Don't You Put It In Your Mouth

     I'm never, ever eating Samyang 2xSpicy Ramen again.

     It's not JUST because it's hot. I like spicy foods and that's why I decided to get a package of six in the first place. But, my experience with this particular brand has been forever tarnished by this catastrophe. Listen, children, to my tale of woe.

     I was hungry. It was late. And, I am lazy. So, I decided it was a good time to break out the Spicy Noodles I bought from T&T Supermarket (which is the best place to go if you're bored AND hungry in Ottawa). Easier than Kraft Dinner, I just boiled the water and let the noodles sit for five minutes then added the spicy soup base. 

     Before I relate the embarrassing details that transpired, let me tell you a bit about Scoville Heat Units (SHU). The Scoville Scale measures the pungency of peppers based on the concentration of Capsaicinoids in each. A plain old bell pepper is like a ten, whereas a Carolina Reaper is about 3.2 million SHUs. The shit I foolishly intended to ingest says it is 8400 SHUs, similar to a jalapeno. I eat jalapenos all the time without issue.

     But, after boiling the water to soften the noodles, my soup was too "temperature hot" to enjoy, so I set it down beside my bed and began re-watching Avatar: The Last Air Bender on Netflix. Some fifteen minutes later, I reached down to grab the pot and test it out when I had some kind of seizure and slopped the soup all over my left breast. Jeezus, jeezus, jeezus!! So fucking hot, I thought my nipple was starting to bubble. And, even though I tore off my soaked housecoat, my tit was still scalding because it was laying in a pool of 2X Spicy ramen sauce on my bed and I was still holding the damn pot in an awkward turtle-trapped-on-its-back position.

     I hurried to the bathroom to run my poor, steaming boob under the cold water tap, rubbing off the residue as best I could with my hands and hoping I wouldn't blister. The running water urged me to pee, so I sat down and did my business... wiped, folded and wiped again. As I was checking out the damage in my bathroom mirror (thankfully, I was unscathed), my hoohoo started to burn. I realized quickly the residue from my hands had transferred to the toilet paper, which had transferred to the velvet folds of my labia. For the love of Pete! Will my agony never end? I just wanted some noodles!

     I walked into the kitchen, cold cloth between my legs and cradling my left breast. Surely, the soup was temperate enough to take a bite. I twirled a bunch around a fork with my right hand and, just as I was slurping the last of a long, curly noodle into my mouth, the saucy little fuck flicked up and splashed into my eye! The burning was unbearable. I imagine it was like being sprayed with mace. Or like squirting Frank's Hot lemonade in your eye. So, I waddled over to the kitchen sink, one hand still holding my tit, the other covering my eye and intermittently splashing cold water into it. 

     Samyang is clearly the Asian name for Satan. I left the pot on the counter untouched and it can stay there and think about what it did to me before I flush it down the toilet. I'll get latex gloves first.

Who wants to shake my hand?

     Y'all are not ready for the information I'm about to put down.

     So, recently (basically the last 3 years) I've been trying to use/buy less and less. It started when I moved to London and I decided I wasn't going to have a bunch of stuff. I only wanted what I absolutely couldn't live without, like a bed and sheets, a very small wardrobe, minimal things to cook and eat with, and essential toiletries. I wanted to be a backpacker.

     I think this obsession actually started in 2009 when I watched a movie called Up In The Air. [Side note: Movies really affect me. I stopped eating meat after watching How To Train Your Dragon.] In the film, a corporate downsizer named Ryan Bingham (George Clooney) makes a speech about how we subconsciously carry everything we own on our backs. He says, "We weigh ourselves down until we can't even move. And make no mistake, moving is living." In my opinion, collecting "things" and an obsession with consumerism contributes to my anxiety. So, "things" had to go. 

     There are other anti-consumerism movements that have a similar philosophy. Decluttering and downsizing are all the rage. Tiny houses, tiny cars, KonMari, minimalism... These ideas encouraged me to throw shit out by the cartload. Rodney even rented a dumpster to expedite the process. It felt really good to let things go.

     Since I left Picton, I've managed to move 3 times (almost) single-handedly with one flat-bed truck. I've picked up some other minimalist habits on my journey, as well, although I am by no means an environmental guru.

     First, I got on the "no-poo" bandwagon - a collective term for methods of washing your hair without using commercial shampoo. I started using bananas or other fruits, apple cider vinegar, baking soda; there are so many options. I am not a fan of shampoo bars, though. I've only tried two, but I find they leave a film. I have the same bottle of shampoo in my shower that Santa put in my stocking three Christmases ago. Once that's gone, no more poo for me. 

     This small step encouraged me to eliminate the crazy amounts of garbage I was producing. Recycling and composting are great, but there are criticisms of our municipal programs and, quite frankly, reducing and re-using seems more effective. Zero-waste is the way to go for me and it also saves a shit-ton of money!

