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).

Life as a Gemini - The Struggle is Real

I'm not sure what this blog is about.

Mostly, it will be a rant about how much I hate people, but then I will say how excited I was to watch a friend's daughter singing on stage and following her dreams of performing. I will talk about how close it was for me to be in jail right now for assault and go on to say how fun it is to ride a city bus. I can describe all the healthy, vegan foods I've tried recently. However, I currently want to puke because I ate Mexican street corn, a jumbo corn dog, deep fried cheese curds with maple bacon gravy, Coke and a deep-fried, bacon-wrapped Twinkie.

So many things have happened lately, but I kind of just want to focus on the last 48 hours, more or less. First of all, I am living in a 15 by 20 foot box in London, Ontario, in an area of questionable repute. I know I said I'd focus on the last 48, but just to give you an idea of my neighbourhood - I can get serviced at the local Tim Horton's for (I'm guessing) around $45 and I have had to step over or around people who are self-medicating for mental issues that I'm lucky enough to have under control (at this time) without the use of a needle. I never hear gunshots, at least. Knives are the weapon of choice here as I understand it. As soon as I hear gunshots, I'm out. I'm fairly confident in my ninja skills when it comes to running away from a knife-wielding, weirdo. Not as sure of my Superman, bullet-dodging abilities.

Here I am, a County girl in the city, trying to get back to the person I used to be; or the woman I wanna be... maybe just to feel comfortable with the female I am. First of all, I really want to like people. I envision myself having coffee dates where I discuss opinions (eg. where to get the best breakfast), current events (eg. the local Abused Women's Centre's refusal to be associated with a pole dancing demonstration) and make up new words or phrases (like "mansplaining" and "Listen here, Lady") with other eclectic, and open-minded individuals wearing Craft Brewery logos and deck shoes with brightly coloured socks. I want to touch people's faces when I greet them. Kiss them on both sides of their cheeks like my Quebecois friends! I want to rub their heads and laugh and joke about it. Rub their backs while they cry over lost loves and dead pets.

But y'all motherfuckers are so hard to like sometimes! Fuck. And, quite frankly, your hands are gross. Don't touch me.

Ergo, I spend most of my time in my little apartment learning new languages with Memrise.com. Check it out if you have not! I'm into Turkish and French right now. Feeling pretty confident that I can describe my needs in France: "J'ai trop aime les gateaux et le chocolat"; and order a drink in Turkey: "Efes, lutfen. Yarasin!"

Today, I decided I would tempt the fates and try to enjoy the beautiful fall day with a bus ride downtown and a pedicure. Side note: I love getting a pedicure at Diva Nails on Adelaide! It is relaxing to listen to employees chatter away in whatever language they are speaking. I don't have to speak to anyone unless I want to. They make my feet look and feel great while I enjoy a massage chair (massage without human contact = genius!) for about twenty bucks.

I proceeded to wait for the #20 - the bus that stops in front of my place and goes west to downtown. Now, the last time I took this bus, I put my $2.75 in the little thingy and the bus driver handed me a transfer. So, today, when I got on the #20, I put my money in the little thingy and waited for the driver to hand me a transfer. When he didn't, I attempted to take one for myself.

Well. If the nasty old prick didn't try to slap my hand!! What am I? Three years old? "Don't just help yourself," he says. I pulled my hand away like the bad girl I was. But, I tell ya, if that sonofabitch had actually connected... I had visions of grabbing him by the goddamn throat and stuffing every fucking transit into his miserable mouth. Customer service, London Transit Commission! It's a real thing and it keeps passive-aggressive, misanthropes like me from abusing your self-righteous, transfer-hoarding bus drivers. How the hell am I supposed to know that I'm not allowed to touch the transfers? There wasn't a sign, cause believe me, I checked. My 24-year-old daughter had to explain it to me this way, "Nobody tells you how to be an adult. You have to learn through bad experiences."

