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.

Je Me Souviens

Remember that time, about two months ago, when I was talking all that shit about missing people and being lonely and needing to connect with everyone. Yeah... Fuck that nonsense.

It's all coming back to me; the reasons I hate humans: They're rude. They're greedy. They're wasteful. They're stupid. They lie. And, they can't drive.

Biscotti and Americano are all I need

Let's start with people and Romaine Lettuce. It has been linked to 22 cases of E. Coli illnesses in three provinces - only 4 cases in Ontario - and has not killed one person. To call this an "outbreak" is really pushing it in my opinion. But, because the fucking masses have spread their memes all over facebook, every moron who gets the tiniest piece of green on their plate has to call me over to make sure I'm not trying to kill them with my Devil's Lettuce. Meanwhile, there were 166 confirmed cases of salmonella from chicken in Ontario in the past year. But, I don't hear anyone questioning me about all the pounds and pounds of wings they order every Tuesday. 

Speaking of work, servers like myself form pretty close bonds while sharing common pet peeves in the workplace. In the service industry, it's us against them - ALL OF THEM. The kitchen, the managers, the guests and even the suppliers who want to deliver big boxes of stuff in the middle of lunch rush. However, sometimes, in the worst of establishments, there are servers who work against other servers. They refuse to be part of the team, won't run anyone else's food, or clean anyone else's tables. And then, there are are what we call the Table-stealers. 

Case in point, I arrive to work at 8 a.m. on Saturday to prepare for several large groups. One group of 35 people is in the section next to mine and takes up two of my tables in a five table section. (This is starting to sound alot like a math equation. Please try to keep up.) To make up for it, I've taken a "4 Top" from another section. The most action I can have for the next hour and a half is 16 people. Which is fine. The server next to me gets 35 guaranteed sales and I get half of that if I'm lucky.

This isn't fair. It just isn't. So, I filed my grievance with the United Service Workers of No One Gives a Shit About Your Problems and was promptly told that I should suck it up. In response, I grumble under my breath, "I'll just go over here and fuck myself, I guess."

To be fair, the service gods giveth and the service gods taketh away. I would probably end up making good money anyway. Regardless, as soon as the table of 35 people had food in front of them, didn't that sneaky little so-and-so grab a family at my borrowed 4 Top before I knew they were even sitting down! Meet the Table-stealer! I can't actually call her anything worse because, TBH, I think she's pretty cool... when she's not stealing tables. Meanwhile, half of my section is taken up with her party and she doesn't have to care if they camp out there all day. 

I'm fairly communist in my service industry beliefs. My dad calls me a "Fucking Lefty" all the time, actually - "From each according to his abilities, Dad!" I just think, if I can help you and you can help me, the restaurant runs smoothly and the kitchen doesn't see the hot food getting cold, then the guests aren't suffering from low blood sugar and they think the place is great so they keep coming back. Win fucking win. Everyone is happy.

Which brings me to today and how unhappy I am. Granted, I'm passive aggressive as fuck. I know this. I (usually) try to keep my opinions and my disappointment inside because I know the effect of harsh words (unless they're written online and that doesn't count). I know my anger is usually the result of being tired and hungry. Sometimes, tired of being broke and hungry for peace of mind. Instead of calmly asking for what I want, I try to practice patience and humility. Well, that never works and I end up wanting to pull down my pants and shit in a coffee shop so I can throw fecal matter at my sworn enemies. Lol. Did you see that video?! It wasn't me, but it very well could have been.

So, today, I wanted to go see a Swedish Film at the local Art Gallery. I like artsy shit like that, as I've clearly displayed in my #fluteandshoot twerking video. When I got downtown, I discovered my cell phone car charger was pooched and my phone was dead. No problem. Quick charge at the mall and I was back in business with minutes to spare at the art gallery. 

I arrived at the "box office", which was a table with one clerk, some pamphlets, and a cash box. One woman was purchasing a ticket and asking all kinds of bullshit questions. Another was waiting to buy her ticket and prepping to ask more of the same bullshit questions. Like the polite Canadian I am, I stood well back from the transaction to allow for personal space and waited to pay my admission. Meanwhile, the elevator doors open behind me and a throng of pushy, brassy, obnoxious women herd right past me and start asking bullshit questions and demanding admission. 

I said what I always say, somewhat under my breath, as I try to find some zen and humility: "I'll just go over here and fuck myself, I guess."

Can't throw it if I can't make it

I tried waiting patiently for my turn. But, more and more people were showing up and I realized, with every new arrival, I was getting more and more anxious and uncomfortable. I just wanted to NOT have to interact with anyone. I would much rather eat popcorn in a basement with Netflix.

So, I went to the Cannabis Convention instead. I'm not interested in Cannabis. I don't have any significant body pain, I don't like the way it makes me feel, I don't mind the smell, but it just isn't for me. I just thought it would be interesting and I assumed there would be good food there. You know, for when everyone gets the munchies? Once again, I was disappointed. Not so much as a bag of Doritos. Thankfully, I didn't pay the $15 admission because they were basically shutting the place down by 4:20 p.m. 