     I've never understood the need for straws. My teeth aren't sensitive. I'm not worried about staining my teeth because I folded all my worries into paper airplanes and now they're flying fucks My daughter bought me metal straws to support my interest in saving the turtles and then my son got me a portable, folding straw big enough for even the thickest Booster Juice. 

     Toothpaste is stupid and some say fluoride is unhealthy. I use Calcium Bicarbonate, baking soda, mint extract and coconut oil to make my own. I've since found toothpaste tablets to buy in bulk at NU Grocery in Ottawa that you chew to form a paste and then brush with! They probably taste better than the stuff I make.

     Laundry soap was a tough one. There are lots of eco-friendly laundry soaps out there, but they often come in plastic bottles. There are refillable laundry soaps from places like Terra 20, but they are expensive and I'm not convinced the surfactants in any detergent are environmentally friendly, nor are they required to clean my clothes. I read about making my own laundry soap, but again, the reviews were mixed and the process was a pain in the ass.

Taking a piss at a Jay's game

     Then, I bought some soap berries from the Bulk Barn. It cost me a twoonie for enough to last me at least six months. They are scent free, hypo-allergenic, all-natural and require no packaging to buy. None. To make everything smell nice, I throw a wet cloth with a few drops of essential oil into my dryer. 

     Food is another issue. I like to buy most things at Bulk Barn because I can take my own containers and refill without packaging. I get fruits and vegetables from grocery stores or markets, as long as they don't wrap everything individually in plastic, or worse, pile four or five on styrofoam and THEN wrap in plastic. But, I still really like Oreos and frozen foods, which are packaged, of course. I just cross my fingers that my recycled items don't actually end up in land fill.

     What really, really burns my ass (pun intended) is toilet paper. First of all, $15 for something I use to wipe shit off my asshole? No, thank you, Charmin. That is craziness. Secondly, that Cashmere and Royale shit may be soft, but it also leaves tiny bits of paper all over my labia. I need a tiny lint roller for my cooch after every trip to the loo. Thirdly, how many trees have to die every year for me to dry my bottom? What are the statistics on this? I'm sure alot of this stuff is recycled, but I don't know. 

     It was completely by accident that I learned about the Fillipino tabo. I follow a cartoonist on YouTube, who did a video about how weird it was to use toilet paper, having used a water dipper his whole life. 

     My mind was blown. I always thought I'd have to invest in a bidet to minimize my reliance on toilet paper when, in fact, the solution was as simple as a bucket and a scoop. More sanitary AND zero waste. Haven't officially graduated to using my hand with a number two. I just... I'm not there yet. You'll be pleased to know, a combination of TP and Tabo is required still.

     So, if you come to visit, I will have toilet paper for you. However, if you want to try a dipper, I encourage all you dirty-ass savages to give it a try!

I Wanna Rock and Roll... Not All Night, Though. And, Quietly.

     I was not even a year old when Kiss produced their first album, but I remember walking through the Towers Department Store (fuck, that's a long time ago) and seeing the four painted faces of the band on a poster and wondering why I couldn't always have my face painted like a cat.

     Fast forward 40 years and I'm buying tickets to see Kiss for the first time at the Canadian Tire Centre in Ottawa. I'm not a member of "The Kiss Army", I never bought any of their albums, none of their songs are on my playlist. I just really wanted something to do on a Wednesday night and I had heard good things about their shows.

     I have since been enlisted in the Kiss Army.

This is Rock and Roll

     Yesterday, however, I was really dreading my decision to buy a ticket. Introverts will get this: I like the IDEA of going out, but I hate ACTUALLY leaving the house. First of all, it would be very people-y at a concert. People everywhere, getting in my way and talking to me and expecting me to interact with them. Secondly, there would be loud music, which I normally love. I just don't love it when I don't love it, ya know? I don't really know how to explain my anxiety, I can only say it is there and my brain makes up all kinds of reasons for why it should occur.

     It was very windy and I had just spent $70 on clean hair with fresh layers. That is reason enough to make me want to cancel my evening and stay at home reading, crocheting and learning Mandarin.

     My son drove me to the concert. I didn't want to deal with the nightmare of parking, or rather, exiting the parking lot after the show. It's always a clusterfuck. And, anyway, I wanted to have a couple of four beers. I had to wait outside for a few minutes in 37 km/hour winds in 7 degree weather that feels like minus 4. That was when I started to wish I had driven myself and I could just leave. 

     Can I just say here, though, what a truly Canadian experience it is to attend a concert in Ottawa? Here we were, being herded into a small hallway to pass through security, having stood outside in sub-zero temperatures, and everyone was leaving lots of personal space. There was no pushing. No one cared if you butt-in to the line. There was friendly banter (en francais) about French going first (just like Quebec signage). 