This is the most unfortunate thing I've ever heard, but it is sooooo true! And, it describes my life thus far. I'm often too afraid to try things because what if I do it wrong? My hand will get slapped. I'll be a disappointment. I'll lose everything. What if I forget that person's beans with their brisket platter? They'll never forgive me. Their night will be ruined because of me. They will say how awful I am on Tripadvisor and our ratings will go down. What if I offend someone because I said "cunt" on facebook?

I really don't give a flying fuck about that one actually. But, it briefly occurs to me that lots of people don't like that word. Well... don't be a cunt about it. I don't like the N word, either, but I don't have the right to say it OR the right to be offended by it. I have a cunt of my own, and could be described as one on occasion, so I figure it's my word to use whatever way I want. Cunt with chips, Cunt flaps, cunt hear what you're saying, slap in the cunt with a buttered brick. Whatever.

Lastly, I had a great time at the Western Fair. Yeah, it's expensive as all hell and a huuuuuuge waste of money. But, I took my nephews on the weekend and they thought it was great. I even went on a ride for the first time in... thirty years maybe? Always trying to get out of my comfort zone and try new things, in spite of the chance I'll get my hand slapped. New things like deep-fried, bacon-wrapped Twinkies. Which wasn't a mistake, but certainly wasn't the life-affirming event I had hoped it would be. I'm easily amused, clearly.

As I was leaving, I saw a guy wearing a shirt with a Canadian flag that said, "Fit in or fuck off". Sigh. So, this douche is the main reason I stay inside all day and read books. I'm glad we all have a right to our opinions. "I do not agree with what you say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it." The internet tells me Evelyn Beatrice Hall said that - Fuct if I know. Either way, douchey t-shirt guy describes his ideal world as one in which everyone shares the same beliefs. But, I can tell you that's not where I want to live. I want to hate/love people, while eating leafy greens on top of fried cheese and speaking Turkish with a French accent between a nasty old bus driver and a barista with great tattoos and hairy armpits.

Take this job and shove it...

     I'm flighty. I admit it. In fact, I've almost come to take pride in my instability. I'm a free spirit, a freewheeling, capricious hippy of sorts who could be perfectly happy living out of the back of a car and taking odd jobs across the country.

     Unfortunately, I still owe about five grand on my car. Therefore, I must find - and keep - steady employment.

     Recently, I re-discovered this fabulous arrangement called a temporary employment agency! I got one of my favourite jobs through a temp in London back in the late 90s. I was a filing clerk. All I had to do all day was scan documents onto microfiche and file the original alphabetically. I had a cubicle and I never had to speak to anyone. The days flew by and I had access to a great cafeteria. 

     So, I signed up with Adecco in October to see if I couldn't find a nice cubicle to hide in for the winter. Somewhere that I wouldn't have to see anyone until about March, at least. I was in luck! They had an opening at the local auto parts assembly plant. I just needed a pair of steel-toed boots and a positive attitude.

     I know alot of people who work in factories. They seem to have their shit together as a demographic. They have regular schedules and they make reasonable money. But, I had never actually asked them what they do when they are at work. I assumed they watched stuff go by on a conveyor belt or something.

     My friend, Kairn, works midnights at the same factory. When I told her I was starting on Monday, she said, "You're not going to run, are you?" 

     What the fuck kind of question is that? Why would I run? Where would I run? Is it a morale building exercise? Or are there just people who run from one end of the plant to the other with special messages or extra parts? 

     Whatever. This was a new adventure in my life and, if nothing else, would give me fuel for the blogging fire.

.....

     My first night, I was eager. I had my pink-laced safety boots, my positive attitude and comfortable pants. I had healthy snacks and lots of water. I had a friend on the inside. What I didn't have was the right address. I went to plant one instead of plant three. 

     Minor snag in my first day. I spent some time checking out the emergency exits and the cafeteria before I figured out my error. I still managed to get to work and meet my Adecco contact who brought me to my "cell", the factory equivalent of a cubicle where I would make a small part of a vehicle with my small team of co-workers. 

     Not what I expected at all. Not only would I have to work with people, it would also be very loud and very, very hot. I was in hell. My own, specially designed hell with safety glasses, ear plugs and cotton gloves. 

