Randomness…

Randomness, if you will:

I stole, and still have the last basketball uniform I wore in high school. It’s still as comfy and shiny as it was back then. One of the last games of my last year, the buzzer went off while the ball was in my hands. We only needed 2 points. I choked and didn’t shoot. Even though I did quite well that game, I was so angry at myself that I whipped the ball over my shoulder without looking. It hit a girl from the winning team in the face. I apologized, but secretly it made me feel better.

I often dream of living somewhere else, no matter where I’m living.

I love the water and all water related activities, except for diving. I get anxious just thinking about an oxygen tank.

I over analyze everything, sometimes to the point where I analyze my analysis. It’s annoying, and I don’t know how to stop.

I’m always listening to music, everywhere. When there’s no music, I feel like something is missing.

Michael Jordan was my idol growing up. I had all of the paraphernalia - shoes, hats, jackets, hoodies. I still question if he’s human.

I’ve learned the hard way that there’s not always a next time.

Today is Canada Day. I love being Canadian.

I always wished for a sister. Now that I sort of have one (yay for blended families), I wish we lived closer.

I give great advice to others, but have a hard time following it myself.

I used to call the operator at 5am when I was a kid. Seriously. It got to the point where they spoke to my parents and asked what was wrong with me. Before I would call, I would climb the counters and eat all the goodies I could find. In my house, that was fruit flavoured Tums and Flinstone vitamins. That could explain the stomach issues I had later.

I can make a meal out of anything, literally.

I wasn’t allowed to chew gum until I was 11 or 12. Instead, I would sift through my mom’s purse, and chew her nicorettes.

I used to be terrified of butterflies. I thought that since they had wings, they also had stingers. I would literally run inside the house screaming if I saw one. To this day, I still flinch when I see one. Years later, I got a job at the Butterfly Conservatory (sort of). They royally screwed me over, so I wrote a very professional, but harsh letter. This caused much chaos and a file on me as thick as a novel. They banned me from the butterflies.

I can still remember the way the air smells in Barbados.

I get angry when I don’t get what’s owed to me. Specifically when it concerns money. Years ago, one place I worked for made a major mistake and told me to just wait until my next pay, which was impossible. I refused to leave the office without them giving me the entire amount in petty cash. They did.

I feel like my clock is tick, tick, ticking away, faster than I can handle.

I find politics interesting and annoying at the same time.

My unmentionables have been scattered across Grantley Adams airport parking lot in Barbados. My suitcase came out of the luggage claim, flattened like a pancake and saran wrapped together. It fell apart in the parking lot and random people had to bring me my bras and underwear.

I’m not confrontational and let things slide too often.

I’m awkward, most of the time.

My grandparents used to have a cupboard full of goodies for the grandchildren. Mostly cookies, candies, chocolate and the like. I was the only weird one whose goodies included dill pickles and beets.

I’m always the ‘cool’ girl, but never the girl who gets the guy.

When I was a kid, I woke up a lot to my dad and cousin laughing, singing and banging on the piano at 3am.

I don’t know where I’m going.

I remember a good majority of my dreams. I still remember dreams I had when I was young, just as vividly. Whenever I dream about being in a building, no matter what the situation, the building ends up being my elementary school gym. Always. Once and only once, I was able to concentrate hard enough to continue a dream I had from the night before.

I can’t guess someone’s age correctly to save my life.

I’m told there’s still a plaque of me in my old elementary school from when I drew the Niagara Transit Mascot, Floppy the Transit Hound. I wanted to call him Flippy, but they thought it sounded like the dog was losing his mind. I felt bad when I won because I thought I didn’t try as hard as everyone else. I won a bike, a pizza party, and got to be on the cover of ‘Transit Topics’. He’s still kickin’ to this day:

I daydream too much for my own good.

Painting, drawing, writing and playing piano are the only things that I feel completely comfortable and relaxed doing.

I spent a lot of time at my Nana and Papa’s growing up. There was a park across the street that I was allowed to play in, but I was never allowed to go around the rest of the neighbourhood. I had nightmares about what it was like ‘on the other side.’

I still haven’t fixed my toilet.

When I was young, I would get up super early on Christmas morning, unwrap all of my presents, and neatly wrap them back up again before anyone woke up.

I obviously think a lot about the past and my childhood, and still can’t figure out why.

Children continually amaze me. I want my own someday, but am scared of the thought of mini me’s.

Sometimes I wish my dreams were reality, and reality was just a dream.

Ahh, Karma…

Just another day in the life of my transit commute…

Today I was running a few minutes late, as it was so very hard to get out of bed. It was one of those mornings where it literally aches to pry your eyes open, and takes every last bit of strength to roll out of bed. I felt like I could sleep for an entire week. Mmmm sleep. Enough about that, the point of being at work is to stay awake, right? Right.

So. I darted across the street and waited for the bus as I read the paper. I hopped on, and even though I was late today, my shadow rider Purple Shirt was still on the same bus. Literally. Everyday. Each way. No matter what time I leave. Jesus. I’m pretty sure I come off as a total asshole, but you know, I’m not the most fabulous morning person (at all, really) and it’s a lot of pressure to act semi-normal in general, let alone when you see the same person every day. I don’t know why I’m defending myself here, but you know, whatever.

Right, so anyways, at one of the stops a tall, lanky, spiffy dressed man gets on. How attractive is this? Buddy shows his MetroPass, and then attempts to adjust his goods one, two, three, four, five, SIX times as he shuffled down the aisle. I mean, seriously. He couldn’t have made it any more obvious. Oh, and believe me, it gets better. Then, he pulled up his fly and finished fastening his belt. Uhm….hello??? Did that just happen? Definitely way too early for my sleepy eyes to witness.

The subway was totally schmooshed today. Gotta love it when you get stuck on one of those older ones, where the air conditioner vents are broken, so the stale smell of sweat, coffee breath and cologne wafts into every possible corner, making it impossible to breathe. I didn’t have pole to hold onto today, so I had to trust my balancing skills. I could have had a pole though, if the little Twerp beside me wasn’t using it to hold up his paper. I mean, seriously. If you aren’t going to use it, then don’t block its use from others. I tried to reach around him a couple times and grab it from different angles, but he seemed to shift every time I did. I gave up on the pole holding, and did pretty well with the balancing for the bulk of the ride. I can thank my balance beam skills for that one.

Yep. That’s right.

Back in the day when I took gymnastics, the beam was my absolute fav. I was so good I won first place in a competition one year, even though I fell off. I can still remember that exact moment. I wobbled slightly as I was coming up from a cartwheel, and tried with all of my might to stay on the damn thing. Instead, I plopped ungracefully onto the mat below, and got back up there like the trooper I was, and finished my routine.

I know you’re thinking, ‘WOW, she must have been amazing! A fall and still finished first place.”

No actually, I’m pretty sure I was just average. It just so happened that the group they had me competing against was the clumsiest bunch of girls I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure I won all of my events that year. And that’s not saying much for the clumsy girls, because there were some things I royally stunk at, and still won. Go me, go. I ended up quitting, just like I quit everything else as a child (except for baseball and basketball). Seriously. I danced jazz and tap, I quit. I took gymnastics, I quit. I took swimming lessons, I quit. I took piano lessons, I quit (but after years and years, so I still rock at it). I bowled (yes, you read that right). My dad had me in a league when I was young. I actually enjoyed it, other than waking up super early on a Saturday morning and missing the all too important cartoons. I kicked butt at bowling. I think my highest game was in the 280’s. Then, I quit. I ran track and did hurdles, I quit. I played volleyball, I quit (although I still love it, it was more a scheduling thing, as it interfered with basketball). Uhm…. talk about patterns. Hrmmm. Does this explain a lot, or what?

So back to the subway. The train jolted quickly to the left and I felt myself lose the steady stance I was clinging onto for dear life. And watch out if I’m about to fall, because I just let my body take me where ever its little heart desires. That’s right. Dead weight all the way, baby. My elbow found its way into the middle of the shoulder blades of the Twerp using the pole to hold up his paper, and before he knew it, his cheek was pressed up against the slimy thing. Ewwwwww. Pole coodies!!! Haha, sucker. That’s what you get, Twerp, for hogging the pole. As a result of the collision, Twerp’s paper ripped in some places and made smudge marks on his crisp white dress shirt. Best of all, though, was the red line the pole left on his cheek. He looked at me, with his lip quivering slightly, and I shot back a look that said,

‘Sorry, but you were hogging the pole and maybe if you would have let me hold it, I wouldn’t have lost balance and rammed into you like a football player.’

For the rest of the ride, he worked hard at trying to remove newspaper smudge from his shirt and rubbed his cheek every now and then.

Ahh, Karma, you really are a bitch. Many thanks.

Parlez vous franglais?