     As I patiently waited to go through the metal detector, there was a young man with his face painted like Ace Frehley being passed over with the wand. For those who've never gone through security, you have to empty all your pockets so you don't set off the the alarm. Well, no one told this guy, I guess. He took out his keys and about 3 pounds worth of change, but he still set off the alarm. The guard told him to remove everything from his pockets, so he started digging out a vape pen and some other shit from his right pocket. He still got a red light. Continued to dig in his right pocket, brought out another pipe of some description. Could have been a dildo for all I know. Big orange, twisty looking thing! I have no idea why he didn't take it out in the first place. Still got a red light. Started digging out his left pocket this time and removed another pipe and more shit! Red light went off again. The security guard finally took matters into his own hands and started digging through this guy's pockets himself and pulled out a couple of glass vials (which required him to wipe his hands on his pants) and even more drug paraphernalia. Finally, Ace is free to go. I told him he needs to bring a motherfucking fanny pack next time. 

     I dropped my phone and keys into the margarine container and went through. No red light. I don't know whether I felt like a loser or a gawdamn saint.

     I climbed to the very top section of the Palladium. Someone was offering a very poor selection of beer and I would rather drink the slush bucket at work than a Canadian or Coors Banquet, so I got a premium Creemore for $14. Guess I won't be having more than two of these golden sonsobitches.

Just can't put this down.

     Climbed another twenty steps to level L where I found a small boy sitting in my seat. His name was Marshall and he was wearing baffles on his ears. I wanted a pair. I found myself being thankful that I was in the section with the kindergarteners and old men wearing reading glasses and enjoying a quick chapter before the show.

     The opening act was a guy painting a picture of Gord Downie. Marshall's dad, who was pretty darn goodlooking, told his son the curtains around the stage were like wrapping paper. He said a concert is like a Christmas gift that we get to unwrap.... 

     Unwrap this, you sexy bitch. That's the cutest thing I've ever heard! Ugh, my ovaries still work!

     The curtains dropped and there they were, larger than life, like Christmas morning. Then, there was so much fire erupting from the stage, I felt the peach fuzz singe off my cheeks! Then, boom boom BOOM! Fireworks so hard and so sudden, the young man behind me spilled his beer onto my $70 fucking haircut. I wasn't mad. This is rock and roll. Which is what the twenty somethings in the row behind me were saying about half way through the show. And this made me very happy that I went. 

     I still left a good half hour early. Had a guy ask me to drive him to Deseronto for $20. Probably a good thing I didn't drive because I probably would have. Crossed the street to wait for my son at the Esso station and came so close to being hit by a car turning left that I got to touch the hood of the car. Good times!

Battı balık yan gider (A sunken fish goes sideways)

     Is there a way I can make myself look more like a serial killer? I'm not asking for a friend. I seriously need to up my game. When I go out, I wear a black jacket, a black toque, a dark hoodie over my toque and dark hiking boots. I keep my hands in my pockets when I'm out and about and I don't usually look up...

Uni-bomber swag

     However, I do that classic small-town thing where I acknowledge people when I pass them on the street. That's the problem, right there! I must never do that. People should get the impression I've just dumped a body in the woods and I'm rushing to hide in my basement apartment until the coast is clear. Otherwise, they seem to think I'm outside so I can make friends. I wouldn't mind really, but at this point in my life, I'm fairly confident that I won't like anyone new and (on the rare occasion I find someone tolerable) I'm equally confident I'll find a reason to think they suck eventually.

     I enjoy my own company - especially at movie theaters. Last night, I went to Bytown Cinema to see "3 Faces", a film by Iranian director, Jafar Panahi, about three female actors at different stages of their careers. Great movie! It features many long scenes done in one shot while documenting a myriad of emotions. It also features some of the most awkward human encounters I've ever seen. 

     This is one of the reasons I, personally, am drawn to movies. I like to study human interactions because (I think) it helps me in my daily life. Like many introverts, I'm horribly awkward. I don't know how to respond when people talk about the weather, or how much they like their new curtains, or what to do about their asshole boyfriend. But, (I think) I've gotten better over the years. 

     Anyway, one of the things I found fascinating about the movie, which is set in the northwest corner of Iran, is how the people interact with one another. Perfect strangers treated each other like long lost friends and then their worst enemies within the course of a couple of minutes! They were always making the main characters a cup of tea and bringing them cushions to sit on, even though they didn't want tea and cushions. In one scene, a man gives his son's twelve-year-old foreskin to Behnaz Jafari (who also plays herself) in the hopes she will give it to a movie star in Tehran. The custom is to have a boy's godfather bury the foreskin somewhere auspicious - like near a hospital or a courthouse - so the boy will grow up to be wealthy and educated. Who just passes their kid's foreskin to a stranger? I mean, why not? I've always found social norms a bit... abnorms. I'm still learning.

