The over-used word of the day is: love.

I must admit how progressive this is for me to be blogging from my iPhone. I guess like with all dedicated writers (ahem) we must write the moment the material comes! And, not a moment too soon! And so, I write from my iPhone in the middle if the night. Why? Well Franco was stirring. I could hear squeaky sounds of Chihuahua distress and I could not sleep knowing that a tiny, 3.5-pound pet of mine was in such a state. Mind you, a pet of mine of any size would garner the same concerned feeling; tonight it just happens to be Mr. Franco.

If I know him at all by now, I know that his taste buds got the better of him as he must have spent time earlier meticulously eating up whatever remained of that delicious, savoury, protein-rich Halo Spot’s Stew of the Wholesome Chicken variety meal that his feline brothers chow down on. Not to offer more information than you were prepared to read, but I came across one of his distinct number twos and I knew right away someone had dipped into the wrong cookie jar.

I’ve made Nick’s sofa into a makeshift bed where Franco currently sleeps, curled into a ball in the bow of my legs. His tummy squishes and gurgles but not a peep from him vocally since I arrived. Not to sound like a crazy person but I think this little thing finds comfort in me. I’m not sure what kind of life he lived before I picked him up from the rescue shelter but if I could count the changes and transitions he’s undergone since I adopted him on April 29th last year I’d run out of fingers and toes. He’s such a darling and I am so immensely endeared to him.

Marshall and Otis are at Nick’s now as well as of this past weekend. You know how relationships go – especially the ones you actually wholeheartedly want to be in – you spend a lot of time together and it never runs the risk of feeling like too much but that means less time at your own stomping grounds, in your own bed, and pets, clothes, houseplants and creature comforts suddenly find themselves with a little less of me around. Now, before you peg me as a selfish, neglectful pet owner (although my guts tell me you would never because you’ve been following me for so long and/or you know me personally and already fully expect there to be a spot in my coffin for my pets) I will tell you that I was desperately trying my darnedest to give both human and animal the most wholeheartedest parts of me that I could actually distribute. Eventually though, I felt like I was giving Marshall and Otis visitation rights to me and on a lighter, more of a haha, I’m saying this to make light of a situation that is causing me guilty feelings, I’d often tell people that I have the luckiest cats because I’m paying $800/month for them to live in a beautiful one-bedroom apartment.

Since then my eggs, some neglected but still consumable veggies, hand soap refill, and a vacuum have also made their way here although I wasn’t facing any detachment issues with the latter list, thankfully.

Anyway ya, Nicole will like this update because she’s been hoping for a) anything and b) an update on my love life.

Hmmm. The headline would read:

See, the problem is I’ve been so neglectful of my blogging you’re going to read the title and think, “Franco? Who is Franco?” You might even think James Franco which is a third of the way close. Franco is my nine-year-old, 3.5-pound Chihuahua rescue dog. His full name is James Joplin Franco. I named him that from Kilo – which I felt was mocking him.

Last night Franco was lost and running the streets of New Westminster in the darkness and I nearly lost it myself.

The feeling was like a boulder in my sternum actually. You know, right where the happy butterflies fly around in a perfect world? I was gone all day and Franco had a play date with a Dachshund named Beanie and some humans. I remember driving back to him and thinking how I was looking forward to seeing his squirmy, flailing, skittish little ass end running toward me with his little tail wagging so fervently that sometimes it looks like a propeller.

I walked in and was all, “Frannnnco, Francoooo, Franco? Frannnnco? Fran-co?!” He didn’t come running to me and that’s when my stomach landed heavily on top of my feet. Franco was missing. He wasn’t under beds or in cupboards or hiding in the basement. He was really and truly lost outside somewhere.

I’ve had animals all my life. All kinds. Gerbils, rats, fish, cats, dogs, ferrets, rabbits, caterpillars, injured birds, moles, mice, Canada goose eggs. I don’t discriminate. I remember spending hours calling my cats in at night when I was a kid. I remember my dogs Sam and Billy running rampant through the streets of Kanata after my childhood home was on fire. I remember missing pets and wanting them back. I don’t remember feeling like I did when Franco was missing.

I was walking around like a possessed maniac, calling his name every 2nd heart beat. A rush of sadness and hopelessness came over me with every 10th heartbeat and my Francos came out in a shaky whimper. Franco please, I remember saying over again. In the distance I could hear children calling him. I could hear the adults. It was dark and so hard to see anything. We all split up. I could hear distant echoes of varying intonations but it was the same name we were all calling. Franco’s.

As I was searching I thought about how small he is and how “indoor” he is. He is not an intrepid hound dog big enough to defend himself and explore and know how to survive until someone picks him up and traces him back to me. He is 5x less than the weight of my CATS. I thought about cars hitting him, bigger dogs finding him, coyotes, someone picking him up and making him theirs. I thought about never seeing his little face and wiggly body again and I was so incredibly sad. So immensely sad. I was so sad that I wasn’t crying. I couldn’t cry. I mean, my voice was shaking but I was unable to let out a cry, it was completely stuck inside me and boy did it hurt my throat. I also didn’t want to cry in front of the people helping me look for him. For some reason I felt as though I didn’t want them to see how in love with Franco I really am. Some people don’t understand that kind of pet love and crying over it is awkward for them.

So I kept it together on the outside for an hour as best as I possibly could.

Eventually I made my way back to the house and figured I should call him from one place. That the speed and irregular lines at which I was walking would make even a leopard confused. I went back to ground zero and called him over and over again from the front stoop. The rest of the search party was out and about, talking to the late night dog-walkers, “Have you seen a little Chihuahua?” “No, sorry,” they all said.

I went inside to rummage for my cell phone to see if BCSPCA had called me. It was ringing and it was someone who was in the search party. Franco was found. He was one block over and one block down. Whatever happened after that I can’t remember. I don’t remember walking, I don’t remember talking. I wasn’t alone. I was walking with someone and talking to them but I barely remember it. I do remember knocking on the door and saying that I wasn’t going to feel relief until I actually saw him. But there he was. His tail was propelling before he even left the young lady’s arms. He came into mine and licked my neck and cheeks and they all went “Awwww.” And I just held him so close to my chest and he just stayed there breathing heavily.

They were a really nice family, living in a really nice home, and he had some roast beef for dinner. They were smitten by my little Franco dog and I think they were as happy as I was that we were reunited. We carried on talking for about five minutes and I don’t remember what we talked about except they were happy to learn of his name because they were running through all sorts to figure it out. I walked home, everyone in the search party gave him some forehead tickles and chin scratches and were were off.

I got into my car and let out what I’m certain was my first exhale since realising he was missing and it felt like a huge relief. I remember crying a bit at that time just sitting in my car before starting it. Funny how it was stuck, or maybe I held out until I was alone with him. Maybe it’s how I kept my wits about me. I don’t know.

But, I know I’m happy he’s still with me.

Iago spoke this to Othello. It speaks to me.

OMG. I’m still here. I’m here and there. Mostly there though.

