im fine

scraping at the skin
blood pools
atop my flesh
hairs being torn from the depth of the roots
one by one

trauma in my belly
thrashing daggers side to side
too full
but continue eating
on and on

eyes squinting
head throbs
the nails now being pulled from deep within their beds
one by one

head shaking
body tremors
feelings surfacing ever so slightly
yet on it goes
on and on

Barely thinking
thoughts pushed quickly from the front
by useless banter
unimportant to us all
A bloody one today
on and on

Until today, I knew that the leaves had fallen but I had not yet noticed.

The Zoo

Upon revision, I appear to have sounded a bit sad in my last post. That is not true in the slightest. My perspective is definitely negative. Actually, there is a possibility that JUNK will soon be renamed CRITICAL BITCH. Which although a bit tedious for others to read may have a cathartic effect on myself. I will reserve my cynicism and complaints for written word via online media rather than oral dialogue. It is true, as Casey has stated, that comfort comes from those you love. From people, not from places. This must be true, how else could people love Calgary, Regina and Edmonton? There must be fabulous people residing in each. I feel very loved, so comforted in love and acceptance from a great few that I feel safe to wander geographically. They are a phone call away, a plane ticket close and a constant buzz of group emails each day. You special little people are complete stability to me.

The problem, it is actually questionable whether it is a problem at all, rather, the issue that I have been facing for my entirity is whether it is feasible for me to be stable yet happy. I can throw a fast ball, but can't throw a slow change up, I can serve twenty tables at once, but my mind is jumbled if there is but one. When life slows down, my mind speeds up. But I am young. The recent debate as to whether I will ever 'grow up', or whether this is actually a maturity factor or a personality factor or a genetic make up, will come at a later date. Perhaps with time and age and years and years and years, I will suddenly develop a gripping desire to have a white picket fence surrounding my perfect lot and house with all the other typical features adorning the picture, whatever they are supposed to be? But for now, I cannot deny that the more that I stand still the more uncomfortable I feel.

Before I started this nursing program, which has forced me to stay still for 19 months, without release, I attempted to satisfy my stability jitters en route. Rather than board a plane from Toronto and settle into Calgary for 19 months straight, I boarded the Via rail for a long journey out west. For three days, I ceased to be geographically still. Those were the most relaxing hours in recent day. So my new question that I pose is, how does one be happy where they are? How do I stop moving? If catastrophic changes send chills through my being, how do I find satisfaction in the subtle newness of each day? And is this settling, not physically, but expectations-wise? Am I lowering my criteria and doing what I can with what I have, rather than seeking more?

Vancouver is extremely captivating, it is also comfortable. The first time I left because it felt, in many ways, too easy. Some have referred to this city as 'lala land'. It is perfect. The buses: perfect, the people: gorgeous, healthy and for the most part pretty friendly, the city services: pretty damn good, the coffee shops: a dime a dozen, the outdoor activities: the best place in the world to live. A masterpiece creation of architects, city planners, human geographers and the likes. A well planned zoo with perfect feeding spots, mentally captivating activities, lazy areas and hamster wheels to kill some energy. But too easy. As new as each day is, the similarities are too strong for one to ignore. It is arguably the best place to settle and live for years to come, and perhaps that is the issue. Perhaps the CRITICAL BITCH in me is lacking stimuli to feed my being? Perhaps the perfection is a tad captivating and the potential for future is a bit too much.

“As unrefined and basic as an animal's emotional equipment may be, it is not insensitive to freedom. Somewhere in the archives of crudest instinct is recorded the truth that it is better to be endangered and free than captive and comfortable.” Tom Robbins

Alright, enough. I have somehow just spilled my coffee all over my glass table and even managed to splash the underside. Pup looks upset. The rain is gone. The deadlines overdue are looming as my slow morning draws near. The darkness of this Vancouver day is calling me forth.

Four months of Absence

Returning to a city that is not quite home has been less than comforting. It is familiar, but not warm as home should be. It is new, but not as exciting as a completely unconquered land. It nearly feels like a complete circle, with no deviations along the route. So uncomplicated and yet, so tedious to stay within the lines.

Perhaps it is the constant trudge of house hunting, job hunting, dog walking, constant movement forward.... but towards an unknown goal. The condescending nature of these searches is enough to debilitate a fragile soul. Craigslist postings are nearly as downcast as the local news. Wanted ads: "Family of three plus dog, just moved here to take care of sick grandma, need home desperately, less than $2000 please!", so sad. "Single male with dog, need home less than $1500", ridiculous. "Looking to meet a random stranger and share a room or couch with them if it means that it will cost me less than $500 a month", really? "Free room, females only", sick!

The task of unearthing my love for familiarity is daunting, but possible nonetheless. I quote a recent comment made by an acquaintance in regards to his recent travels to New Zealand, "its great, but it aint Canada". Men and women will desert their family, friends, and entire life savings at the opportunity to call themselves Canadians, (or any other government accepted term that permits them to stay here for life). And yet, between these oceans there are many boys and girls, just like myself, who struggle to establish life within these walls. Unsure of what may possibly lay overseas.

The Canadian Pacific Railway

A potential link that created Irish-Chinese Canadians?


An Irishman's Philosophy
In life, there are only two things to worry about—
Either you are well or you are sick.
If you are well, there is nothing to worry about,
But if you are sick, there are only two things to worry about—
Either you will get well or you will die.
If you get well, there is nothing to worry about,

But if you die, there are only two things to worry about—
Either you will go to heaven or hell.
If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about.

And if you go to hell, you’ll be so busy shaking hands with all your friends
You won’t have time to worry!


A Chines Proverb

有錢能使鬼推磨 (pinyin: yǒu qián néng shǐ guǐ tuī mò)

Meaning, Literally: If you have money you can make the devil push your grind stone.
Interpretation: When money talks, bullshit walks. Money makes the world go round.