     So, I go out alot. It's like my own brand of field research. Today, I decided to check out the local coffee shop and go on a little hike. My new apartment is perfectly situated close to the Ottawa River and several conservation areas. Unfortunately, these spots are all pretty high traffic, unlike what I was used to on the Bruce Trail. People walk their dogs, they bird watch, they bring huge cameras and they bring food; bags of bird seed and peanuts and bread crumbs to feed all the wildlife. This is kind of cool because you can get very close to squirrels and chickadees, if you're not terrified of squirrels like I am. 

This Asshole

     It can also be really annoying to have a greedy chickadee swooping around your head while you're trying to enjoy nature. 

     There is still a good foot and a half of snow on the ground here in the near north of Ontario, so you can't step off the packed snow of the trail or you end up knee-deep (ribbit) in granular snow. With so many people out birdwatching today, there were a couple of times I had to reroute in order to avoid squeezing past others. But, I was distracted by this damn chickadee that kept harassing me for snacks. I was taking some great pics of him when I heard someone say, "Is there a trail leading to the water up there?" 

     A man was addressing me from about fifty feet away. Thinking he wanted more space to pass, I walked back about ten feet to a side trail to allow him to pass. But, when he approached, he started up a conversation about his cat, who used to follow him on his daily walkabouts. 

     I was feeling kid of social, so I listened to this story about a stupid cat that walked through the forest and posed for pics on an old log by the lake, all while I'm swatting at this chickadee like a swarm of thirsty mosquitoes. Then, the guy says to me, "You want to go see the spot by the lake? It's just down the trail and through the bush?"

     Dude, I don't know what fucking rock you crawled out from under, but ain't no way I am following your nature-loving ass through two feet of snow in the bush to see a tree that rotted twenty years ago beside the water treatment plant. I'm practicing to be more serial-killer-esque and I know an invitation to certain death when I hear it!

Do not follow strangers

     "Eeeeeeh yeaaaah, sorry but I'm out catching Pokemon today. There's a Breloom somewhere up ahead and I've only got sixteen, maybe eleven minutes left to catch it before it's gone. For my kids, you know."

     I literally excused myself from an awkward situation using an even more awkward excuse.

     "Pokie mawn! I tell you, I don't need any of that electronic garbage. What I've got? I've got my golf clubs, my tennis rackets and my hockey sticks. That's all I need."

     Dude, I didn't know we were having a dick-measuring contest! Hold on! I'll bring out my ruler! I'll see your fucking golf cubs and I'll raise you an 'I work all day on my gawdamn feet, douchebag. Fuck you AND your weirdy cat."

     I listened to one more story about his dead cat and his encounter with bald eagles. He proceeded to follow me to the next Pokestop, which he further criticized based on location, before he left me to go shave his nipples or whatever. 

    All I'm saying is, whether you're in a rural village in Iran or a city park in Canada, you just can't tell what other people are thinking and it's best to just avoid the whole species. 

I always wanted lashes like Snuffleupagus

     I'm the kind of person who likes to make plans. I like to know what to expect. I like to research where I'm going for dinner if I'm in a new city so that, when I arrive, I know exactly what I'm having. If I go on a vacation, I want an itinerary; breakfast at 10 a.m., followed by two hours on the beach, a trip to the zoo, and stop for a selfie with the biggest ball of string by 3:30 p.m. If I ever get a Brazilian wax treatment, I will know exactly what to expect because I have watched hours of videos to make sure I'm comfortable with anything my crotch coiffeur might do to me.

    Strangely enough, when I decided I was going to get fake eyelashes, I did NOT do any research. I had no idea how much it would cost, how long it would take, or even what was involved. I have since been schooled. 

     When I told my daughter I was going to get fake lashes, she... hesitated. I'd say she knows me better than anyone and, in hindsight, I should have read more into the pause. I merely assumed her concern was regarding possible eye infections, which doesn't worry me. I (touch wood) am not prone to styes or pink eye or whatever.

     I've seen lots of examples of this recent beauty trend and I really wanted my own "lash extensions". I had naturally long eyelashes when I was younger but, now that I'm heading into MY LATE 40S (for chrissakes), my lashes are more sparse and certainly not long. My vanity is rearing it's ugly head more and more these days - fucking wrinkle repair serums, glycolic peels, charcoal toothpaste... anything to hold onto my youth for just a liiiiiittle bit longer. 

     Anyway, my coworker has a side hustle doing nails and lashes in Smith's Falls, so I decided to make an appointment with her. I arrived at the house on a Wednesday morning, eager for my transformation and we got right to it. I crawled up onto the massage table, face up, and she sat facing my head with all the tools she needed at hand.

     The first thing we needed to do was get my bottom lashes out of the way. This means, we had to tape my bottom lashes to my face. Now, when she said this would be required, I flinched a little. I thought, "Ok. This sounds like some kind of torture technique from the middle ages where your eyelids are pinned open and you can't blink." But, I was not too concerned. It surely wouldn't take long.

