I'm not drunk, I'm just awkward

    So, I'm sitting in my new apartment today just minding my own business. It's a beautiful November day and I COULD be outside taking a brisk walk or running some errands, but as an introvert, I need to spend my entire day trying to motivate myself to go to work at 5:30 p.m.
     As a server, it's important to be outgoing and personable, and heaven knows I try! But gawdammit people are really trying my patience these days. As I mentioned in a facebook post, a person's need to be high maintenance in every single request is exhausting. It has recently become commonplace to request a custom tap water. For example, this evening Seat One asked for water with 4 lemon slices; Seat Two asked for water no ice; Seat 3 asked for water with ice and then asked for a straw after I brought the water to the table; and Seat 4 asked for water with ice and "a splash of bar lime".
     Now I understand that I only have a job because people like to be served and you're out for dinner, you want what you want and you're willing to pay a premium for that privilege. But, it's just water, folks. It's a free beverage to help you wash down copious amounts of fat and sugar and salt. Sort yourselves out or I swear I'm going to cut someone.
     "Well, Sherla, if you don't like serving people, you shouldn't be a SERVER. Get a different job and stop complaining," they say. And, by "THEY", I mean people who insist that their four-year-old say please and thank you with every sentence and yet, THEY proceed to ask me for their meals without ever doing the same.

Self-Righteous Mother: What do you want to drink, Johnny?
Little Johnny: Can I have a Sprite?
Self-Righteous Mother: No. No pop. That's too much sugar. You can have an apple juice.
Sherla: (Under my breath) Why the fuck did you ask the kid what he wants if you're just going to tell him what he can have anyway. Just order for the little prick and let's get this over with.
Little Johnny: Apple juice.
Self-Righteous Mother: Apple Juice.... PLEASE. Use your manners, Johnny!
Little Johnny: Apple juice, please.
Self-Righteous Mother: That's better. And, I'll have the ummm. Hmmmm. I don't want that, or that, or that. Ugh. I had that yesterday. I'll just take a water with four lemons and not too much ice in the biggest glass you have and make sure it's chilled.
No fucking please. No fucking thank you. And, I don't give a shit, honestly. But, don't tell your kid to do something that you aren't polite enough to do yourself.

     Anyway, I DO want a different job and I have plenty of other skills so I've been shooting out resumes for everything I might be able to do for money. Convincing other people that they should pay me for these skills is another matter altogether. I just keep trying. Keep checking the job banks, Indeed, Kijiji, newspapers, death notices... I'm pretty desperate at this point.
     So, I'm minding my own business, watching episodes of Kim's Convenience and thinking about how much I hate listening to the neighbour's dog trying to dig its way out of a crate upstairs, when my cell phone rings. Now, I'm not in the habit of answering my cell phone. I just don't like talking on the phone. I like texts. They're short and sweet and I can respond when I'm good and ready. But, I was hoping this call was someone who received my resume and, of course, thought I was perfect for the position of making scads of money doing something fabulous with great people and unlimited access to donuts.
     The call display on my phone read "Blah Blah Blah LLP" and my brain translated that to: Someone is calling from a Law Firm. Law firms are important. You should swallow that big chunk of granola bar very quickly and answer the call. I ended up kind of grunting out the word "Hello".
     "This is So-and-so from Something Something and Trenton. I'm just reviewing your resume and I wonder if this is a good time to do a brief telephone interview with you."
     "Yeah, yeah now's great. I'm so free right now!" I bolted up from my couch so I wouldn't sound like was laying on my back eating granola bars.
     "Great, it's just going to take about ten minutes. I'll start with..."
     "I'm sorry. Did you say you're calling from Trenton? I don't live in Trenton." I interrupted.
     "No. I'm calling from Something Something and Trenton. That's the name of the company. You sent your resume and I would like to do a quick interview."
     Oh, of course. I sent my resume. I've just sent so many resumes... is this for the... um... legal secretary position?" At this point, I'm starting to panic. I have NO recollection of applying to a company with the name Trenton in it. In fact, I can't think of the names of any of the companies I've applied to recently. My mind goes to mush.
     "No, it is a bookkeeping position that was posted on Indeed."
     "Oh! Of course! Bookkeeping! I remember. Yes. It was a full-time position I applied to about... a week ago?" I still had no clue. Nothing.
     "Yes, so what prompted you to apply for this position?"
     Well I wish I fucking knew!! How am I going to answer this question? Can I change my mind and tell her now is not a good time? Can I just hang up and pretend I lost the call? I'll say I dropped the phone in the toilet and just call back later. No, Sherla, just be an adult and answer the questions the same way you would if you knew what law firm she was calling from.
     So I did. I answered all the questions as though I was interested in working for a law firm as a bookkeeper. I even asked whether I would be working with other people in the financial department or if I would be on my own. And, when I got off the phone I felt I had done ok.
     Until I looked up Something Something and Trenton... which is not a law firm at all, but rather an accounting company.
     I had not humiliated myself enough at this point. I decided I would send an email to So-and-so to explain my silly mistake. She would read my witty story of confusion and have a little chuckle before calling me back to offer me the high-paying position of Jolly Bookkeeper, featuring my own corner office and morning coffee served by my assistant, Sergio.
     I was daydreaming about all the perks my new job would feature when my thumb accidentally tapped the scroll bar while hovering over the send button. I had just sent an explanation email that stopped mid-sentence and would make no sense at all.
     I didn't know whether to laugh or cry so I did both. I contemplated sending another email insisting that I was not on drugs and to, please, not call the cops. Instead, I sent the following:
   
