You know when you are working towards a goal, a date, a time–graduation, marriage, holiday, and it takes forever to get there, and then it happens and suddenly passes? It all goes by so quickly, doesn’t it?  This weekend has come and gone and it was wonderful.  I was participating in two improv shows and a festival at the university.  I was prepared, I was excited, I was…perfectly terrified.

What if…I choked?

In the end, ll was perfectly successful, which absolutely lifted my spirits. Home late last night, watching “Pretty in Pink” at midnight,  I felt like Eliza Doolittle in “My Fair Lady”.  Undressing after the ball, when all the hard work paid off, and no one recognized her as the cockney flower girl she really was and totally bought her as a fictional aristocrat.  When she got home, she was singing “I Could Have Danced All Night”, and mooning dreamily all over the bedroom.  Those poor maids were hard pressed to get her ready for bed with her dancing all around, and admonished her: “It’s after three now/Don’t you agree now/She ought to be in bed”.

If my maids clucked about me swooping around my four post bed about my fantastic weekend, they would hear about it.   I can go from zero to sixty on the diva scale (which zero being Audrey Hepburn, sixty being Naomi Campbell) in ten seconds flat.

I’d shriek, “I don’t pay you to hold me back when I’m celebrating my fabulous good fortune through the majesty of song“.  And then I’d throw whatever was within reach at the offending servants before commencing with my song about loving the shit out of my life.

Don’t worry, I pay them handsomely.

I’m sort of basking in the glow of knowing so many good people.  I feel blessed. I feel reconnected to this feeling I’d thought I’d lost, a sort of existential emptiness with which you could not identity the source.  Turns out…having a stone-cold pack of theatre weirdos back in my life is what was lacking. My heart is bursting with happiness.

Cheers for the love everyone.  You know who you are.

All Images Courtesy of Google

My epic weekend has been followed by long days of work.  Well, so far just two days. I’m not toiling away in a sweltering cotton field, but you know how it is.  Aren’t we all more fabulous while not at work?

So…the writing feels a bit like a homemade airplane, sputtering and failing to reach great heights. Mostly it sort of hovers over the runway with the same kind of awkward rigidity of a teenaged boy getting a girl’s bra off for the first time.  Fumbling like fuck.

But fear not bitches, it can only get better from here.

Can I call you “bitches”? Are we friends like that? I don’t know. YouTube recommended Curtis Mayfield’s soundtrack to the film”Super Fly” to me, which I feel is the website’s way of saying “I respect the hell out of your taste, here’s something groovy for you while you don’t write your blog”.

Funnily enough, I also have a plan to “stick it to the man”, so that’s just another thing that Super Fly and I have in common.  Otherwise it’s nothing but guns, drugs and hos.  Or is it ho’s? Or hoes like in gardening?  I can’t remember I missed that day of Pimp School.   I also missed the course of pimp ultimatums, when Fat Freddie doesn’t have his money, up and coming drug kingpin Priest warns him that either he is going to get his money by robbing someone or he will put his wife out on “whore’s row”.  Now that is one hell of a threat.. in fact, it’s kind of a lose/lose situation. I bet Fat Freddie never thought, “Could I get a full time job and pay you back in weekly installments?” He’s like “Honey? You still got that dress you wore for Halloween last year?”   Don’t worry, there’s a song on the album “Freddie’s Dead”, so you just know that someone popped a cap in his ass.

Am I saying that right? Pop a cap? Like am I actually shooting him in the butt, or is ass a general term?  Are people still getting jiggy with it? Is that still a thing?

I’m not even going to lie to you, when I came here tonight, feeling like one major blah-ger, I was going to write about James Spader in Pretty in Pink.

Don’t you just want to knock that ashtray right off his knee into his smug face in the same way you’d like to sweep an arm across a cluttered desk to make out with him on top of it.  “Pretty in Pink” James Spader confuses me.

“I can’t do this right now James Spader, I’ve got a blog to finish”.

It’s 8:30 at night, and this is not usually my style to post so late.  I actually just received a phone call from my mother, demanding the whereabouts of said blog.  “Mom–I’m writing about pimps, R&B concept albums, and I cannot figure out out to spell ‘ho’ –just back off!”  And then I talked to her for twenty minutes while surfing the internet for pictures of various pimps and thugs…and young James Spader.

But that’s the beauty of blogging, sometimes you think you are going to write about Beyonce and Jay-Z’s “Bonnie and Clyde ’03″…

And you write about “The Shining” instead…

You think it’s scary when you read my edited thoughts, you should see what it looks like inside my head…

You better believe that’s not alphabetized.

The disorganization and time wasting is all part of my plan for sticking it to the man.

All Images Courtesy of Google

The long list for a contest I entered, and so badly wanted to be nominated for came out this morning.  I started my shift at five am, I thought it best to not not look until after the ten hour shift.  I sent the piece off in January, before I started my blog, before I wrote everyday.  As time has passed, I began to meditate on how much I wanted to be considered, to have a shot at platform-building prizes.  What it would mean to see my name on that list.

My name was not on the list.

In fact, the alphabetical list started on “C” (I could think of another c-word, if pressed hard enough).  My husband reckons it is not my writing, it is that this national contest is prejudiced against “A” names.   At least, that’s what I think he said, I was blubbering and making this sad little sound that sounded like the airplane noise you make when trying to entice a toddler into eating cold pea mash.

Needless to say, there are little mountains of sopping wet tissues all over the house.  These formations have colonized the house, starting in the living room, and trailing to the office, the bedroom and everywhere in between.

This is why I didn’t check at work, this kind of blow is not what you want to receive in gumboots and an apron.  But I thought about it. What it could mean.  I thought about Charlie Bucket and the golden ticket in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory“.  I kept thinking about when Charlie’s family hears on the news that the final ticket was found.  His Grandpa says, ‘let’s not wake him, lets let him have one more dream’.  But then the camera cuts to Charlie, wide awake and well aware.

So essentially old Chuck Bucket was my inspiration for waiting. He’s a poor bastard anyhow, he’s such a sad, goony kid who wears nerdy turtlenecks and has all four grandparents sleeping in the same bed.  It’s like “Bob & Carol &Ted & Alice“, but with arthritis and bedsores.

He doesn’t fit in, has no social networks.  There’s no money for sweets, and he has no pleasure in his life.  What this kid needs is a better hair cut and an opportunity to shine.  A golden ticket.

Obviously, there was a misunderstanding with Charlie, and he eventually gains access to Willy Wonka‘s delicious fortress, and learns of the many riches and quirks of the Chocolate Factory.  No matter, this prize is clearly the Robert Redford to my Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa“. It was not mine.

Yes I’m mixing movie metaphors, I’m delirious with grief over here.  This is also why I most likely don’t win contests.

There’s a line to be drawn, a balance between hope and reality.  I hope I look like Heidi Klum, but in reality I look like Snooki without the hair and makeup.  Hoping to win is not the same as winning.  But you also want to have an open heart, believe that these things are possible, and not fall apart when things don’t work out.  Like I always say about Mick Jagger, and what he always says, “You can’t always get what you want,  but you get what you need”.

Yeah, I guess Mick. If you say so.  But for now, I’m just going to have a good cry.