These two sayings that I came across today, make me wonder how my mother (IRISH) and my father (CHINESE) ever managed to maintain a conversation, let alone a relationship. Once living in Canada, they both lost a bit of their culture, undoubtedly, but most was retained. The same would be true if I moved to Japan tomorrow, I would still be Canadian till my death. So, how did they manage to shed their earlier customs to make a marriage possible. Irish women rule the house, Chinese men rule the house, Irish men drink, laugh, fight, the older Chinese somewhat look down on drinking and fighting, the Irish work hard but play hard, the Chinese work hard. I can go on forever, and obviously these are simply experiences I had and beliefs that were transmitted from my own parents. They are obvious generalizations, but the differences are undeniable.

One similarity I have found is that back in the day (1800's), both the Irish and Chinese were brought into Canada as cheap, hardworking labour to build the railway....The railway represents the bond my parents shared. Perhaps this is why I love to ride the train so much.

Tom Robbins spotted in Stanley Park

"Tibetan prayer flags are planted for the wind to carry the beneficent vibrations across the countryside. Prayer flags are said to bring happiness, long life and prosperity to the flag planter and those in the vicinity"

I came across these unique little shreds of cloth during a walk just yesterday. In Calgary's Stanley Park of all places. Some were inscribed with quotes from famous songs, some from Tom Robbins, some from politicians... all with inspirational words. It was one of the few times in my life that I have seen something positive done anonymously. It seems too often acts of terrorism occur without a name but happy deeds are always claimed. These flags warmed my being and made me question what I could do to do the same, without my name inscribed?

Calgary recycles!

This is the best thing I have seen since I arrived in Calgary 14 months ago, by far.
But why are they so massive? From my walk around town, I couldn't help but wonder if people knew what to do with them...I do hope that they came with instructions. I am not sure though, because unfortunately I am one of the apartment dwellers who can't partake in the blue box movement...

Calgary's Forage in Marda Loop

Hefty meals with a conscience.

Somewhat reflecting the principles of the 100 mile diet, this unassuming little shop teeters on the borders of farmer's market friendly and snotty artisan. We made a completely random stop at this strip mall shop in search of something new, something fresh, something 'healthy?' Forage did not disappoint. But keep in mind that I consider their chewy yet with a perfect crunch, fat chocolate chip oatmeal cookies to be 'healthy'. This definition applies only if I can recognize all of the ingredients. I am not shunning butter, creams and oils in my definition of 'healthy'. I am however, excluding other ingredients such as sorbitol, aspartame, MSG, and smoke #7.

Forage seems to have a unique assumption that we, the consumers, are so damn busy and confused that we can't be bothered to select a dinner item from a list. There is no list. Dinner is what they decide a week in advance, available on their website, http://www.foragefoods.com. Perfect for an anxious menu reader like myself. Their options are local ingredients, keeping real with their logo "from farm to fork foods to go". Tonight was chicken burritos with a carrot slaw and curried vegetables. Delicious, but flatulent and fibrous what with the black beans, chick peas and cabbage.

Problematic realization was that Wednesday is vegetarian night. My problem wasn't that meat lovers of Calgary would be heartbroken one night a week. But what the hell is a vegetarian to do Thursday through Tuesday? I suppose some would recommend purchasing a pan, a chunk of tofu and perhaps a package of rice... but what about those who are less than interested in dishes and prep times, and waiting... and dishes? And why the name Forage, when no edible plant material untainted by carcass can be found six days a week?

Dear Reader's Digest

I am very disappointed in my decision to purchase a subscription to Reader's Digest for my mother's birthday. Since purchasing that subscription I have been bombarded with supposed sweepstakes information and country song garbage, despite the fact that I checked 'no' to receiving any information.
I would like to be permanently removed from all of these mailing lists. I could care less if they are authentic, and I "could" win a prize. I would prefer to remain free of the junk in my mailbox. This is making a great impact on my decision to ever subscribe to your magazine again, and I will definitely be spreading the word about your marketing ploys.

Please stop sending me junk. And, if according to your FAQ section, these sweepstakes are not related to you despite the fact that your name is all over the envelopes...then why did they conveniently start sending me information soon after my subscription? And how did they get my mailing address since I have only recently moved in? Perhaps your online subscription application has a flaw. Perhaps you are the ones sending out this absolute trash, or perhaps you are selling your subscribers' addresses to garbage marketers. Whatever the case, you are a horribly untrustworthy magazine.

Now please, remove my address from your mailing list. And do your best to prevent this email from transpiring into another sweepstakes entry.

mm

Diva Balance

I try to eat healthy, get lots of exercise, sleep for eight hours, drink two liters of water, refuse to use plastic bags and shun paper cups. I try to do all of these things for the betterment of both the environment and myself, seriously. Don't even get me started on the chemicals that seep out of tampons and into our bodies, I use a reusable silicone cup each month instead of tampons (too much information?). And maybe sometimes I preach my beliefs, just a little though. Recently, a girlfriend of mine who I was pushing this magical little Diva cup (silicone cup for menstrual flow) on asked me a question that challenged my existence, or at least my shopping purchases. "What skin care products do you use?"

Bi-daily I slather a plethora of cheap, chemical laden products into my youthful skin. Pro Activ cleanses the face, Pantene Pro V for the hair, Dove soap in the shower, Carmex on the lips, Life brand moisturizer on the Calgary dry skin, Muriad specifically hydrates the face, Ban for the BO, Colgate on the sparklies, L'oreal takes off the mascara, and that segways me into an completely new category: make up. I haven't researched this thoroughly, truthfully I would like to remain ignorant a few days longer. But I have heard rumors of massive beautiful fish being slaughtered for the purpose of decorating us gal's faces. That is anything but gorgeous.

