Writing – Page 28 – Rant and Roll

Making it up as I go along

There are times when I think to myself, “Will I ever grow up?”

Sometimes it is when I am speeding along the highway blasting some terrifically terrible pop song du jour, or buying sluprees at midnight, or laughing so hard that I snort.

Snort repeatedly.

(Because it’s either that or pee my pants.)

Will I ever grow up?

I don’t know.

And what does this even mean?

For all intents and purposes, I live a relatively “adult” life.

I am married.

I have a mortgage.

I have a BA and an MA (although I am missing the PhD to complete the trio.)

I am gainfully employed.

I pay my taxes.

But then again, do any of these things actually constitute “adultness”?

Or is it just evidence that I am, on paper at least, a compliant citizen?

And in the end, isn’t it this all [picture me gesturing about the place] just play acting?

…

When we were little girls, my sisters and I lived in worlds of make believe.

While Jessi and I got to inhabit the kookiest of characters, Kate, being the eldest, was always saddled with the most vanilla of roles, which usually included “Owner” or “Nanny Kate.”

(For whatever reason, our otherwise shockingly powerful imaginations seemed to run out of steam when it came to her parts and their accompanying monikers.)

In one iteration of our fantasy world, Jessi and I played Shampoo (pronounced Shaum-poo) and Squirt, two extraterrestrial creatures who lived with Owner.

Shampoo (in my imagination at least) was part bulldog, part Tasmanian devil, part vacuum cleaner. He was a little ball of fury, always tearing about the house, and to the best of my knowledge, foaming at the mouth.

Jessi (who never had very complex speaking roles with any of the characters she portrayed) mostly just made crazy guttural gnashing sounds to communicate Shampoo’s feelings.

Squirt was long, blue, and strangely collapsible. As we walked to school in the mornings, Kate would press down on my head, and I would chirp, “SQUIRT!” before crumpling down into a low squat.

(I always pictured his body as the middle part of an accordion.)

Squirt was from a pacifist alien tribe, and never wanted any trouble. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure the only thing I could say whilst in character was also just, “SQUIRT.”

A couple of budding linguists we were not.

Now Shampoo hated Squirt, and was always trying to eat him. So as you can imagine, most of the game involved Shampoo running after Squirt, with Owner every so often stepping in and playing intermediary.

(I think this was Kate’s genius idea to let us play 90 per cent on our own, tire ourselves out, and then step in when the time was right for a brief hang out.)

And what can I say?

It worked.

…

Let’s flash-forward to grade five.

I really liked Sailor Moon.

Like, a lot.

After watching the latest episode on YTV (best Canadian youth television channel EVER), I would dress up in my highland dancing outfits, and then creep upstairs to my parent’s bedroom.

There I would sneak into their closet, and dig out my Dad’s old tai chi swords from behind my mom’s many shoeboxes and Hudson’s Bay Company shopping bags, (and other miscellaneous OLD PERSON detritus that was lying about).

Then I would choose between the long, thin blade and the fat, curved sabre.

I normally went with long and thin.

Fatty Curve (copyright) always seemed like something the bad guys would use.

From there I would race about my house, pretend-battling alien evil-doers, and then quasi-make out with my hand (in lieu of a real-life Tuxedo Mask.)

This was the main difference between my world and the television show: I never needed a man to come and save me at the last minute. I did my own butt-kicking, and saved the disguised suitor for kissing (and other general pretend-boyfriend duties.)

…

Jump ahead twelve years.

I am twenty-two years old and I am walking home from the gym.

It’s summer, and therefore quite warm. I can feel the sun baking down on my sweaty, salt-licked skin.

I am listening to my “I JUST FELT LIKE RUNNING” playlist, which basically consists of any and every song that makes me want to get up and dance.

Pretty much anytime I am going anywhere listening to music I imagine that I am in a movie, and whatever song I am listening to turns in the de facto score of Miramax’s newest release: MY LIFE – THE FILM.

As I near my apartment building, Metric’s Poster of a Girl begins to play.

I try everything in my power to not dance.

I kind of shuffle a bit, and maybe side step once or twice.

I even try to speed up my pace, thinking that the sooner I get home, the less likely I am to break it down in the middle of the Ukrainian church parking lot.

No dice.

My body is physically incapable of not dancing to this tune.

So I just give in, and dance like I am in the credits of some absolutely ridiculous teen comedy, (probably titled “Gym Nuts!” or something equally as trite.)

After a little while, I manage to regain my composure and continue my walk home.

That is of course, until I realize the painters working on the building next to mine have been watching me the entire time, and burst into spontaneous applause after I finish.

I am torn between pretending nothing happened and running away.

Instead, I curtsey.

