She used to have a carefree mind of her own

 Yesterday I cried long and hard. I shouldn`t be able to cry. I shouldn`t have feelings. I take medication for that shit. 

I can accept that my mom is irritable sometimes. I can accept that she has forgotten how her family members are connected to her or that she thinks of me as `the girl who looks after her` (very rarely, I might add). I can accept that she asks the same questions, tells the same brief stories and has lost 4 walking canes in two months. 

I cannot, however, handle the terror in her eyes when she looks over at me, wondering where she is and how she got there as twilight falls and we`re still two and a half hours from a place she doesn`t even think is her home. 

During that long drive, I tried to be calming. I tried to put the dots close together so she could come to the decision that she does live in a basement apartment near her favourite grocery store with all of her usual furniture and the same neighbours across the hall. I tried to convince her that no one had moved her things from one apartment to another while we had been on a 4-day road trip (clearly the worst mistake I`ve ever made). I even had to reconstruct (deconstruct?) every metaverse I could remember to try to explain why there was not currently another apartment with all the same dimensions and simulations in another part of the Township as per her adamant assertions. 

I tried to laugh some things away and dismiss her paranoia. 

When we arrived at the apartment, I thought she would have visual proof that everything was as it should be. I was very wrong. Her anxiety tripled as she struggled to understand how this could be. I watched her brain run through every possible combination of events that could put her in this alien situation. 

A week before this meltdown, she called my sister in dismay because her bathtub was overflowing. The neighbour said she had been unable to shower for four days and had not been sleeping. She told me she had been stuck in the bathroom during that time because there were documents shoved down the drain. This story turned into one about tiles that turned black and solidified when she poured liquid on them in the bathtub. Then the police came (unlike the story of Germans who were coming the week before to take her to jail for COVID violations), and "sorted everything out". 

There is no evidence of "tiles" in her apartment. No evidence of a week-long, loo battle. She cannot explain why she would do this with said tiles or what kind of liquid caused them to expand and turn black. But, it sounds like she lives in a hell of her own making. This is terrifying.

In spite of my empathy, by the fourth hour in the emergency department (since I could not leave her in a strange place, nor could I - as a complete stranger - take her back to my home), I was ready to walk out and let her be someone else's problem. She's stubborn as a mule at the best of times and refuses to take any medication because she's no "weakling." Any suggestion of care by another person is met with defiance and accusations of "railroading". 

I am just like her. 

According to the doctor, she was healthy as a horse (or mule, if the shoe fits) and she should see her family doctor for something to help with her memory. It took a dissociative crisis to convince her to go the hospital with me. It will take a half dozen cops on a wellness check to get her to visit a family doctor and, furthermore, take prescription medication. The situation feels hopeless.

I just wanted to get this out in words to document my experience. I feel helpless, hopeless, frustrated, ashamed and angry and I know many, many people who have gone through or currently live in this nightmare. To those of you out there, I see you.

I Saw the Sign... It said, "Not Today, Bitch"

I'm having one of those days. One of those fucking days when the world tells you to piss off. But, I'm not mad. At least not right now as I sit here with my laptop and my instant coffee on my comfy couch. 

There is another shut down, lockdown, stay-at-home order type thingy going on. Sigh. That has been frustrating me for some time because I want to do what I want to do with impunity, without scrutiny and without guilt. I don't blame anyone for this predicament. It is what it is and I am much more fortunate than others during this time because I have two jobs, no young children, I can collect Canada Recovery Benefits if I want, my rent is paid and I have food. And beer. 

However, last week I was driving home from work, shifting into 6th gear to get around some slow prick, as usual, when the Traction Control Light came on. Consequently, my car started acting like it was on roller skates for the first time. Freaked me out a bit. Mostly because one starts to think about money as soon as something goes wrong with one's vehicle. "This is gonna cost me at least a grand," said my negative inner voice.

My mechanic said he could look at it on Monday. It was Wednesday. I'd already delayed visiting my mom for two weeks and now I would have to cancel our weekend Scrabble plans. So, now I have anxiety from unexpected expenses, guilt for not seeing my mom and frustration from not being able to go to a movie theater. Many of you think this is a petty response to the global pandemic, but I disagree and here's why. Just because I know what I've got to do, I'm still allowed to be upset about having to do it. I'm an adult, I know about sacrifices. But, as a human, I have feelings of despair and injustice and I want to throw a tantrum sometimes. You can deal with your feelings by pointing fingers and ridiculing others for their decisions if you want to, but we are all just winging it here and a little compassion would go a long way. Except for that prick driving in front of me on the 417. He/she can choke on a fat dick. 

So, I take my car to the garage early Monday morning. By noon, I get a call saying they dried some wires and cleared some leaves out of the intake or some other nonsense and I was good to go. As a woman, I'm used to mansplaining. I frequently have men explain how a remote control works even though I co-owned a satellite installation business. I've had men try to explain how to change a beer keg when I have seen more couplers and tapped more casks than any greenhorn beer snob. I grew up around cars and I know a thing or two, so when I tell you there's a problem with the traction control and you give me "whirlybirds in my manifold", I feel attacked.

To be fair, what actually happened was my ABS light was not on when I took it to the garage. They fixed what the engine code told them to fix and my feelings of indignation and pride are unwarranted. However, as I turned on my car to go work this morning, I see the familiar ABS light up and my "I-told-you-so" attitude came on. 