Up in Banff for the weekend, I decided to take advantage of this spending haven. It's a bizarre little town set in the pristine rockies yet with no recreational activities located in the town, all a mere driving distance away. The only activities, per se, are drinking, eating fudge or other fine foods and shopping. So I shopped. I wandered into Lush, a well known natural cosmetics store that I had somehow never been in. The sloppy, 'funky' font that they use for absolutely every word in the store (billions since each of the hundreds of products has a lengthy description listed below) was completely illegible to my virgin eyes. I was forced to be that annoying girl who asked the sales associate for absolutely everything. "Which one is soap? What about lotion? What is in it? What does it smell like?" Yes, despite the testers on each shelf I was forced to ask about the scent due to my congestion from this three week cold that refuses to back down. Helpful girls with long winded explanations completely sold me on Coconut conditioner for dry, damaged hair, Helping Hands lotion for health care professionals who seem to do nothing but wash, wash, wash and Dream Cream for my parched body that seems to develop patches of sandpaper skin on a weekly basis. These products were not cheap, but for my binge purchases I was rewarded with Angel Cream, an exfoliating face wash, and these cute little bars of in shower moisturizer that I now swear by. Its been three days since I have kicked my chemical habit and my hair is glossy, my skin is soft and my hands are feminine once again.

I stopped by Community Natural Foods today and took a little stroll down the cosmetics aisle to top up my transition to the new natural me. I picked up an aluminum free deodorant that a friend promised worked in Africa at 40 degrees, toothpaste with no fluoride, bars of soap made from coconut oil and lemon, some natural male face wash for my manly friend and a little tin for my salad dressing that promises to not increase my estrogen post dishwashing. I feel healthier, yet I can't help but dread breaking out into teenage pimples or stinking up the gym like the hippy with locks in the crevice of her armpits. I hope that cavities don't begin to tunnel through my sparklies or that the whiteness doesn't turn to brown. Will my breath expose my natural transition? And will bacteria flourish on my coconuty skin? After 25 years my body may be institutionalized, or rather commercialized to the extent that natural products will not keep superbugs in my bathtub at bay.

This is a risk I am willing to take for the chance to be cleaner. To be free from the chemicals that I can't pronounce and can't even begin to understand. I always wonder if some of them function to create a dependency on the product, if they are the nicotine of shampoo or the heroin of toothpaste. It is likely that I will get pimples, bad breath, stinky pits and itchy skin, but a wistful part of me anticipates that this is all part of the transition. That if i stick to my guns in a few weeks or months I will be free from my Pantene dependence and completely fixed on Lush products for life. My student loans will slowly deteriorate due to the natural prices that range from 50-100% more than the chemical alternatives. But all for a cause that I cannot ignore: my stubborn nature that refuses to be labeled a hypocrite. Diva cup inside, and now aluminum free elm bark outside I am inches closer to achieving Diva Balance.

Painfully Clean

For the past six days I have been on a restricted diet and have been shoveling down 12 herbal pills a day and 30 drops of a random substance intended to clean out my urinary tract. I feel like I have swallowed a sharp stick and its poking through my lower colon. I am chronically thirsty because the drops are probably diuretics, I am chronically hungry because the pills flush me out and the diet is extremely limiting and not fulfilling. Even when I do eat and my belly is full, my mouth is shrieking at me to give it something with some flavor. I love fruits and vegetables but perhaps Alberta is lacking in the tasty, juicy, succulent selection that I got used to in BC. Alberta has beef, and beef is not allowed. Alberta has.... sausage? again, sausage is on the no list. So I eat carrots and well, more carrots.

Six days in and still six days away from the finish line, I dropped out of the race. It wasn't an issue of lack of will power but rather a break of mental clarity. My stomach hurts, for six days I have been wincing from the pain and suppressing thoughts that this can't be good for me. It really hit me today when I was standing in the kitchen, famished. I picked up a banana and then remembered I am not allowed tropical fruit, so that immediately canceled out the mango and kiwi also smiling up at me. I opened the pantry, a bag of vegetable root chips: taro, beets, sweet and yukon potatoes, all deep fried in olive oil, permitted according to the "Wild Rose detox". So I had a little bowl of deep fried goodness only to find myself once again writhing from the shattered glass that was digging into my intestines. What sense does it make to eat potato chips rather than tropical fruit with claims of being healthier. So I quit. I took out the "bad" yogurt, according to Wild Rose, and I had a big heaping spoonful of full fat, calcium and probiotic rich goodness. Then I spoiled myself with a smooth and satisfying Stella Artois, even in the proper tall stemmed glass. Within minutes I felt at ease, perhaps not as "clean", but definitely more well rounded and completely satisfied.

I feel for the women that spend their lives attempting to restrict the food that passes through their lips. Constantly succumbing to the demons that control their hunger pangs, only to start over come morning. It is a terrible cycle that will permeate every pore in her being, it will damage every relationship and overshadow every potential kodak moment. That is how I have felt for the past week: hungry, in pain and numb.

I am not a heavy drinker, I am not a consumer of heavy fat laden foods, and I am not into drugs of any sort. So it is questionable why I felt the need to cleanse at all. I hoped to feel lighter, more energetic and dramatically improved in some unidentifiable way. But each morning I wake with the taste of old man in my mouth, with dry flaky skin and with the energy levels of an infant post-feeding. I feel like a bobble head wandering through this life that people say is mine... yet this week it feels completely foreign and too much to handle on my own.