And now I have accidentally hit SEND in the middle of trying to explain that I am not a complete idiot. I'm so so sorry, Ms. So-and-so. I hope you can find this story as hilarious as I do at this point. Good luck in your search for the right applicant

   
     She has since sent a very polite reply regarding the hazards of calling out of the blue for phone interviews, which puts my mind at ease. In future, I will not answer my phone until the caller has been fully Googled.

Move over Chris Pratt and Anna Faris...

I'm getting a divorce. I didn't see it coming and, apparently, I should have. Everyone else saw the path I was on, except me. Which is not uncommon, I'm sure. Hindsight being 20/20 and all.

I had originally hoped to write this blog on all the fun I've been having. Summer concerts in Toronto. Hiking the Bruce Trail. Serious late night discussions regarding the word "poop" and all the different movie titles that you can use it in. Eg. "Raiders of the Lost Poop" "The Poopfather" "To Poop a Mockingbird" etc.

But, the one thing I feel about this, is that I should be doing something about it. And, there isn't really anything I can do or even that I want to do. Except write about it. So, there it is in black and white. My marriage is over. Kind of.

My relationship with Rodney started when we were kids, riding bikes around town in the 80s. I had a secret crush on him in high school. Then, we became a couple in the early 90s. I got pregnant six months after we started dating, I went to college, the kids were growing... it just made sense for us to get married. So, after several years of pressure from me, he asked me to marry him. Actually, he just gave me a big box with a ring in it and said, "There's your rock." It wasn't romantic. It didn't need to be. It was just what we were supposed to do.

Although I liked the IDEA of being married and working towards a common goal, I was much more interested in travelling, trying new foods, learning different things and talking to people about big ideas (like poopy movie titles). I wanted to own chickens, but also to open a bakery and to learn seven languages. Maybe become a lawyer. Maybe move to the Yukon. I wanted to live a thousand lives and the married life was just one of them. Rod was instrumental in making many of these dreams a reality. He also protected me from squirrels and nightmares, he drove 16 hours straight when I tried to hike the Appalachian trail (and failed), he even spanked me through my S&M phase. He is still my best friend.

As for his dreams, I think Rod wanted a nice home with a steady income, roast beef dinner every night and barbecues on the weekend. I think he might have wanted to fly to Cuba in the winters when it was too cold to snowmobile. I know he wanted to become a cop at one time. I could not help him with any of these things because I didn't care what the house looked like, I wanted to eat sushi and curry every night, and I sure as hell was not getting on a plane to go south where it is too sunny and hot. So, we lived separate lives together for almost 25 years. 