Phone still dead, I ended up getting the new Google Pixel at the mall. While transferring my data, the salesperson noticed my screensaver said, "I Hate Everyone". She laughed and then she said, "That really just made my day." We bonded over stories of mutual hatred for our species, heightened by the Black Friday experience and maybe even the full moon, and I wished her the best of luck for the rest of the season. Then, I grabbed a Beaver Tail from across the street, repeatedly said "No" to four panhandlers asking for change as I walked to my car, and drove back to the solace of my basement room where I will spend the rest of the night in blissful solitude.

I don't really hate everyone. Naomi from Telus is on my list of people to save during the apocalypse.

Sherla the Logophile Trains for a New Career

     Here I am in Ottawa! It's the 5th time in my adult life that I've moved in with Jodi because she's one of the few people in the world I can stand for more than a couple of days. So far, so good. 

Welcome Home

     My housemates are all actors, so there is alot of creative energy. Someone is learning a new song on the piano, someone is making Youtube videos, someone is baking pie, someone is doing flips in the living room... the point is, I'm in heaven. Anything I want to do is not only encouraged, it's supported. Including my childhood dream of becoming a voice actor. 

     Side note: I didn't know I wanted to be a voice actor as a child. I just remember reading all of my books out loud using different voices. I also made myself read each sentence perfectly, without tripping over a word and enunciating every syllable. I would try to get through every paragraph in one breath. Sometimes, I would even read the words backwards so I could pretend I spoke a different language.

     Within hours of arriving in O-Town, I somehow mentioned this obsession with words to Jodi. I won't call it an unusual obsession. One thing I've discovered in my 40s: you only THINK it's unusual because no one has talked to you about it. Let your freak flags fly and you will find your tribe! Anyway, she immediately found me a voice acting class that just happened to be starting the following Monday. 

     I got my first assignment via e-mail before I even attended a class. We had to memorize a poem that has since been etched into my brain forever. I have recited it fast, slow, quiet, loud, high-pitched and Barry White-esque. Oh, and I've had to say it while sticking out my tongue. https://youtu.be/nE9HhSxlzvk

     Also, we were to practice beatboxing, or making your mouth become a drum machine. AKA: A thing there is no fucking way I am going to be able to do. You know how you sign yourself up for something, or you agree to go to an event that you're kind of excited about, and then you realize you were very, very wrong to do so? Yeah, that's happened to me a couple of times.

     I'll give you a link to the tutorial, but the basic premise of my beatboxing experience is getting your mouth to do two different things while your nose and throat are doing something different. Something they really don't want to do. Like humming and kissing and spitting at the same damn time. In the end I found it fascinating, but I could have choked to death. 

     I arrived at my first class the way I used to arrive at Bible Study - verses memorized and looking forward to the food afterward. But, my first impressions were very positive and I left feeling determined and inspired, albeit, a little hungry.

     There is a good mix of people at my Power of Voice class; people of different ages, ethnicities, heights and weights. But, they all seem like good people... except for one. She used to be a teacher. I know this because she mentions it every half hour at least. She's a know it all, a grammar Nazi, she hates millennials (or anyone born after 1980), her husband, the fact that she is old, and that no one appreciates an Oxford comma. She likes to recite lines from obscure plays and then acts surprised when no one knows what she's talking about. Then, she reminds herself, out loud, how unrefined the rest of us are. She takes every opportunity to tell the young people in the class that they are inferior because none of them can put together a sentence properly and they frustrate her with their pop culture nonsense. She told the one adult male in our class that he could only ever get parts for old wizards and dwarves. 

     Let it be known, this woman ran in front of my car as we were leaving our final class last night, and I resisted the urge to run her over. 

     We did a recap of the things we've learned in the last month and I will tell you all you need to know about becoming a voice actor (IMHO). 

Let your freak flag fly and you'll find your tribe

1. Practice your consonants. Say them all loudly and proudly. Sing Selena Gomez' song "Love You Like A Love Song" and try to enunciate every L, every P, every V... I swear she uses all the digraphs in there, too. (Digraph: Proof that I learn new shit every day.)
2. Practice your breathing. Conserve your breath. Make plans where you're going to take your breaths in sentences. Sing Adele songs. "Someone Like You" is a real bitch to plan your breathing around, but so is "Water Under the Bridge". 
3. Exercise your tongue. Yeah, you thirsty bitches out there know what I'm talking about ;) Tongue Twisters are great. Let your tongue know who's boss. Touch every one of your teeth as quickly as you can. Then, try to spit some simplistic pimp shit. Channel your inner Cardi B.
4. English is fuct. You can actually start fights over how something is pronounced. For fun, invite a room full of people to recite The Chaos Poem by Gerard Nolste Trenite. More drama than playing Monopoly. 
5. Expect to be spit on while working as an actor. I am not going to practice this. I am just going to hope it never happens. There are few things in the world I like less than spit, except maybe middle aged, narcissistic teachers with a penchant for insults and being right all the time.
   