   The process was all moving along very quickly after she told me to close my eyes. It felt like she was using some kind of fine needle to separate my eyelashes to install the fake ones evenly. Part of me imagined some kind of super fine strip of lashes being weaved among my existing ones and part of me imagined the movie Coraline, the part where they tell her they are going to sew buttons over her eyeballs.

     "About how long does this usually take?" I ask, naively.

     "Usually two hours. Maybe an hour and a half." She replied.

     GULP.

     How am I supposed to lay here for two hours with my eyelids taped down and lashes glued shut?!! The answer was, quite simply, in a fairly comfortable position all while bitching nonstop about work things. For example, as a server, you ask your guests if they would like something to drink while they're deciding what to eat. Often, the reply I get is, "Nothing for me. I'll have water." To which, I would like to reply, "Should I get that for you via intravenous? Because, last I checked, water is something to drink." Also, if you are only two people, do not sit at a table of six. You're not moving in. You don't need the extra space. For the love of Pete, stop being self-centered twats.

     While she worked away on my eyes, we also discussed the process of my lash installation, which involves glueing an extra synthetic lash to each of my individual lashes one by one. Hence, the two hour time frame. She would work on my right side for a bit and then my left and back to the right... and before I knew it, we were done. 

     In the end, there was still some clean up required. Stray lashes stuck in the wrong place or attached to your bottom lid, etc. At this point, my eyes were wide open and trying not to see the very sharp instruments poised so close to my pupils. I just prayed she wouldn't sneeze and turn my peepers into kabobs. 

     All's well that ends well. And, I'm very happy with the results. I could barely wait to get to my car so I could start taking selfies of my Bambi eyes! Would I ever do it again? I don't fucking think so. I'll keep with traditional, stick-on lashes from the drug store or just grow old gracelessly.

Slippery Noodles in Sauce

     Life lessons are delivered in the strangest ways. Sometimes, it's financial and it eats up your savings. Sometimes, it literally hits you on the noggin. Other times, you can learn vicariously through others. How you react to these life lessons says alot about your character, or maybe it just depends on your blood sugar level. 

     This weekend, I returned to Ottawa after visiting family in the Quinte area. I have to say, I'm a little pissed I am living under four feet of snow while everyone closer to Lake Ontario has less than half that amount. Regardless, I had a lovely visit and the weather was great for travelling. But, I'd made a date with myself to get some vegan eats, sample some beer and listen to some live music back in Bytown!

Crunchy Flower

     My favourite Ottawa band, Crunchy Flower, was performing at The Rainbow Bistro and I was looking forward to a night out. The last time I tried to go clubbing in The Capital City, I waited in three different lineups in sub-zero temperatures and ended up settling for last call in Nepean listening to a CCR cover band (which was great, btw). This time, even though I was flying solo, I was determined to have a good night without having to wait in a line, so I was napped, bathed and completely contoured by 6:30 p.m. 

     In spite of my anticipation, I was worried about going out and wasn't sure I'd actually go through with my plans. Some of my anxiety stems from the usual internal dialogue about preferring to stay home in bed and not wanting to go out among people. However, every once in a while I have these weird body image issues. These strange assertions I make to myself wherein I say something like, "Don't go out, you look hideous." And, by HIDEOUS, I mean I look too old, too fat, too frumpy or too... I don't know: troll-ish. I have mentioned this phenomenon in other blogs. Quite frankly, it often comes as a complete surprise to my conscious self because "walkin' past the mirror, oooh, damn I'm fine." Just like Cardi B. But, those Funhouse reflections catch me off guard when I'm approaching the grocery store doors, reminding me that I am not the gawdamn goddess I like to think I am.

     Anyway, I scrubbed up alright and I drove to a bar I had researched on my Beer Network App - Untappd. This particular bar, which I won't name yet because I'm still butt hurt over the misunderstanding, has some delicious-sounding vegan options on the menu. It's located on the University campus, so parking was a nightmare, but I found a paid lot after driving around the block three times and getting stuck behind the city buses at every turn. It cost me $4.50 to park and the fucking place wasn't even open! The only bar I've ever heard of that isn't open on weekends. Just Monday to Friday. I couldn't even believe it. Fortunately, I managed to catch some great Pokemon while I convinced myself it was not a sign from the Saturday night gods that I should just get a drive thru combo and cut my losses. 

     Instead, I proceeded to the Market area on the last weekend of Winterlude. For those who don't know, Winterlude is the Ottawa-Gatineau winter festival that attracts hundreds of thousands of people to the area for all things snow and ice. What should have been a seven minute drive turned into twenty minutes of trying not to run over a pedestrian. I didn't think I would ever find a parking spot, but I did! Cost me another $6 and it was, coincidentally, less than a block from The Rainbow. THIS I took as a good sign. 