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Darlings, it’s a perfectly puffy-eyed situation happening over here.  Last night I sat outside and basked in the warm evening sunlight, and stared up into the tree that hangs over the patio.  I could see patches of sky-blue through all the leafy green, wondered how far through the forest I would have to trudge to see a glimmer of success.  It’s not the end of the world, it’s just a contest, it’s just disappointment.  My husband has gently pointed out that perhaps it is not the contest, but that it is a deeper issue.  I’m not in a satisfying career, strike action is taking place in Immigration sectors, and we have no idea what the future holds.  And mostly, that I have so much to offer;  a heart that is about to burst from wanting so much, but it feels like like few things are possible at this juncture.    I’ve received some lovely emails, and comforting shout-outs, and I really appreciate it. What I’d like to do is print my competitive piece here.  It’s not everyone’s cup, but I’m proud of it. And after all, nobody puts Baby in the corner…

It’s the middle of the week, I’m eight years old, I’m wearing a second-hand Brownie uniform, and my mother has just invited me to watch the last ten minutes of Dirty Dancing.  Sitting on the sofa, crossing my legs like a lady, I recognized this as a rite of passage.  If ever my parents brought a film into the house, it was promptly previewed with scrutinizing eyes.  Many were considered unacceptable for viewing.  Nonetheless, my mother decided the final dance sequence of this film passed the test.  And I didn’t blame her.  I had no idea what was happening, but I knew one thing: this couple had charisma.  Their energy was so infectious that the only cure was for everyone to dance.  I had so many questions.  Who are these people? Why are they dancing? How did the homely girl come to be in the corner? And just who is this Johnny Castle character?  All questions melted away as the scene progressed to its climax.  Baby in her pink skirt, leaping into Johnny’s muscular arms and being lifted up into the lights, her arms stretched out, her heart open wide.  My pulse was racing.   Patrick Swayze was the most magnificent creature I had ever seen. It was then I made a silent declaration: that one day I would experience the entirety of this movie. 

The following summer my Grandmother visited from Wales.  She was a strange creature from the Old World, with a thick indecipherable accent.  Alone with her one afternoon I seized an opportunity.  “Do you like movies Grandma?”  “Oh, I like Coronation Street”, her Welsh accent a musical swing-set, swaying up and down as she spoke.  “Have you ever seen Dirty Dancing?” “Can’t say that I have”.  “Really? Wow… it’s pretty much my favourite movie”.  “What’s it about then?” “It’s…um, it’s about…dancing…that is dirty?” “I don’t know if I’d like that”, her frown line deepened.  “No! Not “dirty” I’m not describing it properly”, I’m panicked, sweating.  “Maybe we should take a stroll to the corner shop and look for it”.  I knew there was a copy at Bob’s Mini Mart; whenever my parents went there to buy cigarettes or milk, I’d spot it on the shelf.  I’d clutch the display case in my pudgy fingers, rubbing my thumb over Patrick’s face.  Now with my grandmother in tow, anything was possible.  Who was I to deny her an authentic North American experience? She had come all the way from the United Kingdom to stay a month in this sleepy little town, with few amenities beyond gas stations and grocery stores.  She had never even heard of Patrick Swayze.  Poor dear.  We were both in need of an education. 

“That was a nice film wasn’t it?” my grandmother smiled, satisfied as the credits rolled.  I drifted featherweight back to reality.  Nice didn’t even begin to cover it—this film was spectacular.   As a family of six we didn’t travel much.  Resorts that employed tough, yet tender dance instructors to teach lessons about life and love was beyond reach.  That was a real concern for me; if I never went anywhere, how would my true love find me? At school I had few friends and was unpopular with boys—I had thick eyebrows, chubby thighs and an overbite; I was socially incapable and totally uncool.  Often overcome with loneliness, I retreated into a cinematic fantasy world, yearning for love and adventure.  Staring out the window onto the trailer park lot, I’d imagine Johnny Castle rescuing me from my unhappy corner of the world.  How I wanted my very own musical montage, dancing to Hungry Eyes with a sweaty Swayze all up in my mix.  He’d write She’s like the Wind about me, and nobody would blame him.  I wanted to run, leap and be lifted overhead, light as air, my pink ballerina skirt floating angelically.  I wanted to be raised up and swept away.

Twenty years later, I met my husband in New Zealand.  In amidst a music festival crowd I saw Benjamin and knew that I was home.  Our partnership was immediately tempered by deadlines, departure dates and other logistical elements of our different birth rights.  We married eight months after meeting, and fuelled by temporary working visas we travelled for two years before settling in Canada.  We were finally faced with the dreaded immigration process, which pressed on a visceral, adolescent nerve.  Johnny and Baby didn’t want to be separated either.  They were divided briefly; the conservative type at Kellerman’s couldn’t accept their attachment. But in the end, Johnny came back for her and much dancing ensued.  But would they really have stayed together after the summer in the Catskills?  Would Baby not attend Mount Holyoke College or join the Peace Corps as planned? Would they just ‘promise to keep in touch’? Somehow I can’t imagine Johnny Castle being your pen to paper, stamp to envelope kind of guy; he’s a lover not a writer. 

When is a summer romance really worth fighting for?  How do you know that you have truly found ‘the one’?  When you are willing to fill out the paperwork?  The permanent residency process is a totally unromantic yet completely necessary venture, and an excellent device to weed out the weak.  The fine folks at Immigration in Vegreville, Alberta need to know everything about you and your partner.  To prove that our marriage was a genuine, conjugal relationship a paper trail was required. We provided forms, financial documents and supplemental appendixes, with references, letters, photographs and old bills addressed to both parties.    This lengthy task combined two fears: not finding a common country with my husband, and really complicated paperwork.  We were happy to confirm that we had not desecrated churches, partaken in genocide or organized any political uprisings. We had confidence in the evidence that supported the legitimacy of our marriage.  For us, the medical exam was the greatest cause for concern.  “What if they find something and I have to leave the country… I’d have tuberculosis and you’d be on the other side of the world”.  Benjamin whispered as he squeezed my hand in the waiting room. “You’ll be just fine…there’s nothing wrong with you” I assured him. Of course I don’t know that, I’m not a doctor; I don’t even watch enough Grey’s Anatomy to peg a guess.  But his nervousness planted a seed of doubt inside my mind: what if something was wrong?  In life and in health, nothing is certain.  Patrick Swayze, once physically fit, athletic, healthy and gorgeous, died at 57.  It’s as if Johnny Castle is the immortal girlhood fantasy, but Swayze represents the crushing weight of reality.  There are no certainties, the universe is not fair; my existence is not the exception, nor is the life of the man that I love.

During Benjamin’s medical I waited in the reception area, tucked in the corner with a magazine, a noose of anxiety tightening around my neck.  The reading material was limited so I lingered over the calorie-wise recipes and parenting tips in the lone issue of Canadian Living.  An elderly couple appeared at the desk and were discussing the woman’s upcoming surgery with a doctor.  The doctor answered her questions with a smile, offering support and information.  She blurted out, her voice quivering: “I’m really scared. Will I be alright?” Yikes.  The doctor didn’t respond with absolute certainty, he simply offered wishes for a surgery well done.  Being an empathetic eavesdropper, her vulnerability made my heart swell with sadness.  The doctor excused himself. The couple, stooped and weathered, slowly shuffled to the exit.  He was holding her small beige handbag in his left hand.  On his right his wife lifted her tiny arm and linked herself to the crook in his elbow.  They exchanged a familiar glance, leaned closely together, passed a corridor and disappeared from sight.

Tears strained against my eyes like a storm front against a window pane.  I held my breath to cease the impending waterworks.  I wondered if they remembered being young and in love and just starting out, whether their relationship grew from flimsy childish illusions about romance to a solid refuge of sustenance and care.  I wondered if any of their past struggles and sacrifices even mattered anymore as they edged out of the clinic and closer to the end of their lives.  Sitting in the stillness of the clinic waiting for my husband to return, I thought about what happens after young love. After summer sunshine when autumn leaves fall and frigid winter sets in, when it is harder, when we are older, is when love burns its brightest.  It is when you are backed into a corner and somebody who loves you pulls you out of the shadows and lifts you up into the light.