     For whatever reason, the cell I had been assigned to was not running on my first afternoon. I worked the 3 to 11 shift, btw. A shift designed to unequivocally fuck up any plans you may have had for the entire week. Instead, they put me in fabrication. I had heard that I would not like fabrication. That it was boring. All I had to do was wait a minute and a half for a machine to form two little plastic lenses (one left, one right), check for imperfections and pack it in a little tote. I loved it for the first hour. However, one hour of waiting for parts to drop so you can look them over in 95 degree heat without anything interesting to distract you can feel like ten years. I started to throw parts in the garbage for anything that might be construed as an imperfection so I wouldn't even have to pack it up. Eight hours of that was the longest day of my life and that's saying something, considering I have been a municipal council reporter for an independent newspaper used to wrap flyers. 

     Anyway, on day two, I arrived eager once again at twenty minutes to 3 p.m. My Adecco contact met me in the cafeteria and said, with no trace of sarcasm, "Oh good. Nice to see you haven't run yet."

     What the actual fuck? What does this mean, this "running" business? Do they think I'm some kind of dimwit who can't take a boring shift? Do I look that soft? Is the job that bad? Is it that hard?

     Once again, my cell was down. So, they took me to the wall. "Riding the wall" is another term for being pimped out to other cells rather than being sent home. It's the equivalent of being picked for teams back in elementary school, something I've always dreaded. I waited patiently for various cell leaders to come along and choose me for their team. No one wanted the eager, chubby woman with the pink shoelaces. 

     In an effort to find me a place, I was brought from one cell to another looking for someone to babysit me for the next seven hours. Finally, I got a reluctant taker at the Dodge Charger cell. All I had to do was snap some Lego together, plug in some wires and swipe my thumb to send my part to the next guy. 

     I was a pro! I snapped that shit together like it was my job! Cos it was! And, I watched our stats go up on the monitor. We were working at 97 per cent since I started on board! Fuck yeah! The evening flew by and it was great. 

     Over the next couple of nights, the Charger cell was down, so I had to make head lights for mini vans. Booooorrrriiiinnnnggg! I took an extra shift on the weekend plugging a string of Christmas lights into something. I don't even know what it was. But we made about 600 of them in one shift. I was fitting in fairly well anyway. Even when I was "riding the wall", I was always first picked because I was a fast learner with fast fingers. 

     The next Monday, I went back to the original cell - the one that was down on my first night. I was just learning a new process when they came over from the Dodge Charger cell to get me. Apparently, I had been chosen for that spot. It was going to be my home. In fact, as my Adecco contact so blatantly put it, I would be attached to that spot with a ball and chain... indefinitely. 

     This would be my third night of making Cherger tail lights. Pick up a part, put it on the table, turn right, pick up two more parts, put them on the first part, turn around, pick up two more parts, plug in the electrical, turn left, pick up a cover, pick up the whole thing, put it on a different table, swipe my thumb, pick up a new part, put it on the table, left, right, back, front, right, left, swipe.... and so on and so on.

     After the first fifteen minute break, I started to feel dizzy. I was spinning and spinning and spinning. I tried to focus on the conversations of my team members, but it was so loud and it was so hot. I started to sweat. I felt faint. I kept spinning and spinning. Doing the same thing over and over with no end in sight. There were still six hours left of my shift! I just needed some air.

      So, I ran. I really just wanted to go outside and breathe some air that didn't smell like hot plastic and greased gears. I wanted to hear the rain on the pavement instead of the whine of robotic arms and multi-tonal beeping. When I got to the cafeteria doors, there was a sign that said, "If you've left your phone in the woman's bathroom, please contact the manager".

      Are you fucking kidding me? I'm in the middle of a panic attack and I've got to go look for a manager because I left my cell phone on the toilet paper dispenser during break! It was clearly the gods telling me that I was not cut out for assembly line work. Too soft, too flighty, too dizzy. Whatever the reason, I ran out of that place, with my phone safely tucked in my comfortable pants, never to go back. I'd rather deliver pizza.