With the disposal of this fantastical idea of being completely clean, I can regain anticipation for simple things like food, coffee or a silky Stella Artois. I can enjoy conversation and a romantic atmosphere on Valentines day, rather than pre-reading menus and deciding if I can possibly find a meal item that satisfies the detox requirements. I can drink wine, get tipsy and wake up with a fog that will soon pass. I look forward to tomorrow, a morning without scum on my tongue and a sharpness within my lower abdomen. I can now bask in the rays of moderation and enjoy enough to satisfy my want without brushing against the edge of gluttony. And I will still be clean.

25

This is an unoriginal post. But one day after I made myself a promise to post a blog everyday, I am tired and running dry of ideas. I just logged onto my facebook account in an attempt to procrastinate from firing up my brain and attempting to allow the wheels to spin without too much friction. I noticed a plethora of messages stating that I had been tagged in people's lists of 25 random things about me. Ta da.... I laugh at the boredom that people must face in their daily lives to conjure up 25 useless facts about themselves. But yet I wonder if I have the creativity to do the same about myself, with a five minute cap to add a little excitement. 12:05AM right now, 5 minutes starts now...

1) I have lived in several different places/cities: Calgary, Toronto, Vancouver (Kitsilano), Whister, North Vancouver, Scarborough, and Belleville. In the past five years I have lived in more than 20 houses and been "homeless for more than 9 months whilst traveling.

2) When I graduated high school eight years ago now, I wanted to be a writer. I applied and was accepted to Carleton's journalism school but turned it down to move out West and be closer to the mountains. I heard that UBC had a 4X4 pass which offered a season pass to Whistler for three hundred bucks.

3) In my first year of University I bough that 4X4 pass. I also joined the cross country team at UBC and only snowboarded once that entire year. I also switched from Human Kinetics to Sociology and back to Human Kinetics again.

4) In my second year of University I applied to the University of Western Ontario and was accepted. At the last minute I decided to stay in BC. Rather than leave the beautiful province that it is, I did what I really wanted to do and ended a relationship that dragged on too long and dragged way too much out of me. Then I fell in love with BC.

5) My favorite country that I have visited is Indonesia. I spent three months there on a break from school in my third year of Uni. I found the people and the country to be totally bizarre. Perhaps it was the legal mushrooms that adorned my pizzas and milkshakes, but there as something fantastical about the place.

6) A man attempted to mug me in Kuala Lumpur. I had just made a silly purchase of a pink leather purse in Bangkok and stupidly stuffed it full of all of my important belongings. Yes my passport, money, credit cards and all identification hanging precariously below my arm pit. My traveling partner and I were having a recurring argument and I uttered the words "your being a complete bitch", suddenly I felt a violent jerk. I thought she had pushed me into the 12 lane highway that we were standing beside. It turns out a man had ripped around the corner on a motorcycle and grabbed my purse, problem being, my super hero reflexes instigated me to hold on. I was dragged mid air for two blocks cursing at the motorcycle thief when he finally gave up and let go, ending my little joyride leaving me bloody and scarred, but victorious nonetheless.

7) Since I was a little girl I have always hated adults. As I grow older though it is harder to mask, and to deal with in everyday situations. The worst part is that many of my friends are slowly being transformed into this evil, judgmental, selfish, species I dislike so much.

8) I try to drink more than 2L of water everyday. When I was in University my track coach started making me record the amount of water I was drinking because he thought I was chronically dehydrated. Little did he know that he would instigate a complete OCD habit that I still attempt to ignore. But I still find dehydration to be responsible for every negative feeling that might creep through my body.

9) I decided to apply to nursing school when I was walking on the Camino De Santiago in Spain. I decided on a whim to head down to Spain and do this famous pilgrimage solo. I walked 400km in 11 days, ending with two massively swollen achilles tendons, a walking cane and repulsive bed bug bites adorning my hands and face. It was on the second day that I randomly sought out an internet cafe to check which schools were still accepting applications. Calgary was the only one, so I sat outside a store that I was told "may or may not: have a fax machine for 4 hours during siesta. Fatefully there was a machine and I sent off my application.... which landed me in Calgary.

10) I don't love Calgary. I hate driving and it seems that you have to own a car to have a life here. I find it scary at night, I never feel safe walking alone, even during the day actually. It seems that all there is to do is work out, eat, drive, drink, and spend money that I don't have because its ridiculously expensive to survive. I also find it way too cold and I have spent more money on moisturizer in this last year than my entire life.

11) This is the second time I have lived with a boyfriend, but this time it feels way different. It doesn't feel wrong at all.

12) I don't hate Valentine's day, or New years eve or birthdays. I do hate Christmas. I find Valentine's day to be a very interesting and confusing day. I feel uncomfortable sitting in a restaurant full of couples doing the exact same thing for the exact same reasons. But at the same time I would be very upset if I did nothing. Oddly, I feel that I will be cheating on all my girlfriends across the country on V day, I wish they could somehow be here too.

13) I have a schauzer poodle (schnoodle) named Shadow. I got him when I was in grade 4 from a pet store for Christmas. I picked him because he sneezed alot and I thought it was cute. He is 16 and going strong. Just 10 days ago we got a new dog named Jada, she is a boxer. I researched her history thoroughly, ensuring to acquire her health history for the last 5 generations. She is being fed raw food and is basically a completely organic dog...if that is possible. But when I think of all the trouble we are going to and the extra money we are spending to ensure she is as healthy as possible, I wonder if it is necessary? Shadow is 16 and healthy aside from his stinky teeth, and basically has survived on the equivalent of McDonald's for the entirety of his life.

14) I do not know how to write concisely. I wish I could. But it feels so good to hear the click click click of the keyboard.

15) When I misspell a word when I am typing I will continue to backspace backspace backspace and retry spelling the word repeatedly until I get it right. When and if I do find the correct spelling I feel as if I am the champion of the world.