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My life is changing, the sky is falling.  After my wonderful weekend, many particles of my humble existence have taken a nose-dive.  I am to reevaluate everything.  I’m feeling a bit like bruised fruit, ripening to the point of rotten.  I spent this morning editing someone else’s assignments, adding notes here and there, elaborating on arguments when necessary.  There was an analysis to be done on Anwar Khan’s “The Pose”, about a young woman in India who sneaks into a shop window and pretends to be a mannequin.  She watches passersby, unfettered and unnoticed.  Or else, when she is noticed, it is for her beauty and well-crafted parts.  In being considered plastic, there is comfort to be derived in being a silent entity.  After the work was done, when the time came to write my own blog entry, I felt emptied out of ideas.  I turned to my trusty notebook.  I flipped through the ideas, with a pouty, “Argh, do I have to?” kind of sneer.  Writing is sometimes like exercise.  It’s seems daunting until you’ve actually done it.  You always feel better after you’ve written. Like Gloria Steinem says:

I do not like to write – I like to have written.

Sometimes it is the act of writing, the words flying out of fingers, effortless connections being made, and it feels like there is no where else you’d rather be, than at the desk, pouring your heart out.  Steinem also touches on that sentiment as well:

Writing is the only thing that when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.

Then again, I’m sure Steinem never came across “Bruce Jenner/Andy Warhol” scribbled in one of her note books.  Now where was I going with that?

Bruce Jenner…

plus Andy Warhol…

Equals what? What was I thinking here?  This scribble is a metaphor for the current status of my life, a poorly told joke that I don’t have a punchline for.  A little internet re-con leads me to this comment made by Warhol.

“I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They’re so beautiful. Everything’s plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.”

Well there’s the connection, if Warhol, who had coined the phrase “fifteen minutes of fame”,  had lived, he would have eventually morphed into Bruce Jenner.

Phew, fuck I’m good  at deciphering my own work.

But really, I’m making it up as I go along.  Aren’t we all?

The mash-up of ideas, of “The Pose”, Bruce Jenner and his Kardashian connection and Andy’s Warhol’s artistic vision and of his life and legacy has made me think about plastic.  It also led me to read about Valerie Solanas, the radical feminist writer, who famously shot Warhol at his studio “The Factory”.  Before she wrote a play called “Up Your Ass” she wrote the SCUM Manifesto which urged women to “overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, institute complete automation and eliminate the male sex”, which are all perfectly reasonable goals.  When not trying to eliminate the male gender, she was trying to get Warhol to produce her delightfully titled play.  He then lost the script, and when she tried to retrieve it, she was met by his indifference.

You know, call me crazy, but one would not dare carelessly misplace the only copy of a script written by a woman who wrote a book like this…

Seriously? You don’t need a man for anything? Who’s going to do the heavy lifting? What if your car broke down? Is that pickle jar going to open itself?

Solanas wasn’t going to take Warhol’s dismissive crap, she felt he had too much power over her life, and just she wasn’t going to stand by and let him grow gracefully into his transformative twilight years where he’d finally become Bruce Jenner.  She fired three shots, hitting Warhol once, and then promptly turned herself into the police.  Warhol was never the same.  The Factory was no longer easily accessible, and many hangers-on reckoned that the 1968 shooting indicated an end of a particular era.

 Before I was shot, I always thought that I was more half-there than all-there—I always suspected that I was watching TV instead of living life. People sometimes say that the way things happen in movies is unreal, but actually it’s the way things happen in life that’s unreal. The movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it’s like watching television—you don’t feel anything. Right when I was being shot and ever since, I knew that I was watching television. The channels switch, but it’s all television.

And others that spoke of Warhol said that he was suddenly untouchable, that he wished to be made of plastic or cardboard, that this attack on his life caused a spiritual death.  He lived another twenty years, but never fully recovered from the shock.

I think once more of the woman in “The Pose”, standing behind glass, watching the world pass by, allowing people to believe that she was plastic, safely swaddled in synthetic value,  immortal and unbreakable.  A beautiful construction.   Wanting to return to the crush of bodies in the marketplace, to be thought of as flesh and blood once more, she  eventually slips back into the crowd.  To be human again, no matter the cost.

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What’s a mid-life crisis called in your early thirties? What constitutes the crisis being ‘mid-life’?  For those who have been being reading this week, you’ve witnessed my sad little journey as I go through a non-menopausal ‘change of life’.  But you know what? I have been in this transitional place a ton of times.In fact it seems very much like historically speaking, this week in general is not my time to shine.  But first, allow me to explain that I am crap with recalling dates and years.  I don’t remember birthdays well, nor can I recall the dates of births, deaths, marriages, holidays, it’s all a blur.  How do I recall things? Of course, through pop culture happenings.  My friend Monica and Heath Ledger died in the same month, which incidentally was the same month I had gotten an IUD.  When in Australia, they were covering the fourth anniversary of Ledger’s death, and all I could think was…”Fuck, I’ve only got another year left of birth control”.  I remember going on a  road-trip through the Southern United States, and seeing a magazine cover with Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes when they first got together in 2005.  And that’s how I remember the year I explored the Bible Belt, it  was in the same year that Cruise scared the great jumping Jesus out of Oprah by getting his shoes all over her leather sofa.  It’s not the greatest system for remembering dates, but it’s just how my brain works.

This week marked the fourth anniversary of Micheal Jackson’s death.  When I first heard about his demise, my wedding had already been cancelled, and I was house sitting at my aunt’s ranch-house, where the wedding was meant to take place.  I was obsessing about the end of my engagement in the exact same way that CNN was focusing on Jackson’s death.  There were only so many details that one can elaborate on, “In case you’re just joining us, Jackson is still dead, he used to be super talented, influential and black, then things got weird, he got multiple nose jobs and a monkey named Bubbles, married Elvis’s daughter, had children, gave them strange names and surgical masks to wear in public, he wore pajama pants to his child molestation trail, and eventually became the creepiest white man ever… but we’ve got Liza Minnelli and Usher to discuss his finer qualities”.   As for me, I was busy running over the fabric of my own failure, feeling for snags, and holes in the material.  Sadly,  Larry King was too busy dealing with the Jackson tragedy to  come round and ask searing questions, “Alicia, what happened, where did you go wrong?”

Boy oh boy would Larry King have gotten an earful, it would have been too much emotion and information for one man to handle, and so he’d be forced to bring in back up…someone who listens, cares and really understands women.

(Just imagine being the center of that conversational sandwich?)

Furthermore, this week also marks the first anniversary of writer Nora Ephron‘s death.

When I heard about this, I was back in Canada, once again I was living out of a suitcase in my parent’s basement, after nearly three years of living in New Zealand and Australia.  Jackson’s death was not a surprise, but this was a major blow to me.  I love her writing, some of her movies are my favorite movies, “Julie & Julia” being very high on that list.  I’ve since gone over her writing with a fine tooth comb; after reading four of her books in succession, I started my blog.  She wrote one piece called “My Life as an Heiress”, about the impending death of a wealthy uncle, and the rumors that swirled amongst her father and sisters about the fortune that would be left to them.  At the time, Ephron was struggling with a screenplay, and imagined what the kind of expected wealth could bring.  She wouldn’t have to finish the script, she could just live off her inheritance.  In the end, it turned out that most of the money was lost in bad investments, and once split different ways, it was enough for a willow tree in the backyard.  And Ephron went back to writing her script, which was “When Harry Met Sally…“, one of her finest writing achievements.  She credited losing that inheritance to finishing that work, which catapulted her into a completely new level of success. Ephron knew how to write about her pain, divorce, death, displacement, she covered it all with a grain of salty humor.  But more often than not, she counted her failures as avenues to success.  Ephron always said “Everything is Copy”, every struggle is a story.  In fact, on her deathbed, she told her vigil-holding son to “take notes”, which is something her own mother had told her to do in her last days.  Ephron told him to take notes because he’s going to want to remember the very thing he wishes he could forget.

