellies were full of sushi and sake so we just wanted a dark corner to sit in and drink in and wait until it was late enough to go home and fuck.

These are all perfectly good reasons for accidentally watching UFC, I swear.

The cover charge at the door of a pub should have given it away, I guess, but I was distracted by the the 42:1 ratio of men to women and Andrew couldn't wait to get in somewhere (anywhere!) warm enough to remove my coat and get another look at my Grecian dress ("Grecian" meaning very low cut in the front and very very low cut in the back), or rather, the things falling out of my Grecian dress.

The UFC, if you have the good fortune not to know, is the Ultimate Fighting Championship, which in theory involves a couple of scantily-clad mixed martial artists going at it until one of them just can't go anymore. If this sounds homoerotic to you: ding ding ding. However, the UFC seems to have some unspoken rule about not engaging anyone who is even remotely good looking, so if you're looking for the male equivalent of mud wrestling, keep looking. In fact, I would wager that mud wrestling involves more grace and more athleticism and possibly more testosterone than the UFC on any night. But maybe that's just me.

Supposedly, back in the glory days of the UFC, the only rules were no biting, and no eye-gouging, which led to brutal, bloody fights that John McCain likened to "human cock fighting", which apparently was a bad thing. Now there are more fouls than you can shake a stick at, which includes not shaking your stick and also: no head butting, no hair pulling, no groin attacks, no fish hooking, no spitting.

And they call that a fight? Come on! My six year old sister and I got dirtier than that on the concrete floor of our basement when we couldn't agree on who would be Barbie and who would be Ken.

The fighters enter the arena to the tune of their favourite CCR song, high-fiving the eager pre-pubescent crowd. Then while scowling menacingly (but not convincingly - if you want convincing, I refer you once again to my Mom's basement when someone has just eaten the last poptart) the fighter is undressed. The official rulebook states that a fighter's gloves must allow fingers to grab and grapple, but somehow they are unable to remove their own shirts. Someone in the entourage actually has the job description of Official Shirt Taker-Offer of the UFC. Shirtless (disappointingly), they climb into the ring, which isn't a ring, but an octagon-shaped enclosure called (brilliantly) The Octagon.

The fight starts and the bar is packed tight all around us, violating all fire safety codes and also the warning that keeps crawling across the bottom of the big screen TVs that says pay-per-view is for individuals only and it is expressly forbidden for public viewing, such as that in bars. Wings and nachos are being consumed in vast quantities and I appear to be the 1 in 400 not drinking beer. The two fighters in silk shorts dance around each other for much of the "fight", and action is so scarce that just lunging at an opponent is enough for the beery crowd to erupt in cheers and jeers. Andrew fails to find anything amusing in watching former high school bullies wail on each other, but I encourage him to take a closer look.

These are not the bullies, these are the outcasts. The official and exclusive beer of the UFC is Bud Light for a reason. These are the dudes that were picked on and swirlied and stuffed into lockers in high school. These nerds are getting revenge, and using the UFC to show that their tap-dance\karate lessons were not in vain. Through the miracle of steroids and spending every Friday and Saturday night in an otherwise empty gym, the dweebs have got their day.

I kicked a girl, and I liked it.

2008-10-03T08:53:00.004-04:00

During the emergency evacuation, our chicken balls, which were left behind, had gone cold, the lo mein had congealed, and the wontons were now floating unappetizingly in room-temperature soup. While others may see the aborted scene as a sad case of night-gone-wrong, we couldn't help interpreting the events somewhat more favourably.

Rewind 2-3 hours: the night starts innocently enough...

knock, knock

"Come in, come in."

kiss, kiss

"Have a seat, grab a drink, try not to mind the fact that I'm still not wearing a bra."

It may seem like casual entertaining to say the least, but Rory is the kind of friend who, when I accidentally stepped out of an Urban Behaviour fitting room topless, informed the crowd that it wasn't "anything she hadn't seen before."

So, while she unburdened her soul of all the troubles a girl can accumulate in 48 hours, I finished dressing under her steady gaze, and between smoke breaks on the balcony, did my hair and my makeup too. And when she'd confessed herself into exhaustion, we topped up the drinks and headed into more light hearted territory, otherwise known as my life, the soap opera.

Rory, like lots of my friends, lives vicariously through the sordid stories of my random rendez-vous-ing but is suspicious as to how I actually manage to accidentally meet so many strange characters. The best I can ever manage by way of explanation is "I don't know! It's not like I have a lesson plan for spontaneity. It just happens." Luckily, statements like that do not diminish statements like "...and after we chased the chipmunk back up the tree, we introduced ourselves and then made out." It sounds a little crazy in the retelling, but I like that my life is a mix of fantastical and unpredictable.

So as I was wrapping up a story we've since dubbed "The disarmingly hot guy who wears UFC jammies to bed and whose number is now deprogrammed from my cell", the only thing louder than our giggles was the grumblies in our tumblies.

Being the domestic goddess that I am, we ordered some chinese.

And then we went down to the lobby of my building to make sure no one abducted our dinner, remarking on "that buzzing noise that kind of sounds like someone's smoke alarm" as we left.

When we got back (10? 15 minutes later?), paper bag of hot delicious MSG-soaked goodness in hand, the noise hadn't abated. In fact, as we were sitting down, maybe half an egg roll in, the noise seemed to get louder. Still largely unconcerned, I decided that the least I could do was poke my head out the door, and that's what I did, and was rewarded with the sight of one neighbour pounding on the noisy apartment's door. When it was finally answered, smoke billowed out.

Hm.

That chicken fried rice is looking mighty good....

But then the lady who answered starts yelling "Call the fire department! Save the animals!" as she neglects to keep her tattered bathrobe closed while lugging large crates containing (I hope) pets out into the hallway and then into the elevator. A man's voice, coming from within the offending apartment bellows "There's no fire, don't get so worked up" and reassures the growing crowd with "She just passed out with something on the stove."

And she has somehow "slept" through 20 minutes of smoke alarm. Riiiiiiiiiight.

Anyway, the woman, now that she's conscious, is now "agitated" enough to pull the building's alarm, which means the fire department's on its way and 187 people are about to be very grumpy.

* Note: When I say "slept", and "agitated", you can pretty much assume I mean "stoned out of her fucking mind."

So we leave our dinner but take our drinks and evacuate calmly. Not a drop was spilled despite the urgency of the alarm and the people rushing past us in the grimy stairwell.

As soon as we hit the cool night air, I say to Rory "If this turns out to be a real fire, I'm going to very upset, because I just left my baby up there!"

* Note: When I, a single, selfish, independent woman say "baby", you can pretty much assume I mean "laptop."

And then a man comes out the front doors with precious cargo under each arm, and declares that "Just in case, I brought my babies."

* Note: gay man babies = laptop + cat

So we're all standing around, watching the firemen take an elevator up to the maybe-fire (which I thought was a fire-safety sin, but what do I know?), some of us in post-work-pajamas, some of us in states of anger and disbelief, and some of us sipping from swirly straws feeling kind of amused about the whole thing.

And I start playing "meet the neighbours" with a guy who's standing off by himself in a hoodie and a puffy vest, looking like he maybe had better plans than watching his building go down in flames tonight.

Actually, he admits, he'd been home sick from work all day. The fire thing is kind of a pain in the ass, as he'd had to peel himself off the couch and actually mobilize. Rory and I volunteer brilliant information about ourselves, such as how I first came to meet the building's superintendent on my very first day as a tenant because I'd turned on the taps in my shower and then couldn't turn them back off, and how Rory had had a similar near-fire incident when she'd accidentally let a pot of carrots boil all the way down, scorching the pot, which she then for some unnamable reason placed on a carpet, thus burning a hole right through it.

Brilliant way to introduce ourselves, no?

Eventually the fire fighters exit the building unheroically, no women strewn over any shoulders, not even a scared kitty reunited with joyful owners, and even more disappointingly, none drop trou or so much as remove a shirt to reveal achingly chiseled pecs and a waxed-smooth toned torso as those calendars would have you believe.

So, Rory and I race up the stairs although at this point the chinese food can't get any colder. The night has derailed nicely and as we pass the chicken balls and red sauce between us, we debate who should tell which parts when we inevitably drunk-dial some lucky friend to tell them of our night's events.

But then we get stuck on one salient point: the guy. The guy named _______. Who lived on the ______ floor. Who told us his job was _________ and originally came from _______ and had moved to the building last ________.

And then I pointed out to Rory that she'd actually been with me on one of my patented randomly-meeting-people adventures, and look how badly we'd done! He should have been eating gross egg rolls with us right that very moment, but we had failed.

Well, not quite failed, not yet.

I got out the construction paper and the markers, and we went to town.

An hour later, we were making asses out of ourselves, papering the building with our posters: the mail room, the elevators, the stairwell, the front lobby. We were thorough. We put up whatever random facts we could agree on, and offered some of ours in return (Gushing shower girl and burnt carrot girl want to see you again!). We hoped that he possessed a sense of humour, or at least felt kindly disposed towards stalkers.

"Only people in the movies do this kind of thing" we agreed, but did it anyway, not quite capable of the stealthiness we strove for. It didn't matter if it didn't work, the fun was just in doing it, and enjoying it, and seizing the little joys that life puts in your path.

We hugged as we parted, as we always do.

"When are we doing this again?" she asked.

I'm pretty sure we'll never have an exact repeat of the night, and that's okay. I'm also pretty sure that life still has plenty of surprises left for both of us, and that those surprises tend to multiply in magnitude when we come across them together. And I'm delighted that our twosome seems destined to become a trio since the guy was very quick to respond to the posters and doesn't want to wait until the next fire to do it again.

Til Whoredom Come

2008-09-26T01:49:00.002-04:00

You've politely sipped two martinis and said no, demurely, to a third. You ordered the angel hair pasta and left at least a third of it on your plate. You sat like a lady, with your legs crossed, you smiled at his jokes but resisted the urge to giggle, you let him open the doors even though your arms are perfectly capable of pushing and\or pulling. In short, you have spent the entire evening pretending to be exactly the kind of girl that you aren't.

But when his car pulls into your driveway, the jig is up. Three kisses and a hand under your shirt, and instead of pulling away, you're inviting him in.

So now you're sitting on the couch, each with a glass of wine from a stash of bottles you keep for exactly this purpose, both pretending to watch a movie that neither of you could identify if pressed, while his hand creeps up your thigh, the one you rubbed with lotion hours earlier thinking of exactly this moment.