And then I run away.

…

Now I’m pretty sure that I am still all three of those people – SQUIRT, Sailor Moon, and mad-dancing gym nut.

And I don’t think any number of “adult” qualifiers will ever change that.

I mean what, my friends, would be the fun in that?

All dressed up, with somewhere to go

So yesterday on Facebook I was tagged in a friend’s post that began, “Calling all my fashion-forward friends…”

Wait, what the – ?

I nearly fell off my chesterfield.

ME!? Fashion-forward!?

How utterly dumbfounding, and, if I’m going to be quite honest, pleasantly flattering.

It’s not that I don’t think of myself as “fashionable” (I think I have the capacity to rock an outfit every now and then), it’s just to be singled out as such gave me pause. I couldn’t help but wonder – how much of my identity, or self-perception to I take from my outward appearance, and the clothing with which I decorate my body?

And then I thought – AM I OVER-THINKING THIS WHOLE THING?

And I thought, “YES. YES I AM.”

Cool your jets there Judith Butler.

I then opened my laptop and what would you know? The brilliant, beautiful, amazing, and totally fashion-fabulous Laura from As Time Goes Buy had tagged me in a wonderful post she had written about her sartorial and shopping preferences, and I thought – THIS MUST BE A SIGN.

I WILL NOW GO AND BUY ALL THE CLOTHES.

(Don’t tell my husband.)

But before I leave the house to go bankrupt myself at Club Monaco, I will first answer a series of questions, because as a professional question answerer, that is what I do.*

*A girl can dream, can’t she?

Would you consider yourself a shopoholic?

I would not. I would however consider myself a try-it-on-aholic.

I am one of those rare weirdos who LOVES trying on clothes – of ALL kinds. I don’t care if it’s wackier than a three dollar bill, I will shimmy into that velour onsie and then pee myself laughing at my reflection.

As much as I get a kick out of modeling totally nutty clothing,my true favourite thing to try on is a beautiful dress. Sometimes it busts my heart into ten thousand little pieces knowing that I cannot bring every frock home with me, but alas, that is just the price that I have to pay when playing these dressing-room games.

How would you classify your style?

A real mixed bag. I love incredibly feminine pieces (see: my love of dresses), but I also love wearing suits with ties, men’s pants, and my husband’s cardigans.

I also (mostly) subscribe to the fashion philosophy that says if I am showing off my legs, I’ll probably cover up my top half, and vice versa.

Of course, I’m also one for breaking the rules.

Otherwise, the beach would be exhausting.

What store can you NOT leave without buying something?

Hmmm, tough question.

I would say Joe Fresh.

Mr. Fresh and I are VERY close.

Also Dairy Queen, but that is for completely different reasons.

Where do you find the best deals?

Hands down, Joe Fresh and H&M. I’ve scored some amazing deals at both of these stores, and I would say that the majority of the clothes currently populating my wardrobe were purchased from these fashion emporiums.

I also do well at Forever XXI, and Club Monaco (but only from the sales rack, for the latter, unfortunately.)

What designer are you willing to splurge on?

I would say it’s less of a designer, and more certain pieces. For instance, I paid good money for my Fidelity jeans, and four years later people are still asking me if they are brand new. I also bought Timberland boots three winters ago and they are amazing and keep me sane through the coldest of months.

If I could actually buy any designer wares, I would be all over Marc Jacobs and Miu Miu.

All over them like a bad rash.

Do you have a “go to” shopping outfit?

In the summer – an easy, breezy, beautiful sundress.

In the fall – jeans, a t-shirt, and thick cardigan.

In the winter – thick tights, a short skirt, a warm sweater, and good boots.

In the spring – long dress, light sweater, and a trench coat.

What is your “guilty pleasure”? (not including clothes)

[CENSORED]

Hahahaha!

Hmmm, I’m not sure. Maybe my ever-growing lipstick collection?

And 7/11 apple fritters.

THEY ARE SO GOOD.

What is one piece of clothing you can’t live without?

This is so tough!

My fashionista answer? A really great pair of jeans.

My real-life answer? My running shoes.

Who is your style icon?

This is also a terrifically hard question.

I’m really not sure.

I absolutely love Jenna Lyons – JCrew’s president and official fashion badass. She mixes feminine and masculine looks so well, and always looks absolutely immaculate.

Carey Mulligan is also fabulous, and I also really, really want to be her friend.

Hopefully after this happens she will lend me much of her wardrobe.

Because stealing from her is going to be bloody hard.

…

So there you have it! My fashion sense in a nutshell.

Thanks to the lovely Laura for tagging me – do check out her site. You will be inspired.

And I also encourage all of you to share – what makes your wardrobe tick?

