cont’d…

I kind of left my last post hanging on account of laziness and lack of motivation but, so much has happened since then!

To conclude my Puerto Vallarta vacation in one quick wrap-up, I was sick the entire time. I got so sick, in fact, that I fell asleep standing up at one point. I barely remember the last two days for having been so high on over-the-counter and behind-the-counter Mexican cold medication which did nothing except put me to sleep standing up. To make matters worse, I actually got a bleeding nose on the plane home.

My salvation came in the form of a phone call approximately one-month after getting back. It was my ENTS’ receptionist telling me that a cancelled spot came up and would I be prepared to have my surgery in six days. I gave the thought about 60 seconds of my time then just said yes; might as well get it over with as otherwise I would have still been on the waiting list.

My big day came and I couldn’t have been more excited. Especially with memories nightmares of my Valentine’s Day Mexican vacation sick-fest not too far off in my distant memory. I always enjoy the wait before a surgery. At this hospital it was particularly cute because slowly but surely we transitioned from our street clothes to our little surgical outfits. “You must be fully naked. Here’s the top, it stays open in the back, don’t tie it. Then, here’s the robe, it goes over and stays open at the front. These are the slippers that go over your feet. Once you’re dressed you can head back to the waiting room.”

There really wasn’t any time for dignity. Everyone who emerged from the change room area was observed by those who were sitting in the waiting room. They went in having dressed themselves that morning and came out in funny gowns and paper-thin slippers. We all took note. Then, when our own name was called we, too, had to re-enter the waiting room cognizant of all the eyes.

While we were all waiting, I had the joy of witnessing what I like to call a “Life’s Like That” moment. They’re those moments that belong in Reader’s Digest… There was an elderly gentleman whose name was called. He had to be called twice because his hearing aid was out. After his wife gently nudged him in the direction of the nurse calling his name, he stood up abruptly.

“Mr. John Smith?”
“Yes? That’s me.”
“Are you going home today?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you going home today?”
“Well,” he remarked gruffly, “I certainly hope so!”

We all had a little chuckle under our breath because I think we were all interpreting his response the same way. He might not have even meant it in the way we were all thinking, but it was so very endearing.

Finally it was my turn, I was asked the same question for verification then led into the gurney area. I was given a couple of nice warmed blankets and told that “they” would come to get me as soon as the operating room was ready.

I snapped this photo for the memory book while I waited:

My wait was maybe 45 minutes which was okay with me because the blankets were so warm and it was only 7:00AM. I had nearly fallen back asleep when my ENTS came to see me. He gave me a debriefing, gave me a 10-minute head’s up, then was off to get into his scrubs and lather his arms.

I finally found myself in the surgery room where I met my anesthesiologist who took my blood pressure and made a point of remarking that it is “really good, just excellent.” I told him that I like to have some Gravol added to my drip because I tend to come out of surgery barfing all over the place. Thankfully, he obliged then introduced me to his intern. Now, I know from experience that the veins in the tops my hands are terribly hard to find when it comes to running an IV line so I showed her the one that runs from the bottom of my thumb along the side of my wrist because it’s big and juicy and usually the most cooperative. I don’t think she’d ever run one from there before and seemed very committed to finding one on the top. I was pumping my fist, hanging my arm straight down, they were tightening the band and slapping the back of my hand when eventually the anesthesiologist just told her to go with the one I suggested. She did it with trepidation but he was standing right over her guiding her. At one point I felt her energy change and the anesthesiologist requested a gauze and I knew I was bleeding all over the place. They wiped up my thumb, palm, and fingertips and finally taped that little line down.

In gentle voices they told me that they were going to give me some oxygen and I was to breathe slowly, they’d administer the anesthetic shortly after that and I was going to go to sleep. The moment that familiar taste of anesthetic in my veins hit my taste buds I expected darkness within seconds and absolutely love that part. I love how it is impossible to fight the sleep and to feel that come on is always so fascinating to me.

And off to sleepies I went…

I woke up half dead and with the sensations of people taking my temperature on my finger tip, shining a flashlight into my eye balls, and adjusting my position in the bed. A blood pressure sleeve was also strapped around my arm. I heard those gentle voices again luring me out of my slumber. I so didn’t want to wake up, my exhaustion was unbelievably heavy. I quickly assessed whether or not I was in pain and I wasn’t although I was immensely thirsty. I got one measly ice cube placed in my mouth and then probably fell back asleep again and left to wake up on my own. Unfortunately, I was beat to the punch with the pesky flashlight again. “How many fingers?” “Follow my index finger.” “How is your vision?”