I take his hand and put it right where we both want it anyway. He'll look a little shocked at first - I've just broken with the dating protocol - but then slowly, it will dawn on him that I've just saved us both 45 minutes of his hand's ascent, quarter-inch by quarter-inch. Now that the cards are on the table, the panties can hit the floor.

But wait.

Panties are last. Everyone knows that panties are last!
Shirts are first.

If you're a dirty girl, you've selected your date outfit not just for its level of hotness, but also its ease of removal. Your shirt should not be of the crazy-amounts-of-buttons variety (or god forbid the ornamental buttons - kiss that shirt goodbye if you were that stupid), and for heaven's sake stay away from the tricky hidden zipper on the side shirts (I mean, to be fair, those shirts are even hard on me!). If you like the guy you're about to have sex with, cut him some slack and go with a top that pulls off easily (and if you don't like the guy, reconsider the sex). No matter what, a dude will absolutely forget to be careful of your hair when he takes your top off, so don't be too attached to the style it took you 55 minutes to achieve. Be prepared to just shake it out, bat your lashes, and not think about it again until you're trying to comb out the sex tangles after he goes home.

Boy shirts aren't too difficult. There are basically only two varieties: the kind you pull over his head (if he's tall, remember to do this while you're still sitting on the couch) or the kind you unbutton. If he's wearing a button down, let him take your shirt off first. Then, reach up and sweetly work on his first couple of buttons. Look up at him from under your lashes, let him get a good look at the cups of your bra doing their good work, and he'll hurry the process up, either working on the buttons from below, or sacrificing the buttons entirely and forcing the shirt off one way or the other. Make sure that you let the shirt fall where you are, still outside the bedroom. The trail of clothing is of the utmost importance: more on this later.

He'll be pretty anxious to get your bra off at this point, but don't let him. The next part can be tricky, and girls, you definitely want the upper hand.

Boy belts can be hell, and I've found it's one of many tasks best performed on one's knees. There are many reasons for this, the least of which is the view he'll get, which will make him excited and get him thinking of other things you might be doing while you're down there. But you're also giving yourself the best angle to work at, and a good overview of the obstacle. Now, as the girl, you realize it's your job to be slow and teasing and his job to be crazed and efficient (without much emphasis on the efficient). A finger in the waist band of his jeans is a good way to start. If you discover something in there you don't like (say, panties that are prettier than yours) you can hit the brakes and kick him out only half naked. This is all the encouragement he really needs. He'll be unbuckling that belt faster than if his pants were on fire. Actually, as far as he's concerned, his pants pretty much are on fire. Stop him there, though. Leave the button and the fly for yourself. Say hello. Acquaint yourself, but only briefly, before standing back up, but don't be afraid to leave a little lipstick behind.

Now that you have access through the front of his pants, he now has plenty of motivation to make your bra melt right off you. Let him get the zipper of your skirt or the button of your pants, which will be done in a fumbly fashion if you're doing your job right and being a good host to the friend you made when you were on your knees. Stop before you enter the bedroom, and each shed your own bottoms. This is important because you'll want to take the opportunity to also take off your socks, because lord knows there is no graceful or sexy way for someone else to do this for you. Socks can be a real turn-off. The only exception to this rule is if you're wearing thigh-highs. Those you can leave on.

You should both still be wearing underwear when you get to the bed, but his should come off before getting in. If he's a little shy though, you can take them off for him once he's in, just be sure to throw them onto the floor, out of reach. Yours should always be left for last, because taking them off will leave him in a very opportunistic position for how you'll want things to go from there. A little upward tilt of the hips is a helpful way to let him know what's on the menu.

And the genius of it is, when it's all over, he'll have to get out of the bed to get his boxers. If he's not making the move quickly enough, just start hogging the sheets, he'll catch a draft and be inspired to find his underpants soon enough. And cleverly, retrieving the rest of his clothes leads him pretty much right up to the front door, where you first threw his shirt. At this point, it's easy to hand him his shoes as you open the door. While he's doing the hopping-on-one-leg-tying-his-laces thing, pat his bum, kiss his cheek and give him a rousing "Thanks, that was fun!"

Close and lock the door.
Flush condom.
Have a scoop of Ben & Jerry's.

And that's how a good girl has bad girl sex.

Warm September Rain

2008-09-15T01:08:00.000-04:00

We're sitting in a booth and our thighs are nearly touching. I'm very, very aware of the nearlyness.

It's early days for us, but what I know of him, I like: the penchant for argyle, the passion for his work, the way his eyes linger over me...

But then it hits: a huge wave of insecurity washes over the already tipsy vessel we call the U.S.S Second Date. He thinks he's being polite, making casual conversation. He has no idea he's just entered my danger zone. I'm doing my best impression of a blandly smiling mannequin but on the inside the red lights are flashing, the captain is screaming Jump ship! and I'm frantically casting about for a lifeboat, an inflatable vest, a bloated corpse, anything.

He's just asked me about my gym habits. The stupid fucking gym. Possibly I walked right into this line of questioning having just been making fun of the yuppie zombie lululame-os in my yoga class, but no matter who's to blame (and I'm still favouring him for this one), there's no squirming my way out of the subject matter.

And why do I not want to talk about the gym?

It's not the particular shade of tomato that I turn upon exertion. It's not the mickey's worth of gin that I sweat out my pores. It's not the way spandex makes my ass look like it should be zoned for its own area code.

It's that I'm slow.

Now, I am prepared to let this be the one thing he's better at than I am. But I'm not just slower than him, slower than men. I'm also slower than all women, most toddlers, obese senior citizens, three-legged turtles, and 7 year old Heinz ketchup. I'm extraordinarily unimpressive.

And right now he's looking at me like I'm the bee's knees, like he can't believe how brilliant my non sequiturs are, like he can't get over how lucky he is to be paying for my chicken parmigiano.

Of course it's an illusion. I don't normally reapply my lipgloss 17 times an hour, and he doesn't normally reshave before dinner, and neither of us usually exist on diets consisting solely of breath mints, and yet here we are. I know it, he knows it, but we're both enjoying it nonetheless. The thing about dating is: if you like the illusion well enough, then you might take the time to peak behind the scenes and get a glimpse of the creepy little wizard who's been running the whole show.

And right now, with the candles flickering between us, and his thumb rubbing my palm, it's not time to pop the bubble. I don't need him to know the boobs-squashed-in-a-sports-bra side of me, the struggling-to-bench-press-25lbs-if-I'm-lucky side of me, the couldn't-run-faster-if-a-bear-was-chasing-me side of me.

So I distract him the only way I know how (while keeping my top on): I put my hand on his chest, and I lean in real close and I whisper You know what? You haven't kissed me yet today and though it's not true in the slightest, I know damn well he won't call me on it.

Pretty soon we're in the alleyway behind the restaurant with my back pressed against the gritty brick wall. It's raining out, but it's a surprisingly warm September rain, and the luscious drops that fall on my bare shoulders just make for a slicker sensation when he runs his hands up and down my arms. He tastes like wine and looks handsome in the moonlight.

Screw the gym: distraction is my new favourite sport.

I'm not a girl, not yet a wino.

2008-09-07T00:09:00.004-04:00

Caro and I were enjoying another one of our "failed" shopping trips (the kind where we stop in at Sephora, bemoan the fact that they still haven't restocked the Apricot Souffle, and then proceed to buy substitute purchases (at other stores, mind you, ones that deserve our business) that we don't particularly need but seem to take home anyway) when we decided to give ourselves a break from toting around our monstrous shopping bags and sit down for a little lunch and nice big drink.

It goes without saying that mine was a martini ("touch of pink", it was called, and it danced on my tongue and was sweet enough to mask the staggering amounts of alcohol mixed into such a pretty little drink) and as we sipped and ate, I amused her with stories of my sisters and I sharing a bathroom growing up, and even now, when we all happen to be visiting at the same time.

Confession: I am a bad, bad girl.

Oh, not the good kind of bad. Not the naughty kind. Well, yeah, that too, but that's not what I'm referring to this time.

I mean the bad kind of bad: inept, dysfunctional, graceless, impaired.

While my sisters (of which I have 3) vie for mirror time to primp and preen, my routine consists more of things like eating cheerios, flossing, and changing my top 18 times. But as for hair? Makeup? Forget it. I suck.

And it pains me to admit this, because my mother was a hairdresser, went to beauty school and everything. When we were little, she'd line us up in the kitchen and she'd pass from one set of bangs to another with her curling iron, making us all look like brunette Farah Fawcett nesting dolls. My sisters have clearly inherited her talents, and developed them, while I have been left in the dust.

So this winter I set myself a goal: make my hair look less retarded. And I've tried, I really have. I can now do things with a curling iron other than give myself scathing ear blisters, which is a marked improvement. And the straightening iron is no longer my sworn enemy (now it's the friend I love to hate), although it still makes me cry when I spend 20 minutes coaxing it to perform miracles only to have my efforts derailed by stupid humidity (and even as I type this, I find myself hoping that humidity really does fuck with hair, and it's not just something my Mom told me in order to make me feel like less of a schmuck).

So Caro, good friend that she is, laughs at me only a little bit when I point to my face with the wrong end of a fork to highlight the fact that I am not wearing makeup, as if she hadn't already noticed.

I don't wear makeup because I can't wear makeup. I mean, ostensibly the stuff can be applied to my face, I just have no idea how to get it there. And not for lack of trying: every so often I'll feel inspired, and I'll buy some of those little pots with the pretty colours in them and I'll take them home and do my best but I'm just never happy with the Tammy Faye lookalike staring back at me when I'm done.

Time has come today.

Caro informs me that this is the day that I finally become a woman (I quickly gulp 2 more martinis in sheer panic).

Becoming a woman, it seems, involves donating a paycheque to a little boutique called MAC cosmetics. I brace myself before we walk in.

I am a blank canvas. The only things I've ever been able to master (well, more like muster) is mascara and lipgloss. The rest of my face is virgin territory (oh stop your snickering, I can refer to myself as a virgin with any spontaneous combustion...I'm pretty sure).

I let Caro and the girl at the store (whom I will call Miss MAC because if she wore a nametag, my heart palpitations were too severe to notice it) work their magic. I merely sat there in the unforgiving lighting, shedding tears for each and every pore, and looked up when they told me to, puckered when I must, and tried not to look completely flummoxed when they showed me the results in the Little Hand Mirror of Death.