We’re such good sports

Gather round friends!

Let me tell you a story.

When we were sixteen, my doubles partner Kristy and I were invited to compete at that year’s Boston Open which was being held at MIT.

Important background information: I used to play competitive junior national badminton. YES I AM AWARE OF HOW NERDY THAT IS SOUNDS – YOU DON’T NEED REMIND ME.

This invitation was very, very exciting news for us.

One, the tournament was taking place on the cusp of Spring Break, so our attendance was basically guaranteeing us an extra long vacation from school, plus the opportunity to spend said extra days IN BOSTON BLOODY MASCHECHUSETTES.

(OMG! I JUST SPELLED MASCHECHUSETTES CORRECTLY ON MY FIRST TRY!)

Ed. update: Okay, obviously I didn’t spell it correctly. But why the fresh hell did it not come up on my spell check? What weird Canadian word of ours is MASCHECHUSETTES!?

Ahem.

MASSACHUSETTS.

Two, we were just at the point where our parents were letting us go to away tournaments by ourselves, and we couldn’t think of anything more fun than bopping about Harvard in between our matches SANS CHAPERONES.

And third, as highly competitive athletes, we wanted to bring our special brand of Canadian kick-ass States-side and see just what kind of damage we could bring to old’ Beantown.

I honestly cannot describe to you how excited I was when our parents gave us the okay to go.

And when I say that the trip was totally bonkers, that, my friends, is no lie.

1.) Flying to Boston on the redeye Wednesday night, deliriously tired, I turned to Kristy and said, “Look how close the moon is!”

She just stared at me, before responding, “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THAT IS THE WING LIGHT.”

Good times! Also, this trip took place pre-9/11 so we actually got to go visit the cockpit and chat with the pilots. Can you believe it?

I can’t.

2.) When we arrived in Boston we were picked up by our homestay family, only to quickly learn that we wouldn’t actually be staying in the city proper, but a suburb located approximately forty-five minutes (to an hour) outside of the downtown core.

This was a surprise to us.

3.) Normally homestay families provide meals (usually breakfast and dinner) for the entirety of the athletes’ stay. We were gifted a bag filled with a dozen frozen bagels and a giant fruit salad from Whole Foods.

I ate quite a bit of dried cereal bought from 7/11 over the length of the weekend.

And by cereal I mean penny candy.

4.) Upon arrival at the house we were told that we would actually be driving ourselves to the tournament. Our billets had recently won a car in a fundraiser raffle, and we were to use this car to transport ourselves to Boston and back. We liked to refer to it as the cardboard car.

We had two pages worth of directions, one “new” drivers license (Kristy) and one “learners” license (me) between the two of us.

Driving in that first morning was harrowing and a half.

Oh, hello giant semi-truck encroaching in our space in this turnpike!

5.) I forgot all my shorts at home and had to play the entire weekend in the spandex shorts I would normally wear under my regular shorts to keep my muscles warm between games. Because of this some guy wearing a “YALE” t-shirt sat at the back of every court on which I played, watching my every move.

To this day I just refer to him as the YALE CREEPER.

6.) One afternoon we went to a coffee shop at MIT and the flirty barista gave us a GIANT plastic bag filled with six years of Canadian coinage.

7.) I beat an ex-junior national champion in my quarter final singles game and she threw one of the most impressive post-game tantrums I have ever witnessed. Broken racquets and everything.

8.) On our last night at our homestay, their son Don asked Kristy if she wanted to go down to the river and watch the moon with him. She politely declined.

9.) I started reading Catcher in the Rye while in Boston and finished it on the plane ride home. This EXPLODED my brain and as such, I spent the next three months pretending to be Holden Caulfield anytime I wrote ANYTHING.

10.) I made it to the semi-finals in singles, and we also made the semis in doubles. All the rest of our time was spent shopping (I bought a number of sundresses and peasant shirts – remember them? – at Target), walking around the campus, laughing at everything possible, and just generally being the silly, sixteen year old girls that we were.

Twelve years later I remember this trip like it was yesterday. We still laugh about it anytime we get together, and goodness knows the myth of the cardboard car will live on and on for the remainder of my days.

I would also love to return to Boston.

But this time, I’ll stay right in the heart of the city.

In a hotel, with a view of the moon.

Just me, lost in thought

I feel like it has been raining for years.

And I will wake up tomorrow, webbed and gilled, a green-skinned lily-pad.

My eyes slick sliver, like salmon skin.

I sit here, watching the skies melt, with a kitten wrapped around herself. She is unaware of this other wet world; this place without food, without fires; warm beds, and sleepy heads.

Myself, well, I am drawn to the grey.

The strange semi-stillness of a night drawing near.