I learned later that a lot of time was spent inside my ethmoid sinuses …

… and because they are so intricate and so close to the eyes, extra care has to be taken all up in there so they don’t go severing my optical nerve or damaging my eyeballs. I got the flashlight inspection once every half hour which felt very intrusive because I still really just wanted to go back to sleep.

Finally, I was graduated to room temperature ginger ale via a straw but was monitored after my first sip which nearly led to me sucking out all of the ginger ale in one shot. I was so thirsty and my throat was so dry. After that the nurse held the styrofoam cup in her hand and took the straw out of my mouth when she felt I had had enough. Apparently too much in my stomach too soon could bring on nausea and that was enough to make me adhere to the two sip max rule because no way in hell was I going to be barfing after sinus surgery, thank you.

My ENTS come out to see me when I was more coherent. He told me that I had a lot of “diseased tissue everywhere” and he could tell that I had recently had a particularly bad sinus infection. I wanted more gory details but he had to run off to check on his next patient … but not before he shone the flashlight into my eyes once, too.

Before I could be officially released, I had to pee first. I heard them telling all the post-op patients this almost like a song. I asked why, because, to my recollection, I don’t ever remember hearing this so much in recovery. The reason is that anesthetic can affect the neurological emptying of the bladder. So, if it doesn’t kick in the way it should then a condition called obstructive uropathy could result. Again, no thank you. Luckily I did pee the way I was supposed to and then Nick was allowed to retrieve me and wheel me away. I don’t remember the ride home except for feeling Nick’s hand on my knee every so often. It was probably the only time we’ve been in the car together that I was asleep, usually it’s the other way around. He was a very good escort and night nurse.

Especially when I had been left to rest in our room with the door open while he played board games with his kids just outside.

I went in and out of slumber but was woken more by a strange sensation happening on my chest. It felt like hot rain or something. Once I woke up a little more I realised my nose was pouring blood onto my chest. I was able to muster an “I need help” and Nick came into our room, turned on the bedside light only to find me looking something like this:

I remember the feeling of talking and having blood spitting everywhere as I did so. At one point, Nick looked at me strangely and said, “Oh babe, you have a huge blood clot hanging out of your nose.” Then, he got right to work. He did say something like, “All this blood is making me nauseous.” But, nothing about the big clot that was stuck. I think that tended to be more of an interesting project.

Hours after my surgery I was surprised at how clear my nostril passageways really were. I even thought, this is fantastic! Best surgery recovery ever! That was until I lowered my pillows just a little as night time set in and blam, they closed up just like that.

And that’s how they stayed for the next eight days…

The next morning the pain was in full assembly. I described it to people as it feeling like when you were a kid and you accidentally snorted a bunch of chorine up your nose at the swimming pool. Remember that burn in your face, throat, and brain? It was like that, except made for monsters. It was enough to make my eyes water regularly and the T3 barely did the trick. Luckily the steady pain lasted for just about two days and then the T3s were able to manage things.

Upon reflection of the recovery period, I would say that the indisputable worst part of the whole thing was not the two days of pain but how dry my mouth was at night because I wasn’t breathing through my nose. I would wake up with my tongue, literally, stuck to the inside of my cheek and my throat feeling like someone had just dumped a bucket of sand down it then lit it on fire. I was probably finishing a litre of water in the course of one night due to waking up every 30-45 minutes taking sips of water, falling asleep for an hour or so, then waking up to pee only to repeat that same thing over and over again. This was how every single night went for me for days on end. To add to the frustration of my dry mouth was the insanity that sleep-deprevation brought on. I feel as though I can now accurately describe what sleep-torture feels like.

Nearing the end of my sleepless suffering I found my relief and it came in the form of a little pink pill. If it was acceptable to fall deeply in love with medication this is what I would have done.

My lover:

This cute little patch adheres to the roof of your mouth and essentially releases a gentle bitter/sour flavour over your tongue as it dissolves which causes your salivary glands to work in overtime. The strange feeling of having something stuck to your palate that eventually starts to get a little gooey is peanuts compared to the relief it provides in alleviating a dry-mouth. For the first night in as many as I remember I was able to sleep for a solid four hours. It was like a miracle and is what brought me back to a civilised state where I felt human again.

I shall leave you with that for now, as there is a part 3 which concluded yesterday afternoon. I have to take some time to do some drawings so please, stand by.

I’m just going to take liberties at being verbose and opinionated and talk like I know everything for a bit, okay?