16) Right now I am wearing a brownie dress as a shirt. I found it at a vintage store in Vancouver and paid way too much for it. I can't help but think that the little girl who wore this cute dress must have had the broadest and fattest shoulders ever.

17) I always thought I loved the ocean until I went to Panama this past Christmas and realized I am deathly terrified of it. I don't understand the currents and potential rip tides and such. I now can firmly state that I want to live on a beautiful, calm and luke warm lake.

18) I will be done nursing school in 7 or so months and I can't help but think "I wish I were a writer".

19) I hate talking on the phone. It may be due to my slight (others may say: severe, while others still may say non-existent) ADHD. I agree but also think that it has to do with my 1980 Nokia cel phone that is impossible to simultaneously hear out of and talk into. I prefer to text.

20) Comfy shoes are the most important thing in the world to me. When I leave in the morning I want to know that I have the ability to walk and walk and walk with no pain or problem whatsoever. When I was a little girl I wouldn't wear shoes, we are talking 12 years old... but when my freinds' parents started washing my blackened feet in their bathroom sinks before permitting me to walk on their carpets, well I stopped being their friends. And soon after I started wearing shoes.

21) I went to boarding school. In the first year I loved it. In the second year I was there I was on a trampoline when a massive 6 foot 200 lbs boy was suddenly 15 feet in the air heading towards me in a bellyflop position. I kicked my legs up to block him but he grabbed my foot and wrenched it to the side tearing the ACL, PCL and MCL in my knee. I found that year depressing to say the least.

22) I wish I were an artsy fartsy writer and master of many more art forms, but I still can't stop identifying myself as a jock.

23) I really like muay thai. It feels completely natural to hit and kick things in a perfectly controlled rage. But my commitment to training is like an unhealthy relationship. It's all or nothing, when I train I don't do anything else. Right now it's nothing and I am okay with that.

24) I used to smoke and every time I have a coffee I wish I still did.

25) I wish I could sing. I hear the potential for a beautiful voice in my head but when I open my mouth I sound like a seven year old girl who is being beat up by her older brothers. Maybe I have to come to terms with some things from my past before I can find my true voice. Maybe I just have a bad voice.

12:54AM, way too time consuming. I must learn to write more with less. Another day.

A tiny bundle of massive commitment

She is the softest, sweetest, most adorable package of commitment that I have ever received. She is mine. Restatement, she is ours. My boyfriend and I have just purchased a baby, for a pricey sum greater than the value of my 1993 Geo Metro, she is expected to run nearly as long and with added bonuses. A dark brown brindle with passionate chocolate eyes and a surreal blackness across her face, my new love. For a girl with a self-professed heart of steel, I have easily crumbled in her paws.

But back to the commitment, the enormity has yet to hit me and I worry that I will one day face the similar situation a friend and her boyfriend faced. Upon a sudden and painful breakup they were faced with the challenge of sharing their baby, a three year old mutt. After only three months of this mutual parenting of one dog in two different cities, she decided to back down and acquire a new, and personally owned pup. I dread this situation becoming my own. I think we are different, but then again, who actually thinks of themselves as the same as another?

Aside from the fear of commitment that this little puppy drags out of me, I am also a little nagging bitch that erupts on a minute by minute basis. After 16 years of raising a schnoodle of my own, I feel that somehow my brain is stacked full of knowledge that my boyfriend will never comprehend. Therefore, it is my responsibility to inform him, remind him, and nag him until he snaps at me, which he miraculously has yet to do, for I guarantee that my patience would be less than parallel. I somehow don't think that the pup can understand his "sit" as well as mine, I don't think he has the skill required to have the pup perform the basic bathroom habits outside the door, I don't believe he knows quite correctly how to walk her when it is quite apparent that at 9 weeks there is no likelihood of her being able to walk on a leash at all. I am a bitch, more likely a cow, whatever I am, I am something horrible that is growing more and more unbearable daily. Perhaps I will explode, and spew a pile of rubbish smelling phlegm across our apartment. Or if luck is on my side, perhaps I will transform. Perhaps I will relax and let "him" fumble through the joys of new pet ownership without my snarky comments. I will hand him the leash, give him permission to walk the pup alone, permit him to call her when he sits upon the couch, perhaps I will allow him to do the same as I do and make mistakes without the facing the rath from hell, aka me.

Her name is Jada, her name means "protection, love and attracts money". Three wonderful things that we all deserve a little more of. I can only pray that my boyfriend will not be the one requiring protection from my barking, that he will not find the pup's love to be more perpetual than mine and that we both will not be sapped of funds when Jada continues to grow and grow and grow whilst consuming mass amounts of pricey organic BARF raw food. She will protect us, strengthen our love and attract a wealth of funds for us to enjoy each day without a single responsibility to drag us apart.

Red in the face

So I woke up early this morning when it still felt like a blistering -20 and took the pup out for a quick jaunt. Down jacket, mitts, ugly emu boots, the whole shebang on April 20th, bizarre....
Inside my head I was bitching and swinging left hooks at the thought of another day at a desk with a million pieces of paper scattered before me....
Another couple years of this brought on a lack of motivation to get back to it and found me nearly knocking over the sweetest little woman (or from behind she appeared this way).
She made a slow turn to face me, vacant stare, wig placed crooked atop her crown and 4 dashes of red lipstick placed high on her cheeks for unknown reasons....
Pure and complete isolation, painted in and on her face....
She looked at me as if she may know me, or perhaps had never seen me before, she did not quite know......
She looked at the pole as if it might be a bus stop, or perhaps was just a pole, and what was she waiting for and what IS a bus?
And she made me wonder.
Is her mind controlled by sedating medications, or is she in need of meds that will somehow modify her dopamine, or other neurotransmitters in MOA unknown ways that may or may not improve her quality of life. Why do we have to manipulate what other cultures view as a natural progression. Or have we been manipulated, aka intoxicated, so much that there is no natural progression hence more.
Her lipstick adorned cheeks just made me frustrated and added more thoughts to my swirling anxiety, but she did awaken me to see that right now, I don't have it that bad and should get back to studying so I can understand her, and her mind and the meds that are being pushed through her sweet pursed lips where that lipstick should be.

hungover babble on long term goals...