The crash course in girliciousness was a bit overwhelming, and I neglected to take notes. I retained, however, that only morons think that one eye shadow is sufficient. Your eyelid, apparently, is a tiny palette on which you are to shove as many colours (complementary ones, whatever the fuck that means) as possible and then blend them like mad (and using 78 different brushes) until you either look sexy or you poke an eye out. The first one they both agreed on was called Naked Lunch.

"You must have Naked Lunch; everyone has Naked Lunch" they told me, and I grinned like the idiot that I am, because I do not have Naked Lunch, unless you count the book, of which I do have a copy, or the clothes-less midday meal which I may have partaken in a time or two. But Naked Lunch is just what goes on underneath the colour you actually intend to use. Naked Lunch is just a base coat which requires a primer underneath it and lots of accent colours on top. It's exhausting, and since I would never devote that much attention to a wall, what hope in hell does my face have?

Mascara comes after the colour and I finally felt confident enough to proclaim that "I had mascara under control."

"Then why aren't you wearing any?" Miss MAC asked.

"Um. I am" I said, because I was. Or I thought I was.

"Clear?" she asked, unable or unwilling to hide her disgust.

"No" I admitted, blowing her mind.

The thing about mascara is this: it's glop that short-lashed ladies use to make their lashes appear longer, and fuller. As Miss MAC pointed out, my lashes are stupid-long, but this does not get me off the hook. Even when you already naturally have what mascara hopes to achieve, you must always strive to be longer and thicker (whoa does that sound dirty) and thus the vicious cycle never ends. So Miss MAC is laying a few coats on me and Caro is exclaiming over her interesting barrel-roll method (which I, being the girl who obviously needs the tutorial, could not see because my eyes were closed because SOMEONE WAS POKING AT THEM WITH A WAND COVERED IN GOOP).

So yes. Eventually I had a small mountain of magic pots containing things like concealers and powders and shadows and blushes and lions and tigers and bears, oh my! And Caro stands beside me at the cash whispering "You know you're about to spend a small fortune, right?" and it's fine because I'm getting my girl on, but still, you'd think a fortune would require a bag bigger than a Nutrigrain bar, right?

Anyhow, when we finally exited I must have been looking pretty punch-drunk, because Caro used our escalator time to quickly go over the steps, and their proper order. She even showed me which finger to use (there's a right finger? there's a wrong finger?) in order to be kindest to the skin underneath my eyes.

Oh holy lord, all these years I've been scrubbing and poking at that skin just as whole-heartedly as all the rest and it has taken me all these years to learn that I have been committing the ugliest of all womanly sins.

At home, later that night, getting ready to go out and do some damage, I line up all my purchases and go a little weak in the knees. I can stand in front of a near-stranger of the opposite sex in nothing but knee-high white leather motorcycle boots and not miss a beat, but put me in front of a vanity mirror and suddenly my palms could water the community garden.

But you know what? I think I did okay. I patted gently and used feathery strokes and even remembered the little wrist tap that gives you beauty instead of bozo. But then, I've always looked in the mirror without fearing that my face may cause violent traffic accidents so maybe I'm not the greatest judge. Maybe I need Paula Abdul to sit in my bathroom and break it to me gently. The real proof is in the pudding, and lacking pudding, a club full of cute boys will do nicely. Right?

Not so much. It turns out, boys aren't really checking out my eye makeup. They are, however, responding to SOMETHING, and I've made my peace with that, with some extra Naked Lunch winks for good measure.

Members Only

2008-08-21T02:40:00.002-04:00

Before my hair appointment, I stop to buy three things: a diet pepsi, a pack of gum, and a trashy magazine.

There's no rule stating that you couldn't read, say, The New Yorker, or a well-worn copy of the works of Arthur Miller. It's just that a head full of foils and Cosmo go together like 5-inch heels and crotchless panties. Plus, I don't think it's coincidence that an issue of Cosmo can be read in about 3 hours, which is the average time it takes to cut, colour, highlight, and style a medium length of hair. The world works in mysterious ways.

So I'm sitting there under the big hair dryer wondering if it reads my thoughts as it warms my scalp and I'm trying not to blush over the token "guy with no shirt" and I come across a shocking how-to article: how to surreptitiously measure his package.

Really.

Because you'd hate to waste a 5-minute conversation on a guy who wasn't packing at least 6 inches. And now, through the magic of Cosmo, you don't have to!

Imagine talking to a guy, finding out that he's a great person, really smart, funny, kind, then accepting a date from him, letting him pay, basking in his compliments, walking through doors he holds open, dancing in is arms, realizing you have loads in common and that he's practically perfect....except for his average penis.

What a waste!

Now you can bypass all that nonsense, save yourself from getting to know those "great" catches, and skip right to what's important: how big he is in the pants.

Cosmo offers not one but TWO fail-proof methods of sizing up a potential mate:

1. The good old stare-straight-at-his-crotch method. Now, good girls that we are, we wouldn't want to actually get caught checking out his little buddy, so Cosmo coaches us in really great undercover tactics, such as gazing in the general direction of his groin as if you're thinking deeply about something, and tapping your forehead to make it look extra realistic, or using a prop, like a book, and holding it just under the line of sight to his goods so that it looks like you're an intellectual when actually you're a perv.

But wait. It gets better.

2. The tried and tested actually-reach-out-and-touch-it method. It seems to be unsaid but understood that in a perfect world, boys would just line up, perhaps behind a table, and whip them out for close inspection, but since they're a little less forthright than this, we have to help ourselves. Now, to just outright feel someone up is called "molestation" or something like that, but helpfully picking lint off his fly? Well, that's just good citizenry! There's about to be an epidemic of invisible dick-lint, so boys, beware: guard your junk!

This is the crap with which I filled my head that day, and normally I forget about it the minute my hair is looking like it's ready for its Vidal Sassoon moment, but this time I wasn't so lucky.

The very next day, riding the train home after work, I was seated while others were still crowding around, putting a random man's penis right in my eyeline. I tried to look away, I really did. I tried to be interested in the only other scenery available to me at the time: a woman was (ironically, I assume) wearing a track suit stretched precariously over her considerable behind that offered a very obvious VPL (visible panty line) of epic proportions. But I just couldn't help myself. This man actually had lint on his crotch!

Fate was tempting me and it was only a testament to my iron will that I did not succumb...and to the fact that in my experience, men who start out a bit on the smaller side often grow to be bigger than average once erect, which is what's important, after all. So the results of Cosmo's groping tactics were a bit dubious to me.

Plus, call me old-fashioned, but I'm the kind of girl who still thinks that finding out a guy's girth is more of a second-date activity.

Our lives are better left to chance.

2008-08-18T05:50:00.001-04:00

I mentioned that I had recently moved (again), this time to the lovely city of Ottawa. My bags are unpacked, the boxes have been broken down and recycled, and I have a bump on my head where I used it to break the fall of a bathroom cabinet that I was attempting to screw into the wall.

So, I'm here.

This is not the first time I call Ottawa my home. I lived here many moons ago while I pursued my degree (ie, went to a lot of bars, ate cold cereal like it was a food group, and then showed up one day to collect a piece of paper that said I was a grown-up now, and good luck with that). But it's been five years since I've been anywhere near Ottawa and though I'm no stranger to being alone in a new city, it's still a little intimidating.

The first week I tackled my aloneness with this ingenious strategy: I went to the market, wandered around until I found the busiest, most packed-with-warm-bodies patio that existed, then sat down at the table with the highest ratio of cute boys and said 'Mind if I sit here?'

No one ever said no.

Mind you, when I was talking to my friend K about my system, he told me that only a person with breasts could get away with it. Breasts and balls.

The second week, however, was even better. I was touched when old friends, people I hadn't physically seen in years, began calling me up for drinks and dinners and general going-outness. They probably have no idea (well, other than the fact that I'm posting this on the internet) how much that meant to me, to feel like I have friends here. One friend, a brand-spanking newlywed, has even made herself available to me despite the fact that she's still technically honeymooning.

Another friend and I fell right back into the same easy relationship we'd always shared when I sat down at lunch and ordered the white peach bellini...fish-bowl sized. After playing catch-up for a bit and giggling over some of our more embarrassing common history, I interrupted:

I'm too distracted to eat lunch! Your luscious lips are mahhhhvelous. What gloss are you using?

And do you know what? Apparently Ottawa has vastly improved since I've been away, because Ottawa (brace yourselves) has a Sephora now. Youpee!

So the very next night I am at the Rideau Centre, stalker-like, hunting apricot souffle and a piece of chocolate cake (apricot souffle being the not very imaginative name ascribed to the gloss, and a piece of chocolate cake being the one thing my sweet tooth had really been craving). It took me some time to even locate the store, since it's hidden in a corner of the third floor amid stores selling dresses only old ladies could love and hideous shoes only old ladies could afford. But find it I did.

Sephora, if you don't know, is a mecca of makeup. It's thousands of pots and tubes and tiny jars all bearing big price tags containing things to paint faces. So finding one particular shade of lip gloss is like finding a needle in a haystack (and I move that we get rid of that antiquated phrase and replace it henceforth with "like finding a tube of apricot souffle in Sephora"). Anyway. Long story short: I didn't find it.

But against all odds, I did manage to find the hole labelled Apricot Souffle that would normally house the tubes of lipstick if they hadn't already run out of them.

So that was a bust. But all was not lost; there was still the matter of the chocolate cake.

Except clearly this shopping trip was doomed. The market still had wraps. It still had sushi. It still had fruit\yogurt parfaits. But chocolate cake? Get real.

So I was nearly dejected as I made my way from one end of the mall to the other, passing by all the other possibilities because when you're in the mood for chocolate cake, onion rings and ice caps just don't cut it.

But then I stumbled upon something far better than chocolate cake and the perfect shade of lip gloss combined (hard to believe, I know).

What I found was Jamie, my very dear friend (yes, of the same name), who lives in Medicine Hat. The very same Medicine Hat that is normally found in Alberta (which is 3637km away from here, fyi). Just like that!

Now, to tell the truth, my eyes had not been peeled just in case old Albertan friends who happen to go by the same name that I go by. She, not yet aware that I was living in this city, was similarly not exactly looking out for me, or for anyone, since it's safe to say that you don't know many people in a city you don't come from or live anywhere near. But somehow, in one of life's amazing serendipitous moments, we found each other, and were soon hugging and crying and embarrassing ourselves in the lower level food court.

And I realized then that had I found the apricot souffle, I would have stayed to track down the perfect complimentary blush. And on that shopping high, I would have chased down the bronze stilettos that I've been hungering for, and having located them, I imagine eschewing the cake in favour of a post-shop drink or two away from the mall, and away from Jamie.