The other week I was having a fat, hot day. The heat was moist and I had been eating chips all day the day before at work. Someone had been having one of those days and wanted to eat the feelings it was leaving them with. Being the compatriot colleague I pride myself as being, I obviously couldn’t let this person devour those chips entirely alone. “Here, let me help you,” I offered, hand on shoulder, other hand in bag.

So ya, my fat, hot day. I had on this ratty t-shirt and my cheap, almost Lulu yoga pants that were dusted ass and knees with soil from yard work we’d been doing. I was out getting cream and a planter. I exited the plaza and my person met the face of a biker sitting on some masonry. Normally, when I feel decent and cool (cool as in the opposite of hot; not as in ‘dude’) I would be more aware of myself and how I might appear in public and that’s because I would have paid attention to the little details. On this day I was feeling happily invisible and dirty until… I got the whistle.

And, I know, you’re probably like “Okay sister, now h’what makes you think he was whistling at you? You in your filthy-ass fake Lulus and grungy t-shirt” ‘snap, snap, snap’

Listen, a lady knows. Even when we’re not aware of our surroundings, we’re aware of our surroundings. And, this has really not much to do with narcissism and everything to do with how we’ve come to learn of the way we fit in among the general populous. We as in the female gender. Sometimes we’re a spectacle, even when we want to feel invisible. We’ve learned that it’s just the way it goes. To supplement this, though, is the reality that sometimes those who are in the moment of appreciating us don’t make themselves very unassuming. Sometimes it’s an all out show down. And it would go like this (read in slow motion):

Doot do do, I’m walking out of a plaza. Man, this planter is heavy! Shit, I’m going to have to open the heavy glass door with my knee. Harumph, it’s open. Okay, now I have to dash out before it closes on me and my heavy planter.
I’m free!
Doot do do.. walking out… Oh, there’s a dog tied to Starbucks’ patio fence drinking water, he’s so cute! And, there’s an old man putting money in the meter. Doot do do, taking a few more steps… That man’s wearing chaps, ah, there’s his Harley. Doot d… we’ve made eye contact. Glance away. Glance again. Close-mouth polite smile from me. Oh okay, now he’s smirking and nodding. Does he have to watch me while he lights his cigarette? Doot do do, I’m wearing dirty pants and a ratty t-shirt, he’ll notice sooner or later. Okay, he’s still watching me. Okay, he’s just going to be a watcher, what can I do? Doot do do, I’m passing him now. Yep, still watching. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot… my peripheral tells me he’s still watching… right foot, left… I’m fully past him now and I can feel his eyes burning right into my… shudder… Okay right foot, left foot, “fweeeet ffeeewwww.” Gah! He just whistled! Keep walking, doot do do.

Now hear this: I am also very comfortable admitting the times that I thought I was receiving a whistle only to turn around and see an old lady whistling for her shih-tzu to come. But, nevertheless, consider it like this: You’re sitting somewhere, say at DQ, in a library, or in your car at a red light. You don’t gotta be a lady to feel like someone near you is watching you. You could be looking straight ahead at a red light and sense that someone’s looking over at you. So you look and, oh look!, they’re looking over at you. It’s not that you think you’re so marvellous and you just look for signs of validation, it’s just that you could feel it. N’est pas? It’s the same sort of thing. It’s just that maybe a lady’s sense of this is a bit more attuned.

Here’s an important message that should be stressed:

Leering, ogling, whistling, and making strange noises at women don’t make us feel flattered in the way that you may think. And, this idea of feeling like you’ve just made a woman’s day is considerably fallacious. You see, back when our bodies were making the transition from teeny bopper into young woman; and things were growing; and our hormones were changing; and we became very aware of our presence in society; we became sexual beings. We were aware of it because we looked at young men differently. The feelings they evoked in our bodies were different from when we’d play with each other at recess years ago. There was more of a driving force or more of a hunger, maybe. And, the mating dance began.

Also going on at that time was the realisation that we weren’t only drawing the attention of men our age, but also men from all ages, all races, all classes, and all marital statuses. Making the transition from teenager into woman introduced a whole other dimension that included a very extrusive sense of being exposed. This can get confusing because emotionally we have become young women and we are forming chemical attractions to people but what distracts from that natural evolution is that we also have to juggle with filtering out advances from men that we aren’t necessarily prepared to contend with and it feels unnatural. It can come from men our age, which we are more suited to deal with, but, it can also come from men who are our fathers’ ages and sometimes even older.

From here, women can go one of four ways: 1. we embrace and accept the attention as part of our regular existence in society where it eventually has little to no effect, 2. we use it as a major factor in determining our sense of self-worth, 3. we manufacture power and control from it, or 4. we try to escape it by becoming reticent.