Now, we've discovered that it's much easier to live separate lives apart and we're both okay with that. I certainly don't feel that I've wasted the last 25 years with my husband. I've often heard people say, "I wasted 10, 15, or 20 of my best years on that asshole." Well, no you didn't, you idiot. You presumably spent those years richer and poorer, sick and healthy, laughing and crying and screwing each other's brains out (I hope). You lived, for goodness sake. It's not Disney. It doesn't have to end with you dying in each other's arms at the ripe old age of 95. #relationshipgoals

In our marriage, we talked about everything, we argued, wrestled until I couldn't breathe (he's a much better wrestler), laughed until we cried (America's Funniest Home Videos!!), protected each other against the world (or snakes) and most certainly disappointed one another. I hope we can continue to do those things on some level.

I think the most painful part of any separation is what comes next. The hurt feelings when you find you've been replaced, not only as a wife, but as a sister-in-law or a friend. People have to start taking sides when there's a break up, even if the break up is no one's fault. For example, some people are going to think this divorce is my fault because I left the marital home and I need to sort myself out. To those people I would like to say, "Nope. You can't pin all this shit on me, fuckers. I may not be conventional, but I am happy and so is he. So jam that in your rectum and tug on a bent prick, you self-righteous, cornholes."

I am left with the feeling that we've somehow failed everyone and now our children are from a broken home and we've brought shame to our families. Which is kind of silly. We are just two people who miss being individuals. And, yes, it's sad. Yes, I cry about it. I may even stomp my foot and pout because this isn't what I wanted. That's when I will turn on the sad songs and remember all the reasons I loved being married to that dick.

April Showers Bring May Flowers (or The Lows and Highs of Life)

As you are no doubt aware, life has a lot of ups and downs. In order to maintain a balanced emotional state, I like to follow the rule of keeping my levels between 3 and 7 - not too happy and not too sad. No break in the mental. I don't want congratulations and accolades, but I don't want criticism or reprimands either. Just let me be me.

So my fucking coworkers voted for me as the Pinnacle Award winner this year. And, yeah, it was one of the best feelings in the world. One of the best feelings I've ever had. Felt like a prom queen. Felt like people not only recognized my worth, but also saw me for the person I strive to be everyday, which is plainly and simply the opposite of a cunt. You will notice I've underlined the words FELT, past tense of FEEL, which is another something I strive not to do. I don't want to FEEL.

There are many jobs we do in life that require turning off your feelings. In my case, the service industry is a very dangerous place to FEEL because not everyone is going to like you. My favourite mantra = You're not chocolate, not everyone is going to like you.

As a server, people make assumptions about you from the moment you come up to their table. Too often, that translates to, "You're a server, so get me a water and as many free things as I want." Like extra napkins, more straws, limes, lemons, crackers, bread sticks, diet Coke, water, more water, fuck it - get me a lake, more ketchup, more mayonnaise, more, more MORE!! Sometimes, people have had a bad day and you just need to be their punching bag for a while. I try not to take it personally.

In return, I try to let people know how much they mean to me and, if I've spoken harshly in frustration, I try to make sure my friends and family know that it wasn't me talking. It was my hormones, or my hunger, or that other SHERLA that I keep locked away in the part of my brain that says DANGER - DO NOT OPEN. The one that likes the idea of kicking small children or driving a car (thump, thump) over the heads of slow drivers and other irritating fucks.

My sister told me long ago that she makes a choice to like her life no matter what it throws her way. If she finds herself getting angry about having to do dishes, she just starts to tell herself how great it is to be washing dishes. The water is nice and hot, the soap smells great, the dishes are all getting squeaky clean. I wish I were more like my sister. I definitely try to like things that I think I hate.