Had I got what I wanted, it's unlikely that two friends crossing in the night would have ever connected.

You never really know what's out there, what you're about to miss, what you might have experienced had you chosen x over y. Sometimes it's even as trivial as a tube of lip gloss, but life is full of surprises, and minor disappointments can become tearfully joyous reunions in mere moments.

Life is beautiful, and random, and wonderful.
And the next day, a new shipment of apricot souffle arrived.
What more could a girl want?

If it makes you happy.

2008-08-13T00:43:00.006-04:00

Last Friday night, I had an incredible first date.

We shared a meal, we talked for hours, we played, we cuddled up to watch a movie, we talked some more (like, 8 hours more). We asked questions like Why? and Why not? and really listened to the answers, discovered our commonalities with excitement, animatedly offered differing opinions, treasured each new tidbit of information.

And then the shift ended and we went home.

Yeah, so it wasn't a date, exactly, but meeting this coworker for the first time was an enriching experience during which a theme cropped up that we apparently share: the pursuit of happiness.

You've heard me harp about happy before. It's important to me to choose happiness on a daily basis, and then spend my days seeking it in whatever mysterious corners it may lurk.

The last time I sat down to try to put it into words, I wrote about happiness par deux and while I still enjoy the certain delights that come by coupling, I find that lately, I not only embrace but crave the joy that comes to me alone.

Today as I was getting ready for work, I found a sweater I hadn't seen in a week, and do you know where it was hiding? On a hook behind the bathroom door. I hadn't closed my bathroom door in a week. I pee with the door wide open! I shower with it open! I let the steam billow out and then rub myself with a great big pink towel in front of windows that haven't any curtains. I sit on my balcony wearing only whatever lotion hasn't soaked in yet, and whatever drops of daiquiri I've sloshed and not licked up. I enjoy the cool breeze on my skin and I just feel luxurious.

I threw out all of my old underwear and bras, and even the socks, and especially the pyjamas. Now I only wear lingerie, and I have a whole bunch that I keep for my eyes only. I make myself feel special the moment I walk in the door.

I put a 63-song playlist on my mp3 player a few weeks ago, and chose myself a happy song. Now whenever The Blood Arm starts asking Do I have your attention? I answer my dancing my pants off, wherever I am, no exceptions. Being a chronic music-listener, I am almost always plugged in when I'm out of the house, so I've thus far danced on a bench along Wellington; at the grocery store in front of the hummus, where I was deciding between garlic, and roasted garlic; while waiting in line at Bridgehead for someone else's coffee; and just today, on the overpass above the 417 at Pinecrest, where I briefly worried about getting some sort of citation for public disturbance. It's the kind of song that causes me to flail my limbs about in abandonment, and after I get over my initial embarrassment, I forget about all the people and just give in to the moment and by the end of the song, my heart is beating with joy. Joy, joy, joy.

I stopped buying meat. Instead, I go down to the farmer's market where they don't look at you strangely for fondling the beautiful fruit and where I can fill my bag with veggies that I feel a connection to. Then I go home and bliss out - zen, for me, is not a tiny sandbox with an even tinier rake, or even motorcycle maintenance; zen, for me, is chopping vegetables. Bell peppers are best, of course, but anything will do. Cantaloupe lets you be creative and zucchini is so satisfying.

When I come home from a run or a workout, I strip. And I don't mean I remove my clothing, because I don't do just that. I turn on the music and literally strip, removing one piece at a time and flinging it because I can and if it's still there the next day then so be it. I am the king of my castle.

And every day I find happiness in these small things, the really absurdly overpriced napkins that make me smile, and the oddly shaped vase I bought because it looks a little like budha, and the perfect shade of purple on my toes, and the yellow shoes that I adore because they match nothing and yet everything, and even the annoying ringtone of my phone because I know it's ringing just for me.

This is what happiness is, to me. It's not a big movie moment, with swelling music and memorable lines and perfect kisses. It's really savouring everyday moments, and feeling connected to the world, and being really present, and getting really excited, and knowing that you made that moment count. Really count.

Watching Him Sleep

2008-08-04T03:14:00.002-04:00

Okay, bud, it's been 7 minutes.
Show some sign of life.
I mean, the sex was good, great actually, but if you leave me lying here much longer I'm going to start to wonder whether the scent on your sheets is from a sheet of Bounce in the dryer, or merely a spritz of Febreze before I came over.
Oh, please god let these be new sheets.
All right. Maybe if I clear my throat and sit up, he'll take the hint.
...
Shit. Nope.
...
Is he snoring?
Ohgodohgodohgod, please don't let this be a sleepover.
If I call a cab and leave, he'll be mad. Also, I think that's my blouse under his ass.
Yeah, I'm going to have to make a dry-cleaner run this week. I wonder if they're still having that $3.99 special...
Christ on crutches! Great, now I'm trapped. How do I always end up with the cuddlers? Why can't I meet a nice aloof guy for once?
There's no way I'm sleeping here tonight. He doesn't even own curtains for crying out loud. Maybe if I just give him a quick jab in the ribs...
Crap. Apparently that's an invitation to grab my tit.
Jeez I wish my ass wasn't pressed up against the wall. It's cold! But if I scooch over, I'll be in the wet spot, and I don't like to brag, but that's a big fucking wet spot. Maybe I can just curl my knees around it...
Nope. That sure didn't work.
Don't panic.
Maybe I can at least roll him into it, and his body will act as a bridge which I can cross and at least go pee, and - yes! yes, it's working! - now I can just get to the bathroom, have a quick pee, maybe find an old t-shirt I can borrow to get home in, and then....wait.
What am I hearing?
Oh gawd.
Roommate.
I thought he wasn't supposed to be here tonight!
I can't very well run across the hallway naked.
Well, I suppose I could...maybe the roommate is cute. And maybe the roommate drives girls home after sex.
Oh stop it. You're not really that mean, are you?
Don't answer that.
Oh man, I need to get out of here like NOW.
Maybe you write a note, borrow a t-shirt and call a cab once you've made it outside.
If he's mad in the morning, you can tell him that he was saying his ex-girlfriend's name in his sleep again. That'll shut him up.
Now I just have to extricate myself without waking him up...
Okay, he's on my hair.
Not cool.
Then, if I can just wiggle south....
Abort! Abort!
The giant stirs!

"Hey, where do you think you're going?"
"Um....home."
"You can't go home."
"I can't?"
"Nope."
"But you were sleeping!"
"Well fuck, you take a lot out of a guy, you know. But now that I'm rested up a bit, I wasn't quite done with you. Think you can stay for a bit?"

:)

Grievances.

2008-07-29T19:45:00.000-04:00

I don't like restaurants that have taken to referring to burgers as "sandwiches".

I don't like nearly slipping in large puddles of technicolour vomit at the bus station.

I don't like straightening my hair only to find out that the humidex has other ideas.

I don't like prematurely resurrecting winter sweaters because work is glacially over-air-conditioned.

I don't like sidewalk hogs.

I don't like that I've never seen a black woman featured in a shampoo ad.

I don't like when people call my flavoured water "juice".

I don't like those aggressive giver-outers of independent newspapers at various street corners in the early morning hours.

I don't like my silk wrap dress catching in the wind, granting the lucky Byward Market pedestrians, an Aquabus full of tourists, and roughly 200 wedding guests in front of the Notre Dame cathedral on Sussex a generous glimpse of my undies (which, thank god, I was actually wearing).

I don't like not having anything to complain about (after all, it is part of my charm, no?). Lately, however, I find myself listing only superficial complaints, and I'm awfully smiley despite it.

Hypothetical

2008-07-26T08:31:00.000-04:00

Question: If a girl looks smokin hot and there's nobody around to take her picture, does it still count?

:)

The Comeback

2008-07-21T14:57:00.001-04:00

The irony is not lost on me: In the month following a post in which I heartily told everyone that I would be back to my bloggy self, things around here have been conspicuously quiet.

Well, technically speaking, the above is not irony at all, at least not from the point of view of its correct definition (but when do I ever let things like "truth" and "reality" stand in my way?), more like a disappointing coincidence that probably surprises no one.

But I do have excuses!

1. Summer, in Canada, is a limited-time engagement, and one I've been enjoying while it lasts by lounging about in hammocks (which contort the body and leave strange tan lines, by the way) sipping daiquiris and diving into the pool when it gets too bloody hot to bear.

2. Then there was the matter of my turning another year better, and partying like a cowgirl to prove it.

3. And let's face it - this is an exciting time to be literate! The books I've been reading lately have been through the roof (although truthfully, I've done the majority of my reading afloat on a raft with convenient arm rests, wearing comically oversized sunglasses so I can make out the print on the page, where there is no roof to speak of).

4. The humidity causes me to re-straighten my hair like a million times a day, because life has taught me that if I don't, someone will be nearby to snap my frizzy-headed picture.

5. And somewhere in there, there's something about me going through a complete life makeover, moving cities, changing jobs, signing the lease on a new home.....

Come to think of it, that last one is probably what's kept me busiest. Signing contracts, frantically apartment-hunting, hounding Jason about divorce papers, commuting, packing, saying goodbyes, and of course, finding time to sandal shop and sip fruity drinks on patios despite the hecticness, it's all been sucking up my time. In a good way. But man I'm exhausted.

And excited. It's rare in life that you get to wipe the slate completely clean, but I'm taking nothing of my past life into this new one, not a thing. Everything is new and fresh and seems thrilling just because it's mine and mine alone. I feel like I'm setting off on a new adventure, one that is unlikely to have an internet connection for the first few weeks at least, which means I'm begging for just a little more time before this place sees the effects of the overhaul as well.

Miss me while I'm gone,
xo

Falling in love is hard on the knees.

2008-06-29T00:37:00.000-04:00

Well, it is.
Hard on the knees, I mean.
At my high school graduation, for example, I smiled for photos wearing that ridiculously unflattering mortar board with the tassel on the side that said "Holy fuck! I finally slept through enough classes to merit a diploma!" and beneath my red mini skirt, my knees were noticeably scabby.
Scabby due to love.
(Or, due to the reverse cowgirl position executed on cheap carpeting, which I often confuse with love. You say potato, I say french fries drenched in vinegar. That's just how I roll).

Anyhow.
This post isn't actually about that kind of love, or even about sex, for that matter.
Shocking, I know.
This post isn't about a boy.
It's not even about a girl, although there's nothing like an impending divorce to bring out your inner lesbian.

This post is about a goat.

Now, I know what you're thinking, and yes, Canada is quite progressive, but we're not there yet.