Wow, so, two posts in one day. I’m slightly energetic today. Maybe it was the Booster Juice smoothie I had, or maybe it’s this crazy weather:

Partly sunny, partly cloudy, partly rainy, partly windy, partly humid, partly dry, partly hot, partly cold, partly partly.

Bleh.

Okay. Buddy across the hall is so loud and so intense, that I basically know the entire low-down, major players and details of his organization. Not purposely either, because trust me, I could care less. Even with my door shut I can hear his phone conversations. Sometimes when he talks to his assistants he randomly switches to French. I still haven’t figured out if that’s on purpose, or a twitch. Hrmmm. Maybe both?

I would imitate if I could, but I royally suck at French. Well, not ALL of French. I kick butt at the grammar part. And I can sort of understand it when it’s spoken to me and even more when I read it. But never, ever, ever ever ask me to speak it. I sound like some kind of computerized nimrod. That’s right. Nimrod. I can not rrrrroll my R’s, or make that bizarre sound from my esophagus that translates into an accent.

Why, you ask?

Well, let’s see. I was blessed with a wonderful gene from my dad’s side of the family called, stubbornness. Oh yes, indeed. My stubbornness is only heightened by my only-childitis. Oh, what a combo!!

When I was super little, my Nana tried to teach me her native tongue, Lithuanian. She bought books, little games, and barely spoke English around me (for years). I was such a stubborn little <fill in the blank> that I never learned.

Still to this day, my Nana, Papa, and Mum speak Lithuanian around me and I have absolutely no idea what they are talking about. Okay, that’s a lie. I do know some words (Like hello, thank you, milk, as a matter of fact, girl, and this - that’s the bulk of it, really. Two of those words sound like swear words in English - if it weren’t for that I probably wouldn’t know them either) and occasionally some English words are thrown in and I can gather what the conversation is about. But really. I’m not going to embarrass myself (like I haven’t already) by telling you how many years this has gone on for.

So, how does this relate to French?

Well, if I would have been smart and learned Lithuanian, French would have come much easier (or so they say). I did alright in grade school, until grade 7 and 8, where my French teacher thought the best way to learn a language, was to colour and learn dance routines. No joke here. I’m pretty sure the song we danced to was called, “Strike it Up” and we had to preform it in front of the entire school. Her name was Madame Murphy and she had a thick, crimped, blonde, side pony tail and fed us stale popcorn. Need I say more?

When she didn’t show up, which was often, we had supply teachers. They generally lasted a day or so, some would stick it through an entire week. I specifically remember my class cutting up erasers, sticking pins in them, placing them all strategically ontop of the ceiling fans, and telling the supply teacher it was hot in there. I also have random memories of my class chucking footballs indoors and breaking the clock, throwing apples at the chalkboard, stuffing someone in a garbage can and then in a closet, which utimately resulted in the breaking of a teacher’s car keys, breaking and screeching of our teacher’s hearing aid, stealing of goodies from the store and stuffing them in our jackets, throwing snowballs at kids and blaming them for it, and so on and so forth. Fun times.

Then I got to high school. My first year was normal. Second year, I got the Drill Sargent of all teachers and that was the end of it. I hated him, he hated me. I purposely got detentions to piss him off, he purposely gave me detentions when I didn’t deserve them (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it), to piss me off. He charged us money if we chewed gum in his class. I would sit at the back of the class and blow bubbles, money in hand. I’m pretty sure he got a hefty chunk of change from me by the end of the semester.

I remember getting detentions from him when I wasn’t even in his class anymore. One time it was for having a corner of my shirt untucked. Really. A corner. He made me get an out of uniform slip (yes, I went to a Catholic school, oh the joy) and I was so pissed that I threw it at him. He gave me a detention, and then I got busted for being late for my other class, because I was busy tucking in my shirt corner. Ah, those were the days. I wish a untucked shirt corner was all I had to worry about now.

Anyhoo, that’s my story about French and why I suck at it. I suppose I could attempt to learn it now, but I have a small amount of faith in my pronunciation skills, and contrary to popular belief, I still suffer from only-childitis and I am still just as much of a stubborn little <fill in the blank> as I was when I was small.

So there.

Milkin’ it…

So I figure I can milk the whole Dear…. for one more entry, because, well, it’s fun, and I’m lazy.

I’ll blame Monday on my laziness, since it sounds better than blaming myself.

Alright y’all, here we go again….

************

Dear Summer,

Could you do me a favour?

Stay here all year, and I promise I’ll be your bestest friend. Forever and ever, babe.

Love,

The Cold Blooded Girl

**********

Dear Woman on the Subway,

Who told you it was okay to wear socks with flip flops?

You look like an idiot.

I mean, socks and sandals are bad enough, but socks and flip flops?

Really, that’s wrong on so many levels.

Love,

The Girl Who Laughed at You

********

Dear Uneducated People in this Photo,

Why am I not surprised?

You did re-elect the biggest dumb ass of a president there ever was.

Love,

The Girl Who Judges Your Bad Grammar

***********

Dear Time,

You are going by too slowly today. Please hurry. I want to go home, pronto and it’s only 9:06 a.m.

Love,

The Girl Who’s Leaving Work Early

**********

Dear Larry David,

I wish I knew you in real life.

Brilliant.

Love,

The Girl Who Needs a Show

*********

Dear People Who Walk Their Children on the Sidewalk in Strollers,

Just because you have a child, and a stroller, does not make you king/queen of the universe.

Obey the rules of the sidewalk like everyone else, or there will be hell to pay.

Love,

The Girl Whose Foot You Steamrolled Over.

*********

Dear People in My Office,

Have some courtesy and shut your damn door if you are speaker phone. It’s annoying.

Love,

That Girl in the Storage Closet

P.S. Guy across the hall - you are so intense, sometimes I think you will implode. Chill out.

**********

Dear Bacon,

You are so very yummy. I love you with all of my heart.

Love,

Your Mistress

*********

Dear Purple Shirt,

Okay ya, seriously. Stop being all Twilight Zonish <queue music> or it’s over.

Love,

The Girl Who Is Apparently on the Exact Same Schedule.

***********

Dear Women Who Wear Yoga Pants with High Heels,

Seriously?

No, really.

SERIOUSLY?

If you had real friends they wouldn’t let you out in public like that.

Love,

The Girl Who Wonders What The Hell Possessed You To Make That Decision.

***********

Dear People Who Argue with Me About Stupid Things That I Have No Control Over,

Stop.

I’m smarter, therefore, I win.

Love,

The Champ

***********

Dear Creepy Dude That Felt the Need to Interrupt a Perfectly Good Night,

1. Introducing yourself with your FORD Car Salesman business card is not attractive.

2. Your Sammy Davis Jr. hairstyle is sooo outdated and looks ridiculous on you.

3. You were pretty much the biggest A-hole I’ve met in a long time - and so was your loser friend.

4. ‘You have nice eyebrows’ is not a good pick-up line.

5. I don’t give a shite that no girls ever call you back, and now I know why.

6. You annoyed us so much that we actually went to another bar so we didn’t have to be reminded by your complete assholeness. Good job, buddy. High Five.

6. YOU FAIL in every possible way.

Love,

The Girl With the Nice Eyebrows

*************

Dear Toronto,

See above letter.

It has to get better than that.

Come on. This is ridiculous. For real.

I’m not asking for much here. Jesus.

Love,

The Girl Who Wonders Where All of the Normal People Are Hiding (and by normal I mean like me).

************

Dear Sanity, Where are you?

Okay, so I totally swiped this idea from mamatulip… because, well, it’s brilliant, I love it, and want to try it out for myself. So here we go!

Arightly. To start it off, in honour of brilliance:

Dear Mamatulip,

You rock my socks!

Love,

Your Schnast Sistah!

****

Dear Gross Man on Subway,

Watching you rub your butt on the pole up and down and side to side made me throw up in my mouth a little. Try a rub and tug or a back scratcher and call it a day.

Love,

That Girl Who Looks Disgusted Sitting Behind You.

*****

Dear Patios and Beer,

Stop tempting me. You only get me into trouble.

Love,

Your Best Customer.

*****

Dear Rude Man on Transit,

How dare you grab my shoulder, pull me back, cut in front of me and watch the door slam in my face instead of taking one split second of your precious time to be a decent person and hold it for me. It was rude and don’t pretend like you didn’t notice that both of my hands were full.

Congratulations, *DING! DING! DING!* you have won a gold medal for today’s biggest asshole. Your parents would be proud.

Love,

The Girl Who Hates You.

*****

Dear Sanity,

Where are you?

Love,

Silentorchestra

*****

Dear Hot Man in My Office Building,

Sorry I’m such a dork. You are quite intimidating.

Love,

The Dork

*****

Dear Left Foot,

Anytime you want to stop swelling up would be fabulous and greatly appreciated.