A female’s introduction to womanhood can be a precarious journey in the sense that it is a real fight to discern what her personal identity really is. While the attention from men should be no more than innocent flattery, perpetual attention and affections from men can manipulate a woman’s psychology of self to the point where some women figure that this is the only way to exist in society. Don’t even get me started on what the media has done to young people…

It’s unbelievable when you think about it. How much of society’s treatment of us can have the greatest impact on how we view ourselves. And, I think, there really is a battle between struggles of who we believe ourselves to be vs how the rest of the world believes us to be. Which one are we going to stay truest to?

So, back to leering, ogling, whistling, and making strange noises and why it probably doesn’t have the affect you’d think it should have…

I can imagine that it must feel good to make advances toward a woman and have her blush, smile back, turn around, etc. But, what I think happens is almost like a predisposition by women to be polite and accommodating in general. So, even if the advance has made her feel uncomfortable or annoyed, it would be uncommon to see her react with any kind of combativeness. It would be hard to justify lashing out because a man is staring at us from afar. We’d look like a crazy person. You could be making her day or you could be ruining it – either way the response will likely consistently be the same.

There is an element of desensitization that, I believe, occurs just like with anything that people experience regularly in their daily lives; it loses its effect over time. So, before your glances, we may have faced glances starting from the moment we left our house that morning that by the time yours comes late in the day, for example, we may have already been acknowledged in the grocery store, on the bus, while pumping gas, or while walking down the street. For some women, this can eventually start to feel like an objectification and that can easily manifest as a feeling of vulnerability or self-consciousness even if your intention is genuine and innocent.

Most women, I’d say, know of the impact they can have on men. There are some who take advantage of it and revel in the attention. They’re usually quite overt and they will dress and behave in the manner in which men have come to expect them to behave and generally make it part of their life’s purpose. They might not really care what you have to offer intellectually, what you look like, or who you are as a person. They get off on the feeling you leave them with at the end of the day: desired. And, I think, for some men this can leave them feeling quite under-appreciated and even used. Unfortunately, this is probably the result of persistent attention that was likely focused strictly on her physical appearance starting right when she was transitioning into a young woman.

Other women have a solidly developed sense of self that was instituted very early on. So, they are able to take advances from men for what they are and not have them change their constitution or how they view their place in the world. These are the types of women who will likely not give you the reaction you are hoping for. They’ll walk right past you and not flinch; they’ll keep walking despite your stares and despite your noises and nudges to your friends. It’s not necessarily because you don’t meet their high standards but they could just be indifferent or they’re resenting the objectification or sexualisation of themselves and it can feel quite creepy. These women might be a little more self-aware and cerebral and, not to sound snobby, but in her eyes, over-exaggerated advances reduce you to a very base and simplistic level that doesn’t really stimulate or interest her. So then she runs the risk of looking like a cold fish.

There’s also the woman who is a bit of both. She designs her impression management as necessary and is purposeful in her approach with the world. She is the sex kitten one day a week just because it’s fun to dress up and put on makeup. She owns her sexuality, owns the moment, and completely orchestrates the way her appearance is demonstrated. She’s confusing, though, because there she is, exuding sexuality. She looks like she was built to tantalise men. But, why is she rebuffing your advances? Why is she so callous and indifferent? She looks like she wants the attention. Here’s the thing, she’s doing it for no other reason than for herself. She’s not looking for attention, although she knows she’s going to get it, it’s just not what’s driving her to look the way she does at that time. She did it because it’s fun, and it felt good.

Confusing, eh? Oh, I know.

Obviously, I’m generalising here because you could just as easily find a bit of all of this in any one person. I’m just simplifying it down to three of the most common types of reactions to these flirtations. Well, okay, there’s that plus a bit of my own judgmental analysis.

One thing that’s important to note is that I also know that it’s a real game-changer if there is an actual chemical response to the person who is making advances at us. But, to me there is a different type of etiquette involved there. There’s an actual dance that plays out in that circumstance that usually involves taking cues from each other. In this case, it’s more mutual. You’re getting the eye contact back. She’s sipping her drink while not taking her eyes off you. She’s clearly reciprocating your advances with some of her own. THIS is when you have the green light to continue and make your move. Now go forth young man!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I know this is all part of the game of life. I know that cat-calling and whistling has been going on since the early part of the 1900s. I know that women stare at men, too. I know that men change who they are based on how they’ve come to be treated by women. I know men are objectified. But, this post isn’t about that. And plus, I think the way each gender handles these advances is quite different. No matter how you cut it, women are still vulnerable members of society although I know society has come a very long way in protecting each other from this. Still though, when we walk down the street alone we can feel susceptible. When we’re trapped on a busy bus and someone is across from us unable to take their eyes off us, we can feel exposed and self-conscious. When we walk by a group of men who spare no expense at commenting loudly about parts of our bodies we feel degraded. We may not react that way, but the feeling it can leave us with is quite profound.