I can’t believe I’m still getting messages advising me to get my sorry ass into gear and put up a post. I can’t believe sasr.com hasn’t got lost in a black hole in cyberspace and that some of you still remember. Remember the good old days when I solicited my tangents regularly. Those were the days.

Anyway, as per the usual I start a post or continue a post at least once a week usually on my lunches but then I lose focus and check the news or eat or do whatever else and then I’ve got as far as one measly sentence that is so useless that by the time I return to the thought I can’t even make sense of it myself.

“And the worst blogger of the year award goes to…”

I’m sorry. I write soon. Still alive and very well. Like, very very well. Thanks for asking.

Love, Andrea

Way to leave things on a depressing note, eh?

Just so this will make a bit of sense, I’ve been in Hawaii. I’ll be posting backward for the next few.

Okay so, of the final playoff round between the Canucks and the Bruins I missed one game of the seven. I happened to be in an airplane, 36,000 feet above earth and watched up to 2nd period before we lost the satellite feed. The first thing the pilot said as he came on the speaker to announce our descent was that he had terrible news regarding the Canucks score: 8 – 1 Bruins. The whole plane felt like it heaved in horror as its passengers were made up of mostly Vancouverites. People looked at each other, some put their hands to their mouths. How the hell can we win the first two games and lose so badly during the third? 1 – 0 Canucks, 3 – 2 Canucks, then 8 – 1 Bruins? 8 – 1 is not 2 – 1. Games 4, 5, and 6 we caught in Hawaii, then, I was home for Game 7.

At the start of Game 7 day I had no idea where I was going to catch the game. I started out with a few options and for about half an hour in the late afternoon one plan was confirmed with Nick to go down town to catch the game on the outdoor screens amidst the fandemonium. This plan was subsequently un-confirmed and I was left sitting on my sofa watching the first period by myself hoping to come to some kind of conclusion soon over what I was going to do. I decided I was going to go down town by myself. By that time time was of the essence and I knew there were people I knew down town so I texted them all in the hopes that they’d somehow be able to feel or hear my calls and texts and give me their coordinates for a meet-up. I left knowing that the chances of me finding someone were slim but I kept telling myself that if the Canucks win the Stanley Cup on that very day then down town Vancouver, the centre of it all, would become something unforgettable to me.

I was still living in Ottawa when the Senators made it to the finals against the Mighty Ducks in 2007. It was the first time the Sens had made it to the finals in 80 years. The last time being in 1927. This was a big deal for Ottawa. The Sens were defeated in Game 5 and much like Vancouver, Ottawa’s down town streets had been completely shut down to traffic for the entire final round. Elgin Street was coined ‘Sens Mile’ and received its “official” street sign.

© breakfastblogger.com

I was down town for that last game – we all knew that it could very well be the Sens’ last. And, it was. We lost that game and subsequently the Stanley Cup. People cried, some hugged, then the streets cheered regardless, and in solidarity, then eventually emptied out by late night and life carried on without incident.

When the Canucks lost it was the complete opposite and boy, was it ever unforgettable…

I took the SkyTrain to the Stadium stop which was a few blocks away from the Georgia and Hamilton intersection otherwise known as the “Fan Zone.” Facing me as I came down Georgia was the back of a huge screen TV mounted on a bus. The intersection was blocked off with blue fencing so I had to go around it to enter the area where all the fans were smooshed together. Somehow, I managed to squeeze and coil all 5’4″ of me through a deep crowd of hot people. I had no idea where I was going, all I knew was that I wanted to see the screen. I was guilty of rubbing up against people in ways that would have otherwise been extremely inappropriate in a grocery store aisle for example, but I was on a mission without destination. Eventually, I found myself on the steps of the Canada Post building on the northwest side of Georgia, kitty-corner to the CBC building. About eight steps up and I was then on the platform and could see the screen. I was also under a ledge which was nice because the sun was high and hot and being showered with its rays would have been horrible given how much body heat was being given off.

I remember stopping there once I found my spot just to look around. I remember the smell of beer and sweaty body but there was enough of a breeze every so often so it didn’t stagnate too badly. I saw goal two scored by the Bruins, and by goal three I remember the crowd’s energy had noticeably changed. One young man at the bottom of the steps began spit-screaming in the direction of the screen and punching the railing. Plastic bottles started soaring through the air and landing on various heads in the crowd at my feet. I remember texting a couple of my friends right then and there and telling them that I would not be surprised if there was a riot – I could feel it.

Come the 4th, empty-net goal more bottles and other objects were flying around. The crowd was getting restless having to dodge these flying objects. Before I knew it, the young girl beside me yelled “Oh my god they’re flipping that SUV!” I looked over and there was a silver SUV being rocked back and forth by a group of men, it was eventually flipped right onto its side then, right onto its back. I started taking photos and videos around then. It was starting. Admittedly, at that moment, I did question whether or not I should stick around. Part of me wanted to mainly out of honest interest also because I’m a shameless voyeur. I also wanted to see just how crazy these young people were actually going to get; you know, being my first riot and all. I was up off the street too and more or less “sheltered” from what was going on below me so had a good view. Little did I know that eventually I would not be able to leave even if I wanted to and that the activity would become dangerously worse.

The flipped SUV was a ways away from me but still close enough to see the faces of the people jumping on it and screaming like gorillas in the mist. I felt terrible for the owner of the SUV (who, as I later found out on the news, actually instigated the flipping of his own car) but also found the crowd’s subsequent reactions quite interesting and highly peculiar. They were starting to roar in unison. Fists started being pumped into the air as if at front row of a Megadeath concert. People began to climb up onto the under carriage of the SUV (which was now facing the sky) and jumped up and down on it with as much glee as children on a backyard trampoline. The front bumper was stomped off and was then tossed through the air from person-to-person just like a beach volleyball. The crowd roared and heaved. With every new, destructive assault inflicted upon the vehicle, the cheers and roars would elevate in decibels. I remember stopping to think about all this around that time. I had witnessed this crowd go from togetherness and anticipation for a Stanley Cup win, to the start of total anarchy and complete disregard for personal property. Not to mention how fast the destructive crowd grew in numbers. By this point it was easy to differentiate between those who had actually anticipated, if not instigated, the riot as they were donning bandannas over their faces and those who had actually started their day as bonafide fans. They wore Canucks jerseys, and had logo tattoos on their cheeks, aluminum foil-made Stanley Cups, blow horns. But, eventually the aluminum foil Stanley Cups became projectiles and the butts of the blow horns would be used to help smash any glass that was around.

The entire scene unravelled into something that reminded me of Lord of the Flies. This analogy was also adopted in the media and in daily conversation and I think it’s because that’s exactly what it looked like. It was pretty well the only comparison that immediately came to mind. I don’t want to use the words “mob mentality” in this post because I feel like it’s already received its maximum use in any one-week period but it is what is is. I looked around and was pretty sure over three-quarters of those eventually involved in the full-blown riot would have never, in their wildest dreams, imagined themselves in a riot in their lifetime. But, it was hard to ignore the energy and sensory overload that evening once the rioters’ impulsively swelled to hundreds within minutes and the two vehicles in my immediate sight (one being the SUV, the other being some poor man’s utility truck) were shooting flames to the sky. I saw young men taking turns standing in front of the burning vehicles facing the sky with arms up and fists clenched roaring until they had no air left in their lungs. In addition to Lord of the Flies that part reminded me of some sort of satanic worship with the fire and all.