Love,

The Post Surgery Girl.

*****

Dear Future Employers,

Hire Me! My job ends soon.

Love,

The Girl who Needs a Job, Pronto.

*****

Dear Procrastination,

You are my closest friend.

Love,

(I’ll fill this in later)

*****

Dear Work That I Don’t Finish,

See above letter.

Love,

The Procrastinator

*****

Dear Popsicles,

I wish you lasted longer.

Love,

The Girl Who Devours You

*****

Dear Girl Who Lives Above Me,

Please stop singing. Please. I beg you. Stop. Or tone it down a notch. I can’t take it anymore. This is not American Idol, nor a soundproof apartment building.

Love,

The Girl Who Thinks You Need Singing Lessons.

*****

Dear Barbados,

I miss you immensely and will see you next month. Save me a sweet spot on Accra Beach. Don’t forget my rum and coke, flying fish and macaroni pie. Yummers.

Love,

Your Biggest Fan

*****

Dear Hot Guy on My Transit Route Home,

Where the hell have you been hiding? Yes, I did a double-take. Yes, I followed you to the second bus. Yes, I checked your ring finger. Yes, I checked what book you were reading. Yes, I turned and checked which building you went in when we got off at the same stop. And finally, YES: I’m bored and have nothing better to do.

Love,

Your New Friend

Put de lime pon dut gyal’s rum

Last weekend, my mum took me to the prestigious Barbados Charity Ball (unfortunately in Toronto and not Barbados, but amazing none the less). Wow, did it ever make me miss the place. Seriously. By the end of the night my acquired Bajan accent came shining through. I believe the rum and cokes (don’t forget the lime!) helped with that. Overall, the night was awesome, and was a taste of systematic randomness at it’s best.

It was an underwater theme where people were totally decked out in the fanciest of gowns, and spiffiest of suits, swarming the massive silent auction, fish cake appetizers and rum punch cocktails. I looove silent auctions (I’ve been known to sneakily guard my bid, and/or convince someone else to guard it for me - I can also thank rum for that one) and ended up winning a sweet piece of art (and then got another piece for free…go me go!).

My mum let me bid on a piece that I recognized as ‘that phone booth in the middle of nowhere near Bathsheba.’ I ended up meeting the artist, who just happened to have some Lithuanian heritage like us, and he gave me another piece of his work pro bono. I was hoping for the awesome kite surfer shot in mid-flip …but instead got the monkey shot. It’s a white and grey monkey, standing on a turtle, eating a nut or something of the sort. It’s a fantastic shot, yet slightly creepy at the same time. But you know, what was I supposed to say?

‘Ya, sorry, despite your kindheartedness, I want that one.’

That would have been a major only-child-itis remark.

So back to the monkeys. Oh, the monkeys. It reminds me of those days at Kent House, when a family of monkeys would come out and harass the neighbour’s dogs behind the chain linked fence. If you have ever wondered where the term, ‘monkey face’ has come from, then this is it for sure. They would literally come up to the fence of annoying barking dogs, make faces, jump up and down, spin round and round and then run back into the sugar cane fields. Monkeys roam Barbados like squirrels and raccoons roam Ontario. Monkeys trump squirrels and raccoons, always. Awesome. Oh Barbados, how I miss thee.

Alrighty. Less reminiscing and back to the Ball…

There were live auction items that included an autographed Paul McCartney guitar, and some other things that I really didn’t notice after I saw the guitar. Definitely super cool, and no where near a fraction of something I could afford. I have this obsession with wanting to touch nice things. Luckily, I was able to suppress those urges…for a short while anyways.

Some yummy drinks and flying fish later, we sat and listened to the long list of speeches from many, including the Prime Minister of Barbados (who just happened to talk about the little wee town my mom grew up in, and the other little wee town my Uncle, Aunt and cousins live in). I mean, what are the odds that his first trip to Canada was to Welland and Port Colborne Ontario. Seriously bizarre.

I texted some of my friends the happenings as they happened. For future reference, drinking and texting is just like drinking and dialing…. impossible to understand and just wrong. Yep. Technology made me do it. I swear. Well, technology, rum and wine. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I vaguely remember being on the dance floor with my mom at some point dancing to a song entitled, Sexallent. Ahhh, gotta love it. Where else could you possibly be where a room full of beautifully dressed schmoozers wine it up on the dance floor?

So there I am, strolling around with a huge picture of a monkey and a phone booth and we stop and say hello to Austin Clarke, a renowned Bajan author. Heard of him? Seriously. This dude is cool. He’s taught at Yale, Duke and many more, produced for CBC, and won Giller and Commonwealth awards, among many others I’m sure. His bio is a novel in itself. Anyhoo, he invited mama and I back for a drink, and of course, I was intrigued. So we took a taxi to his place and while we were sitting there I felt a little intimidated but shook it off once we arrived to his amazing house downtown.

I must say, his house and book collection blew my mind. We went outside and shot the shit, while my mom went back inside as apparently the humidity that night was not enough for her. He pulled out a shiny gold cigarette case, and although I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t resist. I bummed a smoke and we talked about Toronto, Barbados, Dollarama, dogs, society and the like. Once we were back inside, he let me choose a nice bottle of red and offered me some yummy Bajan sweet cake. Mmmmm. Again, I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the enormousness of his book collection. So jealous. Seriously.

Ever since I can remember I have always dreamt of my own room filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves (and a must have: the attached wooden ladder), a big ass arm chair, a cool little reading lamp and a sweet side table to place my glass of vino on. This place had it all, minus the attached wooden ladder. There was in fact a ladder, but it wasn’t wooden, or attached, and I’m pretty sure I was foolish enough to point that out. Leave it to me to make inappropriate remarks. Right.

So back to the house… The first 2 floors were floor to ceiling book shelves, arm chairs, photos, and memorabilia. This guy has original Rudyard Kipling books from the 1880’s. The pages were thick and jagged at the end. I opened the book, ran my hand over the page, and wondered how many people had touched it before me. The only thing I could blurt out was, ‘Uh..Wow.’

Brilliant. So I marveled over the collection, and couldn’t help my urges to pull out random books. He showed me his daughter’s old art studio downstairs and her paintings, and told me to check out upstairs. I took the glass of red, yummy sweet cake and myself upstairs to check out various books from the shelves. Some of them had christmas cards from 70’s, old concert stubs, plane tickets, notes, and letters from publishing companies stuffed in random pages. I glared at all of the photos surrounding the millions of books. The history in this house was so overwhelming that the only photo I can remember, probably among hundreds, is that of Nelson Mandela. I read about four chapters of one of Clarke’s own books, ‘Growing Up Stupid Under The Union Jack’ which is totally hilarious and captivating, especially if you have frequented Barbados. As I sat there, I recognized the Bajan tune on the record player, repeating over, and over and over, and sang it to myself while I continued to read.

Suddenly I realized, ‘Hey, I’m still alone up here’ and heard many voices coming from the main floor. Apparently this was where the party was at, y’all. I recognized people from earlier that evening, but was so overwhelmed, drinky and tired that I could no longer trust myself in a social situation. I headed down and strolled into the crowded room in a red wine induced shuffle. I told my mom it was past her bedtime, and we bounced out of there. I don’t remember saying goodbye, but I hope it was somewhat intelligent sounding on my part, if anything. I mean, this guy is the last person I want to slip one of my random phrases of absurdity to.

Ahh, what a night. I’ve ‘accidentally’ left out some classic moments of embarrassment (on my part of course), because, well, there’s no way to get around it with out making me seem like a complete dork. So, in the name of self preservation, those special moments are my little secret (and anyone else that managed to witness them). Shhhh.

Anatomy of a toilet

So, as much as I try to be independent and stuff, there is always something I wish I could rent-a-dude for…. this time around… my toilet. Eww. Toilets gross me out in general for obvious reasons.

The other day I came home and noticed it wouldn’t flush. At first, I thought, ‘Hmm..maybe it’s taking a nap, and will be as good as new if I just leave it alone.’

Ya, obviously that’s some wishful thinking. So I open the tank and find that the lever thingy is broken and needs to be replaced. I come up with the brilliant idea that maybe electrical tape will hold it for now. Yep. I’m no plumber, you know. I can build an entire bedroom set from scratch, but toilets, nah. So then I wonder if maybe since the lever thingy is plastic, and managed to come of with a pretty clean break, I could super glue it temporarily. Seriously. Stop laughing at me. Really. Stop.

So picture this. I’m squirting the super glue onto the plastic lever thingy, not realizing that it was dripping happily down my fingers. It took some tearing to get my fingers unstuck from the lever, but then I noticed the glue had dried nicely all over my hand… fantastic. I rack my brain trying to think of who I can convince to come and have fun with my toilet. Then, a friend reminds me of that wonderful thing called….