"Short term goals are important to help you to achieve long term goals." A few drinks in, good mood, heavy words uttered from the rear. They instigated a swirling, a colliding of thoughts, a mass confusion.

I have a disorder that prevents me from being able to see life in the long term. I think it is related to death having been so close. Having touched my cheek and blown on the back of my neck as a reminder that long term is sometimes interchangeable with never. That sometimes you can plan everything for the long term and achieve or enjoy nothing each day. And that specific moment, that certain date that you are planning for, can forever remain an unachievable distance away.

I think in the now. I plan for today, sometimes tomorrow and rarely for the month. But months and years away, that is ridiculous. It is human nature to sway with the dynamic flow of society, to shift with the gust blown by our family and friends. To commit yourself to plans for years prevents you from daily treasures that are hiding off the itinerary.

I prefer to partake in enjoyable adventures each day. To pursue pleasurable moments and to continue on this path in hopes that it is never ending. Occasionally it sways and the weather becomes unbearable, but location adjustments and other little changes, can find you once again in equilibrium.

Change the World for $11 an hour?

When I lived in Vancouver I took a job in childcare working part time for $13.50 an hour. I had no experience with kids and was not educated in the childcare sector. A friend of mine in Whistler also worked in youth services for more than twenty dollars an hour, I may be wrong and it might have been closer to twenty six. On Monday I will begin a job in Toronto working for a corporate childcare program that partners with big companies to provide childcare to their employees. The pay starts at $10.50, I was bumped up a notch to $11.00 an hour because I have a University degree.

So I am a 24 year old graduate of a highly reputable Canadian University with a Bachelor of Human Kinetics, who has experience working in youth programs and even as an assistant youth coordinator. I am willing to work full time hours with children from 0-3 years of age. I will be spending eight hours a day, with an unpaid one hour lunch break and two unpaid 15 minutes breaks, feeding infants, putting children to sleep for naptime and supervising all of their activities. I will be cleaning their diapers, holding them when they cry for their mothers, bandaging their scrapes when they fall and teaching them their first words. Because lets be honest, when their parents are working 40 plus hours a week and spend most of the time at home sleeping or working, I am the primary caregiver. Not legally so, but I have a large influence on these children's lives that is arguably greater than the 6 or so hours their parents see them each day. So why am I paid $10.50, sorry $11 big ones an hour?

When I went on a tour of the facilities at this unmentionable company, I was a bit distraught by the lack of organization and the poor language, communication and supervizing skills of the employees. All of the employees I saw, (more than 15) were females, and were immigrants to Canada, clearly displayed by their poor grasp of the English language. The supervisor who was giving me a tour was constantly bombarded by silly questions from 40 year old female employees who were behaving like 15 year olds. "Can I go on my break, I wanna go on break now, Im bout to bust from this mornin' let me take a break please", "Where is the damn ice cream, I been told there some ice cream around here?" Granted it was Halloween so chaos was expected, but this was accepted chaos that the children, the employer and the parents seemed accustomed to.

Upon entering a few of the childcare rooms I was a bit worried for some of the children's wellbeing. There was a group of 14 toddlers in one room and only one supervisor who was holding two children and ignoring three little ones who were yelling and screaming about some knocked over train tracks. I wasn't yet a hired employee but I took it on myself to intervene, because money or no money, these kids need help.

That moment reminded me why I wanted to be a part of the childcare industry. Ultimately I would like to be a peadiatric nurse and also have an influence on the health of kids, but for now I just want to help them to learn what is right and wrong, how to be nice to eachother and how to behave, the things all kids are expected to be tauht by their parents. There is no doubt in my mind that many of the women employed at this company are there because they have no other options and since they have raised their own kids they can throw that down as their one and only work experience. But what if their kids didnt turn out alright, what if they smacked their kids till they were blue, what if their kids in jail for murder.... having kids is not enough. I was sitting in the office filling out forms when a woman in her late sixites wandered in. She asked if she could have a job in nervous, broken English. The supervisor, to my shock, said "yeah yeah we are always in need, did you bring a resume?"
"no, no I don't have a resume" the elderly woman replied
I wonder to myself who shows up to look for a job without a resume.
"No problem, I'll be with you in a minute", replied the supervisor.

And this is the way they hire the people that spend 40 hours a week caring for the chldren of Toronto. And not even the kids in low income areas with government assistance. This is a childcare faciility in downtown Toronto, in Financial District where their parents are plugging away all day helping their companies make millions and billions of dollars. These are the children of the working class.

I am willing to take a step down from the wages of a professional, yet irritated waitress. I am willing to take a paycut more than 4 times less than what I was making slinging sushi in Vancouver, but not for long. Eventually I will run out of savings and I will not be satisfied with the emotional fulfillment alone, I will need money for food and shelter. $11 an hour, with no benefits and no paid lunches, no time off, nothing, this will not keep good people in the childcare industry. Even with an ECE diploma wages begin at 14 or 15 dollars an hour. I know people who make more working at Taco Bell.