If you kissed a goat you and you liked it, you'd still better keep it in the closet.

For quite a long time, I had an intense love affair with the goat (and I hope by now you realize I am referring to this very blog, Kill the Goat).
Starting a blog made me look at my world differently.
I noticed things. I reacted to things. I thought about things.
And then I went home and wrote about those things. I found out which of my friends were "quotable", which events in my life were "blog-worthy", and which of my incendiary opinions garnered the most outraged comments. I loved seeing bits of myself reflected through the Goat. Every once in a while, I'd get it right: I'd write something that not only lit a spark of my own, but earned insightful comments from you as well, and soon that post was inspiring stories and articles that went on to become published, or gave birth to new chapters, or put the itch in my fingers to write for 17 hours straight.

Lately, however, I spank the Goat a little less often.
It isn't because I have nothing to say. In fact, now more than ever my life is bursting at the seems with juiciness that I've been keeping to myself (and by "keeping to myself", I obviously mean "drunk-dialling Robbie at 2am and yelling disjointed details to him despite the fact I've left the bar and the loud music I'm hearing is only in my head".) The point is, I haven't been telling my secrets to the Goat.

This makes Jamie sad.
(Oh god, she's referring to herself in the third person.)

But the separation has felt necessary because when I ventured a post about the wealth of adventure and excitement I've been privy to, I felt a bit inundated with mostly well-meaning people who chastised me for my forwardness, or worried about my safety, or turned me into a cautionary tale. I started to feel less like a newly liberated grown woman and more like a teenaged Goat with 53 overbearing parents. Somebody felt it important to (anonymously) tell me that my "naughty nymph blather" was boring him.

Sorrrrrrry.

So instead of asking everyone's permission to go about my life and enjoy myself, I just stopped writing. And that is a shame. Because once upon a time, this was one of my favourite hang-outs. This was the place where everybody knew my name, where the gossip was good and the martinis well-shook (and fucking dirty, just the way I like em, with 3 olives, not 2, 3).

Fair warning, Goat readers: I am reclaiming my space.
If you don't like it, you can get the hell out.
If you don't like it, you can blame Petite Anglaise.
You probably don't know her. I don't know her, either. But I read her book, after having read her blog (thoughts on this will be coming shortly to a book review site near you!). The net result is that she's made me fall in love with blogging again. Actually, she reminded me of why I loved it in the first place.
I like sharing. I like entertaining. I like documenting little snippets of life, and then re-reading them 2 years later with fresh, delighted eyes. I like meeting someone for the first time like we're old friends because they remember better than I do the day Janie was born. I like visiting other blogs to see what everyone else is up to. I like getting emails out of the blue that say "I get you." I like having hunky french men fall in love with me via my blog and then feeling the air around us sizzle when we finally meet face to face.

(Okay, that last one happened to Petite Anglaise, and not to me, but a girl can dream, right? Right? Several eligible bachelors have secretly been lurking for months just waiting to breathe some romance into my life, right?)

In summary: The goat is being rejuvenated. If I had the html skills, I'd send my site to the goat spa and get a total goat makeover, but since the only thing I can do is write, then writing is what will have to do.

I just hope these old goat knees can handle it.

Goat Hits Milestone, Celebrates with Tin Can.

2008-06-15T20:17:00.003-04:00

Today I drank 500ml of water about 12 different times.

I sat in the sun and brought out at least 500 new freckles.

I sent about 500 thank-you texts to a boy who drove 500km to bring me presents last night.

I cranked the music up and purred with contentment a good 500 times.

I checked my crazy, impractical bathing suit at least 500 times to see if I was "boobing out", and thanks to the halter gods, I almost always was.

And right now, right this very minute, I am writing my 500th post here at Kill the Goat.

Amazing, isn't it, how the time flies?

500. Kill the Goat is an old geezer now. It should be collecting a pension and complaining to its kids that they never call anymore and watching Wheel of Fortune with the volume turned up absurdly loud.

It's amazing to me that I've stuck with it this long. It's outlasted 6 apartments, 1 husband, a dozen boyfriends and dozens more who never got that designation, thousands of bottles of whiskey, at least 9 hair colours (and that bald phase), an imaginary dog named Toby, several new year's resolutions, and what I thought was the limit of my blogging endurance.

And if I've managed to surpass my own expectations, it's only because of you guys - the people who come, who click, who read, and especially those who leave comments. I've met some incredible people, been offered some wonderful opportunities, and Kill the Goat has even played matchmaker a couple of times (with success, I might add).

I've been a bad blogger lately. I've been too busy, too sunburnt, too tired, too sore, too sticky, too full of convenient and\or unlikely excuses, but the truth is, I still get a little thrill everytime I hit PUBLISH, and an even bigger thrill each and every time someone hits the goat with a hickory stick.

This is the one place that's always home to me, no matter where I'm living, or how I'm earning money, or who I'm kissing. It's the one place that's always mine, just mine. I've told it some secrets, I've been vulnerable, I've shared elation and history and victories and heartbreak.

It's been a pleasure.

Ford Tough

2008-06-04T21:58:00.005-04:00

Rory was my new bff about 7 seconds after I met her: we locked eyes, I smiled, she noticed my shoes. It doesn't take much.

A few months later and there's not much left to explore on the friend frontier; we've exchanged gifts and exchanged spit, we have a theme song, we have a "place" where everybody knows our name and the bartender mixes our martinis before our bums hit the stools - Mango Magic for her, Clear Skies for me (doesn't blue curacao make everything better?).

Rory and I are probably more than enough trouble just the two of us, but it's almost never just the two of us. We're a threesome.

Lucille is everything that I am not - big and black and fast, fast, fast. Lucille is Rory's truck.

Lucille is not just a vehicle, though. She gets us where we want to go - has taken us to the corner store for energy drinks, and to Jack's house for post-work debriefing, and last weekend on a 5-hour road trip. But she's also where we sit and have our chats, and where we hide our purses while we're dancing at the bar (clever, no?), and where we make our costume changes and store brownies and discover new parts of town and lose lots and lots of small change.

Lucille is where we eat chicken fingers when we suddenly realize we've just had too many martinis on empty bellies.

Lucille is where we throw our groceries when we suddenly get a craving for nachos, which we then forget about when we decide to follow a fire truck instead.

Lucille is where I sit quite comfortably in the back of the cab when Jack is riding with us, and where Luke sits rather uncomfortably (knees to chin) because whereas I am built for backseats, he is not.

Lucille is where we tell our secrets when it is raining outside.

Lucille where we've taken naughty pictures and practically overdosed on cough drops and compared ex-husbands. We've dug her out of snowbanks and gasped at how much it costs to fill her and taken her down "secret passageways" while being followed by less worthy cars.

When Lucille accidentally parked in front of a No Parking sign, I had her back. I karate-chopped that thing to the ground and stashed the evidence in my basement.

And now Lucille is putting some junk in her trunk. Her bed is piling up with boxes labelled 'kitchen' and 'linens' and 'pictures of Jamie'. Lucille is about to drive away to new and exciting horizons, and I find myself amazed at just how attached I've become and how sad I'll be to say goodbye. We've had some good times, the three of us. Lucille is some truck.

Have my cake and eat it too?

2008-05-28T21:42:00.003-04:00

This story is about a boy.

All stories are eventually about boys, aren't they? No matter how many hand-over-heart pledges I make to stay boy-free, the flesh is weak and I never seem to last more than a few days, except for a brief girl-fling phase that I had a couple of months ago, which was nice, but not nice enough. You know what I missed? Hint: it wasn't the football.

But like I said, this is about a boy, one boy in particular, and funnily, not one of the dozens with whom I've amused\satisfied myself with these last few months. I feel like I've been doing hardcore scientific research in the name of humanity -

Hypothesis: E.S.P. would greatly improve our success in dating.

Data collected: Hours of mattress-time with consensual lab partners.

Conclusion: Thank god in heaven we cannot read each others' minds!

(I think any good scientific research should give god his props).

As if I don't already get myself into enough trouble as it is, comments like:
"Jesus, that's a lot of hair!", and
"Lord that feels good, I just hope it lasts for a l- -....oh, never mind.", and
"I'm glad he's enjoying himself but if he doesn't quiet down a bit, China is going to lodge a noise complaint.", and
"Maybe if I roll over and spread em, he'll take the hint."

wouldn't really help. Oddly (or fittingly), it's comments of a very different nature that cause me trouble - comments like "I'm just here for the sex" and "Please try your hardest not to fall in love with me." Okay, I've never really said either of those things to dates, but you get the gist.

There's a myth out there that boys like sex. Not that I've ever heard any complaints, but you'd think that they'd be not only grateful but maybe a little enthused to have sex with no strings offered to them on a plate (I've tried offering myself on a bed, which is more traditional and far more practical, but there's something about a parsley garnish that really gets motors running).

Anyway.

It's not really working out that way.

I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want a relationship. I think it's fair of me to be upfront about that, and the boys invariably nod eagerly with that "Woohoo! Free sex!" glint in their eyes, but before you know it they're leaving "Baby I miss you\Why don't you return my calls?\Why won't you meet my mom?" messages on my cell. And if these half-relationships (their half, obviously) were the worst of it, I'd consider myself a lucky girl. Unfortunately, I've been treated to begging (ew!), bar fights (if you spill my appletini, a blowjob is automatically out of the question), and a bizarre situation in which Grant, who is on the small side, took on the naked man in my bed and lost (which was kind of hot, and kind of not). My weekends are bipolar: Fridays are fun and fancy-free, Saturdays are hot & heavy, Sundays are for messy breakups over waffles. Now why do I have to keep ruining my holy brunch time breaking up with people I never went out with in the first place? It's a mystery. A mystery that usually leads to Monday-morning vows of sexual retirement.

Boys these days. They'll put out, but they've all got commitment on the brain. Whatever happened to good old fashioned fucking?

Which brings me to Mike. Mike is THE BOY. Mike, so far, lives up to The Standards. He's tall, and broad, and insanely handsome. He waits until I've swallowed my wine before making me laugh. He appears to spend a good portion of disposable income on footwear. He's read Proust, and Dilbert. He buys me drinks two at a time. Clearly, he is the perfect man.

So, shockingly, I'm thinking I might like him to stick around. That being said, stick around in a non-committed, non-relationship, non-boyfriend, totally casual and unserious kind of way.