Wait for it……

The internet. Duh. To my own defense, I’ve been so drained from work lately that my brain goes on vacation by the time I get home. Really, it does.

So I google, ‘get super glue off my hand’ and for future reference (that is, if you’re brain ever goes on vacation) nail polish remover works wonders for super glue. Then I google, ‘fix my toilet lever thingy’ and ta-dah! a wonderful little YouTube video walks me through every step. Unfortunately this still means I have to do it myself, but at least I know I don’t have to rent-a-dude, unless, that is, if I want to.

So even with all of this information, I still rise as the procrastination champion (mainly because my foot hurts too much to get the hardware store), since my toilet still doesn’t have a new lever thingy, but instead, a string tied to a hanger. For real, stop pointing and laughing, or I’ll punish you by making you fix my toilet.

For serious?

I’m having one of those Monday’s. Well… one of those months… er… couple months? Right. You know, the kind where every little thing makes your blood boil? Yep. Those kind of days are fan-freaking-tastic.

Sometimes I’m pretty impressed with my ability not to freak out on a complete stranger. Mostly the urge to freak is for good reason though, I swear. Really. Most of the time.

For instance, take today’s subway ride. I got a pretty sweet standing spot, pole and all. Behind me stood Miss Thang with her designer everything (fine by me) and her token blue Tiffany’s paper bag (that I’m assuming holds her lunch). People do that you know. I see the same people carry the same <fill in the blank> paper/plastic bag to work everyday and by all means, all the power to you. Some bags are built to last a nuclear explosion, and that’s just damn wonderful, but all I ask is that you keep them to yourself.

So Miss Thang is standing there, reading and swinging her Token Tiffany back and forth, coincidentally right against my bare leg, over and… over…. and over…. and over… (it’s not like she didn’t know…I mean, come on). So, I take the initiative and move over slightly (only so much moving room during rush hour). Of course I make sure I manage a to shoot her one of those looks that says,

‘If you touch my leg again with your stupid bag, I’ll snatch that sucker and have my way with it. For serious.’

So, like I said, I moved over. Then she moves over. Again with the bag. And again and again and again.

So, fine. You want to play this game, huh?

I just ‘happen’ to decide it’s time for me to face the other direction, and just ‘happen’ to pivot and swing my computer and purse right into the knee cap of Miss Thang. Oops. I was really aiming for the Token Tiffany. Really, I swear. I would have found much more pleasure in an ‘accidental’ rip of the bag instead of a jolt in the knee cap (so, that doesn’t make me as horrible of a person, right?) Damn. Maybe next time.

To pay me back for my wrongful ways, Karma got on the next stop and rubbed her alcohol-stenched, dirt-drenched massive backpack repeatedly on my freshly Febreezed cute little blazer. Awesome.

‘Why are there so many Ontario license plates?’

So, yesterday as I waited to get shmooshed and violated on the crowded rush hour streetcar, a group of tourists walked by and made an interesting comment. I assumed that they were American (not that there’s anything wrong with that), mainly from their accents and alpha beta something or other matching hoodies - and from the comment of course, which was,

‘How about dim sum? You know, it’s a Canadian specialty and stuff like that.’

This made me chuckle a bit, because you know, I’m no dim sum connoisseur, but I always thought it was an Asian specialty.

Anyhoo, this made me think of all the funny things I’ve heard from random tourists throughout my life, and I’ve heard many, especially growing up Niagara Falls. Being a border town and all, many of the comments came from our neighbours below, but first to be politically correct and whatnot, I’m not generalizing etc etc, most are great people yadda yadda, and most of my experiences have been pleasant…but I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.

So here are some timbits:

Okay, first off, the most popular vote goes to….

‘What time do they turn off the falls?’

Seriously. After then millionth time I heard this one, I started making up answers. I would say,

‘Oh!!! You’re going to miss it!! Hurry up, 10pm SHARP. Go, go, go! You better make it quick, because right after they turn off the falls, they roll up the sidewalks.’

One middle aged woman asked me once,

‘Why there are so many Ontario license plates?’

I said, ‘Because you are in Ontario.’

She said, ‘Well, I thought I was in Niagara Falls.’

I said, ‘You are. Niagara Falls….Ontario.’

She said, ‘Well what’s Ontario?’

I said, ‘It’s the province that you are standing in.’

She said, ‘What’s a province?’

I said, ‘Okay, here’s your history lesson: Think about it this way - New York, New York - Niagara Falls, Ontario. New York - state. Ontario - province.’

She said, ‘Ya so. Why are there so many Ontario license plates???’

You get the picture on this one. I could continue, but really, what’s the point?

It always used to make me laugh when people would drive over the bridge into Canada in the dead of our 35 degree Celsius plus summer with skis on the roofs of their cars. They were always disappointed when they realized that, no, we don’t live in igloos and no, we don’t use snow shoes and dog sleds as our main method of transportation, and that in fact, the weather here is very similar to most of theirs (which obviously they didn’t notice while sitting on the other side of the bridge).

Another big one I got a lot was whether the prices where in American or Canadian. I mean, hello?! Seriously. If you go to Italy, are the prices in Lira (or now the Euro), or some other currency. Jesus. Some people would actually get angry when their change back was in Canadian, cuz you know, we keep all of the currencies just in case.

When I was just recently in Montreal, I met a super nice American man. He asked me where I was born. I told him Niagara Falls. He said, ‘Ohhh so you’re American then!!! Nice!’

I was like, ‘Nooo, Niagara Falls Ontario….Canada.’

He was shocked that there was also a Niagara Falls in Canada, and continued to explain how he didn’t even know that the border separated us at that point.  Let me point out that this man worked for AirCanada, and had been a proclaimed army brat growing up, which made it even more ironic that he didn’t know where the American/Canadian border was.

Once I worked in a restaurant right by the falls, and a man asked me what time the sun set. It was summer, and I said, ‘Well, really I’m working when the sun sets, but I imagine it’s around 8pm-ish.’

Then he asked what time zone we were in. I told him Eastern Standard time, and asked, ‘Where are you from?’ He said Buffalo. I was like, ‘DUDE, we can practically see Buffalo from here, are you serious?!’ Yes, in fact, he was.

One summer I worked at Fort George in Niagara-on-the-Lake (yes, I’m a bit of a job whore). This job was pretty amazing. All I had to do was dress up, act like I was in 1812, and play piano for the guests. Rock on. Anyhoo, so this person asks me if the grass grew in 1812. I laughed because, well, you know, come on! But to my surprise he was serious. I told him the grass started to grow the day he was born.

At one point I worked in a call centre and dealt with a Gas & Electric company, which will remain unnamed. Oh boy, did I ever get some doozies there.

Once a man called in because he was pretty sure he had a gas leak. So, he called me, and told me he was standing in front of his furnace, with his lighter (lit of course), looking for the leak.

One time a livid woman called in, pissed off that she had made an appointment for a gas/electric hook up at her trailer. She told me no one showed up, and that she deserves a credit since she wasted her day. I took a look at the comments from the technician and asked her to confirm her lot number. She did, and I told her why they were not able to hook up her essentials.

Wait for it…..

Wait for it……

‘Ma’am, there was no trailer in your lot. The lot was empty.’

‘Well ya,’ she said, ‘I have it in another park.. so what the hell? Where’s my credit and where’s my gas/electric.’

It was really, really, really hard for me not to be super sarcastic on this one.

I asked her how in the world she thought that someone could hook up her gas/electric to an invisible trailer. She didn’t get it. She said that they could still ‘cut it on’ for her. I tried to explain to her that you can’t just ‘cut on’ a gas pipe that’s not connected to anything, because you know, as soon as someone lights a match the entire park would blow up. She still didn’t get it.

So ya, I could go on, and on, and on…. but that would probably take me all day.

Oh, the joys of working in a tourist town, where your sarcasm skills are tested to the max.

Is someone making fajitas?

Right. So to continue on with karma kicking my butt….

My day was going pretty well yesterday until lunch. I was starving, and by that I mean ravished. My stomach grumbles could probably be heard in the nearby offices. So my Scottish co-worker and I head to the Pickle Barrel. I already have huge issues with this restaurant, as in, I hate it. But, sometimes The Scot and I go there for $4.99 massive ice cream sundaes for lunch. I’m convinced that’s the only thing that place is good for.

So, I’m starving and order fajitas. Yum… or so I thought. I mean, come on people, how on earth do you screw up fajitas! It must be the easiest thing to make. So the waiter delivers my food, and I’m thinking, ‘what’s that smell?’ Oh. Burnt. That’s it. The beef was burnt to a crisp, I mean, totally black and the consistency of a goddamn hockey puck. Not to mention the fact that there was no fajita spice and the veggies were raw. Seriously people. What the hell? Thankfully the waiter was nice and I didn’t pay. But I also didn’t eat. Nice. Instead I funneled another coffee to get me through the rest of my busy day. So of course when I got home I was at that point where I had lost all faith in food in general, and was so indecisive that I ordered in food that was in no way satisfying. So fine, maybe today would be better, or so I thought.