For a while I was pretty well stuck where I was because the ground below was not safe. There were brawls occurring at the bottom of the steps to my side and fiery bedlam on the ground at my feet. So, I stayed up on my perch for about an hour. I watched the cops come in and attempt to control the situation. I saw the fire truck come in to douse the flames of the SUV. Not too soon after this the utility truck would be next. I saw the cops retreat to the very outskirts of the chaos and figured they were planning something. They later returned with shields, batons, and helmets. The S.W.A.T came out in full gear at the same time and were manning the street while a handful of cops covered the Canada Post building and cleaned house. They wanted no one standing on the raised landing where I was “safe” and whacked everybody off into the streets as if we were all dangerous. Luckily I didn’t get hit by a baton but a photographer was nearly pushed down the stairs and one young woman received a hard whack on her forearm – which made her cry. This part reminded me of Children of the Corn only the sickles were batons, and the children were police officers, and the corn stalks were humans. Luckily, they gave me a chance to jump down onto the steps as the last spectator remaining. Eye-contact and a “Don’t hurt me, I’m fragile” smile works well I find.

Noted for the next riot.

I was now on the street in the middle of it all. This part reminded me of an apocalypse. In a very cliché way, all hell had broken loose. The street fighting had been going on for a while so I was passing people with ripped t-shirts and bloody faces. Some guys were bouncing around like orangutans; almost as though they were in Jolly Jumpers but without the apparatus. The cops had formed a solid line right through the Georgia/Hamilton intersection and the smoke from the empty frames of the simmering vehicles billowed behind them. It was quite a scene. The reinforcement cops in the second row were holding cameras and video cameras to the crowd. They stood motionless and straight-faced. One “rioter” actually had the nerve to walk right up to their line, drop his pants, whip out his peen and actually send a hot stream down at their feet. Still, they stood motionless. I tell you, one quick swoop of a baton would have likely taken care of that man’s arrogant anatomy for the rest of his life.

The Canada Post building was under attack now and people were taking turns running at the glass with a karate kick to shatter it. Eventually a pane broke and again the roars surged.

Backyard firework explosions now competed with the sounds of tear gas booms and the air started to tickle my throat. Unfortunately, I did not bring my trusty riot bandanna to filter out the gas and my mucous membranes were being attacked. I was no longer in my safe place and was traipsing the streets among the fury. It had become hard to breathe and the chaos was as upsetting as it was frightening and I had experienced more than enough. The shock of watching a crowd regress into something out of the stone age had dissipated and upset was taking over. By this point, those who remained were ready to take on the cops and the S.W.A.T. They seemed to have lost all dignity and composure and were pretty well feeding off the chaotic energy like fiends. They looked inhuman. Like zombies almost - especially when the sun had nearly set and everything took on this kind of grey, ominous hue and the smoke from the vehicles, fireworks, and tear gas looked that much more mean and growly.

I heard someone suggest hoisting up the fencing and rushing the S.W.A.T… I walked to the SkyTrain station after that.

The rest of the riot I caught from the cozy confines of my living room. I see the rioters had become more ballsy as night time set in. Looting was in full force, police vehicles were being set on fire, someone fell from the viaduct to the ground below, there were injuries. Poor Vancouver, I kept thinking to myself, I’m so sorry this is happening to you. And, why was it happening? Well I figure it was some kind of psychological trigger that happened. I believe that a handful of people went down town that day with the sole purpose of instigating a riot. I don’t believe they were from Vancouver, especially down town. I believe once it began, the feeling perpetuated – just like how reckless driving can perpetuate on the highways. All you need is one asshole driver tailgating and weaving and it takes another driver with a short fuse to get him back by doing the same. Before you know it, three more drivers are all getting each other back. You ask one of them over dinner at a nice restaurant if tailgating on the highway at high speeds is dangerous and they’ll most likely say yes.

Anyway I could theorize for hours gleefully but, I’ll leave the rest of the psychoanalysis up to the pros…

It’s Friday.

I forgot my lunch at home and I can’t bring myself to spend money so luckily I have a container of plain yogurt and a bag of bulk mixed … I was going to say nuts, but they’re seeds; well 2/3 are. Pumpkin, sunflower, and sliced almonds. This is my lunch. This was also my breakfast. I put this little rodent fusion together myself and although I smack my lips over its goodness I laugh because … what a lunch. Nicole would have waited for me to say something like: “I just finished a tin of oysters in oil for lunch.”

It’s Monday.

Two weeks ago I learned one of my clients passed away. Last week, while sitting in the waiting room at my doctor’s office watching Global News, I learned that this client was a victim of murder. He was on my case load because he was confused easily and needed someone regular to keep him organized. We don’t have case loads at work anymore but I petitioned to have him on a specialized one because I wanted to help make his life a little easier. He was a gentle, sweet, simple-minded, and peaceful man. He was a breath of fresh air in a work environment that is often volatile, cranky, addicted, and desperate. His name was Ray and he is Vancouver’s second murder of the year.

I want to attend his service but to date, there is no trace of him in the obituaries. No one has placed a notice. No one has prepared a service. After the news headlines go away Ray might too. Just like that. It saddens me to think that maybe he has parents somewhere; or siblings; dear, old high school friends who would mourn his loss; who would plan a beautiful service; and who would visit his resting place often to have silent conversations with him. Maybe they already think he’s gone. But he wasn’t. He was alive as of three and a half weeks ago.

He was alive doing handy things, he was alive working odd jobs and sometimes panhandling, he was playing harmonica up and down East Hastings, he was alive visiting pubs and talking to people, and brightening their day with his simple happiness.

I emailed the reporter who put an article in The Province asking her if she knew of any funeral service for Ray. She had noted in her article that a memorial was held in the down town east side close to one of Ray’s hangouts but in her reply added it was put together very quickly by the DTES community and advised she didn’t know of any official service. Her email ended with: “It seems that Ray was really well-regarded by everyone.”

“He was a good dude, a good solid guy, not a drug addict, not even an alcoholic like me…” one acquaintance told the reporters.

Another said, “Ray would give you the shirt off his back, but he was always inviting people up to his room and I told him it wasn’t the safest thing to do.”

He was murdered and the papers called it a “brutal” one.

Typing that makes me feel like crying.

I’ve been getting Microsoft Outlook calendar popups to remind me to email Ray’s temp labour employer to get Ray’s monthly income so he can declare properly with my help. I haven’t been able to “dismiss” that notification yet.

I hope there’s someone crying for Ray. I hope he was dear to someone. Important enough to them for this news to make a sorrowful impact. To make their heart stop for a second and for them to feel troubled over his loss – for a while.

I cry for Ray.

I sit here and realise how unacceptable it is to have allowed so many days to pass since my last post. I have poor Nicole, pregnant and cankled back in Ottawa wondering if I’m still alive. I’m sorry, Nicole.