Desperado, I Ain't Gettin' No Younger

Yet another selfie in Yoho

One of the biggest surprises on this journey from Ontario to BC is that I'm not as comfortable being alone with myself as I once was, or as I thought I was. I believe I can link this to an incident in July.

I was racing to Elora to rent a tube to float down the Grand River through the Gorge. I've done it before, it was no big deal. A very leisurely float. I even assured the ladies heading out before me that it was completely safe. They couldn't possibly injure themselves. But, the attendant did warn them to get into their tubes after the rapids, which are a little further upstream. As I was walking to the river, I saw a couple of emergency vehicles which I assumed were doing routine practice runs for extracting people from the gorge (I was wrong. A man had broken his leg and needed to be lifted out by ropes!)

Anywhhhay, I watched a family go over the rapids we had been warned to stay away from and, although the mom was freaking out (as mom's do), everyone came out the other side unscathed. So, I decided I was gonna give it a go. On closer inspection, this was not just some rapids. It was a drop over a ridge of about two feet. I'm gonna call it a two foot waterfall. So, when I went over the chute, I lost my tube and I was pushed down to the bottom of the fairly shallow river and was unable to get back up to the surface.

Eventually, I was spat out from the grip of the current and bounced along the various boulders on the river bottom for about 50 meters before I could catch my breath and find my feet underneath me. My legs were shaking so badly and I was in so much pain, particularly in my tailbone, that I could barely make it to the river's edge. It was hard to stand, it was even harder to sit... and it was even harder to holler to the two young ladies taking selfies across the river that I needed them to call 911. My pride was hurt, but I had to admit there was no way I was gonna walk out of there.

Smart, capable, interesting young people... and some mountains

The emergency extraction was comical and I'm damn glad I wasn't dying. The regular emergency crew must have been busy with broken-leg-guy because my team (although they looked good enough to eat in their fancy, red, water-gear, uniforms) were unable to get me out of the gorge without significant help from myself. They also had trouble finding whatever attachments were supposed to keep me from falling off the stretcher. When I finally got to the ambulance, after being jostled, tossed, rolled and flipped, the RMTs had the nerve to put a neck brace on me. Bitch, if my neck wasn't broken by now, after all the hell I've just been through, a brace is sure as hell not going to help me on the ride to the hospital. When I did arrive, the nurses asked me how much pain I was in, left me in wet clothes on a bed and rolled me into a utility closet for almost 2 hours. Clearly, I was not at risk of dying in their opinion. So, I got my legs working and signed my broken ass out of there.

My point is, while I was sitting there at the side of the river, with my legs spread out, crotch all pubey, snot dripping down my face because I needed both hands to support my weight and couldn't spare a hand to wipe my tears away, the Park Ranger asked if there was anyone he could call on my behalf. I had to say, "no". And while this isn't necessarily true, I felt at the time that my family and friends were all too far away to be bothered to see me though this trauma. 

Dogs are the best

Fast forward to this amazing cross-country trip where every other road sign explains what might kill me next - bears, falling rocks, runaway trucks, avalanches - and I've realized I don't really feel comfortable being alone anymore. What could be worse than a misanthrope who doesn't want to be alone? Not only is it extremely boring taking selfies in front of every landmark from UFO landing pads to Giant Pierogies, it is also hard to pass the time driving ten hours a day with no radio stations and intermittent cell service during pee breaks. 

But, I still like hiking, right? Well, here's the thing. I chose a difficult, seven-hour hike straight up Whistler's Peak outside Jasper this week. I love a challenge! However, the hikes in the Rocky Mountains aren't necessarily just about strength, stamina and determination. I had my water bottle and my cell phone and my shitty Asshole-o hiking boots, but everyone passing me or coming back down was in full MEC gear, complete with bear bells, back packs and poles. This made me second guess myself. Then, I started to get on the fear train. You know the one, I'm sure. The one that starts out "You didn't bring enough water" "This trail is awfully slippery and/or rocky" "I think I hear a bear" "Is my arm tingling? Am I having a heart attack?" "I'm going to fall head first onto one of these rocks and they won't find my body until spring." CHOO CHOO!! I arrived at Panic Station and was just about to turn around when...

I backed into a gawdamn tree, ripped my moulding off

The motherfucking air raid siren from the metropolis of Jasper starts to whirr, followed by what sounds like forty emergency vehicle sirens. Immediately, I think there's an avalanche and we're all going to die. Well, you have never seen a chubby girl race down some switchbacks as fast as I did that day. Slippery rocks be damned, I was getting the fuck out of mountain country and if I never see another gawdamn view from above the tree line, I'll be okay with that!

It would appear that this trip has forced me to re-evaluate who I am or who I am becoming. Some of my best experiences have been, not quietly contemplating the beauty of my country on my own, but rather sharing knowledge with the people I've met along the way; Swapping life stories over breakfast, jive-dancing with men who have no right to be that limber in their 80s, learning funny Japanese phrases about helpful cats, proudly reflecting on a job well done with a co-worker, and  trying to say "squirrel" in German.

Yes, I'm having the time of my life out here on the road with no one to answer to but myself. However, most of the time I'm thinking about how nice it will be to get back to Ontario and see all my people.