So this morning I’m rushing around getting ready, and notice my skirt is a little wrinkled. I started to iron, and got lost in some pre-coffee morning thoughts. Then I wonder, again, ‘what’s that smell?’ and ‘what’s that sizzling noise?‘ ‘Is someone making fajitas?!’ Hmmmm. That would be my hand, burning, underneath nice piping hot iron. I’m pretty sure I woke up my whole building as I screamed every swear word that came to mind. Great. So now I’m late, burnt, hungry, and still pre-coffee.

I grab my trusty Mp3, along with the rest of my junk, and head to the bus stop. I just miss the bus, of course, and wait for what seems like forever, but in reality was probably only 5 minutes. As I was waiting I had my Mp3 blasting and read the free Metro paper. I saw the bus coming, stepped forward, and wondered what the hell that sharp pain in my foot was. An exceptionally large man on a scooter chair thingy had run over my foot (the bad one of course, because, you know, I could only be so lucky for it to be the good foot). Instead of backing up, dude stays on top of my foot and gives me a nasty look. I apologized over and over, because I really didn’t look both ways before I crossed the sidewalk. He didn’t move. He told me to,”Get that shit out of my ears, and maybe then I would know if he was coming.’

I told him, ‘No, I will not take that shit out of my ears, and it was an accident, I apologized like eight times, I have nothing else to say, I am pre-coffee, burnt, sore and late, so please let me get on the bus now, or there will be some serious repercussions.’

He busted out of there like a scooter man on the run from the law.

I had a great time dealing with Staples print and copy centre today as well. What a bunch of idiots. Where do they find these people? I ordered online… it was quite the simple order, 1000 flyers, 1000 brochures. Not necessarily rocket science, but I guess to some people, it quite possibly is rocket science. I spent a large majority of my time on the phone (on hold and talking to clueless reps). No one could find the order, or knew about it, and then they did, and then they didn’t, and then they did, and then they didn’t, did, didn’t, did, didn’t…. get the picture? Blah. I mean, the last thing you should do is basically admit that you are an idiot. Idiots.

So back on the subway I go, with a hand full of massive iron burn blisters, and a throbbing foot. Of course my trusty piece of shit Mp3 player dies on me - but I leave the headphones in my ears anyways, with the hopes of it magically turning on. The seat next to me opens up, and a middle aged man plops down beside me. I could see him coming before he sat down, and could tell he wasn’t all there mentally. So as I expected, buddy starts chatting it up with me. I chat back nicely, because, well, somewhere deep down, I actually AM a nice person. He tells me his name and asks me mine. Oh boy. ‘WOW, WHAT A NAME!!!’ he screamed. He screamed my name again, and told me he was going home to write it down over and over again, so that he doesn’t forget it. Although I am aware he is totally harmless, still, that’s slightly creepy. Thankfully my stop was next, I told him it was a pleasure to meet him, and head to the doors. He screamed, ‘WOW, BYEEEEEE! BYEEEEEEEEEE!’ and then continued to scream my name over and over. Surprisingly, that is the only thing that has made me laugh all day.

On a positive note, on Monday I put together and entire Ikea bedroom by myself and am quite impressed. Seriously. Have you seen some of their instructions?

So, in closing, I am praying to the karma gods that tomorrow will be a good day. Please…. pllllleeeaaassseee. I promise to hold doors for people, say nice things, think happy thoughts, and so on and so forth. Really, I promise.

Super Creeps

Well… so much for my good karma run. Done and done.

First of all, thank you SO much to the Toronto Transit for striking and completely ruining my weekend. Really, thanks for coming out. Appreciate it. Yep. Jerks.

Second… I head down to my apartment building’s Freddy Krueger basement to my storage locker (which is sort of hidden in a dead-end hallway) and find my storage locker door wide-open to the public. Someone busted off the entire lock (which needs a key) and stole it. Brilliant. What the hell are you going to do with a lock and no key? Seriously. Stupidity at its best.

I have no idea how long it was open for, since I haven’t been down there in ages (mostly because of its Freddy Kruegerness). I have no idea if anything was stolen, which says a lot about what’s in there. My first thought was to go and get a new lock, which of course I can not do since the stupid transit is on strike and there are no lock selling stores in my area (again, thanks TTC, thanks a lot). But now I’m thinking, maybe I should just leave it open for business and let the fellow jerks in my building do my spring cleaning…..hrmmm.

I’m also peeved that no one told me. I mean, the stupid thing is registered to my apartment, and I know the supers could have figured it out if they cared, but the Super Creeps don’t give a crap. That I know for sure, because they are definitely creepy, miserable and crazy. I’ve witnessed many creepy encounters with them, and they freak me out, way out. They kind of remind me of the creepy neighbours from that movie, The Burbs. I’m pretty positive that they possibly capture tenants that piss them off and store them in the Freddy Krueger basement. Maybe that’s what happened to my lock. Maybe a tenant broke loose. Maybe the lock is evidence.

So now the question is, do I say what I really want to say to the Super Creeps and risk being locked up Freddy Krueger style? Or just go about my business and curse them to no end? Decisions, decisions.

Rockin’ the karma

Yep. I’m rockin’ the karma this week for sure. First an unexpected tax refund, and now an unexpected work from home day (when I really, really, need it).

I ended up on a patio after work yesterday, which is something I generally never ever do when I have to work in the morning. Mainly because I can’t function like a normal human being the next day, and that sucks for obvious reasons. But it just so happened that a friend was in the area when I was finishing up, the sun was shining, and the patio was calling us. So off we went. Some sunshine, some beer, and a sunset later, it was time to get my butt home, pronto. That little voice in my head kept saying, ‘Uhm, hello? Work. Tomorrow. Remember? ‘

I had an incredibly hard time falling asleep when I got home. Could have been the beer, or maybe it was the excessive amount of coffee I funneled during the day. My sleep was no where close to satisfying since it consisted of me waking up every hour, on the hour, nervous that I would sleep in or miss my alarm.

When I woke up I played the whole, ‘Whatever, I’m fine. I’m not even tired. Really. Not at all. Nope. Invincible, that’s what I am. Sure. Yep. I can do this. I feel great. This is nothing. Right.’

I kept lying to myself as I got ready for work, and then got a call from The Best Boss Ever. She wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t drive me in. I told her to feel better, and that I would hop on transit. She told me to work from home today.

Yessssss.

As soon as I heard those words my extreme tiredness kicked in, followed by a lingering head ache and some funky stomach rumbles.

Thank you karma!!

Yep, still have to work, but at least I get to do it in my pj’s.

Sweet

Happy Monday (for real, no sarcasm today, really I AM happy on a Monday).

Why? Good question.

Well, I finally made myself sit down and do one of my least favourite things last night…….<queue scary music>…. taxes. Yikes, the dreaded ‘T’ word.

Numbers make me anxious, not to mention the fact that I was pretty damn positive I was giving the government a big chunk of cashola. Seriously, I’m number dyslexic or something. No joke here. They freak me out. Way out.

Since I am contract, last year was my first operational year for my business. I hoarded every receipt like a squirrel hoards nuts. Seriously. My only regret (which I was warned many, many times of) was not keeping everything all nicely compiled together… no matter how hard I tried (okay, seriously I didn’t try that hard), but who wants to sit around and mess with receipts? You know? Anyhoo, learned my lesson, yadda yadda… time saver… yadda yadda…

Right. So back to <queue scary music>…taxes.

I was totally prepared and saved a huge chunk expecting to give it back to the Man with tears in my eyes. Well my friends, not so, not so!!! After diligently entering everything in, I closed my eyes, pressed the ‘result’ button and…

wait for it……

wait for it …….

REFUND baby!!!!

Yessss.

I mean, I would have been ecstatic to break even. I would have been happy even to pay a small chunk, as long as it was smaller than what I saved.

Imagine my happiness.

I feel like some karmic universal force was like,

“Well honey, you’ve been through some tough times recently, and you’re trooper and a half. Who knows what’s next, so…. TA-DAH!!! Refund for you!”

Sweet.

Oddly enough…

Right. So I realize a lot of my stories are coming from transit rides, but I mean, I’m on the bloody thing twice a day at the least, so it’s bound to happen. Non-transity stories to come soon, promise.