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There was a visitor in the night.  Or at least, we heard foreign rustling sounds on the opposite end of the townhouse.  Naturally, Ben sends me first.  I flip the switch, illuminating the room. There wasn’t a burglar or a large tiger, so I listened intently, before shutting off the light.  Once in the warm sanctity of the bed, the noise returned.  It was the more like a tapping noise.  Ben wrenches the blanket off his body, and faces the noise with two important ingredients, a flashlight and a baseball bat.  He returns from the war unscathed, but with news of having seen…something.  Like a rat.  “Those bastards could chew your arm off”, he says.  “Well, yes, but I’m sure you’d have the proclivity to wrench it free from your arm before it did any damage”.  And then we laid in the dark, as the purple dawn of morning began to creep towards the windows.  We drift off.  The sound returns.  We explore the room together.

Ben loves this kind of thing.  His face is deadly serious as he explores dark corners with his flashlight.  This makes me think of “The Sound of Music”, when the von Trapp family are hiding from the Nazis.  I picture the mice hidden in their little mouse traveling clothes, holding their breath, waiting for the deathly light to skim past their shadows.

Wait…I guess that makes us the Nazis in this scenerio?

No matter, we search the house, Ben wielding the baseball bat, muttering under his breath, “where are you you bastard?” While Ben was refusing to give up on the mouse-hunting.  I was tired, and didn’t care quite are as much.  Ben reckoned that they were after my leftover Twizzlers in my purse from our night at the cinema.  And so, based on this hunch, he sacrificed the pack, by placing it in the middle of the floor with a wheat cracker placed on top.

We were awoken at nine a.m by a phone call.  We remembered the mysterious noises, and emerged from our bedroom together.  There is a large hutch in the living room that holds the radio/record player, as well as all our cocktails glasses and liquor bottles.  I keep all my records in this hutch.  Naturally, the mouse wants to hang in the coolest spot in the house, sandwiched between a variety of genres.

Diana Ross & The Supremes, “Cream of the Crop”…

Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours”…

Barbra Streisand, “The Broadway Album”…

And the last record, a gift from my brother, was  Black Market’s “Changing of the Guard”.   Under this man’s face, was the mouse.  Which, according to my husband was the size of a small dog.

Ben, armed with his orange Home Depot bucket, a brush and shovel set, a flashlight, and a baseball bat, is ready to take on the mouse.  He exhales, and nods his head slowly.  “Okay, lift the record”.  I slide “Changing of the Guard”, and the mouse leaps towards freedom.  He darts this way and that, and dashes towards the tiny crack in the fireplace, presumably on his way to Switzerland. Ben decides that the only remedy was expandable foam.  And so he left me with the flashlight, to guard the fireplace “in case that son of a bitch comes back”.  He went to the shop, and I watched the fireplace, imagining the mouse in little lederhosen, trudging along the mountains, searching for a safer place to call home.

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It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, my husband is off on a fishing trip, and I am sitting with a cup of coffee in the office.  Sunlight is pouring through the window.  Writing is the last thing on my mind. It’s a long weekend, and I am fortunate to have it free.  I am a girl in serious need of relaxation, rest and perspective. Recent developments has made me feel like a mid-air trapeze artist, in between bars, flying towards the next branch.  There is a blissful, yet terrifying moment –that space in between flight and falling.   Barreling through the air; aware that injury is possible, but that success is equally as probable.  Anything can happen.  All you have to do is to get a grip, and to latch on to the next bar.  No one else can do it for you.  It’s within reach; so release the doubt and accept that it’s all about staying calm when there’s nothing left to hold on to.

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It’s Canada Day, and my husband and I are off for a little adventure.  In the meanwhile, how ’bout some pictures of Marilyn Monroe in my mother country?

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Ah, the delicious statutory holiday.  In my lifetime, those days have often eluded me.  I’ve been the one in some unbreathable polyester uniform, sweltering in the heat, dying of humiliation in some sweat-stained visor.  Or slinging breakfasts, brunches, burgers and beers to holidaymakers, who are beyond bliss from hours spent in the sun…on a yacht…after making love all afternoon.  It’s like trying to take an order from a pool of water, or melted pudding.  And you’re hot and hungry and tired, and occasionally fantasize about that chilled beverage you bear on your tray, dripping with condensation, titillating with that ice-cube rattle.  Instead of placing it on their coaster, you want to lift it to your parched lips and chug like it’s a frat party, and you’re refusing to lose a double dog dare.

But not yesterday, I spent Canada Day at the park, and then we went to the beach.  I basked in the sun, swam in the lake, and I felt like a knot inside of me was being unraveled.

I smiled goofily as I dipped my fingers in the water, watching all the people around me.  The much older man talking politely with his young Asian wife, as she nods politely and holds their baby.  The rock-n-roll mother in the bikini, fedora, covered in tattoos and wearing huge rings, smoking in an inflatable dingy next to her daughter.  The teenaged couple on the grass, making out like he was about to go off to war.  An older couple standing waist deep in the lake, their serious expressions and tense hand gestures leading me to believe they were having some kind of aqua quarrel.  And there’s me, snooping at snapshots in the lives of others.  After the swim and the sun, Ben and I drove home.  We napped, we ate more, we walked through our neighborhood for potential firework viewing spots.

Something you should know about me…I hate missing fireworks.  And as a result, I like to get to the viewing spot early.  And it’s always way too early, as the city’s website will say 10:00pm, when what they really mean is “when it’s dark enough, and whenever we feel like it”. We venture down to the lookout spot, a crushingly popular one at that.  We got there at 9:20, and it was packed with folks sitting on top of their trucks, families set up with lawn chairs, and us, with a shitty blanket and nowhere to sit.  Which brings up the issue.  Should we go somewhere else? Of course, the minute you climb into the car, the explosions would start.  You’d try to drive closer (or should we go further away to see it better?), and ultimately, you’d be speeding along the highway like a storm chaser, trying to get inside the eye of the explosion.

But who wants to work that hard?  It’s only fireworks.  This is what I’m thinking to myself, as the population of people builds at the city look-out.  On one side of me, some jerky kid has just evicted his tired-looking mother from the lawn chair by barking “It’s my seat, it’s my seat, give me back my seat!”.  (And I had seen enough mothers all day to know that even though they are in bathing suits and sundresses, it’s not exactly their day off, diapers must be changed and sandwiches must be made, and I felt like smacking that kid upside the head for talking to his mom like that).  But don’t worry, on the other side, there was an elderly grandmother whose patience had run thin, hollering at her granddaughter to ‘sit down’, ‘calm down’, ‘behave yourself’, ‘shut up’.  As the time passed, the children were growing restless.  While one gave up her seat to soothe her child, the other was smacking fingers and threatening toys to be tossed into a ravine.  I’d like to think that when I’m a parent, I’m going to be somewhere in the middle.  But I can appreciate the eternity one must wait for these fireworks to start.  I’m 31, and I was losing my grip on my patience.  The cement beneath my feet.  The collective smell of bodies.  The children…just being sticky and whiny.

The time creeps toward 10:00.  Any minute now.  They will begin and then we can go home.  A fleet of people in electronic wheelchairs and scooters arrives.  One was clearly the leader, and proved this by bossing strangers and forcibly guiding his chair into cramped spaces.  I hear him demand the time of said fireworks and I pipe in “It starts at 10:00″.  “NO- it starts at 10:30″.  This is a dangerous situation to be in, because even though you are tired and annoyed, you never want to be the person arguing with the kid in the wheelchair just because he dares to disagree with you and the city’s Canada Day schedule.  But it was like he knew the answer was 10:30, and asked just to prove you wrong.  I dropped my blanket, and plunked down on the concrete.  Ben crouched down next to me.  We were talking quietly, recalling firework displays from the past.  We were remembering the Australia Day spent in Perth, when it was so hot, and then began to storm in the middle of the light show.  We were discussing how we ran home in the rain when the little girl shoved her hand right below Ben’s nose.  Ben smiles grudgingly before standing up.