How do I tell him I'd like to ravage him on a semi-regular basis, with possibly a couple of movies or dinners thrown in when he has to rehydrate, but without the cuddling, hand-holding, playing pool with his buddies, borrowing his oversized sweatshirt, renting a cottage for the summer, getting a dog together, signing up for a joint checking account or looking at rings in the shiny glass case?

Notorious SDC

2008-05-18T18:43:00.001-04:00

You take your tongue and you start from the bottom and run it slowly to the top in one long motion. Take the tip between your lips, give a soft suck, tease it gently until you get a taste.

Grasp the base firmly with one hand and swirl your tongue around the rest with short but assertive strokes. Make it yours. When there are drips (there are always drips), lap them up with the very tip of your tongue, and try not to moan too loudly in delight as you swallow it down.

If your fingers get sticky, know you're doing something right. Messy is sexy. Do yourself a favour and make it last. Use your hot mouth to make it melt. Run your lips softly up the side, leaving a trail with your tongue, and if your lips come away a little creamy you've hit the spot, so lick them clean and keep it up.

A little nibble never hurt, just don't get greedy. Let your tongue do most of the work. If you get breathless, take smaller bites, and take the time to really enjoy the feel of it hitting your throat. At some point, you just let your instinct take over and you get lost in the pleasure: your jaw opens wider to accomodate more, your hand starts to slide up and down in eagerness, you know the end is near and you'd like to slow it down to enjoy it longer but instead your tongue just goes faster and faster and you can't help but work that oral fixation for all it's worth.

That's right bitches: ice cream season is back, and Little Miss Small Dipped Cone just got majorly creamed. Eat up.

Where My Mouth Is.

2008-05-15T22:40:00.000-04:00

He kissed me on his front porch, stooping to fit his frame to mine, folding himself around me, taking my face in his hands, his huge and deliciously calloused hands, and he kissed me so gently even my socks were surprised. He softly kissed the corner of my mouth until I felt the berry juice start to run, and it may not have been my house but I asked him in anyway.

He introduced me to his sexy shower, and the glories of making out fully clothed underneath a rain head, letting the warm droplets slither down into the sticky curves of my body, the heat of his hands sliding over every inch of me, fingers in the wet curls of my hair, my back against the blue tiled wall, his mouth crushing mine and his tongue proving that he wasn't always such a gentleman.

He stripped me of my sopping clothing, peeling each piece with aching precision, and when I was naked, he was suddenly shy until I grabbed him by his big belt buckle and freed him of his pants.

We never made it to the bed.

We did, however, make it to (make it on?) the rug in front of his bed (twice) (hello, carpet burns in funny places!), and on his kitchen counter with the blinds (and my legs) wide open, up against the hood of his truck in the garage (hood -ornament-shaped-bruise on my belly), and the hot tub.

Oh, the hot tub.

Ooooohhhh, the hot tub. Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Oh, the naughty, slippery things we did underwater while the heat made me drunk, and weak in the knees, and properly aimed bubbles made me blush, and convulse, and strongly mixed margaritas made me brave, and his stubble made the places where grazed my skin with his lips tickle, and a big strong cowboy made me cumcumcum.

And just when I thought I barely had the energy to find where my panties were tossed hours ago, I somehow managed to find just a little bit more so we screwed up against the back of the house, with my legs wrapped tightly around his waist and the privacy hedges doing very little to block the sound of my moans from the poor guy barbecuing next door.

When I woke up, it was dark out, and I was already having a slow fuck in the soft grass, underneath stars that winked back at me, with a man who is at this moment walking around with my teeth marks in his shoulder.

And that's what life is all about.

Pour Me Another

2008-04-24T19:50:00.003-04:00

Christine, no matter what else she is, is a total sweetheart. She's had labels slapped on her since birth - autistic, bipolar, developmentally disabled, obsessive-compulsive - labels that are so dominant they cause others to forget that she's also a chocolate-loving diabetic with a passion for baton-twirling, achy shoulders that like to be massaged, and an engaging if unending style of conversation.

You may remember that I first met Christine many years ago when we were matched in a program that aimed for more equality for the disabled persons in our community. I was very young and just beginning my work in psychology and social services, and I had no idea what i was getting myself into. As she barreled into the room, lauded me with gifts (stained cartoony sweatshirts still smelling of moth balls and old sweat) and implored me to call her Christine instead of her actual given name (Barbara, which according to her, is old-fashioned), I began to have an inkling that life would never be quite the same again.

Supposedly, my mandate was to teach her "life lessons" to make her more independent, but I sometimes wonder if she wasn't secretly hired to teach me. Perhaps if I can list some of our adventures, you can judge for yourselves.

Lesson #1: Filling ketchup bottles is boring.

Finding a job is tough. Finding a job for the mentally challenged is way, way tough. Especially when the employee is as picky as Christine. Folding t-shirts wasn't stimulating enough; after 45 minutes of her first shift, she made a bed out of them and took a nap. Shredding documents was worse - eventually she found other, funner things to shred, like mouse pads, coffee cups, pens, and petty cash. But filling ketchup bottles was the absolute worst. I guess the monotony got to her, because the Heinz bottles sitting all innocent-looking on unsuspecting customers' tables were actually filled with more "interesting" contents - horseradish, coffee grounds, leftover green peas scraped off someone's dirty plate. The customers complained pretty heartily apparently. The gravy-cayenne-crushed-up-Ritalin was NOT a hit.

Lesson #2: My willingness to apply topical creams depends on the location.

So, 350-pound hyperactive women sweat a lot, or at least this one did. A LOT. Especially underneath her enormous, pendulous, surprisingly brown-nippled breasts. And big boobies chafe when they spend a humid day rubbing against, well, practically her knees! This leads to massive boobie-rash, the sight of which still haunts my dreams. And when she shed her shirt and handed me the tube of ointment, I could not suppress a shudder. I was wishing for a rag on a very big stick, but all I had besides my bare hands was a vague and silly notion of "making a difference." Ha.

Lesson #3: Riding the bus is fun!

You already knew that public transportation could be "fun" - the drunken leching, the frotteurs "accidentally" rubbing their inflamed crotches on you, the plink plink of someone paying the fare with 25 dimes - but I bet you didn't know that it was fun. Fun. Christine knows. Christine feels that the fare is negligible but that high-fives to the driver are of absolute necessity. The driver doesn't realize it's not so much a greeting as a warning. Oh yes, there will be singing. There will be dancing. There will be reenactments of The Lion King, aka, Best Movie Ever. And god help me, there will also be the passing of gas, because as much fun as riding the bus is, so is eating 7 bean burritos for lunch.

Lesson #4: Anti-psychotic meds make you hairy.

When I suggested a day at the beach, i must have been out of my head. It somehow slipped my mind that swimming = taking off our pants. Imagine my embarrassment at having to explain to her that the pube garden growing across the better part of her thighs really needed to be hoed, so to speak. Now picture the horrific shower scene that took place later: obese naked lady perched precariously on the side of the tub, legs spread wiiiiiiide open, big tufts of coarse, curly hair swirling around the drain like drowned rodents, and a razor so clogged with fur it looked like a tiny person with a huge afro.

The razor never recovered, and as for me, well...I drink.

Men I Intend to Marry:

2008-04-20T20:41:00.003-04:00

Yes, I do realize that it is a legal requirement that I be divorced from the first husband before "embarking" on the second, but the truth is, I'm not sure if remarriage will ever be in the cards for me (despite what a psychic reading recently revealed). I didn't really expect it the first time around (marriage, I mean); it was a happy accident that couldn't be helped - love is referred to as whirlwindy for a reason, I suppose. And for that reason, I really don't expect to be so lucky a second time. I've had my Big Love, even if it wasn't the happily-ever-after that I probably (hopefully) deserved. So now if I have to "settle" for acrobatic sexual feats, dear friends who would do anything for me, new friends who make me laugh over plates of pasta, and a series of belly-clenching, foot-raising, heart-stopping, breath-quickening first kisses, then damn, I guess that will just have to do.

Now here's a list of boys who I wouldn't mind doing it with (and for comparison's sake, the old list). Is it just time that changes, or is it me?

1. Rick Mercer: Oh he's a cool guy, that Rick Mercer. In just 22 minutes a week, he manages to make me giggle. Some guys get a car ride, a martini, fettuccine alfredo, another martini, the wait in line to buy the tickets, the dark moments in the theatre before and after the movie, the car ride home, and the agonizing walk to my front door to make me laugh, even just a little, even just once, just a slight hah, even an eyebrow raised in appreciation or the corner of my mouth lifted in faint amusement would suffice, but still they fail. But not Rick. Rick is good. He is clever and witty and I even believe him to be a good person. Imagine that.

2. Timbaland: Who can resist such a super talented guy? I mean first of all, just think of all the cool ring tones I would have! And he knows all the right people - would I say no to a threesome with Justin Timberlake? Well, maybe. Would I say no to a threesome with Nelly Furtado? Try and stop me! Good thing he loves me just the way I are.

3. James McAvoy: How cute is he? How panty-wetting is that accent? Something tells me I could be rough with him, and that he would like it. Is that terrible? Yes, that's probably terrible. I should stop thinking such naughty thoughts. Like now. Or, in 30 minutes. Because he's probably a nice guy. He's probably got a Mum. He probably keeps his elbows off the table and everything, and I just keep thinking about flipping up my skirt and...oh wait. Down girl.

4. Madonna: While this is technically a list of men I intend to marry, Her Madgesty probably has the biggest balls on this list, or anywhere, and therefore qualifies in spades. Besides which, she's just boss. I adore her. She's fierce and she knows what she likes. I don't often say this, but for Madonna, I would totally obey. I would be her slave, for like, 30 whole minutes (yeah, I'm thinking those 30 minutes that I'm not thinking about James). I don't want to settle down and adopt African children with her. I just want to suck her toes. Haha. Totally kidding about the toes.

5. Jim Halpert: I hope he finds eternal happiness with Pam, I really do, but if for some reason it doesn't work out, he can have my number and I will happily rip off his button-down shirt, use his tie imaginatively, and put the photocopier in the office to alternative use. RRrrowwwrrrr.

6. Hawksley Workman: Yes, I know I've hummed about him before, but honestly, there are very few men in the world who sing directly to your crotch, and he is one of them. He's just a big bowl of ice cream and I want to lick him all up. You don't need any more proof than the evidence in his latest song, Piano Blink, which sounds like it was written just for me. I can get totally blissed out just listening to him sing in my bedroom, and if he makes me that happy through the wonders of internet piracy, then just imagine how powerful he'd be in person!