Anyhoo, so today was yet another interesting ride. Quite crowded when I hopped on, but there was a fresh spot waiting just for me. Yay for transit gods. I think I got a little over excited about my spot, and sort of swung around the pole, you know, stripper styles. I swung myself right into this plumpy little mismatched lady. I said ’sorry’, but I had my mp3 blasting, so it was more like, “SORRRRYYY.” She seemed embarrassed and just stared at me. Oddly enough, that encounter caused her to be magnetically attracted to me or something. Seriously. The damn woman stepped on my foot about five times, and did a little stripper pool swinging of her own and swung right back into me. I wondered,

Okay, is this lady crazy and getting me back from earlier? Or is it that she just can’t balance properly?’

To her defense, I have definitely had off balance days on the subway and it’s not fun. But she kept looking at me with her strange bug-like eyeballs.

Does she want to play a game? Is that was this is?

I redirect my attention to the huge backpack jabbing into my back. People!! If your backpack is 3 times the size of me, have some damn courtesy and take the thing off when it’s crowded. Honestly. I don’t want your schnasty ass dirty, smelly bag rubbing up against any part of my body. Gross. Not to mention as soon as someone moves with one of those things on, it looks like football practice. People get body checked, bounced and thrown all over the place. Jesus.

So Little Miss MisMatch steps on my foot again. I think,

Seriously, if this woman touches me one more time I’m going to pound her. Just try it MisMatch. Just try.

Have you ever seen that Seinfeld episode, where Elaine is stuck on the subway, on her way to a wedding or something, and the subway stops in the tunnel? She totally freaks out, but not out loud…just in her crazy mind. That is seriously me on transit. For real. In real life, I say, ‘Excuse me’ and in my head, it’s more like,

MOOOOOVVVEEEE <any word works here, really> MOOOOVVEEEE!!!!!!!!

I notice a bunch of men staring at this one girlie who has passed out in one of the seats. I’m thinking, what’s up with this chick? and then I realize why all the stares were headed her way. Her chest was, how do I say this nicely, friggin gigantic, massive, humongous and popping out of her top. Sandwiched in between there was a massive silver gangster style cross with Jesus on it. How ironic, I mean, isn’t there some kind of commandment like, ‘thou shall not be a hoochy mama.’

No, if you are wondering, I certainly do not stare at women’s chests at random, but these suckers were pretty hard to miss. Mountainous, even. I think every man on in the vicinity of Chesty McChesterton had a smile up to his ears. One man pretended to read, and of course I noticed this because he never turned the page of his book the entire ride. He did the whole, let’s peek over the top of the book and see if they’re still there, thing. I’m sure if Chesty wasn’t sleeping the men would have been a lot less obvious, but I guess that’s how the story goes. But still, you know. Chesty woke up with a sort of snort and looked around at all the people staring at her. Then she looked down at her mountains and smiled. Classy. I guess in this case, thou shall BE a hoochy mama.

All or nothing, that’s how I roll.

So…. Happy Monday and junk. Since my work email is down (yet again), I thought it was the perfect time to talk about my Monday subway experience, or the perfect time to procrastinate, however you want to slice it is fine by me.

Surprisingly, overall an entertaining and stress-free ride today. It’s amazing what a little sun and nice weather does for the mood of big city slickers. I had plenty of standing room today, and even though I desperately needed to sit (first day off the crutches and back on the tootsies), I was okay with it. Mainly because Mr. Nice Guy beside me shared his newspaper. I also had a few mildly entertaining moments that helped me forget about how much I needed my coffee, pronto.

One older man sporting the all too attractive Donald Trump hairstyle, was propped up against the window sleeping. He wore a leather jacket that was much too tight, so tight that you could see the outline of his mp3 player in the pocket. His hand held up his chin as he dozed, and then suddenly a “ssskkkuugg.” I don’t know how else to explain that sound. You know, half snort, half snore. The breeze that came out with that sound blew his hair piece up a bit, and then it slowly feathered down to it’s previous position. He sucked the air in just enough for the drool to retract back into his mouth. In order to stop my eyeballs from popping out of my head (it’s hard, really hard, to hold in the laugher sometimes), I had to think about some schnasty curdled milk…among other things that totally gross me out. I mean, imagine how much of a luntaic I would seem to be (notice I’m saying seem to be, because I’m not hiding anything, not at all), if I just randomly burst out in laugher on a crowded subway. Really. Looners. Anyhoo, Snort Snore did this the whole ride, and eventually other people noticed that the hand that was holding up his chin, was also smearing drool all over his face. Love it.

Then a man comes on with, I must admit, amazing subway skills. At first glance, from behind he looked like the cutie who I’ve seen in my office building and shared many awkward elevator rides with. I’m pretty sure the man is happily married with kids, dogs and white picket fences, but whatever, a pathetic girl can dream. Turns out we happen to take some of the same route to work (not that I’m keeping track or anything). To my extreme disappointment, it was not Mr.Unavailable, but to my surprise, a very talented transit rider. Buddy read the paper, balanced a computer bag and briefcase on either shoulder, had no bar to hold on to, and…. here’s the topper…. had his Starbucks coffee in his suit pocket!!! Now that is what I call skill. I mean, I won’t even bring coffee on transit if it’s all I have to carry. I’m bound to spill the piping hot stuff on myself and others, and cause some kind of ridiculous scene. I can just imagine it now, sticky hands, slippery floor, broken limbs, numerous swear words, alarms going off…the whole nine yards.

After I read Mr. Nice Guy’s paper, I snuck a peek at part of a study that had something to do with population survey of immigrant children. Not the most exciting morning material, but it did the job. Although, the woman reviewing it was very cautious of my wandering eyes. She moved the paper around a lot, but I had the upper hand, I was standing and she was sitting. I mean, if it’s top secret info, then don’t bring it out on public transit, where people like me have nothing better to do than try to read your junk. Geez. The nerve of some people, you know?

A super cool ‘I wear my sunglasses at night on the subway’ guy tried to beat me at my own game today. You know, that one where I stare in the reflection of the train window and try to use my super-strength mind power to get people to look up. Yep. Don’t think I can’t tell what you’re doing Mr. Super Cool Shades. You know, I could do that too, because it’s much easier to play when dark shades cover your eyes. I like a challenge. Full-on stares all the way. All or nothing, that’s how I roll.

Poor little Mini Egg

Right so. Just in case there were some question about my Montreal blues singin’ cab driver (mainly questions of my own, as in: “Did that really happen? or did the booze make me imagine it..?‘) ….looky what I found in my purse today:

Yes, I realize it’s backwards, thank you very much. Mainly because I took the shot with PhotoBooth and I’m too lazy to fix it. I just wanted to point out the damn harmonica on the card. Seriously. If you ever want a musical cab ride in Montreal, he’s your man.

So as I was waiting for the best boss ever to pick my sorry, crutches-in-tact ass up this morning, a boy passed, who looked familiar. Ahhh HA! I remembered who he was, and said,

“Hey what’s up Mini Egg!!!”

And the boy went running. I imagine this would make more sense if I told the beginning of the story. Right. So, sometime before Easter, I was in the Shopper’s Drug Mart with a friend, wandering in aimlessly in a hung-over zombie walk. We noticed a boy who looked like he was stealing Mini Eggs, lots of them. We were not sure what the hell was going on, but in the end, dude stole an abundance of Mini Eggs, which were stuffed in his coat. We drove somewhere else, and then came back to my place. As we were parking, Mini Egg strolled down the street, munching on his hot items. My friend yells,

“Hey!! How are those eggs buddy?!!”

The kid went running, right into one of the massive (by massive I mean, MASSIVE) old homes in my hood.  I live in a wealthy neighbourhood of the city. Somehow my old, grubby apartment buidling got plopped down in the middle of it. Who knew?

Anyhoo, this kid is terrified, it’s apparent by the look he gave me this morning. Sometimes the constant fear of being told on is worse than getting caught. Poor little Mini Egg.

Chill

Ouch.

So, I’m sure anyone that has experienced an injury knows what I’m taking about here. It’s so, so, so very hard to take it easy and not try and do everything that you are used to doing when you are recovering. Especially when it comes to feet. I have to keep reminding myself that I just had major surgery in January, and to chill the frig out. But it’s really hard when I live in a city that travels at warp speed, as I know I will be trampled if I slow down. As I have said before, this whole ‘invisible disability’ stuff is brutal. Just because I don’t have some kind of walking device, doesn’t mean I don’t have pain when I walk that feels like knives stabbing at my eye balls.

Last week, I went to catch the bus. It was leaving the station (these guys wait for no one), so I figured I’d wait for the next one. A man darted past me, and surprisingly the bus waited. I was closer, so I tried to hobble run to grab it. When I got on the bus, the bus driver said with attitude,

“Well, what the hell… you could have ran you know.”

I was so pissed. I said, “Actually, I can’t run, since both of my feet were recently broken. How about you think for a second before you accuse me of being an ass.”

That shut him up fast.