Having said that, I fucking hate my hair. I hate my body. I hate getting old. I hate people. I hate the colour of my skin. I hate my clothes. I hate that the person I am, regardless of how hard I've worked to make myself this way, is never good enough because of the way I look.

When I went shopping yesterday at the second hand store (one of many habits I'm proud of), I found some great shoes and two dresses that I thought looked pretty damn good on me. I had some reservations about my weight (currently 188 lbs) and the size of my monstrous breasts (38 DDD - and I don't mean Victoria's Secret version of those letters) and the fact that my legs are pale and covered in varicose veins. The dress was short and cute, a nice bright yellow, and was very... hip. Paired with a super cute pair of purple, suede, heels - I was going to turn some heads for sure.

I went out for lunch with some of my favourite people. I had lots of money in my pocket. Had a great locally brewed beer with a locally sourced lunch of lentils, yams, beets and zucchini. I was making plans to receive an award for being an exceptional server at an exceptional restaurant with exceptional staff. Everything was sooooo above level seven. Probably a 9 on the Good Feels Scale.

Then I went to the mall for a hair cut. I was running out of time; had to be in Waterloo by 6 p.m. Walked in, got my hair washed, sat down in front of the mirror with my wet head and thought, "Who in the fuck is THAT looking back at me?" I went from level 9 to level 2. That's a very dangerous drop in levels. I'm not diagnosed as manic-depressive or anything. I just know that a good, steady level 6 is much better than a 7 level drop any day.

I'm so old!!! I'm so used to seeing my face with a great app filter that I could not recognize my own face in the salon. I told her to just make me look good. And, she did her best. She was going for Victoria Beckham, but I ended up with a Soccer Mom bob at best. Gramma-Trying-Too-Hard-To-Look-Youthful is an even better description. I'm only 44. Is this what 44 should look like?

She spent far too long trying to make it look better. I had very little time to find the modern version of a girdle so that I wouldn't have panty lines in my new dress. Ended up squeezing into a large pair of Spanx. Torturous process! I got the morph suit to my knees and had to stop for air. I know they're supposed to be tight, but honest to Betsy! How would I ever get this thing off if I had to pee?

I'll tell you how. There's a hole in the crotch. A big, genitalia-shaped hole so, if you're wearing a dress, you just lift your skirt and start peeing. This is a very, very uncomfortable sensation that still makes me feel dirty and not in a good way.

I quickly changed into my new, bright yellow dress and looked in the mirror hoping to see the same youthful-yet-chubby girl I had imagined earlier in the day. I don't know where she went, but the woman in the mirror was clearly an idiot. Flabby arms, pasty skin, that ridiculous haircut, and a boxy figure looked back at me. I didn't even consider myself a person. Just a yellow, shapeless shape with ugly purple shoes.

The afternoon continued at a steady level 2. Gas tank was in the red, but I assumed a gas station would be on every corner between London and Waterloo. This is not the case. In fact, some small towns will just hang a sign on their gas tanks that say "Out of Gas" even though you've already driven 16 km out of your way to get there. Other gas stations listed on Google Maps are actually big holes in the ground with industrial fences around the place where a gas station once was.

I arrived with my Level Monitor, personal photographer and favourite daughter at 6:35 - about 35 minutes after the cocktails were being served. We grabbed some bread and cheese and a beer, which were all very good. But, dairy makes me full of farts. Spanx leave no room for a belly full of farts, I can tell you that.

My general manager, who is also a delightful human and winner of GM of the Year 2017, said many nice things about my work ethic and positive attitude. I was able to ignore the fact that I felt like an overripe, tropical fruit and just enjoyed my time in the limelight. I did not trip in my heels. I did not pee on myself. I took lots of photos. And I'm a good person. I have a pyramid-shaped glass that says so.

A Very Long Facebook Status

Wow. It's been a while since I blogged! Does anyone read these anymore? I'm a big fan of the Snap chat these days. Not alot of substance, but certainly keeps me connected.