The door to The Rainbow

     There is a Thai restaurant in the same building as The Rainbow where I ordered a vegetarian soup with udon noodles and tofu. Delicious! The couple at the table across from me were staring straight ahead and looking very uncomfortable. Neither of them were eating and they seemed to be waiting for something to happen. I thought maybe he was nonchalantly watching me try to eat slippery udon noodles lathered in sriracha and hoisin sauces with chopsticks. I was really making a mess, slurping up all that wiggly goodness. Then, his wife started turning around to look my way and I thought, "Cripes! It's not a spectator sport. Let a girl tie her feed bag on in peace!"

     Around the fifth time she glanced my way, I started to stare back, leaving an udon dangling from my lip on purpose. I was just about to say something confrontational when the server walked by. She completely ignored the couple... and they were obviously flummoxed. He proceeded to kind of march up to the cash register, pay for the meal and return with a takeout box. That's when I realized, they weren't looking at me at all. They were looking behind me to the service counter where the server was busy on her cell phone. 

     This couple had waited in angry silence for about half an hour before asking for a takeout box and their bill. It is clearly not the service they hoped for, but this is a life lesson I learned some time ago; You've got to ask for what you want. It would be nice if everyone could read your fucking mind... wait a minute. No, it definitely wouldn't. 

     Trust me, everyone's idea of perfect table service is different. Sometimes, people want me to introduce myself, talk about our specials, ask them about their day, and, basically, make them feel special by blowing smoke up their ass. Other people don't want me to make eye contact, they don't want me to interrupt them in any way, they want me to know their order by telepathy and then they want me to fuck off until it's time to pay. There are all kinds of variations in between, as well. Just ask for what you want and, if you don't get it, then you can be a dick. Otherwise, the only person being affected by the issue is yourself, you passive-aggressive douche. 

     I finished my soup, wiped sauce from my eyebrows, paid my $20 bill and left happy. There was no lineup at The Rainbow and I paid a $10 cover. I sat at the far side of the bar and ordered a $10 beer and watched the band set up. Eventually, I made my way to the powder room, which consists of two tiny stalls. So tiny, in fact, that when I turned around to ensure I would not be sitting on someone's piss puddle (as is so common with ladies, who like to hover rather than sit) I banged my damn head off the metal advert frame. As I rubbed my goose egg, I read the words of toilet Confucius written on said metal frame, "All bodies are good bodies." Again, I took this as a sign. While I may not be modelling any swim wear anytime soon, my body is fully functional. I can run and jump, shake my ass, give comfort, and feel ecstasy with this mortal coil and that's enough. 

     I continued to enjoy the light show and the bluesy tunes for about an hour. Although I didn't completely break free on the dance floor, I jiggled a bit and tapped my toes. I was probably smiling like a goof. That's when it happened. A man came up to me and started a conversation. I have no idea what he said. The music was good and loud. But, I responded politely because I wasn't wearing a shirt that says, "Please, fuck off." Again, if we could all just read each other's minds. 

     Mental note: Get a gawdamn shirt that reads, "Please Fuck Off!"

     The life lesson applies to this guy, too. He gets to ask for what he wants, whatever that is, and to be fair, if you see a single woman out having a good time, she MIGHT be looking for someone to talk to or dance with. I think it's unfair to go out in public and not expect to have to interact with the public. But, the Saturday night gods had spoken, the spell was broken, and it was time for me to get a Beaver Tail and head home. 

     Altogether, a night on the town costs about $60 for the bare minimum. I'd say it was worth every penny and I'm looking forward to trying Cafe Nostalgica next time.

My Soap Box is a Gender Neutral Bathroom

     When I was in rural Ontario, I dreamed of living in the city so I could attend university lectures in my free time. Googling is great, but nothing compares to studying the interaction between people in real life because - no matter how thin a coin is, it still has two sides. Well, I've lived in three cities with five universities nearby for the last three years and I have finally attended a public dialogue featuring kahntinetha Horn, a woman who just did things. Seems like someone I'd be interested in hearing about.

Photo credit: Melissa Ella Pole

     I insult the woman by saying that she "just did things"; it belittles her accomplishments. But, to elaborate, she saw a need for things to be done and she went out and addressed the issues. She does this without apology, without fake smiles and without any funding, in most cases.

     The "meeting" I attended was in the Carleton University Art Gallery in Ottawa, a place I visited regularly when I attended University for that one semester. I loved that you could get around campus using an underground tunnel, but I couldn't attend my English Literature class because it was on the 22nd floor of Dunton Tower and I was terrified of elevators. I always hoped I'd be able to go back one day, and was excited to be there on many levels.

     So excited, in fact, I had to pee. In a gender neutral washroom. With two men - one doing his business with his back to me at the urinal and the other washing his hands. It AMAZES me that a simple thing like voiding in the same room as someone with a penis is so fucking weird!

