Category: To whom it may concern

You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best

Hey friends!

Today M and I are off to the Sunshine Coast with my vater, Sir R-J esquire, the IV.

(Or if you’re into the whole brevity thing – my Dad.)

We’ll be meeting up with M’s parents at the cabin for a day, and then it’s off to Hardy Island where we’ll hike, maybe swim, and (hopefully) see lots and lots of deer (and their babies!)

But in the interim, it’s time for the latest edition of the Friday Fry-up.

So let’s heat up that skillet and get cookin.

Do I have something on my face?

Full disclosure: sometimes I am a HOT MESS. It’s like I have zero control over this fact, and no matter what effort I put in to combat this problem, the worse it just seems to get.

Do I have something on my face?

For instance, it’s almost impossible for me to eat pastries (particularly if they are chocolate pastries) and not get half of the thing all over my face.

Don’t even get my started on gooey foodstuffs. Those are just a recipe a and half for disaster.

The worst of it?

I don’t even realize it when these crumbs are stuck and strewn about my skin – like the little evil edible freckles that they are. 

Imagine this: the other day at work J was like, “Oh my goodness, what happened to your face?” and I was all “what do you mean?”

So then she motioned toward my face (with an exceptionally pained look on her face), which worried me so I quickly touched my cheek – only to realize that my affliction was nothing more than the remnants of my breakfast: a piece of the sweet, flaky goodness from the Danish I had eaten earlier.

I’m not too sure which emotion won out in the end – relief or embarrassment. (Actually, definitely relief, because goodness knows I don’t embarrass as easily as I probably should, especially when you look at the high level of madness I operate on every single day of my life.)

Good grief.

Last night M and I were at London Drugs picking up some supplies for our trip. At the check-out the cashier asked us, “Do you need any tissues or Tictacs tonight?” and my immediate reaction was, “Why? Do we look like we need tissues and Tictacs?”

I mean, why else would she ask that?

M kindly assured me that she was obviously trying to either up-sell or just get rid of the umpteen million tins of Tictacs and single pack Kleenex that littered her till like some strange toiletry-inspired collage.

This is probably true, but nevertheless I remained suspicious.

This whole part of my life was only further hit home two nights ago.

We were out at the Commodore Ballroom to take in Franz Ferdinand (MY FAV BAND EVVVEEERRR) and it came to my attention pretty early into their set that I had made some pretty poor decisions outfit-wise.

Concert wise though – top notch.

1.)    I should have worn my hair up (or at the very least braided it down my back) because at it’s present length (v. v. long) it kept getting stuck in my armspits as I danced.

Urg.

It was pretty difficult to stop this from happening, because a.) I was having a mad dance party b.) was sweating and c.) was wearing a tank top. It was like a perfect storm of head-hair in armpit entrapment.

Not fun.

2.)    I kept dancing out of my shoes. The flats that I had chosen to wear had already been beat to crap so I figured I wouldn’t care in they got ruined in the jigging-for-your-life melee. Unfortunately, because the shoes were operating at such a low capacity at the concert’s outset, it was all downhill from there – and quickly at that. I had to be careful, because with all the other bonkers dancers out there I didn’t want my toes to get turned into carpaccio, nor did I want to step on that slick, sticky beer soaked floor. Because, well, ewwwwww.

3.)    I didn’t realize that the skirt I was wearing had so much swing and elasticity to it. Seriously, I spent the entire time worrying about dancing too hard, lest I continue to flash my undies to all the other folks on the dance floor. It was a very real fear that if I jumped too high I’d end up hoola-hooping my skirt around my neck.

Yikes-a-rooney.

Next time – I’ll stick to simple cotton. Because if I’m going to be part of the show, I better-well be getting paid for my part.

Onwards!

Do you, do you wanna, wanna go?

Okay, I definitely want to continue riffing on the Franz Ferdinand theme for a bit.

Seriously dudes, I love this band.

And they are absolutely AMAZING live. They put on incredibly tight shows, and are always entertaining as all get out.

I saw them for the first time in September 2009 at Malkin Bowl – a great outdoor concert venue in Vancouver – and boy did it ever pour with rain all throughout their set.

And it didn’t matter one bit – it was still the most fun I have ever had at a concert.

I have this amazing memory of just dancing my face off (I had picked well in terms of my dance-related garb that night! Plus no chocolate on my face to speak of – BONUS) completely soaked, watching the rain just come down in sheets, lit up by the brilliance of the many stage lights.

This time there was no rain, but it was the same outrageous energy, the same quirky and strange Scottish blokes rocking about the stage, singing songs that no matter how often I listen to them on loop (over and over again) I don’t ever tire of them.

In fact, they are one of those bands (for me) that the more I listen to their tunes, the more I love them.

