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.