I tried to be nice when I called the garage and made another appointment. Then, I had to call my dad because that's what I do when I'm feeling helpless. I'm going to be 48 years old and I still call my dad to fix my life. As usual, he fixed it. He told me to take it back to the garage on Friday because that was the reasonable thing to do. Then I called my mom to reschedule our Scrabble game... again.

At this point, I had been jerking along the road, occasionally pulling over to make another call and deciding how late was too late to go to work. I had turned around twice to go home, but I kept telling myself to grow up and quit feeling sorry for myself. "You'll feel better if you just throw around some poorly wrapped parcels at Canada Post," said my passive-aggressive inner voice. 

I made my way clumsily onto the 417 with my chugga chugga car... and came to an abrupt stop. Apparently, there had been an accident just ahead and "this late" would definitely be "too late" to go to work. The gods had spoken. This was a sign to follow Doug Ford's stay-at-home order and just vent my frustration on the internet. 

"Thanks for listening," from my positive and grateful inner voice.

新年快樂

    First of all, what's wrong with the "new year, new me" statement? And, what's wrong with making New Year's resolutions? What's wrong with aspiring to do things you didn't do before, but would like to? Are we such a group of Negative Nancy's that we hate the audacity of anyone thinking they might try to do things differently in the New Year? Or, does it just put too much pressure on the rest of us if others are trying to be thinner, stronger, prettier, funnier or smarter than they were last year?

    I have so many questions and not enough good answers! As I do every year, I have made a mental list of all the things I haven't done that I want to try in 2021;  Places I want to visit, foods I want to eat, challenges I want to tackle. But, I am starting the year of easy with a little New Year Skate.

    I gained about 40 pounds in 2020. It's not that I wasn't active - I spent a lot of time on my poor, little feet, lifting parcels at Canada Post and delivering plates of pasta at the restaurant. But, I'm getting close to fifty now and my metabolism is not what it used to be. Also, I drank ALOT. Like... polish-off-a-bottle-of-wine-before-noon-followed-by-beers-before-2-and-finish-with-rum-by-dinnertime-during-the-lockdown kind of drinking. It was great! I also ate alot so hangovers were not usually a thing. I would love to lose this weight, but if it means I can't eat sandwiches and cookies... Well, my pants will just have to stretch.

    That being said, nothing wrong with a New Year's exercise plan. So, I got up this morning, drank my coffee with 1/4 cup of cream and bundled up for a walk to the lake. Mud Lake Conservation Area has such a beautiful maze of trails with lots of chickadees, squirrels and bunny rabbits. Last night, I took a late night stroll through the woods for some fresh air and my Blundstone prints were still visible in the crisp snow this morning. 

    I was enjoying the walk, but I really didn't want to go out in the cold. I was dressed in layers, which always makes me feel too confined. As I got more fat, my boobs grew even more and I'm now wearing a 38G. The "G" stands for too Goddamn Gargantuan for me to carry around anymore. My legs were still a little tight from helping my cousin haul brush to the fire pit yesterday. And, my ear buds felt like they were going to fall out from under my headband. Regardless, I was enjoying the Audible version of Neil Gaiman's Norse Mythology (narrated by the author himself) as I trudged to the lake. 

    I sat on a snow covered rock to put on my skates, which was quite a chore as a result of my belly/breast combination. In this low-seated position, it is damn near impossible to reach my shoes. This is why I gave up on yoga in 2020. There was no way of breathing in many of the positions demonstrated by the instructor, particularly with the twists I used to enjoy so much. No more Arda Matsyendrasana for me - I am more like Magikarp than Lord of the Fishes.

    In order to reach and pull on my skates, I had to take a deep breath, hold it, and throw myself toward them, quickly squeezing my foot into the right one and releasing to take another breath. Tightening and tying requires the same amount of effort. I began to think skating on the lake was not in the cards for me. But, I'm nothing if not tenacious, so I got those motherfuckers on and I proceeded to carefully head down the bank to the snow-covered ice, at which time I struggled, slipped and stumbled about 30 feet to the shoveled path created by ambitious, winter-loving, volunteers.

     By this time, my feet were starting to hurt. The strain of balancing 220 pounds was too much for my overburdened pumpers. Again, I was determined to enjoy my experience and so I persevered. There was no graceful gliding. With every push, I feared my skate would get stuck on a stray ice chunk or crevice and I would break an ankle. But, I was not dissuaded. I skated (somewhat) around the lake and followed the path of a lone skater to land... only to find the maker of this path had only gone that way for a piss on the log on which I had intended to sit and remove my skates! Fuck.

    It was all downhill from there. I got home and I'm now retelling my story of woe. My point is, I probably won't lose any weight in 2021, but I like hoping that I can and sharing it with all of you. I might not learn how to speak Mandarin, but I'm damn sure going to try! If you continue to be the same old asshole you always were, just know that I like that asshole and you should continue to be the you you want to be. But, this bitch, she wants to be a different bad bitch every day. One that can touch her toes without straining (or not), one that cuts calories (or doesn't) and one that might someday run a marathon - tits flying every which way (but, probably not).

    Happy New Year! This is literally my year according to the Chinese calendar because I'm an Ox (s/o to all you '73 babies)!.

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.

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.