Tag: Life

I get by with a little help

From my friends.

Today I spent my lunch hour with my beautiful, brilliant friend and colleague J, walking the streets of downtown Vancouver and trying on pretty things from the various clothiers that lined our route.

We hadn’t seen each other for almost six days, which is an exorbitant length of time what with how closely we work and how much of our work days are spent communicating with one another.

It was really grand to catch up and find out what has been swimming around in her neck of the pond.

I recently purged my closet of a number of pieces that no longer grace the length of my body, and were instead just clogging up my wardrobe and dresser drawers.

Lucky me that my two fabitty-fab sisters are in town visiting (or should I say lucky them?) and they got first pick all of the items that otherwise will be heading over to the nearest Sally Ann.

It is so great to have them here, as becomes increasingly more apparent, as the years press on, that the times when the three of us find ourselves in a room together grow ever more few and far between.

Very difficult to have those much needed late-night gab fests when one of us lives in Vancouver, one lives in Halifax, and one lives in New York.

Tonight I ate dinner with the younger of the two (I hold the much coveted position of middle sister) – at Guu, a Japanese izakaya restaurant I had yet to try out.

My sis is a professionally trained chef who owns a butcher shop and as such has a much more discerning palette than I (I assure you that, unlike yours truly, she doesn’t EVER drink diet coke or eat five cent candy on a regular basis) and as such, was the one making the gastronomic decisions for the both of us.

My other sis will be back on Friday and we – along with our two partners – will enjoy a weekend of Kids in the Hall, beaching, spies, Star Wars references, singing, dancing, and of course an over-arching theme of general bonkerdom.

Just the way we like it.

Summer just seems right with sisters.

I’d like to share with you some pictures from our adventures of late:

Lattes night snacks.

Booksbooksbooks.

Otter.

See food.

 

Umbrella.

Wedding reception.

Happy Wednesday to you all. I’ll help you get by anyway that I can.

 

 

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.

 

You can leave your hat on

What might have been said (in but another time, and perhaps another place):

When he slid into the seat one row over from her own, he also blocked her window.  It wasn’t that Linda frequently found her speedy postcard of Vancouver and Environs all that interesting, but now scrutiny of her fellow passengers was no longer possible.

Well then, nothing to do but inspect her workworn feet and check on the increasingly alarming progress of callus A-10 -so named for its location on her left pinky toe, and its growing resemblance to Atlas the Titan.  Nearby, B-9 and S-9 (Bugsy and Skittles) continued their mediocre existence, jutting symmetrically and aggressively off of respective knuckles, almost pathetic in their uniformity.  Atlas, meanwhile, had made impressive progress this week, angrily burrowing against the worn brown strap of her flipflops, his broadening shoulders tapering into a tiny head-like knot.

“You have beautiful feet.”

An alarming statement considering the circumstances.

Linda turned an appropriately cool glare onto the beaming visage of Window Blocker (or WB), his boiled-turnip complexion currently accentuated by the broad gleam of his “pearlies.”

A real meathead, she decided.

No man with integrity would wear a white polo in this heat and not sweat.  Thankfully, no question had been asked.  She resumed her rigid concentration on the floor in front of her.

“How about going for a walk later?”  This time she looked up quickly.

Who did this guy think he was? WB had moved straight from inconvenient jerk category directly into “creeper” category – in less than two sentences no less!  Linda, stroking the rugose jacket covering the business end of her steel toe boots (that sat on the seat next to her), spoke loudly.

“No, dirtbag, and save your asshat overtures for your immediate relations.”

A well dressed sikh man turned slightly at this and asshat had the good grace to flush and retreat.

“Sorry.” Linda mouthed to the well-dressed man.

“Don’t be,” he replied. “Nobody likes an asshat.”

That old black magic that you weave so well

My sisters and I didn’t watch a lot of TV as children.

For many years our television set didn’t even pick up basic cable, so whatever cartoons we were watching came in the form of The Bugs Bunny and Road Runner Movie or The Three Caballeros (or whatever we owned on VHS at that specific time.)

One time we discovered our mother’s Jane Fonda’s Workout video and we absolutely killed ourselves laughing at the clothing/hair-dos as we danced around half-heartedly mimicking the exercises.

Every Friday night we were allowed to rent one film and goodness knows there was a period of time when we must have watched Mary Poppins for upwards three years straight. Steppin’ time is RIGHT, Bert.

Also, for what it’s worth – those Bugs Bunny cartoons still crack me the heck up. I am pretty much incapacitated by giggles every time I hear things like “What a way to run a railroad,” I’ve also started to re-populate my vocabulary with some of his saltier insults, and I have been using “should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque” since time immemorial (or you know, grade school.)

However, there was a time when we finally entered the 20th century, and procured a television set that was neither steam powered, nor cable intolerant, and I was introduced to all the magic and majesty that was the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s children-friendly programming.

(For only two hours every Saturday, mind you.  After all there were limits on how far my parents were willing to travel into said new century.)

Still, limited hours or no, we were introduced to the brilliant likes of Under the Umbrella Tree, The Polka Dot Door, Fred Penner, and Sharon Lois and Bram – seriously folks, this stuff is the stuff of legends.

Take the opening credits to F. Penner & Co.:

DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I DREAMED OF FINDING A  LOG TO CRAWL THROUGH TO REACH MY OWN PRIVATE AND AMAZING HANG-OUT GLEN!?

ALL OF THOSE DREAMS BELONGED TO ME.

Good grief.

I still remember my favourite episode – it was the one where he found a four leaf clover, and the whole episode revolved around teaching us kidlets about good luck and superstition.