They are like the Big Lebowski of music – the more I listen/watch them/it, the more I discover new things to love.

And then when you get the chance to go see it live, well, holy Toledo – it just reinforces all of that magic, ten-fold.

I definitely recommend them to every single one of you. Take a listen:

And when you do, I promise, I’ll take you out.

And now for something completely different

[Disclaimer: I am feeling particularly bonkers this afternoon.]

So I was motoring about the downtown core, playing my usual, much loved lunch-time game (you know, the one called “Try on all the clothes and photograph yourself like a total weirdo”) when I espied the below sandwich board:

It was the weirdest moment because upon reading this I actually felt like I needed to prove to the sign that I could actually, you know, speak English – like I had to show the (strangely) threatening advertisement that this was something I had already mastered.

But then I kind of went completely nuts.

In my mind I was all: HAHAHAHAHAHA! I already CAN speak English! English, English, English! Bet you weren’t exactly expecting THAT, were you, you sandwich board you! Not only that, but I can also speak French and have a highly unstable grasp of Russian and German!

I AM THE MICHAEL PHELPS OF LANGUAGES.

BOOYAKASHA.

Erm.

What’s wrong with me?

Also, on a slightly less bizarre note, shouldn’t the sign read “Learn English now!” and not “Speak English now”?

I mean, anyone can speak a language – I could probably speak Korean or Portuguese as the day is long – I just wouldn’t know what the bloody heck it was that I was saying.

And at the risk of sounding like the Old Spice Man, or Lady Gaga penning her obituary via Madlibs, it’s definitely always best to know the meaning of the words coming out of your mouth.

I mean, if someone actually came up to me and told me they wanted my leather studded kiss in the sand I would think they were totes mcgotes cray-cray.

But then I’d be all “SPEAK ENGLISH MAN!” not “LEARN ENGLISH MAN!”

And then I’d remember this day and concede defeat to the language school sandwich board.

And then I’d make a sandwich.

Working for the weekend

So I received a lovely comment the other day from an equally lovely reader (and one who seems to have fashioned his own form of English – reading his phonetic language is at time akin to deciphering some kind of code) asking me if instead of toiling away in employment obscurity, I am living off of the royalties of a amazing invention or product (seeing as though I don’t talk all that much about my place of work on ye olde Rant and Roll.)

Alas, as much as I wish this were true, it is in fact not the case.

At least, not yet.

I do work, and while my experience with my job doesn’t require me to write long-winded diatribes about the injustice and inhumanity of it all, it certainly isn’t all satsumas, rainbows, and peanut butter chocolate chip cookies (cut out in the shapes of owls and otters.)

Sometimes I stampede about my office, ready to rip out my hair and the vocal chords of whatever poor sap who just happens to be shuffling by with the printer paper refill order.

Sometime I am all rage, all the time.

But honestly, when it comes down to it, I like my job.

I get to research and write policy recommendations to the provincial government. I write news releases, speeches, and editorials, ghost-write and edit for professionals who need help with their pieces, conduct interviews, manage social media, and do some pretty large scale event planning.

And when I say that I bloody-well love some of my co-workers, there isn’t one kernel of untruth in that statement. There are four ladies with whom that I work whom I love dearly, and I can honestly say that if they weren’t there for me day in and day out, I would have packed up my bags (and Mr. 8”X 11”s vocal chords) one heck of a long time ago.

Phew.

But despite all of this, there are times when I feel myself getting restless.

On the surface, everything is a-okay. My head bobbing above the water, I am the spitting image of perfectly calm, perfectly collected.

Just keep swimming…just keep swimming.

However, peer a little closer – down, deeper into the depths of the lake (or whatever body of water it is in which I am swimming) and you’ll see me limbs thrashing about every which way, desperate to propel my body into a new direction. I crave to be constantly on the move – doing new things, making new plans, setting new goals.

Which is why outside of work I take on as many ventures as I possibly can, pushing myself to do as much as possible, driving myself to the brink of sanity and exhaustion.

I have been a Big Sister with Big Sisters of the Lower Mainland for almost four years, and since January have been working as a media ambassador for both their mentorship initiatives and the organization as a whole. I volunteer with Vancouver Co-op radio as a co-host of the Storytelling Show, a program dedicated to the telling and sharing of women’s stories and I’m constantly in the process of training for a new competition – my next race is the Fall Classic Half Marathon taking place November 18, 2012.

My next big goal is to finally, FINALLY give stand-up comedy a go.

And of course I have my blog (my baby!)

Rant and Roll is one of my most favourite projects and because I am so darned in love with it (and even more so with all of you gorgeous jerks) I want to make sure that every time I push ‘publish’ the product I am putting forth is as brilliant as it possibly can be.