Mischief realized.

Heartbreak thwarted.

Coming home with a grocery bag filled with potential.

Potential?

Or adventure?

Mugs of piping chai, thick woolen blankets, and the tap, tapping of a lost-lover’s knock on my window panes.

The SOS of ten thousand teardrops.

And I see the lights across the river, blinking.

Like an old man, lost in thought.

Is it worth it, let me work it

I have worked a number of crazy jobs in my relatively short time here on planet earth.

Like many other young ladies, I started out as a babysitter, but quickly learned that it wasn’t really my jam. I never cared for the portion of the evening that included the kids being, well, conscious, and it was pretty devastating to learn that most of the families that I worked for had mediocre pantries at best.

If I was going to give up my Friday night, I figured I might as well get a week’s worth of junk food stuffed in my face – AM I RITE OR WHAT LADEEZ?

Anyways, after my failed and relatively short-lived foray into the world of child monitoring, things took a turn for the serious, and I was hired on as a Safeway cashier in the summer after grade ten.

For my then teenage self this was HUGE. I was making eight dollars an hour and I got to nonchalantly creep on all the weirdos who came into the store.

(And by creep I mean epically judge them based on the goods they were purchasing.)

This job was nuts for many reasons, the first being I had the absolute WORST assistant manager of life.

Sanjay* was a young, cocky, sexist jerk who was constantly on one giant power trip. The guy wouldn’t allow me to wear sweaters (so instead I would just wear the massive winter coats that were reserved for the dudes who collected the shopping carts at night) and he once made me cry in the upstairs back room by telling me I had failed a secret shop, despite having no material evidence to back up his claim.

According to him, I hadn’t thanked the secret shopper by their name on the store receipt. For my “punishment” he made me read aloud the names printed on about two hundred receipts, just so he could be sure that, and I quote: “I could, in fact, read.”

I pretty much sobbed through the entire thing, choking out the names, my cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. Every so often I would squeak out, “This…this isn’t right…”

You can imagine how, for anyone, let alone a fifteen year old girl, this kind of thing can be pretty darn traumatizing.

I ended up filing an informal complaint against him (and by informal I mean I stuttered out my frustration to the actual store manager, letting him know how I thought it was unfair that Sanjay would let other girls wear sweaters but not me, and about how he told me I had a failed a test when I clearly hadn’t.)

And that yes, I could read, thank you very much.

I never expected anything to come from my actions, but amazingly from that day forward Sanjay never spoke to me again. He wouldn’t even make eye contact with me when he would come around to give me more change/bills for my till.

Just remembering those tense, awkward exchanges gives me the heebie jeebies.

Other than that, Safeway was pretty par for the course in terms of high school jobs. Working crappy shifts, bonding with my co-workers, having a laugh when my friends come through my line.

Also, I am strangely proud of how Speedy Gonzalez I was on the till. I had those PLU codes DOWN (I will never forget bananas – 4011), and would often make it a contest to see how quickly I could clear my register.

Sometimes customers would even be nice enough to compliment me on my mad skills.

(Or maybe this was just because I looked a bit like a rapper in my massive, massive winter coat.)

Anyways, my tenure at ye olde Way of Safe came to an end when I received a job a small café the summer after grade twelve.

I literally left a letter in the upstairs office that read: Please accept my resignation effective today.

Looking back, it probably wasn’t my finest hour, both in terms of politeness and leaving on a positive note, but by then I was so worn down by the store’s rampant culture of apathy and soul-sucking awfulness, that I really didn’t care.

After the café (which ended after that summer) I worked a number of jobs throughout my time as a university student, including stints at an international newspaper and magazine store (which also rented international movies and had a massive pornography section).

In the two years I worked there only two dudes came in to rent from the latter category.

I just figured they must be crazy traditionalists.

This job was great because I got to keep a ton of the magazines, which meant my collection of international fashion, nature, political, and photography periodicals grew like (paper) weeds.

I also watched a lot of great foreign flicks.

After that, I was hired as a temp at a chocolate store to help them in their lead up to the Easter rush, worked as a receptionist at a physiotherapy clinic, and then as a barista at a coffee shop down at Granville Island (MY FAVOURITE JOB OF LIFE).

After my stint with BIG ORGANIC FAIRTRADE COFFEE, I tutored and then took on a two-year stint with immigration with the government of Canada.

And now? Well, a girl has to have some secrets, doesn’t she?

Looking back, I wouldn’t trade in any of these jobs.

They introduced me to lifelong friends and provided me with experiences (both good and bad) that have helped shape who am I.

Which is of course, a rapper in a giant winter coat.

AM I RITE LADEEZ?

*Name has been changed, despite rampant douchbaggery