Kids are killing kids. Kids are killing adults. Kids are raping, stealing cars, doing drugs. They don't go to school, they don't know how to speak English, they don't know how to read, they don't have anything to do. Perhaps, in the first few years of their lives they were lacking in the love, intelligence and nurturing that a caregiver is supposed to provide. Instead they were surrounded by angry women who barely spoke English who smacked them around and scorned at their wimpers for $10.50 an hour. I'm not drawing any conclusions, but it may or may not have passed through my mind.

november first

beautiful sunny day here... crispy golden leaves and a clean fall scent.
I am hating that I have to bike to work and wish I could just spend a day walking the streets.
I am a born entrepeneur.... never wanting to live by another's time.
Tackled the Toronto night scene last night
and got a mind slap to last a few...
cold bitchy girls all with the same tilted pose,
forgot that fun is attractive too
guys with meaty, raw stares made me feel both carnal and exposed....
Couldnt have caught a cab fast enough...
Nigerian born man takes me home
To Little Italy... through china town...
bordering portugal and korea...
beauty is slight.

You are always mad at me.
You are mad at me when I don't visit you often enough.
When I come too often
If I talk too much
If I don't have enough to say,
If I take your plate too early
If it sits too long,
If I touch your shoulder,
If I stand too far away,
If I make a joke,
If I am too serious,
If I offer you another drink,
If I don't offer you another drink,
If I interrupt your conversation,
If I stand and wait while you converse,
If I waste your time with the specials,
If I dont tell you all of the specials,
If I suggest desert,
If I fail to mention desert,
If I offer you 2 pieces of fish,
If I assume you will only eat one,


If I don't bring your bill,
If I bring you your bill,
If I don't say something witty,
If I say something funny,
If I make fun of myself,
If I make fun of you,
If I drop this beer in your lap
If I throw yourplate at your coworkers,
If I drop your palm pilots in your water, no ice with a lemon
If I interupt your email session on your palm pilot
If I kick your black berry
If I look at you funny when you speak to yourself
If I ignore that you have an ear piece
If i spit on you
If I scold you for poor tipping
If I laugh at you for poor tipping
If I walk out on my job because of poor tipping

I am an irritated waitress,...
So I quit.

Dogwalking, a thief's easy-access to your house?

I have many reasons not to trust in the genuine nature of human beings. I have been cheated on, lied to, had money stolen from me and have even had my purse snatched from my very shoulder, but I continue to put my faith in each person I meet until they do me wrong.

I hired a dog walker. I googled dog walkers in my area and began phoning around to find a person who could save me and my dog from the 12 hours he was going to be left unsupervised and in great need of a pee. Eventually I made contact with a woman who said she could help me, I just had to run over to the park to meet her and make sure my Shadow was agile and friendly enough to walk with her group. I rushed over to the park and met her, all went well, except she was much less friendly than the type of woman I expected to be a dog walker. She didn't make eye contact or even shake hands, but then again, she does spend her life with dogs. So I left her instructions with my address, where I would hide my key and where I would leave money for her, and then my naiveness began to plague my thoughts.

So this is where the dilemna begins... first of all, should I trust this woman with my dog. She was in the park playing with a large group of dogs, therefore she must like them a bit, no? But, perhaps she takes certain cute ones home and, well we all heard about Richard Geere and the rats, now imagine my poor Shadow. Second worry: as I lock my door and prepare to leave for the next 12 hours with a complete stranger having full access to my house, I realize we have a fair amount of valuables sitting around. Besides the $17 I have set beside Shadow's leash to pay the dogwalker, there is about $500 in twenty dollar notes sitting on my desk waiting to be deposited. It sits beside my own and my roomate's Macbooks and above our large collection of shoes, jackets and expensive clothing. Well.... add to the problem that this isn't even my own house and it leads to the apartments above and behind mine which are always unlocked, so she will have access to these areas as well. To say that walking dogs is an easy access plan will probably jinx my day. Or worse yet, say she doesn't steal from me today, nor does she harm my pooch but instead she copies the key and comes back three weeks, three months, or three years down the road and takes everything and I completely forget that single moment when I gave that woman access to my little apartment. If she were a professional she will have addresses, keys, photos, details, details, details. I said I still put faith in the genuinity of humans, but I didn't say my mind doesn't wander just a bit.

This extends much further than just dog walkers but to gas meter-readers, couriers, grocery deliverers, door to door canvassers, Jehova's witnesses, and most threating of all: babysitters. If I worry this much about the secureness of leaving a dogwalker a key, imagine the fire I will enter when I search for a person, probably an unpredictable crackhead teenager, to care for my own flesh and blood with full access to all of my belongings. I am starting to understand the reasoning for the torturous process of applying for childcare positions and even for corporate positions within financial institutions; because that too is somebody's baby.

So before I think myself into a mental self-enclosed crawl space, I must retreat to my original position. I will trust, or rather, try to trust in each person that enters my life, with reasonable precautions. I will give my key to this dog walker only because I have met her, seen her with dogs and have her phone number and website information. I will not trust a young student from craigslist who has sent me one reference of a man whose dog she walked for a week, who could very well be her burgular accomplice. I will not trust the man who approaches me in the bar and says he is a photographer and wants to make me a model, yet fails to supply a business card, contract or reputable company. I will not trust a man who offers to rent me his apartment but does not prove to me that he is the owner. I will not trust a boyfriend who says he will pick me up on time tonight when he has been late all week. I will take reasonable doubt, but still try to place trust in human nature. I do not want to become my mother, to be weary of putting my credit card number on any piece of paper, web form or over the telephone. Who worries about any phone calls from telemarketers and refuses to answer the phone if she does not recognize the phone number. She could be missing out on important conversations with long lost lovers because she is afraid. She will not talk to strangers in fear that they will steal her purse, her pin code or even her personal identity. But she will also never again meet someone new, because that stranger has just one label in her mind: evil.

I will not call in sick. I will not give my shift away because my dog will be home alone too long. I will trust this dogwalker, I will trust her until she fucks me. And if she fucks me, I will track her down and force this blog down her manipulative, scheming, non-eye contact making face. But until then, I will trust her.