I don’t know what the answer is, really, even though I’ve just typed all this and sound like I know what I’m saying. I don’t apply this way of thinking to all men or all women. But, I do feel like it’s enough of an issue to at least offer a different perspective on the whole flirting movement. I feel badly for the men and women with genuine intentions who can’t catch a break. They’re up against pre-judgments, stereotypes, bad past experiences, and negative impressions of each other. It’s a shitty deal. I guess if anything is to come out of this post (other than an obvious nap!) it’s that we take a closer look at the things that motivate us, the things that are driving forces in our lives. If we could spend as much energy on not only cultivating ourselves but also looking after each other (oh, and animals, too) as we do playing a silly game of cat and mouse with each other then I believe the world will be a much better place for me to live in.

Just kidding. Not just me, me and you.

But, mostly me.

This past Saturday morning, around 8:45 AM… then at 9:50 AM… then at 10:15 AM… and finally at 10:45 AM I woke up for good; but not happily. I pretty well forced myself out of bed because I knew if I had given in to my exhaustion, I could easily have slept in well into the afternoon. The degree to which I was tired surprised me. I actually contemplated whether I had taken a Gravol in my sleep or something. I had taken one out of the blister pack a couple of nights earlier when I felt like ass, but thought against it because I knew I wouldn’t have more than seven hours of sleep and that’s not enough time for a Gravol to wear off. But, then I looked for it on Saturday morning figuring that if I couldn’t find it, that maybe I did take it in my sleep; but I found it. My next thought was that perhaps I was getting sick. Either way I honestly felt paralysed on Saturday morning. Even opening my eyelids felt like there were dumbbells sitting on them.

Enter Sunday. I cough once and it’s enough of a cough to register that yes, I’m getting sick. It just had that unique kind of feel. Different from a cough that might come suddenly if you inhale weird or choke on a poppyseed. This was less than ideal timing because I had my 2nd mid-term coming up that Wednesday (as in yesterday… as in last week – since it’s been four days since I wrote the above). I was so annoyed. I rummaged through our drug cabinet and begrudged my life. Here I am, in the middle of a University-level sociology course, not an academic by any stretch of the word, and I am studying while on drugs. Who does that? I’m the biggest sick wussy on this planet, too. Although it’s really only the symptom of congestion I cannot handle. I have a huge tolerance for pain, in fact I will hysterically laugh when I’m in pain vs actually cry out in agony (ask my brother how annoying that was when we were physically assaulting each other as kids); but, if the pain of a cold comes in the form of congestion then I will honestly behave as though there is no symptom on earth that could be worse. Keeping in mind that my congestion can sometimes be so awful that it feels like my sinuses are impacted with boulders and I can actually sometimes feel the throbbing of my heart in my face – that is unacceptable and intolerable for me. It is a severe injustice for me. I would even prefer a sore throat. So, when I’m congested, you can be sure that for the duration, I am also high or coming down from a high.

I’m high on Tylenol for the analgesic, then there’s the Advil for the aches and pains, then there’s not one, but two, extra-strength decongestants, on stand-by is actual nasal decongestant spray – which I usually try to avoid because once you ween yourself from it, your sinus tissue inflammation comes back with a vengeance and then the cycle of drug-use can repeat itself. I chase all the above with four Milk Thistles to protect my liver. After all this, and within the hour, I can breathe and I’m in a state of total bliss and ambivalence toward my sickness and only then can I sleep. See, during the day I will allow myself to feel the full effects of a cold and use little to no medication, if possible. I figure I can use this for willpower and as an inner-strength-building exercise. Extreme congestion (and I’m talking the kind where not even 0.00000001 kg/s of air flow will get into my lungs through my nose; where if I had no mouth I would surely suffocate to death) is probably the one symptom that actually causes me to physically respond to my frustration. My legs get the heebie jeebies and no position, not even one where I may find myself surrounded by memory foam, a lavender air diffuser, essential oil candles, a dark room, and jazz in the background, will ever be comfortable enough. This, as you can imagine, would greatly impede my chances of a restful sleep and thus further extending the length of this cold because if I don’t sleep then I don’t heal.

(I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this through).