I continued to sit.  Really taking the time to consider just how important this fireworks display.  It was 10:20, and life was starting to feel as though it was being passed in dog years.  Suddenly, there’s one magnificent burst of light.  I leap up, and then…nothing.  More waiting.  Shortly after 10:30, the fireworks begin, and it’s over within ten to fifteen minutes. When they finish, giving the same notice they did when they began, people give a brief pause, as if another round is possible.  And then, everyone abandons their long held post.  On the way home, I can’t help but think about how this ritual is like so many others.  Exciting and disappointing all at the same time.  That it’s like life itself.  Sometimes there is so much waiting, waiting for something magnificent to happen.  And then it happens, and you don’t want to blink because it’ll be gone before you know it.

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Whenever possible I like to live as, say, Audrey Hepburn would.  Graceful, elegant, chic, effortlessly gliding into rooms and humbling people with my ballerina-like ways.

Of course, this is rarely the case.  While I often hope that I can glide in to spaces, I mostly crash into them. What I’d like is to be elegant to the point of invisibility.

Today, I opted for a delicious sleep in (7:06am, but whatever).  Ben took the car, and so when time came to run pressing errands, I had to walk to pick up the vehicle.  The first order of business was to retrieve my final cheque from my former employers.  I handed in my resignation notice last Friday, incidentally on payday.  I was dreadfully nervous, fearful of retribution or confrontation.   I had  just come from an hour long yin yoga class, one that focused on hips and upper thighs, so when I stepped out of the car, my knees nearly betrayed me.

I came into the building on my jello legs.  And stood in the reception area for a moment.  I could not, for the life of me, remember the work “resignation”.  I just stood there, my sweaty palm moistening the envelope.  “Resigning”? “Resignatory”? “Resignative”?  No matter, I could go into the office, drop the perspired paper purposefully on the desk, recite a haiku in German, and it wouldn’t really matter.  But somehow, I needed a grip on that exact word…like it was a mantra.  I offered the letter to the only person in the office.  And she took the letter without a fight.  Not that I wanted a fight, but in the same way you want to glide all over town like a chic starlet, it wouldn’t hurt for a wail, a cry to the gods, a shaking fist  to the sky, or my favorite, the ‘on the knees begging you not to go’.  “You have to let me go, I’ve just given my reignignatory letter, please, you’re only embarrassing yourself”.  She wished me the best, we shook hands, and I wobbled out on my rubber legs.  And I made it all the way to the car before I realized:  “Ah frick, I didn’t get my cheque”.  There’s nothing worse than having a tense or emotional moment with someone and then pop your head back in and ask if they validate parking.  Luckily, I was able to get my pay without having to pop back into the office with a cute “Me again!” kind of shrug.

Anyway, today, heading down the hill in black leggings and tank top, wearing black flip flops.  Listening to Erykah Badu on my I-Pod, and envisioning myself walking into the building, grabbing that cheque and walking right back out.  Don’t look back.  I was grooving to Badu, negotiating my way down a dusty hill, and imagining the end game. I pictured myself picking up that cheque, already basking in the closure–check mate, bitches, I don’t have to play this game anymore.

I’ve walked this way plenty of times before, but this was a first in these shoes.  It was lightning quick, the sliding, the levitation that occurs before a fall, with just enough time to know that you are about to eat shit, but not enough time to do anything about it.

Lying in a cloud of dust, I propped myself up on my elbows.  This is when I see the blood.  It appeared that my big toe decided to separate itself from…itself.  There was a strange, dusty, dirty divorce on my left foot, and still a small distance to walk.  I stepped gingerly down the path, loathing the fact that my in-and-out plan was thwarted.  This is the moment to walk through that door, coolly pluck that cheque that out of someone’s fingers, and go back the way you came.  You never, ever want to smile weakly and say “There’s actually an awful lot of blood here, mind if I raid the first aid kit for old times sake?”  The receptionist was very kind, she guarded the first aid kit politely, (as if I had tried to cut my toe off just to get my hands on unlimited antacids, PMS tablets and finger condoms). After I was washed and bandaged, I took my cheque, and excused myself.  Not the graceful exit I had hoped for.

It was not glamorous.

Not chic or elegant.

Not adorably injured, I was bleeding like a hobo after a parking lot knife fight.

And let me tell you, with the money I just received, you can just forget about buying a 24-karat gold wheelchair a la post-hip surgery Lady Gaga.

I  limped away, covered in dust and dirt all, my foot throbbing, final cheque in hand.  I exhaled. No matter the exit, at least the job was over.  And I hobbled  towards the future, whatever it held for me, forgetting the injuries of the past.

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Awaiting orientation for my new part-time job to begin, I am sitting across from a very young, very blonde girl.  We smile politely, say hello, and then…a long and treacherous silence.

“So…are you in school?”

“Yes, I go to the university.”

More silence.

“…You like…school?”

“Yes”.

“What are you taking?”

“Science”.

Oh fuck.  Another conversational dead end. Like science you mean beakers, microscopes and phosphates?

Of course I don’t say this, I just smile.  The hamster in the wheel inside my head has stopped to draw up some charts and graphs, and new and exciting avenues to commence with this painful conversation.  Ideas are being tossed around, what are the kids into these days?

“You…taking classes over the summer?”

“I was thinking of taking calculus, but I figured I’d just work instead”.

The hamster in my head, who is wearing a cute little lab coat, (just to get into the scientific spirit), perks up.

“So…what’s the deal with calculus anyway?”

Sweet relief! Her attempt to explain the mathematical study of change made absolutely no sense to me, but it killed an awful lot of time.  I’m not ashamed to admit it, I’m a gal that needs a calculator for basic addition and subtraction.  In university, I took a computer course as a math equivalent, not just because I’m terrible at math, but because of the enormous sweat stains I would be left with after the first week of math class.  Everyone would be diligently writing answers to equations and I would be burning up as if under a hot lamp being interrogated by the ‘bad cop’.   Even knowing that it was a written on my school schedule gripped me with anxiety.  After I asked another student what “whole nos” was, to which they replied “whole numbers“, with the “duh” implied in their tone, I dropped the class.  When time came to get my science credits I took geology:  the official choice for art students everywhere.

“She’ll be okay guys, someone just tried to explain math to her”.

The orientation began, and there was no need to fill the space with any more questions.  But I’m left wondering about x’s and y’s, and what those equations are about, and what they are for.  And it makes me a little bit sad that I’ll never truly understand.

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Have you ever had that moment when you’ve forgotten your mobile phone, I-Pad, carrier pigeon, whatever–and been stricken with the image of a million people trying desperately to reach you.  And then once reunited with your phone, there is not a single missed call. Not a text, a tweet, a like, a poke…nothing.  It’s as if the whole universe is like “No I didn’t need you, let me just check with my other realms…no they didn’t want you either”. Sometimes that is an isolating feeling, a  real ‘feelings-hurter’; thinking that nobody wants you, needs you and that there ain’t no way they’re ever going to love you.  But don’t feel sad, because, shouldn’t your own company be perfectly adequate?

Yesterday I overheard a woman taking about joining her daughter in a colon-cleanse.  The daughter couldn’t face the task alone, and so the mother got lured into it.  Ugh, the thought of a cleanse sounds horrible, reminds me of the cayenne pepper, maple syrup, lemon and water cleanse that girls used to do.  I never did it because I saw the horrifying results, the monstrous behavior of malnourished girls.  It didn’t matter if you had an amazing body or squeaky clean intestines,  if you were in the clutches of something ravenous and emotional.