Writing so much every week has been such a phenomenal exercise in getting me back into “writer” mode, that I believe when the time is right I will be able to make the full switch from writer-in-training, to Writer (capital W – no training wheels, no manager looking over my shoulder making sure I’ve memorized all the correct produce codes.)

WRITER.

But back to work.

Currently I have been in my position for a little over one year. This is the longest I have ever been in a full-time position.

Going from undergrad, right away to grad school, I never had the time (or attention span?) to stay in one specific place for long.

Grad school grad-u-meation.

I live day to day with a very serious affliction: I have an incurable case of nomad-itis – it’s  the way it’s always been, and the way it will always be.

But for the time being, work things are good. And all my extra-curriculars are fabitty fab, brillo pads.

I don’t need to complain here because whenever I start to feel overwhelmed, I take comfort in the absolute brilliance of my love, my family, and my friends.

Because those are the things that I focus on. They are the things that make my heart sing.

Fish and chips and vinegar

Pepper, pepper, pepper, salt.

Anyone remember that old ditty from the late, great Canadian trio Sharon, Lois, and Bram?

No?

Just me?

Onwards!

Here is what’s been kicking about our neck of the woods this weekend:

Dresser cat.

Flower bike.

Awkward t-shirts.

Shakespeare in the park.

Dream house.

Dream garden.

Bearded dog.

Otherwise it’s just another manic Monday.

And by manic I mean abso-fricken-fabulous.

What’s been knocking about your neighbourhood?

Dear John

When I was sixteen years old I was sexually assaulted at a resort in Peurto Vallarta, Mexico. I was leaving the hotel’s disco around ten thirty at night, when one of the bartenders followed me out of the club. He came up to me from behind, took hold of my arms, and told me that he was going to walk me back to my hotel room.

I told him no, but he insisted, digging his hands, hard into the tops of my arms and the nook of my elbow.

Instead of taking me back to the room, he dragged me far down into the darkened open-air theatre.

Pushing me into a seat, he held on my arms, and told me that he loved me.

You don’t love me I whispered.

I love you, I love you, he whispered back.

I remember watching myself sitting in that seat – almost as if I was looking down from above, or from the side – my body, immobile, my voice, gone. I felt unable to scream and unable to fight back, too afraid to move; I shouted over and over again in my head, telling myself to run away, to punch and kick him, knee him in the balls, scratch his face, tell him to fuck off, do whatever it takes.

I watched myself sitting there in the chair; and as I sat there I felt my heart beating so hard I imagined it punching its way right out of my body, and I felt this man’s hands all over my skin, over me, his sticky, foul lips on my face, and I cried.

I cried, and I cried, and I said no, please, no, no, no, please.

No, no, no, I said it again, and again. Please.

No.

Yes, he said. Yes, yes, please, yes. Again and again.

Yes.

And then he put his hands under my skirt, into my underwear.

And through my sobs I managed to cry out. NO.

And he stopped.

I’ll never forget the look of absolute disgust he gave me, as he stood up, and brushed his hand on the shirt, his shorts.

As if it was his decision to stop. As if I was nothing.

You are nothing he said. Don’t tell anyone. They won’t believe you.

And I didn’t.

I was too ashamed, too horrified.

Because I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t done anything. Why I hadn’t screamed, why I hadn’t fought back.

Why I had been afraid of causing a scene. Why I had been afraid of hurting this man’s feelings.

And I remained afraid.

…

There have been other similar situations since that night where I have a similar powerlessness.

Times where men, sometimes faceless, sometimes not, have said things to me, yelled down a sidewalk, whispered them at parties, or mumbled the on the bus – words that debase me, strip me of my humanity, words that remind me that I am a sum of my parts – I am hair, breasts, legs, ass – a body.

Not brain, heart – not strength.

Not a person.

And I remain silent. Still.

Burning with shame at my silence, my stillness.

And this happened to me again, two nights ago.

And this is what I would like to say to that man, so drunk on a mix of himself and spirits, careening about the world defined by a complete disregard for not only my humanity, but the humanity of all other women:

Dear John,

You are not a gift.

You are a predator.

Your lechery makes me feel like garbage, because I want to yell obscenities in your face – but I don’t because we are in a social setting and I don’t want to make a scene.

But you know this, don’t you?

You know that because I am polite I won’t tell you to fuck off, or physically assault you, and because of this, you are happy to continue to harass and verbally assault me.

You make inappropriate comments about my physical appearance.

(Because that is what I am to you – a physical appearance, and nothing more.)

And because of this, you do not understand that you do not have a right to speak to me. You do not have the right to dance with me.

You may not just sit down.

I am twenty-seven years old. You are seventy-two.

I am married.

You are old enough to be my grandfather.

And I hear that you’re upset – you think others are treating you unfairly.

I would recommend opening your eyes, and realizing that the problem is not other people.

The problem is you.