On top of all this I have to time my nighttime drug use perfectly during the week, because if I don’t allow myself enough sleep during the night, then by the time my alarm goes off at 7:00 the next morning I may as well have been dead for, say, six hours, revived, then be so irritated at the idea of being revived under such ill-timing that I demand to be put back to sleep. Add to this the fact that I had another sociology mid-term that same week which meant that that particular Wednesday would be an extra long day of waking hours since I don’t get home from my class until 10:00 at night. Oh, and I also had a three-panel interview that morning complete with an on-the-fly mock client interaction. My cold would have got the award if there was a competition for worst timing.

Despite all these stupid monumental handicaps, I made it through the interview, worked, went to class for my midterm that night and actually felt okay coming out of it. However, I will admit that should there have been drug testing pre-exam I likely would have failed. But, if I do as well as I felt I may have, then I would consider them to have been not only of the cold relief variety but also of the performance-enhancing kind. The true answer will come on Wednesday night though for that is when I will receive my mark. For those of you who remember my post about my last mid-term, I was less than impressed with her furtive exam style and came out of this last one thinking no more of myself than had I just tied my own shoe. In other words, no big deal. Whatever.

I do like the studying part though you know. Even if I come out of it as a complete failure. I accept that I am not an academic. I am a day-dreaming, multi-tasking thinker who has problems with absorbing information that I will later be quizzed on. I accept that all of the things I have learned and understood through the years have all occurred at a time when I am not “told” to learn. So, this is out of my comfort zone a little, which is fine. I like to have my limits tested. This just means that when I do absorb material that I have been told to study then I feel extra proud of myself for having accomplished that. I was due for a sense of accomplishment, I think.

Here’s my study table that I felt really happy to be around. It’s exactly the way I’ve ever learned anything crucial. That is, in a more shit everywhere type of environment.

I’ve been taking a Sociology course as part of a University transfer program in pursuits of a University degree in some sort of social science that I’m not even certain of yet. It’s only part-time (one night/week), as I can’t afford any more of a course load for the same reason I can’t afford a decrease in my salary by going part-time. Nevertheless, this course has kind of made my sleuthy, over-analytical, mistrusting, debunking, intensely curious brain quite satiated as of late! Now the world around me is accompanied by a bit more background and history. In other words, I’m starting to get a good sense of when society really went down the shitter.

Just kidding. I love you, Society!

It’s interesting in terms of my own self-understanding as well because this is really the first time I’ve been attending school classes since I finally cut myself off from all mis-directed post-secondary courses back in… what was it? 2004? Yes, I graduated high school in 1996 and was in post-secondary education for eight years. And no, I did not become a doctor. I left school educated and enlightened but still unlabeled when it came to taking courses with an end goal in mind.

For a while I wanted to be in Advertising, then it was Graphic Design, after this it was a bartender in an upscale restobar that I was going to establish, so six months of that led me into Small Business Management where lo and behold I finally obtained a 2-year diploma. However, that wasn’t enough for me because I no longer wanted to be a restobar owner and decided that computers were actually my calling so into Enterprise Networking I went. By the time I finished my post-secondary education I could create an entire advertising campaign from beginning to end, do all the graphic design work for it, while moonlighting as a bartender, and networking, configuring, and encrypting enterprise servers in my spare time.

My problem was that for my entire educational life I was so focus-and goalless that I just went through the motions of what was acceptable and expected while having very little interest in what was actually being taught to me. If I had it my way I would get through school successfully by drawing, writing stories, and reading novels of my choice. I was so indifferent toward the structure of school that I felt almost irritated by it for getting in the way of letting me learn what I really wanted to learn.

Can you imagine being my teacher? Funny though, some of them actually really liked me.

I once did a left-brain vs right-brain test… lemme see if I still have the results in an email.

Looking…
Looking…
Looking…
Yes.

Your Brain Usage Profile:
Auditory : 35%
Visual : 64%
Left : 63%
Right : 36%

Andrea, you are somewhat left-hemisphere dominant and show a preference for visual learning, although not extreme in either characteristic. You probably tend to do most things in moderation, but not always.

Your left-hemisphere dominance implies that your learning style is organized and structured, detail oriented and logical. Your visual preference, though, has you seeking stimulation and multiple data. Such an outlook can overwhelm structure and logic and create an almost continuous state of uncertainty and agitation. You may well suffer a feeling of continually trying to “catch up” with yourself.

Your tendency to be organized and logical and attend to details is reasonably well-established which should afford you success regardless of your chosen field of endeavor. You can “size up” situations and take in information rapidly. However, you must then subject that data to being classified and organized which causes you to “lose touch” with the immediacy of the problem.