What interests me is the idea of electronic cleanses; occasionally eliminating the news or the internet from your daily life.  Since I started the blog in March, a huge part of my life has been sitting in front of the laptop.  The phone that my husband bought for me (that I said I didn’t need) has become a real presence.  It’s so easy to check on and obsess over blog stats and to post endless opinions, pictures, preferences.

I’m always connected, always online; delving deeper into the eternal avenues of the internet.   I worked last night, and once I got home, I just sat there, eating in front of the computer, squinting at the screen light, reading about Sid and Nancy.

And I just felt so tired.  I suddenly had my fill.  I shut the computer off.  This information will be there another time, that e-mail will not implode if you don’t check it right away, and the internet is not going anywhere.

I’ve taken on a social media project,  which I love.  I could research and write forever.   But this morning…I  strayed from my routine–getting up at seven, and turning on the computer before I grab a cup of coffee.  I’d bring said beverage into the office, where I would remain for hours.  Firstly, I slept off and on until nearly nine.  I overslept so long that by the time I got up the coffee pot turned itself off.  And without making a conscious effort or declaration, I didn’t use the computer, I didn’t check my phone.  I just wasn’t bothered.  And my god, is anyone else aware of how much spare time you have if you are not fucking around on the internet?  I could have baked bread from scratch and then churned the butter for it afterwards.  I spent the morning tidying up, organizing the office, doing a load of laundry, washing a stack of dishes.   I visited a good friend, and watched her baby, while she had a shower.  The wee one and I watched a portion of the soap opera “The Bold & The Beautiful”, which takes place in a magical nether-world where everyone looks like models and makes statements like “Listen Brick, you know I haven’t been the same since that plane crash on that secret island with the twin brother I didn’t know I had”.

Afterwards I went to yoga.  I love my Friday class, the whole purpose of yin yoga is to hold poses for five or so minutes and just…quiet the mind.

I need that.  I need to turn the volume down on my thoughts.  I get so bothered.  I get angry, jealous, frustrated, bugged, irked–you name it, I can get in touch with that emotion.  The constriction of stress.  The choking sensation of discontentment.  And I’d prefer not to feel that way.

What I’d like is to hold on to that post-yoga class feeling: calm, relaxed, at peace.  I wish I could be carried home, with my eyes closed, not concerned with traffic, obstacles, deadlines.

Once home in the afternoon, I checked my phone, which I had left at home.  Nothing.  I checked my inbox.  Nothing.  Facebook offered very little in the way of messages and notifications.  And I didn’t feel alone.  I felt relieved.  No one was let down in my absence.  And I felt better for my inadvertent technology cleanse.   I then spent the rest of my spare time in the office, searching for images, staring at words, blogging, writing, and making up stories as I go along.  A feast after a fast, and everything looks so much more delicious.

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I’ve developed quite the routine with my friend Trish the Dish, my coming over on Friday, usually after my yoga class.  Just us girls, Trish, myself, and her lovely baby Melody  (the Bold & the Beautiful baby from yesterday’s blog).  I don’t know how good babies are at deciphering irony, but Melody got an earful of humorous soap opera commentary.  But I hope she wasn’t just laying there in my lap, in her little jammies, taking me seriously, and cataloging the information for later use.  “Don’t worry mom, you don’t have to explain men to me…boozy old Aunt Alicia told me all about them a long time ago”.

When I first arrived, I came up the stairs and saw a vintage Joan Rivers comedy album on the kitchen table.

I’m exclaiming my enthusiasm for such an awesome relic, when I notice the envelope  with my name on it.  (Well, it actually says “Hippy”, a nickname from our younger days, along the same era where she was christened Trish “the Dish”).  A present? For me? Fabulous!  When she was pregnant, I had given her this book, to help her with the difficult days.

So, in honour of Trish the Dish, and to the advice I may someday give to her daughter…for which I am apologizing for in advance.  Some advice from the fabulous Joan Rivers–80 years old, fearless, bitchy as hell and she’s got a mouth on her like you wouldn’t believe.

The ideal beauty is a fugitive that is never found.

“There is not one female comic who was beautiful as a little girl”.

“I have become my own version of an optimist. If I can’t make it through one door, I’ll go through another door — or I’ll make a door. Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present”.

“I was smart enough to go through any door that opened”.

“Don’t tell your kids you had an easy birth or they won’t respect you.  For years I used to wake up my daughter and say, “Melissa you ripped me to shreds.  Now go back to sleep”.

And my personal favorite…

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A movie can be so bad that it can somehow become good again.   “Something Borrowed”  is not one of those movies, but despite my cynical sensibilities, I absorbed the film like an unquenchable sponge. Essentially, it’s about two life-long, but totally different besties. An imminent wedding.  An unspoken love. Lying. Cheating. Choices to be made! You know, the standard cinematic experience.

But, what totally saved the film was good ole John Krasinski.  That little cutie pie is always welcome at my table.  But seriously, I don’t want to gush, but as an actor he is endearing, humorous, and and wholly likeable.  He is good as a lead, like in “Away We Go” or “Leatherheads”  but he’s perfect in supporting roles, like “It’s Complicated” or this little gem of which I am currently speaking.  Every time he comes onscreen it’s like “Thank God you’re here, Kate Hudson can hardly move her face, and she’s stinking up the joint with her acting”.  But then again, I’ve had a soft-spot for him ever since “The Office”, a program I have a particular fondness for.

When I lived in the yellow apartment that overlooked the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, I had a neighbour named Glenn.  We met, not as most neighbours do, in the staircase, or in the lobby, but when I knocked on his door with a crisis.  A fashion crisis.  As I recall, he stood there, in a backwards cap, shorts and a hockey jersey. I was wearing a ghastly kimono, but was fretting over which shoes to wear with the ghastly kimono.  He stared at my feet, frowning at the thought of having to choose.  He made his suggestion, and I offered my thanks, spun around and went back to my apartment.

And then we were friends.

He was much older than I, in his forties when I was in my twenties.  He worked from home, and had his finger on the pulse as to what interesting music was out there.  He downloaded scads of amazing albums–of fantastic artists that no one has ever heard of.  I’m going to age myself a bit here, but this was in a time when it was relativity unheard of to get television programs on the internet.  But this guy…my god, this guy had anything you ever wanted to watch ever.  You make a vague reference to a album you haven’t heard in years and the next day it would be taped to the front door. It was an education is popular culture.  We developed a mutual fondness over the American version of “The Office.  I was seriously into the will-they or won’t-they storyline with Jim and Pam.

My poor neighbour was having his own will-they or won’t-they concerns about us.  But to me, he was the best friend a girl could have.  Which of course, is the last thing a man with a crush wants to hear.  I once came home with another man, and as I was walking up the drive, I noticed  my neighbour peeking out the window. He was watching us like he was the Grinch sneering over Whoville.  And it was then that I knew that we couldn’t really be friends.

And as you do in your early twenties, when faced with discomfort or adversity, you shove a handwritten note under the door explaining why you can’t hang out anymore.  And then, the waters were muddied, and I lost a kindred spirit.  But then again, it does tie into the notion that men and women can not truly be friends.

Jim and Pam were friends, Harry and Sally were friends. In “Something Borrowed” , Rachel is mooning over her best friend’s fiance, (who in flashbacks we learn was equally as smitten with her and equally as incompetent as her to make a move).  Meanwhile Rachel has a wise-cracking, super supportive friend in Ethan, who–(I’m spoiling it, don’t worry, it’s not much of a surprise) professes his love to her, saying “You are home to me”.  And she’s like, “Yeah…but I’d really rather just break up this engagement because that makes for a better movie”.

And it breaks your heart when someone professes their love to you.  You wish that you could accept it.  Love them because they love you.  Because you already know them.  Because they live next door.  Because it would be easy.  But the heart wants what it wants, and in that equation, there are an awful lot of nice guys who confess romantic feelings, and are rejected for the sake of some jack-ass that will never treat her like they would have.