     I arrived early to the gallery to find a good seat and, lucky for me, only a few people were starting to file in, so I left my coat on a front row seat and proceeded to check out the amazing art work of Christi Belcourt. As I admired the intricate bead work with acrylic, and marvelled at how cool it was to see native Canadian flora (lily of the valley, lady slippers, Jacob's ladder) in a painting, I kept thinking I was going to lose my seat. Some self-righteous prick was going to throw my second-hand coat on the floor and I was going to have to throw a temper tantrum. It's hard to appreciate art and maintain an imaginary dialogue with an imaginary prick in your head, so I decided (it's that simple) that IF someone was rude enough to take my seat, I would be able to hear just as well standing anywhere else.

     When I finished admiring, I returned to my seat and my coat. A therapy dog was right behind me (SCORE!) and the President of Carleton University was the only other person in my vicinity. 

So Much Depends on Who Holds the Shovel

   Let's play, Six Degrees of Separation from Kevin Bacon, shall we?. 1. The only reason I had even heard about kahntinetha Horn was because I am a Letterkenny fan and I was obsessed with the character of Tanis, played by 2. Kaniehtiio Horn, daughter of kahntinetha. (If you think these names are too long and too difficult to pronounce, just wait until I start talking about Kaia'nereh:kowa - The Great Law of Peace.) Anyway, "Tanis" has a podcast called Coffee With My Ma, in which she talks to her mother about her life growing up on a reservation, which encouraged me to look her up. I was not working on a Monday night and saw via facebook that 3. Dr. Kahente Horn-Miller was hosting an Exhibition featuring 4. Christi Belcourt. So, I paid my $4 parking fee and sat down in front of a therapy dog and beside the University President, 5. Benoit-Antoine Bacon, probably no relation at all to 6. Kevin Bacon.

     Personally, I am fascinated by the interconnectedness of our species, in general. I've always tried to educate myself about the people who live on this planet with me and, often, I am amazed by the things I just don't know. I assume, because I am a white, middle class woman, that everyone wants to have the same opportunities, rights and freedoms that I currently enjoy. Certainly, some people do. But, not everyone thinks my rights (which are currently attached to my responsibilities and my taxes) are so shit hot.

     In her first stories of the night, kahntinetha spoke about The White Paper of 1969, which was a proposal to abolish all previously signed documents that set First Nations people apart. Everyone would be equal under the law and segregation via reservations would be gone. No longer would the First Nations people be separated from the Canadians! Sounds like progress to me. 

     When Jean Chretien, then Minister of Indian Affairs, presented the document to the public, kahntinetha Horn quietly stood behind him and shook her head. If I understand things correctly, she did not want to be Canadian. She is already Kanien'keha:ka and she wants the right to continue to live as one. Not everyone wants the same thing. Not everyone can be painted with the same brush. And, I realize this makes governing very difficult. But, you can either be Hitler or you can be human and try to work things out.

     Horn started becoming politically involved by calling radio stations night after night to tell her stories when she was just a teenager. She was told she was just a kid. Then, she was exploited by various indigenous and non-indigenous groups to promote their own messages. She wrote to the queen, she met with leaders, she travelled by train with her own money to talk to people everywhere. She was called horrible names and she was double-crossed. She continues to ask for change. She continues to demand we look after the earth. 

     When I asked her how I can make a change, how I can make people understand how I feel about what is going on, she deferred the question to her daughter. Dr. Horn-Miller explained that she had always been taught to know the ground you stand on - which I interpret as "You better know your shit.". Which comes back to her mother's other advice, "Always ask Why and then ask them to Prove it."

Well, stick me full of needles and wrap me in plastic! What a day!

     I don't fly. I'm not afraid of heights, I'm afraid of being in a big, moving plane and not being able to get out. It's more claustrophobia than acrophobia, but I still like being in confined spaces that I can get out of whenever I want. Going in to a dark room to develop film is comforting to me and it's a shame there's no reason to do that anymore. I like being in the middle of a huge crowd so much that I can (almost) fall asleep standing up while being gently jostled in the throng. So, it's not really claustrophobia either. On the other hand, I have a strong fear of people when it comes to public transit. I don't know who's driving the plane, therefore, I can't trust them and I'm not putting them in control of my wellbeing. I guess that means my real problem is not being in control of my own self. I have control issues. I don't like taking drugs, I don't like getting wasted and I don't like anyone telling me what to do.

Sensory Deprivation Therapy in Salt Pod

     But, I'm working on this. I can officially take a Go Train and a subway; I take Ubers; I have taken a ferry ride from Glenora to Adolphustown and I'd be willing to go up in a small plane, given the opportunity. I'm not likely to let anyone tie me to a radiator and have their Christian Grey way with me anytime soon, but I'm making strides to do so. The thing is, getting on a plane to see all the views and meet all the people in the far corners of the earth is a big goal for me. But first, I must tackle this anxiety bullshit. 

     Writing helps. The drugs that I hated taking certainly brought me back from a place I never want to visit again. I've tried all the therapies - talking, exercise, art, reflexology, and even EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). The one thing that worked for me, and I'm genuinely embarrassed to say so, is acupuncture. 