The answer is yes, I’m alive. I’ve accumulated four drafts all off to a really good start, the only thing that is wrong with them is me. It’s not for a lack of exciting things to write about but it’s probably more that my life has become so exciting that I’ve been getting busy with excitement.

Okay, major stretch there. Truthfully my excuse is laziness.

I did go to Vegas with Gee which was fun. I remember when I lived in Ottawa, Vegas seemed so out of reach because of the cost of flying from YOW, plus accoms, plus entertainment. But, now it’s just a hop and skip across the border to Bellingham; fly out of there and an hour later, touch down in Veg.  Another nice thing about flying out of B-ham is scoring the Allegiant Air package which sent us to Vegas, accommodated us for four nights, and shuffled us from airport to hotel and back all for $262.00 each.

Vegas made an interesting first impression on me. I kind of likened it to Expo on Viagra and steriods. There is sex partout à Vegas. Among rows upon rows of ads for Naughty Nancy, Erotic Erica, Barely Legal, 18, and Sexy Secretaries, etc, there’ll be the odd one for Thunder From Down Under, Vegas’ Australian version of Chipendales. A little something for the ladies.

Mmmm, not for me.

You walk down Las Vegas Blvd and the sidewalks are lined with these …  ”little clicking soldiers” is probably the best way to describe them. I was so fascinated by their method of soliciting Vegas escorts. It must be a source of regular and stable income that it’s not surprising to see little grandma out there too in her “GIRLS” t-shirt hanging down to her knees clicking the escort cards and handing them to passers by. I just did a bit of research and found many YouTube videos of this interesting enterprise. You can see one here. They seem to actually be called Clickers too. Or Flickers… Snappers. I think part of my fascination with them is the actual technique of clicking the cards. I mean I’m sure handing out the cards is years old however, at one point, someone had to come up with clicking the cards which I like to imagine was borne out of boredom and having things in the hands to play with and flick. Now it’s caught on and every single one of them does it. Some have it down pat, they take a step forward, click/flick/snap the card, hand it out and retract if it’s not received then repeat. Sometimes, the more alert ones will withdraw their arm back if you’re of the female species. I wonder if when they apply for the position they have to demonstrate the technique as part of the overall performance assessment? Or, if there’s a training sesssion. You know, it’s really like a dance in a way. An assembly line, line dance.

We didn’t see any shows because yours truly was on a bit of a justified “but I still have to have fun” budget, so we spent a lot of time wandering the streets, walking through the hotel casinos, shopping, and eating. We did party Saturday night at Pure Nightclub which is within Caesars Palace. We picked it because we saw the words “known for its celebrity patronage” on some flyer – twist our rubber elbows, I tell ya. All I could imagine fantasize was that maybe James Franco will be there and my life can complete itself just like that in a bar inside Caesars Palace at 33 years of age. No such luck though, but, I did find a serendipitous consolation completely by accident.

Pure Nightclub is a nice bar. It’s well kept, has secret rooms, lots of white (pure), congenial alcohol service, and a very impressive janitorial staff who will clean up your drink before it even hits the ground. The one issue I have with the place is unless you’re rolling in high dough in the bottle service you’re standing all night long. Let me explain why this could potentially be a bit of an inconvenience. When you’re a young lady wandering around Vegas you’re smart to wear comfortable shoes by day. But, even given this precautionary measure, taking strides up and down streets and  in and out of hotels are going to make the feets and toesies a little achy come the night hours. But when you’re a young lady wandering around Vegas and you’re preparing to hit a Vegas night club you’re going to be wearing heels, and they’re going to be impractical, and they’re going to defy the physiological structure of the foot and the calf muscle and how they work cohesively in order to keep human upright. Basically take away the heels and you’re in tippy toes for hours with a little stick holding your heels up.

I’ll speak on behalf of the two of us here when I say that by 11PM our arches and heels were screaming bloody murder. I ravenously searched for some kind of surface actually reducing myself to begging the security guards to take turns carrying me for five minutes at a time…

(I’m just kidding, as if I would do that)

(Okay I did it to one of them)

… I did get confirmation that there is in fact nothing to sit on unless you’re in bottle service. Preposterous I say. Anyway, the nice thing about the bottle service areas is that the sofa backs are low enough for even short people like me to be able to just conveniently slide my bum onto it and lo and behold I’m sitting down! Gee and I enjoyed this respite for about two minutes before she was swept onto the dance floor by a beautiful black man who didn’t have a friend. Suddenly I was a loner sitting on the back of a bottle service sofa, facing away from the righteous whose bottle service sofa I was using for my own salvation. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder after a few minutes and turned to find a security guard advising me that I was not allowed to sit there.

I remember the brief moment of panic I felt and my next move was a direct result of that panicked feeling. I’m sure had I processed the request for a least 10 seconds longer, the outcome would have been much different. But my body had a different plan for us and before I knew it I had swung myself around and plopped myself right on the couch of the bottle service between a couple of patrons. I looked to one of them and said something like, “Please pretend you know me, my feet are killing me.” He motioned to the guard with a thumbs up and I was safe!  But that still left Gee who eventually arrived at the entrance of the bottle service area. I looked at the same guy who saved my life and asked him if he could vouch for her too. He was a little ruffled this time but gave the security guard the same thumbs up.

Thankfully the bottle service we crashed was full of fun people. More joined eventually and before we knew it, Gee and I might as well have always been part of them. I begin to engage in conversation with my new roomies and naturally we get into the “Where are you from?” dialog when I discovered that not only are some from Ontario but some are also from Kanata, Ontario! My home sweet home. Not many people out this end know of Kanata – we really just say Ottawa, or, “Where the Ottawa Senators play hockey.”

Speaking of Ottawa Senators, my serendipitous consolation occurred when I realised I crashed the bottle service of a couple of Ottawa Senators and their relations and good friends. How fun! They weren’t Senators when I was in Ottawa, in fact one of them was probably even too young to be in the NHL at that time – ha. But anyway, the most exciting part for me was hanging out with people who live, grocery shop, and party in my little Kanata, Ontario! I cared more about discussing landmarks than I did that they were Ottawa Senators. They definitely were fun though and all our drinks forthcoming came out of their Grey Goose bottles so it was nice compensation for not having the opportunity to make out with James Franco in a corner; not to mention the fact that come four o’clock in the morning, we had history like there was no tomorrow.

The rest of the trip was memorable in a different and more vacationing kind of way. I spent $30 on the progressive slots in total and lost it all and marveled at the highfalutin’ and ostentatious hotels and appreciated just how much effort has gone into Las Vegas to make it seem like a world unto its own. I get now why it’s the city that never sleeps. If it weren’t for actually needing to sleep, I could have spent four straight days just wakefully absorbing every hour of my existence there. It’s not entirely out of enjoyment but could also be out of amazement as well. I might hanker to go again in a few years, but don’t understand wanting to go bi-annually but that’s just me. I don’t think I’m the target market Vegas is aiming at.

Hmm, what else have I been up to?