Through song. SONG!

One of my most favourite shows however (and one that not a whole lot of people my age seem to remember) was called Today’s Special, which was set in a downtown Toronto department store, after closing hours.

You see, once the place shut down for the night, a mannequin named Jeff would come to life with the aid of his magic hat. (Oh, and someone had to say “hocus pocus alimagocus”.)

What? Like that’s weird or something?

If the hat ever came off of his head – POOF – he turned back into a mannequin.

(This often resulted in a huge number of shenanigans.)

The remainder of the cast was made of up Jodie, the store manager (and Jeff’s totally badass “human” mentor), Sam, the store’s security guard (a puppet, mind you), and Muffy Mouse, the resident rhyming rodent.

To say that I loved this show would be totally oversimplifying it.

I dug it so hard, that if I was actually going through the motions I would have made it all the way to China and back.

I really believed that magic – magic like what was needed to bring Jeff to life every night – was real. It was just up to me to find the right source, and figure out what role it should play in my life (beside of course making me invisible, giving me the power to fly, and helping me learn everything I could possibly learn about everything in the world in – oh, about a day and a half.)

As you could imagine, I was a pretty laid-back kid.

I’ve been thinking about this part of my life quite a bit – a childhood not only wrapped up in enchantment, but the never-ending search for magic – because in the past two weeks I have read Dandelion Wine and The Magician’s Apprentice, and at present I am currently halfway through The Magicians – and it seems as though I cannot stop reading about it.

I cannot stop reading about magic.

These are three (very different) books, but they are all compelling and heartbreaking in their own way.

Dandelion Wine had me shedding tears every morning as I rode the rickety skytrain into work – I felt as though my heart was going to burst out of my chest, so overwhelming was my nostalgia for a life I have never lived, but knew so well – almost as if the words themselves were already etched into my heart, punch drunk on the possibility of an endless summer, so many long years ago.

The Magician’s Apprentice is a fabulous read, but almost deceptive in its outward simplicity – much like a magic trick. But like said trick, it stays with you the long after it is finished, and you find yourself going over it, again and again in your mind – trying to figure it out, and understand it – trying to relive it.

I am not yet done The Magicians, but I am enjoying it very much. I am realizing that should I ever have had that chance to find my magic as a child, I may not necessarily have been in control of this power.

(I will keep you posted once I am finished.)

In the meantime, we sun-dipped mortals (or is it muggles?) are racing about this ball of blue, full speed, arms akimbo, waiting on the next adventure.

We found this feather on the Sunshine Coast. I am sure it has magical properties.

We’ll pick a card.

Any card.

I am so smart. S-M-R-T.

Hey you beauty cats.

Today the sky is filled with sunshine, and it is glorious.

I have been a bit knackered as of late, as for most of the week I have been staying up way past my bedtime and knocking about the place like a social butterfly with vertigo.

On Monday Mr. M and I kicked some serious general knowledge butt with our friend A’s pub quiz team (otherwise known as Taking Care of Quizness. And hey! Don’t hate. With a team jam packed full of physics PhD’s, literature masters, classics keeners, and poli-sci pros, our nerd quota was so high that Steve Urkel actually showed up and put in an application to join the group.)

We ended up winning the top prize (and fifty bucks!), much to the chagrin of the Philoso-rapters, and the Sandy Vaginas.

(What a name. Doesn’t really make you want to head to the beach anytime soon, does it?)

Also, I couldn’t help but wonder if every time the former team answered a question correctly they would look at each other and say, “Clever giiiiiiiirl.”

(Before, you know, ripping that person apart, and eating their dismembered corpse.)

Erm, just in case you don’t know what I’m talking about, please see exhibit A:

Onwards!

Today I had an amazing lunch – a calamari sub from the absolutely dee-lish travelling wagon of culinary delights know as “Slingers.” It’s a food truck that specializes in gourmet sandwiches, and this offering near but knocked my socks off.

If any of you folks are kicking about Vancity in the next little bit (Ms. Audrey I am looking at you my darling) do yourselves a favour and tickle those tastes buds of yours at this here joint.

I promise that you won’t regret it.

Speaking of which, I was skulking around the hallowed halls of H&M yesterday, trying on far too many sundresses for my own good, when I came across a little blue and white number, with a fitted bodice and a hem line that wasn’t completely scandalous.

I tried it on, but wasn’t feeling it one hundred percent, so I ended up leaving the store empty handed.

Well, I woke up this morning unable to get it out of my mind. So as I threw back the blankets and jumped out of bed I exclaimed (just like General MacArthur before me), “I SHALL RETURN!”

Okay. So that didn’t happen at all. (Wouldn’t that have scared the crap-ola out of poor, unassuming Mr. M.)

But I did return, and I did buy the dress.

I plan on wearing it all weekend long, paired with this fabulous grey cardigan I picked up at Zara earlier in the week.

It has elbow patches guys. ELBOW PATHCES!

Meep.

The only ever fly in the ointment about going away (for any length of time really) is that I always hate saying goodbye to our little gal.

This is how I found her this morning before heading out to work:

Good grief, she is so adorable, I actually sometimes feel as though I grow drunk on her cuteness.

It’s a liability man! She could rule the world if only she could 1.) speak and 2.) sleep less than fifteen hours a day.

Cor. What a life.

I gave her as many chin scratches and belly rubs as I possibly could, before my elaborate love-in made me late for the train.

There will be extra snuggles when we arrive home on Sunday night.

What are you fabulous folks up to for the weekend?

I wish you nothing but love and laughter, always.