I went to Montreal this weekend, walked a lot and really had no problem (although that city doesn’t move as fast). Yesterday I walked one block from my office, and surprise!!! my foot is a mess again. What the hell? So there I was, sitting at a conference this morning, feeling like there was a stake in my foot and about to have a panic attack. Panic attacks are brutal. It’s hard for people that haven’t experienced them to understand, but basically you feel like you are going to pass out and die. Seriously. I’ve been getting them for years now, they appeared after someone drugged my drink in a bar. At first they just happened in crowded bar-type places, and eventually spilled into all aspects of my life, like on the bus, shopping, sitting on the couch, whatever. Soon they became associated with any kind of pain I had (I’ve had kidney stones twice, now that’s some crazy ass pain for you). Eventually I had to get help. I can pretty much control them now, or control their severity at least. As I was listening to the panel discussion, a dizzy spell kicked in, and I grabbed the table like I was going to fall off my chair. I felt nauseous and imagined projectile vomit flying into the woman in front of me. When I have an attack, I get super paranoid, and think everyone is looking at me like I’m some kind of freak. The more I tried to forget about it, the more I thought about it. I literally had to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, just so I didn’t have a complete meltdown. The room started spinning, I couldn’t catch my breath and kept telling myself, “You’re not going to pass out, you’re not, just chill. Chill.” Thankfully, I have the best boss ever (seriously for real) and she ordered my sorry ass home, pronto.

I feel like every time my foot gets better, it gets worse. Notice I am only talking about one foot. My other one has caused absolutely (knock on wood) no problem at all. The one that is causing me problems has been broken before, and sprained about a million times. I felt that during my recovery, I was some kind of bionic superwoman. I healed quickly, got my casts off early, and walked right out of the hospital. The surgeon was amazed. Now I feel like some karmic force is saying, “That’s what you think honey, nice try though, really, E for effort.”

Moral of the story: Chill.

Save a wave, ride a surfer

Ahhhh Barbados. Where do I start? I could quite possibly go on for hours (or so I’m told). Remember, I’m in love with the place. Random memories will just have to do.

On my last visit, my mum thought it would be a fantastic idea to keep track of the lines thrown at us by the boys of Barbados. The incident that led to this decision went something like this:

We’re driving to the airport to pick up my friend (I went a couple days before). It’s tradition (my mum’s mostly), to have a nice cold bottle of Banks beer (mmm so yummy) for the arrivee to kick back on the drive back to the house. She even has her own special bottle opener for the car. Ironically, my mum doesn’t drink, but is always stocked just in case someone else wants to. Not this time though, so we make a pit stop to the gas station.

Note: Apparently drinking in the car on this island is not illegal. Also, you can pay with a cheque at the gas station. Ya, seriously. Mostly because you can pretty much tell where someone lives by their license plate, and it’s an island where everyone knows everyone with only so many places to hide.

Right. So anyhoo, I jump out and head for the door. There’s a dude sitting outside, I pass him, and get a “Mmmmmm.” I’m used to this here, it’s harmless. I do my thing, come back out and get another “Mmmmmm” and then, while licking his lips, dude says,

“Mmmmm pastey white like vanilla ice cream….Mmmmm.”

Now that’s something I’ve never been referred to. I hop back in the car and burst out laughing, and take breaks just long enough to tell my mum what he said. And the idea was born.

It became a mission to see what kind of silly lines we could get. I must admit, we came across some originality and cheesiness at it’s best. We brought the little book to the beach, bars, clubs, grocery stores (for real, it happens everywhere)…here’s a little taste:

“I’ll explore you like a map.”

We went to an international surfing competition where I won the ’shake it’ contest but that’s a story for another time. The tent staff wore shirts that said, “Save a wave, ride a surfer.” As my friend and I laughed at the slogan, we got,

“Save a wave, rider a surfer? You can ride my wave baby, it never breaks.”

Each morning, my mum read the little book, coffee in hand, like it was the newspaper.

We met Mr. Cool at one of the bars. No for real, that’s how he introduced himself and added,

“I’m a hotel honey, but I only take 2 for 1,” and also, “I’m gunna tell all of my friends that you are off limits, cuz Mr. Cool has his eyes on you.”

We took a catamaran cruise (not a good idea to do hung over) and one of the staff talked about how once a girl walked right off the boat, and he had to jump in and save her. So my friend asks,

“So if I fell off the boat, you would save me right?”

He says, “Oh baby, I would save you for later.”

My friend almost got busted writing this one down on the boat. I tried to warn her, I did…. but, she covered well with saying it was for ‘business’ which honestly makes no sense, especially since this book is lime green with a massive fluorescent pink flower on the front.

We got a lot of the usual cheesiness, “Girl, I’m like your genie and you rub me the right way”….”Your laugh makes my nipples freeze,” you know, the usual. Ha ha.

There’s much more where that came from, but it is much more entertaining with actions and imitations, I promise. It was definitely an entertaining experience, and I must say I’m quite impressed with the boys of Barbados ability to make us constantly laugh and smile.

Oui! Oui!

Ahhhh Montreal. All and all a great city. People are super friendly, fun night-life, yummy foods, and apparently good shopping, but we seemed to skip that part.

We headed to a cute diner-like place for lunch. Our waitress was nice, but….not all there upstairs if you know what I mean….couple crayons short of a box. After she finally took our order, we waited and waited, and waited… along with the rest of her section, as she slowly wiped down ketchup bottles. We finally got some of our food. Then she came up and said, ’so, what did you order?’ And started writing it down. I mean, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what we were eating, since she actually placed the order. Hmm, you probably should have written that down earlier, you know. Then she says, “so like, do you want the fries now?” (this is after our entire order has been served). I say, “uhm, yeah, today would be nice….unless you deliver?” This completely confused her. She disappeared for a good 30minutes before we got our fries. I figure, she got lost on the way to the kitchen.

Alright, now be honest. Have you ever seen these?

Okay, if you answered ‘yes’, please teach me how not to laugh in someone’s face as they walk by with these on, plus some big-ass monster headphones, and a wacky outfit to boot. I get it if you are bike riding or something but….. Seriously, I was basically convulsing (yes, I’m a mean, terrible person, I know, but come on!) hehe. I dare you to try it. Triple dog dare!

What else, what else? Well, I definitely can not comment on the shopping, since we chose sun, beer, patios and people watching instead.

Note: Patio drinking in the afternoon may cause the ability to forget to eat dinner, which is not suggested (especially when you figure, I’ll just have something delivered later. Oh no, this is apparently, “not the way it works” in Montreal. We called every single pizza place in the city. Good luck getting food after midnight - honestly surprising for such a big city) but, I must admit that alcohol probably had some reason for that….. Afternoon shots of Jager are also not suggested. Loosing your friend in a strange city that speaks franglais…again, not suggested - but I found her eventually (but not before I drunk dialed my entire cell address book (sorry!!).

I did get to experience a harmonica playing taxi driver in the meantime though. He sang me the blues, went a little something like, Dede de de DE “Got a girl in my car“….”dede de de DE”….”Don’t know where she’s going” ….dede de de DE…”but she like the bluuueees“…dede de de DE… “lost her friend cuz of booozzzee” dede de de DE…. and so on.

I would have to say one of the best lines I heard was, “Now THAT’S not a lanuague I understand!!” Literally screamed at the top of his lungs as he strolled down the street. Buddy, where the hell do you think you are?!

Or “oooooooh a rich person came to our city!! Yeaaaaah!!”…buddy clapped and jumped up and down sarcastically as he belted that one out….

The almighty Paris Hilton was there and drew a mighty small crowd. Most people didn’t seem to give a shit, or didn’t know what was going on in general. We were apparently the information booth, as it seemed that everyone came to ask us who was there. Eventually we got bored, (and so did they) with Paris and thought of some other silly names…. David Hasselhoff!!…. Peter Mansbridge!!.…Homer Simpson!!.….Brangelina!!!….. Eric Cartman!!! and so on. One man asked us who was there…we said Paris, and he screamed… ‘you are fucking looossseeerrrss!‘ My friend and I just laughed in his face, I mean, really we were there to watch the complete chaos, but the nicest Cape Bretoners we met standing beside us fought for us…. gotta love those East Coaster’s, the meanest thing he could say was, “Ya, Well… have a nice day SIR” hahah seriously. How cute is that?

I’m having a hard time remembering all of the events of that weekend…. for obvious reasons. Next stop: The Big Apple (by that I mean New York City, and you may be thinking, ‘well, where the hell else do you mean?’ ) Believe it! There is literally a big, gigantic apple in Colborne Ontario that we passed on our drive to Montreal….

The sight of this alone made us laugh like hyenas. I guess if you can’t make to New York, you can always visit Colborne, and still say you went to the Big Apple

I’m going to wake up, really I am.