Oh, I’ve been getting up to skiing quite a bit. I’m sad to report that my Mandy Bunny has broken her baby toe and it’s staying straight with pins and therefore she is unable to ski. Lucky I’ve found a new skiing buddy in Andy and kind of like to think I played a part in his transition from snowboarding back into skiing. Made it up to Whistler a couple of times too. Whistler is like my heaven in a mountain. It’s like my security blanket and my revelry all wrapped into one.

On Friday, I whacked my eyebrow/outer corner of my eye-area on the frame of my car really hard. Have you ever done that? It was the most bizarre thing and I don’t even understand how it happened. I remember swinging my purse in first with the intention of having it land on the passenger seat but somehow my head followed, which would have otherwise been okay because I did want my head inside my car eventually but I figure I just didn’t bend my neck enough to clear the frame and into it my eyebrow went. I remember how the sensation went through a split second series of changes in pain. At first my eyebrow felt like it had sustained a thud with a rubber mallet, almost immediately after that it felt like someone had flipped the mallet upside-down and had now hit my eyebrow with the wooden handle. The final sensation was as though someone had taken an ice pick and hammered it into the outer corner of my eye. By this time I was ass-on-seat thankfully because the pain was pretty debilitating. My right eye continued to stream tears until about halfway to work and I kept looking at it in my  rear view mirror waiting for the purply-red, swollen lump to show itself. Which it never did, but the pain is a constant reminder of what happened.

I would also like to note that I should probably child-proof my apartment given the fact that I just slammed my quad into the corner of the side table in my living room. Now this pain is debilitating and I’m sure will also leave a nice, juicy mark. Look at me all bruised and battered and the only weapons were my car and my side table.

So with that, I’m going to post this entry before I do any more damage to myself which may result in me never getting this published.

* this post started on Tuesday, December 28th.

I’m 37,000 feet above ground right now in an Airbus 333. As per the interior specifications card, there are 51 rows of seating on this plane; 37 seats in first class, 228 in economy – where I sit in the 42nd row; the seating arrangement is 2-4-2 in econ. I am part of the four grouping, but at the aisle, and the person in front of me doesn’t seem to want to recline which I am thoroughly enjoying because my tray table is down. My seat isn’t reclined either. The sky is dark because it’s about 7:30 PM EST. I never thought this until now, but it’s odd writing “the sky” while I’m actually flying up in it. If I refer to the sky, it’s usually as something I look up at, not out at. You know? Anyway… I’m on my way back to Vancouver from spending Christmas in Ottawa. This jaunt was a big deal for me because the last time I saw my family and friends at Christmas was 2006. I spent Christmas with them for 30 years before I moved, so to lose that makes holidays in Vancouver a little bittersweet. Curse all airlines for making Christmas-season flights upwards of $900. This year though, I must have been a really good girl because Santas (uncle Mark, Mum, Dad, Nana) got me a flight home collectively.

Shanny, my same-sex soul mate:

Is my nana a beauty, or what?

Shan’s little Noah

Averyyy

Self-timed family photo:

Chelsy and Riley-girl

Katie and Dylan baybee

Nom nom nom

Heeee

Miss this spot:

Check out Oscar at the NAC:

Miss the Parkway a lot:

Shoppingtimes with Kokomo:

I call this a ‘Yuck.’ It’s a Yam Duck!

Chez my brother and wife:

An aunt sandwiched between a niece and a nephew:

Sister and brother with cousin in order by height:

Mama:

It’s my Harley-inspired dad:

So, about this flight I’m on: Right now I am in an ideal position considering I’m 42 rows away from the front exit which means that disembarking is going to take a while but, I’ve got leg and laptop room and my crossword puzzles. It’s almost the best of all possible economy situations (where first class would mean fully reclining and having a nice, soft blankie, and my own little pod to sleep in) … except for the woman at the opposite end of my quad row. Between us is a young couple. I’ve got the girlfriend beside me and I’m pretty sure she drugged herself because she was literally asleep before the plane even left the ground. She’s got her boyfriend’s jacket draped over her and he tucks it in on the sides for her every time she shifts. They’re really sweet. Now, as for this woman at the end, she might also have drugged herself but I’m wondering if maybe hers were amphetamines? She’s watching something funny because every few minutes or so her shrill cackle breaks the silence and she rushes her body forward a bit, then bounces back and her gold bracelets collide with each other.

The problem with it being every few minutes is that I have just enough time to come down from being startled out of my pants only to have it re-occur. Cackle. Lunge. Crash. Clink clink clink. It feels like torture actually. It’s worse that the plane is dark because darkness makes people quieter, darkness is usually associated with rest, sleeping, whispers, nighttime.

With each obnoxious assault on my peace, I look over at her. But, she is not giving me the satisfaction of returning my eye contact so I can’t suggest she quiet down with my glare and hope that she snaps out of it. I’m not getting that satisfaction! It’s so startling that the young woman beside me actually jolts a bit in her sleep each time; like a cat.

It just happened again, this time I looked at the woman beside me, who looked at her boyfriend, who looked at me, then back at his girlfriend, then we all turned to the laughing woman who never looked at us. We all had a silent, telepathic, group commiseration and I do feel a bit better. Yes, we are being very passive aggressive in our approach right now and we have her on our hyper-radars. The girl friend is totally awake and she’s tense; I can feel it coming off her. The problem is none of us want to be the one to tell the woman. How do you tell someone who’s in the throes of laughter to clam it?

So now my mind wanders … Does she know we’re looking over at her and couldn’t care less? Maybe she’s developed a waking unconsciousness toward anything that goes on around her. Maybe she’s the type of person when even if someone did point it out to her, she’d just cackle it off and put her headphones back on. She’s failing on many levels and is a bad, bad, terrible person.

But look at her … laughing away so carefree. It is likely that no one will say anything. Maybe we’ll turn the volume up on our own headsets now. Or we’ll all just daydream her away. She’ll get off the plane, reminisce over the hilarious show she just watched, and how nice the flight was. Then she’ll board a plane again in the future, do the same thing, no one will tell her, and she’ll have wonderful happy airplane memories. The End.

I am admitedly very choked to the point of downright internal bitchiness which I am not proud of. The problem is I am a creature who functions best when my environment is set to levels Harmony and Tranquility. Shrill, spontaneous, loud noises actually rattle me both mentally and physically. It’s like I have shell shock only I don’t ever recall being surrounded by gunfire or any kind of cacophonies of the sort.

The thing is, this is just one of her isms. I mean, she can’t be purposefully scraping a rusty ice pick along the sensitive auditory canals of my ears. Her cackle just doesn’t work well with my own loud, spontaneous noise disorder.

Okay wait, it is also that if I do say something, she may respond less than agreeably to my suggestion then over-exaggerate her laughter because who the hell is this bitch telling me to laugh quieter? So, because I’m 37,000 feet in the air, trapped in a steel tube with no where else to go and I have no idea what kind of personality this woman has I’m going to have to ultimately let it be.

But man, do I ever wish her show would hurry up and end.

I’m going to go for a plane aisle walk. brb.