The Elora Phoney Palace

     Once upon a time, there were three poor women looking for an adventure. Well, two of them were looking for an adventure. The other one just really wanted a soy-free burger that wouldn't make her face turn red and give her the squirts. But, all three of them decided to go to The Elora Phoney Palace - a magical tent that just appears like magic in the Grand River Valley.

     The first poor, old woman (Gertie), was very bossy and liked to drive. So, she came up with the plan for the adventure and picked up the second poor, old woman (Pearl), and then the third poor, old woman (Mavis). Gertie, Pearl and Mavis were just starting out when they came upon a big, old, red light - which Gertie proceeded to ignore because she was very excited about the adventure.

Creepy motherfucking sculpture in Elora

     Pearl and Mavis were a little concerned about Gertie ignoring the big, old, red light. 

     "Did you diiiiiie?" asked Gertie. But, no one died so everything was ok.

     The first stop on the adventure was a place called Doodoo's Bakery in a town called Bailieboro where it is said some of the best butter tarts in Ontario can be found. Gertie ate her butter tart quickly and was soon revved up like a deuce on sugar, sugar, sugar! Mavis bought six tarts to save for later. Pearl couldn't have the best butter tarts in Ontario because they might have soy in them.

     On Friday afternoon, the road to the Elora Phoney Palace is very busy and alot of the fucking idiots on the road don't know how to drive. Many of the assholes along the way would drive in the passing lane, even if they weren't passing. Sometimes, the car in front of them would slam on their brakes for no apparent fucking reason, which gave Gertie road rage while Mavis and Pearl started getting a bit of whiplash. Mavis' tarts kept flying out of the back seat and smushing on the floor.

     "Did you diiiiiiiie?" asked Gertie, when Mavis complained about her smushed tarts. But, no one died so everything was ok.

     Pearl was checking the map to make sure that they arrived at the Elora Phoney Palace in good time. So, when the women got to Guelph, she told Gertie to turn left at the exit onto Highway 6. Gertie refused to turn left. She was sure that would take them south and they clearly wanted to go north. However, they ended up on the wrong road. Gertie still refused to listen to Pearl's directions and demanded that Pearl keep her eyes down for the rest of the gawdamn way! 

     But, when they finally arrived in the Grand River Valley, there was no Elora Phoney Palace. Mavis lost her shit!

     "Oh heeeellll no. Everything is supposed to be set up. You said.."

     "I know I said," Gertie replied.

     "You said... wait!" Mavis interrupted.

     "You saw the email," Gertie protested.

     "You said, 'We're gonna be there at four?" Mavis demanded.

     "I said, 'We're gonna be there at four." Gertie confirmed.

     "She said, ' Check in is at two," Mavis averred.

     "She said, 'Check in is at two," Gertie repeated.

     "Check in is at two... Check, check, CHECK!" Mavis yells, pointing at the very flat, circle of tent laying on the ground at campsite #40. "Listen. To what I'm going to say right now.... This clearly is not going to work."

     So, the three poor, old women went for dinner because, clearly, Mavis had low blood sugar. They had crepes (without soy) and everyone was very happy. They bought some booze from a place that looked like a church (which was weird) and, when they returned, the Elora Phoney Palace was magically in place. The adventure could continue.

     The Grand River Valley doesn't allow people to have booze or drink it. Not sure why. Perhaps it is the reason they don't have mosquitoes. But, the women just drank the booze out of Tim Horton's cups because Fuck that Shit. They had a lovely fire, but they soon ran out of wood. So, Mavis pulled a tree out of the forest and they set that on fire. 

     Mavis farted alot in the Elora Phoney Palace. Kielbasa makes her farts smell like really bad roasted turkey. And, Pearl snores a little. It was also about minus 12. But, Gertie had never slept better.

     The first quest for the morning on Saturday was to get coffee and tea from Tim Horton's because life is just better with coffee and tea. Gertie got lots of hash browns because the internet promised they were not made with soy. Gertie got an 18-cheese bagel, which is ridiculous because there is no reason to have that much cheese in anything. 