Waitress, My Curry is Cold!

A man calls me over to his table. He is wearing a dark navy suit and has a head of salt and pepper hay atop his head. He blends in easily with the surrounding corporate lemmings that routinely visit this restaurant each weekday between noon and 2pm. I head towards his table at his request, indicated by a direct glare and a nod of the head. Yes sir, right away sir, I somehow find myself assuming the role of his lunchtime subservient executive assistant, not due to my role as a server but the expectant manner he exerts.
"This curry is cold" he says looking up at me. The only power a server holds over the guest is height. As long as the guest does not rise from his lowly place atop the wooden chair, as long as he is down there and I am up here, I maintain a sliver of respect. He remains seated.
"Oh I am so sorry sir, let me take it to the kitchen and have them remake a new meal for you."
"No, no, no I don't have time for that, I just wanted to let you know that the curry is cold"
"Please sir, the kitchen will heat your food immediately, your meal will be their first priority"
"No, no there is no time for that.... I just wanted you to know, maybe you could tell someone"
"Are you sure sir?"
"Yes, there is no time."
A nod of the head again, I assume I am dismissed. I rush back to the kitchen. As a server in a high volume establishment I find myself walking at extremely rapid speeds, near Olympic racewalking pace, simply out of habit rather than necessity. I walk with my elbows bent with my forearms out at ninety degrees and my hands hanging down like an obedient puppy dog. This is the prime position to poke our noses over tables and see if anything needs clearing, refilling or attending to at all. This is the natural fast paced waitress pose, we all find ourselves in that exact position at some point, at which moment we jerk our hands down to our sides and blush with rosey shame.

I locate the owner/manager, a comibined title that I highly reccomend avoiding by both the employee and the employer and will address further in a later post. I quickly blurt out the issue, refraining from adding any opinion, unnecessary words and whilst maintaining a military tone and pace. "Table 51 has a cold curry, they refused having it reheated or remade, unhappy guest" The owner continues scraping plates into the garbage bin and placing the heavy porcelain plates atop the quickly escalating pile infront of the dishpit, correction by current owner/manager: dish area ("no one wants to work in a dish pit"). "Okay", nothing more, he grips my shoulders and moves me aside to doubly inform me that I am in the way and too slow to respond to normal verbal cues such as "excuse me". "How long did he wait for his order to arrive?"
I stutter. I don't know. I didn't bring his food to his table, a common occurence in this restaurant is that another server will run food to a table as it appears on the ready side of the kitchen. He glares at my ignorance, without question implying that it is now, my fault.

Not five minutes have past when he finds me at a computer screen with a handfull of dirty plates. He takes the plates without warning, throwing me off balance and replaces the plates with a bill fold with table 51's adjusted check. "Make sure the print out excludes the curry, assure the customer it will never happen again, GO!" I race walk away from the computer without closing the screen only to later be repremeded for not closing the screen. But at that exact moment I related closing the screen to turning off the television when a air raid alarm begins sounding: unnecessary and also worthy of punishment.

I return to table 51 where I am greeted without eye contact or comment. The two men continue their indepth conversation while intermittedly sending emails on their palm pilots positioned uniformly within hands reach on the right hand side of the table, just infront of their beverages. It astonishes me that these two men, who I assume to be succesful in the business world, can truly be under the impression that I think they cannot see me. I am standing within sneezing distance of each one of their noses, but for some reason they cannot seem to see above the crown of their heads. No, I stand corrected,how could I forget? I am wearing the invisible cloth I put on with my serving apron.
"Would you like any coffee or tea gentlemen?" I interrupt.
The looks I recieve are vibrantly exuding the question of "how dare I interrupt, and what took me so long". I wonder how each table despises me so for interrupting, yet is upset for the space of time between my visits to their table. How can I get from table to table at a quick enough pace without interrupting, if each guest refuses to acknowledge my presence or existence at their table? I remind myself that I am standing and they are seated, I retain my respect.

"No, just the bill" they return to their conversation forcing me to interrupt once again.
I place the bill on the table and politely reassure the guest that the bill excludes his cold curry.
"No, no put the curry on the bill"
"I couldn't sir, it was cold, you can eat cold curry at home, but its unacceptable here"
"But I ate it, didn't I? Put it on the bill"
"No sir, I cannot"
"Put it on the bill"
This is getting awkward, and the man is not advising me to put it on the bill nicely, he is actually quite angry that I have excluded it.
"Have a great day gentleman, and sorry for the cold curry"
I racewalk back to the kitchen, the safezone when unattended by the owner/manager and chef/angry angry lady with hot plates and hungry look.

Another server walks into the kitchen at a pace nearly as fast as mine with her hands full of dirty plates, she drops them with a thud that I can't believe didn't cause breakage and races over to the big silver bowl. The always present, "big silver bowl" that is always full of greasy premade french fries. She lunges her hand into the bowl and races back to the computer stuffing her face with greasey starch while stressfully punching in orders.

I am tempted to do the same to drown out my misery. Just as I am tempted to walk up to the bar after shift and have round after round of shots, just as I am tempted to stand outside with the other servers and angrily suck back some cancer, but instead I just wonder. I wonder about, and hate on the entire industry, my inovlvement in it, and the uselessness of a Univeristy undergraduate degree. And lastly, I wonder why the man wanted to tell me his curry was cold if he didn't want me to take it off the bill.

I racewalk back to table 51 and collect the billfold to see that he has left me a flimsy ten percent tip despite the excluded curry. If I didn't take the curry off he would have been upset, and because I took the curry off he was upset. I remind myself that I am standing....but he is no longer sitting and I am left to wonder where that leaves our power struggle. Why did he bother telling me his curry was cold?