…

…

I just had a really interesting conversation with an 8″ tall man. Okay, maybe he was more like 6’4″ but when you’re 5’4″ it’s easy to misgauge. We met in the aisle toward the back where the flight attendants hang. It’s also where the bathroom is and what he was waiting for. I asked him what it’s like sitting in a plane being so long. Yes, I said long, yes I thought about it after it left my lips, but he handled it well and told me the key is the emergency exit row. Of course! Then he told me I was probably small enough to stretch out in the overhead compartments.

Phew, that walk really did me in. The Gravol and decongestant I took have kicked in now and I think I need to close my laptop and try to have a little snoozy-poo. I have no idea when I’ll go back to this post again because it will be around 9:30 PM PST by the time I get home which will feel like 12:30 AM EST so I certainly won’t be returning to this today in either PST or EST. So, I’m going to say good bye for now.

It’s the early evening of Saturday, January 15th. I went skiing with Mandy today. My skis were recently waxed and sharpened and were just incredible. The weather itself wasn’t very nice as dark clouds did loom over head and it eventually started to rain but the snow on the trails was so fluffy and fast. We found a couple treed runs that ran along the main drag, and had not been touched, so it felt like our own little side of the mountain.

Speaking of tree trails, I learned a new term today: Tree wells. Falling into a deep one means you have a mere 10% survival rate, on average.

© stevenspass.com

Basically, if you’re in an area where the trees are tall and the boughs rest upon the snow, then chances are there is a void of loose snow that surrounds the section of the tree trunk that is beneath the boughs. So, if you ski too close to the trees, or you lose control and hit one, you can fall into a tree well. Often it is the depth of the fall that will result in limbs being injured which contributes to the decrease in survival and  it can apparently be as quick as drowning to suffocate to death. There were two experiments conducted in the US and Canada where volunteers were placed in a tree well and 90% could not rescue themselves. This death is called Non-Avalanche Related Snow Immersion Death, or NARSID.

© dodgeridge.com

So ya, watch out for those whether snowmobiling, snowshoeing, skiing, walking, etc. Stay away from the boughs of the trees. Don’t let me catch you stuck in one or I’ll be really upset!

Okay, taking a T.O. right now, need to stretch my body before it seizes from skiing.

It’s Monday. I’m at work. My morning has been spent forcing emails upon someone who I’m fighting tooth and nail with over purchasing the skis he’s been saying he wants to purchase for the last three years. EBay link after EBay link, screaming deal after screaming deal, and nothing. I had to draw this release the frustration:

In an effort to become a little more covert within the realm of the world wide web, I’ve made sasr.com invisible to search engines. This now means that for those of you who get to sasr.com by Googling it, it’s likely going to slowly but surely drop off from search engines as they clear their caches.

The reason for this is because a Google search for my full name (first and last) was returning sasr.com as the first result. This is too close for comfort for me because believe it or not, it felt a little like my privacy was being invaded.

I’ve been very conscientious about leaving my last name out of my blog completely. This has allowed me to write whatever I want without having to worry about my job or one of my stalkers (just kidding, I don’t have any … at least I better not, busters) being able to Google my full name and then getting sasr as the first result where they can read all the secrets I’ve been sharing with you all this time.

But, somehow the two became connected in cyberspace. It’s also because my last name is so unique, so if you Google my full name, every result has to do with me. It’s glaring. It’s not like my name is Jane Smith and I could be like … Slow and steady rush dot com? Never heard of it. Must be some other Jane Smith.

You get the idea…

This is also primarily why I’ve slowed down my post deliveries. I’ve been taking the time to figure out how to unlink my name from my blog in search results. Making my blog invisible was going to be my last resort but because I haven’t been able to fix the connection, sasr.com’s going to go into hiding.

This just means that you’ll have to enter the address vs Googling it (although, to be honest, I don’t know why Googling “slowandsteadyrush” is any different from typing it into a browser’s address bar – you silly billies).

Other than that it’s business as usual around here. I’m just about finished a post I started on December 28th so I’m hoping to not take an entire month to finish it.

Yours in top-secrecy, Andrea C.

You’d have to be okay with the vision of me right now. A twisted, fuddy-duddy  bun on the top of my head, secured by an alligator clip – shiny black. Below this bun is another twisted, fuddy-duddy bun at the back of my head.

I’m wearing fraying, knitted slipper-socks. Red and creme striped, authentically made in Japan with little, yarned, chubby-cheeked bunnies with yellow bow ties on each sock’s outside.

I have Vaseline smeared on my lips to keep them soft in these dry, wintry months. I really paid no attention to the contours of my lips while applying. In fact, I essentially slid my finger into the jar, pulled out a glob, and rubbed it horizontally back and forth for the time it took me to leave my washroom and get to my computer.

I might have also gracefully bumped into my side table while making my way back to my spinny computer chair – which I landed in and spun around once or twice before settling my fingers back on the keyboard to type out this nonsense.

There’s a calculator beside me that just distracted me, which is common. See, I like numbers and math. So sometimes I’ll add, divide, or multiply my phone number with that of a friend or relative just to see what they equal. There are also times when I spell out words on it then flip it upside-down. Like 0.7734 or 55378008 or 58008. I learned that in grade five I think.

The other day I thought about Robert Frost and how pretty I always found The Road Not Taken and Nothing Gold Can Stay so I’ve decided to memorize them. N.G.C.S was more of a re-memorize so I started with that and now will move on to T.R.N.T. I memorize them by speaking them out loud, sometimes singing them to myself, or conducting them with taps on the table of each line of each verse.

So these are the times when I reflect upon my daily idiosyncrasies and think – if I were someone else, would I want to know why I can easily spend five minutes adding random number sequences on my calculator or why I’ve played Band of Horses’ No One’s Gonna Love You 12 times in a row now. Or why I continue to wear these woven socks that are almost bare in the left heel. Or why I might jump out of this chair suddenly because a Crossword clue has finally come to me from the night before. I personally wouldn’t care but I know that a more conventional or orderly person might not know if they’re coming or going when I’m in this current frame of mind. However, I am of the belief that there are those who secretly wish they could behave in a way that is atypical. And, I like to imagine that when people are left to their own devices they test the limits of what they would tend to regard as their own proper behaviour.

That’s what’s so lovely about love, for example. Or, at least a deep appreciation for somebody. It’s that you’re not going to actually love and appreciate someone until you love and appreciate everything about who they are. And you know you love everything about someone when the things they do, which could otherwise be interpreted negatively or with concern, really become less of an issue to fixate on.

It’s kind of like when Harry says to Sally:

I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

That’s a cute part.

Oh, here’s the song I’ve been listening to over and over again. I was reminded of it recently when I watched Zombieland.

Band of Horses | No One’s Gonna Love You

My blogging consistency has been anything but. And I’m sorry because I can see my regular readers checking in every so often and there’s just been nothing exciting here in a while.

Although, I suppose if I consider it, nothing too exciting has actually gone on as of late which is good for me because I often like my eggs over easy. In addition, my life’s definition of  ”exciting” doesn’t always mean winning the lottery or sitting across from James Franco in a dimly lit, steamy-windowed coffee shop.

So anyway, I do have an interesting and exciting true story to report. This one’s a goodie and hopefully it will entertain you long enough until the next catastrophe rushes into my life without warning. I am going to graduate cum laude in resiliency and patience training by the time this frigging life is through with me!