    First of all, I don't follow the science of this shit. Allegedly, I have points on my body that are connected through imaginary lines (That's right. I called them imaginary. I don't care if there's 3000 years of research behind this. Acupoints are pretend) and if these lines get blocked for whatever reason, my Qi can't flow properly and I get pain or anxiety. In my mind, this translates to, "Someone cursed you, gave you the evil eye, and blocked your Qi." It's hornswoggle. 

     The first time I visited an acupuncturist, I attended a nice office in a clinical building with lots of Himalayan salt lamps and essential oil diffusers. The doctor stuck tiny needles in my forehead, wrists, ankles and in between my toes and left me in a room with some nice music for half an hour. It was a tough day. I had to work through some shit. I was alone with no distractions (like my cell phone), but I could certainly get up and leave whenever I wanted, so I was ok. And, I started feeling less and less like running away was required. 

     Now that I'm in Ottawa and I haven't had my own space to live in for five months, I'm working through the feelings that come with getting separated from a person you were married to (which are BIG feelings even if I say they aren't). I'm in a city that is as cold as a witch's tit in a brass bra and my poor car is falling apart. Don't even get me started on the stress of being a server in hockey town. I'll just say this, it ain't a fucking daycare and I'm going to kick your little Sidney Crosby if he doesn't sit his fucking ass in a chair soon. Also, stop spending $3 on hot chocolate for your children. They don't drink it. They lick the whipped cream off the top and that's it. Got more money than brains, most of you.

Kids waste hot chocolate... constantly

     Anyway, now that I'm in Ottawa and there are people here from all over the world, I can experience some watered-down culture without having to get on a plane. I have access to Traditional Chinese Medicine with a traditional Chinese human followed by traditional Chinese food. 

     My acupuncturist has a small office with lots of packages of dry herbs with Mandarin characters on the labels. I filled out a medical history form to identify any ailments, past or present, that could be affected by my Qi. Then, she brought me into her office where we discussed, in as much detail as possible, all of my symptoms. This woman immigrated to Canada in 1997 and her English was very good, but my ears aren't, so when she asked me if I had "shortness of breath", I thought she was asking me about "surgery on my breasts". Anyway, we got through it. She asked me to stick out my tongue so she could see the colour of it. Then, she held my wrists and asked me to stick it out again. Diagnosis: I'm tired. 

     Damn right, I'm tired. Tired of everyone and their shit. Tired of being tired. Tired of being the right thing at the right time for the right person. Tired of trying. Tired of caring. Tired of working. Tired of this rat race. Tired of screwing up, tired of going down, tired of myself, tired of this town. Oh my my, oh hell yes... Haha. Channelled a little Tom Petty there, I did. 

     Next, we go into a small room with two massage tables divided by a rice paper room divider. She asked me to roll up my pants and get on the table. She asked if my back hurts and I said no, but when she touched my back, it hurt me. So, we decided my back hurts. Therefore, I'd better take off my sweater. In fact, I better take off my pants. Apparently, I am really tired and I'm about to get porcupined. I lay face down on the massage table in just bra and undies. She started at my head with two needles, then my neck with four more, then my arms, my kidneys, my spine, my hips, my knees (between and back) my ankles and my feet. Altogether, I'd say there were 24 to 30 needles in me and, even if I wanted to, I couldn't maneuver myself to any position other than face down. 

     I couldn't see what happened next, but I heard her unwrap a tarp of some kind. Some crinkly, plastic wrap used to cover me up and keep me warm while I healed myself. With that, she told me to stay there for half an hour. Normally, this is where anxiety sets in. I'm alone with my thoughts for half an hour. DO NOT PANIC! Think about Pokemon. Try to name a Pokemon. Is it called an Abomasnow? Is that the evolution of Snorunt? Is that the sound of traffic? It sounds like those cars are going to drive right into the building! Better say the alphabet backwards. That's my go to relaxation technique. Z, Y, X, W, V, U, T... Is that an Erhu? This music sounds like farm animals in Mianyang. That's a rooster. That's a pig. What am I having for dinner? My nose is running. I can't feel my fingers. Am I bleeding? That's a doorbell. Someone's coming in. He sounds like he's in pain. Is that Mandarin?

Fucking Ottawa

     Sure enough, a man came in to the office with an unidentified ailment. I heard them talking in the other room and the next thing I knew, they were walking in to the room where I was lying half-naked, face down, full of 30 stick pins and wrapped in cellophane. I should have felt vulnerable. I should have been incensed. I shouldn't have trusted these foreigners. But I do. In fact, I started laughing about the comedy of this life. After all, I've done this to myself. I wanted the Traditional Chinese Experience and I got it. 

     Needless to say, I survived and I walked out feeling great. I'm going back for another round of blissful torture next week.