I bumped into Glenn a few weeks later, in the stairwell.  I was heading down with books, he was coming up with groceries.

“Hello”, I smile.

“Hi”, his response is so terse it comes out almost as a ‘h!”.

“How are things?

“Fine”.

“That’s good”.

There’s a silence, and the awkward jingling of keys.

“How’s…how’s everything going with Jim?…With Jim and Pam?

He smirked.  “They just can’t seem to work it out”.

“Who can?” I shrugged.

“Maybe…come round and catch up…with Jim and Pam”.

“I’d like that”.

And I barreled down the stairs, off to catch the bus.  I knew I’d stop by that night, sit on his couch and watch “The Office”.  I knew that we’d be friendly again, but not really friends.  We did not belong to each other, we were simply on loan.  Something borrowed until the real thing came along.

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Attention span, you are as fleeting as a summer breeze.

I have a list.  I have not yet crossed anything of said list.  I am busy, yet I am accomplishing nothing.

It seems I can’t finish anything.  Not even the leftovers I brought home from last night’s dinner.  It’s just laying in the plastic container, looking as though a wild badger had a go at consuming it before also getting bored with the process of biting, chewing and swallowing. Focus wise…I’m drawing a bit of a blank.

…maybe I should go for a walk, maybe I just need to clear my head.  But, time away from the computer is time wasted.  It’s better to just stare blankly at the laptop until…words shoot out of your eyes and pierce the screen.

…maybe I should tweet something or absentmindedly like things on Facebook.

…but I want to work, get things done, cross things off the list, but my attention span holds me back and takes me off track.

Ordinarily, I am really at home when I’m at my desk, making lists and immediately destroying them, and looking fabulous while doing it.

But not today.  Mark the date on your calender y’all, July 8, 2013, the day my attention span walked out that door and out of my life.  Now it’s hitchhiking somewhere along the highway, moving further and further away from me.  And the whole things just makes me so sad.  I really needed that son-of-a-bitch to stick around.

And so, I will conclude, publish this sorry excuse of a blog, just to cross something off the goddamned list.  (In fact I did complete something that wasn’t on the list, so I wrote it down only to immediately cross it off.  I’m not proud of myself).   But don’t worry.  I’ll get by.  I heard that Gloria Gaynor’s disco classic “I Will Survive” was actually about her attention span.  At first she was afraid, she was petrified but she grew strong and learned how to get along.  And she survived.  And so will I, I’ve already added it to the list.

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As you can tell, though I am immersed in the technological, social media world, I am firmly grounded in a retro-vintage kind of realm.  My friend Elaina had made mention of this the other day, the irony of my new lifestyle.  I mean, I still have a land-line.  I buy minutes for my mobile phone at a gas station.  People ask me for my number, and I give my home number, forgetting that people don’t really call each other anymore.   I heard on CBC2 that apparently it is considered poor manners to leave a message on someone’s mobile voice mail.  Oh brother.  What is happening to the world that you can’t leave a meandering message?

I miss that…the phone ringing and the mindless gabbing.  I have one friend who does not have a mobile phone, and she even leaves me messages on my answering machine.  (I really appreciate that girlfriend!)

Though my career is becoming extremely internet dependent, I still yearn for the retro elements of past eras. I miss record stores, good manners, doctors recommending cigarettes, and rotary phones.  I used to own a fire engine red rotary phone, which I loved…you know, until you had to call a government agency and you had to, oh I don’t know…press one or something.  And then you find yourself screaming “I JUST WANT TO TALK TO A REAL PERSON” into your vintage phone.  Which is not look I was going for.

So, as it stands, the land line is feeling a bit shipwrecked.  There’s not a lot of incoming action.  The occasional long distance calls, and a lot of telemarketers and my mother.  Oh, and my one friend without a mobile phone.  The phone rang the other evening, and I was preparing myself to politely dismiss someone selling products direct from their office in a call center in the third world.  And then I realize that I am getting a text message.  Through the land line.  This happened once, the summer before, when I was living at my parent’s house.  Twice the phone rang, and a robot voice asked me if I could “possibly switch shifts”, and the other time to invite me to some “candle party”.  This must be nice for folks like Rosie from “The Jetsons“; times must be tough for futuristic characters whose present is not as futuristicy as once predicted in the past.  But I must admit, I have to wonder if the robots ever see the scripts and say…”I couldn’t possibly say that”.  For when I accepted the text through the phone, I was asked a most personal question.

“What kind of IUD do you use…copper or hormonal?”.

I’m sorry, but did a robot just call me to ask about my method of birth control? Can robots even get pregnant?  And…if it wasn’t a nosy Rosie calling me about the brand my uterus prefers, who would text me that?

Luckily, the caller had the good sense to send an email as well. And so a memorable conversation was carried on via instant message.

I offered the best advice I could, made recommendations with care.  And ultimately, I suggested that when the day came, to make sure you have a pashmina and large sunglasses for before, after, and hell, even during.  Because it’s dignified.  Because it’s a little bit ladylike. Just because it’s fabulous.  I’m kind of old school that way.

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Soon my sister-in-law will be in the country, and I’ve been busy arranging every detail.  Booking hotels, planning routes, and making reservations.  I called this restaurant yesterday, one of my all-time favorites, to ensure that we had the best possible table.  And then I had the most offensive, surreal customer service experience of my life.

Firstly, let me just say, that if I call you–to order pizza, check on my student loan, ask a question at the bank or immigration office, or even to make a reservation, I’m going to ask you how you are.  People seem to struggle with this.

They’re like: “Thank you for calling blah, blah, blah, this is blah, blah, how can I assist you?”.

I’m like “Good morning/afternoon, how are you?”

They’re like…(significant pause)…..”Fine?”

There’s this level of disconcerted suspicion, my asking how you are.  I’m just trying to establish a bit of friendliness, acknowledge their humanity. Perhaps they’d prefer not to be reminded that they are a person.  But in all my years of work in the customer service, I appreciate politeness.  I appreciate kindness, compliments–”How are you today”, “Thanks for the great service”, what have you.    My husband rolls his eyes in embarrassment whenever we go out for a meal, I’m always cleaning up the table, stacking plates nicely and thanking the server profusely.  In every hotel we ever stayed in, he always implores me to not clean up the hotel. But, I’ve done these jobs, and it’s just nicer that all the towels are in the tub.  I’ve occasionally stripped the bed , but then I stopped out of fear that the housekeeper would think something freaky had happened on the sheets, when it was just a girl with a colorful job history, who understands your pain…and is probably being a little too helpful.

When my husband and I were living in Australia, we did a big road trip up the Western coastline over Christmas holiday.  On New Year’s Day, we were driving along the highway in the blistering sun, holding take-away lattes and sitting in comfortable silence, when a zippy little compact car passes our lumbering camper-van at extremely close range.  Rocks and pebbles pelt the vehicle.  It takes a couple minutes for us to notice the fist sized hole in the back windscreen.  When we do, we both gasp and gape, and Ben immediately pulls to the side of the road.  Amid the black flies and t-shirt drenching heat, there is not another car within sight.  The entire screen is shattered, and making this horror-movie type groan.

My husband, being part Macgyver, springs into action, immediately running over the glass with the duct tape he always insists you bring on holidays.  “This is why you always need duct tape”. he says before getting to work on saving the day.

When the glass is moderately secure, we get back on the road in search of a roadhouse.

No, not that kind of Roadhouse, sheesh, if only!

Of course, in Australia, you can travel for many, many miles without seeing…anything really.  There may not be a roadhouse for a very long time.  Okay…one more.

Jeez Louise would you look at those jeans! That fly goes on than longer the legs on that blonde in the bad wig, who’s trying to get a piece of the the Swayze action.  Ahem, my apologizes.  There’s just something about Patrick Swayze that makes me digress.  At long last, somewhere in the middle of nowhere we find a payphone, and fresh rolls of duct tape.