Between Thursday and Sunday I experienced: Concern, worry, extreme elation, consternation, fury, diabolical rage, frustration, bewilderment, happiness and the wind in my hair.

In a very long-winded and verbose fashion (albeit we are covering four days here), the story goes like this:

I met my friends for lunch this past Thursday at The Plant on Railway about a ten minute walk from my work. We had a nummy lunch, parted ways, and I made my way back. It was snowing that day - heavy, watery snowflakes which dissolved into droplets millimeters before landing on warm bodies below. It was easy to get soaked walking for too long but this walk was short and I welcomed the fresh, wintry air.

I arrived at work and walked up the stairs to my office reaching into my jacket pocket to check the time on my cell phone which was no longer in my pocket. My heart sank. I rushed into work to advise my colleagues of the sitch and headed right back out the door, trudging all the way back to The Plant following my own boot tracks right through the door. No one had turned in my phone. I left and walked back to work following the same path I had made three trips before and frantically scanned the sidewalks and roads. Nothing.

I arrived back at work to stay for good and called my phone. My answering machine picked up right away. Please let it have been run over, I thought to myself as I would have been much more comfortable with that outcome versus my phone being in someone’s hands with all my personal text messages, contacts, calendar, and photos available for perusal for as long as my battery was alive. I called Telus to report my phone missing and forced myself to push the situation out of my mind so I could focus on working.

Later that afternoon I called Telus again to enquire about the phone upgrade options I had seen on my account last time I logged in. To my surprise the guy (his name was Carlos) told me that someone had found my phone and called it in to report it. She left her name and contact number. Carlos put me on hold while he called the number. He promptly came back to tell me that the number connected to one of the Triage Shelters in my area and that the woman wasn’t there. In all candid and humble honesty, when I found out this information, two things went through my head: 1) Please let it be someone who works there 2) Please don’t let it be a client.

Carlos gave me her name and the telephone number and we said goodbye.

I made the announcement to the office right after this and immediately the name was recognised. “Oh… she has your phone?” And it was not in an uplifting or reassuring way. My elation dissipated quickly as they told me personal accounts of their experiences dealing with her. I began to visualise the hands and fingernails of the person who my phone was now in the company of. I have a tendency to take note of noteworthy fingernails. I don’t know why I do this but it’s just one of the many odd things I do. As a result, the visualisation I had of her appendages made me shiver but clearly I had no confirmation on whether or not I was overreacting. I thought about the track ball on my Blackberry. I thought about the photos of Mandy’s kitten. I thought about my James Franco (don’t be alarmed) wallpaper that everyone laughs at. I thought about my recent text messages and the vet and dentist appointments I recently scheduled. I thought about important birthdays and the addresses of my friends and family.

Still, I thought to myself, I’m going to get her a really nice thank-you card and put a bit of Christmas money inside. I thought about what I would write in it and that maybe I’d also get her a gift card at Starbucks, too. Despite her not-so-good reputation in my office I still appreciate and understand the struggles the people in this area face and since I’m all for paying-it-forward in life I was almost excited to get my phone back and to see the look on her face when I gave her my gift in return.

At 4:30, when my shift ended, I walked over to the shelter to see if she had dropped off my phone. She hadn’t. They were familiar with her there and recalled her showing them my phone earlier in the day but she didn’t want to leave it with them even though the phone number she left me is for the shelter – which she only visits but does not live at. They mentioned she enjoys wandering the streets with her compadre and will often do this for hours on end. My phone was right at my fingertips! I left my home number with them in case she went back and rushed to catch my bus…

…which never came. The weather turned from heavy, fluffy snowflakes to sleet and then to rain. The sun was down and it was damp and cold. Cars driving by the bus stop seemed to go in time lapse. Every so often one would drift over the white line a little bit and send a wave of sludge toward us waiting commuters. These commuters came and went as their buses arrived on schedule. Four bus routes pass by this stop and I spotted all but mine every two to three minutes. As time elapsed I started to mumble in my head how much I hated my life at that very moment in time. If I had my cell phone I could call the transit line and find out if and when my bus was coming and what alternative ones were available. I could maybe call someone to pick me up. My jacket suddenly wasn’t as warm as it felt before I lost my phone. I hated my stupid jacket for not having proper pockets. If it had proper pockets, my phone would have never fallen out. I thought about how I decided to bus to work that day because the weather the night before had predicted heavy snowfall for the next day. I looked at the rainy roads and realised driving wouldn’t have been so bad. If I had my car I would have been home by now, on my sofa, under a heavy blanket beside my cozy Christmas tree with its multi coloured lights mesmerized by the flames in my fireplace.

If I were to write an illustrated storybook of the time I spent at the bus stop, the cover of the storybook would look like this:

Forty-five minutes and 15 buses later I got onto the next one and asked the driver how close he got to my stop. His route was much longer but it worked for me and I got on out of desperation for warmth and dryness.

On a normal day, the bus gets me home in about 25 minutes. On Thursday, I was home an hour and a half after leaving work. Unnn-acceptable!

I stomped toward home, down the dark path that everyone tells me I should stop stomping down at night time but I think my body language, hunched shoulders, and heavy, plodding legs would have scared anyone lurking in the bushes. I’m pretty sure I was probably grunting too. It was like that demon in Jeepers Creepers I:

Meets Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick at the early stages of his devilish transformation:

That was like me coming down the path.

I finally got into my sanctuary and turned on the lights on my Christmas tree which became the only source of light in my apartment. I fed my boys in the darkness and went to my bedroom where I noticed my digital answering machine had a little message flashing. So I listened and it was her. The gatekeeper. She had found my “Home” entry in my contacts. She said she found my phone at 2:30, it’s safe and… let me bring out the quotes for this: “And yes I want a reward because I’m doing the right thing, believe it or not.”

Oh I believe it.

She called me again that evening, we talked this time and I told her she didn’t have to ask for a reward because I planned on offering her a little something anyway as a token of my thanks. In knowing that the shelter was open 24 hours, and close to her apartment, I asked her if she could drop my phone off at the front desk for me to pick up the next day and I would leave her a little card and my gift to pick up when she was there next. She told me no, that she “wanted to meet the lady whose phone I have” and that “I want to shake your hand and hand it over to you.” AKA, “I want to make sure you give me money.” Although it severely irritated me, I understood her mentality and instead she offered to meet me at the shelter at noon the next day.

We disconnected and I finally relaxed. I was going to be reunited with my phone! Around 8:15 PM I decided to head out to the bank machine to take out some cash for her just in case the following day was another bus one for safety. I bundled up, got to the garage and noticed that my interior light was on because I hadn’t shut my door entirely since I was last in my car a full day earlier. I might have sworn several times while getting into my car and saying something directly to God in between, who I very rarely discuss things with. I look back on it now and the two probably shouldn’t have been combined. That’s likely why my engine wouldn’t turn over. Oh how it tried though, it really did. As I mustered the last bit of wrist energy to turn the key a few more times I flashed forward to the next series of events that would take place. #1. With a dead battery I can’t drive to the bank machine right now, the bank is about a 45 minute walk away and I’m not sure my body will survive another bout in the elements under unfortunate circumstances. Ex. Walking outside on a cold, rainy night should really be something I choose to do, not actually have to do. #2. The dead battery also means I have to bus to work the next morning no matter what (again removing the choice from me). This means that 2a) there is no bank on my bus route. #3. If I don’t have the cash to give her as her “reward” she’s not going to hand over my phone without a fight and 3a) I don’t want to fight anyone so close to Christmas!