Fact is, I've been so busy living I've forgotten to tell everyone about it in minute detail. In my humble opinion, "living" these days means drinking craft beer, complaining about the food-service industry while loving every self-aggrandizing minute of it, and exploring new ways to challenge myself and the opinions of those around me.

Yesterday afternoon, for example, I left work and got a bite to eat. Bought some ingredients to make cookies and banana bread because I haven't done that for a while either. Sunday afternoon seemed like the best time to make my 3-room apartment smell like a patisserie. That's right - 3 ROOMS. Not 3 bedrooms. Literally 150 square feet of space with 2 little windows. Costs $500 a month, which fits nicely in my budget, and is the perfect size for one person (according to Chris Wolff) and a very dishevelled, incontinent, old pussy, named Bubba.

Anyway, great chocolate chip cookies and Chocolate Banana Bread were made without measuring cups and spoons because... who actually needs them? You know what a cup looks like, right? If it calls for something other than a teaspoon or a tablespoon, it's a rather pretentious, motherfucking recipe and you would probably make a mess of it besides.

Afterwards, I watched episodes of Big Bang Theory, tried (once again) to become a Hip Hop dancer with the help of The Fitness Marshall, and took a few online Mandarin courses so that I can be equally as awkward in more than one language. I like Chinese because saying words in that language is like singing and all the words look like stick people dancing. Someone will probably thinks that's racist and to them I say, "Chinese is a nationality (I think) and not a race", but you're probably right. I'm way too excited about all the cultures and all the foods and all the skin colours, religions, habits, inflections, herbal remedies and arts of the world to pretend that there isn't a difference. And the difference is wonderful.

I passed out eating cookies and drinking red wine while reading Wilbur Smith and Truman Capote.

This morning, I made coffee and took selfies with Snapchat to see what I would look like with bunny ears for the 100th time. I enjoyed stimulating conversation over breakfast about the difference between "sated", "satisfied" and "satiated". I went shopping for $40 worth of items I will never wear because I really hate my body sometimes. Some days, I think I'm a fucking goddess and everyone should worship my humongous breasts and thick thighs. Other days, I never want to eat again and just "cardio, cardio, cardio" (Rule #1 of Zombieland).

Then I went to work at Beertown Public House where they have 30 or more beer on tap from around the world. No, we don't have Coors Light on draught. You can get that anywhere. You can't get Sawdust City's cask-conditioned Long Dark Voyage to Uranus Imperial Stout just anywhere; that's why you come to Beertown. As part of our continued learning as servers, we sampled 5 types of beer (including a rare and Brett-laden blended ale) and ate Crazy Bread. I don't recall ever eating Little Caesar's Crazy Bread and, let me tell you, it is delicious.

Crazy Bread makes me hungry, which I'm convinced is the reason it is called Crazy. Why am I hungry when I just ate several sticks of bread and cheese? That's crazy! However, having seen my naked body in an Urban Planet mirror earlier today, I decided I'd better go to the gym. In this case, I joined the climbing gym around the corner from my apartment. If you've never been, Climbing Gyms offer a series of vertical "courses" that allow you to climb walls using a harness.

This particular gym has autobelays so you can climb without a partner. After a quick refresher, the instructor tells me to climb about twenty feet and then let go of the wall to allow the mechanism drop me slowly to the ground. LOL. I'm not afraid of heights, but I AM afraid of falling. So, when I let go and gravity did its thing, I panicked a little and forgot not to flail. I landed directly on my instructor's toe and then promptly fell to my ass, which is the best way to fall unless you are super cool and cat-like and basically not a fucking idiot like myself.

I just wanted to share all of the things that I am currently enjoying. I also enjoy the struggle of taking out my garbage, keeping my house free of bed bugs or wandering meth heads, paying bills on time and dealing with the neighbours' fourtwenty ritual every afternoon (It smells like really good shit, but gawdamn... it really smells!) Of course, life is obvsly not all selfies and beer-tasting. For me, it's a balance between things I've got to do that make me an adult and things that I want to do (or I thought was a good idea at the time).