Your logical and methodical nature hamper you in this regard though in the long run it may work to your advantage since you “learn from experience” and can go through the process more rapidly on subsequent occasions.

You remain predominantly functional in your orientation and practical. Abstraction and theory are secondary to application. In keeping with this, you focus on details until they manifest themselves in a unique pattern and only then work with the “larger whole.”

With regards to your career choices, you have a mentality that would be good as a scientist, coach, athlete, design consultant, or an engineering technician. You can “see where you want to go” and even be able to “tell yourself,” but find that you are “fighting yourself” at the darndest times.

I’m left-hemisphere dominant with a preference for visual learning. Yes, totally. I think up until this test I just convinced myself that all my troubles of mis-direction were explained simply because I was “right-brained.” The daydreaming, crayon loving, space-cadet that loves numbers, calculations, theories, and logic, as long as it’s all demonstrated to me in pretty little pictures and stories.

This little assessment is pretty bang-on for the most part; with the exception of the athlete as a career choice. Truth be known, my hamstrings would never allow it.

So, let’s just say this hemispherical breakdown has been a theme for most of my life, then, a sentence like this: “Such an outlook can overwhelm structure and logic and create an almost continuous state of uncertainty and agitation,” explains so much.

Moving right along…

As with every single post I’ve written over the last two years, the first half is usually initiated at least 2-3 weeks before the second half, sometimes 2-3 months (see diagnosis above). Since my very first sentence up there, I’ve written my mid-term, and received the results. 68%! Now, some of you scholarly academic types will see that mark and throw up a little. For me, I’m just proud of myself for passing! Granted this was my very first University exam, ever (remember, I’ve been college educated), I have all great intentions of surpassing 70% next time (they’re called baby steps, okay?). I studied so gall darn hard for that mid-term. And, what was different this time around was the fact that I actually enjoyed learning. I wanted to learn. I couldn’t wait to learn. These intentions are great except for the idea, as I’ve recently learned, that University professors all have a specific, and individual, way of structuring their exams. I imagine the social science professors are probably the most unique in their exam structuring, too. I know from the first five minutes of my class I was already assessing her. Watching her body language, her use of the floor space at the front of the class, her animated face, the way her nostrils flare when she talks through her smile. The way she almost flips her head in a ditsy fashion which doesn’t match the PhD title she maintains in her email signatures. How she goes bug-eyed when she says something ”hip” to the fairly young class and blinks over her bug eyes while waiting for a reaction. The thing is, the class reaction comes in this kind of hesitant, I’m snickering because it looks like you want me to snicker, but I don’t exactly think what you said is funny, however, you’re standing there, staring out at us, waiting for a reaction so here it is, now please carry on with what you were saying.

You know the type?

Sometimes she signs her emails with just her first name, other times it’s Dr. Last Name.

At any rate, I felt as though there was definitely one answer (which I got wrong) that was so misleading I asked her about it after class. In my opinion, it should have been tossed entirely (which would have brought my mark up to 72% – there’s that 70% I wanted!) but she passed it off as semantics and thanked me for pointing it out. I’ll note that for the final. Semantics? Listen sister, I went into this mid-term with a University-level approach. I know those multiple choice questions are tricky on purpose and I already have a feeling you enjoy being tricky so, when I read the question and the subsequent a), b), c), d), and e) answers I thought right away: “Ah ha! This is one of those tricks!” and answered the question accordingly. Unfortunately, the answer was e) all of the above but I completely disagree and if I were in the court of law, I’d actually represent myself; I was that confident. However, I didn’t have the energy to discuss things further (class nights make for really long days) so I Meh’ed it off and drove home feeling 3% smarter, because I knew I was right.

I enjoy class, though, if not for the fact that I was so ready to learn something new. I swear, if I would have entered grade 9 at 34 years old I would probably get straight As. ha. I’ve had 34 years of discovering, experiencing, learning, and understanding how to look at the world, how to deduce things, how to break things down. My brain is much more equipped at being able to learn things based on this kind of mental experience, or exercising. I can’t just head straight to the race track and expect to win gold. I need to train for those things! That’s how I look at school.

Other than this, life is moving along swimmingly. I’m really enjoying playing house and like the idea of having another body to wake up with in the morning and falling asleep with at night. I like how Nick makes zero noise while in slumber so that sometimes I actually touch his back to make sure he’s breathing.

Okay this is good for now. Nicole, you will happy with the relatively short timeline between this, and my last, post. See? I’m learning.

Bye bye.

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.

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.

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.