     By the time they returned to the Grand River, there was a big lineup at the tire store. The tire store doesn't even friggin' open until 9 a.m., but there was a lineup of 70 people at 8:15 a.m. This was some bullshit. The poor, old women needed tires to float down the Grand River with all of the other people. It was an essential part of the adventure. At least the women had coffee and tea while they waited in the lineup. And, they made some friends with some of the other people around them while they waited. Meanwhile, Gertie made fun of Pearl's orange flip flops, Mavis made fun of Gertie's yoga poses and Pearl made fun of Mavis' foot phobia. 

     "It doesn't seem like you three like each other very much," remarked the new friend they had made in the lineup. But, that's what it's like when you're best friends. So, what the fuck does he know.

     In spite of Gertie's skepticism, the women were able to procure three fat tires, helmets and safety vests in order to float down the river. They had to sign waivers because a) the possibility of being ejected from your tube does exist, b) hazardous rocks may be present below the surface of the water and c) foot entrapment in submerged rocks is possible. They also had to walk miles and miles to the river and they were exhausted... but they didn't diiiiie. However, Tim Horton's hash browns are definitely made with soy, which made Pearl have to shit.

     The next quest for the three poor, old women was to travel to St. Jacob's where there is supposed to be a big market full of good things to eat and buy. The market is, indeed, huge and full of many interesting things. Gertie pigged out on Samosas, spicy pepperettes, apple fritters and real potato chips. Pearl was able to find some granola that didn't have soy, and a piece of focaccia, but no burger. It was very hot, so they bought some fresh squeezed lemonade in 1 liter jugs. But, there were lots of chunks of lemon rind and lemon seeds in the bottom that made Mavis want to puke. The drinks would have been much better without chunks and maybe a bit of gin or vodka. 

     The quest for a soy-free burger took them all the way to Fergus, a town of predominantly Scottish heritage with a big, wooden man in a kilt on the main street. The Fergusson Room Pub was supposedly the best place to find a soy-free burger, so they went there. They had a great meal and a very nice server and everyone was happy.

     Gertie brought her mala beads to try to stay calm whenever things got too stressful. She had to repeat her mantra, wishing everyone peace and love, every once in a while because some people are just too stupid to live. For example, if the sign at the restaurant says "Please wait to be seated", you should fucking-well wait to be seated. Also, don't ask your server where the chicken wings are on the menu. The server gave you a menu so you could fucking read it. She is not going to read it for you, you stupid twat.  In conclusion, don't order two glasses of water at a restaurant, ask your server a bunch of stupid questions and then decide that you don't want anything at that restaurant. Just don't leave your house anymore because you are an asshole. You and your crack-whore friend with the short skirt and stupid hair. 

     Pearl and Mavis could not understand Gertie's mantra because it is in Sanskrit. But, they thought it sounded alot like Chaka Kahn. So, to help clear her chakras, they decided to play some Chaka Kahn. This was incredibly therapeutic and soon everyone's chakras were very clear. They were all dancing and singing in the car and having so much fun. Mavis even put her foot up on the passenger-side door so she could do the "stanky leg" dance. This caused Gertie to scream, "Let your pussy out!" Which really made no fucking sense. Mavis had no intention of letting her pussy out. She was just really feeling the beat. Pearl didn't want to see Mavis' pussy either. She was glad to be in the back seat. They all laughed so hard because Gertie is a real dumbass with a bit of Tourette's syndrome. They had to pull over because Gertie couldn't see the road; she was laughing and crying so hard. But, they didn't diiiiie, which was good.

     They all went to the Grand River Casino later on, hoping to win some money. Mavis won 34 cents, but Pearl and Gertie lost all their money. They all went back to the Elora Phoney Palace and drank some more booze from their 1 liter jugs until they fell asleep.

    In the morning, they had soy-free eggs and ham at The Social Box, which is really the best breakfast you can get anywhere. And, they lived happily ever after.