7. Jason Segel: It was hard to pick just one of Judd Apatow's gang for inclusion on this list. In reality, I'm picturing something much more polyandrous, because who wouldn't want to live in a house full of cute boys who can make you laugh? I have had love for Jason since Freaks and Geeks, which is to say, for quite some time. And amazingly, I kept that love even through Undeclared, and if you remember the pathetic blubbering mess of his character, then you know that's quite a feat. Having just seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I have to say that this boy brings something new to the table - unlike most Hollywood types, I can actually imagine having a conversation with him that doesn't make me want to jump off a bridge suspended over some very pointy rocks, and if that ain't romance, I don't know what is!

8. Clive Owen: Excuse me, but is this man not sex on legs? Movie theatres actually have to set their climate control ten degrees cooler when this man is on screen because ooooooeeeeee, he's on fire. See me breaking out into a sweat just typing about him? Now just think about the heat I'd be generating if there was actual skin-on-skin going on. We'd be talking epic, fire-ball proportions! Whew. Better get some flame-retardant sheets.

9. Jasper Fforde: Every time I review a Fforde book over at The Quickie Book Review, 2 things always happen: 1. I propose marriage 2. I make terrible double-f jokes, such as Fforde is Ffucking awesome! The truth is, #2 is probably a major reason for his continuing lack of response to #1. But I gotta give the guy some props, because even without a proper author photo on his book jacket, I still want to have his babies. His last book prompted me to offer "good lasagna and bad wine" , and you know what that means. Just be my boyfriend already!

10. Simon Pegg: Simon Pegg is something else entirely, an unlikely movie star with a knack for satire and wit that makes me melty. Yes, the dry humour does get me off, but the fact that he's a bit mysterious doesn't hurt either. If he's a cookie, I'd like to crack him. Doesn't that sound deliciously dirty?

Jay's Guide to Office Etiquette: How to give your man a boner on the company dime

2008-04-15T22:16:00.005-04:00

When sitting at your desk, shoulders hunched toward the glow of your computer screen, papers piled in haphazard "organization" all around you, books propped open for easy reference (or at least to make it look good), it is surprisingly easy to appear to be working, even working quite hard, when in reality exchanging naughty text messages with a certain boy.

Not that I know this from experience.
I'm just throwing theories out there.

Of course, you then run the risk of blushing over these hypothetical dirty texts, and then your nosy (wonderfully nosy) coworker asks rather loudly what on earth could make "a girl like Jay" blush.

To which you could potentially respond: "I'm not blushing, I'm just flushed from the excitement of a job well done!" which is such a load of bullshit that you just blush all the redder.

And somehow your cell phone knows this is a bad time, and because your cell phone hates you (of course it hates you! didn't you just crush it in the crack of a recliner during a bout of random drunkenness? oh yes. yes you did)....because your cell phone hates you, it beeps loudly, louder than usual I'm sure, to alert the whole office that Jay's latest fling is inquiring as to the current state of her panties, should she actually be wearing any.

So all heads turn towards the sound of the incoming text, and in a fit of cleverness you can only attribute to all the aspartame you've consumed, you turn your head as well....toward the guy who sits beside you. That's right. When deflecting blame from yourself, never be afraid to pass it on to the innocent sucker sitting nearby. To really "sell it", you could do the "slight nod of disapproval", or even go so far as to cluck your tongue in disappointment at his utter disregard for those actually trying to work, goddammit.

So now you slide your cell under your desk, where surely no one will notice you replying feverishly. Getting caught sending sexy texts is almost as bad as getting caught in your friend's bed mid-blowjob. Or something.

Not that I would know about that first-hand, either. I'm just guessing.

And when that seems like poor camouflage (because texting furtively under your desk looks a lot like wanking it from your coworkers' perspective), just go directly to the ladies' room, where the stalls are all occupied with women sending penis-themed messages to their hunnies. It kind of makes you wonder how the heck any work ever gets done, but then you remember that it's company policy to always employ at least 10% anti-social virgins (who eat their lunches at their desks, bring potted plants to work, knit in their free moments, and only wash their hair on special occasions), and you feel the relief of not being counted upon to be even remotely productive.

The day goes by amazingly quickly once you make the decision to stop actually working at work and just piss away the time by taunting boys and rendering them useless at their own places of employment (if you're texting well, the poor things won't even be able to stand up). All this lack of an honest day's hard work would normally have you feeling unsatisfied come 5 o'clock, but I have discovered an ingenious way of filling your chest with a real sense of accomplishment: expensing those naughty text messages!

Pity the fool that ever gave me a company credit card.

Anti-Karaoke

2008-04-14T11:51:00.003-04:00

I think possibly karaoke was sent to us by the terrorists in order to distract and anesthetize the hoi polloi into a false sense of "having fun" so that while every dive bar features some version of the anatomically-indistinguishable he-she with gravy stains on his-her shirt and a predilection for John Mellencamp songs, the rest of us slosh around the beer in our steins while we slur random words that we kinda\sorta think sound close enough to the lyrics, and then all together belt out those really great 5 or 6 words of the chorus that we're all sure about (come on baby, make it hurt so good).

Reasons why Jay will never be caught dead karaokeing:

1. I can't dance to someone stuttering out the lyrics to Crimson & Clover.

2. I can't keep a straight face when someone with a thick Punjabi accent is covering the Village People.

3. I'd have to put down at least one drink to grab the mic, and anything that cuts into my drinking time is not cool by me.

4. I feel squeamish around duets - especially the syrupy, pukey, romantic ones - and especially ESPECIALLY when sung by 2 people who are not a couple. Like, for example, my sister and my mom's boyfriend singing Meatloaf to each other.

5. Which is still not as bad as when 2 people who are not a couple sing raunchy songs with dirty lyrics to each other. Can anyone say INAPPROPRIATE???? Can anyone say CANCEL THE NACHOS?

6. Which is still not as bad as when 2 people who ARE a couple sing raunchy songs to each other, because in my experience:
a) this couple is FUGLY
b) this couple cannot help but launch into a quasi-choreographed dance sequence that involves some bumping and grinding that no one, and I mean NO ONE should ever have to see.
MY FREAKIN EYES!

7. It leaves you wide open to people posting silly pictures of you on facebook.

8. The guy in the cowboy hat and handlebar mustache rubs his crotch just a little too eagerly while singing I Touch Myself.

9. According to my unauthorized autobiography, i don't have flaws.

10. Why would I pay good money to sit at a bar and listen to amateurs destroy some perfectly righteous tunes when I could go to the bar next door and listen to the music the way it was meant to be heard - at ear-blistering decibels, mixed, remixed, and spliced together with some BeeGees because evidently the DJ is having a seizure.

11. Despite the world being filled with good music, karaoke mostly features: cheese by Celine Dion, stinky cheese by Mariah Carey, and inevitably, some baby boomers reliving their misspent youth with Grease tributes out the wahzoo. Yeah, I said wahzoo. And just for the record: Gloria Gaynor should only be sung by drag queens with big curly hair, sinfully short skirts, and gold go-go boots. Seriously.

12. And to the cougar wearing too much lipstick and not enough shirt: Mustang Sally isn't doing you any favours. First of all, it dates you. If you want the 19 year old to go home with you tonight, here are some pointers:

a) Try some Fallout Boy instead. That will at least put you in the right century, if not in the right age bracket.

b) Leave the leopard print at home.

c) The next time you bleach your roots that awful colour, try to leave a little leftover for your mustache.

d) If you MUST wear spandex pants, lose the gotchies. Your panty line can be seen from space.

Work is the curse of the drinking classes.

2008-04-09T20:37:00.004-04:00

Have you ever been on one of those marathon conference calls at work, you know, the ones where some guy all the way in Montreal is blabbering on about something, god knows what (the only thing worse than the speakers on your phone are the speakers on his), and the only productive thing you've done is learning how to crunch those inter-office memos into the tightest, most aerodynamic projectiles ever, and using them to sink three-pointers in the office-ho's cleavage?

Well, it's not just me is it? I think companies would actually waste less money if they paid job coaches to come in and help us fine-tune our resumes.

Ah, work. Nothing raises your blood pressure and lowers your self esteem quite like it.

The cubicle thing is pretty amusing though. I mean, any situation that has you praying that your nearest compatriot doesn't buy cheapo dollar-store deodorant is okay by me. And way to capitalize on the spill-proof mug industry! I mean, when your elbows can cause someone else's coffee to spill all over a third person's computer, you'd better make damn sure that lid's screwed down tight. Of course, I've just happened to notice that "spill proof" really means "spill possible", but since you mistakenly think you're safe, the spill is surprising, and all the more spectacular because of it. Not to worry, though. Third degree burns totally get you the afternoon off, paid! Score! But be prepared to kiss those TPS reports goodbye.

I'm not sure if there's any such thing as cubicle-feng-shui, but I do believe that your pen cup should not be anywhere near your mouse wire. Because then it tips over every time you play minesweeper....erm, I mean, every time you good, solid work. Hard work. Quality work. Work that causes your pens to fall over. A lot. And the sound of 20 Bics hitting the desk, rolling toward the edge, then you swearing but reacting too slowly, and then all 20 Bics tumbling to the floor below and scattering to all 4 corners of the earth...well, that's a godawful sound. Especially when you're hungover. Or so I've heard. And especially when it's already happened 4 times. In the last half hour. And you never get all 20 Bics back. No, you're lucky if the return ratio is 80%, and at that rate, it gets quite costly to be dumping your writing instruments all over the place. But let's face it - if you move the pen cup to the other side, where your elbow routinely knocks over the coffee, then you'll have twice the mess, and your pens will be sticky for the whole goddamn rest of the day. What I prefer to do is tie a single pen to one end of a piece of string, and the other end around my wrist. True, I still can never find my pen, but I have started a revolutionary new office trend, and having these kinds of priorities is what surviving the work day is all about. Now I only need 3 martinis when I'm done work, and hardly any anti-depressants at all!

I love people who decorate their little spaces. I have a rubber duckie dressed as a cheerleader on mine. I think it's supposed to remind me that life doesn't suck or something. Sometimes it's hard to tell. Sometimes I think the duck is mocking me. My friend suggested that I decorate my wall with a large mirror so that I can watch myself throughout the day. It's already largely known that I enjoy the sound of my voice. In fact, my boss has taken to calling me Diva, and I'm sure I haven't the foggiest idea why (fake british accents aside), but honestly, I have a hard enough time getting my work done as it is without a hot blonde winking at me all day long!