It’s Sunday and I just finished eating this steak-like dinner. It refer to it as steak-like because its original composition was a juicy, t-bone cut, however, after forgetting about it in the oven it came out like something closer to what a Birkenstock marinated in Lea & Perrins would taste like – Chewy but flavourful. Plus, it’s red meat and a good lady needs red meat at certain times.

This day has gone by quite lackadaisically. Had brunch at T.Mo’s place this mornternoon (thank-you T.Mo) and was sprightly with her on the backyard trampoline while we talked about various meandering thoughts out loud.

When finished, I head home with big plans for nothing to do in my head. It was the most fantastic thing. First thing I did upon arrival was sit in the middle of my sofa, feet on coffee table and just stare at my black television. I sat there for a while waiting to see if perhaps an idea would come to mind. Which it didn’t – not at that time. So I made my way into my bedroom; a place where I catch my deepest breaths. It’s quite a charming place. I stripped down and lay down; my sheets had this kind of cool, creamy feeling that put me to sleep almost instantly. An afternoon nap had commenced on account of not having anything to do.

I awoke at precisely 4:20 and didn’t get high, but I did lay still for a while. I could hear Marshall & Otis stirring outside the door and someone outside was ringing clothes in from a squeaky line. I began to visualize my living room for some reason and eventually narrowed it down to an image of my dining-room table (which in actual fact is a computer table, that I use for neither dining, nor computing) and my collection of unfinished canvas ideas. One in particular came to light as clear as if I were right in front of my easel and it looked complete. I took this to mean I needed to paint this afternoon and wandered into my living room to do just that.

As a tangential side-note – I find a lot of my impediments to completing these paintings stem from a dislike of the actual set-up, then tear-down of my art space. I would love to be good and focused enough to complete a painting in say, four sessions; but it’s never the way with me. I have a HUGE fear of screwing up that I think I’ve actually convinced myself that if I stop the painting the moment I fall in love with it then I leave no opportunity to bungle it up. I leave it where I love it and omit the chance of hating it. Then, this business of complaining about the set-up and tear-down is really just complementary to the hardship I cause myself by fearing artistic failure. It’s so funny that I do this because I don’t fixate on such things in any other aspect of my life. I very much just do.

People see my paintings and say, “Forget about failing, just finish them.” My reply is usually non-verbal and I just stare at whichever one we’re discussing until the silence explains everything and we move on to something else. The truth is just that… I really don’t know how to answer why.

Today I began painting books into a bookshelf. I cleared my head and just painted them. I let go of the pressure of perfection I put on myself and just painted. I’m going to take a photo and post it now – so I have a bit of accountability to the painting. I appoint my readers to hold me accountable to just finishing this. Okay? We work together.

Before today this painting was sitting this very way, sans books, for approx eight months. Eight months! Today I’ve accomplished nine roughed-in books. Maybe tomorrow I’ll finish the first shelf with rough books. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

Painting brought me pretty well up to the moment I decided I wanted to eat my steak. Yes, if you do the math it took me about three hours to paint nine books. That’s three books an hour, twenty minutes a book. I suppose that’s okay for me as I only have my own progress to compare to. I may finish the rest of the shelf more efficiently now that I got the pages going the right way. The perspective was really off at first – thankfully oil paints are so forgiving. My steak cooked while I scrubbed my brushes, then I noticed a smell and realised I had been scrubbing for far too long and opened the oven only to be cloaked in over-cooked steak smoke. I nearly sprained a jaw eating much of my dinner but the fatty edging tasted so crispy and delectable. I completed the evening doing 60 sit-ups on my living room floor and here I am about to finish the sentence my post title started with.

… is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.

Think about it.

It’s a lyric from k.d. lang’s version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. The original misses out on some brilliance that k.d.’s touched this song with. I’ve posted the link on my Facebook but will share it, with another song right now.

Some triv pour vous: This version is from the 2005 Junos in Winnipeg. This particular performance garnered her a two-minute standing o. As well, Leonard Cohen and his partner Anjani Thomas once heard k.d. sing Hallelujah and collectively decided that Hallelujah could actually be put to rest as it had reached perfection. That’s quite the accolade but she deserves it. I think this song was written for her to sing. Hallelujah | k.d. lang

Secondly, please enjoy Jeff Buckley singing Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. Lovely, beautiful Jeff Buckley – another in the collection of musical souls lost much, much too soon – accidentally drowned one night swimming in Wolf River Harbour while singing the chorus to Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love.

Hear this song and think of a winter night. It has to be a cold, winter night – you’re not in the tropics – you light the fireplace but keep the room dark otherwise then get into the most comfortable position you can think of – it’s probably best if there is another body beside you – then close your eyes and be silent for a while.