“Excuse me.”

My blanket moves a little, exposing some skin.

“Excuuuuuuse me!”

Something pinches my arm.

I awake to the dreary, cold hospital room with a nurse breathing over top of me like a volcano about to erupt.

“Uhm, you need to take your drugs now. So, uhm, what do you want?” she asks sheepishly.

“Wh - huh?” I still haven’t registered what’s going on.

“So come on. I need to give you your drugs.”

“So, you are the nurse, asking me what type of drugs I want?” I’m so confused at this point, I’m not sure if I’m dreaming, or still messed up from the earlier dose.

“Yep. So pick. You can have morphine, oxycottin, percs, tylenol 3, dem…”

“Woah, woah. First of all, take a look at my chart. I’m allergic to codeine and you’re offering me tylenol 3? I’m no doctor, but, come on, it’s not rocket science. Second, you are the nurse, you tell me what I want.”

“I can’t. You have to pick.”

Like, am I in the twilight zone or something. What kind of freak-ass hospital is this?

Don’t get me wrong, I have great respect for nurses and the job that they do. I could never manage. Ever. But that doesn’t change the crappy time I had.

This doesn’t even to begin to touch on the bizarre, horrific post-surgery hospital experience.

I woke up from surgery bawling my eyes out. You know, that kind of wail like from when you are a child, that comes from the pit of your stomach. A mix of pain, confusion and anesthetics. I spent a whole five minutes in my room alone before my first roomie got wheeled in. And what a class act she is. A woman, possibly in her 50’s, but looks more like she’s pushing 70. Her skin is sort of grey, her hair is scraggily, and her teeth are….non-existent.

She strikes up a conversation right away. I mumble, turn over and pretend I’m sleeping.

Her voice is like knives stabbing at my eye balls. I judge her because of her bad grammar.

Even though I thought I did a fabulous job at ignoring her, she chatters on anyways.

“And then them guys, well, geez right. I says, well, I don’t care if ya’ll kick my hairy ass to the curb, I’m going to emerg cuz I have this kinda shit before, you know?”

I can hear the spit leave her mouth, and splatter around as she says words like, ass, says, curb and so on (no teeth, remember).

I hear her moving around. I imagine she’s settling in. Instead, she’s putting an oversized navy blue uniform jacket that says ‘Security’ on it over her half open flattering hospital nighty. She grabs a pack of smokes, and wheels her IV out of the room.

Mmmmm classy.

All I can think of is how much I hate this city, hospital, surgery, everything… and easily compile a paragraph-long list of swear words.

I wonder why the nurses are giving me so much attitude. Did I do something? I try to be overly nice. It doesn’t work. I wonder if I will see the same nurse twice.

Class Act comes back into the room, reeking, and complaining about how far she has to “truck it” to have a smoke. Coincidentally, I fall back ‘asleep.’

I think: Oh god, is this for real? Like, seriously. This can’t be real. This is a dream…. I’m going to wake up, really I am.

I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as possible, and open. Nope. Still here, still smelling Class Act. Still amazed that she is talking to no one.

My mom strolls into the room. I’m relieved to see a familiar face. Class Act starts talking up my mom. She ignores. Good mummy. She says how great I look for just having both feet broken. I know I look like shit. My feet are swollen like hot air balloons, my hair is disheveled, and my face has broken out like a goddamn piece of bubble wrap from the huge drug cocktail and stress.

I can’t leave my bed. I have to pee. One cold shiny tin, and an extremely humiliating experience later, I have done the deed.

Holy shit, I think, I can’t do this. I rack my brain trying to figure out what on earth possessed me to get this done. Oh, yeah. Pain. Pain sucks. I wonder how the many people who are sick and spend months in the hospital do this. I’m thankful for my health and week-long stay.

My mom goes to get me a latte, and a nurse strolls in to tell me that this room used to be a pediatric room, and therefore I may have to move the furniture to get to the washroom. Great.

There’s a window in my room that looks into the nurses station. I hear the constant beeping of the bedside emergency buzzers going off for hours.

Class Act is snoring. I puke in the shiny bowl beside my bed. I buzz…. and hear the nurses at the station chatting about the night before. I hear my buzzer beep…beep…beeping. Finally, nurse-lady comes to ask what I want. Gravol. In large doses.

“I think the drugs are making me sick.”

“No, they’re not,” she says. “It’s just from the surgery.”

An abundance of visitors come in….I can’t even tell who is who, still feeling pukey and gross. My mom promises a television and Nana-made meals. The visitors leave their flowers, cards, and chocolates, and shuffle out of the room. I drift off, thankful that Class Act is too drugged to talk.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

My eyes pop open. Where am I? Oh.

Another blood curdling murderous scream comes from somewhere down the hall. In the dim hallway light, I notice a security guard sitting, guarding the room across from mine. I later find out that the man in that room was strapped to his bed. I see an old man dart down the hallway, half naked, jingling keys and screaming in Italian.

What the hell kind of hospital is this? I wonder.

Another nurse lady comes and tells me to take my drugs. I try to explain that maybe these ones are making me sick and….. No luck. I do what I’m told and swallow. An hour and a half later, I ask for Gravol and puke.

Eventually morning comes, and I’m awakened by Mr. Physio, who tells me it’s time to get up and get moving. I think, dude, have you seen my feet? He gets me to walk baby steps with a walker to the washroom and back. It hurts like hell. Good. Good job. Now at least I don’t have to pee in bowl.

I wonder how much it costs to get a cute male nurse.

Class Act tells me her life story. Her daughter comes in the room to borrow 40 bucks, without asking how she is, and leaves. I ask Class Act, “sooo, when do you leave again?” She tells me her life story again, and leaves to smoke. I thank my lucky stars she’s a smoker, and constantly leaves the room.

Food comes. I lift the cover off the tray, take a peek, and see something that may or may not resemble an egg. I put the cover back on, and take the safe way out and have the tea.

My days mainly consisted of, sleep… wake…. cry…. turn down food…. take drugs…. puke…. take Gravol…. sleep…. ignore Class Act…. try to act coherent in front of visitors….take drugs…. puke…. and so on.

I cry every single morning I wake up in the hospital. I feel like a five year old, lost and scared and have an aching need for a blanky.

I buzz the nurses station to come in a take away my puke bowl. She scowls at me and says, “ewwww gross.” I say, “uhm…you’re a nurse!”

Seriously, I mean, the woman gives people enemas and I don’t know the lay of the land, but I’m pretty sure that’s worse than a puke bowl.

I turn down every meal that comes to me. I’ve seen more attractive dog food. Nana brings me yummy soup. I manage to get it down… and then puke. She feels like her food makes me sick. I try to explain but alas, I fail.

A doctor comes in to tell Class Act that she is leaving tomorrow. Yesssss.

I go to get casted up. I get one on each leg, knee high. I hum and haw over the colour, like it’s an important and relevant decision. I choose purple, and mentally choose my next colour, black, for the cast change. They wheel me out into the hall and leave me for a bit. Random people ask how high the ladder was that I fell off of. I play along and say, ‘50 feet.’

Class Act complains about leaving, I mentally do cartwheels.

I spend one night alone, with the crazy screams. All night long.

An older woman gets wheeled in. She doesn’t know where she is and keeps asking, “Peter? Peter, get the door. Peter?”

The nurses tell her that she broke her hip. They give her a drug cocktail and promise that it will do the job. I overhear that she is 90. Her skin is immaculate. I wonder what type of moisturizer she uses. She drifts off into a drug filled slumber. Her sister comes in…. nope… daughter. She brings tubs of bathroom stuff and I try to sneak a peek at the moisturizer, but to no avail.

I puke. A nurse brings me drugs, I tell her I think I may be having a…. she doesn’t believe me. I obey and swallow.

They come to get Broken Hip at 7pm for surgery. She tells them off for doing her surgery at night. Never underestimate the spunk of a 90 year old, beautiful skinned woman.

I drift off.

I awake to Broken Hip crying. They bring her back post surgery. They promise the drugs will do the job and leave.

She cries. All night. They come into take her blood pressure, and she screams like they are stabbing her in the neck. All night I hear, “Please god please, just take me now. End it please. Oh please help me. God please just kill me now.”

I don’t sleep at all. I remember that tomorrow is my day to bust out of this joint. I happily stare at the wall, wishing tomorrow to come sooner than later.

The morning crew comes in bitching about the night crew (and rightly so). They draw the curtain and attempt to bathe Broken Hip. She screams. I hear one of the nurses shout, ‘oh honey, your IV isn’t even plugged in.’ This poor woman laid in a drug free, post surgery night of hell.

That’s not all.

The nurses talk about their plan to turn her over for bathing. They notice her arm is black. Apparently, Broken Hip is also Broken Arm. The nurse checks the xrays and curses ab