I surrendered and head back inside. I think I might have popped recreational Gravol that night just to make sure I would actually sleep through the slow and steady rage (not rush) that was starting to line the underside of my epidermis.

The next morning I woke up a little early and tried to charge my car battery with my little trickle battery charger I have for my motorcycle. It wasn’t enough juice. Luckily I got a call from a friend who just so happens to pass by my hood on his way to work. “Get the cables ready,” he requested “we’re going to do a drive-by charging.” And I did as requested. My battery was alive again! I left immediately and got some cash from the bank machine on the way, I even was able to get my free McDonald’s coffee. It was a good morning – until the afternoon at approximately 12:40 when I left the shelter as per our meeting place and time the evening before. I was there from 11:55 AM to 12:40 PM. I spent my lunch loitering in the lobby of the shelter. I heard people tooting, burping, and discussing heated issues quietly to themselves. Someone dropped his chocolate chip cookie at my feet and in rising from picking it up he hit his head on my right bum cheek. “Oh sorry,” he said. “Do you think my cookie is still okay?” I told him he must have picked it up in under five seconds and he seemed to agree at the same time he started chomping down on it.

I talked to Maureen for about 13 minutes. She was explicitly telling me to stay out of relationships for the rest of my life and just get a lot of cats. I told her I was already two in and she high-fived me. She also relayed several stories of renting woes, and cell phones, and televisions, and bunions, and ankle cramps in winter boots that were a little too big.

Come 12:40 PM I knew that I wasn’t going to get my phone and left. I crossed the street and had to relay the disappointment to the office and watch their smiles turn to scowls. I sat at my desk and asked for silence as I deep breathed the fury out of my bones. How dare she control this situation I kept thinking. I was completely helpless to getting my phone back now and I realised that the chances were very slim that I ever would.

I worked the rest of the day trying so hard to not project my rage onto my poor clients. I selfishly and self-pityingly associated them with her and I had to shake the thought a few times to keep neutral. I called the VPD non-emerg line on my break and reported my phone as officially stolen. I wasn’t really expecting anything to come of it but at least I could take back some of the helplessness I was feeling over the situation.

Friday afternoon I got home without incident and head to the mall to the Telus booth to see what upgrade options were available to me. Luckily it wasn’t busy so I was able to pour my heart out to the poor Telus rep who probably did not wake up that morning thinking some crazy customer was going to come in that evening to entertain him with the last 24 hours of her life. We eventually got down to business and I checked out the phones. At the end of the rundown I was looking at spending at least $240 no matter which option I went with. I remember hanging my head and exhaling deeply. The rep (Ben) put his hand on my arm and said “I have an idea, meet me back at my desk.” He rushed off into the back and I made my way as instructed.

He emerged out of the back with his knapsack and pulled out a Blackberry Tour 9630. “This is my phone,” he said, “and I’m going to give it to you for free.” I looked up at him and he didn’t give me a chance to say anything. “I just upgraded to a new one, this one’s going on Craigslist anyway, so I’m just going to give it to you instead. I believe in good karma and you need it right now. This phone is only 10 months old, I’ll switch everything over to this one so it’ll be just like before you left for lunch on Thursday only you have a different phone.” I think all I mustered was, “Holy shit, what? Wow, thank you.” (I’m very classy during moments of extreme appreciation). Before leaving I purchased a $70 Bluetooth so he could get some commission off of me. It was the least I could do for forcing my story upon him for the last hour.

I got home and my little voice mail light was flashing again it was that voice. This message was a stark contrast from the coherent one she left me on Thursday as well as the conversation we had that night. This one was complete gobbledygook.

An hour passed.

She called again and told me she wasn’t able to make it. I was not about to get into a lecturing session with her because she had property of mine and I couldn’t risk having her do something with it. So I placated her and maintained the false appreciation in my voice. She enjoyed the control and tersly asked me, “Well, what do you want to do?” Almost as if I was inconveniencing her fancy plans on a Friday night. Seeing as how it was after dark, I wasn’t about to head into the down town east side alone so we planned to meet at noon on Monday (yesterday), same place.

I played with my new Bb for most of the night and had a better, drug-free sleep knowing that my phone was still alive and she was still in contact with me. Still though I went in and out of almost laughing at the situation thinking about how I’ve handled other people’s lost property I found. The process is usually to get a hold of them right away and immediately make a plan and likely meet at both our next available opportunity. It’d involve meeting half way, or dropping it off at work – all the things that would accompany handling a situation with urgency. Here I was dealing with someone who was basking in self-gratification for having done something good… “believe it or not.” For this woman, I’m sure it was enough to compensate for her otherwise lackadaisical regard for the fact that she had a piece of property that was very important and private to me.  The situation was entirely on her schedule and priority determination and I was at her full mercy if I was to continue to pursue getting my phone back.

Saturday morning my phone rang around 8:00 AM. It was the officer assigned to my case. He told me he was in her area and he could go retrieve my phone if I wanted him to. For a moment this excited me but then I felt bad all of the sudden that I had made this plan with her for Monday and an officer showing up prior to this would be quite alarming for her. Not to mention the fact that she can be volatile – which I warned him of. His alternative was that he’d assign a plain-clothed officer to my office at noon and we’d walk to the shelter together to get my phone. If she escalated or started asking me for more money, they officer would take over from that point. It felt like a sting operation. We confirmed that plan and that was that.

As my mind started to wake up more I began to feel less guilty and more clear-headed. Come Monday she would have had my phone for four days. If she didn’t show up at noon on Friday, what’s to say that the same thing wouldn’t happen again on Monday? As long as my battery was charged all of my personal information, my contacts’ addresses, telephone numbers, my appointments, text messages … they were at her complete disposal. So I called him back and told him to go get my phone.

He called me back forty minutes later to let me know he had it.

I nearly laughed through my words of thanks and in a way almost felt emotional. This ordeal was finally over and my business was safe now – back in my hands. It’s hard to explain. I was heading out to do groceries and we met outside the store. He handed my phone and we exchanged a few words. He remarked how she had denied ever having asked me for reward money and that he told her it was considered extortion. ha. I told him all the evidence was on my answering machine and he reassured me that he “knew.” We parted ways after that and I went about my day. I wondered when I got home if there was going to be a message from her on my phone. She did, after all, call my home several times over the last three days.

And sure enough… She sarcastically wished me an “Uh ya, Merry Christmas” and told me that I didn’t have to send the police. She made sure to tell me that at least she had a clear conscience because she found my cell in the snow. I’m not sure how that works exactly but at that point I really didn’t give a poo.

The frigging end.