While Ben tries to fashion something out of the tape, a cardboard box, a Swiss Army Knife, I call the rental agency. Of course, I greet the person who answered with warmth,  acknowledging humanity,  and explaining the information in a clear and detailed manner.

“And what exactly do you want me to do about it?”.

I look over at Ben, who has his ‘project face’ on, and see that he is fashioning a rather fortress-like facility out of tape and shattered glass.

“Well…I guess we just wanted…to tell somebody”.  He grumbled about not being able to do much, on account of it being a holiday. He could not have sounded less interested and seemed even less impressed by the sound of my voice on the phone.  “It’ll take days to sort this out” he says, and I try to interrupt:  “”It’s okay, we can make do, we just wanted to let you know that it happened…(you jerk off)”.

When we returned the vehicle, the back end wrapped in cardboard and duct tape, we brought photos of the damage. I even brought the offending rock in a small plastic bag.  In the end though, it was all unnecessary, our insurance covered it, and they didn’t seem to care much at the rental office.  What did I want from that grumbling voice on the phone, while huddled in a smelly pay phone, being attacked by flies like I was Andy Dufresne in “The Shawshank Redemption”?

“Is everyone OK? Is there anything I can do?”

That’s all.  There really was nothing that he could do. I appreciate that there’s nothing worse than working on a holiday.  I would be grumpy too.  But not grumpy enough to not give a shit about someone possibly stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

Okay–”Where is she going with this?” You wonder. “Whatever happened to the restaurant reservation at the beginning of the story?” You implore.  “Will she show more pictures of Patrick Swayze in ‘Roadhouse’?” You query.

Well…I’m not entirely sure where I’m going either, but I do know one thing is for certain.

I call the restaurant, and when someone answers, there is an inaudible mumble.  And then silence.

“Oh, I’m sorry? Is this BlahBlahBlah?”

“Yuh”

“Okay, how are you this afternoon?”

(silence).

“(clears throat) Um, I was hoping to make a reservation”.

“Tonight?”

“No, for a few weeks from now, but I wanted to get a great table with a good view”.

“When?”

“On this date, for five people at seven pm”.

“Uh-huh”.

“Okay…so I’ll just confirm the name, date, the time and the guest numbers”

(Silence).

“You got all that?”

(Grunt).

“Well thanks very much”.

(Silence).

And then I literally had to hang up on the sound of passive breathing.  I was totally rattled by the experience.  If I had to put money on it, I reckon it was a teenager working in the kitchen and no one else was around to answer the phone.  But it bothered me enough to call back this morning.  Not to complain, but to let them know, as so no one else would get that treatment.  I’m glad I did call, because he had made a reservation for seven people at five pm, there was no mention of specific seating, and no name.  We would have shown up that night, on my sister-in-law’s first holiday in Canada, and I would have had to go all Roadhouse on their asses. And I’d hardly be dressed for the occasion, and that would pick me off even further.   Because if you don’t know the Roadhouse policy, I’m going to only say it once: ‘be nice, until it’s time not to be nice’.  It’s not time to not be nice yet…and if you cross me after I have been considerate and polite…I will high-kick you in the face, right through the phone, and you will not see it coming.

Images Courtesy of Google/ Personal photos courtesy of Ashcroft…Roadhouse!

To say the least, I am tickled pink to have been presented with the “Very Inspiring Blogger Award”.  It’s such an honor, and it makes me feel like a million bucks and a movie star all rolled into one.

A heaping portion of thanks, and a big huge hug to Reject Reality.

http://rejectreality101.com/2013/07/11/another-very-inspiring-blogger-award/

Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am very grateful.  “Pin Up” is a labour of love, and I’m happy if it brings good humor into the lives of others.  Okay, that being said, I’m going to do some cutting and pasting here…

Rules

1. Thank the person who nominated you.

2. Add The One Lovely Blog Award / The Very Inspiring Blogger Award to your post.

3. Share 7 things about yourself.

4. Pass the award on to 10 nominees.

5. Include this set of rules.

6. Inform your nominees by posting a comment on their blogs.

Seven Things About Myself (Which I found difficult, because I share so much on the daily)

1) My favorite film is “Annie Hall“, “Royal Tenenbaums” is a close second

2) Twitter intimidates me #notcoolenoughfortwitter

3) My favorite television program is “30Rock” (Tina Fey is my hero)

4) I am naturally a bit of a pessimist, I have to work on being an optimist.

5) If I could travel to only one more place in my life, I’d choose Paris

6) I curse like a foul mouthed fish monger when I drive

7) I used to smoke, watching old movies makes me miss cigarettes.

Ten Blogs that Inspire Me

1) Room One

2) Cordelia’s Road Trip

3) Cultural Life

4) ReMINDers

5) that british babe

6) A Spectacular Life

7) My Old Addiction

8) A Day in the Life of Shareen A.

9) The Happy Lifeaholic

10) Anchors & Freedom

There are so many amazing blogs out there, but a lot of the fine folks on this list have been so supportive with excellent comments and feedback.  I wish all the writers out there the knowledge that their hard work is not in vain.  May you have many readers who love you, and whom you love in return. 

All the best,

Alicia xx

My friend Sheanna was expressing a need to acquire a few pieces for her wardrobe, but sighed in the same way Sisyphus maybe does when he has to push that god-damn rock up the hill again.  Shopping can be a huge drag, I’ve touched on this subject before–it’s a molotov cocktail of factors: the pictures of tall, thin models wearing the exact clothes you are about to try on, the florescent lighting, and the mirrors, and the change room, my god the change room, might as well call them the “hate yourself” room.  That inevitable moment in the cramped space, staring at yourself in the mirror, under the harsh lighting looking at all your imperfections, those charming cellulite dimples, stretch marks, an unsightly bruise, it’s suddenly all you see.  And why is every time you go shopping, it also happens to be on the same day when you wear mismatched socks or a pair of underwear so big you could tuck it under your bra and make a make-shift one piece bathing suit?  None of this applies to me of course, ’cause my body is fucking amazing.  I actually leave the door open just in case someone wants to sneak a peek at perfection.

Because I understand the anxiety of shopping, I’m actually quite adept at dressing people.  I offer my assistance, and a shopping date is made.  Sheanna huffs that she wishes she could make her own clothes (she’s learning to sew as we speak).  She expresses a desire for flowing, earthy garments that billowed all around, and would actually look quite good if you were anywhere near a wind machine.

“So…you want to dress like Stevie Nicks“?

Oh my goodness, though I was making a joke, we both paused, as if to consider how wonderful life would be if we could just dress like Stevie Nicks, everyday, all the time.

“We should start our own Stevie Nicks fashion line.  With every outfit purchased, you’d get a free tambourine”

There could be different lines, the ‘Leather and Lace‘ collection, the ‘Blue Denim‘ collection, we could do a collection for teens called “Edge of Seventeen“.

There would be a hat line for sure, and we’d call it “Stop Dragging My Hat Around”.

But really, we want clothes that go from day to night.  These are clothes that you can snort copious amount of cocaine with your band in. You could be loving and leaving dudes like Don Henley or Lindsey Buckingham in these looks, and always feel comfortable and fabulous.

There’s nothing I don’t like about this idea.  Sure, I might feel a little silly in the line up at the bank while wearing a giant, feathered top hat, my tambourine rattling whenever I shift weight on my feet. But at least I won’t feel bad in the change room.  Oh yes, and at our boutique,the ‘Nicks Knacks’, the change rooms are giant spaces with plush furniture, fabulous music and soft lighting.  But you won’t really need them, the items are so loose and flowing, that you can just try them on over your clothes.  And there will be a wind machine.  I’m looking forward to that.

Me neither Stevie, me neither.

All Images Courtesy of Google