Today a woman was going around handing out snacks, and she stopped at my desk to point out that there were rice krispie treats hidden underneath the cheesies. Nice. But then she said my name. Twice. And I was a bit taken aback - yes, I know I've recently been the subject of some office gossip, but how did she know my name? Elliott, who sits nearby, felt the need to point out that my name is plastered across my computer in large red lettering. It's even punctuated - Jamie!, it says. Jamie! Even my computer knows my name. When I sign on, it says HELLO JAMIE. I imagine it having a creepy computer voice, like Hal. I imagine it knowing too much. I imagine it somehow watching me undress at night. Almost every application I open at work says Not Jamie? Click here. And goddamn if I'm not tempted to click there, Jamie or not Jamie. And frankly, since we're on the topic, I'm also a little offended by my computer. You'd think after the quality time we've spent together it would start calling me Jay already. But my stupid computer is formal. It is so insistent on keeping things stiff and polite between us that I've taken to curtsying to it every time I leave my desk....and considering I was born without a bladder, that's kind of a lot. So now my computer and I are locked in a vicious battle of etiquette, and the question remains.....who will win???

Yeah, I know. I don't really stand a chance. Even my stapler is betting against me.

By and large, though, I am vastly entertained at work. I love how cough drops in the vending machine have gone up 50 cents in price in the time it took me to catch a cold and then get rid of it. I love how the company puts hand sanitizer in the bathrooms because it's faster than soap and water, and since they've already let you pee on company time, don't be thinking you'll be washing yourself too! I love Juanita, who gives me the giggles. Juanita sounds like a stripper name, and though I don't know for sure if she does any part-time pole dancing, I do know that she has terrific knockers that would certainly give a nice home to crumpled dollar bills. Just sayin'.

Of course, my "just sayin" policy likes to get me into trouble. People like to yell the phrase "HR issue!" as I walk by, and I'm pretty sure they're not just referring to the length of my skirts, though that probably doesn't help. However, was it me who made the thumb-tack penis? No, it was not. Okay, technically it IS on my cork board. And technically they are my thumb-tacks. And I suppose while I'm confessing I may as well admit that I may have goaded on the artist. But it wasn't me. And it's not to scale, I don't care what you've heard.

Have Uterus, Will Panic

2008-04-07T20:53:00.000-04:00

Have you ever prayed to a little white stick?

Have you ever slumped over the toilet at work, depressed that your panties were as pristine as when you first put them on that morning?

Have you ever been late, significantly late, and prayed to God that it was cancer and not that? Pleased baby Jesus, not that.

Most of us girls have.

Most of us girls have at one point paced the sweatiest aisle in the pharmacy: on one end you've got darty-eyed boys trying to inconspicuously palm a box of magnum condoms, on the other end you've got peaky-looking girls trying to bury their box of feminine-itch cream deep in their basket of nail polishes and loofahs they don't need, and smack dab in the middle you've got us twitchy girls, usually with some friend offering moral support with a side of I-told-you-so, trying to decide between "requires 25% less urine!", "the pink giraffe means you're pregnant, the purple pulled pork means you're not, the pinkish-purpley asteroid belt means drink two Redbulls and try again later", and "free celebration condom inside!".

Generally speaking, today's pregnancy tests are pretty much fool-proof.

And generally speaking, the wild surge of emotions that comes with buying a home pregnancy test makes fools, or worse, of us all. So whether you're frantically unbuttoning your jeans praying nonono or yesyesyes, the chances are that you're shaky, you're nervous, and you're going to fuck it up.

Let's, for the sake of argument, assume that I have recently made such a trip to such a store with a girlfriend recently, and that she was in the nonono category.

Now, I have been fairly lucky so far in my life, but I do know some of what she's going through, so I've promised to hold her hand through this ordeal, and hell, I'm such a good friend, I'll even hold the stick she's just peed on if it makes her feel better. She asks me to take a sympathy pregnancy test instead. We buy matching tests (and peanut butter cups, and some laundry detergent, because whether her life is "ruined" or not, she still needs clean khakis for Monday)and start holding our breath together.

The experts recommend that you using your first morning's urine for the purposes of a pregnancy test - they even have a fancy acronym for it: FMU. But fuck that. At this point, it's fair to say that she's already spent 2 weeks or more freaking out, eating salty foods, doing extra jumping jacks, and trying to will her uterus to evacuate. She's felt the push-and-pull of wanting to know and not wanting to know, hoping for good news and avoiding the bad news, being worried, being very worried, being very, very worried, and above all, being in denial. So the fact that she's finally gathered enough courage to buy the stupid test and is now power-walking home with a glint of mad determination in her eye probably means that she's not going to calmly set the test down on her bathroom vanity, make dinner as if there's no possibility whatsoever of another tiny human being living inside her belly, and then head to bed for a night full of easy rest without any tossing and\or turning wondering if there will be protesters at the abortion clinic or if she should start saving the astronomical cost of what tuition in 2026 will most likely be, and then wake up the next day with a full bladder just brimming with potential. No, she's going to race home, think about vomiting, put some Madonna on the stereo, brace herself with a peanut butter cup and goddammit, she's going to use her late-evening-4-cups-of-coffee-and-a-shot-of-whiskey urine. It'll just have to do.

So, you pull down your pants with a last-minute wish that you'll find that Aunt Flo, against all odds, has finally decided to visit, and finding that she hasn't (that bitch), you pee on the stick. Or, you attempt to pee on the stick. But come on, we're girls. There is no aiming the pee. The best you can do shove the thing between your legs and hope not to get splashed. Fun times.

Now, once you've peed on the stick, you realize you should have read the instructions first. Because now you're holding a drippy stick, shaking with the injustice of it all, wondering what the bastard who did this to you is doing right now, probably playing Guitar Hero obliviously or something, trying to read the squinty print on the side of a soggy box. Why is the writing so small? Don't they know that impending doom renders the best of us illiterate?

And then there's the wait.

Now, I've had some long waits in my life.

The time between IV goes in and tumor comes out? Long wait.

The day and a half between Katie's water breaking and Janie's head crowning? Long wait.

Those few seconds between seeing the oncoming car and it smashing into us? Long wait.

Watching for either a pink plus or a blue negative to appear on a magic wand? Longest. Wait. Ever.

Close Encounters with Addiction

2008-04-03T20:55:00.003-04:00

So.

I just finished reading that book up there, the one that I stole my title from. The problem is, it paints a flat picture.

It doesn't show the things that I have seen, up close and personal, working with the homeless population of this fair city.

It tries to. It introduces you to addicts living in downtown Vancouver, in a shelter not unlike the one I've worked in. But the truth as I've come to understand it is that none of us can really understand it until we've been elbows-deep in it as I have. Because I thought I knew. I thought I had the gist. I went to school, read the books, took the tests. I knew how it worked, how it didn't work, how to fix it, how not to fix it, how unfixable it sometimes was.

But really, I knew shit.

I didn't know that a person could be so desperate for a fix - a fix of anything - that she chugs hand sanitizer until a stink so bad it could strip wallpaper comes out her pores and she literally pickles herself. And then one day, on the gritty floor of the shelter cafeteria, I found her. And later found several empty gallon jugs of the stuff hidden under her cot.

I didn't know that a 20 year old girl could cry to me about being in agony, stripped raw, really, from so much whoring that she can barely walk right, and thus has to earn her drug money one 5$ handjob at a time.

I didn't know the pain of watching a crack addict give birth to her 11th baby, place it in the arms of children's aid for the 11th time without shedding a tear, and then sob because the nurse wouldn't give her any pain medication.

I didn't know how I would feel the first time I walked in on a dead body floating in a bathtub and think to myself Thank God. Yeah. Brutal. I am the lowest of the low for thinking such a thing, but maybe it gives you some indication of the kind of life this person led. It wasn't much. It was mostly heartache, misery, and drugs, with the occasional fish stick thrown in.

I didn't know what it would be like to sit face to face with someone, ask them about their cutting habit with their scars in plain sight, and hear them explain it so rationally - cutting and bleeding is the only way to feel something, feel anything, through the haze of drugs and pain - so rationally that I find myself nodding in agreement.

I didn't know how sick I would feel when a client was jonesing so badly during our short time together, scratching at invisible bugs, twitching violently, glazed and seeking, that they would eventually think up some excuse to leave the room, and we both knew damn well it was to go shoot up. And upon their return, with fresh track marks on display, the farce starts all over again. It never ends. It makes me sick.

I didn't know that there was a whole new level of sadness of frustration reached when a client celebrates their 3rd day of sobriety by going out and getting high.

I didn't know what a job that has you asking people Do you have Hep C? Do you have HIV? Do you think you might be pregnant? and hearing yeses to all three does to you over time. It breaks you down. It makes you cry at night.

I didn't know what it was like not to save them. Not to save very many at all. To lose them to coke, to meth, to the street, to pimps and johns, to knifings and prison and psych wards and the icy claws of death that stalk homeless shelters like you wouldn't believe.

I didn't know what it would be like to call someone's parents with regret, to inform them that their child who hasn't returned home in 5 years never will again. That the unclaimed body of their baby girl can be found in the city morgue. That they will never see her again. That she wanted to come home but couldn't. That she spent her last days craving the stuff that killed her, lying on a dirty mattress that didn't belong to her. That she spilled tears of remorse on her lumpy pillow. That it wasn't AIDS, although she had it, and it wasn't malnutrition though she'd rarely eaten in a month, and it wasn't hypothermia though God knows she'd spent nights half-frozen in snow banks, that it was a simple bacteria from a dirty needle that got into her bloodstream and went straight to her brain. That it was a sorry way to die, not nearly quick enough, and that she suffered, and that she missed her mother, that she suddenly realized she'd been living her life all wrong. And that in the end, it was too late. And all I could do was watch.

All I could do was watch.

How I Am.

2008-03-31T20:31:00.001-04:00

Every morning I wake up with butterflies; I've become unpredictable even to myself.

It's exhilarating, really, to feel like you've been reinvented, like you've changed in some fundamental way. It also makes me nervous to not know what each day will bring, not know what exactly I am capable of, but pushing myself to test those boundaries, feeling excited because anything can happen. Anything.

I've had moments. I had one at the club the other night - standing half naked outside at 2am, waiting for a cab when some guy peels the shirt right off my breast (it was soaked with beer and came away slowly, reluctantly) just to see if I was cold - and you know what I did? I laughed at him. I laughed right in his face, because really, who is this girl, what life am I living? Is this even real? Shouldn't it be illegal to have this much fun?

Have you ever woken up with a hickey and not really known who gave it to you, or if it was even a girl or a guy?

Yeah, me too.